Rage of Eagles (22 page)

“Shut up, Lars!” he told the young man. “Shut up and go on home, back to your Pa. And take your sister with you.”

Please do, the deputy U.S. marshal thought. What a great relief that would be.

“Don't just stand there, Lars!” Terri screamed. “Jerk iron and kill him!”

“Your time has come, MacCallister,” Lars shouted. “Today's the day you die.”

Falcon shook his head. “Wrong, Lars. I'm telling you for the last time: Turn around, get on your horse, and ride out of here. There's been enough killing for this day.”

But Lars had worked himself up into a mindless frenzy of hate. There was nothing on his mind except killing Falcon MacCallister. Everything else was clouded over with shadows of loathing for everything connected with Falcon.

“You ready to die, MacCallister?” Lars screamed.

“No. Not this day, Lars.”

“Draw, you bastard.”

“After you, Lars.”

“Now!” Lars screamed, and grabbed for his gun.

Lars dropped his six-shooter.

The pistol hit the dirt of the street and a small dust cloud rose from the impact. The blood drained from Lars's face as he found himself looking down the barrel of Falcon's .44.

“You dumb bastard!” Terri squalled from the hotel.

Falcon slowly let the hammer down on his pistol and holstered it. “It's your lucky day, Lars. God was looking after you.”

“Goddamn you!” Terri screamed from the hotel door. She jerked out a pistol and leveled it at Falcon.

The deputy U.S. marshal lunged out of his chair and slammed into the young woman just as she pulled the trigger. The shot went wild and Terri hit the floor, losing her grip on the six-shooter. She banged her head against the floor. The marshal grabbed the gun and stood up, shoving the short-barreled pistol behind his belt.

“You son of a bitch!” Terri screamed at him.

“Oh, shut up,” the marshal said. “You have the foulest mouth I have ever heard on a woman.”

That set her off like a firecracker. She sat up on the floor and started cussing, the vulgarities directed at the deputy U.S. marshal.

“Can I pick up my pistol?” Lars asked.

“Not unless you have a death wish,” Falcon told him. “Just let it lie, Lars. Go on back to your Pa. He needs you now more than ever.”

“Pa don't need no one.”

“Yes he does, Lars. He needs the support of his kids. You especially.”

“You really think so?”

“Don't listen to that son of a bitch!” Terri screamed. She had overheard Falcon's words when she had paused for breath. “He's lyin'.”

“Shut up, Terri,” Falcon called. “You owe your pa, too. You should be ashamed of yourself being in town when he needs you back at his ranch.”

“He doesn't have a ranch, you rattlesnake!” she squalled. “You burned it all down.”

“It can be rebuilt,” Falcon said. “But your pa needs the help and support of his kids to do it. He'll be doing it for you.”

Lars turned slowly and began walking away from his pistol in the dirt of the street.

“Where are you goin'?” Terri shouted at him.

“Home to Pa,” the young man replied.

“You yellow bastard!” his sister shrieked at him.

The townspeople were standing quietly on the boardwalks, listening to the heated words.

Lars paused and turned toward the hotel doors. “You're stupid, Terri. I just realized that. I been stupid, but I got over it, I hope. But you're really stupid.” The young man walked on toward the livery.

Terri verbally unloaded on her brother, calling him every filthy word she could think of . . . and she knew plenty of them. Lars walked on without pausing or looking around.

Falcon turned and walked over to his horse. He was heading back to the Rockingchair.

* * *

John Bailey and Kip rode over to Snake headquarters—or rather, what was left of it—several days later. The first thing they noticed was that all the hired guns were gone. There were half a dozen cowboys helping haul lumber in, but no hired guns.

They also noticed that Lars was working right alongside his Pa, and no one was wearing a gun. John and Kip dismounted and walked over to Miles Gilman.

“You need some help, Miles?” John asked.

Miles paused in his sawing and looked at the man he used to call friend. “You volunteerin', John?”

“We're here, aren't we?”

“After all I've done, you . . .”

John waved him silent. “That's over and done with, Miles. In the past. We don't need to ever speak of it again. I thought me and Kip here might start movin' some of your cattle back onto your range. Some of my men spotted a bunch not too far away. That all right with you?”

Miles stared at John Bailey for a moment, then cleared his throat. “Sure suits me to a T, John. That would be right neighborly of you, sure would.”

“We'll do that, then.” He dug in his saddlebags and Kip did the same, both men coming out with packets of sandwiches all wrapped up in cloth. “Martha and Angie fixed these up for you men. Sandwiches and some cake. Cake is right tasty. I'll just set them over on that old table yonder. Me and Kip packed a bite for ourselves, so we'll be out for the night with your herd. We'll see you in the morning, probably.”

“How about some coffee 'fore you head out, John? We found a pot and Lars just boiled up some. It's good and strong, just like me and you used to make, long years back,” he added.

John smiled. “Coffee sounds good to me, Miles. We'll just help ourselves.”

Miles smiled and then looked around as the sound of wagons approaching reached the men. A dozen wagons were rumbling slowly up the road.

“What in the world . . . ?” Miles said.

“Folks from town and from some of the ranches and farms around the area,” John told him. “They're bringin' in supplies and food and such. I 'spect they'll have some sort of shelter up for you and your hands before dark.”

“My God!” Miles whispered.

John smiled. “Welcome back, Miles.”

Miles turned to his old friend. “It's good to be back, John Bailey. I was lost there for some years, wasn't I?”

“Oh, you got sidetracked a bit, that's all.”

“I feel like I've been livin' in a fog of hate, John.”

“Well, you're out of it now, so welcome back.” John took the tin cup of coffee his foreman handed him and took a sip. “Good coffee,” he said with a smile. “Just like we used to make back in the old days.”

“It is pretty good, ain't it?” Miles asked, returning the smile. “The womenfolk just don't have the knack of makin' good coffee.”

“For a fact, Miles. For a fact. Theirs is just a tad on the weak side.”

Both men stood for a moment, looking at one another. Miles slowly held out his right hand. John smiled and took the hand and gripped it tightly.

The war between the Snake and the Rockingchair was over.

Nance Noonan buried his brothers in a lonely spot far from the town. The graves were not marked. Nance swore these would be the last brothers that would ever fall under the guns of Falcon MacCallister. He also swore that Falcon would die by the hand of a Noonan. The sons of Howard Noonan—Slayton, Bert, and Rawlings—had already taken an oath on the family Bible that they would be the ones to kill Falcon MacCallister. The Noonan brothers left alive, Penrod, Dale, Jack, and Hodge, had sworn among themselves that they would be the ones to kill Falcon. Of course, Nance had ideas of his own about that killing.

“He's mine,” Nance swore. “I'm gonna kill that bastard personally. Bet on it.”

“Not if I get to him first,” his brothers and nephews all said.

Rod Stegman met with Nance Noonan several days after Howard, Nap, and Mark were planted. “What about Miles?”

“What about him?” Nance asked.

“What do we do about him?”

“Nothing. He's gone yellow on us and pulled away from our agreement. He's got half a dozen hands left and none of them much with a gun. Far as I'm concerned, he's out of it. Forget him. Hell, Rod, I think he's done throwed in with the small ranchers and them nesters. Him and John Bailey is back bein' big buddies and such.”

“I could have used his range.”

“We'll take it when the time comes. Soon as I get finished with MacCallister, we'll take what range we need. Don't worry none about it.”

“Nance, there ain't gonna be enough grazin' range for all our cattle. I got to worry about it.”

“We'll do somethin' about it when the time comes, Rod. You got my word on that. Just relax. I'll take care of things, count on it.”

“How about them fifteen guns who was supposed to have taken care of MacCallister?”

“I called 'em off. I want MacCallister all for my own.”

“Nance, you a good man with a gun, but MacCallister's fast as lightnin'. I got to say I don't believe you can take him in a face-on hook and draw.”

“I do,” the rancher replied.

Stegman knew that was the end of that discussion, for when Nance made up his mind about something, it was set in stone. Nance had always been that way, and it had gotten him in trouble many times. He would say no more about Falcon's abilities with a gun.

Nance rode back to his home range and Stegman paced the room he had turned into a study.

“What's the matter, Rod?” his wife asked from the doorway.

Stegman ceased his pacing and looked at his wife for a moment. “I got a bad feelin' about all this, Claire. A real bad feelin'.”

“My brother knows what he's doing.”

Stegman found his hat, plopped it on his head, and left the house. There was no point in discussing anything with Claire. If it involved Nance, Nance was always right and everybody else was always wrong.

But Stegman could not shake the feeling of impending doom. It clung to his mind like a leech. He saddled up and rode out to where part of his herd was grazing. He looked at the grass. This range wouldn't take much more. The herd would have to be moved and the move would have to take place soon.

Stegman cussed softly. He wished he'd never listened to Nance and made the move to this part of Wyoming. It wasn't going to work out. He could feel it in his belly. Stegman could read the attitude of the townspeople, and the people had turned against them.

It just wasn't going to work out.

* * *

“Never seen such a change in a man come so fast,” John Bailey told Falcon. The men were standing by the corral. “It's like a dark cloak was suddenly lifted from around Miles's mind.”

Miles had passed the word to the farmers that they could have some of his cattle to help them feed their families. The farmers were at first very suspicious, but soon realized the rancher meant what he said, no strings or tricks attached.

Miles had dismissed the few hired guns who had remained on the Snake, keeping only those men who could work cattle. He had gotten word to Nance and Stegman that he was through with the cattlemen's alliance. There was range enough for everybody. As far as he was concerned, the war was over. He wanted no part of any more trouble.

And Terri had come home.

Miles had told the hotel clerk he would no longer pay her bills and the desk clerk kicked her out of her room, much to the amusement of the deputy U.S. marshal, who had taken great delight in watching the entire proceedings. Terri had cussed the desk clerk, cussed the marshal, and cussed anyone else who came within hearing distance of her. But her cussing didn't help matters any: She was still without a place to stay. It didn't take her long to decide to go home.

What really irritated the young woman was finding out her father was seeing a farm woman who had lost her husband to an accident the year before. The woman was trying to farm six hundred and forty acres with only the help of her two young children . . . and not doing a very good job of it.

Miles had gently taken over providing for the family and was getting serious about the woman. That really irritated Terri.

“That damn nester woman had better not ever try to order me around,” Terri said.

“You best shut your mouth,” Lars told her. “ 'Fore Pa gets a notion in his mind to take a belt to your butt.”

“He wouldn't dare!”

Lars smiled. He knew his pa was not far from doing just that. He'd seen the look in his pa's eyes, and if Terri didn't button up her mouth and settle down and pitch in to help around the ranch, she was gonna have a sore butt.

Just as Miles had done, Lars had changed dramatically. That moment in the street when he had dropped his six-shooter and found himself looking down the barrel of Falcon's .44 had opened Lars's eyes and mind to just how precious living was. He still carried a pistol when he was away from the house—just as most cowboys did—but killing another human being was very low on his list of priorities now. He carried a pistol to shoot snakes and for self-protection ... no other reason.

“Go make some biscuits, Terri,” Lars told her. “And start dinner. We're gonna be hungry in an hour or so.”

Terri cussed. “Where is that damn cook?”

“He took the stage to San Francisco,” Lars informed her. “He won't be back.”

“I ain't no goddamn servant!” Terri raged. She turned and looked into the eyes of her father, who had just walked up. Funny look in her pa's eyes. Terri decided she'd best go make some biscuits and start dinner.

“And shut your filthy mouth,” her father told her, reading her mind, something that spooked the young woman. “I'll not put up with your swearin' any longer. And tomorrow is Sunday. We're all goin' to church. You'll wear a dress and Lars will drive you into town in the buckboard.”

“Church!”
Terri squalled.

“Church,” her father calmly informed her. “Every Sunday from now on. Get that through your head. That's the way it's goin' to be.”

“Wear a
dress?”
Terri hollered. “Them silly-lookin' dresses you bought me in town the other day?”

“Yes,” the father replied.

Terri opened her mouth to cuss and Miles pointed a blunt finger at her, a clear warning in the gesture. Terri shut her mouth.

“And you'll ride with Mrs. Carter,” Miles told the young woman. “And you'll be civil to her. Understood?”

Terri knew better than to argue. She had learned a long time back just how far she could push her father. “Yes, Pa. I understand.”

“Good. Now go fix dinner.”

When Terri had dutifully, if not happily, walked off toward the tent where the stove was located, Miles said, “She's comin' around, son. Slow but sure.”

“If she'd just stop cussin'.”

“That'll come in time. I'll see to it personal.”

“Good luck,” Lars said with a smile.

“It's Terri who's gonna need the luck,” Miles replied. “Reverend Watkins has asked me if he could call on Terri, and I said yes.”

Lars's smile broke into a wide grin. “This I gotta see!”

“Now be nice, son.”

“Oh. I will, Pa. I will.”

Father and son looked at each other for a few seconds, burst out laughing, and after a few minutes, went back to work, both of them still chuckling.

* * *

“It's gettin' plumb borin' around here,” Puma Parley said over breakfast. “You don't reckon Stegman and Noonan have give up, do you?”

“Not those two,” Falcon replied, buttering a biscuit. “The only way those two will give up this fight is if they're dead.”

“That could be arranged,” Stumpy said, a mean look in his eyes.

“Let them start it,” Falcon echoed John Bailey's words. “When they start something, we can act.”

“That man shore has funny notions about fightin' a war,” Wildcat said.

“Shore do,” Mustang agreed.

“I got me a hunch it won't be long 'fore Noonan or Stegman makes a play for us,” Big Bob Marsh said. He looked at Falcon. “And you be careful, boy. Them brothers and sons and cousins of the three Noonans you killed is gunnin' for you. I got that word from one of the gals who works in the Purple Palace. And they mean ever' word, too.”

“I know it,” Falcon said, refilling his coffee cup from the huge pot. “That's why I've stayed out of town for the past week. I'm trying to avoid trouble.”

Big Bob fixed him with a jaundiced look. “I reckon that's why you got all purtied up this mornin'. So's you can herd cattle in your good clothes, right?”

“I have to go to town to see the banker. It's something I can't get out of.”

“Never saw a man with so much money,” Dan Carson said with a grin. “The man don't even know how much he's worth.”

Dan didn't know it, but he was telling the truth. Falcon really didn't know how much he was worth. He was worth several million dollars, he knew that much, but just how much he was worth he really had no idea, because his wealth kept increasing every month. He knew that sometimes the investments made for him lost money, but that was a rare event. Usually they just generated more money for him.

The gold and silver his grandfather and father had found had set up the entire MacCallister clan and made the kids rich.

Falcon drank his coffee and smoked a cigarette, listening to the mountain men talk about the day's work ahead of them. One by one they started drifting out, until Falcon was alone at the table in the bunkhouse.

Falcon was stalling, and he knew it. He really did have to go into town to see the banker, but he knew that when he rode into town, if there were any .44 or Double N hands in town, and especially if there were any Noonans present, there would be gunplay.

He pushed back his chair and stood up. There was no point in delaying any longer. He had to head into town. He checked his pistol, loading it up full, then shoved another .44 behind his gunbelt. He saddled up and swung into the saddle, pointing his horse's head toward town. If there was trouble waiting for him, so be it. He wasn't going to change his lifestyle because of the Noonan brothers or cousins or nephews or a bunch of. 44 hands. He had never ducked trouble, and by God he wasn't going to start now.

The ride into town was uneventful. He met several farm families on the way in, stopping and chatting with them for a few minutes. They were heading into town to buy supplies. Falcon warned the families he met to be careful in town: There would likely be trouble.

“I have my rifle with me,” one of the farmers said. “And my boy yonder is armed. We'll back you all the way, Mr. MacCallister. You just say the word.”

“You stay out of it. But if I need help, I'll be sure to give out a holler.”

Falcon rode on, a dark brooding feeling settling over him. He had always been able to sense impending trouble, and today the feeling was very nearly overpowering. There was danger waiting for him in town.

Falcon began to mentally prepare himself for the dilemma he would soon be facing. It was a trick he'd learned from his father and it had always stood him in good stead, never letting him down.

He reined up on the outskirts of town, giving the town a slow and careful once-over. Everything seemed normal and probably was, at least for the moment, for Falcon's decision to come into town had been made in the late afternon the day before, and no one else could have known about it.

Falcon rode slowly into town. He was going to be in town for several hours—at least that was the plan right now—so he stabled his horse.

“Rub him down, Mr. MacCallister?” the stableman asked nervously.

Falcon picked up on the nervous tone and gave the man a curious look. “Yes. What's the problem?”

“Oh! ... No problem, Mr. MacCallister. None at all.”

Lying, Falcon thought. The man was lying. Falcon pointed a thick blunt finger at the stableman. “Don't lie to me, partner. You don't want me for an enemy. Now what's the problem?”

“They're all over town,” the young man replied. “They come in every day and wait for you to show up. Now they're gonna be after me for tellin' you.”

“No, they won't,” Falcon assured him. “They'll never know. Just stay out of sight. Where are they and who are they?”

“They're all over town, Mr. MacCallister. In both saloons. In the hotel lobby. Everywhere.”

“Rifles?”

“No, sir. Just pistols is all I've seen.”

“All right, partner. You stay inside the barn and keep your head down. Understand?”