French was losing a lot of blood and showing it in his pale face and by his weakened condition, slumped over in his saddle as if it pained him greatly to sit a horse.
Covered with snow, ice crusting French’s moustache and the Kid’s Stetson, they finally rode up on a cabin nestled in a thicket of piñon pines east of the river.
“You reckon we can get help there?” French asked weakly as he held onto his saddlehorn, his breath smoking in the frigid air, chills racking his body.
The Kid reached over to steady French as he swayed in his saddle. They remained hidden in some trees while they studied the cabin to see if it was safe.
Finally the Kid spoke through chattering teeth, “We can ride down an’ ask. That cabin belongs to Falcon MacCallister, an’ last time we spoke we was still friends.”
He glanced at French, “ ’Course, that was just after the Regulators killed Baker and Morton, so I don’t rightly know how he feels just now.”
He pointed at the cabin. “There’s two horses in that corral behind the house, so somebody’s likely there now. I doubt if Falcon would draw down on us, but he may have some company who’s not so friendly. Keep your hand near your gun, just in case. Can’t always tell who’s friendly an’ who ain’t in these parts ’til it’s too late.”
They rode their horses down a gentle slope toward the cabin with as much caution as possible, ready for a challenge from the log ranch house that might spell trouble.
Suddenly the Kid saw a tall man wearing a brace of pistols come out on the cabin’s front porch, watching them ride closer without reaching for either gun.
“Hello the house!” the Kid cried when he recognized the man as Falcon MacCallister.
“Ride in!” a deep voice shouted.
The tall gunman still made no move toward his weapons. He must have recognized the Kid’s horse, even covered with ice and snow.
“We’ve had a spell of bad luck, Falcon,” the Kid began when they reached the front of the cabin. “We’ve both got bulletholes in our legs. Wondered if you might know a thing or two about how to stop the bleedin’ and such.”
“I’m acquainted with bullet wounds,” Falcon replied, keeping an eye on the Kid. His expression was serious, but not hostile or threatening.
“How have you been, Kid?” He glanced at the blood on Kid’s leg, frozen now in spiculed, red icicles on his pant leg. “Still trying to get revenge for John Tunstall’s killing?”
“That’s a fact,” the Kid answered, gingerly swinging down from his blood-soaked saddle. “This here is Jim French, Falcon. You met him a time or two at The Drinking Hole. Playin’ Monte, I believe it was.”
“I remember,” Falcon said. “Tie off those horses to the corral fence over near the shed where they can get some shelter and come inside. I’ve got a fire built, some coffee on the stove, and some healing salve I can use to dress those holes with. Maybe it’ll keep them from festering some, if you wrap them tight and stay off them for a while to let the healing begin.”
“We’re much obliged,” French groaned, easing himself down to the ground, dusting snow and ice off his shoulders and hat. “Don’t figure I could have ridden much farther than this in this norther.”
Hobbling, they led their horses over to the pole fence and tied them under the overhang of a wooden shed. After dumping some hay from a trough on the ground for them to eat, Jim French gave the Kid a glance. “You were right. This MacCallister is okay. I think we can trust him.”
The Kid nodded and started off toward the cabin.
“Good thing, too, ’cause he looks meaner’n a two-headed rattler,” French said in a quiet voice as they neared the house.
They walked inside a small but neat and tidy cabin. There were curtains on the windows, woven rugs on the floor, what appeared to be hand-made furnishings, a woodstove, and a bullhide chair in one corner beside a hand-cut, pine table which was polished until it gleamed.
Falcon was opening a small jar. A pile of clean rags lay on the table. He gave the Kid and French a sideways look. “Take off your guns and pants, boys. Looks like the bullets went clean through, so you should mend without any problem, as long as we can keep infection to a minimum. Luckily, the cold should help out some.”
“It was the same bullet,” the Kid told him, unbuckling his gunbelt. He grinned, then groaned as he unbuttoned his pants. “Damn near anybody would call that a run of bad luck, when one bullet gets two men in the leg.”
“I heard about the shooting in Lincoln,” Falcon said. Hearing this, the Kid froze.
“Just what did you hear about it?” the Kid asked, wondering if Falcon was about to get the drop on them now that he and French had taken off their guns. He still wasn’t sure Falcon didn’t hold the killing of Baker and Morton against him. He had certainly been mad enough at the time. Even the Kid had begun to feel ashamed at what they had done when Falcon turned that disgusted stare on him, the bodies at his feet.
“Not all that much,” Falcon replied with a small shrug. “Some of your bunch killed Sheriff Brady. A Chisum cowboy came riding through early this morning. He told me what he’d heard. He didn’t see it, mind you. He said folks are saying the Regulators murdered the sheriff and wounded Billy Matthews. Also got a man named Long.”
“It wasn’t murder,” the Kid protested, feeling more uneasy as Falcon continued to speak. “This has turned into a war, Falcon, a range war. Brady had it comin’. He’s on the payroll of the man who ordered John Tunstall gunned down in cold blood.”
The Kid paused, sorrow overcoming him for a moment. “And, as you know, I witnessed the whole thing. Jesse Evans an’ Billy Morton did the shootin’, along with Tom Hill. Mr. Tunstall didn’t even have his pistol out when they shot him in the face.”
“Kid, you know that isn’t the official version going around,” Falcon said quietly. “Sheriff Brady has been telling everyone two shots had been fired in John Tunstall’s pistol.”
The Kid bristled. “And I can tell you how that happened. After they killed him, Jesse Evans jerked out Mr. Tunstall’s gun and fired it twice up in the air. Then they put it in his hand after he was already dead. I swear it’s the truth.”
“I believe you,” Falcon said. “I know all about Evans and his gang.” He looked up from examining the Kid’s leg. “And, of course, you’ve already killed Morton for his part in the fracas.”
“Damn right we did,” French said, nodding once. “He had it comin’, and so did that bastard Baker.”
Falcon put the jar of wintergreen salve on the tabletop and walked past the Kid and French to the cabin door, giving the hills around them a careful examination, watching the snow fall for a moment, as if thinking.
“You’ve got bigger troubles headed your way, if what that Chisum rider told me is the truth.”
“How’s that?” the Kid asked.
Falcon turned back to them. “Seems Billy Matthews has organized a couple of big posses to hunt all of you down. George Hindman is in charge of one posse.”
“There’s more’n one?” French asked.
“At least two. An old bounty hunter from down in Texas by the name of Andrew Roberts is leading the others. Folks call him Buckshot Roberts. Always uses a shotgun when he has a choice. And he’s not above backshooting a man to earn his money, or killing him in bed while he’s asleep if he gets the chance.”
“I’ve heard the name Buckshot Roberts,” the Kid said. “How many men will be after us?”
“Hard to say, son.”
“But we were legal constables of Lincoln County when we arrested Baker and Morton, with legal arrest warrants. They can’t just come after us an’ gun us down.”
Falcon shook his head. “I told you at the time, Kid, killing men who were your prisoners wouldn’t sit well with people. Remember, Governor Axtell invalidated your appointments to the constables’ positions, and he did the same to the warrants you carry. As you no doubt know, somebody with a lot of political pull whispered in the governor’s ear.”
“That
’d be Lawrence Murphey or Jimmy Dolan,” the Kid snapped angrily, glaring at French after hearing again the news Falcon just gave them. “They took away our badges. I can’t hardly make myself believe it.”
“They’ll hunt us down like stray dogs,” French said, a look of fear in his eyes.
“Most likely,” the Kid said softly. “We’ll be runnin’ for our lives now, unless we stand up an’ fight ’em like men.”
“There ain’t nearly enough of us,” French argued.
“We’ll find some more men,” the Kid said, still boiling mad over what had been done to them. “We ain’t backin’ down from ’em just because they got to the governor.”
Falcon chuckled, looking the Kid up and down.
“What was funny ’bout that?” asked the Kid.
Falcon hooked his thumbs in his gunbelt. “I guess you could say it’s because I like your style, Kid. You’ve got two big posses headed your way and you haven’t shown the slightest inclination to back down. I like backbone in a man.” He hesitated, then added, “ ’Course, it’s got to be tempered with a healthy respect for one’s enemies, or it becomes foolhardiness.”
“I’ve seen how good you are with a gun,” said the Kid, “and no one would ever question your backbone. Any chance you’d throw in with us?”
Falcon wagged his head. “Not officially, Kid. But I might be inclined to take a hand in things if certain circumstances come up.”
“What sort of circumstances are you talkin’ about?” French asked.
Again, Falcon chuckled. “If the odds got too long against you when I’m around, or it I can see it won’t be a fair fight. I won’t promise you anything. Could be some of Dolan’s boys might turn up missing from time to time.”
“Then you will help us!” the Kid exclaimed.
“I told you, not officially. This isn’t any of my affair, and I can probably be of more use if I stay on the outside and not appear to take sides. Remember, Kid, all I said was, there could come a time when some of Dolan’s gunmen don’t show up for payday.”
“You know,” the Kid said, “Dolan’s men are out to get Alex McSween, and John Chisum, too.”
“Like I said,” Falcon explained, “this isn’t my war, and unless it spills over to involve Chisum I’m staying out. But if anyone sends gunnies or outlaws after John without good reason, this Dolan is gonna start losing gunhands and partners.”
“I wish you’d talk with Dick Brewer, Falcon. He seen and heard some things in Lincoln that might make you change your mind and ride with us after Evans.”
“Nothing’s gonna change my mind, son.”
“Not even if Dick told you all the things Dolan an’ his boys have done, includin’ buying influence from the big wheels in Santa Fe so’s we can’t get a fair hearing?”
“I’ll talk to Dick about what he knows, and maybe I’ll pass the information along to some authorities who can do something about it, but I don’t ride with anybody. When I work with a gun, I always work alone.”
French was watching Falcon closely. “Must mean you’re real good. Can’t say as I’ve ever heard of Falcon MacCallister by reputation.”
The statement brought a grin to Falcon’s face. “A reputation doesn’t mean all that much, Jim. Most times, it’s blown up to make it sound better.”
“I wasn’t meanin’ to say you weren’t . . .”
Falcon halted him by raising his hand. “No need to explain. I know what you’re meaning to say. There may be plenty of gun slicks who are faster than I am. I’ve just never met up with any of them yet.”
The Kid could see there was no point in arguing with Falcon further. He limped over to the table and dropped his pants before picking up the jar of salve.
“Push it deep into your wounds as you can,” Falcon said. “Then tie a bandage around it real tight.”
The Kid did as he was told, feeling a fiery burning in his leg muscle when he pushed the pungent ointment into the hole in the front of his thigh. “Stings like hell,” he said, “but not near as bad as a bullet.”
“You boys are welcome to rest here a while. Hardly anybody knows about this cabin. I hired it from a widow lady a while back, to use while I ran The Drinking Hole. I only plan to stay in the area a short while longer.”
“Sure hope you don’t pull out now,” said the Kid, tying a strip of cloth around his injury. “I have a feelin’ we’re gonna need all the help we can get.”
“I never promised I’d help you, Kid,” Falcon reminded. “I said there could come a time when I’d even things up for you and your friends.”
“Anything’ll be a help, Mr. MacCallister,” French said.
“Call me Falcon. No need to be so formal.”
French winced when he applied the salve to his leg wound, pushing it deep with the tip of his finger coated in medication. “We appreciate the offer to let us rest a spell,” he said. “I don’t think I can ride another mile without rest an’ maybe a bite of food.”
He looked over at the Franklin stove in the corner. “And that stove’s mighty welcome, too.”
“I’ve got plenty of fatback and beans, and a few tins peaches and pears,” Falcon said. “Some Arbuckles coffee, too. I’ll rustle you boys up something to eat while you tend to your horses. After they’ve eaten their fill and watered themselves, just put them in the corral with mine. The piñon trees will keep most of the cold off of them.”
“We’re mighty obliged, Falcon,” the Kid said, glad he could still call Falcon his friend, and hoping there might be some way to convince this tall gunman to stay in Lincoln County for a spell. Having a man like him on their side might make one hell of a difference.
Twenty-two
After a couple of weeks, the Kid and French recovered from their wounds enough to ride toward San Patricio to meet up with Dick Brewer and the other Regulators, who were camped in the region.
On the way, the Kid met a young man named Tom O’Folliard, and the two became instant friends. O’Folliard was of the same age as the Kid. He had drifted into New Mexico from Uvalde, Texas. The Kid persuaded him to take a hand in the war against the Dolan forces, to become a Regulator.
When they met up with Brewer, the Kid found out he was plenty pissed-off about the killing of Brady, thinking it to have been a dumb move on their part.
“Kid, up until then we had the people of Lincoln on our side,” he said over a campfire in the hills above San Patricio. “Now, a lot of the citizens think we’re no more than outlaws, worse even than Dolan’s men, who have been robbin’ ’em blind for years.”
He stopped talking long enough to drink his coffee, then turned his gaze back on the Kid. “Some of ’em are even callin’ you a mad dog killer, a crazy man who shoots first and asks questions later.”
The Kid stuck out his chin, too stubborn to admit Brewer was right in his assessment of their actions.
“Well, Dick, that kind of reputation don’t do a man no harm, especially when he’s got a pack of hound dogs on his trail. Might make ’em think twice ’bout tanglin’ with him.”
Brewer nodded, “ ’Course, even though what you done was stupid, what Dolan’s doin’ is even worse. I just can’t believe he’s put a two hundred dollar reward on any Regulator arrested or killed. Hell, that’s more money than most punchers earn in a year. We’re gonna have every hardscrabble cowpoke in the county lookin’ to earn some of that easy money.”
The Kid’s lips grew tight. “Then it’s up to us to not make the money so easy to get.”
Brewer pointed over his shoulder to two men that the Kid didn’t know sitting by the fire.
“Kid, I want you to meet Frank and George Coe. They joined up when they heard about Dolan taking Tunstall’s cattle from the Rio Feliz up to San Nicolas spring. He plans to sell ’em to the government to feed the Injuns, an’ keep the money for himself.”
The Kid shook his head. “That’s what started this whole mess in the first place, Dolan stealing Tunstall’s and Chisum’s beeves.”
“Yeah, and the Coes have agreed to help us get them cattle back to where they belong.” He paused and nodded at Tom, sitting next to the Kid.
“Who’s that you got with you?”
The Kid inclined his head at Tom. “This here’s Tom O’Folliard. He agreed to ride with us. He wants to be a Regulator, too.”
Brewer shook his head, grinning ruefully. “Can’t say as I understand why anybody would want to join up in this fracas, but welcome, Tom O’Folliard. Glad to have any man who knows how to use a six-killer. We’re gonna need all the help we can got to make it out of this alive.”
Brewer stood up, poured the remainder of his coffee on the fire, and said, “Mount up, boys. We got some distance to cover to get Mr. Tunstall’s cattle back to his ranch.”
After riding all day without stopping to take a proper nooning, the men were much relieved to crest a hill and see Blazer’s Mill in the distance.
“What’s that place?” the Kid asked Brewer.
“That’s Blazer’s Mill. Old Doc Blazer leases it to the Mescalero Indian Agency,” Brewer answered. “The agent’s wife, Mrs. Godfroy, is known to serve a pretty mean dinner to passersby, an’ my stomach’s tellin’ me it’s time we took some food.”
The Regulators rode down the hill at a gallop, whooping and hollering at the chance to get out of the saddle and put on a feedbag.
Once they had seen to their horses, the men were shown into a back area of the building, set up as a dining hall, with several long tables arranged along the walls.
Brewer told Mrs. Godfroy, “Bring us all the food you got, an keep it comin’ ’til we’re done.”
“I’ve got a whole pig and half a calf on the fire out back. You think that’ll be enough for you boys?”
The Kid laughed. “Hell, that’s enough for me. The others can fend for themselves.”
* * *
“Buckshot Roberts” wanted out of the New Mexico Territory, and to that end he had sold his tiny holdings above the Ruidoso River, meaning to leave the country as soon as he was paid for his property. The buyer was from back east, and a check for Roberts’ land was in the hands of the mail service.
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