Blood Valley (27 page)

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Authors: William W. Johnstone

BOOK: Blood Valley
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The other letter was from Conrad Kohrs.
Falcon held the letter for a moment or two before he opened it, wondering what the wealthiest cattle baron in America wanted with him.
Chapter Two
A rat, its beady eyes alert for danger, darted out from one of the warehouses onto the dank boards of the pier. Finding a piece of sodden bread, it picked up its prize, then darted back to the safety of its hole. Falcon MacCallister stood on the same pier, looking out over San Francisco Bay. He pulled the collar of his coat up against the damp chill air as he listened to a bell buoy clanging out in the harbor, its syncopated ringing notes measuring the passage of the night. From somewhere close, a bosun's pipe sounded a shipboard signal, incomprehensible to landlubbers but fully understood by the ship's crew.
Gossamer tendrils of fog lifted up from the water and swirled around the pilings and piers so that the steel girders and wire cables of the dock loading-cranes became ethereal tracings. Long gray fingers of vapor had San Francisco trapped in its grasp.
There was no breeze.
The gaslights of the street lamps were dimmed and all sound was deadened by the heavy blanket. There was a dreamlike quality to the scene that made it hard to distinguish fantasy from reality. Figures moved along the streets and sidewalks, but they were no more than apparitions gliding through the fog, appearing then disappearing as if summoned and dismissed by some prankish wizard.
Falcon was in San Francisco to take delivery of a horse for Conrad Kohrs. But it wasn't just any horse, it was a very special horse, bred by King Abdul Aziz of Arabia.
“A king's horse have I bought and for it a king's ransom have I paid,” Kohrs said in the letter he had sent to Falcon.
Kohrs chose Falcon as his emissary, not only because the well-known cattle baron was Falcon's friend, but also because he knew Falcon would be coming to Montana to attend the Montana Stockgrowers Association meeting.
The horse had been brought to America onboard the
Sea Dancer
, a tall-ship that plied the Pacific Ocean. Because of the value of the horse, it was shipped under special circumstances, not sharing a stall with other horses, but enjoying a private suite, constantly looked after by its own groomsmen.
Falcon had made arrangements to take delivery of the horse even before dawn because he intended to put it on the morning train.
The
Sea Dancer
lay at anchor alongside pier number seven, flaunting its half-naked dancing-girl figurehead, the long, sleek, gilded black hull glistening in its own running lights. Someone was standing on the dock alongside the ship as Falcon approached. The man was wearing a dark peacoat and a billed cap. The sleeves of the coat, as well as the bill of the cap, were decorated with gold braid.
“Captain MacTavish?” Falcon asked.
“Aye, Captain Sean MacTavish at your service,” the sailor answered. “And you would be Falcon MacCallister, I take it?”
“Yes.”
“Well, 'tis a fine horse my old friend Connie is getting,” Captain MacTavish said.
Falcon chuckled. “Connie?”
“Aye, it was Connie we called him when he sailed with us,” MacTavish said. “I was a midshipman when first we met.” TacTavish chuckled. “Connie and I went ashore in Calais. Ahh, the French girls. We were just boys, mind you, but we'd been around the world a time or two, so we were pretty worldly for our age. But it turns out the Captain didn't think so. We got a caning we did, the both of us.”
MacTavish paused before he spoke again. “But the French girls . . . ah . . . the French girls. I tell you true, 'tis three canings I would have taken for the lessons those French girls taught us.” The captain turned toward the ship.
“Mr. Peabody!” he called.
“Aye, Cap'n,” a voice returned from the deck.
“Land His Highness.”
“Aye, aye, sir.”
MacTavish turned back to Falcon. “I don't know what Connie will call the horse, but we've been calling him His Highness, for true it is that he lived better than anyone did on the voyage, myself included.”
A wide gangplank was lowered from the side of the ship, then a sailor came down the plank, leading the horse. Falcon walked over to examine the animal when it reached the dock.
The horse had a distinctive muscular profile with large, lustrous, wide-set eyes on a broad forehead; small, curved ears; and large nostrils. Falcon whistled softly.
“He's quite a beauty, isn't he?” Mac Tavish said.
“Yes, he is.”
“T'was said, when we took him abroad, that he was the King's favorite.”
“Then why did the King part with him?”
“'Tis said he wanted the bloodline to start in America,” MacTavish said. He rubbed his hands together. “Well, m'boyo, 'tis your responsibility now. Do give Connie my best.”
“I'll do that,” Falcon said.
“You sure he's pickin' up that horse this early, Dingo?” Cyrus asked. “Hell, it ain't even light yet.”
“Yeah, He's getting' him early so he can put 'im on the eight o'clock train.”
“How do you know this?”
“'Cause I met some fella off the ship that brung the horse over,” Dingo said. “We was drinkin' together. He got drunk and the next thing you know, he was tellin' me about this here ten-thousand-dollar horse.”
“You know that's a load of bullshit,” Cyrus said. “There ain't no horse worth ten thousand dollars. And even if there was, who would you find to pay you that much for it?”
“This here horse is worth that much. He's one of them special breed of horses that kings and the like have,” Dingo said. “But we ain't goin' to try and get that much money for him. If we sell him for five hunnert dollars, well, that's five hunnert we don't have now.”
“Yeah, well somethin' else we don't have now is the horse,” Cyrus said.
“Shhh,” Dingo said. “Here he comes now.”
 
 
Falcon was riding a rental horse, and leading the Arabian. Suddenly there was a flash in the darkness and the sound of a gunshot echoed back from the line of warehouses. Falcon felt the impact of the bullet as it hit his horse, then the horse went down under him.
“I got 'im!” Dingo said.
“You got the horse,” Cyrus corrected.
“It's the same thing.”
“No, it ain't the same thing. If you hadn't kilt the horse, we could'a had both of the horses. You should'a aimed at the rider.”
“I
was
aimin' at the rider,” Dingo said. “Come on, let's check him out.”
The two men moved up, cautiously, toward the fallen horse. They could see the rider lying, perfectly motionless, pinned to the ground by the horse that was on his leg.
“I think he's dead,” Dingo said.
“What makes you think he's dead?”
“Look at the way he's lyin' there. His eyes is open, but they ain't movin'. He don't look like he's breathin'.”
“Check 'im out, Dingo. See if he's dead,” Cyrus said.
Holding his pistol beside him, Dingo leaned over the motionless form of the rider, then reached out with his other hand to check for a pulse.
 
 
Falcon remained still until Dingo got close enough. Then, reacting quickly, Falcon reached up and grabbed the assailant's gun, jerking it away cleanly.
“What the hell?” Dingo shouted, taking a step back in surprise.
Falcon's leg only appeared to be trapped. In fact, it was under the soft belly of the horse, so it was very easy for him to pull it out.
“Shoot 'im, Cyrus, shoot 'im!” Dingo shouted.
Falcon sat up then cocked his pistol. The deadly, double click of the sear engaging the cylinder sounded exceptionally loud in the still morning darkness.
“I wouldn't listen to Dingo if I were you, Cyrus,” Falcon said.
“Dingo, the son of bitch knows our names,” Cyrus said. “How does he know our names?”
Falcon chuckled. Were these two so dumb that they didn't even realize they had just given him their names?
“Unbuckle the gunbelt,” Falcon said to Cyrus.
“You goin' to shoot us, Mister?” Cyrus asked, his voice cracking with fear.
“I might,” Falcon said. “I don't have time to take you to jail.”
“If you're goin' to shoot someone, shoot him,” Cyrus said. “This here wasn't my idea.”
“Shut up, Cyrus. We was both in on this.”
“But you was the one that come up with it,” Cyrus said. “You said there was this here real valuable horse and we could steal him and sell him. That's what you said.”
Falcon chuckled. “Were you going to share in the money, Cyrus?”
“Well, yeah,” Cyrus said.
“Well, there you go then. You are as guilty as Dingo.”
“Yeah,” Dingo said. “There you go, you're as guilty as me. So he's goin' to shoot both of us.”
Falcon sighed. He really didn't have time to take them to jail, and he had no intention of shooting either one of them, even thought they were damn near too dumb to live. But he couldn't just let them go. Then he got an idea.
“Take off your clothes,” he said.
“What?”
“Take off your clothes, both of you.”
“Are you sayin' you want us to strip down to our long handles?” Cyrus asked.
Falcon shook his head. “No, I'm saying I want you to strip down to the skin. I want both of you butt naked.”
“Mister, I ain't a'goin' to do that,” Dingo said.
“All right,” Falcon said. “Cyrus, you strip while I kill Dingo.”
“Yes, sir, I'll strip,” Cyrus said. “You go ahead and shoot him.”
“No, wait!” Dingo said, holding his hands out in front of him. “Don't shoot, don't shoot! What's the matter with you, Cyrus, tellin' him to shoot me?”
“Well, if you won't take offen your clothes like he said,” Cyrus said as he pulled off one of his boots.
“All right, all right, I'll strip,” Dingo said.
Lifting up first one foot, then the other, the men started removing their boots.
“Mister, this ain't natural,” Dingo said. “It ain't right, you makin' us strip like this.”
“It wasn't right for you to shoot at me, either.”
“I didn't shoot you, I shot the horse.”
“But you said you was shootin' at him,” Cyrus said.
“Cyrus, will you shut up?”
A moment later, both men stood naked, shivering in the morning chill.
“Now what?” Dingo asked.
“Take your clothes over to the edge of the dock and drop them in the water.” Falcon shifted his gun to his left hand, then threw the gun he had grabbed from Dingo toward the bay. It made a little splashing sound as it went into the water. “Drop your holsters in there too.”
Glaring in anger, the two men scooped up their clothes, then padded, barefoot, across the board dock. They looked toward him in one last, fruitless appeal. He waved his gun to tell them to go through with it.
Both men dropped their clothes into the water, then looked back at Falcon.
“Now what?” Dingo said.
Falcon shrugged. “Now nothing,” he said. “I'm through with you. You can go on your way.”
“Go on our way? Where are we going to go, naked like this?”
“I don't care,” Falcon said. “Just get out of my sight. I've never seen anything uglier than you two naked jaybirds.”
Dingo and Cyrus hurried away, disappearing into the morning gloom. They continued arguing with each other and Falcon could hear them, even after he could no longer see them.

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