As they rode, Falcon asked, “By the way, Kid, how did Tunstall’s ranch come by the name Rio Feliz?”
“The ranch is bounded by the Feliz River, a small, spring-fed branch off the Pecos River. Since it’s spring-fed, it has water in it all summer, even in times of drought, so they called it the Feliz, which means happy or lucky in Mexican lingo.”
Falcon nodded. “That’s certainly something to be happy about in this country.” He glanced around at the desert-like sand and gravel, with its creosote and mesquite bushes and frequent low-lying cacti. “Hell, even a horned toad would have trouble finding a drink out here when the summer heat’s on.”
After a ride of forty-five minutes, they crested a small hillock and crossed the boundary of the Rio Feliz ranch.
The Kid reined his mount to a halt. “Hold on a minute, Falcon. Lookie over there.” He pointed to where a small dust cloud was rising against the setting sun.
Falcon shaded his eyes with his hand. He could see a group of men cutting about fifteen steers out of a larger group. “Looks like some of Tunstall’s drovers are moving some of his beeves.”
The Kid shook his head. “Trouble is, ain’t no one supposed to be in this part of the range today. All the punchers are workin’ over on the eastern side, not the western one.”
Warning bells sounded in Falcon’s mind. He wondered if the trouble he had been expecting between Tunstall and Chisum and the Dolan group was about to start. “You think we’re looking at some rustlers?”
“I don’t see no other explanation,” the Kid said, his face hard, covered with hatred.
Falcon reached into his saddlebag and brought out a pair of binoculars, focusing them on the riders who could be seen herding a small group of cattle in the distance. He saw that one of the men was Jesse Evans, wearing the same shirt he had worn in The Drinking Hole.
“I think you’re right, Kid, unless Tunstall has hired Jesse Evans. That’s him, and some of the men I’ve seen him hanging around with over in Fort Sumner.”
The Kid’s eyes narrowed. “Then, these are gonna be the last cattle that hombre ever steals from my boss!”
He pulled a Winchester carbine out of his saddle boot and looked over at Falcon, spitting in the dirt before speaking.
“Why don’t you wait right here, Falcon? This ain’t a job you signed on for.”
Falcon pulled his own .4440 carbine out of his saddle boot and shucked a shell into the chamber. “Don’t be dumb, Kid. I count at least ten riders in that group.” He grinned. “That makes the odds about right for the two of us, but a bit much for one man.”
The Kid’s eyes took on a strange, feverish light, and his lips curled up in the grin Falcon had come to know meant danger. Falcon realized that the Kid seemed to enjoy situations where blood was likely to be spilled.
“Then let’s ride, pardner,” the Kid snarled out of the side of his mouth.
Instinctively, both men turned their broncs to the west, to circle around and come at the rustlers with the setting sun at their backs, seeking any advantage they could get against superior numbers.
When they were about two hundred yards from the riders Falcon pulled Diablo to a halt and brought out a short, doublebarreled Greener ten gauge shotgun. He broke it open and checked the loads, then snapped it shut and slung it over his shoulder by a rawhide strap affixed to the barrel and stock. He put an extra ten rounds in his coat pockets, unhooked the hammer thong on his Colt pistols, and nodded at the Kid. He was ready to do battle, to the death.
Falcon and the Kid both brought their carbines to their shoulders and aimed. “I’ll take the left riders, you take the right,” Falcon said.
Almost as one, the two carbines exploded, kicking back and sending foot-long spears of flame into the darkening light.
Seconds later, Falcon saw two riders throw their arms up, blown out of their saddles, to fall and be trampled by the milling herd of cattle.
The Kid and Falcon put spurs to mounts and charged, flicking the levers of their carbines as they rode to put fresh shells in the firing chambers.
Falcon leaned low over Diablo’s neck, to make a smaller target when the return fire started. He could hear the big stallion snorting and grunting as he galloped as fast as the wind toward the rustlers.
Jesse Evans saw his men fall and whirled his horse to see what had happened. He recognized the charging riders and screamed at his remaining men.
“Yo! We got company comin’!”
He pulled his rifle out of his saddle boot, put it to his shoulder, and began to fire as fast as he could pull the trigger and jerk the lever.
Mack Maloney and Joey Jacobs, the two men closest to Evans, pulled pistols, leaned over the necks of their broncs, and rode at full tilt toward Falcon and the Kid, firing over their horses’ heads.
A bullet tore through the shoulder padding on Falcon’s suit just as he pulled the trigger on his carbine. His bullet sped through the air, entered Joey Jacobs’ left eye, and blew out the back of his head, knocking him backward out of his saddle.
A moment later, the Kid’s slug tore into Mack Maloney’s chest, shattering his breast bone and ricocheting into his heart, stopping it before Mack knew he was hit. He grunted, spitting frothy blood from grimacing lips, and slumped in his saddle.
Evans pointed to Indian Bob, a half-breed Mescalero outlaw who rode with him, and yelled, “Kill those bastards!”
Indian Bob and Curley Monroe both whirled their mounts around and charged toward the Kid and Falcon.
Falcon’s carbine clicked on an empty chamber. “Damn!” he muttered. He was out of ammunition. In one motion, without slowing his horse, he booted the carbine and swung the Greener express gun around on its strap to his shoulder.
Indian Bob’s pistol fired from thirty yards, the bullet nicking Diablo’s ear and scorching a shallow groove in Falcon’s thigh. He eared back the hammers on the Greener and fired both barrels from the hip without aiming.
The big gun exploded, kicking back and almost unseating Falcon with the force of the twin 10 gauge shells filled with 00-buckshot. The .38 caliber size balls of lead flew in a deadly swarm toward Indian Bob. The molten slugs tore the left half of his horse’s head off, then continued on and took off Indian Bob’s left arm and leg at the joints, whirling him around and scattering bloody body parts into the desert sand. His body catapulted off his bronc to land in a cholla cactus, but he was beyond feeling any pain by then.
Curley Monroe’s Smith and Wesson American pistol fired at the Kid from point-blank range as the two riders closed on each other. Monroe’s slugs tore into the Kid’s Stetson, sending it flying from his head.
Without even ducking the Kid aimed and pulled the trigger on his Colt. The hammer fell on an empty chamber.
Closer now, Curley Monroe grinned, seeing the Kid’s gun was empty, and slowed his mount as he aimed at the Kid’s chest for another shot.
Faster than a striking rattler, the Kid drew with his left hand and fired two quick shots, snapping them off left-handed without aiming.
One of the slugs buzzed by Curley’s head, making him jerk to the side just in time to meet the other bullet as it entered his jaw, tearing the bone from his face, leaving nothing below his upper teeth but bloody tissue. He tried to scream in pain, but his throat was no longer there to make a sound.
As he rode by Falcon, holding his ruined face in his hands, Falcon swung the empty Greener by the barrel, hitting Curley in the forehead with the stock, crushing his skull and putting his lights out for good.
Evans and his two remaining hands turned their mounts around and leaned over their necks as they ran for their lives.
Billy sighted on the back of Evans’ head and pulled the trigger on his Colt, but the bullet failed, a misfire, saving Evans’ life . . . for the moment.
Falcon took his bandanna off and wrapped it around Diablo’s ear, which was oozing blood. The furrow in his thigh wasn’t bleeding at all, the heat of the bullet having cauterized the gash.
He walked Diablo over to the Kid, who was resting his sorrel next to the bloody remains of Indian Bob, entangled in the cholla cactus.
Falcon took out a stogie and lighted it with a lucifer. After he puffed it to life, he glanced down at what remained of Indian Bob and shook his head.
“Tough luck, fellah. I suspect a thing like that’ll ruin your entire afternoon.”
Twelve
Falcon almost laughed at the expression on Dick Brewer’s face as he and the Kid rode up to the Rio Feliz ranch house. Brewer was sitting on the front porch drinking coffee and smoking when they came within the light from several lanterns on the porch supports.
He jumped up and ran to the door. “Mr. Tunstall, come quick! It’s the Kid, and he’s got a whole passel of bodies with him!”
Tunstall came to the door, pipe in hand, and gave Falcon a quizzical look when he saw the horses with dead men thrown over the saddles strung out behind him.
“Good evening, Mr. MacCallister. You and the Kid have some trouble?”
Falcon smiled, thinking Tunstall was just like all the other men from England he had met . . . aloof, imperturbable, and prone to understatement. Well, he would beat him at his own game.
“Good evening, John,” Falcon replied as he dismounted. “No, no trouble. Why do you ask?”
Tunstall took the pipe from his mouth and pointed it at Diablo. “I see you’ve wrapped your kerchief around your horse’s ear, and I notice a tear in your right trouser leg. I suspect there’s been foul play of some sort.”
Falcon laughed. No one could best the British at being laconic.
“Well, John, I see what you mean. These men,” Falcon said, pointing over his shoulder at the bodies on the horses, “were rustling some of your cattle. They had the misfortune to try and do it in front of the Kid and me.”
The Kid swung his leg over the saddle horn and jumped to the ground, eyes bright with excitement.
“These galoots’re part of Jesse Evans’s gang, boss. He was with the rustlers and seemed to be callin’ the shots.”
Tunstall nodded, thoughtfully. “And Evans got away?”
“Yes,” Falcon said, “along with two or three of his men. They weren’t too happy about the welcome the Kid and I gave them.”
“Dick, would you get Juan and some of the boys to take care of . . . this mess, please? And have Carlos come and take a look at Mr. MacCallister’s horse’s ear, if you would.”
“Yes, sir,” Brewer replied, looking at the Kid and smiling.
Falcon saw the Kid return the smile. He remembered the Kid telling him that he and Brewer had become very good friends over the past couple of weeks and had taken to spending their off days together, fishing and sparking the ladies of nearby towns.
“Falcon, why don’t you and the Kid come into the house? Dinner is ready, and Marguerite will be very disappointed if we let it get cold,” Tunstall said.
As they walked in he added, “I’ve asked Dick Brewer to join us, if you don’t mind. I’ve some ranch business to discuss with you, and he can help apprise you of the situation we’re facing here.”
The four of them sat down to a huge feast of enchiladas, beans, steaks, sliced tomatoes, and corn on the cob. Tunstall forbade any talk of business until they had all eaten their fill.
Falcon noticed that the Kid was ravenous, and ate like he was half starved. It was a reaction to killing someone he had seen before, both in the war and afterward out west. Some men became nauseated after a gun battle, others became very hungry, while some sought out the company of women for furious lovemaking. It was as if, in the face of death, they sought somehow to reaffirm being alive, and the fact of having survived.
Falcon, for his part, felt a strange sadness at the wasting of precious life, no matter how worthless the men he killed were. The taking away of all a man was, or could ever hope to be, by pulling a trigger and ending his life was an experience he didn’t much like, even if the men brought it upon themselves.
After dinner, as Tunstall called it, the men gathered in his study, where he passed out cigars and brandy to Falcon and Brewer, and lemonade and a plate of sugar cookies to the Kid.
Tunstall settled himself behind a large, oaken desk, fiddled with his pipe until he had it going to his satisfaction, then held up his brandy glass.
“I drink a toast to you, Falcon and Kid, for saving my cattle from those desperadoes led by Jesse Evans. You have my gratitude.”
Falcon drank his brandy, then lighted his cigar and leaned back in his chair, waiting for Tunstall to come to the point of the meeting.
“Falcon, I think you know some of what has been going on between the Dolan faction in Lincoln, and John Chisum and myself.”
Falcon nodded. “The way I understand it, Murphey and Dolan pretty much had things their own way here with their store and their government contracts to supply beef to the Mescalero Indian tribes until you and Chisum decided to go into competition with them.”
“That is correct. Just recently, Dolan bought out Murphey when he became despondent over the death of his previous partner, Colonel Fritz. Fritz and Murphey, a few years back, were instrumental in getting Major William Brady, who served under them in the army, elected as sheriff of Lincoln County.”
Falcon nodded. Now he understood why Brady was under obligation to the Dolan faction, and why he was a frequent guest of theirs for lunch at The Drinking Hole.
“What about the state authorities? Can you go to them for help?” Falcon asked.
Dick Brewer snorted. “Not hardly. In addition to having the sheriff under their control, the Dolan gang has widespread influence in Santa Fe, with a group known as the Santa Fe Ring. These are powerful money men who practically control the state government, especially as regards the awarding of governmental contracts.”
Tunstall paused to relight his pipe and refill his brandy glass, motioning Brewer to continue.
“Besides having the Santa Fe Ring and all its power behind him, Dolan also has the backing of the judge of the third district Warren Bristol, and the district attorney, William Rynerson.”
Falcon looked at Tunstall. “And against this group stands only yourself and John Chisum?”
Tunstall nodded. “And of course, our lawyer, Alexander McSween.”
“What about the other ranchers around here? Won’t any of them stand with you?”
Tunstall shrugged. “Some will, those who’ve been treated bad by Dolan’s store, but most are afraid that if they go up against Dolan they won’t have anyone to buy their cattle, and the very low prices Dolan pays are better than nothing.”
“I see. Well, John, what is it you want from me?”
Tunstall leaned forward, his elbows on his desk. “We have an opportunity. Since Dolan bought out Murphey, he’s taken John Riley, his old overseer, in as a partner and promoted Billy Matthews to his second in command. I think it is Billy Matthews who has hired Jesse Evans and his gang to raid my and Chisum’s herds.”
Tunstall reached across the desk to refill Falcon’s glass.
“I want you to come in with Chisum and me against these cattle thieves and help us defeat them. We need every man who is good with a gun to stand alongside us.”
Falcon shook his head. “I’m sorry, John, but this affair is none of my business.”
He held up his hand as Tunstall started to protest. “Like I say, I’m just a saloon owner, and I don’t know how long I’m going to be staying in the area. But I will say this if I’m ever in a position to help you out or to make things a little more even I will do all in my power to do so.”
“Will you testify along with the Kid that it was Evans who tried to steal my cattle?”
“Absolutely. And I’ll make sure Sheriff Brady arrests him for it. Perhaps if he faces enough time in jail he can be made to tell who hired him to rob you, and who he was selling the cattle to.”
“With Judge Bristol on the bench, Evans will probably never be convicted, but I guess that’s about all we can do.”<
br />
Falcon stood up. “Thanks for the excellent dinner, John. I’ve been getting awfully tired of hotel food lately.”
“Say, Falcon, that reminds me. There is a little spread over on the Ruidosa River. The owner fell off his horse a few months back and broke his neck. His widow, Mary Smithers, has been talking about moving to town if she can find someone to lease the place. She’s got a wonderful Mexican cook working for her, a cousin to my cook, Marguerite.”
Falcon smiled. “I’ll certainly look into it, John. Anything’s better than living in one room in a hotel.”
He walked out and found Diablo tied to the hitching rail, a white bandage on his ear.
He stepped into the stirrup and climbed into the saddle, tipping his hat.
“Adios, John. I’ll see you in town tomorrow, Kid, and we can go to the sheriff and tell him about Evans.”
Thirteen
Though the autumn days were getting quite cool, Sheriff William Brady was sweating. Falcon thought he had never seen a man dance around a question so much.
Brady took off his hat and sleeved sweat off his forehead. “I don’t think Judge Bristol will issue an arrest warrant for a man on such flimsy evidence,” he said, as he sat at his desk and avoided meeting Falcon’s eyes.
Falcon glanced at the Kid, who was standing next to him and becoming angrier by the minute. He winked, trying to get the Kid to cool off and not cause any trouble. He wanted the matter to be handled as diplomatically as possible.
“Sheriff Brady, I don’t believe you need a judge to sign an arrest warrant in this case. After all, you have two witnesses who saw Evans commit a crime, and known friends and associates of his were killed during said crime. According to the law, that’s evidence enough for you to arrest the man and put him in jail.”
Brady shook his head. “I don’t know. I’d better talk to the judge, or the district attorney, Mr. Rynerson.”
Falcon narrowed his eyes, and his voice got hard. “I can see that you are not going to do your duty, Sheriff.”
He turned to the Kid. “Come on, Kid, let’s go over to the telegraph office and wire the governor’s office like you suggested in the first place.”
Song of Eagles Page 8
