Carnage of Eagles

by William W. Johnstone

  “I don’t mind,” Arnie said, slapping his legs against the side of his horse and riding off, disappearing in the darkness.

  “Did Lucy really say that about Arnie?” Cal asked.

  “Sort of.”

  “Sort of? What is ‘sort of’?”

  “She asked if I thought he was a virgin.”

  Cal laughed. “That’s a long way from sayin’ she was in love with him.”

  “You just got to understand how whores talk, is all,” Parker said.

  Suddenly, from the darkness came the sound of gunshots.

  “What the hell is that fool boy shootin’ at?” Parker asked.

  Arnie’s horse appeared out of the darkness, an empty saddle on its back.

  “Son of a bitch, what’s happenin’ here?” Cal asked.

  Both men drew their guns, then rode out into the darkness in the direction they had last seen Arnie.

  “Arnie! Arnie, where are you? Answer us, boy!”

  Suddenly, several gunshots erupted in the night, their muzzle-flashes lighting up the herd.

  “Parker! What’s going on?”

  “Let’s get out of here!” Parker shouted.

  “The herd! Somebody’s stealin’ the herd!”

  “Better the cows than us! Let’s get out of here, I say!”

  “That’s it, Pogue,” a rider said. “We’ve took near two hunnert and fifty cows.”

  “What about the cowboys?”

  “We kilt one; the other two run away.”

  “Let’s move the cattle out of here fast,” Pogue said.

  There were four men in the group of rustlers, Pogue Allison, Ron Mace, Jack Andrews, and Frank Little, and they started moving the rustled cattle south, away from the main house of Big Star Ranch.

  “Turn out! Turn out! Rustlers!” Parker and Cal were shouting when they galloped into the compound where the big house, bunkhouse, cookshack, and barn were located.

  Dawn was just breaking, and the person awake was the cook. He came out onto the porch and began clanging on the circular piece of steel that he used to call the men to their meals.

  “What the hell’s wrong with Cookie?” a grumpy voice called from within the bunkhouse. “It’s too damn early for breakfast.”

  Cal ran into the bunkhouse to shout the news while Parker knocked loudly on the back door of the Big House.

  An hour later the cowboys returned, bearing the body of young Arnie Perkins. They tracked the cows to the river, but Rope’s End Ranch was on the other side of the river, which made it impossible to separate the tracks of the cows they had been trailing with the cattle that were indigenous to Rope’s End.

  Cal and Parker, finding Arnie’s newest and cleanest clothes, got them ready; then, putting the boy’s body in the back of a buckboard, they drove him into town to Nunnelee’s Funeral Home. David Boardman rode into town with them, then, after making arrangements for Arnie to be buried, he went to the sheriff’s office.

  “How many cows did you lose?” Sheriff Poindexter asked after Boardman gave him his report.

  “About two hundred fifty,” Boardman said.

  “About two hundred and fifty? You can’t give me a closer count than that?”

  “Two hundred forty-seven was the last count,” Boardman said. “But we’ve moved some in and some out, so, about two hundred and fifty is the best I can do.”

  “All right, that’s good enough. I’ll see what I can do to find out what happened to them. But once cows gets stole, the rustlers purt’ near always get the beeves out of the county as quick as they can. And when they do that, I don’t have any more authority over ’em.”

  “Yeah,” Boardman said with a frustrated sigh. “Well, do what you can.”

  When Boardman left, Poindexter got out a piece of paper and began doing a little figuring. He had set this cattle rustling operation up, and he was due to get four dollars a head. Now, if Pogue and the others stole 248 cows from the Big Star.... Poindexter began figuring the numbers, and when he finished he leaned back in his chair and smiled. He would have 992 dollars coming from this operation.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  The town of Sorrento, Texas, had reached its peak when it was thought that an extension of the Texas Pacific Railroad would reach the town. But when the railroad bypassed the town, Sorrento lost all of its importance and much of its population. The town was gradually beginning to recover, though, and its hearty citizens hung on, waiting with the sure and certain hope that at some time in the not too distant future, some railroad would find them.

  Two young men, passing through the town, stopped in front of the Hog Heaven saloon. Swinging down from their horses, they patted their dusters down.

  “Lord a’ mighty, Luke, if you ain’t blowin’ up a dust storm all by yourself,” one of the men said, laughing at his friend.

  “Yeah, well you don’t look like you’re wearin’ no Sunday go to meetin’ clothes yourself,” Luke replied. “What do you say, Hooter? Let’s me ’n’ you get us a couple of beers?”

  “Sounds good to me,” Hooter said.

  Pushing through the batwing doors, the two men entered the saloon and stepped up to the bar. The saloon was relatively quiet, with only four men at one table and a fifth standing down at the far end of the bar. The four at the table were playing cards; the one at the end of the bar was nursing a drink. The man nursing the drink was wearing a badge.

  As the boys stepped up to the bar, the man with the badge looked over at them with an unblinking stare. At least it was half an unblinking stare, because one of his eyes had no eyelid.

  “What’ll it be, gents?” the bartender asked.

  One of the two young men continued to stare back at the man who was standing at the end of the bar. He had never seen anyone who had an eye without an eyelid before, and he found the lidless, oversized eyeball to be disquieting.

  “Hooter?” Luke said. “The bartender asked what’ll we have.”

  “Oh,” Hooter replied. “Uh, two beers.”

  “Two beers it is,” Beeson replied. He turned to draw the beers.

  “And I’ll have the same,” Hooter added.

  Beeson laughed. “You boys sound like you’ve got a thirst.”

  “Just sayin’ we’re thirsty don’t quite get it,” Luke said. “Why, I got that much dust you could grow cotton in my mouth.”

  “Cotton, huh? You boys must be farmers.”

  “We’ve done some farmin’. You got somethin’ against farmin’?” Hooter challenged.

  “No, Lord, no,” Beeson replied, chuckling. “I’m an old farmer myself. Or at least my pa was, and I grew up on a farm back in Mississippi. I’ve picked many a pound of cotton. Chopped it, too. What brings you boys to Sorrento?”

  “Truth to tell, there don’t nothin’ in particular bring us to Sorrento. We just got a little bit of the wanderin’ fever, so we’re goin’ first to one place, then to the other. Sort of seein’ the country, we are,” Luke said.

  Hooter chuckled. “So far, though, the only country we’ve seen is Texas.”

  “Well, Texas is a big state, and you couldn’t go wrong just by takin’ it in,” Beeson said.

  “How are you two paying for your wandering around?” This question came from the man with the badge.

  “Now, I don’t know that that is any of your business,” Hooter said. “But I’ll tell you ’cause maybe you can help us out.”

  “How am I supposed to help you?”

  “Well, sir, we’re pretty good cowhands. And bein’ as you’re wearin’ a badge, I’d reckon you’ve got a pretty good handle on things around here. Do you know if any ranchers are hiring?”

  “Cowhands, huh?” The man with the badge snorted what might have been laughter.

  “Why do you laugh?” Luke asked.

  “I’d be willing to bet that you ain’t never punched one cow. You might be farmers, but you ain’t cowboys. More than likely what you are is thieves, comin’ to see what you can steal.”

  “Who are
you callin’ thieves?” Hooter asked angrily.

  “I’m callin’ you boys thieves.”

  “Who are you?”

  “Maybe you didn’t notice my badge.”

  “Yeah, I seen your badge.”

  “Sheriff, why don’t you ease up on these boys? They haven’t broken any laws,” Beeson said.

  “You stay out of this, Beeson.”

  “You got no right to go ’round accusin’ people of stealin’ with no cause,” Hooter said.

  “I’ve got every right. I’m the sheriff here. The name is Poindexter. Now what about them horses you rode in on?” Poindexter asked. “You got somethin’ to prove you own them horses?”

  “My daddy give me my horse. I raised him from a colt,” Luke said.

  “So what you are sayin’ is, you ain’t got nothin’ to prove you own them horses, do you?”

  “I don’t need nothin’. I told you, I raised him from a colt.”

  “What about you?” Poindexter asked Hooter.

  “Mister, I don’t need to prove nothin’ to you,” Hooter replied.

  “I told you. It ain’t ‘mister,’ it’s ‘sheriff.’ And yeah, you do need to prove it to me. ’Cause if you don’t, I’m goin’ to have to put you two boys in jail and start sendin’ out telegrams to see if there’s two horses that’s been stoled somewhere.”

  “Now, wait just a minute here! That ain’t no way right,” Luke said. “Hell, they’s always goin’ to be some horses that was stole somewhere.”

  “Yes, and ever’ time I find a couple of missin’ horses, I’m goin’ to have to make sure it ain’t the two you boys rode in on.”

  “Sheriff, why are you rousting these two men like this?” Beeson asked. “These two boys haven’t done a thing since they came here but buy a drink and ask if you knew where they could get on as ranch hands.”

  “You stay out of this, Beeson,” Sheriff Poindexter said. “Unless you want to wind up in jail with them.”

  “Jail?” Hooter barked out loudly. “What do you mean ‘jail’?” He pointed at Poindexter. “You ain’t puttin’ us in jail,” he said. “No way, and no how. Leastwise, not without no reason, you ain’t.”

  “I’m the sheriff. And if I say you’re goin’ to jail, that’s all the reason I need,” Poindexter said. He took another swallow of his beer. “Of course, if you two boys would be willin’ to pay the search and clearance tax, you wouldn’t have to go to jail.”

  “Search and clearance tax? I’ve never heard of nothin’ like that. What is it?”

  “If I’m goin’ to start sendin’ out telegrams about you two boys, you don’t expect the town or the county to pay for it, do you?” Poindexter asked. “That wouldn’t be right. I figure, ten dollars apiece ought to just about cover it. You boys come up with ten dollars apiece, you can ride on out of here.”

  “Hell, I ain’t got nothin’ but twelve dollars. And I’ll be damned if I’m goin’ to give ten dollars to you,” Hooter said.

  “And I ain’t got but nine dollars,” Luke added.

  Sheriff Poindexter chuckled. “Well, that ain’t no problem. You can just borrow a dollar from your friend here, and you can both pay the tax and be done with it.”

  “What if we don’t pay you nothin’?” Hooter asked.

  “Then, like I said, you’ll go to jail.”

  “The hell I will. If you’re plannin’ on puttin’ me in jail, then you better bring along some help, you bug-eyed bastard.”

  “Easy, Hooter,” Luke said, reaching out for his partner. “We come up here to get work, not to get into no fight.”

  Hooter glared at the bug-eyed man, but the expression on the sheriff’s face never changed.

  “Well, I sure as hell ain’t goin’ to let this one-eyed son of a bitch throw us in jail for no reason a’ tall,” he said.

  “All right, that’s it,” Sheriff Poindexter said. “You boys shuck out of them gun belts. You’re goin’ to jail. Both of you.”

  “The hell I am. And I ain’t takin’ off my gun belt, neither. You want it, you’re goin’ to have to take it offen me.”

  “Oh, I can do that, farm boy,” the sheriff replied with an evil smile spreading across his face. “Trust me, I can do that.”

  “Cowboy, no!” Beeson warned. “Listen to me. You don’t want to mess with the sheriff.”

  “Whoever he is, there’s only one of him and two of us. I reckon we can handle the likes of him,” Hooter said.

  “Hooter,” Luke said. “I don’t like the way this is playin’ out. Come on, let’s just go. We’ll find us another town. One that’s a mite more friendly than this one has been.”

  Hooter stared at the sheriff for a moment longer, then, with a shrug, he turned back toward the bar. “All right,” he said reluctantly. “I’ll let it go this time. Maybe folks here just don’t know how to be friendly.”

  “Maybe you boys didn’t hear me,” Sheriff Poindexter said. “I said you two are going to jail until I find out whether or not them horses you two are ridin’ is stoled.”

  “And I told you them horses ain’t stolen and we ain’t a’ goin’ to jail!” Hooter said angrily. Hooter turned to face the sheriff, then hung his hand down near his pistol.

  “You plannin’ on drawin’ on me, are you, farm boy?” Sheriff Poindexter asked.

  “If it comes to that,” Hooter said.

  “There are two of you. Do you think that’s fair?” the sheriff asked.

  “Fair ain’t got nothin’ to do with it. You’re the one started this here fracas. All we done was come in here for a beer. If we ain’t welcome here, we’ll just leave and that will be the end of it.”

  “You think so?” Sheriff Poindexter asked.

  “Please, Hooter, let’s just go now,” Luke said.

  Hooter stared in anger at the sheriff for a moment longer, then he sighed and shrugged his shoulders. “My friend is right. There’s no need to carry things any further. Let’s just drop it here and me ’n’ him will walk out of here. This isn’t worth either one of us dying over.”

  “Oh, it won’t be either of us, farmer. It’ll just be you,” Poindexter said. He looked over at Luke. “Both of you,” he added. “You came in here together; you are going to die together.”

  Luke shook his head. “No, it ain’t goin’ to be either one of us. ’Cause there ain’t neither one of us going to draw on you,” he said. “So if you shoot us, it’s goin’ to have to be in cold blood, in front of these witnesses.”

  “Oh, you’ll draw all right. You’ll draw first, and these witnesses will say that.”

  “They ain’t goin’ to be able to say it, ’cause we ain’t goin’ to draw on you,” Luke said. He looked over at the four cardplayers who had stopped their game to watch what was going on. “I want you all to hear this. We ain’t goin’ to draw on the sheriff.”

  “Oh, I think you will,” the sheriff said calmly, confidently.

  “Please, Sheriff, we don’t want any trouble,” Luke said. “I told you. We’ll be goin’ now.”

  Sheriff Poindexter shook his head. “The only place you are going is to jail until I check on them horses.”

  Luke and Hooter looked at each other; then, with an imperceptible signal, they started their draw. Though the two young men were able to defend themselves in most bar fights, they were badly overmatched in this fight. They made ragged, desperate grabs for their pistols.

  So bad were they that Sheriff Poindexter had the luxury of waiting for just a moment to see which of the two offered him the most competition. Deciding it was Hooter, Poindexter pulled his pistol and shot him first. Luke, shocked at seeing his friend killed right before his eyes, released his pistol and let it fall back into his holster. He was still looking at Hooter when the sheriff fired a second time, this shot so close to the first that it sounded as if it were one report.

  Sheriff Poindexter stood there for a moment looking down at the two bodies on the floor. He put the smoking gun back in his holster, then picked up his drink and tur
ned his back to the bar.

  “Deputy Sharp?” he called to one of the four who had been playing cards earlier but moved aside when the confrontation started.

  “Yes, sir, Sheriff?”

  “Go out there and get them two horses. Take ’em down to the livery and tell Finney he is to sell ’em both and give the money to the sheriff’s office. He can have ten percent.”

  “What if the horses is stoled?” Sharp asked.

  “More’n likely they ain’t,” Sheriff Poindexter replied as he tossed his drink down.

  “You had no call to do that, Sheriff,” Beeson said. “They were just two cowboys, passin’ through, mindin’ their own business. You picked that fight with them; you know damn well you did.”

  “They didn’t have to draw on me. They could a’ either paid their taxes, or just gone to jail like I asked. I would a’ got it straightened out about them horses in a few days. And we would a’ also heard if these boys is wanted anywhere else.”

  “You got ’ny reason to think that they were?”

  “No reason at all, ’cept they was actin’ awful peculiar.”

  “Hell’s fire, man! Who wouldn’t act peculiar the way you were goadin’ ’em?” the bartender asked. “You pushed them into that fight, and you know it.”

  Sheriff Poindexter glared at the bartender. “You wantin’ to take their side in this, are you, Beeson?”

  “No, no, it’s not that. It’s just that, it doesn’t seem to me like any of this needed to happen.”

  Poindexter didn’t answer. Instead, he put a silver dollar on the bar. “Give these boys a drink on me, and have one for yourself,” he said.

  “A drink, yes,” one of the cardplayers said. “Damn, do I need a drink.”

  The three remaining cardplayers rushed to the bar. Sheriff Poindexter looked again at the two bodies lying on the floor, then, with what could only be described as contempt, left the saloon, leaving the bodies of Luke and Hooter behind.

  Gene Nunnelee was the mortician in Sorrento. He was working on the remains of Mr. Clyde Barton. Mr. Barton, who had died at the age of eighty-six, had been with Andrew Jackson at the Battle of New Orleans and with Sam Houston at San Ja-cento. He was a rancher and leading citizen of Scott County, and Nunnelee was doing everything he could to give Mr. Barton’s last remains the respect he deserved.