Scream of Eagles by William W. Johnstone Page A

MacCallisters?”
    â€œYeah.”
    â€œDamn fool!”
    â€œHe got lucky, that’s all,” Boots gasped, the words no more than a whisper. He closed his eyes for the last time.
    â€œMaybe so,” a policeman said, looking down at the body. “But you’re still dead.”
    * * *
    â€œPa’s in Denver,” Morgan said, stepping into his sister’s house, waving the week-old newspaper. “He killed a man on a downtown street.”
    Matthew was somewhere out in the county, chasing down a horse thief.
    â€œThen he might be coming home for a time,” Little Ben Pardee said. He and his wife, Kathy, Ellen Kathleen’s daughter, were over for a visit.
    â€œI doubt it,” Morgan said. “Told me ’fore he left he’d rather not look again on Ma’s grave until she was fully avenged.” He held up the newspaper. “According to this, the man who braced Pa was a paid assassin.”
    â€œThose damn Saxons and Newbys and Olmsteads again,” Joleen said, laying aside her sewing.
    With the exception of Ben Pardee, everyone in the large room was blond-haired and blue-eyed. Ben said, “Hard to believe the colonel’s been gone near’bouts a year and a half. I wonder when he’ll come back.”
    â€œWhen it’s done,” Megan said.
    * * *
    Jamie stood at the bar, one boot on the railing. He was dressed to the nines, wearing a new tailor-made dark suit, sparkling white shirt with string tie, and a new dark hat with a silver band. His boots were polished to a high shine. He wore both Colts in leather, low and tied down. He was clean-shaven now, except for a neatly trimmed moustache. His hair was trimmed short. Jamie stood alone at the bar, at the far end, facing the front door and batwings.
    The bar was one of many located on Holladay Street, a four-block area known as the “Street of a Thousand Sinners.” The four blocks were filled with saloons, whorehouses, and gambling houses. It was said that those four blocks contained more wickedness than any other four blocks west of the Mississippi River.
    Any outlaw who hit town immediately gravitated to Holladay Street.
    Jamie waited at the bar. He’d heard that three of Miles Nelson’s gang were in town, and knew that sooner or later, they’d surface, and he would be waiting and ready.
    There were outlaws in the saloon, but Jamie left them alone. They were not the ones he sought.
    Jamie sipped his drink and waited.
    A man dressed in rough and stained clothing left a table and walked to Jamie’s side, placing his mug of beer on the bar. He was very careful to keep his hands away from his guns. “I ain’t never done you a harm, Mr. MacCallister,” he spoke in low tones. “And I ain’t never been in Valley, Colorado, nor anywhere’s close to it. I’ve rid the hoot-owl trail more’un once, but I ain’t never harmed no woman nor child. And I can’t abide a man who would. The three you’re lookin’ for is up to Belle’s House of Pleasure. Soon as they get done with the Doves, they’ll be here. Son Hogg, Jim Aarons, and Glen Anderson. Nice talkin’ to you, and I’m gone.”
    Jamie nodded his head in acknowledgement. The outlaw downed his beer, set the mug on the bar, and walked out.
    Those seated at tables close to the long bar began seeking other places to sit, getting out of the line of fire. Obviously, the outlaw who had warned Jamie was known to many of them, and they probably had discussed it among themselves.
    Jamie waited with the patience of a born hunter.
    * * *
    In Boston, the editor of the paper accepted Ben F. Washington’s letter of resignation with a great deal of reluctance. Not only was Ben a fine reporter, but he was a friend of the family.
    â€œNot to worry,” Ben assured the man. “I have money. I’ve got to go back to the West. I have to resolve this personal issue.”
    The