Song of Eagles (4 page)

As they rode toward Lincoln, Falcon and Bonney talked.

“You're a pretty fair hand with that short gun, Billy. Where'd you learn to shoot like that?”

“You can call me Kid, Falcon. Everybody else does. I learned to shoot 'cause I had to. I been on my own since I was fourteen or so. Hell, I worked sheep and cattle in Arizona, and even was a teamster for a while over at Camp Grant.”

He gave a small smile. “You don't long survive doin' that kind of work less'n you can shoot, fast and straight.”

Falcon nodded. He knew how hard life was on the frontier, and how it made boys grow to men in a very short time.

Before Falcon could answer the Kid his horse Diablo laid his ears back and nickered, shaking his head from side to side.

Falcon stiffened. Something was wrong for Diablo to act skittish like this. He casually reached down and slipped the rawhide hammer thongs off his Colts.

Bonney saw what he was doing and asked, “You see somethin'?”

“I think we may have some trouble up ahead, where the trail turns around that clump of mesquite trees. My horse is acting up, and that usually means company's coming.”

Kid hooked his coat in his belt and slipped his hammer thongs off. “Well, if they's thieves, they's gonna be mighty disappointed. I ain't got two coins to rub together. I was hoping for a grubstake from Chisum so's I could eat tonight.”

As the pair approached the copse of trees, four riders walked their horses out of hiding and blocked the trail.

The leader of the group, a tall, skinny man with chin whiskers and a scar on his left cheek that drew his lips up in a perpetual scowl, held a short, double-barreled shotgun pointed at the sky, with its stock on his thigh. “You gents work for Chisum?”

Falcon reined Diablo to a halt ten yards from the group. “And what business is it of yours who we work for?”

“We're deputy sheriffs, working for the sheriff of Lincoln County, William Brady.”

“That don't answer the man's question,” the Kid said, his lips curled up in a grin that didn't reach his eyes.

“We been having some reports that other people's stock has been turning up in Chisum's herd. You boys know anything 'bout that?”

Falcon gave a slow smile. “I don't reckon Mr. Chisum would much appreciate being called a rustler, but I could be wrong. Why don't you men ride on up to his ranch and ask him your questions?

A shorter, fat man sitting to the leader's left said, “ 'Cause we're askin' you gents. Now you tell us what you know or we'll be forced to arrest you, and you can spend some time in jail thinking over your answers.”

The Kid's face paled at the mention of jail, but his grin didn't change. “I don't think I'd like that, an' I don't think you're man enough to take me anywheres.”

“Why you little . . .” the fat man started to say as he went for his gun.

Before he got his pistol halfway out of his holster, the Kid drew and fired. His Colt exploded, belching a cloud of acrid-smelling smoke as it blew a chunk of meat out of the man's right shoulder and spun him around, knocking him off his horse to sprawl facedown in the dirt.

As the leader started to lower his shotgun and the other two riders reached for their pistols, they found themselves staring down the barrel of both of Falcon's Colts, hammers back. “Easy, boys. Just put those weapons back where they came from and raise your hands.”

The men's eyes grew wide at the speed with which Billy and Falcon had drawn, surprised to find themselves at a disadvantage.

“Just keep them fingers off the triggers,” the skinny man said. “You don't want to go shootin' no officers of the law.”

“We didn't want to shoot nobody, 'til that tub of lard there tried to draw on me,” the Kid said. “Now we're gonna ride on into Lincoln. If you galoots want to dance some more, you'll know where to find us.”

Falcon and the Kid holstered their weapons and rode on toward town, while the deputies began to patch up the wounded man's arm.

The Kid must have noticed Falcon's frown, for he asked, “What's the matter, Falcon? You mad about something?”

Falcon glanced over at him. “We could have avoided gunplay back there, Kid. You didn't have to goad that man into going for his guns.”

The Kid pursed his lips and nodded. “Yeah, I suppose we could have let them take us into town and stick us in that jail until the sheriff decided he wanted to talk to us.”

“It wouldn't have gone that far.”

“Damn right it wouldn't have. I'll tell you, Falcon, I've been in jail twice, an' I broke out twice. I can't stand bein' locked up, caged like some animal, not able to move around.”

He shook his head, lips pressed tight. “No sir, I don't ever intend for that to happen again, and if 'n I have to kill somebody to keep from being locked up, then so be it.”

Falcon watched the Kid as he talked, thinking he was right about the Kid's eyes. He was a stone-cold killer, never mind the boyish looks and the ever present grin. He would have to watch himself so he wouldn't get caught up in the Kid's messes.

Falcon and the Kid arrived in Lincoln about an hour later. The town wasn't overly large, consisting of a row of small adobe houses on the west side of the main street, and several larger, more impressive buildings lined up on the eastern side.

The first of the large buildings on their left had a sign over the door saying La Placita, J.J. Dolan & Co.. It was two stories high and had a large window in the front filled with all manner of ranching implements, along with saddles and boots and clothes.

“Damn,” the Kid said, his eyes wide, “that's 'bout the biggest general store I ever seen.”

Falcon glanced at the place as they passed it, thinking the Kid was right. It was a very large building for a general store. He looked up at the second-story, which had a row of windows across the front, showing either offices or living quarters above the store itself.

The next building they came to was the county courthouse. Since Lincoln was the county seat it, too, was large and impressive. Right next to it was the bank, with a sign over it saying Lincoln County Bank, J.J. Dolan, President.

Falcon looked farther up the street, wondering if there were any saloons. Chisum had said most of the men in the surrounding area went over to Fort Sumner to gamble. The upstanding citizens of Lincoln were not allowing any gaming houses in their city. The town was fairly busy, with dogs and children running up and down the street, wagons being loaded with supplies in front of stores, and horses being shod at the blacksmith's small barn farther down the street.

All in all, the city looked not much different to Falcon than dozens of others he had seen in his travels. It was a more or less typical cow town which served the main purpose of supplying surrounding ranches with supplies, a place for punchers to let off steam when the branding and calving of the herds was done.

As they walked their mounts down the street, the Kid said, “I'm so hungry my belly must think my throat's been cut.”

Falcon removed his hat and sleeved sweat off his forehead. “Me, too. What say we pull up to the hotel over there and see if they've got any chow worth eating?”

The Kid cut his eyes toward Falcon. “Naw, I think I'll just grab me some water over at the town well and see if I can find out which direction Tunstall's ranch is from here.”

“Kid,” Falcon said, “it looks like we're both going to be here for a spell. How about I treat you to some grub, and you can pay me back from your first month's wages?”

The Kid shook his head. “Never did much like bein' beholden to anybody. I can make my own way.”

As they came up on the hotel, the smell of enchiladas, beans, and rice cooking tickled their noses. The Kid smacked his lips as his mouth watered at the delicious aroma.

“Come on, Kid,” Falcon urged. “I'm flush right now, and like I said, you can pay me back later.”

The Kid sighed. “Well, all right, but I'm gonna give you my marker so's there won't be no mistake about this bein' a handout or anything.”

Falcon laughed. “Have it your way, Kid, but hurry up. My stomach's beginning to growl at the smell of that food.”

They dismounted and strolled into the hotel lobby, paused a moment to get their bearings, then headed into the main dining room.

There were six tables spread out across the room, four of them full of cowboys with heads bent over plates shoveling in food and washing it down with pitchers of beer.

Falcon and the Kid took a corner table and sat with their backs to the walls where they could see the entrance to the room.

A heavyset Mexican woman wearing a bright red apron walked over to their table. “What would you gentlemens like?”

“Bring us a couple of steaks, charred on the outside and bloody in the middle, a plate of enchiladas, some beans and rice, and a handful of tortillas.” He looked at the Kid. “That all right with you?”

“Yeah.”

“And a pitcher of some beer, if it's cold,” Falcon added.

“We no serve it no other way, señor,” the woman said, grinning and showing a dark gap where her front teeth were missing.

“You got any lemonade?” Kid asked.

“Si, señor.”

After she left the Kid explained, “I don't hardly ever drink alcohol.”

A few minutes later a young, black teenager brought a pitcher of beer for Falcon and lemonade for the Kid and two glass mugs to their table. After pouring the lemonade, Billy held his glass up and said, “To a new start in a new town, Falcon.”

Falcon smiled and drank. The beer was cold and tasted good after their hours on the trail. He wiped foam off his mouth, and asked, “You don't like beer?”

“It's not that so much, Falcon. It's just that I've never seen it do no man any good. Most of 'em get a snootful of that stuff and think they're right handy with a gun. Usually just gets 'em killed.”

“I hope you are able to settle down here, Kid,” Falcon said. “It seems a good town to make a new start in.”

The Kid's eyes grew serious. “Yeah, I hope so. I'm tired of moving from place to place. I been on the go since I was a pup, never staying in one town long enough to make no real life for myself. It's time I settled down and picked me a spot to take root.”

Their waiter returned with a large tray covered with plates of steaming food, which he set down on the table in front of them. “Time to quit jawin' and start eatin',” Billy said.

As they ate, Falcon let his gaze wander around the room, watching the other cowboys at the surrounding tables. At a table in a far corner there were four men eating and drinking. The man doing most of the talking was tall, with wide shoulders, a barrel chest, and an ample paunch. He was wearing a black leather vest with a silver star on his right breast. He had a loud, strident voice which carried across the room, and his eyes were star packer's eyes—never still, flitting back and forth around the room as if looking for trouble.

His eyes met Falcon's, and he seemed to notice Falcon watching him. A slight frown creased his forehead as his mind worked, trying to recollect if he recognized the stranger.

As Falcon watched, the star packer nudged the lanky, gangling man next to him and nodded in Falcon's direction. The skinny man looked over with narrowed eyes, as if he were a bit shortsighted, then shrugged and went back to his beans and enchiladas.

Falcon broke eye contact and finished eating. He wasn't too worried about the lawman. He knew the Wanted Posters on him had been recalled after his brother had talked to the governor, so he was no longer a fugitive from the law. Still, it paid to be cautious in new towns. Some sheriffs took instant dislikes to strangers, especially ones who weren't cowboys working for the local brands.

As Falcon took his last bite of steak and drained his beer glass, the door to the dining room burst open and two men came running into the room. It was the tall, skinny galoot with the chin whiskers and scar on his face, one of the four who had braced Falcon and the Kid on the trail into town.

He and his companion walked straight to the table where the lawman sat and began talking in a rapid voice, too low for Falcon to hear what was being said.

He nudged the Kid with his elbow and inclined his head toward the group across the room. “We may have some trouble, Kid.”

The Kid looked up from the last of his beans, wiped his mouth on his sleeve, and reached down to loosen the hammer thongs on his Colt.

Falcon noticed the movement and put his hand on the Kid's arm. “Easy, cowboy. Remember, you're here to make a new start. Getting into a shooting match with the sheriff is not a good way to begin your stay here.”

“I'm not plannin' nothin', Falcon. But it don't hurt none to be ready, just in case.”

After Scarface stopped talking, the man with the star nodded in their direction. The two new arrivals turned to stare at Falcon and the Kid, then pointed and nodded their heads.

Star packer pursed his lips, then got to his feet, hitching up his gunbelt and getting his hat from a nearby hatrack. He ambled across the room, followed by the six men with him until he stopped to stand in front of their table.

“Howdy, gents,” he said, hands hanging near his pistol.

Falcon pushed his chair back, leaned back, and extended his right leg, with his right hand on his thigh near his Colt in case the sheriff gave him no choice.

“Good morning, Sheriff,” Falcon said, staring at the man with the badge but watching his friends out of the corner of his eyes.