Song of Eagles (13 page)

On February twenty-second, Falcon stood in a drizzle of rain mixed with sleet and watched six men lower John Tunstall's body into his grave. He shivered, not so much from the cold, but from the realization that a full scale war was about to begin.

Brady had released Martinez after holding him for a few hours, but, two days later, the Kid and Waite were still in jail.

The soldiers that Dolan had gotten Captain Purington to send from Fort Stanton were now gone, and Lincoln resembled an armed camp, with gunfighters from both sides prowling the streets, just waiting for someone to start the shooting.

Some time after the funeral, Bob Widenmann arrived from Fort Stanton with a small detachment of troops, and Falcon accompanied them to the jail.

With the soldiers backing his play, Falcon stepped into the jail and demanded that Brady release the Kid and Waite.

Brady glanced out the window, saw the troops on their mounts, and unlocked the iron doors.

The Kid walked slowly over to get his pistol off a hook on the wall and strap it on. Then he turned toward Brady and stood there, an insolent grin on his face but his eyes cold as the February ice outside.

“Make your will, Brady.”

Brady's face paled. “Is that a threat?”

The Kid turned to leave. “Nope. It's a promise.”

Outside, the Kid paused and threw his head back and took a deep breath. “Jesus, it's good to be able to breathe free air again.”

He looked at Falcon and stuck out his hand. “I owe you for gettin' me out of jail, Falcon.”

Falcon shook his hand. “That's all right, Kid.”

Bob Widenmann tipped his hat and wheeled his horse around, leading the soldiers toward Tunstall's store.

Falcon and the Kid followed Widenmann into the store, finding five men hired by Brady guarding it—George Peppin, Jim Longwell, John Long, Charley Martin, and a black ex-trooper named Clark.

Widenmann disarmed them, and with the soldiers to back his play he marched them over to the jail and forced Brady to arrest them for trespassing.

Brady kept the men overnight and then released them, vowing to kill McSween for forcing his hand in the matter.

That night the Kid invited Falcon to accompany him to a meeting called by Dick Brewer in Tunstall's store.

The room was filled with former Tunstall employees, including Waite, Middleton, a stock detective from the Hunters and Evans company named Frank Macnab, and others such as Doc Scurlock, Charlie Bowdre, Henry Brown, Sam Smith, and Jim French.

Brewer led the meeting.

After a fiery speech decrying the lawlessness of Dolan and his “hirelings” Brady and Evans, Brewer said, “Men, I want you all to join me in forming a group to right the wrongs that have been done. I propose we call ourselves Regulators, and that we clean up the town of Lincoln.”

The men cheered and raised their pistols in the air, vowing to get Dolan and Brady and Evans for what they had done to their friend, John Tunstall.

Once the excitement died down, Falcon pulled the Kid aside. He wanted to try once more to get him to listen to reason, to reconsider what he was doing.

“Kid, this group you're set on joining is nothing more than a bunch of vigilantes, and being a vigilante is just one short step from the owl hoot trail.”

The Kid shook his head stubbornly. “We're not vigilantes, Falcon, we're Regulators. And we're gonna regulate Dolan and Evans and his gang out of Lincoln.”

“Whatever you call yourselves, Kid, doesn't matter. If you ride with these men it's going to set you on a course that can only lead to your death, either from the Dolan men, or from the law later.”

“You got it wrong, Falcon. All of us Regulators swore an oath to remain loyal to each other no matter what happens, and we all promised our purpose was to arrest, not to execute, the wrongdoers and to bring them to Lincoln, where they will be held for trial.”

Falcon shook his head. “Kid, no matter what they say, these men are out for blood. I count you as a friend, and I hope you'll reconsider riding with them.”

“They're my friends, too, Falcon, and I swore an oath of allegiance.” He looked sad. “I hate to go against you, Falcon, but I've given my word, and I intend to keep it.”

Falcon sighed. “Then so be it, Kid.” He stuck out his hand. “Good luck.”

The Kid took it in a firm grip. “What we're doin' is right, Falcon. Later on, maybe you'll see that.”

* * *

A couple of days later Falcon was in The Drinking Hole when an excited Kid burst through the batwings.

“Hey, Falcon! Some of the Evans gang has been sighted over near the Pecos, camped out. The Regulators are goin' after 'em. You wanna come?”

Falcon considered it. He had no desire to align himself with a vigilante group, favoring a more personal approach to seeking vengeance, but he could see that the Kid was heading down the wrong path. If he didn't learn to corral his temper, he was a sure candidate for the owl hoot trail, with a hangman's noose waiting for him at its end.

He decided he'd give one last try at helping his friend stay out of trouble.

“Sure, Kid. Give me five minutes to throw a saddle on Diablo and I'll ride along.”

He hesitated. “But only if you're riding out there to arrest those men, not gun them down without giving them a chance to surrender.”

The Kid waved a dismissive hand. “Don't worry so much, Falcon. Everything will be on the up and up.”

Falcon saddled his mount and joined the group of seven men. Dick Brewer seemed to have assumed the role of leader of the Regulators, which Falcon thought appropriate. He had been foreman of Tunstall's Rio Feliz Ranch, and was used to giving these men orders.

After a few hours ride, the Regulators crested a small hill and could see a campfire trailing a lazy plume of smoke into the crisp, clear air. There could be seen several men still lying under blankets near the fire, while a number of others were hunched over with plates on their laps and coffee mugs on the ground next to them. The horses were tied nearby to a rope strung between two cottonwood trees near the banks of the slowly moving Pecos River.

Brewer pulled a Winchester carbine from his saddle boot and jacked a shell into the chamber, causing several of the Regulators to do the same.

When he put the rifle to his shoulder and took aim, Falcon nudged Diablo with his knees and pulled up next to Brewer.

“Hold on, Dick,” Falcon said loudly enough for the others to hear. “I understood you men were acting as county deputies, and were going to give those men down there a chance to surrender.”

Brewer lowered the gun, glaring at Falcon.

“Those bastards didn't give John Tunstall a chance to surrender, so why should we?”

“Because you're wearing that badge on your chest. That makes you stand for something besides vengeance. If you want to shoot a sleeping man down in cold blood, fine. But take that badge off and do it as Dick Brewer, private citizen, not a county deputy.”

Brewer pursed his lips, thinking on it for a moment.

“You're right, Falcon. In fact, I hope they do surrender, 'cause sittin' in jail waitin' for a necktie party is worse on 'em than being shot down sudden like.”

Falcon nodded. “And you won't have to be looking over your shoulder for the rest of your life for a star packer trailing you, either.”

Brewer twisted in his saddle and said to his men, “Load 'em up six and six boys. We're goin' in there and call the dance.”

The men drew their weapons and Brewer led them toward the camp at a slow trot. When they were within a hundred yards, he halted the column and shouted, “Yo, the camp!”

Falcon could see a sudden flurry of activity near the fire, like an ant bed with a stick stuck in it. Several of the men bolted for their horses, while a couple of others rolled behind their saddles, still on the ground, and aimed rifles over them.

“Evans!” Brewer shouted again, “I'm County Deputy Dick Brewer, and I'm givin' you one chance to surrender and come out with your hands up!”

His offer was met with a volley of rifle fire, one of the bullets striking Henry Brown in the left shoulder and throwing him out of his saddle.

The Kid, his eyes wild with excitement, gave a rebel yell and put the spurs to his sorrel, leaning over the bronc's neck and firing his pistol as he charged toward the camp.

“Damn,” Falcon muttered to himself. Filling his hands with iron, he put Diablo's reins in his teeth and charged after the Kid, firing with both hands at the shooting outlaws.

As the Regulators rode down on them, one of the gang raised up on his knees behind his saddle, his Henry repeating rifle to his shoulder, and began to fire at the Kid.

The Kid's Colt misfired when he was twenty-five yards from the man, who grinned and took careful aim, planning to put one in the Kid's face.

Falcon fired twice, once with each hand, one bullet taking the man in the stomach, doubling him over. The second slug entered the top of his bowed head, exploding his brain in a fine red mist and dropping him dead as a stone.

The Kid reined to a halt and began to punch out his empties, giving Falcon a nod and wink of thanks as he reloaded.

Dick Brewer galloped by the Kid and Falcon toward where the rest of the gang were jumping into their saddles, firing his carbine as fast as he could work the lever.

One of the men whirled his horse just as Brewer's .4440 slug hit his mount in the neck. The horse stumbled, throwing its rider to the ground, where Brewer quickly drew down on him.

“I give up! Don't shoot!” the man screamed, holding both hands high, face contorted with fear, covered with sweat.

Brewer aimed the carbine, a nasty grin on his face, when Falcon rode between the two men.

“Hold on, Dick. He's surrendering,” Falcon said.

Brewer lowered his carbine and leaned to the side to spit in the dust. “Somebody put a rope on this bastard,” he said, and reined his mount around to give chase to the other fleeing outlaws.

Charley Bowdre fired a ten gauge, sawed-off express gun at a man riding by, who was shooting at him over his horse's head with a pistol.

The 00-buckshot loads tore the man's shoulder and half his face off, flinging him off the bronc to lie crumpled in a pool of his own blood, moaning for a moment until he died.

The last of the outlaws to get to his horse spurred the animal and galloped off toward the Pecos, leaning low over his mount's neck. Suddenly, his saddle, which he hadn't had time to properly tighten, came loose, and he spilled in the mud and reeds at the edge of the water.

John Middleton was close behind and aimed his rifle at the mud-splattered gang member, saying, “Grab some sky, or I'll drill you through and through!”

The man slowly got to his feet, limping on his left leg and raising his hands, his head bowed in defeat.

When the dust and gunsmoke finally cleared, the Regulators had two prisoners, William Buck Morton and Frank Baker, and had killed three of the Evans gang members, Charley “Toothpick” Jameson, Billy “Scarface” Robinson, and “Clubfoot” Jack McGee.

The rest of the men, probably including Jesse Evans himself, had managed to escape.

The Regulators gathered around the campfire, some drinking whiskey from pint bottles, others pouring themselves coffee from the outlaws' own pot on the fire.

Morton and Baker were tied back-to-back, sitting under a cottonwood tree a short distance from the campfire.

The Kid walked up to Brewer, his face angry and flushed.

“Dick, we've got two of 'em, and they are the worst of the lot.” He pointed his Colt at the prisoners, “Buck Morton over there is the man I saw shoot John and then smash his face with a rifle butt. Let's avenge John Tunstall by killin' 'em right now!”

Brewer thought on it for a moment. Then, with a glance at Falcon, who stood drinking coffee and smoking a cigar nearby, he shook his head.

“No, Kid. I think it'll be better if we take the sons of bitches into Lincoln and let 'em face a necktie party. That'll send a message to the others that we're gonna get them, too, sooner or later.”

Charley Bowdre looked at the sky. “It's gettin' late, Dick. I don't think we can make Lincoln 'fore nightfall, an' I don't want to be out here with these galoots tonight in case Evans and his men decide to come back.”

Falcon spoke up. “If we head a little due east, we could stop the night at Chisum's South Spring Ranch. Evans wouldn't dare try to attack us there.”

Brewer nodded. “Falcon's right, boys. Let's saddle up and head east.”

* * *

The next morning, after staying the night at Chisum's ranch, the Regulators saddled up and prepared to leave for Lincoln.

As they got the prisoners ready, one of Chisum's hands came galloping up to them, his horse lathered and blowing hard.

“Mr. Brewer, I just got in from Lincoln. Word there is Jimmy Dolan has got back from Mesilla and is organizing a bunch of men into a posse. He plans to take your prisoners and let 'em go, an' he says he's gonna kill any of you that try to stop him.”

Falcon walked over to Brewer. “Dick, why don't you men take the round about way back to Lincoln, through Blackwater Canyon, over near Agua Negra, and I'll take the direct route. If I find out Dolan does have a posse I'll ride out and warn you, and you can take the prisoners to Roswell instead.”

Brewer nodded.

“That's a right sound plan, Falcon. Much obliged.”

He stepped up on his horse. “Come on, boys, we're headin' home the long way, to give Falcon a chance to warn us about what Dolan and his crew are up to.”