William Johnstone - Thunder of Eagles

Ray was obviously growing more tired now, and he began charging more and swinging less. Falcon got set for one of his charges; then as Ray rushed by with his head down, Falcon stepped to one side. Like a matador thrusting his sword into the bull in a killing lunge, Falcon sent a powerful right jab to Ray’s jaw. Ray went down and out.

By now, Cletus had gotten back onto his feet, and he was glaring at Falcon.

“Get him out of here,” Falcon said, and Cletus and Billy grabbed hold of Ray’s unconscious form and dragged him away. As Ray was pulled away, the crowd began to disperse.

“Did you ever think anyone could handle Ray like that?” someone asked.

“Hell, look at Falcon. His hair ain’t even none messed up,” another said.

Falcon followed them outside, and saw Cletus and Billy put Ray belly-down across the saddle.

“Billy, you can come on back in,” Falcon told him.

Billy shook his head. “No, sir, I can’t,” he said. “These are my brothers. I’d better stay with them.” Then, leading Ray’s horse, Billy and Cletus rode away.

Inside, the music had yet to start up again.

“I’m sorry about that,” Falcon said, returning to Rachael Kirby.

Rachael was standing in front of the orchestra, talking to Edwin Mathias.

“Is that how all disputes are settled out here?” Edwin asked. “With an approach like that, it is no wonder this is called the ‘wild’ West.”

“I didn’t have much of a choice,” Falcon replied. “It was either stand there and fight, or get hit. I chose to fight.”

“And you like it out here, do you, my dear?” Edwin said to Rachael.

“Yes,” Rachael replied, “I do like it.”

“Maestro, more music!” someone called.

Edwin sighed. “If you will excuse me, I must jump through some hoops now.”

“Mr. Mathias seems to be a bitter man,” Falcon said.

“Edwin Mathias had a taste of glory once,” Rachael replied. “It is always difficult when one falls from glory.”

When the music started, Rachael smiled and offered Falcon her arm. Falcon joined her on the dance floor.

After the dance, Falcon escorted Rachael away from the dance floor. He had just said something funny and they were both laughing when they looked up to see the stern, staring, angry eyes of Wade Garrison confronting his daughter.

“Is it true that you took a walk with Billy Clinton?”

“Pa, it isn’t what you think,” Kathleen said.

“Oh? And tell me, daughter, just what am I thinking?” Garrison replied.

“That we did something wrong,” she answered.

“You went for an evening walk with him, did you not? Without a chaperone?”

“Yes.”

“Then don’t tell me you weren’t doing anything wrong. I wouldn’t approve of that kind of behavior no matter who you were with. But this is much worse. Kathleen, this man is the son of Ike Clinton. Ike Clinton is our sworn enemy, you know that.”

“Billy isn’t like the others.”

“Darlin’, Billy is a Clinton,” Garrison said. “When it gets right down to it, it always comes out the same. He is a Clinton.”

“I love him, Papa.”

“What? What did you say?”

“I said I love him.”

“No, that can’t be.”

“Papa, I can’t help it. This isn’t something I can just turn on and off.”

“Let him go, child, let him go,” General Garrison said gently, putting her hand on her shoulder.

“It’s not fair, Papa,” Kathleen said. “It’s just not fair.”

“Life isn’t fair, darlin’,” Garrison replied. “It never was, and it never will be fair.”

Chapter Seventeen

From the Higbee Journal

DISRUPTION AT DANCE!

But One More Example of Clinton Mischief.

Saturday night last, nearly everyone in town repaired to the Morning Star Hotel for the fifth annual Higbee dance. The music was provided by a group of musicians headed by Edwin Mathias, who is regarded by many as the finest fiddle player in America. Beautifully decorated, the reception hall of the Morning Star Hotel was an ideal place for the festivities, and the dance was proceeding with high spirits and merriment.

But such was not to be for very long, for the Clinton brothers, Ray and Cletus, in keeping with their nature of troublemakers, did institute a fight.

Alas, the brothers Clinton did not consider the consequences of their plan, for the man with whom they picked the fight was none other than Falcon MacCallister. Having attended the dance, this reporter was there to witness the action, and it was a joy to behold the two thugs get their comeuppance. Falcon dispatched both Clinton brothers with little effort on his part.

If picking a fight and disturbing the peaceful pursuit of a pleasurable evening be the only offense of Ray and Cletus Clinton, this paper would have little to say of the issue. But there is strong evidence that the Clintons have been involved in dealings of a much more serious, and nefarious nature.

It is no secret that Ike Clinton wishes to prevent General Garrison from constructing a railroad that would benefit all. Would that he express his dissatisfaction with the railroad by peaceful petition, one might espouse some sympathy for his position. But his protest has already erupted into violence and bloodshed, costing, at last count, some five lives.

It is the strong opinion of this newspaper that the Clinton family in whole, and Ray and Cletus in particular, were directly involved in all five deaths. For that reason, this paper will institute a vigorous campaign to urge the sheriff to begin an investigation of the Clintons and all their activities.

It was noon on Wednesday, and Falcon was in the Golden Nugget, having a beer with Marshal Calhoun; Harold Denham, the newspaper editor; and Corey Hampton. The marshal was reading Denham’s article and, after finishing it, laid it down, nodded, then picked up his mug of beer.

“That’s it?” Denham asked. “All you are going to do is just nod? Aren’t you going to say anything about the article?”

“Well, what is there to say, Harold?” Calhoun replied. He shook his head. “I’ll give you this, that’s one hell of an article. It might be a bit overstated, but it is one hell of an article.”

“What do you mean it’s overstated? It’s true,” Denham insisted. “Every word of it is true.”

Calhoun sighed. “As far as the fight at the dance is concerned, there were more than one hundred witnesses, so I don’t think anyone is going to disagree with you. But as to the other, we have no direct proof that the Clintons were involved.”

“Come on, Titus, you know damn well they were. Hell, everyone in town knows that they were.”

“Knowing and proving are two different things,” Calhoun said. “You can’t prove something in a court of law simply by saying that you know it to be so. You have to have solid evidence and concrete proof, or it won’t make it past the judge and jury.”

Denham chuckled. “Well now, that’s where I’ve got you, Titus,” he said.

“What do you mean?”

“In my profession, I don’t need to prove anything in a court of law. All I have to do is prove it in the court of public opinion, and that, my friend, I can do.”

“He’s got you there, Titus,” Falcon said. “There is nobody who is going to read this article without a sure and certain belief that the Clintons are as guilty as sin.”

“Let’s say that’s true. What good will it do to prove this in the court of public opinion? That has no bearing on the legal status.”

“The Clintons are a school of sharks,” Denham said. “And sharks need a friendly ocean in which to swim. In the case of the Clintons, the people of Higbee and the county of Bent make up their ocean. If the people aren’t friendly to them, they won’t last long.”