Dear Readers,
Many years ago, when I was a kid, my father said to me, “Bill, it doesn’t really matter what you do in life. What’s important is to be the best William Johnstone you can be.”
I’ve never forgotten those words. And now, many years and almost two hundred books later, I like to think that I am still trying to be the best William Johnstone I can be. Whether it’s Ben Raines in the Ashes series, or Frank Morgan, the last gunfighter, or Smoke Jensen, our intrepid mountain man, or John Barrone and his hardworking crew keeping America safe from terrorist lowlifes in the Code Name series, I want to make each new book better than the last and deliver powerful storytelling.
Equally important, I try to create the kinds of believable characters that we can all identify with, real people who face tough challenges. When one of my creations blasts an enemy into the middle of next week, you can be damn sure he had a good reason.
As a storyteller, my job is to entertain you, my readers, and to make sure that you get plenty of enjoyment from my books for your hard-earned money. This is not a job I take lightly. And I greatly appreciate your feedback—you are my gold, and your opinions do count. So please keep the letters and e-mails coming.
Respectfully yours,
William W. Johnstone
WILLIAM W. JOHNSTONE
WITH FRED AUSTIN
REVENGE OF EAGLES
PINNACLE BOOKS
Kensington Publishing Corp.
http://www.kensingtonbooks.com
All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.
Table of Contents
Dear Readers,
Title Page
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
AFTERWORD - Notes from the Old West
THE LAST GUNFIGHTER: RENEGADES,
Copyright Page
Notes
CHAPTER 1
Falcon MacCallister stood on the depot platform at Glenwood Springs, Colorado. Behind him, the train popped and snapped as the bearings and gearboxes cooled. The relief valve vented steam in puffs that made it sound as if the mighty engine was trying to recover its breath after a difficult run.
Standing slightly over six feet tall, Falcon had shoulders so wide and muscular, and a waist so flat and thin, that his suits had to be custom-made for him. His eyes were pale blue, staring out from a chiseled face. He had wheat-colored hair, which he wore short and neat under a black hat decorated with a turquoise-encrusted silver band. Right now he was wearing a black suit with a crisp white shirt and a black string tie.
He had come to Glenwood Springs because an old friend was here. Walking across the depot platform, he threw his grip in the back of a hack.
“The Glenwood Springs Hotel,” he said.
The driver snapped the reins over his horse and the Light Brett carriage pulled away.
“You moving to our fair city, or are you just here for a visit?” the driver asked over the clip-clop of the horses’ hooves.
“Visiting.”
“Ah. And will you be taking our waters? The sulphur springs are good for what ails you.”
“No.”
“Well, you certainly picked a good time to visit us. We are having a beautiful spring,” the driver said. Realizing then that his passenger wasn’t much of a talker, the driver stopped trying to make conversation, and concentrated on his driving.
The Hotel Glenwood sat in such a way as to allow its front door to open onto the corner of Fifth Street and Colorado Avenue. It was a large, imposing edifice that could compete with just about any hotel Falcon had ever seen, including those in New York. It was three stories high, with dormer windows in the roof that made the attic usable as well. A roofed balcony wrapped around the second floor, providing an arched roof for the ground-level porch.
Falcon paid the fare, then stepped into the hotel. The lobby was large, with overstuffed sofas and chairs, highly polished brass spittoons, and a few potted plants. The carpet was light brown, decorated with a pattern of roses.
“Yes, sir,” the clerk behind the desk said brightly. “Come to take the waters?”
“No. I need a room.”
The clerk turned the registration book toward him, and Falcon signed in.
By the time Falcon finished signing, the clerk was holding a room key. “Very good, sir, you’ll be in Room 307, Mister... .” He looked at the registration; then his eyes grew wide and he swallowed. “MacCallister? You are Falcon MacCallister?”
“I am.”
“Oh, uh, Mr. MacCallister, I beg your pardon,” he said. Turning, he hung the key back up on the board, then got another one. “Three-oh-seven would not be an appropriate room for you. I’m sure you will find this one much more to your liking. It is three-oh-one, it’s our corner room, and as you’ll see when you go up there, it has cupola windows, which will provide you with an excellent view of our fair city.”
“Thanks.”
“Is there anything else I can do for you?”
“Yes. I believe John Henry Holliday is staying in this hotel.”
“John Henry?”
“Dr. Holliday.”
“Doctor ...” The hotel clerk gasped. “Good Lord, sir, do you mean Doc Holliday?”
“Yes.”
“Well, yes, yes, as a matter of fact he is a guest in our hotel. He is here in Glenwood Springs, taking the cure for his tuberculosis.”
“What room?”
The clerk smiled. “He is in three-oh-three, which, as it turns out, is right next to your own room. But you won’t find him there now. He is down at the springs. He generally returns to the hotel around suppertime, though.”
“Thanks.”
Falcon went to his room. His name often elicited the kind of response he got from the hotel clerk. There were those who said that he was one of the most accomplished men with a six-gun to ever roam the West. Stories about him were told and retold until they reached legendary proportions, and Falcon MacCallister seemed larger than life.
But the truth was, and Falcon understood and accepted this ... many of the stories told about him had actually happened to his father, Jamie Ian MacCallister.
From the War for Texas Independence to the Colorado Rockies, to the goldfields of California, to the battlefields of the Civil War, Jamie MacCallister had made a name for himself, raised a family, and amassed a fortune. If some of Jamie’s exploits were confused with some of Falcon’s, it was understandable. On the other hand, Falcon’s own exploits had put his name in the history books, alongside that of his storied father.
The corner of Falcon’s hotel room was circular and surrounded by bay windows that, as the clerk had promised, afforded excellent views of both streets. A settee and an easy chair converted the corner into a sitting area. Falcon stepped up to the windows and looked out over the town, and into the mountains beyond. He recalled his first meeting with Doc Holliday.