Song of Eagles (5 page)

The Kid said nothing, but Falcon noticed he shifted in his chair so his pistol was within ready reach should the need arise. He, too, watched the group before them, a slight grin curling the corners of his mouth, his eyes as cold as a winter blizzard.

“My name's Sheriff William Brady. My men tell me you drew down on them, and shot one of my deputies.”

Falcon cut his eyes to Scarface. “Then your men are liars, sheriff.”

Scarface blanched at the insult, his hand falling toward his pistol as he leaned forward.

Falcon didn't move or take his eyes off the man. “Your man drew on my friend and me first, Sheriff, for no reason.”

Falcon paused for just a second, then continued. “And if you don't control that one there, he'll be the next one lying on his back with a bullet in his chest.” He inclined his head toward Scarface.

Brady's eyes narrowed as he studied Falcon and noticed the way his Colts were tied down low, and the way his hands were quiet, with no sign of nerves at facing seven men to their two. He chewed on his lip, considering his options.

“Well, whatever the cause I don't take kindly to strangers shootin' up my men.”

Falcon shrugged. “I don't take kindly to tinhorn deputies trying to throw their weight around by hassling law-abiding citizens who aren't breaking any laws, Sheriff. Last time I looked, it was still legal to ride down a trail minding your own business.”

“They was comin' from Chisum's, Bill,” Scarface said in a whiny voice.

“That true, mister?” the sheriff asked.

“Yes. My father was an old friend of Mr. Chisum's, and I stopped by to give him my regards on my way to Fort Sumner.”

“Then you don't work for him?”

Falcon shook his head. “No.”

The sheriff turned his attention to the Kid. “How about you, boy?”

The Kid's grin faltered for just a second at the word
boy,
then returned, as insolent as ever. “Not me, neither,” he said.

“That's the one shot Johnny Roy,” Scarface said, pointing at the Kid.

“That so, boy?” the sheriff asked.

The Kid leaned back in his chair, his hand near his pistol. “If Johnny Roy is the name of the fat tub of lard who tried to draw on me, then I'm the one that shot him.”

“What's your name, son?”

“The name's Billy Bonney, Sheriff, but I go by Kid.”

“How about you, mister?”

“My name is Falcon MacCallister, Sheriff, and the Kid is right. As I said earlier, your man drew on us without provocation or cause, and we acted in self-defense.”

Brady frowned. “If Johnny drew first, how'd you manage to put lead in him? He's pretty quick with a six-gun.”

Kid snorted. “Quick? The man was slow as molasses in January.”

Scarface said, “Johnny never ever cleared leather, Bill. He never had a chance.”

Kid glanced at where Scarface held his hand on the butt of his pistol. “Neither will you, if you try to pull that hogleg,” he said. “I'll drop you where you stand.”

Brady shook his head. “That's mighty tough talk for someone outnumbered three to one, boy.”

Kid smirked and started to stand up, but Falcon put a hand on his arm. “Sheriff, have we broken any laws?”

Brady glanced at Falcon and rubbed his chin. “I don't suppose so, not if the shootin' went as you say it did.”

“Then I suggest you question all your men about the events on the trail before we start something here that might get someone else hurt.”

Brady nodded. “I'll do that, Mr. MacCallister, and I'll also take a look at my posters, see if there's any paper out on you boys.”

As Brady walked out of the room Falcon noticed the Kid watching him with narrowed eyes and pursed lips.

“You worried about what Sheriff Brady might find among those wanted posters, Kid?”

Kid shrugged. “Not really. I done told you I was in jail a couple of times and broke out.” He rubbed his chin, then felt the thin, wispy hairs of his sparse moustache, a thoughtful look on his face. “ 'Course, that was under another name, so I doubt it matters what the sheriff does.”

“What name were you using then?”

“Henry Antrim, but I was called Kid Antrim.”

Falcon shook his head, sighing. “Well, I hope the sheriff is as dumb as he looks, and doesn't make the connection between Kid Antrim and Billy Bonney.”

Kid looked surprised. “I never thought of that.”

“Let's hope the sheriff doesn't either, Kid, or we'll both have some heavy explaining to do.”

Falcon stood up, threw some coins down on the table, and said, “Now, let's see if we can find out where this Mr. Tunstall you're looking for lives.”

The Kid raised his hand, summoning their waitress.

“Si, señor, may I help you?”

“Yeah. Can you tell us where to find a Mr. John Tunstall?”

The Mexican's face paled, and her eyes widened as she looked over her shoulder to see if anyone was listening. “Not so loud, señor. This place not like Mr. Tunstall much.”

She glanced around again, then whispered, “He has general store at other end of town. You cannot miss it.”

When she finished, she picked up Falcon's money and hurried back through the door into the kitchen, casting a worried look over her shoulder at the Kid and Falcon before she disappeared.

“What do you suppose she meant by all that?” Kid asked.

“Only one way to find out, Kid. Let's mosey on down the street and look for his store.”

As they walked down the wooden planks of the town's boardwalk, Falcon watched the townspeople as they scurried about their business.

“You notice anything funny about these people, Kid?”

The Kid glanced around, shrugging. “Naw. Why'd you ask?”

“It's just a feeling I get . . . seems they're all so serious, almost as if they're walking on eggshells, waiting for something to happen.”

The Kid shrugged again. “Couldn't tell it by me, Falcon. They just look like ordinary folk doin' whatever it takes to get along.”

He stopped and pointed up ahead. “There it is—Tun—stall's Emporium, the sign says.”

Falcon, more observant than the Kid, also noticed the pair of tough-looking gunhands hanging around the entrance to Tunstall's place. They were leaning back against the wall on either side of the door, thumbs hooked in belts with holsters tied down low on their legs. Though their posture was relaxed, he could see their eyes scanning the street, missing nothing.

“I wonder why Tunstall feels the need to have armed guards in front of his store” Falcon muttered to himself.

“What'd you say?” the Kid asked, impatient now to find Tunstall.

“Nothing,” Falcon answered, “just thinking out loud.”

They walked up the boardwalk and had started to enter the store, when one of the gunnies grabbed the Kid by the arm. Suddenly, he was staring down the barrel of a .44 Colt that appeared as if by magic in the Kid's hand.

“If'n I was you, mister, I'd let go of my arm, real gentle like,” the Kid said through tight lips.

Falcon put a hand on the Colt, pushing it down. “That's all right, Kid. This man is just doing what Mr. Tunstall pays him to do, guard his establishment.”

The Kid raised his eyebrows. “That right, mister? You work for Tunstall?”

The cowboy nodded, sweat running down his forehead to drip into his eyes, his gaze locked on the Colt in the Kid's hand. “Yeah. We're supposed to keep any of Dolan's or Riley's men outta here.”

“Who?” the Kid asked.

“Never mind, Kid. I'm sure Mr. Tunstall will fill us in once we get to talk to him.”

A voice from inside called, “It's okay, Roy. Let the gentlemen in, please.”

Falcon and the Kid walked into a large room filled with all manner of ranching implements, clothes, and foodstuffs. There was a counter running along one side of the wall off to the right, and in a far corner sat a large, potbellied stove. Next to the stove was a table where four men sat drinking coffee.

One of the men was young, appearing to be in his early twenties, with a fair complexion and bright green eyes, wearing a brown jacket over corduroy pants. The other men were older. One wore a suit and vest with a gold watch-chain hanging across it. The other two were cowboys, wearing jeans and shirts and Stetson hats which had seen plenty of wear. Like the two outside the door, the punchers were packing pistols tied down low on their legs, and looked ready to use them.

The Kid walked up to the older man in the suit and stuck out his hand. “Mr. Tunstall, my name's Billy Bonney and—

The man held up his hand, grinning. “Hold on there, slick. My name is Alexander McSween. I'm Mr. Tunstall's lawyer. ”

He inclined his head to the younger man sitting next to him. “There's the man you want to talk to.”

Tunstall stood up and held out his hand. “Mr. Bonney, I'm John Henry Tunstall,” he said with an English accent. He looked at the other men, adding, “Alex McSween is my lawyer, Dick Brewer there is foreman of my ranch, and the chap next to him is his assistant, Charlie Bowdre.”

The Kid tipped his hat, “Howdy, boys. This here is my friend, Falcon MacCallister.”

Falcon nodded and Tunstall grinned, saying, “You any relation to Jamie MacCallister?”

“Yes. He was my father.”

Tunstall frowned. “Was?”

“Yes. He died a while back.”

“I'm sorry to hear that,” Tunstall said. “I can't tell you how many times I've sat here next to this very stove during a blue norther and listened to John Chisum tell tales of how the two of them rode together, fighting Indians, rustlers, and seems like just about everyone else, in the old days.”

Falcon smiled. “Probably the same tall stories I used to hear from my dad, and he had more than his share of adventures in his life.”

“Well, maybe we'll get a chance to share some stories, if you plan to be around here long enough.”

He looked back to the Kid. “What can I do for you, Mr. Bonney?”

“I spoke with Mr. Chisum, an' he said you could maybe use another hand. I'm lookin' for work.”

Tunstall glanced at the way the Kid wore his pistol, low on his hip. “You any good with that six-shooter?”

The Kid grinned and shrugged. “Pretty fair. I usually hit what I'm aimin' at, if that's what you mean.”

Dick Brewer growled through a voice that sounded as if he had eaten broken glass for breakfast, “You have any problem aiming it at other men?”

“Not enough so's you can tell it. Why? That part of the job?”

Tunstall laughed. “The way things are going, it's more than likely.”

He turned his attention to Falcon. “You looking for work, too, Falcon?”

Falcon shook his head. “Not at the present time. I'm on my way to Fort Sumner. I hear there's a saloon there I might be able to buy an interest in.”

“Oh, you mean Beaver Smith's place, The Drinking Hole?”

Falcon nodded. “John Chisum told me he might be interested in making a deal, if the price were right.”

“It's a prosperous establishment. Gets a lot of trade from both the soldiers stationed at the fort, and from the surrounding ranches. Of course, old Beaver is getting along in years. He might be willing to take in a partner.”

Dick Brewer and Charlie Bowdre stood up. “Sittin' here and jawin' ain't gettin' those cattle took care of, Mr. Tunstall. We'd better get on back to the ranch.”

Tunstall nodded at the Kid. “Take Mr. Bonney with you and get him some clean clothes and set him up in the bunkhouse. Show him around and fill him in on what our situation is, so he'll know what we need.”

“Yes, sir.”

The Kid shook hands with Tunstall, then turned to leave. He grinned and touched the brim of his hat. “See ya' around, Falcon. I like to turn a card or two on occasion, so I'll look up your place on my day off. I still owe you for the meal.”

“So long, Kid. You take it easy, you hear?”

After they left, Tunstall said, “You in a hurry, Falcon, or have you got time for some coffee?”

“Always time for
cafecito,
John,” he said, and pulled out a chair. He just couldn't bring himself to keep calling someone his own age or younger mister any more.

Tunstall took a pot off the stove, poured a cup for Falcon, and freshened his own. While Tunstall was preparing their drinks, Falcon took the chance to study McSween. He was a typical western lawyer, with slicked back hair, a slight paunch that strained the front of his vest and bulged over his belt, and a face with a weak chin and expression that told Falcon he wouldn't be a man he'd want to depend on in a fight. He looked to be the type to cut and run at the first opportunity.

Tunstall, on the other hand, seemed to Falcon to have steely-eyed determination written all over him. His green eyes and fair skin and accent marked him as a man from a long way off, but he had a quiet strength, and Falcon bet he was a born leader whose men would go through fire for him if he asked.

“If you don't mind my saying it, John, it appears to me you're more interested in hiring guns than punchers,” Falcon asked.

Tunstall nodded. “Yes, unfortunately that is the case. We're on the verge of a range war here, Falcon.”

“Over what? There seems to be plenty of water and feeding ground to go around.”

“There are two Irishmen, J.J. Dolan and John Riley, who are behind most of the trouble—”

When Tunstall mentioned the names, McSween scowled and muttered, “Bastards!” under his breath.

“These chaps own the large general store at the other end of town—used to be called La Placita before they bought it from Lawrence Murphey,” Tunstall continued, ignoring the interruption. “Now they hold a virtual monopoly of the county's trade. In addition, they have close ties to influential territorial officials in the capital at Santa Fe, known as the Santa Fe Ring. Their bloody friends there have given them complete control of all government contracts for supplying beef to army posts and Indian reservations.”

Falcon tasted his coffee, then said, “These two must have a sizable spread to be able to sell that much beef to the government.”

Tunstall gave a bitter smile. “Not a bloody head. They buy every bit of the meat they sell from the other ranchers around here, at rock bottom prices, and then sell it to their friends in Santa Fe at a huge profit, which they then spread around to buy more power in the capital.”

“Buy it, hell!” McSween interrupted, his face turning beet red, starting to wheeze. “Get their friend Jesse Evans and his gang to steal most of it, by my reckoning.”

Tunstall shook a finger at McSween. “Now, take it easy, Alex. You know we can't prove that, and besides, you know when you get angry your asthma starts to act up.”

“I can see how that would not make the cattlemen around here very happy,” Falcon said.

“And, to add insult to injury, until I opened my store they were able to charge whatever they wanted to the ranchers for their supplies. The owners weren't able to complain, or they'd be cut off from buying from La Placita. They pretty much had things their own way in Lincoln County and the surrounding Pecos Valley until I decided to make a change.”

“Oh?”

“John Chisum and I saw no reason why mere merchants, with little or no experience in cattle raising, should have a corner on the government contracts, or why we ranchers who owned vast herds should not deal directly with the government as beef suppliers. So, John and I hired Alex McSween here, a jolly good lawyer, and we organized a number of the smaller ranchers and farmers who were unable to get credit from La Placita, to go up against Dolan and Riley. I opened this store, and we began to try to get some of the contracts directly. John Chisum and Alex and I also opened a bank to help our cattlemen friends who need it.”

“I can see where that would cause some hard feelings from the Dolan and Riley factions.”

Tunstall nodded. “It certainly has. By spreading our own money around Santa Fe, we've been able to make some inroads into their business, and have gotten a few contracts of our own. The problem is they have Lincoln pretty much sewed up, and they control Sheriff Brady and his cronies lock, stock, and barrel. Falcon, it's a powder keg, just waiting to explode.”

“So that's why you're hiring men who are handy with pistols as cowhands?”

“Yes. I'm afraid that sooner or later the whole matter will be decided by who has the greater firepower.”

Falcon finished his coffee and stood. “Well, thanks for the drink, and good luck to you and Mr. Chisum. I know from things my father told me that he's a good man.”

Tunstall rose and shook Falcon's hand. “He's one of the best, as was your father, to hear him tell it. Good luck, Falcon. When you come back to Lincoln, consider my house yours for as long as you need it.”

McSween didn't stand, but tipped his hat. “See you around, Falcon.”

“You can bet on it, Alex.”

As Falcon walked out to his horse, he wondered just what kind of snake's nest he and the Kid were getting into.

“One thing,” he muttered, “it sure as hell won't be boring around here.”