Song of Eagles (2 page)

Falcon MacCallister reined his horse Diablo to a halt a few hundred yards from the Chisum South Spring River Ranch house. It was an impressive edifice, the size of a small fort and made of native stone from the area, with very little wood showing.

Probably necessary,
Falcon thought,
considering Chisum pried this land right from the hands of the Mescalero Apaches.
He pulled a cheroot from his coat pocket, struck a lucifer on his pant leg, and lighted it. Crossing his leg over his saddle horn, he mentally reviewed what his father had told him about Chisum. . . .

* * *

In 1868, John S. Chisum established himself at Bosque Grande, in the eastern portion of Lincoln County, New Mexico. As many Texans did at the time, he brought a herd of cattle with him from Texas. Never one short on courage, Chisum claimed two hundred miles up and down the Pecos Valley, calling it his “by right of discovery.” The land had not yet been opened to settlers, and so Chisum “squatted” on it and made good his claim by his own means—usually by hiring men expert in the use of Colonel Colt's weapons.

La Placita del Rio Bonito was soon Americanized, called Lincoln, and was designated the county seat. Chisum himself—however many armed men might ride for him—never carried a gun, often remarking that “a six-shooter will get you into more trouble than it will get you out of.” Before long he was considered the most powerful man in Lincoln County.

Before his death last year, Jamie Ian MacCallister had told Falcon if he was ever in this area to look Chisum up. They were old friends who “had rode the river together” when they were younger.

Falcon pitched his cigar in the dirt and spurred Diablo toward the ranch house. As he rode he kept his hands out in plain sight, for he knew he made a dangerous first impression on strangers and didn't want Chisum's men to take alarm. He stood well over six feet in height, had wheat-colored blond hair and cold, pale-blue eyes. His shoulders were so wide and his muscles so developed that his typical attire—black suits with crisp, ironed, white shirts and black silk kerchiefs around his neck—all had to be specially tailored to fit his massive frame. On his hips, tied down low, were a matched pair of Colt Peacemaker .45s, and behind his belt buckle was a two-shot derringer. A .44-40 caliber Winchester rifle was slung in a saddle boot within easy reach.

As he approached the ranch house, Falcon noted several cowboys in the area. The men all seemed to be heavily armed, with most carrying rifles or shotguns in addition to pistols on their hips. They wore their pistols tied down low, more like gunslicks instead of punchers.
Chisum looks like he's ready to go to war,
Falcon thought.
Kinda strange, since most of the Indians around this part of the country have been run off years ago.

A tall, lanky man with mean-looking eyes stepped off the porch, shucked a shell into the chamber of his Henry, and called to Falcon, “Howdy, mister. What can I do for you?”

Falcon kept his hands on his reins and pulled his mount to a stop. “I'm Falcon MacCallister. I'm here to see John Chisum.”

“Yeah? And what might your business be with Mr. Chisum?”

Falcon removed his Stetson and sleeved sweat off his forehead. “No business. I just came to give him my regards. He and my father used to ride together.”

“Your father's name?”

“Jamie Ian MacCallister.”

“Wait right here and I'll see if Mr. Chisum wants to talk to you.”

“Is it all right if I water my horse? We been on the trail for some time, and he's a mite thirsty.”

The man nodded and pointed to a horse trough next to the porch before disappearing into the house.

Falcon dismounted and walked his horse to the trough. While Diablo drank his fill, Falcon dipped his hands in the water and washed some of the trail dust off his face and hair.

The door opened and one of the broadest men he had ever seen stepped out on the porch. He smiled and held out his hand. “Howdy, Falcon. I'm John Chisum, and I'm pleased to meet you.”

Chisum was a big man, standing over six feet tall. His chest and shoulders were wide as an axe-handle, and there was no fat on his body. He sported a large, handlebar moustache and muttonchop sideburns, and his face was dark and wrinkled as saddle leather, showing he had spent his entire life in the sun. He seemed genuinely glad to see Falcon.

“Come on in and light and sit, and let's talk.”

He led Falcon into the house, which was wide and open with lots of windows to let in the sun. Falcon noticed all the windows had board shutters with gunports cut out of them, many showing evidence of bulletholes, as if they had been used for defense more than once.

Chisum's study walls were covered with dark wood paneling, and there were several filled bookcases and three gun cases with rifles, shotguns, and pistols arranged within.

Chisum waved Falcon to an overstuffed chair in front of a massive desk cut out of what appeared to be a solid chunk of oak. He stepped to a bar behind the desk and asked, “Bourbon okay?”

“That'll do just fine,” Falcon answered. Falcon noticed the brand on the bottle of whiskey, which was a rather cheap one. It reminded him of another fact about Chisum his father had told—that the man, though as brave as they come and a good friend, was tight with a dollar, never paying for anything that he wasn't forced to. Falcon smiled to himself, remembering his father had also never been one to spend money unless absolutely necessary.

Chisum handed him a glass and held his up. “Here's to Jamie Ian MacCallister, the best man I ever rode with.”

Falcon nodded and drank to his father.

Chisum sat behind his desk and leaned forward on his elbows. “How is Jamie nowadays? I haven't heard from that old beaver in . . .”—he scratched his chin and gazed at the ceiling as he thought—“why, it must be ten years or more.”

“My father is dead, Mr. Chisum.”

Chisum's face fell. “Oh, I'm sorry to hear that, Falcon. Please call me John. What happened?”

Falcon's face darkened. “He was backshot. Ambushed by someone who thought he was me.”

Chisum frowned. Backshooting was about the lowest crime a man could commit in the West. “Why were the men after you, Falcon? You on the run from the law?”

“No, but it's a long story.”

Chisum nodded. He poured them another glass of whiskey and sat back in his chair. He took a pair of long, black cigars from a humidor on his desk and handed one to Falcon. After he lighted them both, he took a sip of his bourbon and leaned back and put his boots on the desk. “I got time if you do, son.”

Falcon took a deep drag of the cigar, blowing a cloud of pungent, blue smoke toward the ceiling. “It was just after my wife had been killed by Indians. Jamie found her body and buried her next to a river. I went to find it....”

Falcon found Marie's grave and sat by it for a time, trying to make some sense out of her death. He could not. Falcon had brought along a heavy hammer and a chisel, and after looking around for a proper stone, found one, muscled it into place, and began the laborious job of slowly chiseling her name into it.

He was intent upon his work, but didn't fail to occasionally check his surroundings, for this was still the Wild West despite all the moves toward civilization. And Falcon had been well-schooled by his father.

Falcon became aware that he was being watched. And not by Indians. He allowed himself a very small smile. He had never seen an Indian this clumsy. He continued his work on the stone, but only after furtively slipping the leather loops from the hammers of his pistols and checking to make sure his rifle was close at hand.

After concluding that his watchers were at least six strong, probably more, Falcon made several trips to his packs, ostensibly for a drink of water, but really to stuff his pockets full of cartridges for his rifle and pistols. Then he returned to work on the stone.

He worked and waited and wondered.

With the waters of the Blue River softly flowing not far away, Falcon heard the men when they made their rush toward him. He turned, dropped to one knee, and drew his right-hand pistol, all in one fluid motion.

“We want him alive!” Asa Pike shouted just as one of his men pointed a gun at Falcon.

Falcon shot the man in the chest and then threw himself to one side as the men rushed him. He drew his other pistol and opened fire; at nearly point-blank range, his fire was devastating.

The Jones brothers, Lloyd and Bob, were among the first to go down, both mortally wounded. Lloyd stumbled backward and lost his balance, finally tumbling over the side of the bank and falling into the river. Bob sat down hard, both hands holding his bullet-perforated belly.

Falcon had no time to observe what Bob did next; he was in a fight for his life without having any idea why the men had attacked him.

The fight was over in less than a minute. The cool mountain air was acrid with lingering gunsmoke, mixed with the faint sounds of a couple of horses galloping away, the moaning of the wounded, and the silence of the dead.

Falcon quickly reloaded and, with a pistol in each hand, began warily walking among the wounded, kicking pistols away from the men and out of reach.

Falcon stood over one dying man and asked, “Why?”

“ 'Cause you're a goddamn MacCallister, that's why,” the man told him. Then he closed his eyes and died.

Falcon buried the dead far away from his wife's grave. He did not mark the shallow, mass grave. One attacker who had survived the fight had told Falcon who had led the ambush. Falcon had seen to the man's wounds as best he could with what he had, put him on a horse, and told him to go home, adding, “If I ever see you again, I'll shoot you on the spot.”

“You'll not see me no more,” the man said. “But Asa will be back. Bet on it.”

“The man must be insane,” Falcon said, then slapped the horse on the rump and sent him galloping.

Falcon spent the rest of the day finishing the marker for Marie's resting place. Then he tidied up the area and stood for a time by Marie's grave. Falcon put his hat on his head, walked to his horse, and rode away without looking back. He did not know where he was going. He was just riding. He headed west, toward Utah. Falcon wanted only to ride away his grief, to just be alone for a time and let the wind and the rain help cure the ache deep inside him.

He had no idea at the time that he was about to become one of the most wanted men west of the Mississippi River.

After getting himself a room in the small hotel in a tiny town in Utah, Falcon went down for a drink and something to eat. Much of the grief he'd been carrying had left him, but he was still not wanting company. He took his bottle and glass and went to a far corner of the saloon.

Two men walked in, one wearing a sheriff's badge, the other with a federal marshal's badge pinned to his suit coat. Falcon was not interested in them and paid them scant attention as they walked to the bar (strutted was more like it, he thought) and ordered whiskey. Falcon returned to his own whiskey and his sorrowful thoughts and ignored all others in the saloon.

But Falcon was his father's son—he could smell trouble, and the lawmen had it written all over them. To begin with, they were both small men, about five-six or -seven, and both walked as if they had something to prove—the bigger the man to prove it with, or on, the better.

Falcon was wondering where his dad was and how he was doing when he heard boots approaching his table. He looked up into the faces of the two star packers. Very unfriendly faces.

“Stand up,” the federal marshal said.

“I beg your pardon?” Falcon questioned.

“Get on your feet, Lucas,” the sheriff said.

“My name is not Lucas. It's Falcon MacCallister. And I am very comfortable sitting, thank you.”

“I said get up, you thievin' son of a bitch!” the federal marshal demanded. “Lucas or MacCallister, it don't make no difference. You're still a horse thief and a rustler.”

Falcon took a better look at the men. Definitely related. Probably brothers.

The sheriff pulled a leather-wrapped cosh from his back pocket and held it up threateningly. “Get up, you scum. Or I'll pound your head where you sit.”

“That would be a real bad mistake, Sheriff,” Falcon warned.

“You makin' threats agin my brother, boy?” the federal marshal asked.

Falcon was getting mad. He could feel his temper being unleashed. “My name is MacCallister. I'm from Valley, Colorado. I have done nothing wrong. Why don't you gentlemen take a seat and we'll talk about this?”

“Get up, you bastard! the sheriff hollered. Then he took a swing at Falcon with the blackjack.

Falcon ducked the swing and grabbed the edge of the table, overturning it and knocking the two star packers sprawling on the floor. The federal marshal grabbed for his pistol, and Falcon kicked it out of his hand and then put his boot against the side of the man's jaw. The federal marshal kissed the floor, out cold.

The sheriff was struggling to get to his feet. Falcon helped him, sort of.

He reached down, grabbed a handful of the sheriff's shirt, and hit him on the side of the jaw with a powerful right fist. The sheriff's eyes rolled back into his head, and Falcon released the man. The sheriff sighed and joined his brother on the floor.

“Idiots,” Falcon said, straightening his coat.

“Run, mister,” a customer said. “Run for your life.”

Falcon looked at the local. “Run? Why?”

“ 'Cause when them two wakes up, they'll kill you for sure. Them's the Noonan brothers. They're both crazy. And they're Nance Noonan's brothers, both of 'em.”