Rage of Eagles (8 page)

John smiled. “You boys wouldn't be thinkin' 'bout headin' into town to blow off a little steam, would you?”

“The town of Gilman is really jumpin' on a Saturday night, hey?” Puma asked.

“It can get right crowded when it fills up with Snake riders,” Kip said.

“Tell the truth,” Dan Carson said, standing with the other men, “I have been lookin' forward to a bottle and a friendly card game. We been on the move since we heard from, uh, Val, here and we just ain't had much time for relaxation. A night on the town would be sorta nice.”

Both John and Kip noticed the slight hesitation when mentioning Val's name, but neither man said anything about it.

“I thought you boys might want to slick up and go in,” John said.

“How about you and your family, Boss?” Big Bob asked.

John smiled and shook his head. “Can't risk it. Gilman's tried to burn us out twice. But with five good shots here, he won't dare attack the house.”

“You want us all to stay?” Falcon asked. “After what happened this day, Gilman might throw caution to the wind and attack.”

“No. You boys head on in and whoop it up. But you know, of course, that you're going to run into Snake riders.”

Puma Parley smiled. “Countin' on that, Boss. Countin' on it.”

Tom Gorman of the Double Triangle rode over the next day and thanked Val personally for sending him the two ex-Snake riders.

“I think they're basically good boys,” Val said. “But keep them close to the bunkhouse for as long as you can. Some of the hired guns of Gilman will surely be carrying a grudge for them.”

“Don't you worry about that. My wife's been cookin' up a storm since they arrived. All those boys are thinkin' 'bout doin' is eatin'.”

Saturday afternoon, Falcon and the crew began slicking up for their visit into town. They all took turns in a horse trough bathing and washing the cooties out of their hair. Then Cookie volunteered to give them all a haircut. They shaved and brushed and curried and combed and primped and blacked their boots and put on their best.

“I swear,” Big Bob said, turning slowly so all could get a look at him. “I shore am a handsome feller.”

“You resemble a moose to me,” Dick “Wildcat” Wheeless said.

“You mean I sorta remind you of that last squaw you took up with?” Bob came right back.

Laughing, the men saddled up and headed for town. To a man they knew they were riding into trouble, and to a man they didn't care ... indeed, they were looking forward to it.

About four miles from the Rockingchair ranch, the men came up on a wagon, a man and a woman on the seat, several kids in the back, two riders flanking the wagon.

“Howdy,” Falcon called cheerfully, reining Hell back to a walk.

“Afternoon,” the man called, after giving the riders a once over.

The outriders nodded at Falcon and the others, their eyes flicking over the various brands, for the men weren't riding Rockingchair stock.

“Joe Gray,” the man said. “I own the spread just east of Bailey.”

“John speaks highly of you,” Falcon replied. “I'm Val Mack.” He introduced the others and the man and woman and outriders all visibly relaxed.

“Y'all headin' into town for a bit of shoppin'?” Big Bob asked.

“ 'Fraid so,” Joe said. “Got to visit the doc and the apothecary. We usually trade at the old post, but this time we got to go to town.”

“We haven't been to town in near'bouts a year,” his wife added. “Not since it got too dangerous for us.”

“Because of Miles Gilman and his bunch of trash, ma'am?” Stumpy asked.

“Yes,” the woman replied. “And my name is Sarah.” She smiled and introduced the others.

One of the outriders was their son, Jack—Falcon guessed him to be about seventeen—and the kids in the wagon were Lou Ann, fifteen, a very comely lass, and two boys, ages ten and eight.

“Well, if you folks don't mind,” Falcon said, “we'll just ride along with you and see that you're not troubled by any of the Snake riders.”

“I can handle myself,” Jack said.

The older outrider grimaced at that remark, but said nothing.

“I'm sure you can, boy,” Puma said. “But it never hurts to have backup, do it?”

“I reckon not,” the teenager said. The young man was wearing a six-gun, low and tied down.

Falcon had carefully dressed in his only good clothes: a dark suit with a white shirt and a black string tie. He was wearing a long duster to keep his clothing relatively clean, and his twin guns were covered by the duster.

“Heard what you boys done for Tom Gorman,” Joe said. “Kind of you. You see anyone else wants a job punchin' cows, send them over to the Four Star.”

“We'll do that, Joe. How many hands do you need?”

“Three more would do it for me.”

The older man's name was Sal, and he was the foreman at the Four Star. He'd been with Joe Gray and family for years. Sal dropped back from the right side of the wagon and rode over to Falcon, walking his horse along beside him.

“Jack's a hothead,” Sal said softly. “He's a damn good son, loves his ma and pa, but he's got a quick temper and thinks he's better with a pistol than he really is.”

“I got that impression, Sal.”

“The job of bird-doggin' him whilst we're in town falls to me.” He cut his eyes to Falcon. “He's gunnin' for Lars Gilman.”

“That isn't good. Lars is almighty quick, so I hear.”

“That ain't all he is. He's twisted real bad. All them boys of Miles's ain't normal in the head. They've all raped girls around the area. I hear tell that Miles don't believe none of it. Thinks it's all madeup. But it ain't madeup. It's true.”

“The boys get that side from their father?”

Sal slowly nodded his head. “That's the word I get. Miles likes to get rough with women.”

“The more I hear about Miles, the less I like him.”

“There ain't a whole lot to like, for a fact.”

“How does the town doctor stand in this fracas?”

“You mean what passes for a doc? Oh, he's all right . . . when he's sober. And he really ain't a bad doc. Had a couple of years of medical school back east somewhere. Boston, I think. He's dug a lot of lead out of a lot of men.” Sal chuckled for a moment. “I heard what you done to ol' turd-face at the general store. I'd like to have seen that, for a fact.”

“He wasn't too happy.”

“I just bet he wasn't.”

“You can't buy supplies there?”

“Not a pound of coffee nor a peck of taters. Mainly it's his moose-butted wife who sucks up to Miles. They've got a worthless boy who gets all weak-kneed every time he gets around Miles's daughter. They think there might be a marriage someday.”

“Any chance of that?”

“None. That vile-tempered, rattlesnake-tongued female don't even know he's alive.”

Falcon smiled at Sal's description of Miles's daughter. “I gather you don't like the girl?”

“I don't even think her daddy likes her much. Terri's a mean, spiteful heifer. She's just as twisted as her brothers. Whole entire family's nuts. Only one who ever had any sense was Miles's wife. She pulled out right after Terri was born and nobody's seen hide nor hair of her since.” He eyeballed the crew who rode up with Falcon and shook his head. “I don't recall ever seein' a meaner-lookin' bunch than this one. Mountain men, right?”

“Yes. I've known them all since I was just a little bitty boy. They're a good crew, long as nobody crowds them.”

Sal took another look. The mountain men were all wearing two guns and he suspected they probably had a third or maybe even a fourth pistol tucked away on their person somewhere.

“Town just might get real interestin' 'fore this day's done.”

“Oh, I think you can count on that, Sal.”

Sal grinned. “I think I'll encourage the boss and his lady to take a room at the hotel for this night. Have a meal at Rosie's.” Then he shook his head. “No. I'd do that if it wasn't for young Jack. I don't want him to get killed.”

“You know the way it is out here, Sal. Boy straps on a gun, he becomes a man.”

“Both his pa and me has tried to tell him that. But it's like talkin' to a fence post.”

“Seventeen is a tough age, all right.” Falcon remembered all too well his own youth. He looked up at the sky. Dark storm clouds were rolling in and gathering thick and ominous. “They might be forced to spend the night in town. We all might. It's about to come a real frog-strangler.”

“Well, the ranch house is covered. The cook and the one hand we got left could hold off a small army. We sure could use a couple more hands, though.”

“I'll ask around.”

The town of Gilman came into view and the group stopped on the crest of the short ridge that overlooked the buildings set on either side of the wide main street. There were only a few horses at the hitchrails and the corral was empty.

“The Snake riders haven't made it in yet,” Joe called, lifting the reins.

“But they will,” his wife said.

“I hope so,” Jack said.

“You keep your distance when they do,” his father warned him. “And if you run into a pack of 'em, keep your hand away from that gun. You hear me?”

Jack did not acknowledge his father's words. He sat in his saddle, a sullen look clouding his young features.

“I ought to take that damn gun away from you,” his father said.

“Nobody takes my gun,” the young man replied. “Not you, not nobody.”

At that, Falcon exchanged glances with his men. No getting around it: If any Snake riders showed up, there would be trouble. Young Jack Gray was primed and cocked and sitting on ready.

Joe clucked to the team and the parade rolled into town. Joe pulled around to the rear of the doc's offices, and Falcon and his men stabled their horses at the livery. Big Bob and the others shied away from hotels, preferring to sleep on the hay in the loft of the livery. Falcon walked over to the hotel and got him a room.

In his room, he removed his duster and brushed off his suit, then checked his guns. The men had not seen his guns. He was wearing pearl-handled, nickel-plated twin .44s. The guns had been specially made for him several years back.

Falcon walked over to the general store and the shopkeeper and his wife almost fainted when he strolled in, but they both kept any sharpness from their tongues as he picked out a new hat and paid for it in hard money. Falcon went over to the livery and stowed his old bullet-torn hat; he would wear it for everyday use.

His crew were over at the Stampede, having a bottle and arranging for a romp in the bed with some of the soiled doves. Then they would all go to Rosie's for a huge supper and then back over to the saloon for more drinking and card playing.

Joe Gray and family were still over at the doctor's office. Sal was leaning against a post in front of the office.

Falcon glanced over at the bank. It was closed. Then he heard the sound of horses. He looked up toward the end of the street. The hired guns from the Snake had arrived.

Falcon looked over at Sal and caught the man's eye. Sal shrugged his shoulders before turning and walking into the doctor's office. Falcon stepped back into the shadows of the awning and counted a dozen Snake riders riding into town. Some tied their mounts to hitchrails, a few rode down to the livery. Before he could step out of the shadows, a half dozen more riders came racing into town, riding too fast. Anyone caught out in the street would have been trampled. Falcon frowned at the careless and arrogant riding. The men whooped and hollered and cussed without regard for any womenfolk who might have been on the boardwalks as they tied up at the hitchrails in front of the Stampede.

Falcon studied the brand for a moment.
NlN,
and the end of each N had a fancy curlicue, making it almost impossible for anyone to change it to a Box X.

Falcon carefully rolled a cigarette and licked and lit. He waited. He knew the Noonan riders could not have possibly pushed a herd up to this part of the country this quickly. That would have been impossible. Nance was sending some of his men in to beef up Gilman's boys.

Before he could ponder on the situation any further, more riders came galloping into town with the same carelessness and arrogance shown by the Noonan riders. This bunch rode horses carrying the .44 brand: Rod Stegman's boys. The man who married Nance Noonan's sister; a man whose holdings were nearly as vast as his brother-in-law's; and, from what Falcon had been able to find out, just as ruthless as Nance.

Falcon stepped out of the shadows and walked over to the stage company's office. The noon stage had come and gone and Falcon was interested in seeing if he'd received any postings from his attorneys. He had . . . several letters, all addressed to Val Mack, and all from various attorneys in San Francisco, Denver, and St. Louis.

One of the letters advised him that any and all warrants against Falcon MacCallister had been withdrawn. But Falcon knew that while that was wonderful, legally speaking, there were still hundreds of wanted posters with his name on them tacked up and posted all over the west, and they would stay up for a long time to come. There would be a dozen or more bounty hunters looking to collect the reward on his head.

They would not know the reward had been withdrawn.

One of the other letters was from his sister, Joleen, down in Valley, Colorado, bringing him up to date on anything and everything that was happening and had happened since Falcon left the town their father and mother had settled shortly after the fall of the Alamo down in Texas.

The third letter was from an attorney in St. Louis advising Falcon that he was several hundred thousand dollars richer (at least on paper) due to the rising value of stock in the railroads. Falcon smiled at the irony of it all: One of the richest men in the west was working as a ranch hand for a few dollars a month and found.

Falcon tucked the letters into a breast pocket of his suit coat and stepped out into the street, crossing over to the Stampede Saloon. He pushed open the batwings and stepped inside, standing for a moment to let his eyes adjust to the sudden darkening.

His men were sitting at a far table, playing cards and sharing a bottle, but actually drinking very little.

Falcon walked up to the long bar and ordered a drink, conscious of many eyes on him. He ignored the open stares, concentrating on his shot glass. Trouble would start soon enough, he felt. No need for him to hasten it.

All that changed when a local sidled up to his side and whispered, “You see that big feller at the end of the bar, mister?”

“Yes,” Falcon returned the whisper.

“He's been braggin' for several days. Ever' time he comes into town. He claims to be one of the men who killed Jamie MacCallister.”

Falcon felt a coldness wash over him. He lifted his eyes and stared down the bar at the man pointed out to him. A big burly fellow, with swarthy looks and a scar on one side of his face.

“What's his name?” Falcon asked the local.

“I heard him called Rud a time or two.”

Falcon motioned for the bartender and told him to give the citizen a drink. The drink poured, Falcon said, “You'd better drink that and then get out of the way.”

“Yes, sir. Thank you.” The citizen gulped down the bourbon and walked off to a far corner of the huge first floor of the Stampede Saloon.

Falcon brushed back his coat, exposing both .44s, and stepped away from the bar, down to the end. “I hear tell there's a man here claims to have killed Jamie MacCallister,” he spoke in a loud voice.

Sal and Joe Gray and his son Jack were standing on the boardwalk outside the saloon, looking through the windows.

“I killed Jamie MacCallister,” the swarthy man said, stepping away from the bar. “It was a fair fight.”

“You're a liar. Way I heard it, Jamie MacCallister was shot in the back. Twice, with a rifle.”

“No man calls me a liar, mister.”

“I just did,” Falcon said. “I knew Jamie MacCallister. No two-bit loudmouth like you would have had the courage to stand up and hook and draw against a man like him. So that makes you a liar and a back-shooting murderer.”

“I was there, mister. I faced MacCallister and shot him dead. So you can take your mouth and go to hell, or drag iron.”

“Make your play, back-shooter.”

Rud cursed and went for his gun and Falcon drilled him just as his hand touched the butt of his .45. The bullet slammed into the center of the man's chest and knocked him back against the bar. He slowly sank to the floor, dead.

Falcon holstered his .44 and stepped back to his position at the bar, signaling for the barkeep to pour him another drink.

“Jesus Christ,” Sal breathed. “I never saw a man that fast.”

Young Jack was standing with his mouth open, speechless.

The mountain men smiled and returned to their card game. None of the other hired guns standing at the long bar seemed at all anxious to pick up the fight.

“Well, hell!” the bartender shouted. “Somebody haul the body out of here. We can't have a body sittin' on the floor. That's bad for business.”

Two Snake riders grabbed Rud by the arms and feet and toted him out and over to the undertaker's down the street.

“Val Mack,” Falcon heard someone say in a hoarse whisper.

Falcon drank his whiskey and left the saloon. He nodded at Sal and Joe and Young Jack and walked across the street to take a seat in front of the hotel. In only a couple of minutes, his crew walked out, booze and women forgotten for the time being. The six of them spread out all up and down the main street, taking chairs in front of establishments or sitting on the edge of the boardwalk. They all knew that after the hired guns in the Stampede knocked back a few more drinks and worked up their courage, they would be ready for trouble.

It was just a matter of time before the streets of the small town would become a battleground.

“Why don't you take your men and leave?” The question came from Falcon's right side. “How many more must die from your guns?”

Falcon had seen the man walk up, all dressed in a black suit with a white collar. Reverend Watkins, the town's preacher.

Falcon cut his eyes to the man. “Just ride away and let the evil continue?”

“There are different kinds of evil, sir.”

“Double-talk, Preacher. Words won't stop men like Miles Gilman and Stegman and Noonan and all the others in the cattlemen's alliance.”

“And bullets will?”

“They seem to have a permanent effect if placed in the right spot,” Falcon said drily.

“Who was that man who was just killed?”

“His name was Rud.”

“That's all? Just Rud?”

“That's all I know.”

“And you killed him?”

“Yes, I did.”

“I'll pray for you both.”

“I'm sure I need some prayer, Preacher. Now you better get off the street before the lead really starts flying.”

“More people are going to die this day?”

“You can count on that, Preacher.”

Thunder rumbled in the distance. The dark clouds were still gathering, turning the midafternoon dark and ominous. But still the rain held off.

Falcon dug in his coat pocket and handed the preacher some money. “For the collection plate in the morning.”

Watkins looked at the money. “Blood money from a hired gun? You think that will appease God?”

Falcon chuckled. “I'm no hired gun, Preacher. I've never hired my guns out to any man. You want this money, or not?”

“That's a lot of money. Who are you to come riding in here with your pockets filled with gold and greenbacks?”

“Maybe I'm an avenging angel.”

“Ahh ... you're a Saint, then?”

“No. I'm not Mormon, Preacher.”

“God doesn't send mercenaries.”

“And what was Michael, Preacher, if not God's warrior?”

Watkins was silent for a moment. “You've had some religious training, that's evident.”

“Up to a point. I do read the Bible occasionally.”

The Preacher took the money and tucked it away in the breast pocket of his suit coat.

“Why don't you go over to the doc's office and see about Mrs. Gray and her children, Preacher? I'm sure you could be a comfort to them.”

“You're a strange man, gunfighter.”

Falcon smiled. “I've been called worse.”

“I will pray for your soul.”

Falcon watched as several men pushed open the batwings to the saloon with a bang. “Get off the street, Preacher. Right now!”

Watkins hurried away, quickly crossing the dust and ruts of the road to the doctor's office.

The guns of the cattlemen's alliance spread out under the awning over the boardwalk in front of the saloon. Falcon knew they were sizing up the situation and not really liking it. More men pushed open the batwings and crowded the boardwalk, spreading out left and right.

Sal, Joe Gray, and young Jack had moved away from the saloon, down to the general store. The door to the general store was now closed, the shades pulled down tight over the front windows. The storekeeper and his wife had probably retreated to the rear rooms, getting as far away as possible from any stray bullets.

There was no resident foot traffic on either side of the street. The town's hundred or so citizens had gone home and closed the doors behind them.

Lightning licked the dark sky, thunder bumped the clouds, and a few fat drops of rain fell plopping to the dust of the street. But the main force of the storm was not yet ready to roar in.

Falcon stood up and brushed his coat back.

A couple of the hired guns left the boardwalk and led the horses away to the livery. The street was now empty.

Falcon waited for the other side to start the dance. He cut his eyes left and right. His men had left their chairs and perches on the boardwalk to stand in doorways and alleys.

Still, the hired guns of the cattlemen's alliance hesitated in hauling iron and letting the bullets fly.

The piano player in the Stampede Saloon had ceased his banging of the ivory. The sighing of the wind before the storm was the only sound as it whistled through the street and the alleyways.

“All right!” a man's voice cut the silence. “Snake riders get your horses. We're out of here. You Rockingchair and Four Star men just stand easy. We're pulling out.”

Two minutes later, Miles Gilman's men had cleared the town and were heading back to friendlier range.

“Since we're bunkin' at Snake, I reckon we'll head on back, too,” a bearded man called to Falcon. “That suit you, Val Mack?”

“Suits me,” Falcon called. “We just came into town for a good time.”

“Rud didn't have no good time.”

“Rud was a liar and a back-shooter.”

“Maybe so. We're gone. Let's ride, boys.”

The riders for the alliance pulled out. The piano player at the Stampede began tickling the ivory. The shades at various businesses were raised and the front doors opened, welcoming trade from everybody except from the Four Star and Rockingchair crews.

Falcon walked over to Stumpy. “You think they're circling around, Stumpy?”

“Yeah, I do. I figure about two hours. They'll slip back into town and get into positions to ambush us, one by one. Just about at dark.”

“That's the way I figure it. Let's see if we can't turn this thing around to our advantage.”

“I'll tell the boys.”

Falcon walked across the street to Joe Gray. “I think they're circling around. If you're going to stay in town, I suggest you get your family situated in the rear of the hotel and tell them to stay put.”

Joe nodded his agreement. “I'll register them now. The doc's just about done lookin' over the kids.”

“Anything serious?”

“Childhood sniffles, that's all. Some castor oil will get them goin' again.”

“It always did me. If ma could catch me and hold me long enough to pour it down my throat, that is,” Falcon said with a smile.