“You’re just too smart for me,” Malcolm said. “Now, if you would, please start rounding up some more men.”
“You would’a give him more, wouldn’t you?” Shaw asked after Pogue left.
“Perhaps.”
“I mean, you give me a hunnert.”
“We’ll keep that between ourselves, won’t we?” Malcolm asked.
“Hell, yeah, you think I want Pogue knowin’ I’m gettin’ more money than he is?”
“I think he would not be too pleased with that,” Malcolm said.
Scotland—Donuun in Argyllshire
Sheriff Angus Somerled read the letter the postmaster brought him. It was another letter from Duff MacCallister, intended for Ian.
Dear Ian,
I am writing to inform you that it has become necessary for me to leave New York. Alexander and Roderick Somerled came to New York in the company of Rab Malcolm. They came upon me in the theater one night after everyone else had left. It was their intention not to arrest me, but to kill me. In the ensuing encounter I bested them, killing both of the sheriff’s sons. The deputy ran into the night, but I take no solace in thinking that my troubles are over.
As I have now dispatched all three of Somerled’s sons, I have no doubt but that he will make every effort to kill me, and feel that, for my own safety, as well as the safety of Andrew and Rosanna, my kinsman, I must leave. I am writing this letter from the railroad depot. From here I shall journey to a place in Colorado which bears the name MacCallister. There, I will meet with the brother of Andrew and Rosanna. His name is Falcon, the selfsame name of a distant ancestor whose blood runs in both of us.
I think often of Skye, you, and the town of Donuun. With prayers for your continued health, I remain,
Duff MacCallister
Sheriff Somerled folded up the copy of the letter and drummed his fingers on the desk for moment or two. Then he got an atlas of the United States and looked up Colorado. He put his finger on the town of MacCallister, between Red Cliff and Wheeler, in Eagle County.
“You think you are safe, do you, Duff MacCallister?” Somerled said aloud. He pulled his pistol from his holster and held it for a long moment, thinking of his three sons, all dead because of Duff MacCallister.
Then, putting his pistol back in the holster, he took out a piece of paper and wrote out his resignation. He had sent Malcolm to America to deal with MacCallister, but so far all he had done was get his two sons killed. The old adage “If you want something done, do it yourself,” resonated with him. He was going to America to find Duff MacCallister, and he was going to kill him.
Chapter Sixteen
MacCallister Valley—Falcon’s homeplace
“You Americans have tremendously large breakfasts,” Duff said as he split open a biscuit and laid a piece of fried ham between the halves. His plate showed the residue of three eggs and home fried potatoes.
“That may be so, but you seem to be up to the task,” Falcon said.
Duff laughed as he took a bite of his ham biscuit. “I didn’t say that I didn’t approve. I was just commenting.”
“I eat a big breakfast when I can,” Falcon said, “because I’m not always certain I will get to eat again on that day.”
“Seems reasonable enough to me,” Duff said.
“Didn’t you tell me that you bought a pistol?” Falcon asked.
“Aye, that I did. I bought an Enfield Mark 1.”
“Enfield is it? Hmm, I’ve heard of Enfield rifles. I didn’t know they made a pistol.”
“Quite a good one, actually,” Duff replied.
“Do you have a belt and holster set?”
“Oh, I do indeed,” Duff said.
“I tell you what. After breakfast, suppose you strap on your pistol and we’ll go outside for a little shooting?”
“I think that would be splendid.”
When Duff stepped outside a few minutes later, he was wearing a pistol belt with bullets in every loop. The holster was in front, just over his right leg.
“Why are you wearing your holster like that?” Falcon asked.
“’Tis the way I wore it in the regiment.”
“No, no, pull it around to your side.”
Duff did as directed.
“And let it hang low. Look at my gun. When my arm is hanging normally by my side, my hand is even with the pistol grip. See?”
Duff made the necessary adjustments.
Falcon began the task with some reservation because he feared that the job of teaching Duff to use a pistol might be more than he could handle. But he knew, also, that if Duff was going to survive his time in the West, he was going to have to be prepared for it.
“Let’s see what you can do,” Falcon said. He pulled his pistol and pointed at a nearby tree. “You see those three little limbs sticking up there? I’m going to shoot the one in the middle.”
Falcon fired, and half the twig flew away.
“Now you try it.”
Duff fired, and the rest of the twig was blasted from the tree.
Falcon squinted, then looked over at Duff. “What did you do? Miss your twig and hit that one by mistake?”
“No, I didn’t miss at all,” Duff said. “I thought that was the twig you wanted me to hit.”
“Can you hit one of the others?”
“Which one?”
“Your choice.”
Duff fired twice, the shots coming so close together that it sounded almost as if it were one sustained roar. Both of the other twigs were cut by his bullets.
“Damn,” Falcon said. “You’ll do just fine.”
“I’m afraid I don’t have the skills necessary to make a rapid extraction though,” Duff said.
Falcon had to think for a moment until he realized what Duff was saying. Then he laughed. “You mean a quick draw,” he said.
“Aye.”
“Let me tell you something about quick draws,” Falcon said. “Half the people who can draw faster than you, can’t shoot. They depend upon their speed, then just blaze away, hoping they can hit what they are shooting at. Being able to hit your target is much more important than being able to get your pistol out first.”
“You said half the people,” Duff said. “That means that the other half can draw faster than I can, and can also hit their target.”
“You might think that,” Falcon said. “But there is still another consideration. If you are going to draw on someone, you must be prepared to kill them, and you must be prepared to do so without the slightest hesitation.”
“I would imagine that one would not draw upon another if he did not want to kill him,” Duff said.
Falcon shook his head. “And that is where you would be wrong. It takes a lot of resolve to kill a man. Most will hesitate for just a second trying to fortify themselves to the task at hand. And that hesitation can be fatal. You have killed before, in self-defense, yes. But sometimes the question of self-defense might be a blurry line. Could you do it then?”
“When I was in Egypt I killed men for no other reason than that they were wearing a uniform different from my own,” Duff said. “As far as I know they were good men, family men, husbands, fathers, sons, and brothers. But I didn’t think about any of that. The only thing I thought of was my duty.”
On the morning they were to leave for Cheyenne, Morgan MacCallister arrived at the homestead driving a buckboard. Falcon tossed his saddle and saddlebags into the back of the buckboard, then tied Lightning, his big bronze stallion, onto the back. He had made arrangements to ship Lightning up to Cheyenne on the same train he and Duff would take. Morgan put his bagpipes and sea bag into the back.
“Duff, as you are my guest, you ride up front in the seat with Morgan,” Falcon invited. “I’ll sit back here.”