Rage of Eagles (9 page)

About an hour after the hired guns rode out, the clouds began spilling over, dumping torrents of rain on the small town. The downpour lasted about fifteen minutes, then eased off to a softer steady rain.

Sarah Gray and her younger children were safely tucked away in a far room of the hotel, while Falcon sat with his men and with Sal, Joe, and Jack in the saloon. Young Jack had his lip all poked out because he could not have whiskey. He had to be content with a glass of sarsaparilla, and was none too happy about it.

“I reckon 'bout one more drink and we'd all best be thinkin' 'bout gettin' into position,” Puma said, pouring another shot glass full to the brim.

“They'll be soaked clear through and madder than all get out,” Mustang said with a chuckle.

“And them that brought slickers will be sweatin' like hogs in 'em,” Big Bob added, a mean twinkle in his eyes.

Wildcat Wheeless cut his eyes to the outside. “Good night for what we have to do.”

Falcon knocked back the last of his drink and pushed his chair back. He stood up. “Might as well get to it.” He looked down at the foreman of the Four Star. “Sal, you and Jack take the hotel lobby, if you don't mind. Joe, the upstairs. OK?”

“Suits me,” Sal said, pushing back his chair and getting to his boots.

Joe stood up. “Sounds good. I'll be on the upstairs overhang with a rifle. Let's go, boys.”

When those three had exited the saloon, Dan Carson said, “I'm glad to see that squirt gone. The kid is too hotheaded for me. That was good thinkin'. Sal will keep him in line and behind cover.”

“It's quit rainin',” Stumpy said. “But it's gonna be muddy and sloppy out there. We should be able to hear at least some of them when they make their move.”

“I'll be in the alley between the saloon and the ladies' shop,” Falcon said. “Luck to you all.”

Falcon looked up at the sky. The storm was far from over, but for now the sky was only drizzling rain, the clouds producing a fine mist. Falcon pulled both guns from leather and waited at the rear of the alley. By now, his men would have spread out all over the town, waiting for the attack.

Falcon's eyes had adjusted to the darkness and he caught a dark blot of movement, the shadow darting from the two-hole outhouse behind the saloon to the single privy behind the dress shop. The shadow was carrying what appeared to be a rifle. Falcon did not fire. The movement might have been a local citizen with a cane, although Falcon doubted that.

Gunfire shattered the night, coming from down by the livery, followed by a harsh scream of pain. The man Falcon had been following stepped out from behind the privy and raised his rifle. He was wearing a hat with a tall crown. None of Falcon's people owned a hat like that. Falcon drilled Tall Hat in the shoulder and the man screamed and dropped his rifle, one hand clutching his bullet-torn shoulder. He staggered back behind the outhouse, out of Falcon's line of sight.

Falcon shifted positions in the alley, moving to the other side and crouching down to present a small target. Two fast shots cut the night, the muzzle of the pistol flashing a tail of fire behind the slug. The bullet slammed into the side of the building where Falcon had been standing.

Falcon fired twice, both .44 slugs hitting their mark. Falcon watched the outline of the gunman as he fell to the wet ground and was still.

From over the first floor of the hotel, Joe Gray's rifle barked several times. A man fell off the boardwalk at the mouth of the alley, behind Falcon, the fallen man's pistols clattering down the steps, suddenly loosened from numbed fingers.

Falcon quickly reloaded and, staying in a crouch, moved back to his original position, kneeling down, one knee sinking into the wet ground.

Across the street, hard gunfire ripped and roared. Falcon could not tell if it was coming from his people or some of the hired guns. A few seconds later, that was settled, as a man staggered off the boardwalk, both hands holding his belly. He lurched to the middle of the street and collapsed facedown in the mud.

From the other end of the street, pistol fire lashed, followed by a yelp of pain and a lot of cussing. Falcon did not recognize the profane voice.

Falcon smiled, thinking that the hired guns did not realize that with his men, they were up against of crew of highly experienced Indian fighters: men who had lived their entire adult lives on the razor-sharp cutting edge of danger, where one careless move could mean death. Men such as Puma and Wildcat and Big Bob and the others were as calm as a stump in a fight, making no moves they hadn't proven out over years of harsh living in the wilderness.

From the lobby of the hotel, pistols barked half a dozen times. Then, silence slowly enveloped the small town and settled in for a few moments. The Four Star and Rockingchair men waited, guns ready.

“Let's ride!” came a shout. Falcon could not tell where it was coming from. “This ain't no good.”

Falcon waited, suspecting a trick. A few seconds later, his suspicions proved accurate as he heard a sound behind him. He was facing the street, so his white shirt, soiled and wet as it was, could not be seen. His black suit and black hat blended in with the night. He waited without turning around. The sound of footsteps grew closer.

Falcon threw himself to one side and the gunman behind fired, the slugs ripping into the side of the dress shop. Falcon fired just as he hit the ground full length. The impact threw his aim off, and he missed. He fired again and this time his aim was true. The man doubled over and then staggered from the alley.

All over the town, gunfire was tearing the night apart as the hired guns' trick backfired on them and Falcon's crew poured on the lead.

This time when someone shouted to pull out, it was no trick. The sounds of running boots slopping through the mud faded as the hired guns exited the town. In a couple of minutes, the sounds of horses galloping away into the night reached Falcon, then faded into silence.

“Anybody get hit?” Falcon called.

No one had gotten a scratch during the nighttime shoot-out in the town of Gilman.

“Lucky,” Mustang said, strolling up the boardwalk toward Falcon. “But we sure put some hurt on them gunslicks.”

“Help me!” a man called from the alley that ran between the hotel and a small leather shop. “I'm hard hit.”

“Me, too,” another man called weakly, his voice just carrying up the street.

“I'll see to this one,” Puma called from the livery. “But he's gut-shot and there ain't much anyone can do for him.”

“Oh, Lord!” the belly-shot man wailed.

“You a little late callin' on Him, son,” Puma said.

The wounded man cussed him.

“Shame on you,” Puma said. “You 'bout to meet your Maker with swear words in your mouth.”

All over the small town, wounded men were crying out for someone to help them.

“I'll get the doc,” Wildcat called from across the street.

“Better get him to call for a carpenter, too,” Dan Carson yelled. “We've got some dead.”

“Oh, Lord!” the gut-shot gunny yelled. “I ain't ready to die.”

“Hardly anyone is, boy,” Puma told him. “Leastwise I ain't never found nobody who was all that anxious.”

Reverend Watkins walked up the street, Bible in hand. He knelt down beside a fallen .44 rider. “Would you like me to pray for you, son?”

“I want a doctor, you psalm-singin' son of a bitch!”

“I'll pray for you anyway.”

The town's doctor was working on one man who was sprawled on the boardwalk. A local was holding a lantern. The doctor stood up and shook his head, then moved on to another man. “Get the rest over to my office,” he said to no one in particular. “Come on. Help me get them out of the weather and the mud.”

“Come on,” Falcon said to his men. “Let's lend a hand.”

“Yeah,” Wildcat said. “Then we can get back to the serious business of drinkin'.”

* * *

The cattlemen's alliance lost six men that stormy night, and the doctor treated six others for wounds ranging from minor to serious. Two of those seriously wounded would probably not make it.

Falcon gathered up all the pistols and rifles of the dead and wounded and stowed them in the back of Joe Gray's wagon. “Keep those for me, Joe. I've got a hunch they'll be put to good use later on.”

The sky dumped rain on the land for most of the night, and the next morning the violent storm had rumbled on past and the sky was blue and the sun shining. Joe and his foreman and family headed back to the Four Star, Falcon and his crew headed back to Rockingchair range.

“Joe's a good man,” John Bailey told Falcon, after Falcon related all that had taken place in the town. “He won't run and he won't back up. But his son . . . ?” The rancher shook his head and fell silent. He lit his pipe and puffed, filling the room with fragrant smoke. “Jack is determined to tie up with Lars Gilman, and when he does, he'll lose. Lars is just too good a hand with a pistol.”

“I suppose he'll brace me one of these days,” Falcon mused.

“You can bet on it, son. If you're ever in town at the same time, Lars will call you out. You can get ready for that.” He puffed for a moment, then asked, “What's on tap for tomorrow?”

“Rounding up more of your cattle.”

* * *

“Any activity on those twenty sections of land that were just sold?” Miles Gilman asked his foreman.

“Couple of farmers have moved in, just north and south of the Rockingchair range,” Claude informed his boss. “The boys report that Joe Gray visited each family and armed them to the teeth with the guns taken after that shoot-out in town.”

“That damn Val Mack is behind all this,” Miles spoke through gritted teeth. “John Bailey doesn't have enough cash or sense to pull off something like this.” He looked at his foreman. “Will these sodbusters fight, you think?”

“Right down to the last drop of blood, Miles. I done some checkin' on them. Both men are veterans of the civil war. One fought for the north, the other for the south. And they won't hesitate to pull a trigger.”

“Well, leave them alone for the time being. It's too late for them to get a crop in anyway. Soon as Nance and his boys get here, we'll settle this thing.”

Claude wasn't too sure about that last statement, but he kept his thoughts to himself. His last two cowboys—those men not drawing fighting wages—had pulled out and gone to work for the Four Star. The men he had left, hired guns, were for the most part a lazy, surly bunch. They had been hired for their skills with a gun, not for their experience with cattle. But so far, Claude thought sourly, they sure as hell hadn't showed him much when it came to gunplay.

“When is Nance supposed to get here?” Claude asked.

“Trailin' a herd, so who knows? That bunch of so-called gunhands who blew in here said he told them to tell me he'd been delayed.”

“So-called, is right,” Claude muttered.

Miles heard him and smiled. “They're really not much, are they?”

“Well ...” Claude scratched his head. “Truthfully, Miles, they're probably better than average. It's just that the men they're up against is old experienced hands, and they don't waste lead.”

“Nance is bringin' his main guns with him. I think things will change when they arrive.”

Claude almost said they damn sure couldn't get much worse, but he held his tongue, figuring Miles didn't need any smart-aleck comments like that at this time.

“Claude, you and the boys keep an eye on Lars, will you? He's makin' noises about huntin' up this Val Mack and drawin' down on him. Lars is fast; he could probably take this Mack person. But a lot of things can go wrong in a gunfight. Just . . . keep an eye on him for me, will you?”

“We'll watch him, Miles.”

“Hotheaded kid,” Miles said. “And his sister ain't makin' things any easier for him. She keeps eggin' him on.”

Claude knew some things about Terri he could tell Miles, too, but he knew better than to bring up anything bad about Terri, for she was the apple of her daddy's eye. Miles went into a rage at the slightest hint of impropriety on Terri's part. Her father thought his little darling was still as sweet and innocent and virginal as the day she was born. Claude suppressed a sigh: if Miles only knew the truth.

Miles inaccurately read the expression on Claude's face. “It'll all work out, Claude. You worry too much about this Val Mack and them old men with him. If we have to wait until Nance gets here with his boys to settle this Val Mack's hash, so what? All Nance is gonna do is complain, that's all.”

Claude didn't immediately reply. He stood and fiddled with his hat. The foreman didn't like to discuss Terri, for he knew the truth about that wild little heifer.

“Anything else, Claude?” Miles asked.

“Uh ... no, I reckon that's it, Miles. I best be gettin' back to work.”

“Claude?”

“Yeah, Miles?”

“You and the boys find any Rockingchair riders on our range, kill them on the spot. Understood?”

“Consider it done, Miles.”

* * *

Falcon and Puma were working the northeasternmost corner of Snake range. They were riding cautiously, and not just because they might run into Snake riders. For even though it had been a year since Custer and his men were slaughtered by the Indians, and an all-out campaign by the Army to end the Indian wars was proving successful, there were still roaming bands of warriors looking to lift some hair. The west was settling down as more and more settlers were coming in and building homes and towns and churches and schools, but it would be a good twenty-five more years before the law of the gun and the smell of gunsmoke would start to fade.