Song of Eagles (18 page)

Falcon was sitting at his usual table in The Drinking Hole, drinking coffee and reading about the latest exploits of the infamous Billy the Kid in the newspaper.

As he put a lucifer to his cigar, the batwings opened and in walked the most talked about outlaw in the state, the Kid.

Far from sneaking in looking over his shoulder, the Kid strolled in with head held high, like he was on top of the world.

Falcon leaned back, blew a plume of blue smoke at the ceiling, and smiled.
One thing you can always say about the Kid,
he thought,
he has style.

As he made his way to Falcon's table the Kid smiled and waved at the people in the saloon, most of whom greeted him fondly, some calling out, “Go get 'em, Kid, .” One of the Mexican
vaqueros
in the bar yelled, “Give 'em hell,
Chivato.
”

When the Kid got to the table he waved at Pat Garrett behind the bar and said, “How 'bout a sarsaparilla, Pat?”

Pat grinned, shook his head, and fixed the Kid his drink.

The Kid sat down, crossed his legs, leaned back in his chair, and said, “How're things goin', Falcon?”

Falcon laughed, signaling Pat to bring him a whiskey. He guessed a visit from the Kid was reason enough to celebrate.

“I'm doing just fine, Kid. I won't ask how you're doing, since I've been reading about you almost every day in the newspapers.”

The Kid scowled. “Don't believe everything you read, Falcon. They've got me killin' everyone in the county who dies for almost any reason, an' stealin' every cow that wanders off in the brush.”

He grinned again, and Falcon realized that Billy just wasn't the sort to stay angry at anything for very long. His temper was explosive, but it cooled just as fast, and then he'd be the old Kid again, everyone's friend, especially the ladies.

“Hell, I read the other day some woman in Ruidosa claimed I ran up to her and stole her purse.”

“Was there much money in it?” Falcon teased.

“Hell, no, it was near empty,” the Kid teased back, taking a deep drink of his sarsaparilla, then burping as he always did.

Falcon sipped his whiskey and took a drag on his cigar, unsure of how to begin. He had some things on his mind he needed to say, to clear the air between them.

“Kid, there's some things I have to ask you.”

The Kid's face sobered and he leaned forward, his elbows on the table.

“Go ahead, Falcon. I consider you my friend, an' you can ask me anything you want.”

“These stories in the papers, about you killing all those people, are any of them true?”

The Kid thought for a minute, then shook his head.

“Falcon, much as I'd like everybody to believe I'm the fastest, meanest gun in the West, it just ain't so. I ain't killed anybody, far as I know, since the night we had the fight at McSween's.”

Falcon was relieved to hear that. He didn't know why, but he felt a strange kinship to this boy. Perhaps it was because without some lucky breaks in his life, Falcon could be riding the same owl hoot trail Billy was, for much the same reasons.

“Good,” Falcon said. “So, tell me what has really been going on in your life, Kid.”

The Kid waved at Pat for another drink, then pulled a toothpick out of his pocket and began chewing on it as he spoke.

“You heard those bastards burned Mr. McSween's body, then went over to Tunstall's store and tore it up, stole most of the supplies, and all of the money out of his safe?”

Falcon nodded. “Yeah, I heard. Only Peppin's story was they were chasing members of your gang out of there and that you and your friends did all the damage and stole the money.”

“That figures. Peppin never did stand too close to the truth, him and lying being such good friends.”

“What happened after you escaped from McSween's?”

“I rode on over to San Patricio and met up with what remained of the Regulators. They decided that I should kind'a take over leadin', since everybody else was killed or on the run.”

“I heard they called you to testify at a hearing at Fort Stanton about what happened at McSween's.”

The Kid frowned. “Yeah, an' I told 'em just like it was, only Peppin and Colonel Dudley twisted everything around to make it sound like we was in the wrong. The coroner's jury, appointed by Peppin, of course, finally said that McSween, Harvey Morris, Francisco Zamora, and Vincente Romero died while they were resisting arrest by the sheriff's posse with force of arms.”

He chuckled. “Hell, Falcon, those men offered to surrender two or three times, and those bastards led by Peppin and Dudley wouldn't let 'em.”

“The papers said you killed one of Agent Godfroy's clerks over at Blazer's mill after you testified.”

“Another lie,” said the Kid bitterly. “Hell, Falcon, Atananacio Martinez done testified he shot Bernstein in self-defense, but Dolan went around claimin' it was me, so of course Judge Bristol laid that one on me, too.”

Falcon shook his head. “I heard a group of soldiers almost caught you one night, but they said you just disappeared like smoke from a campfire in a storm.”

The Kid threw back his head and laughed. “You want to know what really happened?”

“Sure.”

“I was on the run from the soldiers, who said I killed some Injuns on the Mescalero reservation—which I didn't, by the way—an' a Mexican farmer and his wife let me hole up in their little 'dobe house. It only had the one room, and they was sleepin' on a mattress in one corner and I was layin' down on another mattress in the other corner. When the soldiers came knocking at the door, the Mex and his wife put me betwixt the two mattresses and laid down on top of me. Those stupid soldiers went around the room lookin' but couldn't find me.”

The Kid paused, took another drink of sarsaparilla, and smiled. “Hellfire, Falcon, I 'bout smothered under those mattresses, but I got away again.”

“So, what are you going to do now?”

He shrugged. “Don't have much choice. The Dolan forces have me branded as the worst outlaw in the land, so won't nobody hire me for any real work. Guess I'll just stay with the Regulators and try to somehow avenge Tunstall's and McSween's deaths.”

“What about Jesse Evans and his men?”

The Kid looked up. “What about them? Last I heard Evans was in custody over at Fort Sumner, being held for the murder of Mr. Tunstall.”

Falcon shook his head. “Well, he and his men are out now. With the help of Judge Bristol, Rynerson staged a mock hearing, and he was acquitted. Rynerson let him plead self-defense, and the hand-picked jury bought it.”

The Kid slammed his hand down on the table. “Damn! I swear to you, Falcon, if it's the last thing I ever do I'll see Evans in hell for what he did. Him and the whole Dolan group.”

Falcon leaned forward and put his hand on the Kid's arm. “Kid, take it easy. There's nothing you can do now, it's all over. The law has spoken.”

“Not my law, the law of the gun!” The Kid stood up and put his hand on his Colt. “I'll see you later, Falcon. I got me some men to hunt.”

Without a backward glance, the Kid stormed from the saloon. Falcon sat helplessly watching a good man throw his life away with no chance at all of coming out of this fracas alive.

* * *

Falcon closed and locked the doors of The Drinking Hole at two in the morning, climbed on Diablo, and headed home toward the Ruidosa River under a full moon.

The sky was cloudless and clear, the air crisp and cold, and Falcon was enjoying his ride, until Diablo shook his head and nickered softly.

Pulling back on the reins, Falcon studied the trail ahead of him as Diablo slowed to a walk.
Uh oh,
he thought,
there's company up ahead waiting in that copse of mesquite trees.

Watching closely, Falcon could see the intermittent glow of a cigarette as someone smoked while waiting for him to appear.

He unbuttoned his heavy coat and pulled the sides back, hooking them in his belt so they left his Colts exposed. He loosened the hammer thong on the pistols, then drew a short-barreled, ten gauge express gun from his left hand saddle boot.

Laying the shotgun across his saddle horn, he let Diablo walk up the trail until he was about thirty yards from the trees. By now he could see the fog-breath of several horses among the trees, and dark shapes of the men riding them. He counted four riders.

Falcon pulled Diablo to a halt, and sat there on the trail, silently staring at where the men were hiding, letting them know he saw them and was ready for them to come out.

Finally, after a few minutes, the riders emerged. Jesse Evans came out of the trees, followed by Smokey Johanson, “Turkey Neck” Bill McGraw, and Jack Spears. They were all hard men, and were among those who had ridden with Evans from the first, assisting him in all the rustling and shooting he had been doing over the past year.

As they came toward him, Falcon used the noise their horses made to cover the sound of him earing back the hammers on his shotgun.

“Howdy, gents. What can I do for you?” Falcon asked, as casual as if middle of the night confrontations were an everyday occurrence for him.

“Hello, MacCallister,” Evans said, pulling his horse to a halt ten yards from Falcon.

Evans sat back against the cantle of his saddle, tipped his hat back on his head, and glanced at the moon overhead. “Nice night, ain't it?”

Falcon nodded, his eyes fixed on the men in front of him. “Yes. It's a good night for dying.”

Evans stared at him, his eyes cold as the night air, shining in reflected moonlight. “Who said anything 'bout dyin', MacCallister? We just wanna ask you some questions 'bout Billy the Kid.”

“Yeah,” “Turkey Neck” McGraw growled, “we wanna know where the little bastard's hidin' out. We plan to pay him a visit.”

Falcon pulled gently on Diablo's right rein, moving the bronc a little sideways so the shotgun pointed at the group in front of him.

“I don't know where the Kid is, at the moment. I do know he intends to kill you, Jesse, and all the men who ride with you, for what you did to his friend John Tunstall.”

Evans emitted a harsh laugh. “Is that so?”

Falcon nodded. “Yes. However, I don't intend to let that happen. I'm reserving that pleasure for myself.”

“Why you . . .” Smokey Johanson said, and Falcon saw his hand move toward his pistol.

Without another word, Falcon let the hammer down on the ten gauge, sending a load of 00-buckshot exploding out of the barrel toward Johanson. The molten pellets caught the big Swede in the chest, blowing a hole clean though his body and catapulting him backward off his horse.

As Diablo shied from the sudden noise, Falcon threw the shotgun to his shoulder, fired the other barrel at McGraw, and could see his head disappear in the flash from the barrel.

“God damn!” Spears yelled as his and Evans's horses reared and crow-hopped, trying to get away from the noise and smoke.

Falcon dropped the express gun and grabbed iron as a pistol appeared in Spear's hand and he frantically tried to get his mount under control to get a clear shot at Falcon.

Falcon fired both Peacemakers from the hip, one slug tearing off Spear's right ear as it cut a deep furrow in his scalp, the other bullet entering his left eye, putting out his lights and slamming him to the ground, dead before he hit dirt.

Evans was holding onto his reins with both hands, still trying to get his horse calmed down. After a moment, he managed to still the frightened animal, and sat looking around him at his men, all lying dead on the ground.

“Hell, MacCallister,” he said, his eyes wide and scared, “why'd you do that? We just wanted to talk.”

Falcon put his pistols in the holsters and faced Evans. “Jesse, you been calling the dance around here for some time, riding roughshod over anyone who got in your way. You've killed some good men, men who were doing you no harm.”

Falcon stared into the killer's eyes. “Now, you're going to learn that he who calls the dance has to pay the band. Fill your hands, or die where you sit.”

Evans licked his lips, eyes darting to and fro, looking for some way to escape. Finally, he took a deep breath, and grabbed for his pistol.

Falcon drew and fired before Evans cleared leather, his bullet hitting Evans square in the chest, punching a hole through his breastbone and in his left lung.

Evans grunted and slumped in the saddle, staring at the front of his shirt, where blood, black as coal in the moonlight, pumped out in small squirts.

“Damn,” he muttered, frothy blood on his lips, “you've kilt me.”

Falcon holstered his Colt, pulled Diablo's reins and walked his horse around Evans, breathing noisily as he sat dying in his saddle.

“Like I said, Jesse,” Falcon said as he passed, “It's a good night for dying.”

The Kid was headed up to White Oaks, after being forced to steal a few horses to keep his small group of Regulators fed. Times had been lean lately, and a stolen horse or two meant money in the bank if they were driven over to Tascosa in Texas, where no questions were asked.

Riding with the Kid were Buck Edwards, Dan Cook, Tom O'Folliard, Billy Wilson, and Charley Bowdre. They came upon the whiskey-peddling operation of “Whiskey Jim” Greathouse, and stopped for a rest and to water their horses. Some of the men wanted whiskey, but the Kid didn't partake of strong spirits no matter how festive the occasion.

All day the Kid had been edgy, with the nagging feeling they were being followed.

“You keep lookin' at our backtrail, Kid,” Bowdre said as he dismounted in front of the Greathouse adobe outside of White Oaks.

“Got this feelin' we're bein' followed.”

“Nobody's back there,” O'Folliard said, tying off his horse at the rail.

“We'd have seen their dust,” Wilson offered.

Buck Edwards gazed across the hills. “I been havin' this feelin', too.”

Cook headed for the steps. “I'm thirsty. You boys can argue out here all damn day for all I care, but my throat's sayin' it needs whiskey.”

“Get your whiskey,” the Kid said. “Then we're movin' on to Coyote Springs.”

* * *

As the Kid and the others were making camp at an old sawmill near Coyote Springs, a posse of eight or nine men led by Deputy Sheriff Bill Hudgens suddenly came galloping over a rise with guns drawn.

“Head for cover!” the Kid shouted.

As Wilson swung aboard his horse a bullet struck it in the neck and it collapsed underneath him, bawling with fear and pain as blood poured from its wound.

Gunshots sounded from every direction as the Kid swung up on his mare, only to have the animal shot dead with a bullet through its brain, sending it tumbling to the earth, almost trapping his leg underneath the horse's weight.

Cook and Edwards dove for cover behind the old mill, and the Kid was not far behind.

“They're circlin' us!” Wilson shouted, “an' now we's short by two horses!”

Blasts of gunfire thundered from trees and brush and rocks around the millhouse. Billy Wilson, trapped behind a rock, was the target of most of the gunfire. Bullets kicked up dust and rock chips all around him. So much lead was flying he couldn't raise up to get off a shot of his own.

But as the shooting died down while the posse reloaded, Wilson made his way to the sawmill walls and safety, dodging and darting until a rock and adobe wall protected him from speeding lead.

“Give it up, Kid!” a voice shouted. “We've got you boys trapped!”

“Like hell!” the Kid yelled back, firing his rifle at the voice.

Again the gunshots resumed, both sides wasting lead since there was too much cover for an accurate shot. Burning gunpowder filled everyone's nostrils. The noise from so many rifles and pistols was like the coming of a spring storm.

“How the hell are we gonna get out of here alive?” Wilson asked the Kid.

“Don't worry. We ain't done fightin' yet.”

Edwards blasted away with his Winchester, and a wounded man cried out.

“Atta boy!” Wilson barked, sending a wild shot over the head of a posseman hidden behind a rock pile.

For half an hour the posse and the Kid's men traded bullets back and forth. Then the shooting fell to an occasional pop from either side.

“Maybe they're runnin' low on ammunition,” Bowdre suggested as he reloaded.

“We ain't in the best of shape ourselves in that department,” the Kid said.

By slow degrees the shooting ended. An eerie silence spread all around the mill.

“Wonder what's goin' on?” Edwards said, peering around a corner.

Before the Kid could answer, a voice shouted from the top of a hill. “Come on out and let's talk, Kid! Nobody'll shoot while we talk things over. We've got you surrounded.”

“It's a long way from bein' over!” the Kid yelled back. “We just got our guns limbered up.”

“You gotta listen to reason, Kid! We can starve you out if you don't surrender.”

“We've got plenty to eat. We can start eatin' them dead horses you shot if we run out of beans.”

“To hell with 'em,” Wilson snarled. “Let 'em try to come and get us.”

For several minutes there was silence from the posse, and the Kid guessed they must be talking over their options. All they could do was wait.

Then a voice echoed from a brush pile. “Hey, Kid! It's me, Jimmy Carlyle. Let's you an' me talk, just the two of us without our guns.”

Carlyle was a popular blacksmith from the White Oaks area, and the Kid liked him. He wondered what Carlyle was doing with a posse after him and his men.

“I trust you, Jimmy! ” he cried. “It's the rest of those bastards with you I don't trust. One of 'em could put a bullet in my back.”

“I give you my word,” Carlyle said.

The Kid thought about it a moment. “I ain't comin' out, but I give you my word you can come down here an' we'll talk. Nobody is gonna take a shot at you.”

Another lengthy silence passed.

“I smell a trick,” Edwards said under his breath. “Some of 'em will sneak around behind us while you an' Carlyle have your little talk.”

“Maybe,” the Kid said, wondering.

“We can cover the back pretty good from here,” Wilson said, after looking out a broken rear window. “Don't see how they'd get very close without us seein' 'em.”

“Jim's word will be good,” the Kid promised. “If he'll come down here, then we'll let him come peaceful.”

A moment later, Carlyle yelled, “I'm comin' down, Kid. I got no gun.”

“Come down an' we'll talk,” the Kid answered. “You got my word nobody'll take a shot at you.”

The blacksmith rose up behind a clump of brush with his hands in the air.

“Don't nobody fire a shot,” warned the Kid. “I gave him my word.”

Jimmy Carlyle came walking slowly toward the mill, and it was easy to see he didn't have a gun.

“So far, so good,” Wilson whispered, glancing over his left shoulder at the back of the building.

Carlyle walked bravely up to the door and the Kid lowered his rifle when the blacksmith walked inside. His face was covered with sweat.

“Tell me what you've got to say,” the Kid began. “I know it was Sheriff Hudgens who sent you down here to try an' talk us into givin' up.”

“It's the only way, Kid. We've got men all around this ole' place, an' I damn sure don't wanna see you or any of these boys killed.”

“We didn't come lookin' for no trouble,” Wilson said. “We camped here real peaceful.”

“But the law has got warrants for your arrest,” Carlyle argued weakly. “The sheriff says we've got a duty to bring you boys in.”

“Tell the sheriff he can go to hell,” the Kid snapped.

The blacksmith eyed Wilson's whiskey jug. “I sure could use a swallow or two of that corn squeeze. This has been real hard on my nerves.”

“Give him a drink,” the Kid ordered.

Wilson handed him the jug. Carlyle took several long swallows and then sleeved his lips dry.

“What the hell is takin' so long?” a voice shouted from one hilltop.

Carlyle turned back to the open doorway. “We're talkin' things over. Wait a damn minute!”

“Have another drink,” Wilson offered.

“An' tell 'em we ain't done talkin' yet,” the Kid added, one eye on a front window.

“We ain'twaitin' much longer,” anothervoice cried from a juniper tree. “Five minutes more an' we're all gonna start shootin'.”

Fear twisted Carlyle's face. He shouted back up the hill, “You boys promised wouldn't be no shootin' while I was down here talkin' to the Kid.”

“Lyin' bastards,” Edwards said between tightly clenched teeth, bringing his rifle up to his shoulder.

“Don't shoot!” the blacksmith said to Edwards. “Not now. I'll go back up an' talk to the sheriff about this here situation an' see if he'll listen.”

“He'll listen to a goddamn gun goin' off if he ain't real careful,” Edwards replied.

“No shootin',” the Kid said. “I gave my word on it, and a man's word is sometimes all he's got.”

Carlyle edged farther out the door. “Let me talk to Hudgens an' I'll come back down. Maybe he'll let some of you ride off, but I can't promise nothin'. I know he's gonna want to put irons on the Kid here.”

“Nobody's puttin' irons on me,” the Kid remarked.

“I'll tell the sheriff what you said,” Carlyle replied as he walked out on the porch.

From somewhere on a hillside, a lone gunshot cracked. No one could be sure exactly where it came from, but with the sound of a gun all of the Kid's men opened fire. And from the hills, the possemen started shooting.

Jimmy Carlyle took off in a lumbering run for the safety of some nearby bushes. He made it roughly thirty yards unharmed, then the back of his sweat-stained shirt erupted in a shower of blood.

Carlyle staggered a few steps more, calling out for the men from White Oak to stop firing. Then another slug shattered his right knee, and he went down on his face in the dirt.

“Damn!” the Kid bellowed. “I gave my word nothing would happen to Jimmy . . .”

Carlyle began to crawl feebly toward the bushes, leaving a red smear in his wake. Blood squirted from his back, covering his pants and the ground around him.

“Makes me sick,” Bowdre said between blasts of rifle and pistol fire. “He's gotta be hurtin' somethin' awful, an' he sure as hell wasn't no bad man.”

The Kid was furious. “That does it, boys!” he bellowed out a window. “We ain't leaving this place until we've killed every last one of you rotten sons of bitches!”

Sometime during the night, after Carlyle died, the Kid's message must have struck home. The surviving possemen quietly crept back to their horses and cleared out, leaving the Kid and his followers a clear pathway to ride in whatever direction they wanted.