William Johnstone - Thunder of Eagles

Calhoun chuckled. “You do believe in the power of the written word, don’t you?”

“It’s why I chose this profession, Marshal,” Denham replied.

“Marshal! Marshal Calhoun!” someone was shouting from outside. Falcon could hear the rapid approach of boots on the boardwalk; then the batwing doors slapped open and the grocer, Moore, ran inside, while the batwing doors swung back and forth behind him.

“Marshal Calhoun!” Moore called. “Is the marshal in here?”

“I’m back here, Mr. Moore,” Calhoun called out. “What’s wrong?”

“It’s the newspaper office, Marshal,” Moore said. “There are some fellas down there now, tearing the place up something fierce.”

“There are people in my office?” Denham shouted, standing up quickly. “What is it? What are they doing?”

“I don’t know what all they are doing,” Moore said. “But I can tell you for sure that it isn’t anything good. It’s probably best that you get down there and look for yourself.”

Denham started toward the door, but Calhoun called out to him.

“Hold on, Harold! Don’t you go gettin’ down there before the rest of us! If there are a bunch of people down there tearing up your office, it wouldn’t be too smart for you to confront them all by yourself.”

“All right, I’ll wait, but hurry, Titus. Please hurry,” Denham said.

As they got closer, Denham called out in anger and alarm. “My type!” he said. “That’s my type in the street!”

Two other trays of type came hurtling through the broken window and Calhoun, with his gun drawn, ran toward the newspaper office. He stepped in through the front door just as four men were trying to pick up the Washington Hand Press that Denham used to print his paper.

“Hold it!” Calhoun shouted. “Get your hands up!”

The four cowboys who had been trashing the newspaper office stopped and lifted their hands.

“Oh, now, Marshal,” one of them said, laughing. “You had to come along and spoil our fun.”

“Fun? You call this fun?” Denham yelled, barely able to control his anger. He looked around at the trashed office. “Why would you do such a thing?”

“We work for the Clintons, and we don’t like what you said about ’em.”

Denham waved his hand over the mess. “It’ll take me all day to put this together again.”

“No, it won’t,” Falcon said.

Denham shook his head. “I’m afraid it will.”

“No, these boys are going to pick it all up for you.”

“Ha! In a pig’s ass we will,” one of them said.

Suddenly Falcon drew his pistol. Then he brought it around hard alongside the head of the cowboy who had just spoken. The cowboy went down.

“Hey, what the hell did you do that for?” one of the three remaining cowboys shouted. “Marshal, did you see that? He hit Bart right up alongside the head.”

“I didn’t see anything,” Calhoun replied.

“What do you mean, you didn’t see anything? What the hell, you was standin’ right here.”

“Start picking up the type and everything else you threw out of here,” Falcon said.

“Why should we do that? Marshal, if you’re goin’ to take us to jail, go ahead and take us now. Mr. Clinton will more’n likely bail us out first thing in the mornin’. I’ll go to jail, but I’ll be damn if I’m goin’ to pick up one damn thing.”

“That’s too bad,” Falcon said. Again, his gun was out, and again he slammed it against the head of the cowboy who had just stated he wasn’t going to pick up anything.

“Shit! He did it again!” one of the two remaining men said in alarm.

“It would have been an easier job if all four of you had done it,” Falcon said. “Now there are only two of you, unless one of you wants to refuse.”

“Mister, about the only way you’re goin’ to make me pick up anything is to shoot me.”

“Your terms are acceptable,” Falcon said, speaking in a very quiet, cold, and calm voice. He pointed his pistol at the head of the cowboy who had just spoken, and cocked it.

“Mister, do you think I actually believe you are going to shoot me?”

“Shut up, Clyde,” the other cowboy said sharply. He continued to stare at Falcon. “I believe this son of a bitch would shoot us. Marshal, you heard him. This fella just threatened to kill us, and he ain’t no lawman. I demand that you arrest him.”

“Mr. Falcon, I hereby appoint you a temporary deputy,” Calhoun said.

“That ain’t legal for you to do that,” Clyde said.

“You see any judges around here?” Calhoun asked.

“What? No, I don’t see no judges.”

“Then for the time being, it’s legal, simply because I say it is legal. Now, pick all this up, or I’ll shoot you myself.”

The two cowboys looked at each other, then, under the guidance of Harold Denham, they began picking up, and reassembling, the scattered type and other components of the newspaper office. A few minutes later, the other two cowboys, still groggy, began helping as well.

All the while the four men were working, citizens of the town were gathered around, laughing and calling out instructions to them.

“Bart! You missed the piece over here!”

“Virgil, it don’t look to me like you’re holdin’ up your end.”

Finally, the newspaper office was put back together except for the broken window. And even though it couldn’t be repaired at the moment, all the shattered glass was swept up.

“Damn,” Denham said after Marshal Calhoun marched the four down to jail. “It’ll take me two weeks to get a replacement for that window.”

“No, it won’t,” Corey Hampton said.

“What do you mean it won’t?”

“One of the windows back at the Golden Nugget is cracked. It’s about the size of this window, and I’ve ordered a replacement. It should be here in a few more days. I’ll let you have that one, and I’ll order another one.”

“Would you? That’s damn decent of you, Corey.”

“Well, like you, I believe in the power of the press,” he said.

“Really? Well, if you believe in the newspaper that much, why not increase your advertising?”

Corey laughed. “That’s what I like about you, Harold. You are always doing business.”

Totally unaware of the fact that four of his father’s employees were currently locked up in the jail, Billy Clinton rode into town that night. He’d told his brothers and his father that he planned to have dinner at the Vermillion, then stop by the Golden Nugget to hear Miss Kirby play the piano.

“Ha!” Cletus teased. “It’s too bad we don’t have an opera house. ’Cause more’n likely Billy would go there ever’ night for tea and trumpets.”

“That’s crumpets,” Billy said.

“Crumpets? What are crumpets?”

“Never mind, it doesn’t matter what they are,” Billy said with a sigh. “You just go your way and I’ll go mine.”

It was dark by the time Billy got into town and tied his horse at a hitching rail in front of the Golden Nugget, which would suggest to anyone who recognized his horse that Billy was in town enjoying a drink at the saloon. But in fact, Billy slipped through the darkness alongside the saloon to the alley behind. Then, with his movements masked by the night, he hurried up the alley to the Garrison house, where he climbed a picket fence, then stood in the dark shadows of a cottonwood tree. The shadows were necessary because the moon was exceptionally large and exceptionally bright tonight, and if he wandered out from under the tree, he could easily be seen.

Looking up to the second floor, to the window on the extreme right side of the house, he saw that the room was well lit. He knew also that this was the window of the room that belonged to Kathleen.