Song of Eagles (19 page)

When Pat Garrett approached him, Falcon was raking in his winnings at the end of a night playing stud poker.

“Can I have a word, boss?”

“Sure Pat, pull up a seat and let's talk.”

“I'm giving my notice, Falcon. I've decided to run for sheriff of Lincoln County.”

“Oh?” Falcon said, surprised.

“Yeah. George Kimball's up for reelection, but I don't think he can win. No one around here thinks he's got the
cojones
to kill Billy the Kid.”

Falcon leaned back in his chair, eyebrows raised. “And you think you can? For the sake of a job, you'd be willing to hunt down and kill the Kid, who you've always counted as a friend?”

Garrett poured himself a glass of whiskey from the bottle on the table. “I know how that sounds, Falcon, but the Kid's changed. He's runnin' around the county, rustling beeves and killin' people every day. It's about time somebody put a stop to it.”

Falcon stared at Garrett. “Pat, you and I both know the only men the Kid has killed have been the one's trying to kill him.” He shrugged. “As for the rustling, it's the only way he can eat, since he can't find honest work with the warrants out on him.”

Garrett stuck out his jaw. “That don't matter none, Falcon. I plan to campaign on the promise to bring the Kid in, dead or alive.”

“Do you have the backing of either party, Pat?”

Garrett nodded. “Falcon, I understand the power structure of New Mexico. The future rests with Captain Lea, John Chisum, T.B. Catron, Jimmy Dolan, Judge Bristol, and Colonel Rynerson. These men have the wealth and influence to manipulate the power around the state. They have all agreed to support me, if I promise to bring the Kid in.”

Falcon smiled, shaking his head. “You're getting in bed with some strange partners, Pat. Personally, with the exception of John Chisum, I wouldn't bother to spit on these men if they were on fire.”

Garrett dropped his gaze. Falcon stood up. “Then good luck to you, Pat. I won't vote for you, but I wish you well.”

* * *

After Garrett won election as sheriff, his backers wanted him to begin the manhunt for the Kid immediately and not to wait until he was to take office in several months. So, they pressured Sheriff Kimball to appoint Garrett Deputy Sheriff, in hopes he could find and arrest, or kill, the Kid as soon as possible. They also pressured the governor to have him appointed deputy U.S. Marshal, to give him authority to pursue the Kid outside Lincoln County.

Throughout the summer and fall Garrett and his deputies, along with dozens of citizen posses, searched for the Kid and his Regulators. Governor Lew Wallace upped the reward to five hundred dollars for the Kid, dead or alive.

Falcon was getting bored with the area and its people. Like the Kid, he prized loyalty over all things. He resented the way the citizens who had once called the Kid their friend and Dolan their enemy now switched sides as Dolan accumulated more and more power.

Falcon also became disillusioned with his father's old friend, John Chisum. Chisum refused to help the Kid with money and backing when he needed it, and he sided with Dolan and called for the Kid's arrest. Falcon knew this was just a ploy by Chisum, who was hoping to get out of paying taxes on the huge stretches of land he owned by becoming buddies with the Dolan faction.

It was about eight o'clock in the evening and The Drinking Hole was almost empty. Most of the usual customers were home having supper and wouldn't start their carousing until later.

Falcon was playing solitaire, drinking coffee, and smoking a cigar when the batwings opened and in walked Jimmy Dolan, John Chisum, Johnny Albright, and Louis Longacre.

The four men took a corner table, ordering a bottle of Falcon's best whiskey from Roy, who was once again full-time bartender.

Falcon took a drag on his stogie, tipped smoke from his nostrils, and wondered how men of such diverse characters and personalities could possibly manage to get along, let alone do business with one another.

After a moment, Chisum looked up and noticed Falcon staring at him. He smiled, and waved.

“Hey, Falcon, come on over and have a drink,” he called, his face already flushed and red from the amount of whiskey he'd been drinking.

Falcon got up and strolled over to the table.

“Howdy, John.” He looked at Albright, “Hello, Johnny.”

Albright, also pretty far along in his cups, smiled drunkenly and tipped his hat.

Louis Longacre raised his glass and smiled. “Good evening, Falcon.”

Falcon glanced at him. “Everyone says bankers will do business with the devil himself if the money's right,” Falcon said, cutting his eyes at Jimmy Dolan, “I guess that includes skunks, too, Louis.”

Longacre's face grew flushed and he scowled, “You got no right to talk to me like that, MacCallister.”

“Yeah, Falcon,” Chisum blustered, “we're just here having a drink. No harm in that, is there?”

Falcon stared down at him. “John, my father always said you were so mean and tight with a dollar as to be a skinflint. He never said you were a man who would turn his back on his friends if there was money involved. I guess he didn't know you as well as he thought he did.”

Chisum opened his mouth to reply, thought better of it, and looked back down at the table, holding his whiskey glass in both hands, shaking his head.

Dolan narrowed his eyes, “You weren't referring to me when you used the word skunk, were you MacCallister?”

Falcon stared at him. “Yes, Dolan, I was, though I could think of lots of other words—like scoundrel, back-shooter, and all around bastard—that would apply equally well.”

Falcon turned around and started to walk off. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Dolan reach under his coat and pull out a short-barreled Smith and Wesson .38.

He whirled around, but Dolan had the drop on him.

Over at the bar, Roy leaned forward and put his hand on the double-barreled American Arms twelve gauge shotgun, but he was too late. Dolan had his pistol pointed at Falcon's head.

Dolan got up and walked around the table to stand behind Falcon, his gun at Falcon's back.

“Nobody calls me names and gets away with it, not even you, MacCallister. Let's take a walk outside, and I'll see if I can't make you eat them words.”

The customers in the saloon jumped up from their tables and moved to the far side of the room, out of the line of fire in case there was gunplay, leaving Falcon and Dolan alone in the middle of the room.

“Do you mind if I turn around and face you?” Falcon asked, his hands at his sides.

“Just do it slow and careful like,” Dolan said, “I'd hate to shoot you in here and spill your blood all over the floor.”

As Falcon turned, his hand reached under his belt buckle and he drew his belly gun, bringing it up and placing the barrel against the underside of Dolan's chin.

“What's that?” Dolan asked, sweat breaking out on his forehead in spite of the coolness of the room.

Falcon grinned with his lips, but his eyes remained as cold as a rattler's just before it strikes.

“It's a .44 caliber derringer, Jimmy, and both barrels are loaded and cocked. One twitch of my finger and your brains will be all over the ceiling.”

“But . . . but . . . I got a gun at your gut.”

Falcon's expression didn't change. “I've never been afraid of dying, Dolan, and if I can take a snake like you with me, I'd almost consider it a pleasure.”

Dolan's hand began to quiver, then shake. He slowly let the hammer down on his Smith and Wesson and held it out for Falcon to take.

“All right, here's my gun. Now lower yours, and we can call it even,” Dolan said, sweat pouring off his face to run down his cheeks and drip onto his silk shirt.

As Falcon took his pistol, Roy grabbed the shotgun and aimed it over the bar, cocking both barrels with a loud metallic click.

“All right, gents,” he called, “everybody settle down. Its Falcon's play now.”

Falcon threw Dolan's pistol over in a far corner and put his derringer back behind his belt buckle.

“Since you don't like being called names, why don't you do something about it, low life?”

Dolan looked around at the men at his table. “Don't just stand there, do something!” he yelled.

Chisum shook his head, a slight smile curling the corners of his lips. “You called the play, Jimmy. We're out of it.”

“Are you going to fight like a man, or are you scared now that you don't have a gun in your hand?” Falcon asked.

“I'm . . . I'm not one for fisticuffs,” Dolan stammered.

Falcon reached out and slapped Dolan's face with his open palm. “Come on, Dolan. I'm calling you out. Fists, knives, guns, it doesn't matter to me. It's your choice.”

“I apologize for pulling a gun on you, MacCallister. Now, is that enough?”

Falcon slapped him again, snapping his head around and turning the side of his face a bright red.

“Come on, coward. You're awfully brave when you've got snakes like Jesse Evans to do your fighting for you. What are you going to do now that Evans is dead and buried?”

Dolan's eyes narrowed. “It was you that killed Jesse and his men, wasn't it?”

Falcon grinned. “It's said in the west, a man's got to saddle his own horse and kill his own snakes.” He shrugged. “I just follow the rules.”

He slapped Dolan again, making Chisum and the others wince at the humiliation he was inflicting on the businessman.

Finally, Dolan had enough. He screamed, “You bastard!” and swung his fist at Falcon's head.

Falcon leaned to the side, letting the punch slip harmlessly by, and buried his right hand up to the wrist in Dolan's stomach.

Dolan doubled over, both hands on his gut, and Falcon planted his feet and swung with all his might in a roundhouse uppercut.

His knuckles caught Dolan on the bridge of his nose, flattening it and splattering blood and mucous all over his face as the blow straightened him up and threw him backward to land spread-eagled, unconscious, on his back on a table.

Falcon walked over and wiped blood and tissue off his hand onto Dolan's expensive silk shirt.

He turned to the men at Dolan's table. “Get this garbage out of here, and when he wakes up tell him if he ever sets foot through those batwings again, I'll kill him on the spot.”

He looked over at Roy, who still held the express gun in his hands, sweat pouring off his face.

“Take it easy with that shotgun, Roy. The excitement's over for the night.”

Roy turned to put the gun away, muttering, “I hope so. My heart can't take much more of this.”

Tom Pickett had come to Fort Sumner with Dick Bowdre. The Kid had argued there would be strength in numbers, and the more men the Regulators could get to ride with them, the safer they would be. O'Folliard and Bowdre, two of the original Regulators, the Kid, Tom Pickett, Dave Rudabaugh, and Billie Wilson congregated under the Kid's leadership and rode twelve miles out of town, to hole up at the Wilcox ranch.

Pat Garrett, trying to earn the reward the governor had put on the Kid's head, heard a man named Frank Stewart was up from Texas, leading a posse looking for stolen cattle.

Stewart had with him Lon Chambers, Lee Hall, James East, Tom Emory, Luis Bozeman, Bob Williams, Charles Siringo, and “Big Foot” Wallace.

Garrett convinced Stewart to quit searching for rustled cattle and to help him track down the Kid. Garrett explained to Stewart's men they would be pursuing the Kid because he had in his possession a stolen herd of panhandle cattle.

“How can that be?” one of the Texans asked. “I heard 'bout the shootin' over at Greathouse's tradin' post, and that the Kid had been left afoot.”

“Don't know,” Stewart replied, “but if you doubt my word about it, just ask Mr. Garrett there.”

The Texans did doubt his word, and were well aware it was a put up job, to gain the reward.

Garrett led the men toward Puerto de Luna, a hundred miles northeast, riding single file through bitter cold. By a little past midnight on December eighteenth, Garrett and his posse were on the outskirts of Fort Sumner.

“You men stay here, and keep a sharp look out,” Garrett said to the posse. “I'll take Barney Mason with me and go look for somebody that may be able to help us find the Kid and the other Regulators.”

Garrett and Mason entered the town, and soon found Juan Gallegos, a Mexican-American who was known to be friendly with the Kid.

In the cantina where Gallegos was drinking with friends, Garrett put a pistol in his back and said, “Come on, Juan, you're under arrest.”

The startled man turned, hands in the air. “What for?”

“The crime of knowin' Billy the Kid,” Mason snarled. “Now get your butt on that horse outside and let's go.”

When they rode up to the rest of the posse, Gallegos, reined in his horse, suddenly fearful.

“What is this?” he asked. “I thought I was going to jail.”

As the posse gathered around him, Garrett said, “We want to have a little talk with you first, Juan. Then there may not be any need in your going to jail.”

After being worked over with pistols and fists for over an hour, the bloodied man finally held up his hands. “All right . . . all right. I had enough. I tell you where the Kid is.”

Garrett wiped blood and mucous off his leather gloves on Gallegos's shirt. “Where is he, Juan? And you'd better tell the truth, or I'll hunt you and your family down and make you sorry you lied.”

Juan paused to lean to the side and spit a broken tooth onto the dirt. “The Kid and some Regulators they are out at the Wilcox ranch, but he will come into town for supplies soon, and to see Charlie Bowdre's wife. She's sick.”

Garrett took the posse into town and took over the hospital where Bowdre's wife was staying. He stationed men at all the windows, and two men with long rifles up on the roof. He was going to ambush the Kid and any friends with him when he rode into town.

“Don't give 'em no warning,” he said to the men, “just open fire and blow 'em outta their saddles when they get in range.”

While Garrett was getting his posse set up in the hospital, Juan Gallegos, hunched over his saddle holding his aching stomach, rode a back way into Fort Sumner and made his way to The Drinking Hole.

He stumbled through the batwings, causing all the people inside to stop talking and stare at the Mexican standing in the door, his face and nose swollen and bleeding, his clothes covered with blood and vomit.

“I need to speak with Señor MacCallister,” Juan said, unable to see clearly through eyes swollen almost shut.

The bartender, Roy, worried that the man meant trouble, put his hand on the shotgun under the bar, until Falcon signaled him it was all right.

Falcon got up and went to Juan, putting his hand around his shoulders. He knew the man was a friend of the Kid's.

“Roy, get Juan here a drink and I'll take him to my office for a chat.”

In the office, Juan took a deep swig of the whiskey, wincing when it burned his open cuts in his mouth.

“Señor MacCallister, Sheriff Garrett from Lincoln is in town. He has with him many mens, and they are planning to shoot the Kid.”

Falcon questioned Juan closely, learning the posse was set up at the hospital. He tried to give Juan a double eagle gold piece for his trouble, but he declined.

“The Kid is good friend to many mens. He helped Juan's family once, and I no forget. It is my pleasure to help.”

He hung his head. “Please tell
el Chivato
Juan try not to tell them anything.”

“Don't worry, Juan. The Kid will understand.”

Falcon went to the gun cabinet on a far wall and got out his Winchester .4440 and a box of ammunition. Then he slipped out a back door and headed for the hotel.

As he made his way through dark streets, leaden clouds overhead let go, and it began to snow heavily.

Falcon went into the hotel, ignored the snoring desk clerk, and took a key to a room on the top floor.

In the room, he pulled a chair over to the window, lighted a stogie, and sat back to wait. He had a clear view of the hotel and the street leading up to it from his position. He had promised the Kid he would take a hand if he got the chance and even up the odds a bit, and he intended to do just that.

Around eight o'clock in the morning, with snow still falling in thick white clouds, the Kid and the five men with him returned to Fort Sumner.

They rode up the street, hunched over against the cold, strung out in single file.

Garrett poked his rifle through a window and opened fire, shooting Tom O'Folliard through the chest, knocking him almost out of his saddle. The horse, startled by the gunfire, reared and ran straight toward the ambushers, who then began to shoot at the dark figures in the street.

O'Folliard, clutching his chest, cried out, “Don't shoot any more, I'm dyin'!”

Garrett's next shot hit the Kid's horse in its right shoulder, throwing the Kid to the ground.

Garrett took careful aim, the bead on his rifle barrel centered on the Kid's forehead.

Suddenly, the stucco next to Garrett's head exploded, sending fragments into his eyes and face. His shot went wild as he ducked back from the window.

Rapid fire from a building across the street began to pepper the hospital, and one of the men on the roof was hit and fell screaming to the ground.

The Kid, seeing his chance, vaulted up on the back of Billie Wilson's horse, and they hightailed it out of town, with Pickett and Bowdre close behind.

As they passed the hotel, the Kid looked up and saw a white face at the window. Though he couldn't make out any features, he thought he knew who had saved his life, and he waved his hat at the man as they rode past.