William Johnstone - Thunder of Eagles

When he heard the early morning commotion out on the front porch, Billy got out of bed and came down to see what was going on. He intended to step out on the front porch to be closer to what was happening, but when he heard them talking about Tyree, he stopped and stood just inside the door in the parlor, drinking a cup of coffee. When he heard his father’s assessment of him, he turned and left the parlor, not wanting to be there when they came back inside.

Chapter Twenty

When Tyree, Cletus, and Ray rode into town, Harold Denham was standing on the front porch of his newspaper officer, supervising the replacement of the window that had been broken out.

“Son of a bitch,” he said quietly as the three rode by him, then dismounted in front of the Hog Waller.

“What is it, Mr. Denham, what are we doin’ wrong?” one of the workers asked.

“What?” Denham asked. Then, realizing that he had said the words “son of a bitch” aloud, he shook his head.

“No, nothing to do with what you boys are doing,” he said. “You’re doing a fine job.”

“Thanks.”

“Look, you seem to have everything in hand here. You just keep going the way you are. I need to walk down to the marshal’s office and have a word with Travis. I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

“Yes, sir, Mr. Denham.”

When Denham reached the marshal’s office, he saw Travis sitting at the desk, the top of which was covered with a rather messy spread of papers. The new marshal looked up as Denham stepped inside.

“Would you look at all this?” Travis said. “How did Titus keep up with it all? I had no idea there was so much paperwork involved in being a marshal. It could be that I’m just not cut out for this job.”

“You’ll do fine,” Denham said. “I think it was a smart decision to appoint you.”

“We’ll see, we’ll see,” Travis said. “What brings you by?”

“Do you have anything in there about Jefferson Tyree?” Denham asked.

“Jefferson Tyree? Hmm, seems to me like I’ve heard that name. Now, why is that name familiar?”

“He murdered an entire family a year or so ago. He was caught and put in prison for life, but last month he escaped from prison,” Denham said.

Travis nodded. “Jefferson Tyree,” he said again. “Yes, I do remember that now. Well, if he is a murderer and an escaped prisoner, I’m sure there must be something on him in here somewhere.” Travis started shuffling through the papers on his desk until he turned up a poster. “Ah, yes. Here it is.”

WANTED!

DEAD OR ALIVE

JEFFERSON

TYREE

$5,000.00 REWARD!

The poster also had a woodcut picture of the outlaw. “Is this the man you’re talking about?”

“Yes,” Denham said. “He’s here, Travis. Jefferson Tyree is here.”

“Here?”

“In Higbee. I just saw him.”

“Are you sure?” Travis asked. He pointed to the picture. “Because, to be honest, these woodcuts aren’t always that good.”

“It doesn’t matter how good the woodcut is,” Denham said. “I know it is Tyree. I just saw him ride in with Ray and Cletus Clinton.”

“How can you be so sure that it’s Tyree?”

“Because I covered his trial last year,” Denham replied. “I sat in the courtroom and looked at that son of a bitch all through his entire trial.”

“And you say he’s with the Clintons?”

“Yes.”

Travis sighed. “In that case then, there’s not much doubt about why he’s here, is there? It looks like the Clintons have just upped the ante by hiring themselves a gun.”

“Where’s Falcon MacCallister?”

“He’s with the crew that’s putting up the bridge,” Travis said.

“Maybe we’d better send for him.”

Travis stood up, then pulled his pistol, and turned the cylinder to check the loads.

“No, there’s no need for that,” he said. “I’m the marshal now. If I can’t handle this, I’ve got no business wearing this badge.”

“Travis, no,” Denham said. “This man is a cold-blooded killer.”

“So what am I supposed to do, Harold? Let the cold-blooded killers go and just handle people who spit on the boardwalks?”

“You could send somebody after Falcon.”

Travis dropped the pistol back in his holster, put on his hat, and squared his shoulders.

“No,” he said. “No, I can’t do that.”

Denham followed Travis down the street, then into the Hog Waller.

Recently, there had been some discussion before the city council as to whether or not the Hog Waller should be closed. Those who spoke against it talked about it as a health hazard, and if filth had anything to do with disease, as Denham believed, then there was some justification for it, because the Hog Waller literally reeked with filth.

In addition to being filthy, the Hog Waller appealed to the lowest common denominator of citizen, attracted by the cheap women and the cheaper whiskey.

The move to close the Hog Waller failed for two reasons. Prentiss Hampton was a member of the city council, and he felt that he could not support the proposal because it would appear as if he were trying to stifle the competition. Also, it was pointed out that most of the card cheating, fistfights, and other acts of disreputable behavior took place in the Hog Waller.

“It’s as if we have a place marked off just for such behavior,” Moore said in arguing against the proposal. “Maybe as long as we keep it contained there, it won’t spread through the rest of the town.”

In the end, Moore’s argument prevailed, and the city council took no action in closing the Hog Waller.

The first thing Denham noticed when he stepped inside was the smell. It was overpowering, but it didn’t seem to be bothering any of the patrons.

“Is he here?” Travis asked quietly.

“Yes. That’s him, standing next to Cletus. Tyree is the fella with the gray shirt.”

“Thanks,” Travis replied. Travis pulled his pistol from his holster. “Now, step back out of the way.”

What Travis did not realize was that Tyree had seen him through the window before he came into the saloon. Tyree had also seen the badge on Travis’s vest, so he knew why Travis was coming.

Unnoticed by anyone else at the bar, Travis had pulled his pistol and cocked it and was holding it in front of him, concealing it between his stomach and the bar, even as the marshal came in.

“Jefferson Tyree, turn around,” Travis called authoritatively.

Tyree spun around and fired, catching Travis by surprise. Even so, Travis reacted quickly, pulling the trigger on his own pistol so soon behind Tyree that those who only heard the sounds of the gunshots thought the fight was much closer than it really was. In truth, Travis’s bullet plunged into the floor right in front of him.

“Travis!” Denham shouted, running toward the collapsed form of his friend.

Tyree stood for a long moment, holding the still-smoking pistol as Denham attempted to administer to his friend.

“Is he dead?” Tyree asked calmly.

“Yes, he’s dead,” Denham replied. “You murdered him.”

“You might’ve noticed he already had the gun in his hand when he braced me,” Tyree said.

“He didn’t brace you, Tyree. He was attempting to arrest you,” Denham said.

“Arrest me, huh? Well, maybe he should’ve said somethin’. I thought he was just somebody trying to build a reputation by killing Jefferson Tyree.”

“One doesn’t build a reputation by killing polecats or rattlesnakes,” Denham said. “And compared to you, the polecat and the rattlesnake are some of God’s noblest creatures.”

“You have a big mouth, don’t you, friend?” Tyree said. He looked over at Cletus. “This fella always have a way with words like that?”