Scream of Eagles by William W. Johnstone Page B

editor leaned back in his chair. “I think you’re underestimating this Falcon MacCallister, Ben. He’s a known gunfighter and a bad man to fool with. If he says he’ll kill you, I believe he means to do just that. Ben . . . let sleeping dogs lie. What you plan to do is pure vindictiveness . . . it won’t help you. And it’s so unlike you.”
    Ben sat down and looked at his boss and friend. “It was vindictiveness, at first. I will readily admit that. And as Falcon pointed out, jealousy. But since I’ve been back east, I’ve had a chance to think things through and realize how silly and petty I’ve been about this matter.” He shook his head. “I really behaved as a fool. Oh, hell, Frank! I’m not going to write a book that would ruin my sister’s life. Our parents won’t even be in the book. I want to write a book about Jamie Ian MacCallister. Not a Penny Dreadful. But a real book about the man, factual. Jamie Ian and Kate. They’re both legends, Frank. Real legends. And somebody needs to chronicle their lives. But Frank, my sister needs to be told of her background. If she becomes pregnant and gives birth to some nappy headed breed . . . that would destroy Page and her husband.”
    The older man nodded his agreement. “But do you have the right to do it, Ben?”
    â€œSince I’ve come to my senses, I’ve been giving that considerable thought. I don’t really know what to do about the situation. Well, that’s not correct. I know what to do. I just don’t know how to go about it.”
    â€œBen, I’m going to put this resignation in my personal safe. No one else will know about it. In the meantime, I want you to continue working for us. Send in a story every now and then. When your manuscript is ready, I can get your book published. What do you say?”
    Ben smiled and reached across the desk, hand extended. “I accept.”
    â€œGood, good. When are you planning on leaving?”
    â€œIn the morning.”
    â€œGoing back to Denver?”
    â€œFor a time. Then I plan on taking the stage for Valley.”
    The editor smiled. “Going to jump right into the thick of things, huh?”
    Ben returned the smile. “That’s the only way, Frank.”
    * * *
    The men met in a hotel suite in Washington, D.C. They were the sons and grandsons and cousins of the Newbys, the Olmsteads, the Saxons, the Layfields, and the Bradfords. And they all, for various reasons, hated Jamie Ian MacCallister. Some of them hated him because their fathers had hated Jamie. That was the sadness of a long-running blood feud: the reasons for the hatred obscured in the mist and shadows of time.
    â€œNow is the perfect time for us to rid ourselves of Jamie Ian MacCallister,” a Newby said. “That bastard has bounty hunters all over the West looking for him. A few more men, on our payrolls, won’t even be noticed in the hunt.”
    â€œTake him alive and torture him,” a relative of Kate said. “It’s common knowledge he’s got gold hidden all over the mountains around Valley. Now that Kate is dead, the gold belongs to the family she deserted down in Kentucky, when she run off with MacCallister back in ’25 or ’26. It’s only right, and I won’t be cheated out of my share.”
    â€œMacCallister killed my Uncle Henry down the Big Thicket country,” a Bradford said. “I want him dead. And I don’t need to hire no damn bounty hunters. I got five big, strappin’ boys that I can cut loose any time. They’ll take care of MacCallister.”
    â€œAnybody here know a man name of Grover Ellis?” Olmstead asked.
    They all shook their heads.
    â€œMacCallister run Grover out of his valley right after the war. Then Grover got killed a couple or three years later over on the Bearpaw. ’Fore he died, he claimed MacCallister done it or had it done. Well, his kin