Song of Eagles (10 page)

Less than a week after Jesse Evans's arrest, James Dolan called a meeting of his friends and associates. They met in a back room of his La Placita store in Lincoln. Present were Dolan, John Riley, Billy Matthews, Sheriff William Brady, and Judge Warren Bristol.

“Bill, have you taken care of Evans yet?”

Sheriff Brady smiled and nodded. “Yeah. Earlier tonight, someone broke in the jail while I was over at the hotel having supper and busted him out.”

Dolan nodded. “I assume he'll be at the usual place should I need him.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good, 'cause I will have need of his services in the next few days.”

Dolan looked over at Judge Bristol, who sat in a corner, quietly fuming.

“Warren, I need a favor.”

The judge looked up resentfully. “Dammit, Jimmy, you shouldn't have called me to come over here. You know there'll be hell to pay if anyone finds out I'm working with you.”

“Your share of the Dolan Enterprises money ought to make up for any trouble I cause you, Warren. Now quit your whining, I need some legal advice.”

Bristol took a pipe from his suit coat and began fussing with it, filling it with a wad of tobacco that smelled bad even before he lighted it. “Go on, I'm listening.”

“I need some legal way to get at Tunstall. I need some excuse to serve a writ on him, something that will let me tie up his business for a while. His store and bank are beginning to really cut into my ... I mean our, profits.

Riley, Dolan's second in command of his operation, snorted. “Hell, Jimmy, I don't know why you don't just send Evans and his gang out to Tunstall's ranch and burn the bastard out.”

Dolan shook his head. “John, I know you favor the direct approach, but the days are gone when we could get away with something like that. First of all, Tunstall's hired too many good guns of his own. That Rio Feliz Ranch looks more like a fort than a cattle operation.”

He paused to take a long, black stogie out of his coat and light it. As he trailed smoke from his nostrils toward the ceiling, he added, “Besides, too many of the smaller ranchers around here are beginning to side with Tunstall, and his letters to the Mesilla
Independent
newspaper about Sheriff Brady's diversion of some of their tax monies are beginning to get some attention in Santa Fe, attention we don't need right now. We need to try a more subtle approach.”

Bristol lighted his pipe and sucked on it, blowing out pungent blue clouds of smoke as he thought. After a moment he looked up, a satisfied grin on his face.

“Say, Jimmy, didn't you tell me you once hired that lawyer that works for Tunstall, Alexander McSween, to collect on a life insurance policy of Colonel Fritz's?”

Dolan's eyes narrowed, “Yeah. He went up to New York and got a check for a little over seven thousand dollars. I told him I should get the money, as I was successor to L.G. Murphey and Company, but he put it in his account. He said he would pay it out when the legal heirs were determined.”

Bristol sat back and spread his hands and smiled. “Well, there you are.”

Dolan frowned. “I don't understand. How does my fight with McSween help me to get to Tunstall?”

“There is a little known law in New Mexico called joint and several liability. That means, if McSween owes you money and can't pay, and he is partners with Tunstall, you can attach Tunstall's property to pay McSween's debt. With that, and those notes you bought up that John Chisum owes on, you can tie up the entire Tunstall and Chisum operation.”

Dolan nodded. “I'm beginning to see the light here, Judge. Now, here's what we're gonna do . . .”

On December twenty-first, Dolan took the affidavit signed by Judge Bristol to his business associate, District Attorney Rynerson, to effect the arrest of Alexander McSween on a charge of embezzlement and a note of summary judgment against John Chisum.

Dolan waited until McSween and his wife, accompanied by John Chisum, set out on a trip to St. Louis. Dolan then wired the sheriff of San Miguel County to detain the McSweens and Chisum. He wanted them out of the way while he took on Tunstall.

Chisum, who refused to answer the complaints, was jailed, receiving a sentence of eight days. McSween made bail and headed back toward Lincoln.

With Chisum and McSween out of the picture, Dolan had Sheriff Brady levy an attachment on Tunstall's bank and store, stating that since McSween owned part of them, they could take the two as part payment on his debt.

McSween arrived back in Lincoln and was immediately arrested and put in jail by Sheriff Brady, to be released only upon pledging of enough property to cover the amount he supposedly owed to J.J. Dolan.

Tunstall, with the Kid as his bodyguard, came to town and pledged a number of cattle and horses, which he was to deliver to town the next day.

On their way back to Rio Feliz, Tunstall and the Kid stopped in at The Drinking Hole, and sat down with Falcon MacCallister.

Falcon ordered whiskey for Tunstall and sarsaparilla for the Kid.

“I hear you've been busy of late, John,” Falcon said.

“Yes. That damned James Dolan is trying every sneaky legal trick in the book to start a war with John Chisum and me.”

The Kid took a deep swallow of his carbonated drink, burped once, then said, “I say we give it to him, boss. Between us and Chisum's men, we got plenty of firepower to take on the whole Dolan gang.”

“It may well come to that, Billy. But with John Chisum still in jail up in Mesilla, his brothers won't allow his cowboys to join in our fight until they get John's permission.”

Falcon realized that the tensions he had noted on his arrival in the area were coming to a boil. There was going to be bloodshed before too long.

“So, John, what do you intend to do?” Falcon asked.

Tunstall shrugged. “I'll just have to play along for a while, until Chisum and I can get together and decide what to do. Meantime, I must take some cattle and horses into Lincoln tomorrow to try to get Alex McSween out of jail.”

“I say to hell with 'em,” The Kid snarled in his boyish voice. “We ought 'a give 'em lead instead of beeves.”

“I will not have a single man killed over a few cattle,” Tunstall said, firmly. “I will play along with their legal games, and pursue the matter in the courts. Dolan will not prevail if we can get the lawsuit heard in an impartial venue.”

“Do you need some help tomorrow?” Falcon asked.

Tunstall smiled. “No, but thank you for the offer, Falcon. I plan to take Billy here along as my guard, and some other men from the ranch to herd the cattle. I'm sure it will all go smoothly.”

The Kid looked at Falcon and grinned his dangerous grin. “I just hope they try and start some trouble. I'll be ready for 'em if they do, an' I'll make 'em wish they had never been born.”

* * *

That same night, Dolan had Billy Matthews fetch Jesse Evans and some of his gang to his store. Evans arrived, along with Frank Baker, Tom Hill, George Hindman, Johnny Hurley, “Buckshot” Roberts, Manuel “the Indian” Segovia, and William “Buck” Morton.

“Boys,” Dolan said after passing out bottles of whiskey to the hardened gunmen, “tomorrow, John Tunstall is going to be bringing in some cattle and horses to turn over to me to get his lawyer, McSween, out of jail.”

Evans pulled the cork from his bottle and took a deep swig. “I hope the Kid is with him. I have a score to settle with that bastard.”

“You'll get your chance. Tunstall never goes anywhere without Bonney. But whatever it takes, I don't want Tunstall and those cattle to make it to Lincoln. I intend to keep possession of his store and bank.”

“What do you want us to do?” Evans asked.

“It would be worth a great deal of money to me if, by some happenstance, Tunstall were to suffer an accident and be killed,” Dolan said.

Buck Morton grinned, showing yellow, rotten teeth. “Consider it done, Mr. Dolan.”

“Of course, there should be no witnesses left who can testify to the matter.”

“There won't be nobody left who can say we didn't act in self-defense.”

Dolan stood and offered a toast. “Then goodnight, gentlemen, and good hunting tomorrow.”

As the Kid helped drive the small herd of cattle and horses toward Lincoln he thought about how much he had liked working for John Tunstall at the Rio Feliz Ranch, although the Englishman had some peculiar habits. He was always stiff and mannerly, and his speech was so odd it made some of the other ranchhands laugh . . . men like Fred Waite, John Middleton, Charley Bowdre, and Dick Brewer. But this trouble between Tunstall and the Santa Fe Ring, headed by Jimmy Dolan and John Riley, was no laughing matter.

Kid knew Dolan had hired as many as twenty-two gunmen and outlaws . . . bad men the likes of Jesse Evans, Billy Morton, and Tom Hill, according to folks around Lincoln—and everyone, including John Tunstall, expected shooting to start at any time. Tunstall had warned all his ranchhands to keep their guns handy, even though he was a peaceloving man who did not want bloodshed.

Down deep, the Kid figured there was no way to avoid flying lead before the difficulties were settled. Changing his name from Antrim to Bonney after the shooting at Fort Grant in Arizona Territory had not changed his character. He was fiercely loyal to those who befriended him, and he was ready to stand with John Tunstall no matter the odds or the cost.

* * *

The Kid rode his best sorrel pony, the one John Tunstall had given him when he was first hired, flanking the horse herd along with Middleton, Dick Brewer, Charley Bowdre, Fred Waite, and Henry Brown. Tunstall rode at the front on a good bay stud, leading them toward the Penasco River crossing. This was rough, brushy country, hard on horses and men.

Waite rode up beside the Kid. He glanced over his shoulder and said, “Every now an' then appears we got somebody followin' us. Can't say for sure.”

The Kid examined their backtrail. “Don't see a thing, Fred, only they could be tryin' to stay hid, whoever it is.”

“You know damn well who it'll be. Jimmy Dolan an' Jesse Evans, prob'ly Billy Morton an' Tom Hill. They ain't nothin' but hired killers, every damn one of 'em.”

“Mr. Tunstall acts worried,” the Kid agreed. “He wouldn't be givin' up these horses an' beeves so easy if he wasn't scared we'll be in a war with them Santa Fe boys.”

Waite looked backward again. “I can feel trouble comin', an' when I get that feelin' I ain't hardly ever wrong, like when my knee hurts just afore it rains.”

“You sound like an old woman with the rheumatiz,” the Kid said, grinning.

“I ain't funnin' you. All week long I've had this real bad feelin'.”

“You worry too damn much. If Morton or Evans or any of that bunch shows up, we'll just shoot 'em down.”

Waite looked at the Kid's pistol. “You any good with that thing?”

“I've killed a man or two, if that's what you're askin'. I shot this big-mouth horseshoer down in Camp Grant when he called me out.”

“You did? You actually killed him?”

“Deader'n a gate hinge. He was big. Thought he was tough. I showed him otherwise. A gun is a funny thing, Fred. It ain't nothin' but a piece of iron, but if you use it right it makes all men equal.”

“I never knowed you shot somebody dead, Kid.”

“I ain't braggin' about it. Just made mention of it so you'd know I ain't just carryin' it on my hip for decoration. I can shoot, if the need arises.”

Waite turned back again, scanning the horizon. “Looks like I seen 'em again just now . . . four or five riders. If you look real close you can see the dust from the horses' hooves risin' on the wind.”

The Kid couldn't see any dust. “Quit you're damn worryin', Fred. We've got big John Middleton an' Dick Brewer with us. We can handle trouble if it shows up.”

They heard a shout coming from the front of the herd. Dick Brewer was standing in his stirrups. “Wild turkeys, boys! Let's go hunt down our supper!”

Waite grinned. “A roasted turkey dinner does sound mighty nice. Let's see if we can down a couple.”

“Suits hell outta me,” the Kid replied, reaching for his Winchester .44 rifle booted to the front of his saddle.

They took off at a trot toward the tops of a string of low hills thick with brush, following Brewer and Middleton and Charley Bowdre.

The Kid jacked a shell into the firing chamber of his rifle and watched the brushy hilltops.

“Don't see a damn thing,” Waite said, urging his horse to a faster trot.

“Me neither,” the Kid replied, wondering what it was Fred had seen.

Waite pointed down to the horse herd and John Tunstall riding at the front. “You reckon the bossman won't mind if we leave him for a spell?”

“I'd imagine he'd be just as happy to have turkey as the rest of us.”

They came to the top of the first rocky hills and saw John Middleton spurring his horse to a gallop.

“Yonder they go!” Bowdre cried, pointing the barrel of his rifle at a pair of wild turkey hens flying low over the tops of the sagebrush.

“Supper time!” Waite cried, asking his horse for a hard run over the hilltop.

The Kid had forgotten to look back at the horse herd for the moment, intent upon the turkey hunt. Only seconds later he heard a gunshot coming from behind him.

He jerked his sorrel to a sliding halt and turned back to the valley leading to the Penasco. What he saw made his blood run cold.

Four men on horseback were charging toward Tunstall from the rear, and seven more came galloping from the north, from the direction of the river. Rifle barrels and pistols gleamed in the late day sun.

“Hold up, Fred!” the Kid cried. “Look down there! If I ain't mistaken that's Jesse Evans an' that bastard Billy Morton, coming after Mr. Tunstall with drawn guns!”

“Son of a bitch!” Waite cried, swinging his horse around. “What are we gonna do, Kid?”

“We've gotta ride back an' help Mr. Tunstall.”

“But look, Kid! They've got us outnumbered. We'll get our heads shot off.”

The Kid saw riders coming from both directions. “We can't just leave him down there. They'll kill him for sure if we don't do something—”

“This ain't our fight, Kid. I say we stay out of it. Maybe Evans an' his bunch are only after the horses.”

“They wouldn't have brought so many men,” the Kid replied, squinting in the sun's late glare. “They aim to do Mr. Tunstall harm, or they wouldn't have needed to bring along a whole damn army.”

“Let's stay out of it, Kid.”

“I ain't made that way . . .”

Just as he said it, the Kid saw one of the lead riders coming from the north take aim at John Tunstall. The crack of a bullet resounded off the hills.

Tunstall fell off his horse, collapsing in the dirt as most of the horse herd scattered.

“Sweet Jesus!” Waite exclaimed. “They shot Mr. Tunstall down in cold blood!”

“Just like I figured they would,” the Kid snapped, pulling his rifle to his shoulder. “We gotta do somethin' to help him or he's dead, for sure.”

“They'll come after us,” Waite warned.

“Let the sumbitches come,” the Kid said as a strange calm came over him. “I ain't scared of Jesse Evans or Morton or none of them gunslicks.”

Off to the east, John Middleton and Charley Bowdre were watching the affair. Dick Brewer was nowhere in sight.

The Kid saw Tunstall squirm in the dust and rocks, holding his belly. “He's gutshot. He's gonna die anyway, most likely, if we don't get him to a doctor.”

“But there ain't no doctors this side of Mesilla, Kid. How the hell are we gonna get him there? First off, we'll have to shoot our way down there to run them bastards who work for Dolan off.”

“We can do it. There's enough of us.”

Waite looked around. “Where's Dick? He's foreman of this outfit. It's his job to tell us what to do.”

The Kid wagged his head. “It's our job to help Mr. Tunstall, if we ain't too late.”

“We're already too late,” Waite protested, pointing down to John Tunstall's writhing form.

The Kid chewed his bottom lip. “We can't just sit here an' watch 'em do this.”

Waite swallowed hard. “Jesse Evans is one mean hombre, an' he's got plenty of friends with him. I heard stories from up in Denver that Tom Hill is a backshooter.”

“We won't give 'em a shot at our backs, Fred. Let's ride down. Give a signal to the others.”

Waite seemed uncertain. Then he gave a wave to Middleton and raised his rifle.

John Middleton shook his head against it . . . he was a quarter mile away, but the Kid could see it clearly.

“The yellow bastard,” he whispered. “Are the rest of us gonna let Evans an' his boys kill Mr. Tunstall without puttin' up no fight at all?”

“I ain't goin',” Waite said quietly, unable to look the Kid straight in the eye.

“Mr. Tunstall gave us all a job when nobody else would, an' now you say you won't help him?”

“This job don't pay enough.”

Another pistol shot cracked from the shallow valley as one of the horsemen fired down at Tunstall.

“Goddamn!” the Kid said, grinding his teeth. “They're shootin' at a defenseless man.”

One of the Dolan riders stepped down, aiming a pistol at Tunstall's head.

“Look!” said the Kid, his voice like sand. “They same as executed Mr. Tunstall. He ain't even got his gun out.”

“Leave it be, Kid,” Waite warned. “This ain't our fight in the first place . . . it's between Mr. Tunstall an' Murphy an' Dolan an' them boys in Santa Fe.”

“The
hell
it
ain't
our fight! Look at what they's doin' to him . . . leavin' him lyin' on the ground, shooting him like he was a pig at butcherin' time.”

“It's a job for the law, Billy Bonney, an' we sure as hell ain't no lawmen. We'll tell what we seen to Sheriff Brady when we get to Lincoln.”

“Brady's as crooked as the rest of 'em,” the Kid replied savagely. “He's the son of a bitch we oughta shoot.”

“We'd go to prison, for sure.”

“Not if we killed 'em all. Won't be none of the bastards left to testify against us.”

Waite gave the Kid a strange look. “You've got a mean streak in you, Billy, if you mean what you say. You can't just go 'round killin' the law an' everybody else.”

“Maybe,” the Kid answered

Then a stocky cowboy standing over Tunstall did a strange thing. He jerked Tunstall's pistol out of his belt and fired two shots into the air.

The Kid said, a question not really meant for Waite: “What was that all about?”