Song of Eagles

by William W. Johnstone

  “There were federal marshals in that posse.”

  “You think Falcon gives a damn about that?”

  Jamie Ian sighed and shook his head. “I reckon not.”

  “Joleen summed it up the other day. There’s gonna be blood on the moon before this is over.”

  The brothers walked out to stand on the boardwalk, looking up at the ridge where their mother and father and grandfather lay in peace.

  “You think Pa would have done what Falcon is about to do?” Jamie Ian asked.

  “It’s exactly what Pa would have done.”

  Three

  John Chisum took a final drag on his cigar and stared at Falcon through the cloud of smoke. After a moment he leaned forward and stubbed the butt out in a silver dish.

  “That’s a hell of a story, Falcon. I just can’t believe old Jamie was backshot by those murdering cowards like that.”

  Falcon nodded. “Believe it, John.” He drained his whiskey and said in a husky voice, “But they soon found out that those who called the dance had to pay the band.”

  “That’s the way of it, all right.” He stood and filled Falcon’s empty glass and offered him another cigar.

  “Thanks,” Falcon said as he took the cigar and lighted it. “By the way, John, my father told me you had settled up here on the Pecos, but he never told me any details. How the hell did you get up here from Texas?”

  “That’s a hell of a story in its own right.” Chisum filled his glass and sat back with a cigar in one hand and a glass in the other as he talked. “Back in ... oh, sixty-seven I think it was, my brother Pitser and I brought my first herd of Jingle Bob cattle across the plains and through the buffalo hunting territory of the Comanches.” He pointed the cigar at Falcon, a tight grin on his face. “They were some plenty hostile Injuns, let me tell you, an’ could ride horses like no one I’ve ever seen.”

  Falcon nodded. “Yeah, I’ve had some dealings with them myself, and my father always said they were the best warriors ever born.”

  Chisum’s expression grew serious. “We lost some good boys on that first trip. We had to send scout riders ahead of the trail blazers to protect the herd from those devils, who were pretty numerous in the lower Pecos Valley at the time. More often than not the scouts didn’t come back, or came back so shot up they couldn’t work no more.”

  “Scouting is tough work, all right, especially in Indian territory. Takes a special breed of man to do it and survive.”

  Chisum wet his throat with bourbon and continued. “Well, the Jingle Bobs finally got here safely and we put them to grazing on the lands around our headquarters, which we set up at Bosque Grande, ’bout thirty-five miles northeast of Roswell, down on the Pecos itself. After a while, I left Pitser in charge and made some more trips back to Texas for more cattle.”

  “How many head you running now?”

  “Oh, about a hundred thousand or so. Took us almost ten years to build up to that, ’cause of the Comanch. They finally died out or left after the buffalo were all killed, sometime around seventy-seven or seventy-eight.”

  “You ever marry, John?”

  Chisum smiled. “Nope. Never felt no need, what with all my brothers and their wives and children around all the time. But enough about me. Tell me about how you went after Nance Noonan and his bunch.”

  Falcon shrugged. “That’s a story for a different time and place. When I set out to right the wrong done to my father, I sent my kids back east so they could get proper schooling, so I’m kind’a at loose ends right now.”

  Chisum’s face showed friendly concern. “Anything I can do? Do you need a job . . . money?”

  “No, like I said, Jamie left all of his children with more money than we can ever spend.” Falcon hesitated. “I was thinking more along the lines of investing in a saloon or gambling house. You know of any that might suit my needs?”

  Chisum thought for a moment, then snapped his fingers. “You know, old Beaver Smith owns a saloon on the Pecos River, over at Fort Sumner. He might be willing to sell, or take in a partner.”

  “I’m not much one for partnering, but I’ll sure go take a look at the place and see what I think.”

  Falcon stood and held out his hand. “Thanks for the whiskey, and the talk, John. I can see why my dad thought so much of you.”

  “Any time, Falcon. And I’m holding you to that promise to tell me what happened when you faced Nance Noonan and his gang. That’s a story I can’t wait to hear.”

  Chisum walked Falcon out to the front porch. “I’ll tell the boys you’re my friend and you’re always welcome here at the South Spring. That way they won’t hassle you when you come to visit.”

  As the two shook hands Chisum looked over MacCallister’s shoulder and said, “Well I’ll be jiggered. Looks like more company comin’.”

  Falcon turned to see a lone rider walking his horse up the dirt road toward the ranch house. The rider was a short man wearing a dirty black coat over a soiled and rumpled shirt that Falcon thought must have once been white. As the rider drew closer, Falcon turned to Chisum. “Hell, John. It looks like a kid on that horse. You taken to hiring boys now?”

  Chisum chuckled. “Things aren’t that bad yet, Falcon.”

  The rider reined his horse to a halt and sat, looking at the hard cases standing in front of the house with their rifles trained on him. He grinned and removed his hat, running his hands through light brown hair. His eyes crinkled as he smiled at Falcon and Chisum on the porch.

  “One of you Mr. John Chisum?”

  Chisum nodded and stepped forward. “Yeah, that’s me. What can I do for you, young man?”

  “My name’s Billy Bonney. I heard you was lookin’ to hire some men . . . men who know their way around a six-shooter.”

  Falcon noticed that though the lips smiled and the eyes narrowed in apparent good humor, there was something deep in the eyes that belied the grin. They were cold as well water on a frosty morning. As they flicked back and forth, sizing up the men with guns in the area, it was obvious they missed nothing. Falcon knew instinctively this was no mere boy, but a deadly man to be reckoned with.

  Chisum gave a snort. “And you think that would be you, is that it?”

  “Yes, sir.” With a minimum of motion, Bonney slowly pulled his coat back and tucked it in his belt behind his back, letting his hands hang loose by his side. “If you have any doubts in the matter, I’d be right happy to show you with any of these galoots standing here.”

  Mack Monroe, one of the toughest looking hombres in the group of men, stepped forward. He was about five-foot eleven inches tall and must have weighed almost two hundred and fifty pounds. He stood in front of Bonney with his hands on his hips.

  “I’m Mack Monroe, foreman of this here spread, an’ you can show me how good you are, if you’ve got the guts.” Without taking his eyes off the newcomer, he added, “You want I should throw this pup in the water trough, Boss?”

  Bonney’s eyes slowly looked Monroe up and down, then cut to Chisum. “If I kill this man, can I have his job, Mr. Chisum?” His face showed no fear whatsoever. In fact, he still had the boyish grin on his lips, as if taking a life was no more than a game to him.

  Chisum rubbed his moustache, his own lips curled up in mirth at the cojones this boy was showing. He’d seen few men have the courage to face Monroe, with fists or with guns. “No, I’ll have none of that, Mr. Bonney. If you kill him, I’ll still be a man short even if I hire you.”

  Chisum walked to the porch rail and took a tin coffee mug and pitched it to one of the other hands. “Bob, on the count of three, throw this mug in the air. Monroe, you and Bonney can both draw down on it and we’ll see if this kid has what it takes.”

  Falcon stood on the porch watching Bonney out of the corner of his eye and saw the young man’s lips curl up in a sly smile at the mention of a shooting contest. “How good is Monroe, John?”

  “He’s the best I’ve got with a short gun, Falcon. Why?”

  Falcon
inclined his head at Bonney and said, where all could hear him. “I’ve got a hundred dollars says the kid takes him. Are you on?”

  Chisum frowned suspiciously. “Do you know this man, Falcon?”

  “Never seen him before in my life.”

  “Then why on earth would you risk a hundred dollars on him?”

  “First of all, I’m a gambler, for a living and for fun. Second, look in his eyes and tell me what you see.”

  Chisum turned to stare for a moment at Bonney, and Falcon noticed the big man’s smile falter. He was seeing the same thing Falcon was.

  “Damned if you’re not right, Falcon. No bet.”

  Monroe scowled and glanced at Falcon. “I’ll take your bet, mister.”

  “You got a hundred dollars, cowboy?” Falcon asked.

  Monroe pursed his lips, as if thinking. “I ain’t gonna need it, ’cause I’m gonna beat this pup, but I’ve got a hand-tooled Mexican saddle that ought’a go for about that.”

  Falcon nodded. “Then you’re on.”

  The cowboys all gathered around the two men after Bonney stepped down from his horse. There was almost nothing punchers liked more than a contest, be it one of fisticuffs, riding broncs, or shooting at targets.

  Several of the men were making small side bets, looking nervously at Monroe as if they didn’t want to get caught betting against their foreman.

  Finally all was ready, and Chisum counted to three. Bob threw the cup in the air, and both Bonney and Monroe grabbed iron.

  Bonney’s hand flashed upward with his Colt and fired almost without aiming, before Monroe had even cleared leather. The blast of the pistol was followed instantaneously by the clang of a bullet blasting a hole in the cup, sending it caroming off on a tangent.

  When it reached its apex and began to fall, there was another shot and another clang, making the cup dance in the air once again.

  “Goddamn,” one of the punchers muttered, “he hit it again whilst it was still in the air.”

  Monroe blushed a deep red, standing there with his pistol still half in his holster. He stared at Bonney, eyes hard and face set.

  Bonney had enough sense not to gloat. He holstered his gun and turned, holding out his hand to Monroe. “Don’t take it to heart, Mr. Monroe. You and I both know shootin’ at somethin’ that don’t shoot back is easy. Things might’a been different had we been facing another gunslick.”

  Monroe, mollified by Bonney’s face-saving gesture, grinned and took his hand. “You’re all right, Bonney. And one of the best shootists I’ve ever seen. I’d be right proud to have you stand with me if it ever came to gunplay.”

  Falcon noticed how Bonney beat Chisum’s best man and then managed to cause the hostile crowd to turn their support to him, a total stranger. Yep, he thought, there’s more to this boy than meets the eye. He’s deep as well water, and damn near as cold.

  Monroe stepped over to the porch and looked up at Falcon. “I’ll jest go get my saddle, mister, an’ I’ll bring it right over.”

  “I don’t need another saddle, Mr. Monroe. But I’m going to be buying a gambling establishment in the near future. I’ll call our bet even if you bring some of your friends in for the grand opening.”

  Monroe held a ham-sized hand up over the porch railing and shook with Falcon. “It’s a deal. You just let me know when and where.”

  Chisum motioned Bonney to join him and Falcon on the porch. When he got there, Chisum said, “Mr. Bonney, I really don’t need any more hands, but I’ve got a good friend who does, especially ones as good with a pistol as you are.”

  “Who might that be, Mr. Chisum?”

  “His name’s John Tunstall. He’s not much older than you, ’bout twenty-four I suspect, but he and I are going into business together, and I know he’ll need some extra men.”

  “How’ll I find him?”

  “You head on into Lincoln and go to the building marked Tunstall’s General Store. I reckon he’ll be there ’bout now. Tell him I sent you.”

  Bonney shook hands with Chisum. “Thanks, Mr. Chisum. I appreciate the help.”

  “Hold on there, Bonney,” Falcon said. “Give me a minute and I’ll ride into Lincoln with you . . . if you want some company, that is.”

  “Sure. Always nice to have somebody to talk to on the trail.”

  Four

  As they rode toward Lincoln, Falcon and Bonney talked.

  “You’re a pretty fair hand with that short gun, Billy. Where’d you learn to shoot like that?”

  “You can call me Kid, Falcon. Everybody else does. I learned to shoot ’cause I had to. I been on my own since I was fourteen or so. Hell, I worked sheep and cattle in Arizona, and even was a teamster for a while over at Camp Grant.”

  He gave a small smile. “You don’t long survive doin’ that kind of work less’n you can shoot, fast and straight.”

  Falcon nodded. He knew how hard life was on the frontier, and how it made boys grow to men in a very short time.

  Before Falcon could answer the Kid his horse Diablo laid his ears back and nickered, shaking his head from side to side.

  Falcon stiffened. Something was wrong for Diablo to act skittish like this. He casually reached down and slipped the rawhide hammer thongs off his Colts.

  Bonney saw what he was doing and asked, “You see somethin’?”

  “I think we may have some trouble up ahead, where the trail turns around that clump of mesquite trees. My horse is acting up, and that usually means company’s coming.”

  Kid hooked his coat in his belt and slipped his hammer thongs off. “Well, if they’s thieves, they’s gonna be mighty disappointed. I ain’t got two coins to rub together. I was hoping for a grubstake from Chisum so’s I could eat tonight.”

  As the pair approached the copse of trees, four riders walked their horses out of hiding and blocked the trail.

  The leader of the group, a tall, skinny man with chin whiskers and a scar on his left cheek that drew his lips up in a perpetual scowl, held a short, double-barreled shotgun pointed at the sky, with its stock on his thigh. “You gents work for Chisum?”

  Falcon reined Diablo to a halt ten yards from the group. “And what business is it of yours who we work for?”

  “We’re deputy sheriffs, working for the sheriff of Lincoln County, William Brady.”

  “That don’t answer the man’s question,” the Kid said, his lips curled up in a grin that didn’t reach his eyes.

  “We been having some reports that other people’s stock has been turning up in Chisum’s herd. You boys know anything ’bout that?”

  Falcon gave a slow smile. “I don’t reckon Mr. Chisum would much appreciate being called a rustler, but I could be wrong. Why don’t you men ride on up to his ranch and ask him your questions?

  A shorter, fat man sitting to the leader’s left said, “ ’Cause we’re askin’ you gents. Now you tell us what you know or we’ll be forced to arrest you, and you can spend some time in jail thinking over your answers.”

  The Kid’s face paled at the mention of jail, but his grin didn’t change. “I don’t think I’d like that, an’ I don’t think you’re man enough to take me anywheres.”

  “Why you little . . .” the fat man started to say as he went for his gun.

  Before he got his pistol halfway out of his holster, the Kid drew and fired. His Colt exploded, belching a cloud of acrid-smelling smoke as it blew a chunk of meat out of the man’s right shoulder and spun him around, knocking him off his horse to sprawl facedown in the dirt.

  As the leader started to lower his shotgun and the other two riders reached for their pistols, they found themselves staring down the barrel of both of Falcon’s Colts, hammers back. “Easy, boys. Just put those weapons back where they came from and raise your hands.”

  The men’s eyes grew wide at the speed with which Billy and Falcon had drawn, surprised to find themselves at a disadvantage.

  “Just keep them fingers off the triggers,” the skinny man said. “You don’t wa
nt to go shootin’ no officers of the law.”

  “We didn’t want to shoot nobody, ’til that tub of lard there tried to draw on me,” the Kid said. “Now we’re gonna ride on into Lincoln. If you galoots want to dance some more, you’ll know where to find us.”

  Falcon and the Kid holstered their weapons and rode on toward town, while the deputies began to patch up the wounded man’s arm.

  The Kid must have noticed Falcon’s frown, for he asked, “What’s the matter, Falcon? You mad about something?”

  Falcon glanced over at him. “We could have avoided gunplay back there, Kid. You didn’t have to goad that man into going for his guns.”

  The Kid pursed his lips and nodded. “Yeah, I suppose we could have let them take us into town and stick us in that jail until the sheriff decided he wanted to talk to us.”

  “It wouldn’t have gone that far.”

  “Damn right it wouldn’t have. I’ll tell you, Falcon, I’ve been in jail twice, an’ I broke out twice. I can’t stand bein’ locked up, caged like some animal, not able to move around.”

  He shook his head, lips pressed tight. “No sir, I don’t ever intend for that to happen again, and if ’n I have to kill somebody to keep from being locked up, then so be it.”

  Falcon watched the Kid as he talked, thinking he was right about the Kid’s eyes. He was a stone-cold killer, never mind the boyish looks and the ever present grin. He would have to watch himself so he wouldn’t get caught up in the Kid’s messes.

  Falcon and the Kid arrived in Lincoln about an hour later. The town wasn’t overly large, consisting of a row of small adobe houses on the west side of the main street, and several larger, more impressive buildings lined up on the eastern side.

  The first of the large buildings on their left had a sign over the door saying La Placita, J.J. Dolan & Co.. It was two stories high and had a large window in the front filled with all manner of ranching implements, along with saddles and boots and clothes.

  “Damn,” the Kid said, his eyes wide, “that’s ’bout the biggest general store I ever seen.”