Song of Eagles (16 page)

“We're mighty obliged, Falcon,” the Kid said, glad he could still call Falcon his friend, and hoping there might be some way to convince this tall gunman to stay in Lincoln County for a spell. Having a man like him on their side might make one hell of a difference.

After a couple of weeks, the Kid and French recovered from their wounds enough to ride toward San Patricio to meet up with Dick Brewer and the other Regulators, who were camped in the region.

On the way, the Kid met a young man named Tom O'Folliard, and the two became instant friends. O'Folliard was of the same age as the Kid. He had drifted into New Mexico from Uvalde, Texas. The Kid persuaded him to take a hand in the war against the Dolan forces, to become a Regulator.

When they met up with Brewer, the Kid found out he was plenty pissed-off about the killing of Brady, thinking it to have been a dumb move on their part.

“Kid, up until then we had the people of Lincoln on our side,” he said over a campfire in the hills above San Patricio. “Now, a lot of the citizens think we're no more than outlaws, worse even than Dolan's men, who have been robbin' 'em blind for years.”

He stopped talking long enough to drink his coffee, then turned his gaze back on the Kid. “Some of 'em are even callin' you a mad dog killer, a crazy man who shoots first and asks questions later.”

The Kid stuck out his chin, too stubborn to admit Brewer was right in his assessment of their actions.

“Well, Dick, that kind of reputation don't do a man no harm, especially when he's got a pack of hound dogs on his trail. Might make 'em think twice 'bout tanglin' with him.”

Brewer nodded, “ 'Course, even though what you done was stupid, what Dolan's doin' is even worse. I just can't believe he's put a two hundred dollar reward on any Regulator arrested or killed. Hell, that's more money than most punchers earn in a year. We're gonna have every hardscrabble cowpoke in the county lookin' to earn some of that easy money.”

The Kid's lips grew tight. “Then it's up to us to not make the money so easy to get.”

Brewer pointed over his shoulder to two men that the Kid didn't know sitting by the fire.

“Kid, I want you to meet Frank and George Coe. They joined up when they heard about Dolan taking Tunstall's cattle from the Rio Feliz up to San Nicolas spring. He plans to sell 'em to the government to feed the Injuns, an' keep the money for himself.”

The Kid shook his head. “That's what started this whole mess in the first place, Dolan stealing Tunstall's and Chisum's beeves.”

“Yeah, and the Coes have agreed to help us get them cattle back to where they belong.” He paused and nodded at Tom, sitting next to the Kid.

“Who's that you got with you?”

The Kid inclined his head at Tom. “This here's Tom O'Folliard. He agreed to ride with us. He wants to be a Regulator, too.”

Brewer shook his head, grinning ruefully. “Can't say as I understand why anybody would want to join up in this fracas, but welcome, Tom O'Folliard. Glad to have any man who knows how to use a six-killer. We're gonna need all the help we can got to make it out of this alive.”

Brewer stood up, poured the remainder of his coffee on the fire, and said, “Mount up, boys. We got some distance to cover to get Mr. Tunstall's cattle back to his ranch.”

After riding all day without stopping to take a proper nooning, the men were much relieved to crest a hill and see Blazer's Mill in the distance.

“What's that place?” the Kid asked Brewer.

“That's Blazer's Mill. Old Doc Blazer leases it to the Mescalero Indian Agency,” Brewer answered. “The agent's wife, Mrs. Godfroy, is known to serve a pretty mean dinner to passersby, an' my stomach's tellin' me it's time we took some food.”

The Regulators rode down the hill at a gallop, whooping and hollering at the chance to get out of the saddle and put on a feedbag.

Once they had seen to their horses, the men were shown into a back area of the building, set up as a dining hall, with several long tables arranged along the walls.

Brewer told Mrs. Godfroy, “Bring us all the food you got, an keep it comin' 'til we're done.”

“I've got a whole pig and half a calf on the fire out back. You think that'll be enough for you boys?”

The Kid laughed. “Hell, that's enough for me. The others can fend for themselves.”

* * *

“Buckshot Roberts” wanted out of the New Mexico Territory, and to that end he had sold his tiny holdings above the Ruidoso River, meaning to leave the country as soon as he was paid for his property. The buyer was from back east, and a check for Roberts' land was in the hands of the mail service.

Riding toward Dr. Joseph Blazer's mills—a sawmill and a gristmill, he kept his favorite mule at a slow lope, hoping a check for payment had arrived at Blazers with the mail wagon, even though mail service in this part of the territory was notoriously unreliable.

But as Roberts topped a rise above the mills, he saw a collection of horses in the corrals out back. Aware of the troubles between the so-called Regulators and Dolan's men, he felt sure the horses belonged to one faction or the other. There could be trouble if Blazer had Regulators as visitors, since he'd been a friend to Billy Matthews and Jimmy Dolan after he'd come to the New Mexico Territory from Texas last year, not without good reason, following a shoot-out with a group of Texas Rangers in Goliad County.

“Hellfire,” Roberts growled, urging his mule toward the mills, anyway. He wasn't going to let anything stand in the way of his way getting the money he was owed. This wasn't his fight, and it was better to pull stakes now, before things went any further. After the killing of Lincoln County Sheriff William Brady, it seemed like everyone was taking a side. All talk lately had been about how the fight would escalate and it would be hard to remain neutral in something like this, a cattle war pitting powerful men like Catron in Santa Fe and his boys, Lawrence Murphy and Jimmy Dolan, against a man like John Chisum and small ranchers.
It could get a man killed,
he thought. The time was at hand to go elsewhere, before he became embroiled in the controversy and was asked to employ his guns. Of course, he thought, if worst came to worst and he had to kill a few of them Regulators, the two hundred dollars a man would come in mighty handy.

As he rode closer to the two story house where Dr. Blazer practiced dentistry, he saw George Coe and Dick Brewer come out on the porch.

“Trouble,” Roberts grunted, taking the hammer thong off his Colt .44, then drawing his Winchester from its saddle boot. He would show these Regulators he wasn't a man to be trifled with, even though an old shotgun wound left so many iron pellets in his left arm he was unable to raise it above his shoulder. He could still shoot.

“Hold it right there, Buckshot!” shouted George Coe, one of the latest area ranchers to join sides with the Regulators. “If you aim to come any closer, you'll have to leave them guns and walk the rest of the way.”

“Like hell!” “Buckshot” snapped. “Don't no son of a bitch tell me when I can carry a gun!”

Charley Bowdre and Billy Bonney, the one everyone called the Kid, came out to flank Brewer and Coe. However, this did nothing to discourage Roberts. “You boys back out of the damn way,” he cried, lifting the muzzle of his rifle. “I come to get my mail, an' by God ain't nobody gonna stop me. I'll kill the first bastard who reaches for a gun!”

It was as if Bowdre were intent upon obliging him. Bowdre's pistol came out.

Roberts fired his Winchester from the hip, sending a slug into Bowdre's belly, although it struck his belt buckle and ricocheted off into George Coe's hand, sending the gun he was holding spinning into the dirt.

In the same instant, Roberts jumped off his mule and ran for a corner of the building.

The Kid and Brewer jerked their guns and started firing at him. Every shot was a miss until he was safely behind the adobe wall.

“You boys lookin' for a fight?” he bellowed. “Then I'll damn sure give you one!”

Roberts swung around the corner, blasting his rifle into the men on Blazer's front porch while they were scattering to find cover. His first shot missed the Kid by inches.

Brewer ducked inside the doorway and peered around the doorframe ... it would prove to be a fatal mistake.

Roberts fired. His rifle slug hit Dick Brewer above the eye and came out the back of his head, rupturing his skull. Blood and brains and a plug of his black hair went flying all over the porch.

Brewer slumped to the boards, dead before he landed, his head a pulpy mass of brain tissue and shattered bone.

“You boys want some more?” Roberts cried, jacking another shell into his rifle.

He got an answer, a .44 bullet blasting from the Kid's gun where he was hidden behind the far corner of the house. The slug struck adobe, bouncing off harmlessly, making a singing sound as it flew away.

Roberts leaned out again and fired. The Kid ducked back to safety, out of the line of fire.

Charley Bowdre poked his head around a rear corner of the house. “Throw it down, Buckshot, or I'm gonna kill you!” he demanded.

Roberts whirled for a shot at Bowdre. Bowdre fired first. A red-hot pain raced through Roberts' belly, and he staggered back from the force of impact, mortally wounded. While he'd tasted lead before, he never felt pain before like this from the hole in his gut.

An open window into a bedroom of Dr. Blazer's house gave Roberts the only chance he had. Almost blinded by pain, he made a feeble jump through the window, landing on the floor on his chest with a painful grunt.

He rolled over, attempting to reload his rifle, certain that more Regulators would be coming for him. When the Winchester's cartridge tube was fully loaded, Roberts came unsteadily to his feet and crept over to a bed, pulling the mattress off to serve as a shield from stray bullets when they rushed him.

Leaning back against the bedroom wall, half hidden behind a thick mattress, he waited, trying to stem the flow of blood pouring from his belly wound.

“I'm gutshot,” he groaned quietly. He knew few men could survive a belly wound like his, but he vowed silently to take a few Regulators with him when he went. He'd already downed their leader, Dick Brewer. Maybe he could get a few more.

“Come out with your hands empty!”

Roberts did not recognize the voice.

“We got you surrounded!” another said. “You ain't gonna get out alive 'less you toss out them guns.”

“To hell with you!” he shouted back. “Come an' get me, if you got the nerve.”

A silence followed.

“We got your mule, Buckshot. You'll never get out of here! Give it up now!”

“Ain't my way of doin' things!” he answered. “You boys come for me. I'll take you with me to a grave!”

“You're bein' stupid, Buckshot. There's ten of us, an' just one of you!”

His stomach was killing him. Blood was pooling on the floor all around him.

“Never was one to worry bout the odds against me!” he said after placing a hand over his belly. “I can kill a bunch of you if you try an' rush me.”

Another longer silence.

“We'll wait you out, you ole' bastard. After you bleed for a few hours, you won't be so damn disagreeable.”

“Maybe,” he answered, softer, feeling his head reel with the pains shooting through him. “Only way you're gonna find out is to rush me.”

“Stop bein' a damn fool.”

“Always was a bit of a fool,” Roberts replied, taking his hand off the hole in his abdomen when he felt it grow wet with blood.

“You aim to die?” another voice asked from the back of the house.

“If I have to. You boys callin' yourselves Regulators ain't got me killed just yet.”

A small man named John Ryan, a part-time storekeeper at the Murphy and Dolan store, was a friend of Roberts. He offered to take a white flag of truce close enough to the house for Roberts to see him, an offer Roberts heard through the open window.

Ryan took a handkerchief and came around one side of a barn near the sawmill.

“Hey Buckshot!” he shouted. “Dr. Appel from Fort Stanton is on the way here. I know you got a bullet in you. Stop shootin' long enough fer him to look at yer wound.”

“Don't need no damn help from some army doctor,” Roberts shouted back. “I'm killin' any son of a bitch who gets close to this window or the door.”

“You gotta listen to me, Buckshot. These boys ain't gonna rush you. You done killed Dick Brewer. They ain't got the nerve to rush you.”

“To hell with every last one of 'em. All I wanted was a letter addressed to me from Saint Louis.”

The pain in Roberts' abdomen was worsening, and he feared he would lose consciousness. He moved a bit closer to the window frame and looked out.

Men with rifles were hidden all around Dr. Blazer's house. He could see the glint of their rifle barrels in the late day sun.

“Don't do this no more, Buckshot,” Ryan pleaded. “Let the sawbones have a look at you.”

“I'm gutshot, John.”

“Maybe the army doc can help you, anyhow.”

“Nobody lives through a belly wound. I'm gonna die, but I damn sure aim to take some of them Regulators with me when I have to go.”

“That don't make no sense,” Ryan argued. “What did Tunstall or these Regulators ever do to you?”

Blood came in shorter, thicker bursts from the hole in his gut, and he felt himself growing weaker he could smell the acrid scent of his body wastes leaking from his ruptured bowels onto the floor.

“Got nothin' to do with it. I ain't lettin' 'em take me.”

“You gotta be sensible. No reason for you to lay there an' bleed to death.”