William Johnstone - Thunder of Eagles

“Oh, yes,” Cletus said. “This is Harold Denham, the publisher of our local newspaper.”

“The local newspaper, huh?” Inexplicably, a broad smile spread across Tyree’s face. “So, are you going to write about me, Mr. Newspaperman?”

“I am indeed,” Denham said, still on his knees next to Travis Calhoun’s body. “If you think you can frighten away the press, you have another think coming.”

“Oh, I don’t want to frighten you away. I want you to print the story, just as it happened. And I want you to say that when this fella braced me, he was already holding a pistol in his hand, but that I was so quick that I turned, drew, and shot him before he could shoot me.”

“I will not make anything heroic out of this,” Denham said.

“I ain’t askin’ you to make me a hero, mister,” Tyree said. “I’m just askin’ you to tell the truth, that’s all.”

When Falcon saw the buckboard with General Garrison and his daughter arrive at the site where the bridge was being built, he walked over to them.

“Hello,” he said, greeting them with a smile. “Are you out here to check on the progress?”

“I wish that was the only reason,” Garrison replied.

Falcon noticed the grim expressions on their faces.

“What is it?” he asked. “What has happened?”

“Marshal Calhoun has been killed.”

Falcon frowned for a second, wondering why they would be telling him what he already knew. Then, suddenly, he realized they weren’t talking about Titus, they were talking about Travis.

“Wait a minute! Travis?” he said. “Are you saying Travis Calhoun has been killed? He just took office.”

“Yes.”

“The Clintons?”

“No!” Kathleen said quickly. “It wasn’t them.”

“It was the same as them,” Garrison said. “It was their hired gun.”

“Their hired gun?”

“Jefferson Tyree,” Garrison said. “Do you know him?”

Falcon nodded. “Yes,” he said. “I know him. Tell me what happened.”

Garrison told the story to Falcon as it was told to him by Harold Denham.

“Can a man really be that fast?” Garrison asked. “Everyone agrees that Travis already had his gun out and drawn, but Tyree just spun around and shot him.”

“Yes, a man can be that fast,” Falcon said. He sighed, and ran his hand through his hair. “You say Tyree is working for the Clintons now?”

“That’s what I’ve heard,” Garrison said. “And he was with them when this happened.”

“If the Clintons actually have hired Jefferson Tyree, then they are as guilty of Travis’s murder as he is.”

“No!” Kathleen said.

“What do you mean no?” Garrison asked his daughter. “Think about it, Kathleen. You know that is true.”

“It might be true about the rest of the Clintons, but not about Billy. I know that he wouldn’t have anything to do with something like this. You don’t know Billy the way I do.”

“Are you sure that you know him that well?” Garrison asked.

“Yes, I’m positive. What are you trying to say, Papa? Are you saying that you think Billy is like his brothers or his father? Because I know that he is not.”

“And yet, he stays with them, does he not?”

“It’s more complicated than that,” Kathleen said.

“Kathleen, I think you should listen to your father,” Falcon said. “I know men like this. I have known them for my entire life.”

“You, too? But you met him on the train. And you saw how he was at the dance. You know he was different from the others.”

“He behaves differently, now that is true,” Falcon said. “But the very thing that makes him a good man is his sense of honor. And if that sense of honor is misplaced, it’s also going to doom him.”

“What do you mean, misplaced?”

“I mean that when it comes right down to it, if Billy is forced into choosing between his family and outsiders, Billy is going to choose his family,” Falcon said.

“No, never.”

Falcon nodded. “I’m afraid he will have no choice. It will be an act of honor—twisted honor to be sure, but its hold on him will not let him go.”

Falcon attended the church part of Travis Calhoun’s funeral, but as the funeral cortege moved slowly down Front Street toward the cemetery, Falcon saw Cletus and Ray Clinton going into the Hog Waller. Jefferson Tyree was with them.

“Corey,” he said. “Give my apologies to Troy.”

“What do you mean? You aren’t going out to the cemetery?”

“I’ve got some business to attend to,” Falcon said without further explanation.

Evidently, someone had said something very funny just before Falcon stepped in through the door, because everyone was laughing. But as they saw Falcon, the laughter stopped, not all at once, but in ragged spikes so that the last bit of laughter was Rosie’s single cackle. Then, realizing she was laughing alone, she turned to see why.

“Well, now, if it ain’t my old friend Falcon MacCallister,” Tyree said. “My, my, look at you, all dressed up like that. You been to a wedding or something?”

“I’ve been to a funeral,” Falcon replied.

“A funeral? Oh, yes, you must be talking about the marshal. I’m just real sorry ’bout that. All I saw was someone pointing a gun at me. Maybe if he had come in here and talked to me just right, I wouldn’t have had to kill him. He was your friend, was he?”

“He was.”

“Well, I tell you what. Just to show you that there’s no hard feelin’s, how about steppin’ up to the bar and havin’ a drink with me. Bartender, give Mr. MacCallister anything he wants to drink, on me.” A broad, arrogant smile spread across Tyree’s face.

“I didn’t come here to drink with you, Tyree. I came here to kill you.”

Falcon spoke the sentence so calmly that, for a moment, those who heard him weren’t sure what they heard. Then, as they repeated it to each other, and as they measured the cold set of Falcon’s eyes, they realized what he had actually said.

“Hold on there, MacCallister,” Cletus said. “You can’t just come in here and—”

“Shut up, Clinton,” Falcon said.

“You can’t talk to me—”

Suddenly, Ray brought the back of his hand across Cletus’s face, hitting him so hard that his lip began to bleed.

“Shut up, Cletus,” Ray said. “This is between MacCallister and Tyree.”

When Tyree saw that the Clinton brothers had just taken themselves out of it, and he was going to have to face Falcon alone, the smile on his face faded. He had thought that with the Clintons he had an edge. Now he saw that edge taken away. That left Tyree with self-doubt, and the self-doubt caused him to feel fear, perhaps for the first time in his life. And that fear was mirrored in his eyes and in the nervous tick on the side of his face. His tongue came out to lick his lips.

When he saw Tyree’s fear begin to manifest itself, an easy grin spread across Falcon’s face. Even that, the grin in the face of a life and death situation, seemed to unnerve Tyree.

Suddenly, Tyree’s hand started for his gun. He was fast, but Falcon was just a heartbeat faster. Falcon fired, and Tyree caught the ball high in his chest. Dropping his gun, Tyree slapped his hand over his wound. He looked down in surprise as blood squirted through his fingers, turning his shirt bright red. He took two staggering steps toward Falcon, then fell to his knees. He looked up at Falcon.

“Son of a bitch,” he said. He smiled, then coughed, and flecks of blood came from his mouth. He breathed hard a couple of times. “Son of a bitch, you’re fast.”

“No, you were just slow,” Falcon said easily.

Tyree fell facedown, then lay still.

Cletus, seeing that Tyree was dead, held his hand out in front of him.