Bloodshed of Eagles. William W. Johnstone

Some of the furnishings were the same—a rocking chair and a couple of armchairs, for example. The rug on the hardwood floor was the same also, but the sofa was new, and the record player and radio were also new. A telephone hung on the wall near the door.

      “Falcon, Mrs. Custer told me something that I had never heard before,” Zane Grey said. “She told me that you were with her husband when he was killed.”

      “I wasn’t with him at the exact time he was killed,” Falcon said. “I was with Benteen and Reno when the general was killed.”

      “Falcon, anyone who had anything at all to do with that last scout has written a book or an article about their experiences—some have done quite well and made a good deal of money out of it. Why haven’t I heard this about you before?”

      “Because my being there was an accident of sorts,” Falcon said. “A lot of good men gave their last full measure of devotion on that day. I’ve never felt it was right to detract from their honor by interjecting myself.”

      “And I have respected you for that,” Libbie said.

      “As you know, it has been fifty-one years today since that terrible event. I wonder, Falcon, would you share the story with me now?” Grey asked.

      “So you can write a book about it?” Falcon replied.

      “I would love to write about it,” Grey said.

      Falcon shook his head. “In that case, no. I won’t share my story with you.”

      Zane Grey sighed, then picked up his coffee cup and took a swallow. At that moment, Rosie came back into the room carrying a tray of cookies. She offered them to Libbie first.

      “Oh, thank you,” Libbie said, smiling at the young girl “Oh, these look simply heavenly. And you baked them yourself?”

      “Yes, ma’am.”

      “You are not only a beautiful young lady, you are also very clever,” Libbie said.

      Rosie served Grey and her great-grandfather as well; then she withdrew from the room. Zane Grey had not spoken since Falcon told him he would not share his story.

      “All right,” Grey said. “I will make a deal with you.”

      “What kind of deal?”

      “If you tell me your story, I won’t write it.”

      Falcon chuckled. “Well, if you don’t write it, what good will it do for you to hear the story?”

      “I am more than a writer, Falcon. I am also a hunter, fisherman, explorer, and even an archaeologist of sorts.” Zane Grey laughed. “As well as a dentist and one-time baseball player, though at neither of them did I enjoy much success. But mostly, I am a man with a consuming curiosity. And it is that curiosity that has allowed me to realize what accomplishments I have achieved. So I am appealing to you to please satisfy that curiosity for me. Tell me the story. I swear to you, I will not write it.”

      Falcon looked over at Libbie.

      “It’s your call, Mrs. Custer.”

      Libbie put her cup down. “Falcon,” she said. “In the years since my Autie was killed, I have written books and articles, I have lectured, I have granted interviews, and I have answered letters—all designed to tell the truth about what happened. Of late, there have been articles printed which would disparage my husband’s good name. You are a man of honor and integrity—anything you might say to add to the story could only help to promote my cause.

      “I not only approve of you telling the story, I am asking you to please do so.”

      “It’s been over fifty years,” Falcon said. “And I’ve never told this story to anyone before. I’m not sure I can do it justice.”

      “Big Grandpa, I’ve heard a lot of your stories. You tell wonderful stories,” Rosie said. “You can do it justice.”

      The others laughed at the young girl, who, after having served the cookies, had come back into the room and was now sitting quietly over in the corner.

      “There you go, Falcon, validation from an unimpeachable source,” Zane Grey said.

      “I warn you, it is a long story.”

      The author laughed. “I’m a novelist, Falcon, I deal in long stories. Please, go ahead.”

      Falcon finished his coffee, then put the cup down. “The year 1876 was what historians will call an eventful year,” he began. “In Philadelphia, they celebrated our country’s centennial. Colorado became a state, they invented the telephone, and at a lonely place in Montana, General Custer and two hundred sixty-five brave men were killed.

      “But in order to tell my role in all this, I suppose I need to go back six months earlier, and start with an attempted stagecoach robbery.”

      Chapter Two

      September 1, 1875

       Pagosa Springs Road, Colorado Territory

      Jim Garon was thin, with obsidian eyes and a hawklike nose. He stepped up onto the rise and looked back down the road. The coach was just starting up the long incline and the horses were straining in the harness. He could hear the driver whistling and calling to the team, and he could hear the squeak and rattle of the coach.

      “Andy? Poke? You boys ready?” Garon called. “It’s comin’ up the grade now.”

      “So what, it’ll be five, maybe ten minutes afore it makes it up here,” Andy said. Andy Parker came up to stand beside Garon and look back down the hill toward the coach.

      “Yeah, well, I want us all to be in position when it gets here,” Garon said. “The coach will stop as soon as it reaches the top, in order to give the horses a blow and let the passengers get out and walk around.”

      “How much money is the stage carryin’, do you think?” Poke Waggoner asked, coming up to join the other two.

      “Poke, you’ve asked that question a dozen times,” Garon said. “I don’t know how much it’s carryin’. Let me ask you a question. How much money are you carryin’ right now?”

      “I ain’t got much more’n a dollar,” Poke said.

      “Well, there you go. I’m pretty sure the coach is carryin’ more than a dollar,” Garon said.

      Andy laughed.

      The driver’s whistle sounded much louder now, and looking back, Garon was surprised to see how far up the hill the coach had come.

      “I thought you said it was goin’ to take ten minutes or so,” Garon said.

      “I figured it would,” Andy replied.

      “Well, it didn’t. So I suggest we get back out of the way now and just wait.”

      There were six passengers in the coach: a mother and two children, one of which was a babe in arms, the other a rather rambunctious four-year-old; a doctor who was gray-haired and overweight; a lawyer who was impressed with his own importance; and Falcon MacCallister.

      Falcon was riding next to the window, and as the stage made a turn on one of the cutbacks, he saw a couple of men at the top of the long rise. He would not have paid that much attention to them, except for the fact that they were obviously trying to stay out of sight.

      Falcon opened the door.

      “Look here, what are you doing?” the lawyer asked.

      “I’m going up top,” Falcon replied without any further explanation.

      The driver was whistling and calling to his team, and the shotgun guard was rolling a cigarette, so neither of them noticed Falcon as he reached the top of the coach, then came up behind them.

      “There are some men up ahead,” Falcon said.

      Because