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Authors: William W. Johnstone

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BOOK: Blood of Eagles
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By the light of an oil lamp he retrieved a little oilskin package from his saddlebags, unwrapped it, and sat for a moment gazing at its contents. Then he dropped it into a coat pocket and went downstairs.
What must be done now was not going to be easy, but he had it to do.
At the foot of the stairs he paused for a moment, then walked through the archway into Dinah's. It took him only a few seconds to spot the wagon crowd. They were seated at three tables near the front, working on platters of steak and potatoes.
“Is there someone here named Blanchard?” Falconasked.
At the nearest table, someone turned—a young man, sturdy and clean-shaven, accompanied by a young woman and a little boy. “I'm Tom Blanchard,” he said. “Who are you?”
“Falcon MacCallister. Are you Owen Blanchard's brother?”
“That's right.”
MacCallister hesitated. He hated what came next, but there was no alternative. Removing his hat, he handed Blanchard the oilskin package. “I guess this is yours.”
The package contained all that Falcon had salvagedfrom the massacre out in that Colorado gully—a Bible with names and dates, a piece of a map, a battered clasp knife, a scrap of lace, and an ornate locket of inset ivory hearts in a gold oval. They were things the outlaws had somehow overlooked.Every other personal thing he had found out there was either bloodstained and ruined, or destroyed. He had buried all that with the victims' remains.
Tom Blanchard stared at the mute salvage, his shoulders going stiff. Beside him, his wife gasped and started to cry.
“I'm sorry,” Falcon said. “I found them. What was left of them. They were ... robbed and murdered,by outlaws.”
“Owen ...” Blanchard murmured. “My God!” He turned stricken eyes to the stranger. “Where? When?”
“All of them?” The woman sobbed. “Ruth and ... and the children, too? And Bob Simms?”
In a quiet corner of the hotel lobby, Falcon relatedwhat he had seen and what it meant. The Blanchards sat huddled, too stunned yet to grieve, while others from their wagon party gathered around. The clerk was asleep at his counter, and there was no one else around at the moment except people coming and going from Dinah's.
“I buried them proper,” Falcon said, finally. “Then I picked up the trail of their wagon. I think I know where those men were going.”
“How about the law?” one of the men demanded. “Aren't there sheriffs or ... or somebody, to deal with those monsters?”
Falcon shrugged. “Law's spread real thin out there in the slopes,” he said. “And where those men went, there's no law at all. I'll send a report to the authorities in Denver as soon as the telegraph opens tomorrow, and you can contact them, too. Don't expectmuch, though. There isn't much they can do.”
“But those men!” Blanchard insisted. “You say you know where they went?”
“I think so, and I'm going after them. I'll need to know how to contact you, if I can recover your brother's property.” He stood and put on his hat. “I'm real sorry about what happened to your brother and his family,” he said. “Nothing's gonna make that right, but I promise you those owlhoots won't get off scot-free.”
At the door, a couple of the homesteaders caught up with him—young men who could have been brothers. Both had the sloping shoulders and big hard hands of farmers, and both carried sidearms. “Why are you goin' after those men, Mr. MacCallister?”one asked. “What's your business in all this?”
“It's personal,” Falcon said. “I have reasons of my own”.
The answer wasn't good enough. “Do you know those murderers?” they asked. “Did they do somethin'to you, too? Is that it?”
“I don't know them,” Falcon shrugged. “Let's just say I've seen way too much of their kind. I guess I just can't tolerate any more.”
The cold night wind was as bleak as Falcon's spiritswhen he stepped out into the night. There was music and laughter coming from a place across the street, and he headed that way, wanting to shake off the dismal memories of lonely graves on the Coloradoplains, and of the grief his news had brought to the Blanchards. The memories were pitfalls, leadingdown to the aching emptiness that his wife's death had left.
Spiro's Saloon offered a raucous rowdy haven of gaiety in a cold hard world, and Falcon needed a drink.
He spotted a few familiar faces in the crowd. Jack Cabot and Sandy Hogue were at a gaming table off to one side, with several other men. And he saw a little knot of soldiers from the fort, keeping to themselvesin a far corner.
As he stepped to the bar and ordered whiskey, a snarling voice came from behind him. “Why, here's the gent that don't talk to common folks!”
Falcon turned. It was the tough from the hotel. “You turned your back on me once before, Mr.,” he said. “Nobody insults John Moline a second time. ”
The man was braced, just spoiling for a fight, and ready to slap leather. Falcon gazed at him levelly, then stepped away from the bar. “I've had enough of you,” he said.
Whatever Moline may have been expecting—blusteror a move to draw—he wasn't ready for what came next. Falcon stepped away from the bar, then stepped again, and abruptly Moline found himself doubled over a fist that exploded like a mule's kick into his belly. He went white and bent over, and anotherfist came from down around the knees to cartwheelhim backward.
The tough sprawled on his back, bleeding from broken lips and nose, and Falcon stood over him. With a quick swoop he hauled Moline's gun from its holster, emptied its chambers, and cast it aside.
“You picked a real bad time for a chat, fella,” he said.
The room had gone dead still, and every eye was on him. Falcon looked around, sizing up the crowd one by one, then rested his cold gaze on the side table where Cabot and Hogue sat.
“Anybody else?” he asked. When there were no answers he went back to the bar and downed his jigger of rotgut. He really ought to thank John Moline, he told himself. He felt a whole lot better now.
They dragged the unconscious Moline out of the place, and the piano player went back to his work. When Falcon looked around again, Cabot and Hogue were gone, and maybe a dozen others. Three tables had emptied.
Sergeant Jack Lyles was pushing through the crowd with a couple of his fledglings, signaling for a hand in the game the former Noonan riders had left.
“You sure know how to make an impression, MacCallister,”the sergeant said.
 
Billy Challis and Tuck Kelly were miles southwest of Dodge by the time dawn touched the prairie sky. They had gone up to Dodge on a whim, to nose around and maybe get drunk. But at Spiro's Saloon they heard the talk—a big yellow-haired man with a big gun was on the warpath. He had blood in his eye, and he was looking for the men who took a prairie schooner over in Colorado.
They heard it from an eavesdropping hotel clerk, from talk among homesteaders. From Sandy Hogue and Jack Cabot, from fort gossip, they heard about Falcon MacCallister.
Then, abruptly, they heard what happened to John Moline, and put two and two together.
Falcon MacCallister was a legend. But now the legend was real, and taking a personal interest in Asa Parker's game. And he knew just where to look.
The owlhoots rode toward No Man's Land, and others joined them for the ride. At Crooked Creek Billy Challis turned upstream, where a bare-limbed cottonwood grove offered some shelter. “Let's hole up here a while,” he said. “I'd like to get a look at that yahoo Cabot's been talkin' about.”
TWELVE
... JRHORNER KPR DENVER
STOP
ATT WYLIE STOP MSG RCD STOP SEE AUTH DENVERRE RBMD BLANCHARDS STOP SIX MEN STL RIG BND SE WOLF CREEK NTRL STP STOP IN PURSUIT STOP FALMAC STOP DODGE CITY
STOP
From the Western Union terminal at Denver, the message was rekeyed to Kansas Pacific's private wire and received at the division land office in the WaringBuilding. A garter-sleeved clerk delivered it to Sebastian Wylie. Wylie composed a list of questions and dispatched runners to the Denver Constable's office, the courthouse, and the resident federal marshal.Within the half hour, he had a copy of Falcon MacCallister's telegram reporting the burial of murderedhomesteaders in the southeast foothills. Armed with this, he took MacCallister's latest messageand rapped at the door of J.R. Horner.
Together, they peered at the message, and Horner said, “Translate, please.”
“It's from Falcon MacCallister,” Wylie explained. “We can be fairly sure it's authentic, because of the survey code shorthand. It was sent from Dodge City, Kansas. He says six men and a stolen conveyance are bound for someplace called Wolf Creek, in the Neutral Strip. He is pursuing them. He says to see the authorities in Denver regarding robbery and murder of someone called the Blanchards. I've done that. The federal marshal confirms a report—from MacCallister—of finding a family of movers dead and robbed.”
“Does this have something to do with our missing land money?”
“I can only assume it does, sir.” Wylie shrugged. “Otherwise why would he tell us about it?”
“Then the six men he reports are the same who stole our money? Asa Parker and his men?” Horner'svoice was a deep growl. “Do the authorities verify this?”
“I don't see how they could, at this moment.” Wylie removed his reading glasses and cleaned them with a pocket kerchief. “Apparently MacCallister thinks they are. But what if they are, sir? How do we proceed? There are no legal authorities in the Neutral Strip. That's No Man's Land.”
“We're a railroad, Wylie. Private enterprise, with government sanction to conduct our business as we see fit. We don't have the limitations of law. If there is no law, we make our own.” Horner turned to a big section-gridded map on the wall. He stooped to peer at its lower right corner. “The Neutral Strip ... south of both Colorado and Kansas ... buffer betweenKansas and Texas ... runs from Black Mesa and the Cimarron breaks on the west, over to the Indian territories east ... there's nothing shown here, Wylie. No features at all.”
“No, sir. As I said, the Neutral Strip is No Man's Land. There's nothing there ... officially.”
“Well, it's all outside of our grants and bounds. That region is all C.R.I.P territory. Julius Randolph's domain. Lordy, wouldn't that son of a bitch love this, if he heard about it! Nine thousand dollars in Kansas Pacific currency straying over into his claims! I guess to protect myself, I'd better notify the U.S. Bureau of Transportation ... about the robbery, and all.”
“They already know, sir. We've had an inquiry from a Mr. Sypher about it. He also inquired about our broadcast alert for Mr. MacCallister.”
“Oh, he did, did he?” Horner frowned. “Nosy functionary, isn't he? I assume we haven't responded?”
“No, sir. Private dealings within the company are none of the bureau's business. Not unless we choose to make them so.”
Horner nodded. “Very well. Establish contact with Mr. MacCallister, Wylie. Advise him that—”
“Sir, I don't know how to contact him. He's left Dodge City, and the only working wire beyond there is someplace called Hardwoodville. Out on the Cimarron.There's nothing in the Neutral Strip.”
Horner's scowl was like a thundercloud. “Then find him! Find him, Wylie. I want this matter resolved,before the transportation bureau calls in federalmarshals. My God, Randolph could swing votes with this! He could make me a laughing stock!”
“Sir?”
“Our stock would drop by half if word got out that we had set bounty on persons or properties within the claimed jurisdiction of another railroad. The C.R.I.P. would love to take over our land rights. So would A.T.S.F. They're both bargaining right this minute for transcontinental privileges.”
“But this is simply a matter of recovering stolen property, sir.”
“That stolen money came from public funds, Wylie. Right now, it is unaccounted for and out of my control, and this MacCallister has no more credentialsthan a bounty hunter out for a posted reward!I want you to find him and get him on our payroll. Make it clear that he is working for the KansasPacific in this matter!”
Wylie shrugged, shaking his head ruefully. “I'll try, sir. Do you really think he'd trade a finder's share of nine thousand dollars for railroad wages?”
“Damn the wages,” Horner sighed. “He can have the whole nine thousand if he recovers it. Just don't let the bureau or Randolph get to him first! Find him, Wylie. Do it! In the meanwhile, I'll notify Julius Randolph and the C.R.I.P. that we have an agent in pursuit of felons somewhere between Dodge City and Texas.
Our
agent, an employee on legitimate railroad business.”
 
Falcon MacCallister was completely unaware of the political turmoil seething in his wake as he topped out on the great swell of grassland south of Crooked Creek and headed into the sand hills above the Cimarron's north bend.
He had covered nearly forty miles since leaving Dodge City, and his eyes ached from hours of squintinginto bright skies across distant horizons. The land was wide and empty, with the illusion of featurelessprairie that always confounded so many travelers.
Since leaving Dodge City he had not seen a sign of civilization. It was as though the westward advance of progress ended where the rails did. Mile after endless mile, there had been no sign of humanity. It was illusion, though. Out here a man could see forever, but much of what was there was hidden.
He had known for at least ten miles that he was no longer alone. For the past hour there had been riders to his left and behind, moving with him across the miles, being careful to stay out of sight. To the hunter's eyes of Falcon MacCallister, though, they were discernible. Flocks of birds, hints of dust, even the telltale stance of a little group of antelope far away were like signal flags, saying where the riders were.
He didn't how many there were, but he guessed who they were—a bunch of drifters, toughs, and bounty hunters who had left Dodge some hours ahead of him. They must have holed up somewhere, waiting for him to pass. Whoever they were, they sure weren't friendly. For most of the ride, up on the flat plains, that they were there had been just a fact to note—a matter of curiosity. They had kept their distance. But it was sunset now, and the sand hills offered more cover than the empty prairies. The riders were crowding in, too, still furtive but getting closer.
He knew they would show their hand soon, and it would be at a place of their own choosing.
He knew that Cate and Hogue were among them. It didn't matter much who the rest were. What did was staying alive.
He had let Diablo set his pace, pushing the followershard. They would be expecting him to stop soon. Forty miles was a long day's ride. In the sunset he saw the sand hills spreading before him—ancient dunes now covered with sparse surface grass but still contoured by centuries of ceaseless wind. They would be marking time out there, guessing at how far he would go before making camp. And they would be thinking about an ambush.
He saw the spot they would likely choose. A mile ahead, shadowed in slanting sunset, rose a high crest that stood like a slanted wall across his trail.
He would head for that dune. A tired rider on a tired horse, he would decide to rest there rather than make the climb tonight. So they would figure.
And if they got around behind the ridge, they could pick him off with braced rifles, or at least pin him down and come at him without warning wheneverthey were ready.
Making camp below that dune—out of the night wind—was what any tired man might do. And setting an ambush there was what any outlaw bunch would do. Neither was what Falcon had in mind.
Whether or not they knew him, it was unlikely that they really knew Diablo. Most folks didn't expecta horse like Diablo.
Full seventeen hands and in his prime, the big black was a mix of racer and warhorse. And from long experience, Falcon knew that he had more stamina than any two ordinary horses. He was tired now, of course. But his shoes were new, his legs sound, and he had not yet begun to show a lather.
“Let's make this interesting, sport,” Falcon mutteredas the rising of a dune hid him from any spottersto the east. “Let's see if they mean business.”
To anyone watching from the surrounding crests, the rider disappearing behind the lone dune was a weary traveler plodding one last mile before supper camp.
But what came into view on the other side, half a mile south, was a fresh racer at full gallop, showeringsand in little sprays at each long stride.
Falcon had covered three hundred yards in full view and was still gaining speed when he heard the first distant shouts off his left flank. “Let it out, boy,” he urged Diablo as he bent low over the black's neck. “Show those buggers how it's done.”
Like black thunder, Diablo flew down the trail and the rising dune came to meet them.
The old dune was eighty feet high—a slipping slidingridge of compacted sand barely clad in thin sparse clumps of grass. In the flare-light of sunset, shadows faded and features were obscured. Falcon let Diablo have his head, to select his own path.
At a sharp angle they climbed, rivulets of sand cascading behind them. Falcon let the horse climb nearly to the top of the dune, then tightened the reins and turned him. Bounding and skidding, they descended the slope, straight down its face, and Falconguided to the left.
He had left plain trail to the top of the dune. But in the dimming twilight his descending trail—several hundred yards to the west—left no visible track at all.
Twenty minutes later Falcon crawled on his belly to the crest of a scoured-out dune and looked towardthe long ridge. There were at least fifteen ridersover there, a few at the top, the rest scrambling upward. By fading evening light they were hardly more than moving shadows against the ancient sands.
Those at the top had halted, milling here and there, straining to see into the darkening valley beyond.Their voices drifted back on the wind: “Where'd he go? I can't see a damn thing!” “He's down there someplace! Somebody get out a glass! Look toward the river!” “Hell, Billy, I don't see anythingout there! The son of a bitch just disappeared!”
One by one the shadows converged at the crest of the dune, then disappeared over it.
As evening became night, Falcon MacCallister passed the time resting himself and his horse. There was little graze in the sand hills, but a handful of grain and a hatful of water kept Diablo content for a time. MacCallister's supper was pemmican and water. With darkness the winds turned cold, but he made no fire. With Diablo tended, he wrapped himselfin his soogans and allowed himself a hunter's nap—dozing an hour with his senses alert.
Two hours after the riders had passed, MacCallistercrossed that same rise—the rim of the sandy lands—at a different point and paused at the crest. It was full night then, but the silvery glow of brilliant,high plains starlight lighted the land. From the high crest he could see vague patterns in the sandy swales below—pale patches where hooves had gouged the grass and stirred the sand in passing.
Even by starlight the trail pointed like road sign, saying where the riders had gone. Falcon nudged Diablo down the incline. At the foot of it he cut west, then southwest again. Only a fool would ride a fresh trail of men who hunted him. He followed the trail, all right, but he took his own path and it was aside—taking advantage of the terrain for naturalcover.
A mile or two along, he found them. Their night camp was pitched in a trough among the sand hills. Beyond, the starlit land sloped away into distance, toward the valley of the Cimarron.
He left Diablo in a little cove just above and west of the gang's camp, and went in on foot.
Most of the gang were asleep, around the embers of their cookfire. A small group at the fire was talkingquietly, all facing the low-burning flames.
Fools
, he thought. They felt the safety of numbers, and had set no guards outside the camp. Using the cover of the rolling, windswept dunes, Falcon slipped close. At thirty yards he could make out a few faces in the firelight, and hear a few words carriedon the cold erratic wind. The few still awake were staring into the fire, speaking now and again as men do when they mistake darkness for shelter.
Just a few years ago,
Falcon thought,
this bunch wouldn't have lasted the night out here. Any band of rovingKiowa or Cheyenne who happened along could have walked right in on them and killed every last one while they were still fire-blind.
BOOK: Blood of Eagles
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