enough for both of us.”
“You’re gonna have to tell me sometime how come a driftin’ gunfighter’s got plenty of dinero,” Salty said.
Frank smiled. “Maybe I’ll do that.”
He looked up and grew more solemn as Sergeant McKendrick came through the hotel’s front door. The sergeant looked around, spotted them, and came across the lobby to join them.
“What was the final tally, Sergeant?” Frank asked as McKendrick sat down.
McKendrick sighed. “Six dead—not counting the Metis—and upwards of thirty wounded. Terrible, just terrible. But it would have been much, much worse if not for you and your friends, Mr. Morgan.”
“I’m glad we were around to lend a hand.”
“What are your plans now, if you don’t mind my asking?”
“Is that an official question?” Frank asked with a grin.
“Well … it might be. I’ve spoken to some of my superiors about you. They tell me that you have quite a reputation down in the States. It’s said that trouble follows you wherever you go.”
“So you’d probably just as soon I went somewhere else besides Canada.”
“Indeed. The North West Mounted Police are charged with keeping the peace, you know. I have a feeling that would be much easier without the, ah, Drifter in our midst.”
Frank didn’t take offense. He had heard it all before. He said, “Don’t worry, I’ll be moseying on pretty soon. Salty and I have been talking about going down to Mexico.” He turned to the old-timer. “In fact, I was thinking about seeing if I can send a wire to Seattle and see if the fella who’s been looking after Stormy, Goldy, and Dog could put them on a train and ship them over to White Sulphur Springs in Montana. I’ve got a friend named Bob Coburn who owns a ranch near there. It’s really not all that far from here, as the crow flies. If we could pick them up there, we wouldn’t even have to go back to Seattle.”
Salty nodded. “Sounds like a mighty fine plan to me. I wouldn’t mind takin’ a
“If I can assist you in any way in making your plans, Mr. Morgan, please let me know,” McKendrick said.
“I’ll do that,” Frank promised. “We’ll be outfitted and on our way in a day or two, more than likely.”
McKendrick said his farewells and left. Frank and Salty resumed their sitting and musing.
“Reckon they’ll ever have another ro-day-o here, after all the hell that broke loose at this one?” Salty asked.
“I expect they will. Reb says they’re the coming thing, that they’ll be holding rodeos all over the country before you know it.”
“Hmmph. Why in tarnation would they do that?”
“Because it won’t be long until the frontier that we knew is gone, Salty. Hombres like the two of us are the next thing to relics already. People will want to remember the way things were, though, and rodeos and Wild West shows and things like that will be the only way.”
“It won’t be the same,” Salty warned.
“Nothing ever is,” Frank said.
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MACCALLISTER: THE EAGLES LEGACY
The Scottish Highlands, 1885. Two men, brandishing knives, attack a young woman outside a pub. Duff MacCallister steps in and saves her—killing one of the assailants. Big mistake. The attacker was the sheriff’s son, and now MacCallister is marked for death. His only hope: America. Here, in the sprawling land of dreams, Duff hopes to start a new life with his American cousins. Unfortunately, the sheriff’s deputies are tracking him down— with nine of the deadliest cutthroats money can buy. Blazing a trail of blood and bullets all the way to the Rockies, Duff has to kill his enemies one by one—or die trying. But this time, Duff is not alone. He has a new ally by his side. A living legend of frontier justice. The gunslinger known as Falcon MacCallister …
MACCALLISTER: THE EAGLES LEGACY
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Chapter 1
Scotland— Donuun in Argyllshire
The White Horse Pub in Donuun had an island bar, Jacobean-style ceiling, beautiful stained-glass windows, and etched mirrors. Despite its elegant decor and clientele of nobles, it was primarily a place for drinking and most who came behaved with decorum, enjoying the ambiance and convivial conversation with friends. But some, like Alexander, Donald, and Roderick Somerled, sons of Angus Somerled, Lord High Sheriff of Argyllshire regarded their station in life not one of seemliness, but one of privilege. They drank too much, considered all others to be beneath them, and behaved with little restraint.
Duff Tavish MacCallister, a tall man with golden hair, wide shoulders, and muscular arms was sitting on a stool at the opposite end of the bar from the Somerleds. This wasn’t by accident; there was a long-standing feud between the MacCallister and Somerled Clans, going back to the time of Robert the Bruce. And although the killing of each other had stopped a hundred years ago, their dislike of each other continued.
