Revenge of Eagles

“No. I need a room.”

The clerk turned the registration book toward him, and Falcon signed in.

By the time Falcon finished signing, the clerk was holding a room key. “Very good, sir, you’ll be in Room 307, Mister... .” He looked at the registration; then his eyes grew wide and he swallowed. “MacCallister? You are Falcon MacCallister?”

“I am.”

“Oh, uh, Mr. MacCallister, I beg your pardon,” he said. Turning, he hung the key back up on the board, then got another one. “Three-oh-seven would not be an appropriate room for you. I’m sure you will find this one much more to your liking. It is three-oh-one, it’s our corner room, and as you’ll see when you go up there, it has cupola windows, which will provide you with an excellent view of our fair city.”

“Thanks.”

“Is there anything else I can do for you?”

“Yes. I believe John Henry Holliday is staying in this hotel.”

“John Henry?”

“Dr. Holliday.”

“Doctor ...” The hotel clerk gasped. “Good Lord, sir, do you mean Doc Holliday?”

“Yes.”

“Well, yes, yes, as a matter of fact he is a guest in our hotel. He is here in Glenwood Springs, taking the cure for his tuberculosis.”

“What room?”

The clerk smiled. “He is in three-oh-three, which, as it turns out, is right next to your own room. But you won’t find him there now. He is down at the springs. He generally returns to the hotel around suppertime, though.”

“Thanks.”

Falcon went to his room. His name often elicited the kind of response he got from the hotel clerk. There were those who said that he was one of the most accomplished men with a six-gun to ever roam the West. Stories about him were told and retold until they reached legendary proportions, and Falcon MacCallister seemed larger than life.

But the truth was, and Falcon understood and accepted this ... many of the stories told about him had actually happened to his father, Jamie Ian MacCallister.

From the War for Texas Independence to the Colorado Rockies, to the goldfields of California, to the battlefields of the Civil War, Jamie MacCallister had made a name for himself, raised a family, and amassed a fortune. If some of Jamie’s exploits were confused with some of Falcon’s, it was understandable. On the other hand, Falcon’s own exploits had put his name in the history books, alongside that of his storied father.

The corner of Falcon’s hotel room was circular and surrounded by bay windows that, as the clerk had promised, afforded excellent views of both streets. A settee and an easy chair converted the corner into a sitting area. Falcon stepped up to the windows and looked out over the town, and into the mountains beyond. He recalled his first meeting with Doc Holliday.

After Falcon’s wife, Mary, was killed by renegade Indians, Falcon started moving. He had no particular place to go, and nothing he had to do when he got there. But somehow moving around seemed to help him get over the pain of his loss.

He found himself in Tombstone, Arizona Territory, during one such sojourn, and as he stood at the bar in the Oriental Cafe, two star-packers stepped up beside him. One of the deputies was very short, but with a prominent belly rise. The other, who was younger, was reed-thin and gawky.

“Mister, Your name wouldn’t be Falcon MacCallister now, would it?” the short, fat one asked.

“It is.”

“You’re under arrest.”

“For what?”

“For murder, or so the wanted posters say.”

“Deputy, if you’ve got paper on me, it’s no good,” Falcon said. “All the dodgers have been recalled.”

“I don’t remember no recall notice,” the short one said, his hand moving toward his pistol. “I’m Deputy Stillwell, and I’m puttin’ you under arrest.”

“I told you, the papers have been recalled. Check with the sheriff.”

Stillwell shook his head. “Can’t do that,” he said. “Seein’ as how Sheriff Behan’s outta town, why, that makes me’n Jimmy here in charge.”

By now the confrontation between Falcon and the deputies had caught the attention of everyone in the saloon, and all other conversation came to a halt. Over in the corner, Falcon saw a well-dressed man sitting by himself. He had a deck of cards spread out in front of him, and was playing solitaire. He continued to play, but it was clear that he was monitoring everything that was going on.

“All right, if you insist, I’ll go to the sheriff’s office with you, and find the recall notices,” Falcon said.

“We ain’t goin’ nowhere till your hands is up and your holsters is empty,” Stillwell said, starting for his gun.

As quick as thought, Falcon drew both guns. He had them cocked and aimed before either of the deputies could clear leather.

The two deputies slowly raised their hands, their eyes wide with naked fear.