Song of Eagles

by William W. Johnstone

  As he approached the ranch house, Falcon noted several cowboys in the area. The men all seemed to be heavily armed, with most carrying rifles or shotguns in addition to pistols on their hips. They wore their pistols tied down low, more like gunslicks instead of punchers. Chisum looks like he’s ready to go to war, Falcon thought. Kinda strange, since most of the Indians around this part of the country have been run off years ago.

  A tall, lanky man with mean-looking eyes stepped off the porch, shucked a shell into the chamber of his Henry, and called to Falcon, “Howdy, mister. What can I do for you?”

  Falcon kept his hands on his reins and pulled his mount to a stop. “I’m Falcon MacCallister. I’m here to see John Chisum.”

  “Yeah? And what might your business be with Mr. Chisum?”

  Falcon removed his Stetson and sleeved sweat off his forehead. “No business. I just came to give him my regards. He and my father used to ride together.”

  “Your father’s name?”

  “Jamie Ian MacCallister.”

  “Wait right here and I’ll see if Mr. Chisum wants to talk to you.”

  “Is it all right if I water my horse? We been on the trail for some time, and he’s a mite thirsty.”

  The man nodded and pointed to a horse trough next to the porch before disappearing into the house.

  Falcon dismounted and walked his horse to the trough. While Diablo drank his fill, Falcon dipped his hands in the water and washed some of the trail dust off his face and hair.

  The door opened and one of the broadest men he had ever seen stepped out on the porch. He smiled and held out his hand. “Howdy, Falcon. I’m John Chisum, and I’m pleased to meet you.”

  Chisum was a big man, standing over six feet tall. His chest and shoulders were wide as an axe-handle, and there was no fat on his body. He sported a large, handlebar moustache and muttonchop sideburns, and his face was dark and wrinkled as saddle leather, showing he had spent his entire life in the sun. He seemed genuinely glad to see Falcon.

  “Come on in and light and sit, and let’s talk.”

  He led Falcon into the house, which was wide and open with lots of windows to let in the sun. Falcon noticed all the windows had board shutters with gunports cut out of them, many showing evidence of bulletholes, as if they had been used for defense more than once.

  Chisum’s study walls were covered with dark wood paneling, and there were several filled bookcases and three gun cases with rifles, shotguns, and pistols arranged within.

  Chisum waved Falcon to an overstuffed chair in front of a massive desk cut out of what appeared to be a solid chunk of oak. He stepped to a bar behind the desk and asked, “Bourbon okay?”

  “That’ll do just fine,” Falcon answered. Falcon noticed the brand on the bottle of whiskey, which was a rather cheap one. It reminded him of another fact about Chisum his father had told—that the man, though as brave as they come and a good friend, was tight with a dollar, never paying for anything that he wasn’t forced to. Falcon smiled to himself, remembering his father had also never been one to spend money unless absolutely necessary.

  Chisum handed him a glass and held his up. “Here’s to Jamie Ian MacCallister, the best man I ever rode with.”

  Falcon nodded and drank to his father.

  Chisum sat behind his desk and leaned forward on his elbows. “How is Jamie nowadays? I haven’t heard from that old beaver in . . .”—he scratched his chin and gazed at the ceiling as he thought—“why, it must be ten years or more.”

  “My father is dead, Mr. Chisum.”

  Chisum’s face fell. “Oh, I’m sorry to hear that, Falcon. Please call me John. What happened?”

  Falcon’s face darkened. “He was backshot. Ambushed by someone who thought he was me.”

  Chisum frowned. Backshooting was about the lowest crime a man could commit in the West. “Why were the men after you, Falcon? You on the run from the law?”

  “No, but it’s a long story.”

  Chisum nodded. He poured them another glass of whiskey and sat back in his chair. He took a pair of long, black cigars from a humidor on his desk and handed one to Falcon. After he lighted them both, he took a sip of his bourbon and leaned back and put his boots on the desk. “I got time if you do, son.”

  Falcon took a deep drag of the cigar, blowing a cloud of pungent, blue smoke toward the ceiling. “It was just after my wife had been killed by Indians. Jamie found her body and buried her next to a river. I went to find it....”

  Falcon found Marie’s grave and sat by it for a time, trying to make some sense out of her death. He could not. Falcon had brought along a heavy hammer and a chisel, and after looking around for a proper stone, found one, muscled it into place, and began the laborious job of slowly chiseling her name into it.

  He was intent upon his work, but didn’t fail to occasionally check his surroundings, for this was still the Wild West despite all the moves toward civilization. And Falcon had been well-schooled by his father.

  Falcon became aware that he was being watched. And not by Indians. He allowed himself a very small smile. He had never seen an Indian this clumsy. He continued his work on the stone, but only after furtively slipping the leather loops from the hammers of his pistols and checking to make sure his rifle was close at hand.

  After concluding that his watchers were at least six strong, probably more, Falcon made several trips to his packs, ostensibly for a drink of water, but really to stuff his pockets full of cartridges for his rifle and pistols. Then he returned to work on the stone.

  He worked and waited and wondered.

  With the waters of the Blue River softly flowing not far away, Falcon heard the men when they made their rush toward him. He turned, dropped to one knee, and drew his right-hand pistol, all in one fluid motion.

  “We want him alive!” Asa Pike shouted just as one of his men pointed a gun at Falcon.

  Falcon shot the man in the chest and then threw himself to one side as the men rushed him. He drew his other pistol and opened fire; at nearly point-blank range, his fire was devastating.

  The Jones brothers, Lloyd and Bob, were among the first to go down, both mortally wounded. Lloyd stumbled backward and lost his balance, finally tumbling over the side of the bank and falling into the river. Bob sat down hard, both hands holding his bullet-perforated belly.

  Falcon had no time to observe what Bob did next; he was in a fight for his life without having any idea why the men had attacked him.

  The fight was over in less than a minute. The cool mountain air was acrid with lingering gunsmoke, mixed with the faint sounds of a couple of horses galloping away, the moaning of the wounded, and the silence of the dead.

  Falcon quickly reloaded and, with a pistol in each hand, began warily walking among the wounded, kicking pistols away from the men and out of reach.

  Falcon stood over one dying man and asked, “Why?”

  “ ’Cause you’re a goddamn MacCallister, that’s why,” the man told him. Then he closed his eyes and died.

  Falcon buried the dead far away from his wife’s grave. He did not mark the shallow, mass grave. One attacker who had survived the fight had told Falcon who had led the ambush. Falcon had seen to the man’s wounds as best he could with what he had, put him on a horse, and told him to go home, adding, “If I ever see you again, I’ll shoot you on the spot.”

  “You’ll not see me no more,” the man said. “But Asa will be back. Bet on it.”

  “The man must be insane,” Falcon said, then slapped the horse on the rump and sent him galloping.

  Falcon spent the rest of the day finishing the marker for Marie’s resting place. Then he tidied up the area and stood for a time by Marie’s grave. Falcon put his hat on his head, walked to his horse, and rode away without looking back. He did not know where he was going. He was just riding. He headed west, toward Utah. Falcon wanted only to ride away his grief, to just be alone for a time and let the wind and the rain help cure the ache deep inside him.

/>   He had no idea at the time that he was about to become one of the most wanted men west of the Mississippi River.

  After getting himself a room in the small hotel in a tiny town in Utah, Falcon went down for a drink and something to eat. Much of the grief he’d been carrying had left him, but he was still not wanting company. He took his bottle and glass and went to a far corner of the saloon.

  Two men walked in, one wearing a sheriff’s badge, the other with a federal marshal’s badge pinned to his suit coat. Falcon was not interested in them and paid them scant attention as they walked to the bar (strutted was more like it, he thought) and ordered whiskey. Falcon returned to his own whiskey and his sorrowful thoughts and ignored all others in the saloon.

  But Falcon was his father’s son—he could smell trouble, and the lawmen had it written all over them. To begin with, they were both small men, about five-six or -seven, and both walked as if they had something to prove—the bigger the man to prove it with, or on, the better.

  Falcon was wondering where his dad was and how he was doing when he heard boots approaching his table. He looked up into the faces of the two star packers. Very unfriendly faces.

  “Stand up,” the federal marshal said.

  “I beg your pardon?” Falcon questioned.

  “Get on your feet, Lucas,” the sheriff said.

  “My name is not Lucas. It’s Falcon MacCallister. And I am very comfortable sitting, thank you.”

  “I said get up, you thievin’ son of a bitch!” the federal marshal demanded. “Lucas or MacCallister, it don’t make no difference. You’re still a horse thief and a rustler.”

  Falcon took a better look at the men. Definitely related. Probably brothers.

  The sheriff pulled a leather-wrapped cosh from his back pocket and held it up threateningly. “Get up, you scum. Or I’ll pound your head where you sit.”

  “That would be a real bad mistake, Sheriff,” Falcon warned.

  “You makin’ threats agin my brother, boy?” the federal marshal asked.

  Falcon was getting mad. He could feel his temper being unleashed. “My name is MacCallister. I’m from Valley, Colorado. I have done nothing wrong. Why don’t you gentlemen take a seat and we’ll talk about this?”

  “Get up, you bastard! the sheriff hollered. Then he took a swing at Falcon with the blackjack.

  Falcon ducked the swing and grabbed the edge of the table, overturning it and knocking the two star packers sprawling on the floor. The federal marshal grabbed for his pistol, and Falcon kicked it out of his hand and then put his boot against the side of the man’s jaw. The federal marshal kissed the floor, out cold.

  The sheriff was struggling to get to his feet. Falcon helped him, sort of.

  He reached down, grabbed a handful of the sheriff’s shirt, and hit him on the side of the jaw with a powerful right fist. The sheriff’s eyes rolled back into his head, and Falcon released the man. The sheriff sighed and joined his brother on the floor.

  “Idiots,” Falcon said, straightening his coat.

  “Run, mister,” a customer said. “Run for your life.”

  Falcon looked at the local. “Run? Why?”

  “ ’Cause when them two wakes up, they’ll kill you for sure. Them’s the Noonan brothers. They’re both crazy. And they’re Nance Noonan’s brothers, both of ’em.”

  “Who the hell is Nance Noonan?”

  “The he-coon of this part of the territory, son,” an older man said. “And you’re in his town. Nance Noonan owns everything and damn near everybody in this part of the territory. He owns the N Bar N ranch.”

  “He’s right, mister,” another local said. “Get gone from here as quick as you can. Pride ain’t worth dyin’ for. Not in my book, anyways.”

  “You do have a point,” Falcon said.

  “I’ll saddle your horse whilst you pack your possibles,” the local said. “Then ride, boy, ride. The name MacCallister don’t mean nothin’ to men like Nance Noonan . . .”

  The federal marshal stirred and reached for his gun. “I’ll kill you, you son of a bitch!”

  Falcon palmed his gun and shot him, the .45 slug punching a hole in the center of the man’s forehead.

  “Git the hell up to your room and pack, son,” Falcon was urged. “I’ll throw a saddle on your horse.”

  Falcon was coming down the stairs with his bedroll, saddlebags, and rifle when Sheriff Butch Noonan rose to his boots and grabbed for his guns. Falcon lifted the Winchester. 44-40, thumbed back the hammer, and drilled the man in the center of his chest.

  “Oh, shit!” a citizen breathed.

  “Ride, MacCallister, ride!” a man shouted. “Ride like Ole’ Nick is after you, ’cause he damn shore is!”

  Later, Falcon sat by a hat-size fire, frying his bacon, the coffee already made and the pot set off to one side on the circle of rocks. He knew he was in serious trouble, for even though the two brothers he’d killed back down the trail a ways had been no more than worthless bullies, they were still star packers. And one of them a federal lawman.

  He’d have to stay on the run until this thing got straightened out; already he missed his kids something fierce.

  He’d have to get word to his brothers in Valley, and they’d hire detectives to come in and ferret out the straight story of what had happened. Until then?

  Falcon’s laugh was void of humor. “I’m an outlaw on the run,” he said. “Probably the richest outlaw in history, but on the run, nevertheless.”

  Falcon summed up his mood: “Crap!”

  A hundred miles away, Jamie Ian MacCallister was buying supplies at a trading post on the North Platte when he heard the news about Falcon. To the eyes and mind of the new post owner, Jamie was just another rugged-looking old relic of a mountain man, not worth a dup of spit for anything.

  Jamie bought his supplies, then had a drink and listened to the men talk. Falcon had killed two lawmen over in Utah Territory, a county sheriff and a deputy federal marshal.

  But why had he killed them?

  The men at the bar didn’t know that, only that he had. Falcon had left the little town riding a horse the color of dark sand—a big horse, for, like his father, Falcon was a big man. His packhorse was a gray.

  Riding a horse the same color and approximately the same size as mine, and trailing a gray packhorse, just like mine, Jamie mused.

  Jamie quietly left the trading post without notice and once more headed south. He stopped at Fort Fred Steele and told the commanding officer there what had really taken place at the Little Big Horn. The CO and his other officers listened intently as Jamie laid it all out, from beginning to end.

  It was there that Jamie arranged for a wire to be sent to his kids in Valley. He knew that by now they would be worried sick.

  Jamie pushed on toward home. He crossed the Divide, felt pretty sure he was in Colorado, and felt better. He was not that far from home. Well, maybe a week’s riding.

  About a day out of Valley, Jamie was humming an old war song that Kate used to sing when two hammer blows struck him in the back, almost knocking him out of the saddle. As he struggled to stay on the horse, he thought he heard a shout of triumph. Sundown took off like a bolt of lightning, the packhorse trailing.

  When he got the big horse calmed down, Jamie managed to stuff handkerchiefs in the holes in his back. He knew he dared not leave the saddle. He’d never be able to get back on the deck if he did. Through waves of hot pain, he cut lengths of rope and tied himself in the saddle.

  “All right, Sundown,” Jamie gasped. “You know the way home. Take me to Kate.”

  Two of Jamie’s great-grandsons spotted the slow-walking horse and the big man slumped unconscious in the saddle. When they realized who it was, they ran right down the middle of the main street, yelling and hollering at the top of their lungs. Matthew and Dr. Tom Prentiss came running up to Jamie and cut the ropes holding him on his horse. The doctor took one look at the hideous wounds in his back and shook his head.

  “Gat
her your kin, Matthew,” he said.

  Later, Matthew stepped into the doctor’s outer office, a telegram in his hand. His brothers and sisters turned to him. Matthew’s eyes were bright with anger. He held up the wire. “This is from a sheriff friend of mine over near the Utah line. Seems as though a posse of men from some ranch called the N Bar N, headed by several newly appointed deputy federal marshals, think they got lead into Falcon. Happened yesterday or the day before some miles north of here. What they done was they mistook Pa for Falcon.”

  Joleen said, “There’ll be blood on the moon when Falcon hears of this.”

  “For a fact,” Matthew said. “My friend is gonna send me more information as he gets it. How’s Pa?”

  “Dying,” Ian said, then put his big hands on his face and wept openly.

  Jamie Ian MacCallister, the man called Bear Killer, Man Who Is Not Afraid, Man Who Plays With Wolves, died on August the first, 1876, at eight o’clock in the morning. He was buried that afternoon, on a ridge overlooking the town of Valley. Overhead, circling and soaring high above the ridge, several eagles screamed.

  The next day, James William Haywood, Jamie’s grandson, opened Jamie’s will in front of the family. He had read it the night before and was shocked right down to his boots at the enormity of Jamie’s wealth.

  “Your father,” he told the gathering, “was more than likely the richest man in all of Colorado. He was worth millions of dollars. He drew up a map of all the places where he cached bags and boxes of gold and silver. During the wandering of your great-grandfather, the man called Silver Wolfe, he discovered a cave of Spanish treasure. He gave that to Jamie, and now Jamie is giving it to all of you. You children of Jamie and Kate MacCallister just might be the richest family in all of North America.”

  After the reading of the will, Jamie Ian met with Matthew in Falcon’s Wild Rose Saloon and said, “Now, brother, you want to tell the truth about Falcon?”

  “He’s in Utah. He’s going after Nance Noonan and those posse members. He’s going to destroy the N Bar N and then burn down the town. Right down to the last brick and board.”