When all the arriving passengers were off the train, the conductor pulled out his pocket watch and examined it.
“Board!” the conductor called.
Falcon watched the other departing passengers exchange good-byes, then board the train. He waited until everyone else had boarded before he stepped up into the car.
“Good afternoon, Mr. MacCallister,” the conductor said. “It’s good to have you traveling with us today. But then it’s always good to have you.”
“Hello, Syl,” Falcon replied. “How is the family?”
“They are doing well. Oh, and my boy is at West Point now thanks to the letter you sent.”
“I was glad to do it, Syl. Charley is a fine young man,” Falcon said.
Once on board, Falcon moved halfway down the car, then chose a seat on the opposite side from the depot. He watched the other passengers get settled. Then, with a jerk, the train started forward.
It would be an overnight run to La Junta, but as the train was primarily a local, there was no sleeper car. It didn’t bother Falcon that there was no sleeper car. During the war, he had slept in holes, filled with mud by drenching rainstorms, while undergoing artillery barrages. Since that time, he had slept in desert heat, mountain blizzards, and even in the saddle, so the prospect of spending a night in a padded seat in a train car was not in the least daunting.
Shortly after the train got under way, Falcon took a letter from his pocket. The return address indicated the letter was from Wade Garrison. Falcon had known a Brigadier General Wade Garrison during the war. The letter had come as a surprise, because he had not seen Garrison in over fifteen years. But any question as to whether or not this was the same Wade Garrison had been answered when he saw the address the letter was mailed to:
Major Falcon MacCallister
General Delivery
MacCallister, Colorado
Dear Major MacCallister,
I reckon I’m about the last person on earth you ever expected to get a letter from. But it’s me, the same man you junior officers used to salute to my face and cuss to my back.
I’ve settled in a place called Higbee, Colorado. It’s a fine little town, and I have plans to build a railroad that will connect Higbee with the rest of the country, which means the town will grow and prosper. Unfortunately, though most all the citizens of the town and the surrounding ranchers support my plan, there is one rancher who is opposed, and in fact, is rallying other ranchers to his cause.
Now, a little business opposition I could handle, but this gentleman—and I do use the term gentleman with some reservation—is opposing it in a way that is causing me some concern. Recently, three wagons which were carrying supplies I needed were attacked. The drivers, good men all, were killed, and the wagons burned. I can replace the supplies, but the drivers are irreplaceable.
There have been no charges made; indeed, nobody has even made any accusations because the operation was too clean to have left any physical clues as to who did it. However, there is no doubt in my mind as to who did it. I just need the proof.
I’ve kept up with you since the war, Falcon. I know that you have gained quite a reputation for what the dime novels call “derring-do.” I would like to call upon you to come to Higbee for a visit. While you are here, I can apprise you of the situation and if you can see your way to lend a hand, I would be eternally grateful.
Sincerely,
Wade Garrison
“Eternally grateful,” Falcon said, whispering the words. Folding the letter, he put it in his pocket, then pulled his hat down over his eyes and folded his arms across his chest, and in that state of half-awake, half-asleep, he recalled a place named Palmetto Hill in Southern Texas.
It was in late May of 1865, and elements of the Texas 15th had boarded a train for its run south over the bucking strap-iron and rotted cross-ties of the railroad.
The regiment that boarded the train was less than thirty percent of the mustering-in strength. Of the thirty-five officers who had taken to the field with the brigade when the war started, all had been killed except for Dooley Perkins and Falcon MacCallister. Both were majors now, though they had started the war as second lieutenants.
Lieutenant Colonel Matthew Freeman was now in command of the regiment, having been put in that position by General Wade Garrison.
“Major MacCallister, I gave Freeman the command because he outranks you,” Garrison told Falcon when the regiment received the assignment to proceed to Palmetto Hill. “But in truth, you have more experience, and a better knowledge of the regiment than anyone else. So, even though Freeman is in command, I’m going to be counting on you to keep an eye on him. And to be honest, at this point, it doesn’t really make that much difference who is in command. I just got word this morning that General Lee surrendered back in Virginia, in a place called Appomattox. For all intents and purposes, the war is over.”
“I beg your pardon, General?” Falcon said. “Did you just say that the war was over?”
“Yes.”
“Then would you mind tellin’ me why we are going to Palmetto Hill?”
“Duty, honor, country,” Garrison said.
“General, if we’ve surrendered, we don’t have a country,” Falcon said. “And if we don’t have a country, then we have no duty.”
Garrison held up his index finger. “You may be right, my boy,” he said. “But we still have honor. We’ll always have honor.”
Falcon was quiet for a long moment, then, with a sigh, he nodded.
“You’re right, General. We still have our honor,” he said.
“Look, Falcon, I know your soldiers are tired, hungry, and dispirited, and I doubt that many of them could understand the concept of fighting, and perhaps dying, for something as abstract as honor.
“But tell them this. Some of the Yankee commanders are not paroling the men they capture. They are putting them in prison. Especially those of us out here in Texas. They consider all of us to be irregulars, not covered by the rules of civilized warfare. They’ve even hung a few. If we make a good showing at Palmetto, we can at lest sue for better terms.”
Falcon chuckled.
“What is it? Why are you laughing?”
“General, the terms don’t have to be all that good to be better than hanging,” Falcon said.
General Garrison laughed as well.
“I guess you’re right at that,” he said. He sighed. “I am sorry about having to put Colonel Freeman over you.”
“Don’t worry about it, General. Colonel Freeman is a good man. I’m fine with him in command,” Falcon replied
“God go with you, Major. I’m eternally grateful for all that you have done for the South. It would pain me greatly to see you killed now.”
They were less than a mile from their final destination when the train came to a sudden and catastrophic halt. Though neither Falcon nor anyone else in the train knew exactly what had happened, an accurately placed cannonball had burst the boiler and knocked the engine off the track. As a result of the sudden stop, the first three cars of the train telescoped in on themselves, causing a tremendous number of casualties, killing Colonel Freeman and five other regimental officers.
Falcon was riding in one of the rear cars, and his only indication that something had happened was in the fact that the train came to an almost immediate stop, throwing men onto the floor. Even as some of the men were swearing about the incompetence of the engineer, Falcon realized that something drastic had happened, and he started urging the men to get off the cars.