Song of Eagles (3 page)

“Who the hell is Nance Noonan?”

“The he-coon of this part of the territory, son,” an older man said. “And you're in his town. Nance Noonan owns everything and damn near everybody in this part of the territory. He owns the N Bar N ranch.”

“He's right, mister,” another local said. “Get gone from here as quick as you can. Pride ain't worth dyin' for. Not in my book, anyways.”

“You do have a point,” Falcon said.

“I'll saddle your horse whilst you pack your possibles,” the local said. “Then ride, boy, ride. The name MacCallister don't mean nothin' to men like Nance Noonan . . .”

The federal marshal stirred and reached for his gun. “I'll kill you, you son of a bitch!”

Falcon palmed his gun and shot him, the .45 slug punching a hole in the center of the man's forehead.

“Git the hell up to your room and pack, son,” Falcon was urged. “I'll throw a saddle on your horse.”

Falcon was coming down the stairs with his bedroll, saddlebags, and rifle when Sheriff Butch Noonan rose to his boots and grabbed for his guns. Falcon lifted the Winchester. 44-40, thumbed back the hammer, and drilled the man in the center of his chest.

“Oh, shit!” a citizen breathed.

“Ride, MacCallister, ride!” a man shouted. “Ride like Ole' Nick is after you, 'cause he damn shore is!”

Later, Falcon sat by a hat-size fire, frying his bacon, the coffee already made and the pot set off to one side on the circle of rocks. He knew he was in serious trouble, for even though the two brothers he'd killed back down the trail a ways had been no more than worthless bullies, they were still star packers. And one of them a federal lawman.

He'd have to stay on the run until this thing got straightened out; already he missed his kids something fierce.

He'd have to get word to his brothers in Valley, and they'd hire detectives to come in and ferret out the straight story of what had happened. Until then?

Falcon's laugh was void of humor. “I'm an outlaw on the run,” he said. “Probably the richest outlaw in history, but on the run, nevertheless.”

Falcon summed up his mood: “Crap!”

A hundred miles away, Jamie Ian MacCallister was buying supplies at a trading post on the North Platte when he heard the news about Falcon. To the eyes and mind of the new post owner, Jamie was just another rugged-looking old relic of a mountain man, not worth a dup of spit for anything.

Jamie bought his supplies, then had a drink and listened to the men talk. Falcon had killed two lawmen over in Utah Territory, a county sheriff and a deputy federal marshal.

But why had he killed them?

The men at the bar didn't know that, only that he had. Falcon had left the little town riding a horse the color of dark sand—a big horse, for, like his father, Falcon was a big man. His packhorse was a gray.

Riding a horse the same color and approximately the same size as mine, and trailing a gray packhorse, just like mine,
Jamie mused.

Jamie quietly left the trading post without notice and once more headed south. He stopped at Fort Fred Steele and told the commanding officer there what had really taken place at the Little Big Horn. The CO and his other officers listened intently as Jamie laid it all out, from beginning to end.

It was there that Jamie arranged for a wire to be sent to his kids in Valley. He knew that by now they would be worried sick.

Jamie pushed on toward home. He crossed the Divide, felt pretty sure he was in Colorado, and felt better. He was not that far from home. Well, maybe a week's riding.

About a day out of Valley, Jamie was humming an old war song that Kate used to sing when two hammer blows struck him in the back, almost knocking him out of the saddle. As he struggled to stay on the horse, he thought he heard a shout of triumph. Sundown took off like a bolt of lightning, the packhorse trailing.

When he got the big horse calmed down, Jamie managed to stuff handkerchiefs in the holes in his back. He knew he dared not leave the saddle. He'd never be able to get back on the deck if he did. Through waves of hot pain, he cut lengths of rope and tied himself in the saddle.

“All right, Sundown,” Jamie gasped. “You know the way home. Take me to Kate.”

Two of Jamie's great-grandsons spotted the slow-walking horse and the big man slumped unconscious in the saddle. When they realized who it was, they ran right down the middle of the main street, yelling and hollering at the top of their lungs. Matthew and Dr. Tom Prentiss came running up to Jamie and cut the ropes holding him on his horse. The doctor took one look at the hideous wounds in his back and shook his head.

“Gather your kin, Matthew,” he said.

Later, Matthew stepped into the doctor's outer office, a telegram in his hand. His brothers and sisters turned to him. Matthew's eyes were bright with anger. He held up the wire. “This is from a sheriff friend of mine over near the Utah line. Seems as though a posse of men from some ranch called the N Bar N, headed by several newly appointed deputy federal marshals, think they got lead into Falcon. Happened yesterday or the day before some miles north of here. What they done was they mistook Pa for Falcon.”

Joleen said, “There'll be blood on the moon when Falcon hears of this.”

“For a fact,” Matthew said. “My friend is gonna send me more information as he gets it. How's Pa?”

“Dying,” Ian said, then put his big hands on his face and wept openly.

Jamie Ian MacCallister, the man called Bear Killer, Man Who Is Not Afraid, Man Who Plays With Wolves, died on August the first, 1876, at eight o'clock in the morning. He was buried that afternoon, on a ridge overlooking the town of Valley. Overhead, circling and soaring high above the ridge, several eagles screamed.

The next day, James William Haywood, Jamie's grandson, opened Jamie's will in front of the family. He had read it the night before and was shocked right down to his boots at the enormity of Jamie's wealth.

“Your father,” he told the gathering, “was more than likely the richest man in all of Colorado. He was worth millions of dollars. He drew up a map of all the places where he cached bags and boxes of gold and silver. During the wandering of your great-grandfather, the man called Silver Wolfe, he discovered a cave of Spanish treasure. He gave that to Jamie, and now Jamie is giving it to all of you. You children of Jamie and Kate MacCallister just might be the richest family in all of North America.”

After the reading of the will, Jamie Ian met with Matthew in Falcon's Wild Rose Saloon and said, “Now, brother, you want to tell the truth about Falcon?”

“He's in Utah. He's going after Nance Noonan and those posse members. He's going to destroy the N Bar N and then burn down the town. Right down to the last brick and board.”

“There were federal marshals in that posse.”

“You think Falcon gives a damn about that?”

Jamie Ian sighed and shook his head. “I reckon not.”

“Joleen summed it up the other day. There's gonna be blood on the moon before this is over.”

The brothers walked out to stand on the boardwalk, looking up at the ridge where their mother and father and grandfather lay in peace.

“You think Pa would have done what Falcon is about to do?” Jamie Ian asked.

“It's exactly what Pa would have done.”

John Chisum took a final drag on his cigar and stared at Falcon through the cloud of smoke. After a moment he leaned forward and stubbed the butt out in a silver dish.

“That's a hell of a story, Falcon. I just can't believe old Jamie was backshot by those murdering cowards like that.”

Falcon nodded. “Believe it, John.” He drained his whiskey and said in a husky voice, “But they soon found out that those who called the dance had to pay the band.”

“That's the way of it, all right.” He stood and filled Falcon's empty glass and offered him another cigar.

“Thanks,” Falcon said as he took the cigar and lighted it. “By the way, John, my father told me you had settled up here on the Pecos, but he never told me any details. How the hell did you get up here from Texas?”

“That's a hell of a story in its own right.” Chisum filled his glass and sat back with a cigar in one hand and a glass in the other as he talked. “Back in ... oh, sixty-seven I think it was, my brother Pitser and I brought my first herd of Jingle Bob cattle across the plains and through the buffalo hunting territory of the Comanches.” He pointed the cigar at Falcon, a tight grin on his face. “They were some plenty hostile Injuns, let me tell you, an' could ride horses like no one I've ever seen.”

Falcon nodded. “Yeah, I've had some dealings with them myself, and my father always said they were the best warriors ever born.”

Chisum's expression grew serious. “We lost some good boys on that first trip. We had to send scout riders ahead of the trail blazers to protect the herd from those devils, who were pretty numerous in the lower Pecos Valley at the time. More often than not the scouts didn't come back, or came back so shot up they couldn't work no more.”

“Scouting is tough work, all right, especially in Indian territory. Takes a special breed of man to do it and survive.”

Chisum wet his throat with bourbon and continued. “Well, the Jingle Bobs finally got here safely and we put them to grazing on the lands around our headquarters, which we set up at Bosque Grande, 'bout thirty-five miles northeast of Roswell, down on the Pecos itself. After a while, I left Pitser in charge and made some more trips back to Texas for more cattle.”

“How many head you running now?”

“Oh, about a hundred thousand or so. Took us almost ten years to build up to that, 'cause of the Comanch. They finally died out or left after the buffalo were all killed, sometime around seventy-seven or seventy-eight.”

“You ever marry, John?”

Chisum smiled. “Nope. Never felt no need, what with all my brothers and their wives and children around all the time. But enough about me. Tell me about how you went after Nance Noonan and his bunch.”

Falcon shrugged. “That's a story for a different time and place. When I set out to right the wrong done to my father, I sent my kids back east so they could get proper schooling, so I'm kind'a at loose ends right now.”

Chisum's face showed friendly concern. “Anything I can do? Do you need a job . . . money?”

“No, like I said, Jamie left all of his children with more money than we can ever spend.” Falcon hesitated. “I was thinking more along the lines of investing in a saloon or gambling house. You know of any that might suit my needs?”

Chisum thought for a moment, then snapped his fingers. “You know, old Beaver Smith owns a saloon on the Pecos River, over at Fort Sumner. He might be willing to sell, or take in a partner.”

“I'm not much one for partnering, but I'll sure go take a look at the place and see what I think.”

Falcon stood and held out his hand. “Thanks for the whiskey, and the talk, John. I can see why my dad thought so much of you.”

“Any time, Falcon. And I'm holding you to that promise to tell me what happened when you faced Nance Noonan and his gang. That's a story I can't wait to hear.”

Chisum walked Falcon out to the front porch. “I'll tell the boys you're my friend and you're always welcome here at the South Spring. That way they won't hassle you when you come to visit.”

As the two shook hands Chisum looked over MacCallister's shoulder and said, “Well I'll be jiggered. Looks like more company comin'.”

Falcon turned to see a lone rider walking his horse up the dirt road toward the ranch house. The rider was a short man wearing a dirty black coat over a soiled and rumpled shirt that Falcon thought must have once been white. As the rider drew closer, Falcon turned to Chisum. “Hell, John. It looks like a kid on that horse. You taken to hiring boys now?”

Chisum chuckled. “Things aren't that bad yet, Falcon.”

The rider reined his horse to a halt and sat, looking at the hard cases standing in front of the house with their rifles trained on him. He grinned and removed his hat, running his hands through light brown hair. His eyes crinkled as he smiled at Falcon and Chisum on the porch.

“One of you Mr. John Chisum?”

Chisum nodded and stepped forward. “Yeah, that's me. What can I do for you, young man?”

“My name's Billy Bonney. I heard you was lookin' to hire some men . . . men who know their way around a six-shooter.”

Falcon noticed that though the lips smiled and the eyes narrowed in apparent good humor, there was something deep in the eyes that belied the grin. They were cold as well water on a frosty morning. As they flicked back and forth, sizing up the men with guns in the area, it was obvious they missed nothing. Falcon knew instinctively this was no mere boy, but a deadly man to be reckoned with.

Chisum gave a snort. “And you think that would be you, is that it?”

“Yes, sir.” With a minimum of motion, Bonney slowly pulled his coat back and tucked it in his belt behind his back, letting his hands hang loose by his side. “If you have any doubts in the matter, I'd be right happy to show you with any of these galoots standing here.”

Mack Monroe, one of the toughest looking hombres in the group of men, stepped forward. He was about five-foot eleven inches tall and must have weighed almost two hundred and fifty pounds. He stood in front of Bonney with his hands on his hips.

“I'm Mack Monroe, foreman of this here spread, an' you can show me how good you are, if you've got the guts.” Without taking his eyes off the newcomer, he added, “You want I should throw this pup in the water trough, Boss?”

Bonney's eyes slowly looked Monroe up and down, then cut to Chisum. “If I kill this man, can I have his job, Mr. Chisum?” His face showed no fear whatsoever. In fact, he still had the boyish grin on his lips, as if taking a life was no more than a game to him.

Chisum rubbed his moustache, his own lips curled up in mirth at the
cojones
this boy was showing. He'd seen few men have the courage to face Monroe, with fists or with guns. “No, I'll have none of that, Mr. Bonney. If you kill him, I'll still be a man short even if I hire you.”

Chisum walked to the porch rail and took a tin coffee mug and pitched it to one of the other hands. “Bob, on the count of three, throw this mug in the air. Monroe, you and Bonney can both draw down on it and we'll see if this kid has what it takes.”

Falcon stood on the porch watching Bonney out of the corner of his eye and saw the young man's lips curl up in a sly smile at the mention of a shooting contest. “How good is Monroe, John?”

“He's the best I've got with a short gun, Falcon. Why?”

Falcon inclined his head at Bonney and said, where all could hear him. “I've got a hundred dollars says the kid takes him. Are you on?”

Chisum frowned suspiciously. “Do you know this man, Falcon?”

“Never seen him before in my life.”

“Then why on earth would you risk a hundred dollars on him?”

“First of all, I'm a gambler, for a living and for fun. Second, look in his eyes and tell me what you see.”

Chisum turned to stare for a moment at Bonney, and Falcon noticed the big man's smile falter. He was seeing the same thing Falcon was.

“Damned if you're not right, Falcon. No bet.”

Monroe scowled and glanced at Falcon. “I'll take your bet, mister.”

“You got a hundred dollars, cowboy?” Falcon asked.

Monroe pursed his lips, as if thinking. “I ain't gonna need it, 'cause I'm gonna beat this pup, but I've got a hand-tooled Mexican saddle that ought'a go for about that.”

Falcon nodded. “Then you're on.”

The cowboys all gathered around the two men after Bonney stepped down from his horse. There was almost nothing punchers liked more than a contest, be it one of fisticuffs, riding broncs, or shooting at targets.

Several of the men were making small side bets, looking nervously at Monroe as if they didn't want to get caught betting against their foreman.

Finally all was ready, and Chisum counted to three. Bob threw the cup in the air, and both Bonney and Monroe grabbed iron.

Bonney's hand flashed upward with his Colt and fired almost without aiming, before Monroe had even cleared leather. The blast of the pistol was followed instantaneously by the clang of a bullet blasting a hole in the cup, sending it caroming off on a tangent.

When it reached its apex and began to fall, there was another shot and another clang, making the cup dance in the air once again.

“Goddamn,” one of the punchers muttered, “he hit it again whilst it was still in the air.”

Monroe blushed a deep red, standing there with his pistol still half in his holster. He stared at Bonney, eyes hard and face set.

Bonney had enough sense not to gloat. He holstered his gun and turned, holding out his hand to Monroe. “Don't take it to heart, Mr. Monroe. You and I both know shootin' at somethin' that don't shoot back is easy. Things might'a been different had we been facing another gunslick.”

Monroe, mollified by Bonney's face-saving gesture, grinned and took his hand. “You're all right, Bonney. And one of the best shootists I've ever seen. I'd be right proud to have you stand with me if it ever came to gunplay.”

Falcon noticed how Bonney beat Chisum's best man and then managed to cause the hostile crowd to turn their support to him, a total stranger.
Yep
, he thought,
there's more to this boy than meets the eye. He's deep as well water, and damn near as cold.

Monroe stepped over to the porch and looked up at Falcon. “I'll jest go get my saddle, mister, an' I'll bring it right over.”

“I don't need another saddle, Mr. Monroe. But I'm going to be buying a gambling establishment in the near future. I'll call our bet even if you bring some of your friends in for the grand opening.”

Monroe held a ham-sized hand up over the porch railing and shook with Falcon. “It's a deal. You just let me know when and where.”

Chisum motioned Bonney to join him and Falcon on the porch. When he got there, Chisum said, “Mr. Bonney, I really don't need any more hands, but I've got a good friend who does, especially ones as good with a pistol as you are.”

“Who might that be, Mr. Chisum?”

“His name's John Tunstall. He's not much older than you, 'bout twenty-four I suspect, but he and I are going into business together, and I know he'll need some extra men.”

“How'll I find him?”

“You head on into Lincoln and go to the building marked Tunstall's General Store. I reckon he'll be there 'bout now. Tell him I sent you.”

Bonney shook hands with Chisum. “Thanks, Mr. Chisum. I appreciate the help.”

“Hold on there, Bonney,” Falcon said. “Give me a minute and I'll ride into Lincoln with you . . . if you want some company, that is.”

“Sure. Always nice to have somebody to talk to on the trail.”