William Johnstone: Dead Before Sundown

Duff, on the other hand, bobbed and weaved as Alexander tried roundhouse rights, straight punches, and uppercuts. Finally Alexander connected with one of his attempts, a straight shot that Duff managed to deflect with his left shoulder, thus avoiding a punch to his head. And, even though it was not a direct hit, there was so much power in the blow that Duff felt his left arm go numb, which meant he could no longer count on that arm to ward away any more of the big man’s punches.

Duff knew he was going to have to end the fight soon, so he bobbed and weaved, watching for an opening. The opening came after Alexander tried another roundhouse right. Duff managed to pull back from it, and as Alexander completed his swing, it left the opening Duff was looking for. Duff pulled the trigger on a straight whistling right that drove his fist into Alexander’s Adam’s apple.

Alexander gagged, and put both hands to his throat. When he did so, Duff followed with a hard right to the chin that sent Alexander down to join Donald, who was just now getting up but showing no interest in continuing the fight.

For a long moment everyone in the bar looked on with shock and amazement. The Somerleds had a reputation for fighting, something they did frequently. And, because they were the sons of the sheriff, they never had to pay any of the consequences that others of the county had to pay when they engaged in the same activity.

They seldom lost a fight and yet here, in front of an entire inn full of witnesses, one man, Duff MacCallister, had taken the measure, not just of one of them, but of all three, and at the same time.

“Hear, hear, let’s give a hurrah for Duff MacCallister!” someone shouted, and the bar rang with their huzzahs.

“Now, gentlemen, I believe you called for more ale?” the bartender said, speaking to the Somerleds as if nothing had happened, as if he were merely responding to their request. Donald and Roderick responded with a scowl, helped their oldest brother to his feet; then the three men left.

Everyone in the pub wanted to buy Duff a round, but he had already drunk his limit of two mugs, so he thanked them all, accepting their offers to buy for him when next he came in.

“Skye, would you step outside with me for a moment?” Duff asked.

“Ian, best you keep an eye on them,” one of the other customers said. “Else they’ll be outside sparking.”

Skye blushed prettily as the others laughed at the jibe. Duff took her hand in his and walked outside with her.

“Only four more weeks until we are wed,” Skye said when they were outside. “I can hardly wait.”

“No need to wait. We can go into Glasgow and be married on the morrow,” Duff suggested.

“Duff MacCallister, sure and m’ mother has waited my whole life to give me a fine church wedding now, and you would deny that to her?”

Duff chuckled. “Don’t worry, Skye. There is no way in the world I would start my married life by getting on the bad side of my mother-in-law. If you want to wait, then I will wait with you.”

“What do you mean you will wait with me?” Skye asked. “And what else would you be doing, Duff MacCallister? Would you be finding a willing young lass to wait with you?”

“I don’t know such a willing lass,” Duff replied. “Do you? For truly, it would be an interesting experiment.”

“Oh, you!” Skye said, hitting Duff on the shoulder. It was the same shoulder Alexander had hit in the fight and he winced.

“Oh!” she said. “I’m sorry. You just made me mad talking about a willing lass.”

Duff laughed, then pulled Skye to him. “You are the only willing lass I want,” he said.

“I should hope so.”

Duff bent down to kiss her waiting lips.

“I told you, Ian! Here they are, sparking in the dark!” a customer shouted and, with a good-natured laugh, Duff and Skye parted. With a final wave to those who had come outside to “see the sparking,” Duff started home.

Three Crowns

Duff Tavish MacCallister was the fifth generation to live on, and work Three Crowns, the property that was first bestowed by King Charles II upon Sir Falcon MacCallister, Earl of Argyllshire and Laird of Three Crowns. Falcon was Duff’s great-great-great-greatgrandfather. The title passed on to Falcon’s eldest son, Hugh, but died when Hugh migrated to America. The land stayed in the family, passing down to Braden MacCallister, who was Duff’s great-great-greatgrandfather. The land passed through the succeeding generations so that it now belonged to Duff.

Three Crowns got its name from three crenellated hills that, with imagination, resembled crowns. The family cemetery was atop the middle crown where Sir Falcon MacCallister and all succeeding generations, down to and including Duff’s father, mother, and only brother, lay buried. Duff was the last MacCallister remaining in Scotland.

Duff raised Highland cattle on Three Crowns. He liked Highland cattle, not only because they were a traditional Scottish breed, but also because they required very little in the way of shelter, enjoying conditions in which many other breeds would perish. Cold weather and snow had little effect on them and they seemed to be able to eat anything, getting fat on what other cattle would pass by.

Duff had read of the great cattle ranches in the American West, and how they required many cowboys to ride herd on the huge herds across vast areas. But because the Highland cattle were so easy to manage, and he had only three hundred acres, Duff was able to manage his farm all alone. He did have something in common with the cowboys of the American West, though. He managed his herd from the back of a horse, and this morning he saddled his horse, then, as the sun was rising, took a ride around his entire three hundred acres, looking over his cattle. It was a brisk morning and both he and his horse blew clouds of vapor into the cool air.

His horse whickered as he rode through his small herd of cattle, distinctive with their long hair and red coloring. The cattle were grazing contentedly, totally unresponsive to the horse and human who had come into their midst.

As Duff rode around his herd, he imagined what it would be like when he had a son to help him run the ranch. He and Skye had spoken often of it.

“What if our first child is a girl?” Skye teased.

“Then we shall make her a princess, and have a son.”

“But if we have only girls?”

“Then I will make them all tomboys, and they will smell of cattle when they go to school.”

“Oh, you!” Skye said, hitting him playfully.

Duff also planned to build a place for Skye’s parents so they could live on Three Crowns with them. For now, Skye’s father, Ian McGregor, enjoyed a good living running the White Horse Pub, but there would come a time when he would be too old to work. When that time came, Duff promised Skye, Ian could retire in comfort in his own house, right there beside them.

As Duff reached the southern end of his property he saw a break in the fence. Ten of his cattle had gone through the break and were now cropping the weeds that grew on the other side of the Donuun Road. Duff slapped his legs against the side of his horse, then rode at a quicker pace until he reached the break in the fence.

“Who told you cows you could be over here?” Duff said as he guided his horse through the break and across the road. He began rounding the cattle up and pushing them back across the road toward the break in the fence. It wasn’t a particularly hard thing to do—Highland cattle were known not only for their hardiness, but also for their intelligence and docile ways. He had just gotten the last cow pushed back through the break when Rab Malcolm rode up. Malcolm was one of Sheriff Somerled’s deputies.