Bloodshed of Eagles. William W. Johnstone

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      PINNACLE BOOKS

      Kensington Publishing Corp.

       www.kensingtonbooks.com

      “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.