Rage of Eagles (18 page)

“You
have visited Boston?”

“Yes. Also New York City, Baltimore, St. Louis, and a few other large cities. You'd better get off the street, Preacher. All hell's about to pop here in a minute. A stray bullet doesn't care who it hits.”

Watkins ignored the advice. “How did you like our lovely city?”

“Too damn big,” Falcon told the preacher. “Too crowded for my tastes.”

“Yes. Well. I suppose to a western man it would seen so.”

“Get off the street, Preacher! Damnit, do what I tell you to do.”

The gunhands had noticed Puma and Big Bob. The hired guns were snickering and poking one another, whispering among themselves, making, Falcon was sure, any number of crappy comments about the two older men, and making them loud enough for the older men to hear.

The gunslicks were not aware of it, but they were talking their way into an early grave. Once, when Falcon visited New Orleans, he heard a Cajun make a comment about a man with an alligator mouth and a hummingbird ass. That pretty well summed up the hired guns.

Far in the distance, thunder rumbled. That storm was still many miles away. But the storm that was building on the main street of town was growing in quiet intensity, without the added attraction of lightning and thunder as a prelude.

The lightning and thunder would come along soon enough, in the form of gunsmoke and lead, to be followed by blood and pain.

Falcon unconsciously touched the butt of his second six-gun, stuck down behind his gunbelt. Watkins's eyes followed the movement.

“You are going to start trouble!” the preacher exclaimed. “But those cowboys haven't done anything.”

“Shut up, Preacher,” Falcon told him. “You don't know what you're talking about. Get off the street.”

“You men over there!” Watkins suddenly shouted at the gunslicks. “It's a trap. You'll all be killed! Run for your lives!”

“Son of a bitch!” Falcon cursed, as the hired gunnies grabbed for pistols.

One of them pointed a gun at Big Bob and Bob jerked iron and drilled him in the belly.

The summer breeze that had been whispering on the main street of Gilman suddenly erupted into a full-blown storm.

The gunhand screamed and dropped his pistol, both hands holding onto his perforated belly. He sank to the dirt and horse crap of the street and stayed there, on his knees.

Another of the land-grabbing crew spotted Falcon as he stepped forward on the boardwalk and figured he was part of the setup. He snapped off a shot that missed Falcon and blew the preacher's hat off his head. Reverend Watkins let out a startled whoop and jumped for the protection of the nearest doorway.

Falcon triggered off a round that caught the night rider in the shoulder and spun him around. He dropped his pistol and fell back against the boardwalk, out of this fight.

Big Bob and Puma had their fists full of guns and were letting the hammers fall and the lead fly. The battle on the dusty street was over and done with in fifteen seconds. The Snake, Double N, and .44 riders were down, several of them dead or dying, the rest wounded.

Big Bob and Puma were unscathed, as was Falcon. Horses were settling down after some wild seconds of bucking and rearing, with some of them breaking loose from the hitchrails and galloping away up the street.

As the gunfire faded into no more than a hard memory, and the gunsmoke blew away in the quickening breeze that was preceding the summer storm, the doctor stepped out of his office, black bag in hand, and stood for a moment, looking at the carnage in the street. Then he stepped off the boardwalk and walked over to the nearest wounded man and knelt down.

The man that Big Bob had drilled in the belly was still. Falcon walked across the street and looked down at him. He was dead, on his knees in the dirt of the street. Falcon noticed that his boots were run-down at the heel and both soles had holes in them. The dead man was no more than twenty-five years old, at the most.

“That one shot my husband!” the woman's voice came from the balcony of the hotel.

Falcon turned to look at the settler's wife. She was pointing at a man who had been wounded in the leg and was stretched out in the street, his leg broken by the .45 caliber bullet.

“I'll never forget his face,” the woman added, then turned and walked back into the hotel.

The night rider with the busted leg cussed the woman, loud and long.

“Here now!” the doctor admonished him. “There'll be no more of that.”

The night rider cut his eyes and cussed the doctor.

“What a nice bunch of boys,” Puma said, stepping off the boardwalk and walking over to stand beside Falcon. “You can tell right off they had proper raisin'.”

The night rider with the busted leg cussed Puma.

The doctor looked up at Falcon. “This the bunch who burned out the farmer last night?”

“Yes.”

Another night rider told Falcon what part of his anatomy he could kiss.

“That's disgustin'!” Big Bob said to the wounded man. “You ought to be ashamed of yourself, boy.”

The gunhand directed his obscenities toward Bob.

“You started it now,” one of the slightly wounded paid guns said to Falcon. “There'll be no stoppin' our boys once they hear about this.”

“Where's the damn law in this town?” Puma asked one of the citizens who were gathering around to gawk at the dead and the wounded.

“There ain't none,” the citizen said. “The last marshal we had quit.”

“This one just died,” another citizen said, standing over a man sprawled facedown in the dirt.

“Good,” Big Bob said.

On the boardwalk, Reverend Watkins had found his bullet-perforated hat and was now raising his voice in prayer.

Several rather ample ladies from his church had gathered beside the minister and were singing “Rock of Ages.”

“I always did favor that song,” Puma said. “Almost brings a tear to my eye.”

“That's good,” Big Bob told him. “Your face could stand a little water on it.”

Several more ladies had joined their church sisters on the boardwalk and a choir was now in full tune.

“If he passes the collection plate, I'm gone,” Puma said.

“You men are disgraceful!” a citizen told Puma.

“I know it,” the mountain man said sorrowfully. “But mama done her best to raise me right.”

“Oh, Lord!” a wounded night rider suddenly hollered. “I need something for the pain! My belly's on fire!”

“You want me to kick him in the head?” Big Bob asked the doctor. “That would shore shut him up for a time.”

“I think you men have done enough for one day,” the doctor replied, not looking up from his emergency ministering to the wounded.

“Hell, I was just tryin' to hep,” Bob said.

“Let's go get us a drink,” Puma suggested. “I don't think we're wanted here.”

“Yeah,” Bob said, doing his best to keep a hurt expression on his face. “I feel plumb left out and rejected.”

“Good,” the doctor said. “Please do leave.”

“Grouchy thing, ain't he?” Puma said. “Come on, Bob. My feelin's is hurt.”

The two mountain men walked off toward the Stampede Saloon.

The two night riders who were only slightly hurt had already limped off to their horses, ignoring any medical help, and ridden out of town. The doctor looked up at Falcon. “That puncher who told you there'd be no stopping them now wasn't joking, Mr. MacCallister. This shoot-out just started the war.”

Falcon shrugged his heavy shoulders. “Then you'd better tell your carpenter to start knocking together a lot of caskets. You're going to need them.”

Falcon walked off toward the Stampede, to have a drink with his friends.

* * *

Gilman, Stegman, and Noonan didn't wait long to strike again... they sent night riders out that same night. But this time the night riders ran into a hail of gunfire and were beaten back by a settler and his family. The farmer lost his barn to fire, but his house and possessions were saved. The next day, Falcon and his men and the farmers who lived within half a day's ride of the settler's place were there, raising a new barn. By that evening, the farmer was back in business and Stegman, Noonan, and Gilman were furious.

“You let them get organized!” Noonan fumed at Gilman.

“I didn't
let
them get crap!” Miles raged right back.

“The hell you didn't!” Noonan shouted.

“All right!” Stegman said. “Settle down, the both of you. My God, men, listen to yourselves. You're both losing it. You're going into a panic. Settle down and let's make some plans on how best to deal with this situation.”

Stegman uncorked a bottle and poured them all stiff drinks. “That's better, boys. Much better,” he said, after a moment of silence. “Now then, let's go over what we're up against. First of all, we have MacCallister. One man. About six old farts, all of them with one foot already in the grave. A few ranchers, and a handful of farmers. That's it. That's what we're facing. And that's all we're facing. Without MacCallister, the opposition would fall apart. He's the brains behind it all. So we take him out.”

“I've tried to do just that a couple of times,” Gilman said, disgust in his voice. “It isn't that easy, believe me.”

“Then we keep trying until we do take him out,” Stegman replied. “We've got the men, and our payroll is costing us a bundle. I don't know about you boys, but I can't keep paying for much longer. The payroll will break me.”

“It'll damn sure do that,” Gilman muttered. “I'm going to have a cash flow problem before much longer.”

Even Noonan agreed with that, nodding his head solemnly. “Yeah, me too. Hard money is gettin' tight. We gotta do something and do it damn quick.”

“The problem is, one of them, anyways, is that MacCallister could buy us all if he took a notion,” Stegman continued. “It's common knowledge that he's a millionaire. The whole damn family together is worth millions and millions of dollars. They're the richest family in Colorado.” He waved a hand. “But that's ain't neither here nor there. Our problem is right here, with just one MacCallister ... Falcon.”

“Let's each pick five of our best men and send them after Falcon,” Noonan suggested.

“That's a good start,” Stegman agreed. “Let's keep it rollin'.”

“We've damn sure tried everything else,” Gilman said. “And nothin's worked so far. What the hell do we have to lose?”

“Nothin',” Stegman said. “Personally, I'd like to get this war over with and get rid of about ninety percent of these lazy gunslingers we got on the payroll. Some of these men don't know the ass end of a cow from the front end. All they do is eat and sleep and gripe.”

“Kill the kids,” Noonan said quietly. “That will take the guts right out of Bailey and we'll be shut of the main player in this little war. He'll fold up like a house of cards.”

“I don't know about that,” Stegman said. “We start killin' ranchers' kids and the whole county will turn against us. You'd better give that some thought.”

“So we make it look like an accident,” Noonan pressed on, leaning forward in his chair. “We kill some nester kids first. Nobody gives a damn about nesters' kids. I think Bailey will get the message pretty quick.”

Gilman laughed. “For a fact, some of them damn nesters probably wouldn't even miss a kid or so for a week. They breed like rabbits.”

The three powerful ranchers all enjoyed a good laugh at that. They each had another drink and were silent for a time. If their plans worked out, the three men would soon control the largest county in Wyoming. They would be running more cattle than anyone else. They would have an empire.

“What about this Silver Dollar Kid?” Noonan asked. “You're payin' him top dollar, Miles. And so far he ain't done nothin'. Turn him loose against MacCallister. Hell, if he's as good as his reputation, he just might get lucky.”

“I been savin' him,” Miles said. “But now might be the time. I'll cut him loose in the mornin'. He's lightnin' fast, for a pure-dee fact.”

“Just to be on the safe side,” Stegman said, “let's go ahead and each of us pick five men to go against MacCallister if this fails. We've got to start thinkin' ahead.”

“All right,” Noonan said. “I can name five of the slickest gunhands anywhere around in one minute.”

“Me too,” Gilman said. “God knows they're costin' me enough money.”

“That's the truth if it was ever spoke,” Stegman agreed. “But first, let's figure how to get MacCallister into town to face the Kid.”

“I want to be there to see it,” both of the others said as one. “I don't want to miss this.”

“Oh, we'll be there,” Stegman said. “I wouldn't miss seein' MacCallister take lead. That'll be a tale we can tell our grandchildren.”

“And that will also whip the townspeople back into shape,” Gilman mused softly. “They been gettin'a little uppity since it appears MacCallister is gainin' the upper hand. I got to slap them back down a notch or two.”

“I noticed right off they was sorta snooty,” Noonan said.

“Look,” Stegman said, “we can't be too obvious about this. As much as we might like to make it plain that we're behind it, it'd be better if the showdown between the Kid and MacCallister, when it comes, looks as though it just happened. We'll just send the Kid into town and he can get him a hotel room and he can wait it out. Lord knows, from what I've seen of him, he don't know nothin' about ranchin'.”

“For a fact,” Gilman said. “He's sorta goofy in the head.”

“That ain't all he is,” Stegman said drily, with a look of disgust on his face. “He makes my skin crawl just bein' around him.”

“Whatever else he might be,” Gilman said, “he's the fastest gun I've ever seen. If anyone can take MacCallister, it's the Kid.”

“All right, Miles,” Noonan said. “Cut him loose and let's see what happens.”

Miles Gilman stood up and poured them all drinks. He held his glass out. “To the death of Falcon MacCallister!”

The three of them solemnly clinked glasses.