Song of Eagles (11 page)

It sickened the Kid when he saw Dolan's men ride away with the horse herd, leaving John Tunstall lying on his back, as still as the rocks and scrub trees around him.

“He's dead for sure,” the Kid whispered, heeling his sorrel off the hilltop to ride down to the spot where the Englishman lay in a pool of blood.

“We didn't have no choice, Kid,” Waite said, his face the color of snow. “We'd be dead, too, if we tangled with them boys over a few head of horses.”

The Kid turned quickly to Waite, anger tightening his jaw. “It wasn't over any damn horses, Fred. It was over a man's life, a good man's life, a man who gave us all a job an' a place to stay an' fed us good. I can't believe you're too dumb to figure that out.”

“Don't get all riled up at me, Kid,” Waite protested. “All I said was, it wasn't our fight. Besides that, it was up to Dick Brewer to tell us what to do. In case you've forgot, he's ramrod of this outfit.”

“Not any more, he ain't,” the Kid said quietly, riding closer to Tunstall's motionless form. “We're all out of a job on account of this.”

“Leastways, we're still alive,” Waite answered.

“To tell the truth, I ain't all that proud to be breathin' right now,” the Kid said. “A man's gotta have loyalty to his friends or his life ain't worth spit. We damn sure didn't show no loyalty to Mr. Tunstall.”

Waite lowered his face, hiding his eyes below his hat brim as they rode up on the body.

The Kid swung down, squatting on his haunches to look at Tunstall's face. The Englishman's eyes were open, glazed over with death. His face had been smashed in by bullets at close range. Two bulletholes in his chest seeped blood onto the rocky soil beneath him. His curious derby hat lay in the dust a few feet away.

Suddenly the Kid noticed something, just as Fred Waite got down to stare at the corpse.

“Look here, Fred.”

“I can see he's dead, Kid. Don't need to look no closer to be sure.”

“That ain't what I'm talkin' about. Look at Mr. Tunstall's pistol. He's got it in his fist . . .”

“Don't see what's so all important 'bout that, Kid. He's got a gun in his hand. Ain't no big deal to me.”

“The hell it ain't. You saw the same thing I did while we was sitting up on that ridge. One of Dolan's men bent down an' pulled out Mr. Tunstall's pistol, remember? Then he fired it up in the air two times.”

“I remember,” Waite said, scratching his beard stubble thoughtfully.

“Some rotten son of a bitch put the gun in Mr. Tunstall's hand after they killed him. They fired his pistol so it'd look like he was shootin' back.”

“Hadn't thought of that,” Waite agreed.

“That way,” the Kid continued, “when Sheriff Brady rides out here to investigate what happened, it's gonna look like Mr. Tunstall was shootin' at Dolan's boys. Dolan may even try to claim Mr. Tunstall fired first. Jimmy Dolan can claim it was self-defense.”

“But we seen the whole thing, Kid. Hell, nearly all of us did. We can set the sheriff straight on how it really happened today.”

“If he'll listen.”

“I ain't sure what you mean by that, Kid. He can't help but listen to so many of us.”

The Kid stood up, watching Middleton and Brown and Brewer and Charley Bowdre come riding toward them from the hills. “I'm convinced Sheriff Brady is in cahoots with Murphy an' Dolan an' Riley. I can't prove a damn thing, only I've seen 'em together too many times, talkin' real quiet. Sometimes that rotten lawyer, Billy Matthews, was with 'em.”

“That don't make Sheriff Brady a crook,” Waite said, with little conviction in his voice. “I've seen 'em together my own self a few times, over at Beaver Smith's old saloon, the one that stranger named MacCallister took over. The barkeep, a big, tall feller named Garrett, tole me they was in there quite often.”

“I know Garrett,” replied the Kid. “We're friends, sorta. I met him when he first came to this country. He was flat broke an' said he'd gotten in an argument with his partner somewhere down in Texas an' had to kill him. Claimed it was self-defense, just like Dolan's gonna say happened here today. They're all gonna swear Mr. Tunstall fired first, an' it'll be our word against theirs it didn't happen that way. If Sheriff Brady is an honest lawman, he'll listen to us. But if he's the crook I think he is, won't be no charges filed against Jesse Evans or Billy Morton or Tom Hill . . . none of them boys we saw commit the murder of our friend.”

Brewer and Middleton and Bowdre rode up, halting their winded horses a few yards away. Dick Brewer's face was twisted hard.

“He's dead, ain't he?” Brewer asked, looking at the Kid when he spoke.

“Yeah. Me an' Fred saw the whole thing. They shot him down like a dog. Mr. Tunstall hadn't even pulled his pistol.”

Brewer frowned. “But he's got it in his fist right now, Kid.”

“Evans, or Morton, put it there. One of 'em jerked out Mr: Tunstall's gun an' fired it in the air two times.”

“I heard the shots,” Brewer remembered. “I was on the far side of them hills when the shootin' started.”

“I seen what happened,” Middleton said. “The Kid's tellin' it right. They rode up on Tunstall an' shot him off his horse, then one of the bastards shot him in the face an' swung down an' fired the Englishman's pistol twice, straight up in the air.”

“They murdered him,” Charley Bowdre said. “Billy Morton's gonna claim they was a legal posse, sworn in by Sheriff Brady, an' that Tunstall fired first.”

Brewer gave the others a look as Henry Brown rode up on a lathered chestnut. “This is war, boys. Mr. Tunstall was my friend, an' he don't deserve to die like this.”

“He sure as hell don't,” the Kid agreed.

“I've got an idea,” Brewer continued. “We'll ride back to Lincoln an' pay a visit on Justice of the Peace Wilson. We tell him what happened, an' ask him to swear us in as legal deputy constables of Lincoln County. Judge Wilson likes Alexander McSween. We'll ask lawyer McSween to go with us when we see the judge.”

“Then what are we gonna do?” Fred Waite asked, hooking his thumbs in his gunbelt.

Brewer's jaw turned to granite. “We'll ask Judge Wilson to give us arrest warrants for Jesse Evans, Billy Morton, Tom Hill, an' anybody else who was with 'em today. Then we'll hunt 'em down an' put 'em in jail up at Mesilla.”

“That's sure enough gonna start a war,” Waite said. “Dolan an' Riley won't take it lyin' down.”

“Who gives a damn?” Brewer snapped.

The Kid nodded his agreement. “We'll kill the sons of bitches who won't come quiet, an' it'll all be nice an' legal. We'll be representin' the law.”

“Let's do it,” John Middleton said. “As soon as McSween hears what they done to Mr. Tunstall he'll go with us to see Judge Wilson. If the judge will make us all deputies an' gives us warrants for the killers of John Tunstall, we'll make Mr. Jimmy Dolan an' Johnny Riley sorry they ever plotted to kill a good man like this.”

Brewer looked around at the others. “Are we all in agreement on it?”

Heads nodded. Fred Waite was last to show his support for the idea.

“Let's head for Mr. McSween's house,” Waite said. “If he agrees with us, you can count me in, too.”

The Kid turned away from Tunstall's body to climb aboard his horse. He spoke to Brewer when he was in the saddle. “We gotta leave Mr. Tunstall's body just like we found it, so when Sheriff Brady shows up he can see for himself where it happened. But my money says Evans an' Morton are gonna claim Mr. Tunstall fired first.”

“Some of us can swear otherwise,” Middleton said. “I saw the whole thing. So did the Kid an' Fred.”

“I'll swear to the fact it was cold-blooded murder,” Waite said, mounting his horse.

Brewer took one last look at their dead friend and employer before he picked up his reins. “Yonder lays a good man, boys, a good friend. I want you all to remember what he looks like layin' in a puddle of blood, for when we go after Morton an' his yellow pardners.”

The Kid rode over to Brewer and halted his sorrel. “If it's a war they want, let's give 'em one.”

Henry Brown patted the butt of his holstered pistol. “We can give 'em a little dose of their own medicine, an' if Judge Wilson agrees it'll all be nice an' legal.”

Brewer gave his companions another lingering look, passing his gaze across their faces. “We'll call ourselves the Regulators, 'cause we're gonna regulate some of the crooked dealin's in this county. We'll cover every inch of Lincoln County if we have to, until every last one of 'em is behind bars, waitin' to stand trial for the murder of John Tunstall.”

“I like it,” Middleton said, shaking his head. “Regulators sounds good to me.”

The Kid looked north, toward the township of Lincoln. “I don't much give a damn what we call ourselves,” he said, speaking in a low voice. “All I care about is gettin' the men who killed our friend.”

Brewer swung his horse around. “Let's ride for Lincoln, boys.”

The Kid fell in beside Brewer as the others followed them away from the murder scene. Brewer gave the Kid a sideways glance.

“How come you an' Fred didn't ride down an' lend a hand when you seen what they was doin' to Mr. Tunstall?” Brewer asked.

The question struck the Kid like a knife. “We just sat up on that hill like we was froze solid. They'd already shot Mr. Tunstall off his horse before we realized what they aimed to do. I wish I could do things over, even as bad outnumbered as we was. We shoulda done somethin' . . .”

* * *

Falcon was sitting at his table, laying out a game of solitaire, when Pat Garrett walked over. Pat leaned down and whispered in his ear, “Falcon, one of the cowboys at the bar said John Tunstall has been shot.”

“What? When?” Falcon exclaimed.

“Out on the road to Lincoln. The puncher said it was some of Evans's men that did it. There's a group of Tunstall's friends all gathering at Alexander McSween's house tonight to see what's to be done about it.”

Falcon grabbed his hat. “I'd better get on over there and see what's going on. I have a feeling this may lead to a full scale range war.”

He walked hurriedly to the livery stable, threw a saddle on Diablo and rode as hard as he could for McSween's house.

When he arrived shortly after dusk, he found a group of almost sixty men milling around in front of the house. He shouldered his way inside and found the Kid, Dick Brewer, Fred Waite, Bob Widenmann, and John Middleton sitting in McSween's living room. All of the men were quite excited and all were drinking whiskey except the Kid, who had a cup of steaming coffee in his hand.

The Kid smiled when he saw Falcon, but it was a sad smile with none of his usual jocularity in it.

“Howdy, Falcon,” he said. “I guess you heard what them murderin' bastards did to the boss man.”

Falcon nodded. “I heard John was shot by some of Evans's men. Is that true?”

The Kid stared down into his coffee for a moment before replying, then looked up and told Falcon the entire story, not leaving out how guilty he felt about not intervening.

Just as the Kid finished his tale, McSween approached the pair and handed Falcon a glass of whiskey.

“Alex, just what do you intend to do about this?” Falcon asked.

McSween shook his head. “I don't rightly know just now.”

“Have you reported what happened to Sheriff Brady?”

Kid turned his head and spit on the floor. “Tell Brady? That son of a bitch won't do nothin'. He's in on this with the rest of that Dolan bunch.”

Falcon was about to reply when someone knocked on the door and walked in. It was John Riley, and he was drunk as a hoot owl.

“I jus' wanted to say I'm sorry 'bout what happened to Tunstall.” He slurred his words as he stood weaving in the living room.

“An' I wan' you to know I didn't know nothin' 'bout it.”

As he talked, he took a kerchief out of his pocket to wipe sweat off his forehead. As he raised the kerchief to his face, a small, leather-bound book fell to the floor.

Falcon bent and quickly picked it up, putting it in his pocket before the drunken Riley could see.

McSween grabbed the Kid as he started toward Riley, with blood in his eye.

“You'd better hightail it on out of here, Riley, 'fore the Kid or one of the others blows you into next week.”

Riley held up his hands, turning bleary eyes toward the Kid. “I tell you I'm not involved in all this, Kid. It was that outlaw Evans that shot Tunstall, not any of us.”

When the Kid strained against McSween's grasp, Riley quickly turned and rushed from the room, fear on his face.

After he was gone, the Kid adjusted his holster and said, “I'm gonna go get some revenge for Mr. Tunstall. Anybody comin' with me?”

Falcon said, “Hold on, Kid. Let's see what Mr. Riley dropped before we go off half-cocked.” He turned some pages, reading the handwritten notes.

“Jesus,” he whispered to himself.
This is the dynamite that might blow this entire county apart,
he thought. “Gentlemen, let me have your attention,” he called to

the group in the house.

When they were all listening he said, “This is a memorandum book that Riley dropped when he was here. Among other items, there is a record of the occasions on which stolen cattle have been purchased from the Evans gang, cattle stolen from the Tunstall and Chisum ranches.”