Rage of Eagles (23 page)

“You bet, Mr. MacCallister. I ain't leavin' the barn. Count on that.”

Falcon took off his spurs and stowed them in his saddlebags, then went out the back way, slipping up behind the stores on that side of the street. No one was using any of the privies; no one saw him. He tried the back door of the hotel. Unlocked. He stepped into the darkness, his boots whispering against the floor. The door leading to the lobby was cracked open and Falcon walked to it and stood for a moment, listening. He could hear only a low murmur of voices, none of them sounding at all menacing, which meant nothing and he knew it.

Then one of the Noonan brothers (Falcon didn't know his name but they all bore a strong resemblance) walked up to the door. Falcon stepped back into the darkness. The man pushed open the door and looked inside.

“Settle down, Pen,” another man's voice called. “Everythin's all right.”

“I got me a bad feelin', Dale,” the man called Pen replied. “I'm jumpy as a Mex jumpin' bean.”

Falcon heard the sound of running boots striking against the boardwalk. “He's in town!” another voice called. “That goddamn stableman didn't warn us. I'll kill that bastard!”

“Forget the stableman for the time bein', Coe,” Dale said. “He's nothin' and a nobody. He's just more scared of MacCallister than he is of us, that's all. He'll pay for thinkin' that. But we'll deal with him later. Now where the hell could MacCallister have gone?”

“I shore as hell didn't see him,” Coe said. “He didn't come walkin' up the street, that's for shore.”

“He's behind the stores,” Dale said. “Got to be. The bastard done slipped in behind us.”

“Alert the others to cover both ends of town. And put somebody in the livery. We got him now. He can't get away.”

Trapped, yes,
Falcon thought.
But you damn sure haven't got me.

“I wanna shoot that scum in the belly just like he done our brother and watch him die,” Pen said. “Maybe it'll take him a long time to croak.”

I certainly have met some really nice people on this trip,
Falcon thought.

“Let's get him, boys,” Dale said. “Let's finish MacCallister once and for all.”

Not likely, Falcon thought, pulling his second .44 from behind his belt. He cocked both pistols, stepped out into the lobby, and let them bang.

Falcon put Dale and Coe on the floor in the first five seconds of the wild shoot-out, both of them hard hit in the belly and chest. The Noonan called Pen jumped out the front window to safety. He rolled off the boardwalk and disappeared from view.

Falcon kicked the guns of Dale and Coe out of their reach. They were down and badly wounded, but both were still able to pull a trigger . . . at least for a few more minutes. Ignoring their cussing, all directed at him, he quickly reloaded and returned to the back room, slipping out the back door. He cut to his left and ran a dozen or so yards before stepping into the rear of a dress shop. He stumbled through the darkness and made his way to the front of the shop. There were three ladies in the front, all pale and huddled together.

“Morning, ladies,” Falcon said, smiling at them. “If I might make a suggestion, why don't the three of you get behind the counter and sort of hunker down? You'd be a lot safer, I assure you.”

The women quickly took his advice and got down on the floor, behind the counter.

“Thank you,” Falcon said, moving to the front window. “That makes me feel a lot better.”

The main street was deserted. Falcon stood for a moment, behind a headless dress form that was draped with the latest creation of the shop owner. Falcon frowned at the model; it was cut sort of low in the front. He didn't figure any decent woman would ever wear something that revealing.

Falcon left the dress shop the same way he came in: through the back. He couldn't risk shooting from the store, even if he'd had a target. He didn't want a stray bullet to hit one of the ladies.

A man suddenly ran out from an alley, both hands filled with. 45s. He saw Falcon and lifted his guns. Falcon shot him twice, the .44 slugs driving the man backward. He slumped against a building and slid down to the ground, both eyes wide in shock, staring at the blackness of death. Falcon stepped around the body and made his way cautiously up the alley.

A bullet cut a groove out of the building to his left, the slug just missing his arm. Falcon knew from the sound of the weapon that it was a rifle. He ducked down and rolled under the building to his right, wriggling and crawling to the other side, hoping he would not come nose-to-nose with a rattlesnake, who might be a little irritated at having his sleep disturbed.

“Did you get him, Jack?” someone called.

“I don't know. I think maybe I might have winged him.”

Falcon peeked out from under the building and saw the rifleman, standing on the awning of a building across the street. Falcon leveled his .44 and shot the man. The man called Jack dropped his weapon and sat down hard on the awning. The sudden impact broke the awning and Jack tumbled to the boardwalk below. He hit the wood of the boardwalk and lay still.

“Where the hell did that shot come from?” another voice demanded.

“I couldn't tell for shore,” someone answered. “Pen, you see where he is?”

“No. But the son of a bitch has kilt Coe, and Dale is hard hit. The doctor's with him now. I don't think he's gonna make it. He's shot in the belly.”

“We'll get him, Pen,” another voice called. “He's trapped here in town. He can't get out.”

“You don't have me yet,” Falcon muttered. Falcon looked down at his good clothes and saw that the front of his pants and shirt and jacket were covered with mud from his crawling under the building. That irritated him to no end. This was his best suit of clothes.

His shirt was ruined, with a long rip down the front and his suit jacket was stained, probably permanently.

Falcon cussed under his breath. He was so heavily muscled and his chest so broad and his shoulders so wide, it was almost impossible for him to buy a jacket off the rack. He'd have to have another jacket specially made.

“Damn!” he muttered.

“Somebody holler to me!” Pen shouted. “Somebody say somethin'. One of y'all's bound to spot him. He's gotta move sooner or later.”

“He ain't movin' yet, Penrod,” yet another new voice was added.

“Penrod?” Falcon questioned softly. “Penrod?”

A man suddenly darted out from a building, both hands filled with six-shooters. Falcon snapped a shot at him and knocked a leg out from under the gunhand. The man yelped in pain and rolled off the boardwalk, hitting the ground hard. He came up on his butt and started shooting wildly, hitting nothing but air and the wood of the storefronts opposite him. Falcon took aim and drilled the man in the chest. The man dropped both pistols and slumped over, his mouth hanging open and his head lolling to one side. Another one down and out of it.

“Jesus Christ!” Pen hollered. “Wiseman's down. Somebody spot that bastard and get lead in him.”

Falcon ran back to the rear of the stores and this time he cut to his right, running back toward the livery.

A man stepped out from between buildings and Falcon collided with him, knocking the man spinning and cussing. The impact caused the man to drop his rifle and he clawed for his pistol. Falcon backhanded him with his .44 and the man dropped like a stone. Falcon noticed the man was carrying twin Remington. 44s. He bolstered his .44, grabbed the man's pistols, and checked them. Loaded up full. Falcon cocked both .44s and cut up between the buildings, walking slowly.

“Jeb?” a voice called from the street. “Are you all right, Jeb? Talk to me.”

Jeb must be the name of the fellow I whacked upside the head,
Falcon thought. Falcon stepped into a doorway and called, “No, Jeb isn't worth a damn, you silly bastard!”

“What!” the man shouted, then stepped out into the narrow space between the two buildings.

Falcon shot him twice. The man stumbled backward and tripped on the boardwalk. He rolled off into the street and lay still.

“Now we got him!” someone shouted. “He's in 'tween them buildings. He's done shot Luddy, too!”

“Where's Jeb?”

“I don't know . . .”

Falcon didn't hear the rest of it. He tried the side door knob, it turned under his hand, and he stepped into the darkness of one of the few empty buildings on the main street. Staying close to the wall, Falcon made his way to the front of the building and looked out through the dirty glass. The street, as much as he could tell through the filthy glass, was clear of people. He could see no one.

He took that time to punch out and reload the empty chambers of the .44s he'd taken from Jeb, and to catch his breath.

“Penrod!” a voice called, the words just audible to Falcon. “Can you see Jeb?”

“I ain't spied him since he went into the alley, Parnell. But there weren't no shots fired. Onliest one I seen was Luddy, and I think he's dead. He ain't movin'.”

“Well, MacCallister's bound to be here on main street. Dave and Sonny is down at the livery a-waitin' on him. He'll not get out that way.”

“And now he knows all about them two waitin' on him, you dummy!” Penrod hollered.

“Don't you be callin' my brother no dummy, you pissant!” another voice was added.

“Oh, shut up, Bud!” Penrod called. “And keep your eyes open for MacCallister.”

Falcon smiled. It didn't appear that any of those after him this day were giants when it came to brains.

Falcon made his way across the large empty room and cracked open the back door. Jeb was still stretched out on the ground. He could see no one else.

Falcon stepped outside and looked quickly left and right. Nobody in sight. He began making his way slowly toward the livery. He saw no one on the short journey. At the rear of the livery, Falcon paused by the open doors and listened. He could hear nothing. Dave and Sonny were being very quiet.

Falcon picked up a stone and flipped it inside. The rock bounced off of something with a clatter amid the stillness.

“What the hell was that?” the voice reached him.

“I dunno,” a second voice said. “Horse kickin' the stall, I reckon.”

“Didn't sound like that to me.”

“Well, hell, Sonny, check it out then.”

“I'm a-goin' to.”

The voices seemed to be coming from above him. Falcon guessed they both were in the loft. He heard what he believed was the creak of a wooden ladder. So at least one of them remained in the loft.

Sonny's boots hit the floor and his spurs dragged on something with a tinkle.
Real smart of you, Sonny,
Falcon thought. Another mental giant.

Falcon tossed another rock, throwing this one much harder. The stone slammed against the wood with a bang.

“All right now, by God!” Sonny said. “You gonna tell me that was a horse, Dave?”

“I don't know what the hell it was,” Dave admitted.

“There ain't nobody down here!” Sonny said. “What's goin' on, Dave?”

“How the hell do I know? I'm up here, you're down yonder. You tell me!”

Sonny muttered under his breath. Falcon couldn't be sure of the exact words, but they sounded suspiciously like
smartass
to him.

A glass bottle rattled behind him and Falcon whirled around. A man was standing only a few feet away, pointing a gun at him. His boot had accidently touched the empty whiskey bottle. Falcon jumped to one side just as the man pulled the trigger. Falcon hit the ground hard and squeezed off a shot, the bullet striking the gunman in the shoulder and turning him to one side. Falcon squeezed off another round just as the man recovered his balance and lifted his .45. The slug hit the man in the chest and knocked him down. He did not move. Falcon rolled into the ditch that ran behind the long row of buildings on that side of the business district.

“He's out back!” Sonny shouted. “Come on, Dave. Git down from that loft and come on.”

Sonny appeared in the sunlight, pausing for just the briefest of seconds in the open barn doors. That was long enough for Falcon to snap off a round. Sonny's left leg buckled under him and he yelped in pain and fell backward into the semidarkness of the livery stable.

Falcon was up and running before the sound of the shot had echoed away. He could heard running boots slamming against the wood of the boardwalk that ended at the livery stable. Getting into the livery and to his horse was out of the question.

So much for trying to ride out of town.

“Where is he?” a voice demanded.

“How am I 'pposed to know?” Sonny shouted. “He's out back somewhere. Somebody yell for the doctor to come over here. I think my leg's busted.”

“Hell with your leg,” Falcon recognized the voice of Penrod. “Find that damn MacCallister and kill him!”

“Well, the hell with you too, you son of a bitch!” Sonny yelled. “I done been wounded, Pen! I need some medical attention for my leg.”

Falcon could not contain his smile. This bunch certainly got shorted on good sense when the Lord passed out the brains. They must have stood up when the Good Lord said sit down.

“Oh, Lord!” Reverend Watkins's voice suddenly came ripping through the warm air of the small western town. “Deliver us from this pack of heathens.”

“What the hell is that?” a voice called.

“That's the preacher,” Dave called from the loft. “I can see him plain from up here. He's gatherin' a bunch of women around him on the other side of the street. I don't know what he's a-plannin' on doin'.”

“I think he's a-gonna preach a sermon,” another voice called from the front. “Or sing songs, maybe.”

Falcon walked to the front of the narrow space between two buildings and peeked out onto the street. He had lost his new hat somewhere along the way and that annoyed him to no end. He sure was hell on hats this trip. He thought Dean at the general store had one more hat in stock that would fit his head. And Falcon didn't like that style. But he didn't appear to have much choice of selection.

“Jack's dead,” a voice called. “MacCallister's done kilt another one.”

“Somebody find that rotten bastard and plug him!” Penrod yelled. “ 'Fore he kills all of us.”

“I see him!” Parnell shouted, standing directly opposite Falcon on the other side of the street. “You mine, MacCallister,” he said excitedly. “I gotcha!”

Falcon triggered off two fast rounds. Both bullets missed their target but came so close Parnell let out a whoop and hit the ground, crawling behind a water trough. Falcon whirled around just as a man appeared at the other end of the space between the buildings. Falcon plugged him and jumped out onto the boardwalk. He had no other place to go.

The gut-shot man dropped his six-shooter and sat down on the ground hard and started squalling in pain, both hands holding his bloody belly.

“The way of salvation is before you,” came the harmonizing voices of the impromptu choir across the street.

“Who got shot?” Penrod called.

“Just follow the footsteps of the Savior,” the choir sang.

“Will somebody please shut that damn singin' up!” Penrod hollered. “I can't hear myself think for all that squallin'.”

“Matt, I think, Pen,” someone shouted. “He's a-shore hollerin' to beat the band.”

“Trust in the light of the Lord,” the choir sang. “He will guide you through the storm.”

Someone, Falcon guessed it was Penrod, put a round over the heads of the choir, the bullet smashing through glass. The choir scattered, running into a shop and getting all jammed up in the doorway.

Falcon had ducked into the Purple Palace Saloon, both hands filled with .44s. The soiled doves, all in various stages of undress, started screaming and running for cover. Falcon had never seen such ugly women in all his life. He was glad it had been several hours since breakfast. The sight of them was enough to cause a man to lose any recently ingested food.