Bloodshed of Eagles
William W. Johnstone
with J. A. Johnstone
PINNACLE BOOKS
Kensington Publishing Corp.
“If there are no dogs in Heaven,
then when I die I want to go
where they went.”
—WILL ROGERS, 1897–1935
In Memory of Charley
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-five
Author’s Note
Chapter One
June 25, 1927
MacCallister, Colorado
Falcon MacCallister had met Zane Grey two years earlier when the author attended a banquet given by the Governor honoring Falcon as “A true treasure of the state of Colorado; a man whose exploits and heroic deeds will echo down through the corridors of time.”
At that banquet, Zane Grey asked Falcon if he could interview him, to write a story about him. As nicely as he could, Falcon said no. He could still remember the many awful “dime novels” that had been written about him and other notables back in the days when Falcon was most active. All were highly exaggerated tales of derring-do, and the truth was, had any of the pulp writers of the day stopped to do some research, they would have discovered that Falcon’s actual exploits exceeded anything the writers ever portrayed.
It was because of those books that Falcon had turned Zane Grey down. Later, however, as Falcon read some of Zane Grey’s books, he realized that the author was not of the “penny dreadful” ilk. On the contrary, Zane Grey’s books rang true with a respect for people and Western life, as well as wonderful descriptions of the beauty of the country. Falcon became an immediate fan of his writing, and that was why, when the author contacted Falcon by telephone three days ago requesting permission to call on him, Falcon agreed.
“Big Grandpa, do you really know Zane Grey?” Falcon’s great-granddaughter asked. The young girl was actually named Rosanna, after her great-great-aunt, but everyone called her Rosie. “He’s very famous. He’s a writer like Ernest Hemingway and F. Scott Fitzgerald.”
Falcon looked over at the young girl who had been named after his sister.
“Zane Grey is fine, but aren’t you a little young to be reading Hemingway and Fitzgerald?”
“I’m sixteen,” the girl insisted. “That’s not too young.”
Falcon thought back to his own youth, and how many sixteen-year-olds he had known who were on their own, some of whom had fought in the Civil War at that age.
“I guess it’s not too young at that, darlin’,” Falcon said.
Rosie stepped up to the window and looked outside. “Oh, here comes a car. I’ll bet that’s him!” she said excitedly.
Falcon walked out onto the front porch of his Colorado home, then stood there as the big green Packard sedan glided in stately fashion around the curved brick driveway. Zane Grey stepped out of the car and smiled up at Falcon.
“Mr. MacCallister, thank you for agreeing to see me,” the author said.
“It is my pleasure, Mr. Grey. My first impression of you was wrong,” Falcon replied. “I’ve read some of your books, and I have enjoyed them very much.”
“Well, I thank you,” Grey said. “All of my Western heroes are fictional, but praise coming from an authentic Western hero like you is flattering indeed.”
“Would you like some coffee? It used to be that when a man visited your camp, you’d offer him coffee from the pot hanging over your fire. There is nothing better than coffee brewed over an open fire, but I’m afraid you are going to have to deal with coffee brewed in an electric pot.”
“The price of modern living,” Zane Grey replied. He looked back toward the car. “I have someone with me. It’s an old friend of yours.”
“By all means, invite him in as well,” Falcon said.
“It isn’t a him, it’s a her.”
Falcon looked surprised. “And you say she is an old friend of mine?”
“Come, we’ll help her out of the car,” Zane Grey said.
Falcon followed the author back to the car, then stood to one side as Grey opened the door and stuck his hand in to help his passenger exit.
The small, gray-haired woman stepped out of the car, adjusted her hat, and looked at Falcon.
“Hello, Colonel MacCallister,” she said. “It has been a very long time.”
“Libbie Custer,” Falcon said, gasping in surprise.
“Big Grandpa, I baked some cookies this morning as soon as I learned that Mr. Grey was coming,” Rosie said after they all moved inside. “Would you like me to serve them?”
“Mr. Grey, Mrs. Custer, this is my great-granddaughter, Rosanna,” Falcon said.
“What a lovely thing you are,” Libbie said.
“Thank you,” Rosie said, blushing at the compliment.
“Rosanna, is it?”
“Yes, ma’am. Well, that’s my real name, but everyone calls me Rosie…I’m named after my great-great-aunt. She was a famous actress,” Rosanna said.
“Oh, indeed she was,” Libbie said. “Autie and I saw her and her brother on stage in New York. And they even came to Ft. Lincoln to perform for us there…You look just like her, by the way.”
Rosie frowned. “She is very old.”
Libbie laughed. “I mean you look just like her when she was very young and very beautiful.”
“Oh,” Rosie said.
“Some cookies would be nice, darlin’,” Falcon said.
“All right Big Grandpa, I’ll go get them,” Rosie said, starting back to the kitchen.
Falcon, Zane Grey, and Libbie Custer were sitting in the parlor. This was the same house that Falcon’s father, Jamie, had lived in—it was the same house where his mother had died, shot down on the front porch. And the room that Falcon