Song of Eagles (8 page)

Over the course of the next several weeks Falcon settled into the routine of respected citizen and business owner of Fort Sumner, and found he was actually enjoying himself for the first time in several months. He almost forgot the reason he was roaming the country, away from his home in Valley, Colorado—the horrible death of his beloved wife Marie. Almost.

He began to learn the names of the townsfolk, and they, in turn, began to frequent The Drinking Hole in greater numbers than ever. Falcon began serving light lunches of steak sandwiches and sliced tomatoes and canned peaches and such. Many of the townspeople began to have lunch at his establishment, doing deals and talking business while eating and drinking.

He also found that the Kid had been right about the stranger he hired to bartend, Pat Garrett. The man was a natural born politician. Tall, lean, handsome, he had a way of making people feel at ease, encouraging them to talk about themselves so they stayed in the Hole longer and drank and ate more. Business had never been better. Falcon even found himself liking the big man, and ended up telling him some of the story of his past over long conversations during slow periods.

Garrett never drank while on duty, and kept a pot of fresh coffee to drink while talking. Falcon found Garrett to be a shrewd judge of character, almost as good as he himself was at reading people. Perhaps that was why he was such a good gambler, making more money in his off hours at poker than Falcon was paying him to tend bar.

Falcon noticed that certain group of businessmen from Lincoln were making the long trip around the mountain to Fort Sumner several times a week, to have lunch or a late dinner huddled at a corner table, heads together, speaking in low tones.

He couldn't understand why they would travel all that way to eat and talk when there were several establishments in Lincoln that would have served their purpose just as well. He supposed it was because they didn't want to be seen together by the people of Lincoln. Like all good businessmen, he kept his suspicions to himself and his mouth shut, and listened whenever he could.

James J. Dolan, Lawrence G. Murphey, and Sheriff Brady were becoming almost regulars at the lunches, often accompanied by a man Falcon was told was a lawyer named Billy Matthews.

Murphey, who drank to extreme, often became loud during these meetings, and Falcon was able to overhear some of his comments. Tunstall's name was mentioned, along with Chisum's, and on several occasions, there were heated discussions with a known gunfighter named Jesse Evans.

On one of those days, Evans stayed behind after the others left and signaled Garrett for another drink. Falcon, who was standing at the bar, offered to carry it to the gunny's table.

When he handed the drink to Evans, the man said, “Your name be Falcon MacCallister?”

“Yes.”

“I've heard of you, MacCallister. Word around is you're pretty handy with them six-killers you wear on your belt.”

Falcon wondered where this conversation was headed. “I know how to use them if the need arises.”

“I also hear you've killed so many men you've lost count of the actual number.”

Falcon inclined his head at a chair, and Evans nodded for him to have a seat.

“You hear a lot for a man I don't know. Just what business are you in, Mr. Evans? You don't have the look of a cow puncher.”

Evans laughed, a nasty, sarcastic laugh. “Me? I'm not a cowboy. I make my living with my wits, MacCallister, just as I've heard you do.”

Falcon shook his head. “I've never hired my gun out, if that's what you mean. And to answer your earlier question, the only men I've killed have been those who have done me or mine wrong. I never shot a man for profit, or in the course of doing business.”

“Well, if I was to make an offer, a very good offer I might add, would you consider doing some business for some friends of mine, if the need arose?”

“By friends, do you mean J.J. Dolan and L.G. Murphey?”

Evans frowned and his eyes narrowed. “What makes you say that?”

Falcon shrugged. “They seem to be the only people I ever see you in here talking with.”

“Well, what if it was them? Would you take on a job if it was offered?”

Falcon shook his head. “I told you, I don't hire my gun out, to anyone. Besides, I already have a job.”

Evans smiled—at least, his lips curled up—but there was no humor in his eyes. “Good, 'cause my friends were a bit worried that if push came to shove you just might stick your nose into something that ain't none of your business.”

“Are you talking about their campaign against John Tunstall and John Chisum?”

Evans straightened in his seat. “What do you mean by that, MacCallister?”

Now Falcon smiled, also without any mirth. “Oh, I hear things now and again.”

“What things?”

“Things like you've been selling a lot of cattle to Murphey and Dolan for their government contracts, cattle you say you've been buying in Mexico, but no one's ever seen you riding toward the border and these cattle look a lot fatter and bigger than the usual Mexican steers.”

Evans' hand inched toward his hip. “Those are dangerous things to be hearing, MacCallister. A man could get killed for repeating accusations like that.”

Falcon moved his chair a bit and leaned back, his hand loose on the arm of his chair. “Don't even think about drawing on me, Evans. You'd be dead before you cleared leather.”

“You that good, MacCallister?”

“Like you say you've heard, there are more men than I can count who found out how good I am.”

Evans put his hand back on the table, finished his drink and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, his eyes worried. If they had been playing poker, Falcon thought, he would have had the look of a man drawing to an inside straight with his last dollar in the pot.

“As they say, MacCallister, curiosity killed the cat.”

Falcon shrugged. “I'd be worried if I was a cat. But I'm not. I am, however, a friend of John Chisum's and John Tunstall's, and I will be very disappointed if anything happens to either of them. Do you understand me, Evans?”

Evans glared with hate as he reached in his pocket and threw a couple of coins on the table. He got up and stalked out of the Hole without a backward glance.

Falcon took the money and gave it to Garrett. “I couldn't hear what you said, bossman,” Pat told him, “but I'd say you put a sizeable burr under Jesse Evans's saddle just now.”

“I hope so, Pat. I gave him some advice that I hope he takes.”

“That wouldn't be about him shopping for cattle on Chisum's and Tunstall's spreads, would it?”

Falcon looked at Pat.

Pat shrugged. “I've been hearing things.”

Falcon laughed. “The way people have been hearing things around here, you'd think this was a ladies' sewing circle instead of a saloon.”

Just then, the Kid walked through the batwings, looking back over his shoulder at the departing Jesse Evans.

“Howdy Falcon, Pat.”

“Hello, Kid,” Falcon said.

“I just saw Jesse Evans leavin' here with an expression like he'd been sucking on lemons.”

“Yes. He's been meeting here regularly with Dolan and Murphey from over in Lincoln.”

The Kid frowned. “What're they doin' over here? Kind'a long way to come for a drink, isn't it?”

“That's what I've been thinking, too, Kid. Seems those three and Sheriff Brady like to come over here to talk business, two, maybe three times a week.”

The Kid scowled. “That Sheriff Brady is crooked as a snake's trail. Mr. Tunstall tells me he's been trying to serve some papers on him and Mr. McSween about some old cattle deal or something.”

Falcon's gaze became thoughtful. “Kind of makes you wonder what a sheriff and supposedly respectable businessmen have to do with a known outlaw like Jesse Evans, doesn't it?”

“I don't care who they're dancin' with, long as they leave my boss alone,” the Kid snarled.

“What are you doing here in the middle of the day, Kid? Aren't you supposed to be working?” Falcon asked.

“Yeah, but the boss is staying out at the ranch and doesn't need me to watch his back out there. He asked me to come in to town and invite you out for dinner tonight. He wants to have a palaver with you.”

“What about?”

“Beats me. He just told me to bring you back, if you're willin'.”

Falcon shrugged. “I don't see any reason why not. I haven't had a home-cooked meal in quite a while. Is the cook out at the Rio Feliz any good?”

“She's a Mexican señora, wife of one of the vaqueros Mr. Tunstall uses to herd the beeves. Weighs about three hundred pounds and cooks a steak so tender you don't need a knife to cut it.”

“Then let's go. The sooner we get there, the sooner we eat.”

The Kid hesitated. “Uh, Falcon, you might want to go and put on a clean coat, spruce up a bit.”

Falcon raised his eyebrows. “For supper?”

The Kid shrugged. “It's some custom the boss brought over here from England. He says they always 'dress for dinner' over there.”

Falcon shook his head. “The man has a lot to learn about life in the West,” he murmured to himself.

Falcon saddled Diablo and the Kid rode the sorrel Tunstall had given him and they set off for the Rio Feliz ranch about an hour before dusk.

As they rode, Falcon asked, “By the way, Kid, how did Tunstall's ranch come by the name Rio Feliz?”

“The ranch is bounded by the Feliz River, a small, spring-fed branch off the Pecos River. Since it's spring-fed, it has water in it all summer, even in times of drought, so they called it the Feliz, which means happy or lucky in Mexican lingo.”

Falcon nodded. “That's certainly something to be happy about in this country.” He glanced around at the desert-like sand and gravel, with its creosote and mesquite bushes and frequent low-lying cacti. “Hell, even a horned toad would have trouble finding a drink out here when the summer heat's on.”

After a ride of forty-five minutes, they crested a small hillock and crossed the boundary of the Rio Feliz ranch.

The Kid reined his mount to a halt. “Hold on a minute, Falcon. Lookie over there.” He pointed to where a small dust cloud was rising against the setting sun.

Falcon shaded his eyes with his hand. He could see a group of men cutting about fifteen steers out of a larger group. “Looks like some of Tunstall's drovers are moving some of his beeves.”

The Kid shook his head. “Trouble is, ain't no one supposed to be in this part of the range today. All the punchers are workin' over on the eastern side, not the western one.”

Warning bells sounded in Falcon's mind. He wondered if the trouble he had been expecting between Tunstall and Chisum and the Dolan group was about to start. “You think we're looking at some rustlers?”

“I don't see no other explanation,” the Kid said, his face hard, covered with hatred.

Falcon reached into his saddlebag and brought out a pair of binoculars, focusing them on the riders who could be seen herding a small group of cattle in the distance. He saw that one of the men was Jesse Evans, wearing the same shirt he had worn in The Drinking Hole.

“I think you're right, Kid, unless Tunstall has hired Jesse Evans. That's him, and some of the men I've seen him hanging around with over in Fort Sumner.”

The Kid's eyes narrowed. “Then, these are gonna be the last cattle that hombre ever steals from my boss!”

He pulled a Winchester carbine out of his saddle boot and looked over at Falcon, spitting in the dirt before speaking.

“Why don't you wait right here, Falcon? This ain't a job you signed on for.”

Falcon pulled his own .4440 carbine out of his saddle boot and shucked a shell into the chamber. “Don't be dumb, Kid. I count at least ten riders in that group.” He grinned. “That makes the odds about right for the two of us, but a bit much for one man.”

The Kid's eyes took on a strange, feverish light, and his lips curled up in the grin Falcon had come to know meant danger. Falcon realized that the Kid seemed to enjoy situations where blood was likely to be spilled.

“Then let's ride, pardner,” the Kid snarled out of the side of his mouth.

Instinctively, both men turned their broncs to the west, to circle around and come at the rustlers with the setting sun at their backs, seeking any advantage they could get against superior numbers.

When they were about two hundred yards from the riders Falcon pulled Diablo to a halt and brought out a short, doublebarreled Greener ten gauge shotgun. He broke it open and checked the loads, then snapped it shut and slung it over his shoulder by a rawhide strap affixed to the barrel and stock. He put an extra ten rounds in his coat pockets, unhooked the hammer thong on his Colt pistols, and nodded at the Kid. He was ready to do battle, to the death.

Falcon and the Kid both brought their carbines to their shoulders and aimed. “I'll take the left riders, you take the right,” Falcon said.

Almost as one, the two carbines exploded, kicking back and sending foot-long spears of flame into the darkening light.

Seconds later, Falcon saw two riders throw their arms up, blown out of their saddles, to fall and be trampled by the milling herd of cattle.

The Kid and Falcon put spurs to mounts and charged, flicking the levers of their carbines as they rode to put fresh shells in the firing chambers.

Falcon leaned low over Diablo's neck, to make a smaller target when the return fire started. He could hear the big stallion snorting and grunting as he galloped as fast as the wind toward the rustlers.

Jesse Evans saw his men fall and whirled his horse to see what had happened. He recognized the charging riders and screamed at his remaining men.

“Yo! We got company comin'!”

He pulled his rifle out of his saddle boot, put it to his shoulder, and began to fire as fast as he could pull the trigger and jerk the lever.

Mack Maloney and Joey Jacobs, the two men closest to Evans, pulled pistols, leaned over the necks of their broncs, and rode at full tilt toward Falcon and the Kid, firing over their horses' heads.

A bullet tore through the shoulder padding on Falcon's suit just as he pulled the trigger on his carbine. His bullet sped through the air, entered Joey Jacobs' left eye, and blew out the back of his head, knocking him backward out of his saddle.

A moment later, the Kid's slug tore into Mack Maloney's chest, shattering his breast bone and ricocheting into his heart, stopping it before Mack knew he was hit. He grunted, spitting frothy blood from grimacing lips, and slumped in his saddle.

Evans pointed to Indian Bob, a half-breed Mescalero outlaw who rode with him, and yelled, “Kill those bastards!”

Indian Bob and Curley Monroe both whirled their mounts around and charged toward the Kid and Falcon.

Falcon's carbine clicked on an empty chamber. “Damn!” he muttered. He was out of ammunition. In one motion, without slowing his horse, he booted the carbine and swung the Greener express gun around on its strap to his shoulder.

Indian Bob's pistol fired from thirty yards, the bullet nicking Diablo's ear and scorching a shallow groove in Falcon's thigh. He eared back the hammers on the Greener and fired both barrels from the hip without aiming.

The big gun exploded, kicking back and almost unseating Falcon with the force of the twin 10 gauge shells filled with 00-buckshot. The .38 caliber size balls of lead flew in a deadly swarm toward Indian Bob. The molten slugs tore the left half of his horse's head off, then continued on and took off Indian Bob's left arm and leg at the joints, whirling him around and scattering bloody body parts into the desert sand. His body catapulted off his bronc to land in a
cholla
cactus, but he was beyond feeling any pain by then.

Curley Monroe's Smith and Wesson American pistol fired at the Kid from point-blank range as the two riders closed on each other. Monroe's slugs tore into the Kid's Stetson, sending it flying from his head.

Without even ducking the Kid aimed and pulled the trigger on his Colt. The hammer fell on an empty chamber.

Closer now, Curley Monroe grinned, seeing the Kid's gun was empty, and slowed his mount as he aimed at the Kid's chest for another shot.

Faster than a striking rattler, the Kid drew with his left hand and fired two quick shots, snapping them off left-handed without aiming.

One of the slugs buzzed by Curley's head, making him jerk to the side just in time to meet the other bullet as it entered his jaw, tearing the bone from his face, leaving nothing below his upper teeth but bloody tissue. He tried to scream in pain, but his throat was no longer there to make a sound.

As he rode by Falcon, holding his ruined face in his hands, Falcon swung the empty Greener by the barrel, hitting Curley in the forehead with the stock, crushing his skull and putting his lights out for good.

Evans and his two remaining hands turned their mounts around and leaned over their necks as they ran for their lives.

Billy sighted on the back of Evans' head and pulled the trigger on his Colt, but the bullet failed, a misfire, saving Evans' life . . . for the moment.

Falcon took his bandanna off and wrapped it around Diablo's ear, which was oozing blood. The furrow in his thigh wasn't bleeding at all, the heat of the bullet having cauterized the gash.

He walked Diablo over to the Kid, who was resting his sorrel next to the bloody remains of Indian Bob, entangled in the cholla cactus.

Falcon took out a stogie and lighted it with a lucifer. After he puffed it to life, he glanced down at what remained of Indian Bob and shook his head.

“Tough luck, fellah. I suspect a thing like that'll ruin your entire afternoon.”