Destiny of Eagles by William W. Johnstone Page A

Don’t know what he was doing there, or how he found me.”
    â€œPa had a lot friends among the Indians,” Falcon said. “He never told me flat out, but I would guess that they told him about you.”
    â€œWell, I’m glad for that. Like I said, I wouldn’t be here now if your pa hadn’t found me, and your ma hadn’t nursed me through.”
    â€œBilly, there was something else in your letter that got my attention. You said you had something you needed to get off your chest.”
    â€œYes. It’s something that has been bothering me for many years now. I need to talk to someone about it and, since it involves you, I’ve chosen you.”
    â€œIt involves me? Are you talking about something that happened thirty-four years ago?”
    Puckett shook his head. “No. This was more like twenty years ago.”
    â€œTwenty years ago and it involves me? How can it? I didn’t know you twenty years ago.”
    â€œYou were in the war,” Puckett said. It was more in the form of a statement than a question.
    â€œYes,” Falcon said.
    â€œYou were at Chattanooga.” Again, the comment was more along the lines of a statement than a question.
    â€œYes, I was at Chattanooga.”
    â€œSo was I.”
    â€œYou were? I don’t remember seeing you there.”
    â€œI saw you.”
    â€œWhy didn’t you say something to me?”
    â€œI was wearing blue, you were wearing gray.”
    â€œBilly, that’s not what you’re trying to get off your chest, is it? I mean, the fact that you wore blue and I wore gray? You may not know this, but some of my brothers fought for the Union.”
    â€œIt’s more than that. I want to tell you a story,” Puckett said.
    â€œAll right, I’m listening.”
    The sheriff was a skilled raconteur, and as he began telling the story, Falcon found himself slipping back in time, reliving those days when, as a young man, barely in his twenties, he fought for the Confederacy, riding as a scout for Morgan’s Raiders.
    * * *
    The shock waves of the explosion moved across the field and hit Falcon, making his stomach shake. The blasts were set off by long fuses, but were timed to go together, starting as bursts of white-hot flame, then erupting black smoke from the points where the charges were laid. The underpinnings of the trestle were carried away by the torpedoes, but the superstructure remained intact for several more seconds, stretching across the creek with no visible means of support, as if defying the laws of gravity. Then, slowly, the tracks began to sag and the ties started snapping, popping with a series of loud reports like pistol shots, until finally, with a resounding crash and a splash of water, the whole bridge collapsed into the river.
    â€œNow, that’s the way to do it,” Falcon said exuberantly. “We dropped her into the water just as neat as a pin!”
    â€œI suppose so,” Captain Ward said.
    â€œWhat’s wrong, Captain?” Falcon asked. “You don’t sound very enthused about it. It was a good job, and it’ll delay the Yankees for at least a week.”
    â€œA week,” Captain Ward said. “Don’t forget, MacCallister, I live here. I watched them build that trestle before the war. Do you know how long it took?”
    â€œNo, sir, I don’t.”
    â€œIt took seven weeks. We blow it up in seven seconds, and the most we can hope to get out of it is that it will delay the Yankees by seven days. And it was our bridge in the first place. The tracks, the bridges, the roads, everything we are destroying down here belongs to the South. What kind of war is it when we strike at the enemy by destroying the property of our own people?”
    â€œIt’s a terrible war, Captain, but that’s the kind we’ve got,” Falcon said. “On the other hand, look at it this way. Better to give them one bridge than a whole