Song of Eagles (26 page)

Falcon walked over to where the Kid was standing above the man he'd shot.

“Got him right through the heart,” the Kid said, “only he's still alive.”

“Won't be for long,” Falcon observed, for even in the dark of the piñon forest an inky pool of blood was spreading around the body, easy to see.

“He kinda whispered his name,” the Kid went on in a quiet voice. “Roy Cobb.”

“He called the other one Deke,” Falcon remembered.

“Cobb said they didn't work for Jimmy Dolan or Murphey or any of the Lincoln County bunch. They came straight down from Santa Fe, bein' paid by Thomas Catron, the leader of the beef ring that started all this trouble. That's what this feller told me just before he blacked out.”

“Somebody needs to pay a call on this Thomas Catron. Tell him what happened to his boys and his Apaches here tonight. It ain't over yet. There's still nine or ten Apaches out there and I intend to kill 'em all.”

“How come, Falcon?” the Kid wondered. “They don't seem to want no more fight with us.”

“It's personal, Kid.”

“Personal? You've tangled with those same renegades before?”

“Not the same bunch, but they're renegades off a reservation and that makes 'em fair game.”

“Fair game for a killin'? Mind tellin' me why you feel so hard-line about it?”

Falcon took a deep breath, gazing toward the open prairie where the renegades still sat their ponies watching the trees where the shooting had occurred. He was remembering the worst moment of his life, when a band of redskins came down on his place while he was away, slaughtering his wife, Marie, butchering her like a fatted calf, cutting her open, scalping her, leaving her alive to suffer horribly until she died slowly.

“You ain't gotta talk about it if you'd rather not,” the Kid said.

“A band of renegades attacked my ranch while I was off on business. They took my wife with 'em. They had their way with her and then cut her open. Sliced off her scalp. My father told me when he found her she'd bled all over the place, so I know she suffered something awful.”

“Was she . . . dead when he found her?”

Falcon merely nodded, turning away from the dying gunman from Santa Fe to walk to his horse.

“You're goin' after the others, ain't you?” the Kid said just as Roy Cobb let out his final breath.

“Sure as hell am,” Falcon replied.

“I'll go with you,” the Kid offered, hurrying to catch up to Falcon's longer strides.

“Nope,” Falcon remarked. “This is my affair. Stay put until I'm done with 'em.”

“You're gonna take all of 'em on by yourself?”

“Now you've got the idea,” Falcon told him as he untied Diablo's reins and swung into the saddle.

He began thumbing cartridges into the loading tube of his Winchester rifle. Then he booted it and pulled one pistol at a time, opening the loading gates to check their loads.

“I'll damn sure ride out there an' help you,” the Kid said again.

“I appreciate the offer,” Falcon replied, reining Diablo away from the tree. “But this is my personal score to settle. It's been haunting me all these years. I can't sleep sometimes, picturing what my Marie must've looked like when Jamie found her.”

“An' now you're out to kill every Indian renegade you run across. It don't matter what breed they are?”

Falcon halted his horse just long enough to answer the Kid's question. “Those are renegades, son. The law says we don't fight each other any more like we did in the old days, before the big treaty at Medicine Lodge. These Mescaleros broke their word to keep peace between us. They ran off looking for a fight with white men, and I aim to oblige 'em. Those renegades who killed my Marie ignored the treaty and went to war against me, against a defenseless woman. I'll make every redskin renegade I can find pay for what happened to my wife until I go to my grave. It's something I have to do.”

At that, Falcon heeled Diablo through the piñons toward the open valley, where nine Apaches were gathered in a low spot with rifles balanced across their ponies' withers.

Falcon rode to the edge of the forest. He jerked his rifle free, jacked a load into place, twisted Diablo's reins around his saddlehorn so he could guide the trusty stud with his knees. At the last Falcon pulled the Colt pistol from his left holster, fisting it, then bringing the Winchester to his right shoulder.

“Move out, Diablo,” he said soft and low, urging the big stallion into a run straight toward the Apaches.

The Indians did not move, watching him gallop toward them out of a setting sun as if they couldn't believe their eyes—one man charging toward nine armed warriors. Falcon knew they must believe he was crazy.

Hell,
he thought,
they may well be right.

The smooth running gait of Diablo did nothing to bother his aim when Falcon drew a bead on one Indian and pulled the trigger on his rifle, a shot of almost three hundred yards, impossible for all but the best marksmen.

A shrieking Indian twisted off his pony, flinging his rifle high above his head as he fell headfirst beneath the hooves of the other ponies.

Falcon gave the Winchester's loading lever a road agent's spin, twirling it around his outstretched hand, sending another brass-jacketed shell into the chamber. He was still too far out of range to use his Colt pistol, but he was sure the opportunity to use it would come.

Three Indians fired back at him, yet Falcon had anticipated their moves by kneeing Diablo to the left and right so the big horse changed leads with every stride. A zigzagging target was virtually impossible to hit without a stroke of luck. And if Falcon had anything to say about it, the Indians were plumb out of luck today.

Falcon fired his rifle again as two slugs whistled past him into the night sky, while a third plowed up dirt and grass many yards to the right of Diablo's run.

The shot from Falcon's Winchester found another mark when a Mescalero in a fringed buckskin shirt yelped like a scalded dog and rolled, ball-like, off the croup of his prancing pinto pony to land hard on the ground behind it.

Again, Falcon gave the rifle a one-handed spin, a practiced move he accomplished so smoothly it seemed like a fluid motion, not the working of a steel mechanism in a man's hand.

Four more shots thundered from the swale in Falcon's direction, and all were wide misses. The Indians' ponies were hard to control with all the shooting going on, rearing on hind legs or plunging against the pull of jaw reins.

Falcon aimed for an Apache and blasted him off his dappled gray. Blood flew from his ribs and back and it seemed the big .44 slug had all but torn the Indian in half.

Diablo continued his charge toward the milling Indians as the powerful horse dodged back and forth under the signals from Falcon's knees.

The remaining Apaches suddenly panicked, as if they realized this crazy white-eyes meant business, and swung their ponies away from Falcon's headlong rush, drumming their heels into the ribs of their mounts.

Their retreat did nothing to discourage MacCallister's grim determination to blast the Mescalero renegades to their happy hunting ground. He asked Diablo for more speed and singled out one Indian to ride down and kill. Six Mescaleros remained, and he meant to slaughter the entire bunch if he had his way.

He fired at the escaping Apache and blew the back of the warrior's skull apart, with blood, hair, and bone fragments flying high above the dappled pony until the dead Indian fell limply to the valley floor.

Turning Diablo after another target, Falcon aimed and fired twice with his Colt. Another warrior screamed in agony and went down hard.

Changing directions again, the scattering Apaches wanted no more of Falcon. Remembering Marie, he gave a mirthless grin. “Time for paybacks, you bastards,” he growled, asking Diablo for all he had.

* * *

Falcon rested aboard the big black stud on a hilltop to survey the scene below. Diablo was blowing hard, covered with a thick coating of sweat and foam. Falcon leaned forward to pat the big stud's neck, for he had run as if he were chasing the devil for Falcon—which, in a sense, he had been.

Spread across a starlit valley, lying in patches of dark blood, nine Mescalero Apache renegades decorated the north Chisum pasture—men who had found all the excitement they could handle when they decided to leave the reservation and make some extra money by stealing.

He heard the Kid riding up the hill. As soon as the Kid got there he spoke.

“Never saw nothin' like it, Falcon.” Kid removed his hat and sleeved off his face. Then he shook his head in awe, “You killed every one of 'em, like it was all in a day's work.”

He glanced sideways at Falcon. “You know, I used to think I was a pretty bad hombre, but you just showed me something. There's always somebody over the next hill who's just a little bit badder.”

Falcon gave the Kid a lopsided grin. “Now you know why I keep telling you to get off the hoot owl trail and go straight. That trail only leads to one conclusion, and it's always the same, being stood up in a pine box for folks to take pictures of and stand around gawking at.”

The Kid nodded.

“You plannin' on goin' up to Santa Fe to have a talk with Catron?”

Falcon's thirst for revenge had lessened after the bloodbath and he turned to the Kid. “Maybe later, but right now I'm heading on down to John Chisum's to tell him what happened.”

He stared out across the field, almost completely covered in darkness now. “He's probably heard the shots and is wondering who's gone to war out on his spread.” He stuck out his hand. “It's time you started that long ride to the Mexican border.”

The Kid leaned out of his saddle, taking Falcon's hand. “It's been a pleasure to know you, Falcon MacCallister. Thanks for all you did to try to help me an' my friends. We lost the war in Lincoln County, that's for sure, but we damn sure made 'em pay in blood to get it done.”

Falcon didn't want more conversation right at the moment. “Best you start riding, son. And good luck to you. If you're as smart as I think you are, you won't ever show your face in the New Mexico Territory again. Let 'em all think you're buried up at Fort Sumner.”

The Kid nodded and swung his horse off the hilltop, hitting a trot to the south. Crossing the dark valley, he glanced to his left and then his right when he rode past the bodies of some of the Apaches Falcon had killed.

Falcon watched the boy ride off, deciding the Kid's secret would always be safe with him.

He heeled Diablo off the grassy knob and headed for Chisum's South Springs Ranch, with a tale to tell.

Just once, he turned to watch the Kid ride out of sight over a ridge.

“Good luck down in Mexico, Kid,” he said as Diablo carried him toward John Chisum's headquarters,
“Vaya con Dios, Chivato.
”

After Diablo cooled down and was breathing normally, Falcon turned the big stallion's head north and rode slowly toward the South Spring Ranch house.

It was a grisly ride through all the Indians, their bodies scattered over much of the ground in the area Falcon had to ride through to get to Chisum's place.

He glanced at the dead men lying around him as he rode, and felt no remorse. The men had chosen their paths, and had died honorably. Most Indians wouldn't have asked for more from their gods.

He glanced back over his shoulder, saw the Kid give him a wave good-bye with his hat, and hoped he would someday meet up with the young man again—under different circumstances.

He snorted, thinking
The Kid has lived a fuller, more exciting life than most men three times his age. Now, if only he can learn from his mistakes and not keep on making the same ones over again.

By the time Falcon got to the house Chisum and his men were out in the front yard, holding rifles, shotguns, and pistols. As he rode in Falcon held his hands high, showing the men he was no threat. He didn't want to get blown out of his saddle by an overly-anxious cowboy with something to prove.

Chisum, when he saw Falcon ride up, tipped his hat back and stood there with his hands on his hips.

“I should've known it was you, MacCallister. Hell, ever since you came to Lincoln County there's been a war on.” He chuckled. “So why should tonight be any different?”

Falcon leaned forward, his arms crossed on his saddle horn. “Me and a friend was riding by when we saw about thirty Mescaleros trying to steal some of your beeves.”

“You and one other man took on thirty Injuns by yourselves?” Chisum asked.

“Yeah, and two white men, who seemed to want your cattle for themselves.”

Chisum pursed his lips as Falcon continued. “They said they worked for Thomas Catron, from up Santa Fe way.”

Chisum's face flushed an angry red. “Where are these gents now, Falcon? I'd kind'a like to have a word with 'em.”

Falcon grinned. “In hell, most likely. They didn't survive the fracas.”

Chisum hesitated for a moment. Then he smiled and turned to walk back into the cabin. Without looking back he waved his hand, “Come on in and light and sit, and I'll buy you a drink.”

Falcon smiled to himself. The old man was probably still pissed-off about him dressing him down in his saloon a while back. This promised to be an interesting conversation.

He stepped down off Diablo, stuck his Winchester .4440 carbine in the saddle boot, and handed his reins to one of the punchers standing nearby.

“Would you mind seeing that he gets some water and feed? He worked mighty hard for me out there this evening, and he deserves some oats, if you got any.”

The cowboy said, “Sure thing, Mr. MacCallister. I thought we was fixin' to have to go to war when I heard all them gunshots over toward the south pasture.” The puncher grinned, “It's gonna take a while for my heart to slow down to normal again.”

The young man shook his head as he led Diablo toward the corral. “Yes sir, it's sure good to know it's gonna be a quiet night after all,” he mumbled as he led Diablo toward the corral.

Falcon walked up on the porch and started to enter the house. Chisum's foreman, Mack, stopped him by putting a large hand on his shoulder.

“Falcon, I know you and the boss had some differences a while back, but I want to you know I'm much obliged to you for taking a hand in all this. The boss was mighty worried 'bout losin' the ranch 'til you and the Kid took Dolan's mind off him.”

Falcon shrugged. “It wasn't so much, Mack. You'd of done the same for Mr. Chisum.”

“Yeah, I would, Falcon. But the point is, most men when they seen what they was up against here in Lincoln County would've run for the hills, not stepped in to fight like you and that Billy Bonney did.”

The big Irishman blushed. “Anyway, you got my gratitude, and my friendship.” He stuck out his hand and stood there, his face still red and flushed, as if he wasn't sure Falcon would take it.

Falcon grabbed the hand, which swallowed his, and gave it a firm shake.

“You're a good man, Mack, and Chisum's lucky to have you as his ramrod. You take care now, you hear?”

Mack grinned and tipped his hat as he walked off the porch. Then he turned to his men and started hollering at them to get a move on out to the battle site before the Indians started stinking up the place.

Chisum stuck his head out the door, “You comin', Falcon, or you waitin' for this bourbon to age a little more?”

Falcon followed him into his study, thinking,
The bourbon you serve could stand a little more aging, since it tastes like a cross between kerosene and rubbing alcohol.

Chisum poured them large glasses, opened a cigar box on his desk, and offered one to Falcon before taking one himself and sitting down.

As the two men got their cigars going, they studied each other through the smoke, taking each other's measures.

Finally, cigars lighted and bourbon sampled, Chisum spoke, pointing his cigar like a pistol, punctuating each word with a jab of the stogie.

“Falcon, there ain't many men in this territory I'd let talk to me the way you did the other day at your saloon and not do something about it.”

Falcon's face didn't change. He didn't come here to apologize, and didn't intend to listen to the old man justify himself.

“You took it, John, 'cause you knew I was right. I suspect you've been more than a little ashamed of yourself for the past few weeks.”

The corner of Chisum's mouth turned up in a crooked smile, and he shook his head.

“Damned if you ain't got more'n a little of your dad in you, son.” He chuckled, “Whenever we'd get crossways, he'd sit there with that same expression on his face, like he knew I was wrong and he was right . . . and damned if he wasn't, most of the time.”

Falcon smiled, remembering the same thing about Jamie MacCallister. His dad had more than a little of an old fire-and-brimstone preacher in him.

“By the way, son, who was the man who was out there with you, killin' them Injuns right and left? He sure must've had some sand in his gizzard to stand with you against them odds, especially for someone else's cattle.”

Chisum took a deep draught of his bourbon and sat there, staring at Falcon, waiting for his answer.

“That's what I'm here to talk to you about, John.”

Chisum waved his glass in the air, slopping a little over the side, and Falcon realized he must have already had a few that evening, even though it was barely supper time. Perhaps the rancher was drinking out of guilt at his recent alliance with Dolan and his Santa Fe Ring members.

“First, I'd like to know what's going on with you and the Dolan bunch. Just how deep are you in with those bastards?”

Chisum pursed his lips and stared at Falcon from under bushy eyebrows for a moment.

“I'm tempted to say it's none of your business, Falcon. But on second thought, I guess it is your business, since you've been a good friend to me and stood by me through this whole mess.”

He reached over and took the bottle from his desk, poured another drink, held it up to see if Falcon wanted a refill, then noticed Falcon had barely touched his first drink.

“Let 'me explain a few things first, son. Not by way of makin' excuses, you understand, but just so's you'll know the lay of the land.”

Falcon took a drag of his cigar and let the smoke trail from his nostrils as he said, “Go ahead, John, I'm listening.”

Chisum swiveled in his chair to stare out a window at his ranch, extending as far as the eye could see.

“I got me over a hundred thousand acres, and more beeves than you can rightly count. The state and the county have been eatin' me alive with taxes, an' Dolan and his lawyers are bitin' at my heels with lawsuit after lawsuit like so many rabid dogs.”

He shook his head. “Hell, I've already had to resort to puttin' the ranch in my brothers' names, tryin' to dodge their warrants.”

“Did it work?” Falcon asked.

“So far, but it's a temporary solution. With Judge Bristol in his pocket, Dolan can have damn near anything he wants in these parts.”

He took another deep drink of his whiskey, his eyes clouded with remembered hate for Jimmy Dolan.

“So, that's what's behind your sudden change of heart, and why you abandoned the Regulators and Billy Bonney?”

Chisum turned rheumy eyes back to Falcon.

“That's about the size of it. When I realized Dolan and his friends weren't having to pay any taxes, I figured the best thing for me to do was swallow my pride and join in with them.”

He sighed, stubbing out his cigar in an ashtray on the desk.

“Hell, it's the only way I could see to save this spread I've spent the last fifteen years building.”

Falcon nodded. “I can see that, John, but the Kid and his friends could sure of used your help when they came asking.”

“That was one of the hardest things I've ever done, Falcon, turning them boys down when they asked for my help.” He looked down at his big hands, clasped in front of him. “I haven't slept a good night's sleep since I did it.”

Falcon almost felt sorry for the rancher. He knew that when a man was between a rock and a hard place, he sometimes didn't always have the luxury of making the right decision.

“Well, John, maybe what I'm about to tell you will help make you sleep a little better. The Kid didn't hold any hard feelings toward you for what you did. He understood more than you think he did. He didn't know why you suddenly changed sides, but he knew you were an honorable man, and told me you must have had good reason.”

“I liked that boy, Falcon. I kept hoping by my refusal to give him money to continue his fight, he'd have to leave the territory. I figured that was the only way he'd ever survive the Lincoln County war.”

He pulled another cigar from his humidor and lighted it. Through blue clouds of smoke, he said, “I guess I was wrong about him leavin', but I was damn sure correct about him not surviving the fracas.”

“Don't be too sure about that, John.”

“What! What are you talking about, Falcon? The Kid's dead and buried over at Fort Sumner, didn't you hear?”

“My dad had an old saying, John. He used to tell me, 'Son, don't believe anything you hear, and only half what you see'.”

Chisum leaned forward, his elbows on the desk. “Are you tellin' me those stories 'bout Garrett shootin' the wrong man are true?”

Falcon shook his head. “No, John, I'm not telling you anything, and I especially don't want you repeating those crazy tales of someone else being buried in the Kid's coffin.”

Chisum leaned back with narrowed eyes, thinking over what Falcon was saying, and, more importantly, what he
wasn't
saying.

“So,” he said, a small grin of relief on his face, “I guess that feller out there with you who was ready to take on the whole Apache tribe was a real fighter, someone who goes ahead no matter what the odds are? I bet he's kind'a small like, but fights like any two men?”

Falcon nodded, but held up his hand. “Let's say no more about that, John. There's already enough rumors going around, and, if I were you, and if you value your friendship with the Kid, I'd do everything I could to put a stop to that kind of talk.”

Chisum nodded slowly, thinking about what Falcon meant.

“In fact,” Falcon continued, “that's what I was coming here to talk to you about, when we ran into those Indians.”

“What can I do to help . . . uh ... put those ugly, untrue rumors to rest, Falcon?”

“Well, Pat Garrett has been trying to get the governor to authorize the payment of the reward for killing the Kid. So far, he's been stonewalled.”

Chisum sat back in his chair, sipping his drink now instead of gulping it. Falcon thought he could almost see the worry wrinkles fading as the man realized his betrayal hadn't meant the death of the Kid.

“I thought, maybe, if you and some other prominent citizens got together and raised some money for the reward, the talk of the Kid still being alive might kind of die down.”

Chisum considered it a moment, then leaned forward and slapped his hand down on his desk.

“I'll do it, by God! I'll give Garrett a thousand dollars of my own money, and I'll see to it that Dolan and his partners come up with some more.”

“There's one more thing, John.”

“Yes?”

“I know Pat's going to want to run for reelection to sheriff. It might be better if you could put a bug in Dolan's ear that he should perhaps support Kimball for sheriff.”

“Why?”

“Because, the sooner Garrett's out of Lincoln County, the sooner the Kid and the Regulators will be just an old memory.”

“Well, I don't think that will be too hard. Since Garrett's killed the Kid, he ain't been too popular around the area, anyway. For all the tales of the Kid running rampant through the countryside, most of the people of Lincoln County considered him a friend, and most of 'em don't have a lot of good things to say about the man who murdered him.”

“Then we understand each other?”

Chisum stared Falcon in the eye, and Falcon could see that he'd lifted a tremendous burden off the rancher, who had evidently been blaming himself for the Kid's death.

“Completely. And I'll do everything in my power to squelch those rumors 'bout the Kid still bein' alive.”