Rage of Eagles (16 page)

The Wilsons' oldest boy, James, walked out onto the boardwalk, carrying a rifle. He stepped up to stand by his father. “I'm tired of people looking down at me and making fun of me because I'm a farmer. I'm not going to take it no more. I'm proud to be a farmer.”

“Good for you, son,” Jim said, his chest swelling with pride.

The Double N riders suddenly found themselves in a very bad situation. Two men behind them, men who, by the look of them, had been born with the bark on and ready to kill. Four people in front of them.

“That's Falcon MacCallister,” one of the Double N men blurted. “I seen him down in Colorado one time.”

That did it. All the fight went out of the hired guns, at least for the moment. None of them wanted to tangle face-to-face with Falcon MacCallister.

“We'll be headin' back to the saloon now,” an older rider said.

“Fine,” Falcon told him. “Me and my men will just stick around while the Wilsons do their shopping. I think it's a real shame when a decent family can't come into town and shop without being accosted by foulmouthed hoodlums.” Falcon smiled. “Don't you, buddy?”

The Double N man muttered something under his breath.

“What was that, buddy?” Falcon questioned. “I couldn't catch what you said.”

The man sighed and shook his head in disgust. He was in a hard bind and knew it. “I said you're right, Mr. MacCallister. That's what I said.”

“Well, I'm mighty glad to hear that,” Falcon told him. “That really makes me feel better knowing that someone is going to see to it that these punchers don't cause any more trouble. You are going to see to that, aren't you, buddy?”

This time the man's sigh was audible. “Yeah,” he said, resignation in his voice. “I'm goin' to see to that.”

“I have your word on that, buddy?” Falcon pressed.

“Yes, Mr. MacCallister,” the Double N rider said. “You have my word.”

“By golly, that shines,” Falcon replied, a smile on his lips. “Yes, sir, it really does. And I know you're a man of your word, aren't you, buddy?”

The Double N rider had to smile despite, or because of, the situation. MacCallister had boxed him in verbally and there was no way out without appearing to be a man of no character; a man whose word meant nothing. The Double N spokesman had to hand it to MacCallister: He had cooled the situation without gunplay and done it smooth as glass. “I keep my word, MacCallister. You can count on that.”

“That shines, buddy. That really shines.”

“And you can count on this, too,” the Double N rider added. “You can write in your tally book or tattoo on your arm or have it with your coffee: You and me will meet up another time when there ain't no women nor kids around.”

“I'm sure we will, buddy.”

“And my name ain't
buddy.
It's Les.”

“All right, Les. I'll make it a point to look you up sometime.”

“You be sure and do that, MacCallister. I don't take water for no man.”

“I didn't ask you to take water, Les. If you think I did, I apologize for it. I just asked you to control your friends and not talk dirty around women and kids. That's all. What's wrong with that?”

Les looked at him for a moment. “Puttin' it that way, nothin', I suppose.”

“Then we're all jam up and jelly, aren't we?”

“For the time bein', I reckon.”

“See you around, Les.”

Falcon stood on the boardwalk and watched the Double N riders walk back to the Purple Palace.

“Do I keep those pistols you took from those men, Falcon?” Jim asked.

“Yes. And you carry one with you at all times. Plowing, going to the well, slopping the hogs,
everywhere!
Understood?”

“I understand.”

Falcon turned and started back into the store.

“Where are you going?” Jim asked.

Falcon smiled. “To get me some peppermint candy.”

Falcon had him a hunch that once Les knocked back a couple of shots of hooch, he just might come looking for him. If so, it couldn't be helped. Falcon hoped that would not be the case, but if it was, so be it. Falcon had other errands to attend to in town, and he wasn't going to leave because of Les's hurt feelings, or whatever might be eating at the Double N rider.

Falcon bought the Wilson kids each a peppermint stick, then stood in front of the general store, chomping on his own stick of peppermint candy. He finished the candy, then stepped back inside and ordered a few supplies that were needed back at the ranch.

When he again stepped outside, he glanced down the street toward the Purple Palace. Les was standing outside, drinking from a bottle of whiskey and glaring down Falcon's way.

“Damn!” Falcon muttered.

He looked across the street from the store. Stumpy and Wildcat were still there, waiting for the trouble they both sensed was coming. And they both knew that Falcon would not leave town simply to ride away from that trouble. That wasn't the way of a western man.

Les knelt down and placed his bottle on the edge of the boardwalk, then stepped out into the street. He motioned to Falcon.

Falcon sighed. There it was.

The Double N crew exited the saloon, crowding the boardwalk in front of the Palace, watching and waiting. They stood in silence, waiting for the hook and draw from the two men who would face each other in the dusty street of the little town.

Reverend Watkins appeared at the far end of the street, holding a Bible.

“Don't do this!” the minister shouted. “A minor disagreement is not worth the life of a man.”

Les paid the preacher no attention as he walked to the center of the street and stopped, slowly turning to face Falcon's direction.

Falcon stepped off the boardwalk and walked slowly toward the center of the street.

“Somebody stop them!” Reverend Watkins shouted. “This is madness, I say, madness.”

“You think a few words are worth dying over, Les?” Falcon called.

“No man talks to me the way you done,” Les called.

“I avoided trouble, Les. That's all.”

“Well, you got a whole bunch of it now, MacCallister.”

“This is stupid, Les. No point to it.”

“I say different, MacCallister.”

“Stop this!” Reverend Watkins yelled. “Somebody stop these men.”

Les took a step and Falcon did the same. They were half a long block apart.

The shopkeepers and businesspeople of the town had, to a person, stepped outside to stand in silence on the boardwalk, watching the two men walk slowly toward the violent death of at least one of them.

Stumpy and Wildcat had moved up the block, to stand across from the Purple Palace, facing the Double N crew. But all doubted there would be any interference. This was between Les and Falcon; to interfere would not be the western way. It would be in violation of an unwritten code of conduct. In the west, if a man strapped on a gun, he was expected to use it if he was called out. If he refused, he was branded a coward, and nobody, even those who might be opposed to six-gun justice, would have much to do with that man from then on. In the days of the wild west, there was no place for a coward.

“Oh, Lord!” Reverend Watkins lifted his face toward the heavens and began his prayer. “I beg You to ...”

“Shut up, Preacher!” Les called. “This ain't none of your concern.”

Watkins stepped out into the street.

“Get him out of here,” Falcon called. “Somebody get the preacher off the street.”

The bank president stepped off the boardwalk and hustled toward the minister. He took him by the arm and forcibly pulled him off the street and over to the edge of the boardwalk.

“This is wrong!” Watkins said.

“It's the way it is,” Willard said. “And you can't change it, so don't even try.”

Falcon and Les each took a few more steps.

Jim Wilson and his oldest son stepped out of the general store, each with a rifle in his hands.

“We're out of it!” one of the Double N hands called. “Just take it easy. No matter which way it goes, we're out of it. You can put up them rifles.”

“Stand clear, Jim,” Falcon said, his voice carrying back to Jim. “The hands won't interfere.”

“How do you know?” Wilson called.

“That's just the way it is out here. Stand clear and stay out of it.”

The two men in the street took another step toward each other. A man stepped out of the hotel to stand on the boardwalk. A stranger. Falcon cut his eyes. He had never seen the man before. He wondered if it might be the deputy federal marshal. The man was neatly dressed and clean shaven, his hair trimmed. He wore one pistol, tied down. Might be him. Then Falcon quickly returned his eyes to the man called Les.

The two men were walking steady now, rapidly closing the distance between them. The townspeople were quiet, no one saying a word, no one moving, no one taking their eyes off the life-and-death scene being played out in the street in front of them.

A dog suddenly darted out into the street, between the two men. The men stopped their walking for a moment, until the little dog had cleared the street.

The sun had climbed high into the blue of the sky, and it was hot. Falcon could see the sweat staining the front of Les's shirt. Falcon stopped about forty feet from Les. He would walk no farther; he would make his stand here and wait for Les to make his play.

Reverend Watkins was praying.

Les was no braggart. He offered no boasts about what he was going to do. He just grabbed for his gun.

Falcon shot him, clearing leather and firing before Les could even get the muzzle of his .45 clear of his holster. Falcon shot the Double N rider in the right shoulder, his six-gun dropping into the dust of the street from suddenly numbed fingers.

“Son of a bitch!” Falcon heard one of the Double N riders exclaim in awe at his speed and skill.

Falcon had placed his shot carefully, to wound and not to kill. But he was well aware that those days were rapidly drawing to a close. With the number of hired guns growing, the days of anyone being selective about killing were almost over. And Falcon was somewhat saddened by that thought. It meant that very soon the blood would start to flow indiscriminately ... unless a miracle occurred, and Falcon doubted that would happen.

He walked up to Les, who was on his knees in the street, his good hand pressing against the wound in his shoulder. “You satisfied now, Les?” Falcon asked.

The man looked up at him, the shock wearing off and his eyes reflecting the pain that was beginning to tear through his body. “I reckon, MacCallister. You're the best I ever seen, for a fact you are.”

Falcon pointed up and across the street. “Some of you boys take him over to the doc's. He's hurt, but he'll live.”

“Wait a minute,” Les said, struggling to get to his boots. “Who are them old men with you, MacCallister? Them ol' boys over yonder.” He cut his eyes.

“Wildcat Wheeless and Jack Stump.”

“Jesus Christ,” another of the Double N hands muttered. “Them men are legends. They workin' for you, MacCallister?”

“Working for John Bailey. Along with Big Bob Marsh, Puma Parley, Mustang, and Dan Carson.”

“Shhh-it!” another hand said, his voice filled with awe.

Out of the corner of his eyes, Falcon watched a couple of the Double N hands exchange knowing glances. The expression on their faces stated very plainly that they wanted no part of those legendary old mountain men: men who had fought everything from Indians to grizzly bears . . . sometimes with nothing but a knife.

Falcon figured that come the evening, several of Noonan's men would be riding out, heading for safer locales.

But that still left the farmers and small ranchers (those that were left, that is) badly outnumbered.

“I got me some money stuck back in my poke,” Les said, still hesitant to move from the dusty, bloody street. “I think I'll mend my shoulder here in town, away from the em-ploy of Nance Noonan.”

“And just see what happens?” Falcon asked.

“Something like that.”

“Better go see the doc now.”

Les nodded and allowed himself to be led off, walking slowly toward the doctor's office.

Falcon turned his head. The neatly dressed stranger who had watched the hook and draw from the boardwalk was gone.

Falcon walked back to the general store and stepped up onto the boardwalk. “Jim, you folks get your shopping done and get clear of the town. We'll hang around until you're finished. A few of those Double N boys will be sure to get liquored up and come trouble-hunting after a time. Get enough staples to last you for a time.”

“That's probably an excellent idea, Falcon. We'll take your advice and do that.”

“And stay out of town for a time. If you have to come to town, several families come together and come armed and ready to use those guns.”

The farmer nodded his head in agreement and walked back into the general store.

Falcon picked out the empty brass from the cylinder of his. 44 and reloaded. Stumpy and Wildcat were still across the street, sitting in the shade of the awning, waiting.

One of the Double N men had ridden out, probably heading back to Noonan's headquarters to report on what had happened in town.

Two more Double N hands had just plain ridden out, heading in the opposite direction. They were the men Falcon had seen exchange glances. They were pulling out for good. It was one thing to make war against men who were not experienced gunhands, and women and kids. It was quite another matter to be facing some of the meanest men west of the Mississippi; men who played deadly games with no rules except those they made up at the moment.

Falcon felt there would be a few more hired guns who'd pull out, but by and large, the exodus was over. The men who were staying would fight until the finish, earning their forty or sixty dollars a month.

Standing on the boardwalk in front of the general store, Falcon rolled him a smoke and stepped back into the shadows. He still had some errands to attend to, but he would wait until the Wilsons were through with their shopping before seeing to them.

The town had settled down, the residents vanishing back into their stores and homes. The long street was quiet. Reverend Watkins had ceased his praying and gone back to his church.

The town of Gilman had the appearance of being just another sleepy western town stuck in the middle of nowhere.

But Falcon knew there were tensions and hatreds bubbling just under the surface, ready to erupt with volcanic fury at a single word or gesture.

And when the rage finally reached the boiling point, the range would run red with blood.