Rage of Eagles (11 page)

Falcon walked down to the henhouse. Maybe a varmint had gotten in there. But no, the hens were settled in their nests.

That left the barn. Falcon circled wide around and came up at the rear of the barn. Hell was raising it in his stall. Falcon smiled. Someone was in the barn. But it would be the last barn they ever entered if whoever it was made the mistake of getting into the stall with Hell. Hell was one of the meanest horses Falcon had ever seen . . . other than some of the ones his pa used to ride.

Falcon pushed open the door and stepped inside, pistol in his hand.

A shadow stood up and said, “Don't shoot. I'm friendly. It's about time we met, Falcon MacCallister.”

“I can just make out your hands,” Falcon warned. “Move your arms and you're a dead man.”

The man in the shadows chuckled. “Relax, Falcon. I'm a United States deputy federal marshal.”

“Name?”

“I'd best keep that a secret for the time being. I was sent into this area to find and arrest you. But I never did believe what those warrants said happened over in Utah. I tried to pet that horse or yours. Bastard tried to bite me.”

“It's a wonder you still have a hand.”

“You want to put up the gun, now?”

“No. Not yet. Tell me more.”

“Can't say as I blame you. All right. Long before the warrant on you was lifted, I started smelling the stink of all the rotten goings-on in this part of Wyoming. But I can't do very much about it right now.”

“Why?”

“It's all political, Falcon. Big money at work here, and big money puts politicians deep into those monied pockets.”

“Does it reach all the way to the president of the United States?”

“If it does, it will never be proven.”

“Nice system we have in place.”

“Believe me, Falcon, as time progresses and the nation grows, it will get much worse.”

“Hopefully, we won't be around to witness that.”

“I share your sentiments.”

Falcon holstered his pistol and started to move toward the man standing in the shadows. The federal marshal held up one hand in warning.

“Don't, Falcon. What you don't know can't be tortured out of you.”

Falcon stopped. “The cattlemen's alliance has done that to people?”

“Oh yes. Rape, torture, murder, extortion ... you name it, they've had their greedy hands in it.”

“And the government can't do anything to stop it?”

“Certain elected and appointed people in the government won't do anything to stop it.”

“So the small ranchers and the farmers in this area are on their own, right?”

“That's pretty much the way it is now, and pretty much the way it's going for be for some time.”

“Until ... what changes?”

“Back east, the public doesn't know what is really happening out here. To them, this is still wild and woolly country, untamed. Savage Indians, wild cowboys who settle every issue with a gun. People don't carry guns back east, Falcon. They have policemen and courts and judges; that's how they settle disputes, not with gunplay. But they need beef back east, and the big ranchers can supply that beef. And the big ranchers have a huge voice back east when it comes to the press. The public is getting only one side of the story, and they will continue getting only one side of the story.”

“So everything is stacked against the little man.”

“Unfortunately, yes.”

“No immediate relief in sight?”

“None whatsoever. And I doubt there will be any help for years. The sheriffs in every county in the northern part of this state are bought and paid for by the cattlemen's cartel. You'll get absolutely no help from them.”

“Why are you telling me this?”

“I can't come close to making the odds even for you and the people you're trying to help, but I can at least warn you what you're up against.”

“But no help for us from the government?”

“None. It's going to have to get a hell of a lot worse before the government will be forced to step in. And that will probably come about by an outraged public all over America.”

“I know that many small ranchers and farmers in the area have written letters to the government.”

“They never got past some obscure clerk in a dusty office.”

“I do appreciate you telling me this.”

“It's about all I can do. I'll be around, but for the most part, my hands are tied.”

Falcon stepped to one side and the shadowy figure walked past him and out the rear door of the barn without another word being exchanged between the two men.

Falcon stood in the silence and listened for the sound of a horse. He heard nothing. The federal marshal must have left his horse some distance away.

Falcon walked over to Hell and stroked the animal's nose. The big horse nickered softly. Anyone else who had tried to touch Hell would have immediately been minus several fingers.

“Interesting little talk I just had, ol' boy,” Falcon whispered. “But it damn sure pointed out plain and clear the direction the little man has to take against the cattlemen's alliance.”

Falcon lit a lantern and inspected the still damp earth just outside the rear barn door. There were his own bootprints, and the prints of a person walking away from the area. Those prints had a clearly visible V-shaped cut in the right boot heel.

Falcon squatted there for a few moments. He wouldn't tell John Bailey about the federal marshal. No point in further depressing the rancher; the situation was bad enough as it was without adding to it.

All Falcon could do was wait for the cattlemen's alliance to make the next move.

* * *

Falcon told no one about his meeting with the federal marshal. All the hands stayed close for the next several days, for there was plenty to keep them busy. In the middle of the week, Falcon, Wildcat, and Stumpy hitched up teams to three wagons and pulled out early for the old trading post. Falcon had ordered enough supplies to last, hopefully, until the end of the summer. He had also ordered enough ammunition to start a major war.

A drifting cowboy had stopped at the Rockingchair the day before and told his story about approaching the Snake ranch to see about work. He had known nothing of the trouble in this part of Northern Wyoming. He said he had never seen so many hired guns in all his life. He said a man would be hard-pressed to find a real cowboy in the whole bunch. Falcon told him about a small rancher over east of the Rockingchair who needed a hand and the man thanked him and headed that way.

“So the hardcases have arrived,” Stumpy said, during a rest break at a shallow running creek.

“Looks that way. Some of them.”

“Least he didn't didn't say nothin' 'bout no kid with silver dollars on his vest and gunbelt.”

Falcon smiled. “Don't worry about the kid, Stumpy. I haven't lost any sleep over him.”

Stumpy cut his eyes to Falcon. “You that sure you can take him?”

“I've seen the kid do his stuff. He's a showboat. Most of the time he has to work himself up to gunplay. I don't think he's ever faced anyone who was really good with a gun.”

“Max Wells,” the older man corrected.

“Max was drunk. That's the way I heard it.”

“Maybe so.”

“Max was also gettin' on in years and he'd 'llowed hisself to get fat,” Wildcat said. “And careless. Thought his reputation could get him out of any trouble. He was wrong.”

“You was there?” Stumpy asked. “I didn't know that.”

“I was there. Little town in Arizona. Max's best days was long behind him and he'd taken the job as marshal just to have somethin' to do. Max hadn't pulled iron on nobody in five, six years. The kid comes sashayin' into town, makin' his brags. Backed Max into a corner and forced him to draw. But as drunk as he was, Max still cleared leather 'fore the kid plugged him.”

“My pa knew Max Wells,” Falcon said. “Rode with him a time or two. Said he was a good man as long as he stayed off the bottle.”

“That was his undoin', all right,” Wildcat agreed. “I believe he'd a taken the kid sober.”

“We'll never know,” Falcon said, standing up from his squat by the creek. “But if he braces me, I'll kill him. I got no use for people like the kid. All right, boys, let's push on. We're going to have a slow pull back to the ranch.”

* * *

“I never seen so many supplies in all my borned days,” the trading post owner allowed. “I had to store some of them in the barn. I don't think them three wagons you brung will hold 'em all.”

“Then we'll come back another day for what's left,” Falcon told him. “Soon as we finish this coffee, let's get them loaded up and get out of here before trouble shows up.”

“You expectin' trouble?” the post owner asked.

“The way this country is filling up with hired guns?” Falcon put it as a question.

“Good point,” the man agreed. “Say, you heard anythin' 'bout the Silver Dollar Kid comin' in?”

Falcon sighed. He was already getting weary about hearing the name of that crazy killer. “I heard Nance Noonan hired him. Don't know if he's here yet or not.”

“I heard he's faster than Billy the Kid.”

“Billy isn't fast,” Falcon corrected. “He's just about half nuts, that's all.”

“You've seen Billy the Kid?”

“I've seen him. He didn't impress me.”

“Well, I'll be damned! Have some more coffee and I'll help you get loaded. Tell me about Billy the Kid.”

“Not that much to tell. If he ever had a stand-up face-off in the street with anybody who was any good, I haven't heard about it.”

“Who's the best?” the trading post owner asked.

“John Wesley Hardin,” Falcon said without hesitation. “The Texas gunfighter. But there's probably dozens out there just as good or better. They just haven't gone around looking for a name. John Wesley and Wild Bill Hickok faced each other a few years back. Neither of them would draw.”

“Hickok's dead, ain't he?”

“So I hear. Somebody name of Jack McCall shot him in the back over in Deadwood.”

“They hang him?”

“Not yet. I heard the first jury found him not guilty. Judge called for another trial. That jury found him guilty and sentenced him to hang.”

“Hickok was holdin' aces and eights,” Wildcat said. “McCall slipped up behind him and shot him in the back of the head. Hickok never made a sound, way I heard it. He just straightened up for a few seconds, then fell over dead.”

“How come he shot him?” the trading post owner asked.

“Don't no one really know.”

“I heard one story about the man claiming Hickok cheated him at cards,” Falcon said. “Then he changed that to claim that Wild Bill had killed his brother.”

“Had he?”

Falcon shook his head. “No trace of a brother was ever found.”

“When's he gonna swing?” Stumpy asked.

“Soon, probably.” He sat his coffee mug down on the counter. “Well, let's get to work, boys.” He smiled. “We've only got about three tons of supplies to load.” He looked at the post owner. “And don't forget those shotguns and cases of shells.”

“They're packed and ready to go.”

The men worked for over an hour, not working in a hurry, but getting a lot done and packing the boxes and crates and barrels of supplies carefully for the long pull back to the ranch.

They paused and looked up as the post owner came rushing out onto the loading dock after a trip back inside. “Trouble, boys. Snake riders comin' in.”

“How many?” Falcon asked.

“ 'Bout ten or so. They don't never ride nowheres 'ceptin' in a big bunch.”

“Somethin' tells me we're gonna be late gettin' back to the ranch,” Wildcat said, straightening up and mopping his sweaty face.

“Well, hell,” Stumpy said. “I want a beer anyways. It's time to take a break.”

“Lars is with 'em,” the post owner added softly. “And he's primed and cocked for trouble.”

“This should be very interesting, then,” Falcon said, stepping onto the loading dock. “Let's go meet Mr. Lars Gilman. It'll be my pleasure.”

Falcon, Stumpy, and Wildcat entered the post from the rear at the same time the Snake riders were coming in the front door. They reached the steps of the saloon at the same time. For a few seconds, it looked as though trouble would start right there while they were all jammed up, neither side willing to give an inch to clear the steps. The men stood and glared at one another for half a minute.

Finally, Wildcat took off his hat and with a sweeping gesture and a bow, said, “Oh, after you boys, please.”

“I'll be damned!” a Snake rider said. “You go first.”

“Oh, no,” Wildcat said. “I insist.”

“Hell, no!”

“Well, I want a beer,” Stumpy broke the impasse. “I'll go first.”

Stumpy shoved his way through the knot of men and a few Snake riders followed. Then Falcon and Wildcat, followed by the rest of the Snake bunch and the post owner, who was wearing a very worried expression.

Falcon, Stumpy, and Wildcat ordered beer. The Snake bunch ordered whiskey, then took their bottles and shot glasses to the tables and sat down. Stumpy and Wildcat positioned themselves at opposite ends of the plank bar. That left Falcon and Lars standing near the center the bar.

Falcon sipped his beer and ignored the young man. Falcon figured it would take at least a couple of shots of Who Hit John for Lars to get his courage worked up.

Several minutes ticked by, with no one saying a word. The Snake men glared at Stumpy and Wildcat. Stumpy and Wildcat grinned back at them and deliberately slurped their beer as loud as possible, followed by loud smacking noises and belches.

“That's disgusting!” Lars finally said, glaring at Wildcat. “Why don't you go outside and sit with the hogs?”

“If you don't like it in here, you can always leave,” Wildcat told him.

Falcon hid his smile. Just as Stumpy and Wildcat had done, Falcon had taken an instant dislike to Lars Gilman, accurately sensing that the young man was spoiled and arrogant and very much accustomed to getting his own way whenever he chose... no matter what the cost.

The Snake riders seated at the tables were edgy, not liking this situation. They were experienced gunhands, and knew if trouble started inside the saloon, neither side would emerge victorious. The two older men at the ends of the long bar had the better positions, for they were standing. And while they would surely go down, before they did they would put a lot of lead into the men seated. The Snake riders had seen right off that the two older men were each wearing two guns: one in leather, the other tucked down behind their gunbelts. The Snake riders also knew how dangerous these older men were, for they were the last of a breed known as mountain men, and there was no back-up in them.

“I guess you think these old men belchin' and carryin' on in public is funny,” Lars said, cutting his eyes to Falcon.

“It doesn't bother me, sonny boy,” Falcon replied, holding his beer mug in his left hand.

Lars tossed back another shot of whiskey and set the glass down with a bang. “Well, it bothers me.”

“I suppose you just might be a little bit more delicate than the rest of us,” Falcon said. “Your sense of propriety's much more easily bruised.”

Lars turned at the bar to face Falcon. “Huh?”

“That means you a pretty little flower, boy,” Wildcat said. “Maybe a petunia.”

“Now, you just wait a damn minute here!” Lars flared, his face reddening.

“Or maybe he's a black-eyed Susan,” Stumpy remarked. “Or a pretty little buttercup.”

A couple of the Snake riders ducked their heads and hid their smiles.

“Tell me, Mars,” Falcon said. “You shot any dogs belonging to little boys lately?”

“My name is Lars, damnit! Not Mars!”

“Oh, excuse me. Well, have you?”

“I don't know what you're talkin' about.”

“You're a liar, Gars,” Falcon said softly. Falcon cut his eyes. Stumpy had left the room and he wondered why.

Lars turned slowly to face Falcon. “No man calls me a liar!” Lars's face was beet red with anger.

“I just did, sonny boy. You killed Jimmy Bailey's little dog for no reason. And I'll tell you what you're going to do about it.”

“What
I'm
goin' to do?”

“That's right, Jars. What
you're
going to do. You're going to find Jimmy a puppy and bring it over to him and deliver it personally. That's what you're going to do.”

“When Hell freezes over!”

“Oh, I think it's going to be before then.”

Stumpy walked back into the saloon carrying one of the sawed-off shotguns. He took his position at the bar and broke open the Greener, loading up both barrels and snapping it closed. Then he smiled at the Snake riders.

One of the Snake hired guns sighed. A sawed-off shotgun at this range could kill or seriously wound half a dozen men.

Young Lars was on his own for this go-around.

Lars looked at the smiling Stumpy and the very lethal shotgun and turned a little green around the mouth, realizing that any move his men might make on his behalf could well result in their death.

“Don't you think that would be a nice gesture on your part, Bars?” Falcon asked.

“You go right straight to hell, mister!”

Falcon smiled and took off his gunbelt, laying it on the bar. He faced Lars. “Now then, you spoiled brat. Either tuck your tail between your legs and ride out of here, or stand up on your hind legs and fight.”

Lars knew he had to fight. He had absolutely no choice in the matter. If he didn't, no matter how much his father paid the men and told them to take orders from his son, they would not follow him. They would lose all respect.

Lars took a closer look at the man facing him. God, he was big, with muscles that bulged his obviously expensive shirt. Lars noticed the man's boots. Again he got the impression they were very expensive. Who the hell was this Val Mack?

But Lars was no coward. He'd had his share of rough and tumble fistfights, and he was not a little man. He'd worked hard all his life and his shoulders and arms were packed with muscle. He slowly took off his fancy gunbelt and laid the rig on the bar. He was very conscious that the eyes of all his men were on him. He watched as Falcon pulled on a pair of thin black riding gloves he'd taken from a hip pocket of his jeans. Lars wondered about that. He was not yet experienced enough as a fighter to know that a thin leather covering on the fists both protects the hands and enables a person to hit harder.

Lars suddenly lunged at Falcon. Falcon sidestepped and gave the younger man a hard shot to the belly. The air whooshed out of Lars and he grabbed at the bar for support. Falcon stepped back and let him catch his breath.

Lars cussed Falcon after he'd sucked in some air and again lunged at him. Falcon lashed out with a right and left that both connected on Lars's face. The blows stopped the blowhard cold. Lars shook his head to clear the cobwebs and stood for a moment, glaring at Falcon.

“You know where you can find a cute little puppy for Jimmy?” Falcon asked.

Lars spewed out a few cusswords about Falcon's question, Jimmy Bailey, and dogs in particular, and stepped in. Falcon let the younger man's blows fall on his shoulders, doing no real damage, although Lars thought he was inflicting a great deal of abuse.

Falcon abruptly shoved the man away and popped him on the nose, bringing a thin flow of blood.

Lars backed away and wiped his nose with the back of his hand. He stared down at the blood for a second, then began yelling. He seemed outraged at the sight of his own blood. He wiped his nose again and lifted his fists, finally getting some smarts about fighting this man who stood in front of him, smiling.

Lars stepped up to the invisible mark and flicked out a probing left. Falcon slapped it away. Lars tried a right and Falcon slipped a straight left through the gap and again connected with Lars's nose, snapping his head back and bringing a grunt of pain. Before Lars could recover, Falcon was all over him with lefts and rights, the blows smashing into the man's face and mouth and nose. This time, one of the blows flattened Lars's nose.

Falcon stepped back, allowing the younger man to catch his breath. He had to breathe through his mouth because of his damaged beak.

Lars was game, Falcon had to concede that. He plowed in, his eyes wild with fury and his fists pumping and windmilling. He connected with a fist to Falcon's head that stung and another hard fist to Falcon's jaw that drove the bigger man back. Falcon quickly recovered and stepped right back into the fray.

Falcon busted Lars solidly on one ear, which brought a yelp of pain, and followed that with a shot to the gut. Lars doubled over and Falcon hit him with a uppercut that straightened the man up, his eyes glazed over.

Falcon bored in with hard lefts and rights, pinning Lars against the bar. Falcon sensed the fight was nearly over. He hit Lars twice more, a very solid left and right, and Lars slumped down to the saloon floor. Falcon backed up and waited.

But Lars wasn't going to get up for a couple of minutes; he was hovering between consciousness and unconsciousness.

Falcon lowered his fists and pulled off his gloves, tucking them in a back pocket. He stepped to the bar and finished his beer, then signaled the post owner for a refill. None of the Snake riders made a move except to lift their shot glasses.

Falcon was halfway through his beer before Lars groaned and tried to stand up on very wobbly legs and rubber knees. He didn't make it, slumping back down until he could will his head to cease its spinning.

“I expect you to personally bring Jimmy a puppy,” Falcon said. “All bathed and prettied up. A nice friendly little dog. You hear me, Lars?”

Lars groaned a reply.

“I'll take that as a yes.” He turned and looked at the Snake riders. “You boys be sure to remind Lars and his father about the puppy. I wouldn't want a disappointed little boy. Understood?”

Several of the Snake hands nodded their heads.

“That's fine,” Falcon said. “I'm glad we got all that straightened out.” He looked down at Lars. “Right, Lars?”

Lars groaned.

“I'm glad to hear it.”

Falcon rubbed his jaw and smiled ruefully. Lars could hit, and hit hard, no doubt about that. He just didn't know how to fight. And Falcon doubted the young man would live long enough to learn, unless he had a drastic change in attitude.

Falcon finished his beer and turned to his men. “Let's ride, boys. We've got a ways to go.” He looked down at Lars, sitting amid the cigar butts, squashed hand-rolled cigarette butts, and tobacco juice. “I'll see you in a few days, Lars. When you personally bring the puppy dog to Jimmy.”

Falcon, Stumpy, and Wildcat walked out of the saloon, all of them wearing smiles.

A few of the Snake riders were also smiling.

* * *

“You really think Lars will bring Jimmy a puppy?” John Bailey asked his foreman that evening after supper.

Kip nodded his head in the fast-fading light of day. “Yes I do, John. The son got his butt kicked over this puppy. It's a matter of honor to the Gilman name now. Miles just might even come along with the son.”

“Be a sight to see,” John said softly. He grunted. “Been many a year since Miles has been over here.”

“I said he might come along.”

“I think he will, Kip, now that you mention it.”

“Well, if he does, it'll be for more than one reason. And you know it.”

“To check out the place. Yeah, I know it.”

“Maybe he'll bring the kid with him.”

“The kid?”

“The Silver Dollar Kid.”

John spat on the ground. “It'd be like him to do that. He always did like to show off his pretties.”

Kip chuckled as the shadows deepened around the ranch. “Maybe Miles thinks just the sight of the Kid will scare us all off.”

John carefully rolled him a smoke then handed the sack and papers to his longtime friend. “That just might have done it 'fore Val Mack showed up. Or whatever his name is.”

The foreman nodded his head in agreement. He rolled his cigarette and said, “Cookie thinks he knows who Val Mack really is. He just can't pull the name up. He swears he's seen him before.” Kip thumb-popped a match into flames and lit up.

“And you know too, don't you, Kip?”

“I got me an idea, John. But it's so far-fetched it's unreasonable.”

“Who do you think he is?”

“I think Val Mack is really Falcon MacCallister.”

That shook the rancher right down to his boots. He cut his eyes and stared at his foreman for a long moment. “Jamie MacCallister's boy?”

“Yep. I seen the boy 'bout fifteen years ago down in Colorado. Just the one time it was. He's older now, heavier by a few pounds. But he's still the spittin' image of his pa.”

Cookie had limped up to lean against the corral rail. The older man nodded his head. “It's him all right. Now that you've dug up the name, it fits. I seen him years back when I was heppin' push them beeves up from the south. The boy was dressed all in buckskins and looked 'bout as wild and untamed as them Cheyenne he was travelin' with.”

“Well, I'll just be damned!” John Bailey breathed. “Falcon MacCallister workin' for me. Lord, the MacCallisters is the richest family in the state. Maybe in the whole west. They're worth millions of dollars, way I hear it.”

“For a fact, John,” Kip said. “The grandpa found all sorts of gold and silver and marked the locations. He personally never had much use for wealth. He give it all to Falcon's pa. Jamie used some of the money to buy land—thousands of acres of land. He bought MacCallister's valley. That piece of land stretches for fifty, sixty miles, runs north and south, I believe, and it's about twenty or thirty miles wide. The MacCallisters own it all, 'ceptin' what they sold to friends. Then he bought the land east and west of the valley and bought mines all over the west. He done it all on the sly, without nobody 'ceptin' his wife knowin' anything 'bout it. He hired lawyers and bankers in big cities to invest his money wisely, and they done it, too. He bought stock in railroads and factories and inventions that nobody thought would prove out. But they did. When Jamie was killed a few years back, he was the richest man west of the Mississippi. He left it all to his kids. But most of them was already wealthy in their own right.”