Rage of Eagles (12 page)

“And Falcon, so the stories go, was always the wild one, sort of like his pa,” Cookie said. “Always wantin' to see new country, and always takin' off to travel the high country alone. He finally settled down and married him some sort of Injun princess, a half-breed French-Cheyenne woman and they had several kids. She was kilt a couple of years back and Falcon hit the high lonesome, all full of grief, trackin' down the men who kilt his wife.”

“That's the story, all right,” Kip said.

“But I heard somebody sayin' Falcon was wanted for killin' two lawmen over in Utah . . .” John paused and sighed. “All right, now the pieces of the puzzle is comin' together. Those lawmen was Noonan's. Brothers of Nance Noonan, wasn't they? A federal marshal and a local sheriff, way I heard it.”

“That's the way I heard it,” Kip said, pinching out the butt of his smoke.

“And Falcon MacCallister is workin' right here on the Rockingchair range,” Cookie breathed. “Hard to believe.”

“You know all these old mountain men know who he is,” Kip said. “They was all friends of Falcon's pa. That's why they all come arunnin' when Falcon sent out the word for help.”

“Do we let on that we know?” Cookie asked.

John Bailey was silent for a moment, then he sighed and said, “We might as well. One of us is sure to let it slip accidental.” He smiled. “I sure would like to be there when Miles hears the news.”

Laughing, the three men walked toward the bunkhouse, to confront Falcon.

Within forty-eight hours the news had spread all over that part of Wyoming: Falcon MacCallister was working for the Rockingchair spread, and it was he who'd bought all those sections of land, and had all that money deposited in the local bank.

Miles Gilman sat in his darkened study and watched the evening shadows creep slowly around the room. He'd already sent a wire about Falcon to the local deputy federal marshal's office down at the territorial capital and received the bad news: The warrant had been lifted on Falcon. Falcon MacCallister was as free as an eagle.

“Falcon MacCallister,” Miles whispered. “Of all the people in the west to show up and take sides with John Bailey, it would have to be him. Damn!”

Miles sighed heavily and lifted the glass of whiskey. He started to take a sip, then grimaced and placed the glass back on the side table. Outside, several of the hands were playing with the little puppy he'd gotten for his son to take over to the Rockingchair ... whenever Lars was able to get out of bed, that is. Falcon had really given him a beating. Maybe tomorrow they could both ride over. Seventy-two hours was long enough for Lars to lollygag about in bed, getting waited on hand and foot by his sister. Disgusting!

Miles stood up and walked over to the window, watching for a moment as the hands played with the dog. It was a cute puppy. Miles had always like dogs.

He shook his head and turned away from the window.

Matters were going sour—he could feel it in his guts. But turning back was impossible . . . Miles knew that much for a certainty. Everything was in motion and rolling. It couldn't be stopped. This was one train that was going to go straight to the end of the track, and anyone who tried to stop it was going to get run over, and that was that.

And if that person's name happened to be Falcon MacCallister... too bad.

Nance was bringing a number of men up with him. My God, the man had seven brothers and about fifteen cousins alone. Probably forty hands, most of them drawing fighting wages. Add that number to Miles's crew and Rod Stegman's hands... God, it was an army.

An unstoppable army.

Miles sat down and picked up his glass of whiskey. Took a sip. He felt better after thinking it through. Yes, he did. He felt a few hunger pangs touch his stomach and wondered if the cook had any supper left.

Miles finished his drink and walked to the kitchen. Lars was sitting up in the den, Terri sitting beside him. Boy looked like a tree full of owls: both eyes discolored, lips still swollen some, one ear all puffed up. Miles wondered if his son had landed even one blow on Falcon. Probably not.

“We're going to take that puppy over to the Rockingchair in the morning,” Miles told his son. “Be ready to go at dawn.”

“I'm going too,” Terri announced.

Miles nodded his head, knowing it would be pointless to argue with the girl. “Fine. We'll make it a family affair. Where are your brothers?”

Terri shrugged her shoulders and looked at Lars. He mumbled, “Out with the herds.”

Miles's other sons didn't stay at the ranch much, preferring the line shacks to the big house. Miles didn't understand that, but didn't dwell much on it. They were all growed-up men and could do as they damn well pleased . . . and usually did.

Miles fixed him a plate of food and sat at the table in the kitchen and ate. Listening to Terri comfort Lars was enough to make a buzzard puke. He finished and walked back into the den.

Lars's sister had certainly done her part to spoil the boy rotten. She needled and poked fun at him, but loved him one hundred percent nonetheless.

“Daddy,” Terri said.

“Yes, darlin' girl?”

“How come we don't just ride up into ol' man Bailey's yard tomorrow and just shoot all them people right down dead when they aren't expectin' it? That way, don't you see, we could just have done it.”

Miles cleared his throat. Sighed. There was no doubt that Terri was as pretty as any sunset that God had ever graced the earth with. Unfortunately, while He blessed Terri with uncommon good looks, He shorted her on smarts. Terri could sometimes be as dumb as a post without even trying.

“Well, darlin', you see, there's gonna be six or eight rifles on us the whole time we're at John's spread. We try anything funny, and we're dead, baby.”

“Oh,” Terri said. “Well ... I guess John doesn't trust any of us very much, does he?”

“Uh ... no, darlin', he don't.”

“Well, that explains that, I guess.”

Miles suddenly decided he needed another drink, and headed for the study. He really loved his only daughter, but he also wished some nice young man would come along and marry her and take her away. Sometimes Terri near'bouts drove him slap nuts!

* * *

“Brought a pup for you, boy,” Miles told Jimmy.

“He says it,” Falcon said, looking at Lars. “Let him say it.”

“Here's your dog, boy,” Lars mumbled. The young man's lips were still swollen from the beating Falcon had given him. He spoke in low tones.

“Thanks, mister,” Jimmy said, taking the squirming puppy and running off to play.

“Miles,” John greeted the man.

“John. It's been a while.”

And that was the extent of their conversation.

Lars wasn't looking at anyone. He sat his saddle and kept his eyes downcast. But Terri was staring at Falcon, as was the lone hand with them. A young man with silver dollars on his hat, vest, and gunbelt.

“I've heard of you, Falcon MacCallister,” the kid said. “I reckon you've heard of me.”

“Can't say as I have, boy.”

The kid flushed at the slight. “I been around quite a bit, you know.”

“I didn't know it, but I'm sure glad to hear it. A young man ought to get around and see the country. It helps to broaden his horizons.”

Big Bob Marsh and the other mountain men were out of sight, in the barn, bunkhouse, and house, all armed with rifles and ready to bang in case of trouble.

And their absence did not escape the eyes of Miles Gilman.

Miles made another stab at conversation. “John, sell out to me and move away. You know I'll give you a fair price.”

John Bailey shook his head. “Miles, do you know how many years we've been out here?”

“A long time, John, that's for sure.”

“Twenty-six years, Miles. At least, that's my count. This is home. I've buried both kin and hands over yonder on the hill, and that's where I plan to be buried when it comes my time. I'm not sellin' out, to you or anybody else.”

Miles shook his head slowly. “Then I guess we got nothin' else to talk about, John.”

“I reckon not, Miles.”

Gilman cut his eyes to Falcon. “The name MacCallister don't mean a whole lot up here, mister.”

“Then I'll have to see to it that I leave some sort of lasting impression on the good people of this part of the country,” Falcon replied evenly. Then he smiled. “Won't I?”

Terri was still staring at Falcon, thinking: Lordy, what a handsome man. 'Bout the handsomest man I ever did see. And worth millions of dollars, too. My, my. She batted her eyes at him. Falcon ignored her.

“What's the puppy's name?” John asked. “The dog's got to have a name.”

“We didn't name it, John,” Miles told him. “Thought we'd leave that up to the boy.”

John nodded his head in agreement.

The Silver Dollar Kid continued to stare at Falcon, as did Terri.

“Well, uh, how's Martha, John?” Miles asked.

“She's well, Miles. We were speaking of you just the other day. The times we had, uh, before the troubles.”

Miles nodded his head. Then he frowned and said, “Before the troubles, John? Well, we been fightin' Injuns, outlaws, bad weather, low prices, squatters . . . seems like trouble's all we've known. But . . . I reckon I know what you mean.”

“I figured you would, Miles,” John said softly.

“Them days is gone, John. They ain't never gonna come again. It don't do no good to think about them.”

John shrugged his shoulders. “If that's the way you feel about it, I reckon not.”

Lars raised his battered face to Falcon. In a low, calm, and very deadly voice, he said, “I'm gonna kill you, MacCallister. I'm tellin' you that right now.”

Falcon smiled at him. “You going to do it facing me, boy, or back-shoot me?”

“There ain't no Gilman ever back-shot no man!” the father hotly protested.

“Just asking,” Falcon replied evenly.

“I'll call you out, MacCallister,” the son said, in that same low, deadly voice. “Count on it.”

“If you feel it has to be that way,” Falcon told him.

Jimmy ran past the men standing by the corral, talking with the visitors on horseback. The little puppy was barking happily and the boy was laughing. Neither of them realized they were running past life and death being discussed so lightly on this sunny summer morning.

“No man does to me what you done and gets away with it,” Lars said, his voice never changing from that low, deadly tone.

“You could have walked away from it,” Falcon reminded him.

“You know better,” Miles stepped in. “That ain't the way it's done out here. But I ain't my son, MacCallister. If me and you ever tie up, the outcome will be different.”

“I doubt it,” Falcon told the rancher. “But no one needs to tie up with anybody. There's land aplenty here for all. You and John Bailey came in here with a few head each of cattle and built a home, helped settle this land—probably did settle this part of the territory all by yourselves. You were friends for years while all that was going on. Then one of you got greedy and wanted what the other had, and good close friends became enemies. It can stop right here and now and . . .”

“No, by God, it can't!” Miles almost shouted the words. “It's gone too far for that. And John knows it. I've got to have grass and water for my cattle, and for my partner's cattle, and by God I'm going to get it.”

“No matter who gets hurt in the process?” Falcon asked.

Miles Gilman refused to reply to that. He sat his saddle and glared at Falcon.

Martha and Angie stepped out of the house and began walking toward the gathering by the corral. Both of them carried rifles.

“Oh, Martha!” Miles blurted, embarrassment coloring his face. Faced with the situation, the rancher could not help himself. “Since when do you need a rifle to face me?”

“Since your riders began paying us visits at night, Miles,” the woman said, walking up to stand by her husband. “And your son there leading them.”

Miles's mouth clamped shut. He could not deny the charge with any conviction. But he had not authorized the raid, and had almost hit Lars when he'd heard of it. But now, sitting his saddle, he recalled his words of only a few days back, to start the killing of Rockingchair hands and either drive the rancher and his wife and family off their ranch or bury them. He shook his head and sighed in remembrance and experienced a few seconds of regret . . . but the contrition quickly passed.

“Did your daddy really fight at the Alamo?” Terri asked Falcon, lightening the moment without realizing she had done so.

Falcon could not help but smile at the young woman's words. He understood right then that he was not dealing with the brightest female in the territory. “Yes, he did.”

“My, my,” Terri said. She shifted her gaze to Angie. “I haven't seen you in a long time, Angie. I believe you were wearing that same dress last time I saw you.”

Falcon immediately backed up, putting some distance between himself and the two young women. Both John and Martha had told him there had never been any love lost between Terri and Angie, beginning when they were little girls.

“Oh, I probably was,” Angie replied very sweetly. But her eyes were flashing warning signs. “This is a ranch where everybody works, Terri. I don't sit around on my butt and stuff my face with imported chocolates the way some do.”

Terri had to think about that for a few seconds. Then it finally dawned on her that she'd been insulted. There really wasn't anything wrong with Terri's mind: She just hadn't used it very much. It was soft from lack of exercise, like much of the rest of Terri.

But not Angie. Angie had been milking cows and chopping wood and working the fields since she was knee-high to her mother. Angie was tanned of face and strong of arm.

“Are you talkin' about me, Angie?” Terri demanded.

“I'm sure standing right here talking to you, aren't I?”

“You still got a smart mouth, don't you?”

Terri was off her horse in a flash and marching up to Angie.

“Now, girls!” Miles said.

“Now, girls!” John said.

The Silver Dollar Kid was sitting his saddle, his mouth hanging open.

Falcon backed still further away, sensing there was going to be one hell of a fight here any second.

Martha shook her head and backed up.

“You take back what you just said about me!” Terri demanded.

“Go jump in the creek!” Angie told her.

Terri rared back and took a wild punch at Angie and the fight was on.