* * *
“Two riders,” a young Apache named Gokilah said, pointing to a section of hilly country to the west. The Indian had galloped his pony over to inform Deke and Roy of the horsemen heading toward the slow-moving herd.
“Appears to be just a couple of cowboys,” Roy said, for the light was fading and the men were hard to see.
“One of ’em’s ridin’ a big black horse,” Deke observed. “The other guy is a little feller ridin’ a sorrel. Damned if he ain’t wearin’ a battered top hat like them coach drivers do up in Saint Louis.”
“Like the kind Billy the Kid wore, only he’s dead now,” Roy said. “Could be he’s just some saloon drunk who found that ole’ hat in a trash dump.”
Deke turned to the Apache. “Take five or six of your warriors an’ run ’em off. If they try to put up a fight, kill the sons of bitches.”
Gokilah reined his pony away, beckoning to five more Apaches for them to follow him. The six Indians took off at a gallop in the direction of the two strangers, levering shells into the firing chambers of their rifles.
“No sense in takin’ any chances,” Deke said. “Now let’s keep this herd movin’. It’ll be dark soon.”
Deke and Roy could hear the Apaches screaming war cries as they raced toward the pair of horsemen. Roy was first to look over his shoulder.
“Them two ain’t runnin’ off,” he told Deke.
Deke glanced that way, at once noticing the gleam of rifles in the hands of the two strangers.
A gunshot ripped through the evening quiet. An Apache flew off his pony’s back, tumbling to the grass.
“Son of a bitch!” Roy exclaimed
The Apaches returned fire, rifles pounding, the crack of exploding gunpowder filling the air.
Answering fire came from the strangers, including a shot from the little man in the top hat that sent another Indian rolling off the side of his speeding pony.
“Damn,” Deke snarled. “They both have got a hell of a good aim. Or real good luck.”
Then both men jumped off their horses to the ground, kneeling as they held rifles to their shoulder. Two Winchesters fired in unison.
Gokilah shrieked and slid off his pony’s withers into clumps of buffalo grass, rolling like a limp rag doll while his pony sped away.
A second Apache fell along with Gokilah, leaving only one Indian making a charge toward the strangers, a young renegade smart enough to know to turn his charging pony away from the pair of riflemen before he lost his life.
“Run get some more of them Injuns,” Deke growled. “Bring ’em all. Let them cattle drift for a spell until we kill those two bastards.”
Roy was watching the surviving Indian race out of rifle range. “I recognize that big feller by his description now, Deke. That’s Falcon MacCallister. They say he’s a big son of a bitch, always ridin’ a black horse, an’ he’s proved who he is by the way he can shoot.”
“Ain’t neither one of them missed,” Deke said, “and a fast movin’ target is a tough shot. Maybe it is MacCallister. We’ll send every Apache we’ve got down on ’em, and see how good this Falcon really is.”
“I’ve already seen he’s mighty damn good,” Roy said as he rode off to gather their renegades for an all-out rush toward the two riflemen.
Deke watched the pair mount their horses again and now they headed for the cover of some slender piñon pines just to the west of the valley the herd was in.
“They’ll be harder to kill now,” Deke grumbled, pulling his own Winchester from its saddle boot. “I may have to do this job myself.”
* * *
Rifles roared from the trees and from the Apache warriors as the Indians raced back and forth near the pines, some hanging under their ponies’ necks to make smaller targets for the men hidden in the forest.
Deke spurred his horse toward the fight. Roy was riding off to Peke’s left.
“We’ll circle them piñons an’ get around behind ’em,” Deke shouted.
Roy was watching three more Indians drop from their ponies’ backs. “Those bastards sure can shoot, Deke,” he yelled back in order to be heard above the gunfire and the thunder of racing hooves. “Now I’m damn near positive the big feller is Falcon MacCallister.”
“I don’t give a damn who he is,” Deke snapped.
“We’re liable to,” Roy answered, a worried look on his face while he watched the wink of muzzle flashes coming from a section of pine forest. “If he turns out to be Falcon MacCallister like I think, we could wind up with a few holes in our own hides.”
The remark made Deke angry. “If you ain’t got the nerve for this kind of work, get the hell into another profession. One man don’t scare me ... I don’t care who he is, or how bad his reputation is.”
“But there’s two of ’em,” Roy reminded, swinging his horse to the southwest to follow Deke in a circle around the spot where the pair of riflemen were taking such a deadly toll on the renegade Apaches.
“I can count, Roy!” Deke bellowed just as two more Indians were blasted from the backs of their ponies.
“Jesus,” Roy said, watching the Apaches fall. “Whoever the hell them two fellers are, they damn sure don’t miss very many shots.”
Deke was furious, both at the reckless young Indians who charged straight toward the pines and at Roy for running out of nerve so quickly. When he got back to Santa Fe he meant to tell Thomas Catron never to use Roy Cobb on dangerous business like this again.
Another renegade let out a yelp as a bullet passed through his skull, sending blood and brains and hair flying into the darkening skies overhead as the warrior fell.
A badly wounded Apache with his intestines dangling from a huge hole in his abdomen rode blindly toward Deke and Roy, gripping his pony’s mane with both hands, no longer carrying his rifle.
“Damn, look at that!” Roy exclaimed, as the young warrior rode past them, his face twisted in a mask of pain. “Them’s his guts hangin’ out.”
“Ain’t you never seen any blood before?” Deke snarled, more angry at Roy than ever. “It’s gonna be your blood spilled on this grass unless we get behind those two sons of bitches and silence their guns real quick.”
Roy wagged his head, still watching the wounded Indian until the Apache slid off his blood-splattered pony into the grass. ’I ain’t sure we’re bein’ paid enough money for this,“ he said as he caught up with Deke, aiming for a place in the woods well to the south of the two riflemen.
“Just shut up and let’s get these horses hid,” Deke replied, trying to control his temper. “Then we’ll start sneakin’ up on Mr. Falcon MacCallister, and whoever the hell his little friend happens to be.”
Thirty-seven
Deke crept forward, his rifle cocked and ready, weaving his way through a dark piñon forest. Roy was off to his left with his rifle ready.
“I can’t see a damn thing,” Roy whispered.
“Just keep listenin’ to their guns,” Deke replied, being careful to keep his voice low while he stepped cautiously over fallen pine cones and dry pine needles beyond the piñon thicket where they left their horses.
The pounding of rifles had slowed somewhat. Deke could see some of the Apaches out on the open prairie falling back to hold a conference out of rifle range. Less than a dozen Indians were still in the fight. The others were evidently dead, or badly wounded enough to retreat just beyond rifle range to talk about the deadly marksmanship of the men hidden in the trees. Deke saw them gathering in a swale, darker shadows among the dusky shapes of yucca and cholla dotting the valley.
The gunfire from Falcon MacCallister and his companion, if that was who was doing the shooting, had all but stopped. Every now and then, when an Indian got too close one of the men fired, and the result was usually fatal.
“It ain’t far now,” Deke whispered. “Watch out where you put your feet so’s we don’t make any noise. They ain’t expectin’ us from behind.”
“I sure as hell hope they ain’t,” Roy said,
crouching down as he moved from tree to tree.
Deke kept up his slow advance, determined to blow this Falcon MacCallister all the way to hell and back the minute he got the chance. He felt confident he could slip up on the men without being noticed.
A gun popped less than a hundred yards away.
“Yonder they is,” Roy whispered very softly.
“Spread out,” Deke replied in the same quiet voice. “Don’t shoot ’til you’re sure of a target.”
“This ain’t smart, Deke,” Roy protested, although he kept on moving toward the sounds of rifles. “If this is MacCallister he ain’t gonna be dumb enough not to watch his backside every now an’ then.”
“Shut the hell up an’ keep movin’,” Deke hissed, intent upon the direction from which the occasional rifle shots came, only they were far fewer now.
Roy hunkered down even lower and took mincing steps over fallen pine needles, his rifle to his shoulder. “Maybe we oughta use pistols,” he wondered aloud, “seein’ as we’re gettin’ this close.”
Mad as Deke was at his partner, he didn’t give a damn if Roy wanted to use a slingshot. Deke knew he could kill both men if he kept the element of surprise on their side. The only possible problem could come if somehow, Falcon MacCallister was anticipating an attack from the rear.
A rifle cracked sixty or seventy yards in front of Deke and he knew exactly where the riflemen were hidden now. “Gotcha,” he said under his breath, inching closer to the spot, his Winchester pressed to his shoulder.
Another rifle shot sounded from the same place, and Deke allowed himself an unconscious grin. After these two bastards had killed so many of his Apaches, it would be pure pleasure to put a bullet through the backs of both men.
Roy stepped on a dry twig and the noise made Deke flinch. He’d never really liked Roy Cobb, or trusted him to carry his share of the load.
“Be careful where you put your goddamn feet,” he whispered.
“Sorry, boss, but it’s dark as hell in here.”
An idea struck Deke just then. “Stay where you are an’ cover me. I’ll slip up closer an’ you keep your gun ready to back me up.”
“Be damn glad to stay put right here,” Roy answered in a tiny voice.
Deke crept onward, only a footstep at a time, staying in the shelter of piñon trunks wherever he could. Now, suddenly, all the guns were silent.
Them yellow-livered Apaches, he thought. As soon as the fight got tough, they pulled back and refused to rush MacCallister’s position again.
He made his way on the balls of his feet to a thick pine trunk less than forty yards from where the pair of riflemen had been firing. Roy was twenty or thirty yards behind him, keeping an eye on his back.
I’ve got you boys now, Deke thought, slipping around the tree soundlessly.
A soft voice behind him did not alarm him at all, for he was certain it was Roy whispering to him.
“Can you see ’em?” the voice asked.
“Not yet,” Deke replied. “Now shut the hell up so they won’t hear us.”
“I can see you, and I can kill you now.”
Deke froze, for he quickly realized that the voice did not belong to Roy Cobb.
“Son of a bitch!” He snarled, whirling around toward the voice with his Winchester leveled.
A flash of bright light blossomed a few feet away, and with it came thunder like the noise from a spring storm. Something struck his breastbone, a hard lick like the kick from a reluctant mule being harnessed.
He fell backward, at the same time pulling the trigger on his rifle. Deke’s ears were filled with noise, the report of his own gun and the shot that was fired at him.
Deke tried to keep his feet under him, staggering to remain upright. Red-hot pain jolted through his chest.
“You missed,” the strangely deep voice said, louder than before.
As Deke was falling he heard another gunshot, and then Roy let out a yell for help.
Deke landed on his back, unable to draw a breath, his rifle falling from his hands. A curious ringing began in his ears, replacing the blast of gunshots he heard moments before the slug hit him.
“I’m shot,” he gasped, struggling for just one mouthful of air.
“That’s about the size of it.”
Pain almost rendered Deke unconscious. He could feel blood leaking from the front of his shirt. “Who . . . the hell. . are you?” he asked, his mind gone numb with pain.
“What difference does a name make?” the voice replied.
Tremors shook Deke’s limbs. He fought to remain awake long enough to reach for his pistol, unwilling to give up the battle so easily. “I gotta know,” he croaked, sucking mightily for a breath.
“Not that it matters,” the voice said quietly, “but I’m Falcon MacCallister. It won’t matter because you’ll be dead in a few minutes, either way.”
Deke’s trembling fingers closed around his pistol grips and with all the effort he could muster, he clawed the Colt free from its holster.
“You aim to take a shot at me with that pistol?” Falcon asked.
“I’m . . . gonna.. kill you, you son . . . of a bitch.”
He could hear Roy wailing at the top of his lungs off in the distance.
“Plenty of folks have tried,” Falcon said. “You won’t be the first.”
“How . . . the hell did you know . . . ?” Deke managed to say as he raised his Colt, thumbing back the hammer, lifting his head in spite of tremendous pain to search for a target among the piñon forest shadows.
“How did I know you’d be coming up behind me? I can’t make myself believe you’re stupid enough to ask me that sort of question.”
Deke fired, and the .44 bucked in his fist. He’d only had a brief glimpse of something moving toward him in the forest. In so much pain, he couldn’t wait any longer.
“You missed me again,” Falcon said. “You aren’t much when it comes to hitting what you aim at, are you?”
“You . . . bastard!”
Deke heard soft footsteps drawing closer to the spot where he had fallen.
“You’ve called me a bunch of names,” Falcon said as the cries from Roy Cobb grew softer. “But you still can’t seem to aim all that well, even though I’m letting you live long enough to take your best shot.”
“I coulda killed . . . you,” he mumbled as a gray mist began to surround his vision.
“I gave you every opportunity.”
“You slipped . . . up . . . behind us.”
“Wasn’t that what you and your partner were trying to do to us?”
“Who’s the . . . little guy?”
“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”
“Who is the son of a bitch?”
“He’s Billy Bonney, or that’s the name he’s been going by since he came to Lincoln County.”
“Like hell! Pat Garrett killed the Kid. He’s already . . . in the ground at Fort Sumner.”
“It won’t matter if I tell you the truth, because you’ll be dead shortly, and you won’t be able to tell anyone what really happened.”
“What . . . the hell do you mean?” Deke asked, his mind growing foggy. Didn’t everyone know that Sheriff Garrett shot the Kid at Pete Maxwell’s the other night?
“Garrett shot the wrong man.”
“What?” The notion wouldn’t register in Deke’s pain-ridden brain.
“He shot a man named Billy Barlow. The Kid is very much alive. He just shot your partner. We’ve been waiting for the two of you to show up.”
“Can’t be,” Deke muttered, slipping closer to the blanket of fog swirling toward him.
“It’s a fact,” Falcon replied. “The trouble is, you won’t be alive to see if I’m telling you the truth.”
Off in the woods, Deke heard Roy cry, “Help me, Deke! I’m gutshot. My legs won’t move!”
Now a darker shadow came in front of Deke’s eyes, and a hand jerked his pistol from his trembling fist.
“So your name
is Deke,” Falcon said. “Can’t say as I’m all that pleased to make your acquaintance, under the circumstances, but introductions aren’t all that important when men are trying to kill each other.”
“This . . . wasn’t your fight,” Deke groaned. “How come you to side with . . . Chisum?”
“He’s a friend.”
“That ain’t . . . enough to be worth riskin’ . . . your life over it.”
“Depends on the man,” Falcon told him, his voice with an edge to it now.
The pain exploding inside Deke’s chest was too much to bear and yet he couldn’t admit to himself that he was dying. “I’m gonna track you down an’ ... kill you, MacCallister.” He barely managed to get the words out
“The only tracks you’ll be making will be in an undertaker’s wagon.”
A rush of sudden anger gave Deke an extra ounce of strength and he raised his head. “I ain’t . . . dead yet,” he said through clenched teeth.
“I can help you with that,” Falcon said, and Deke heard the cocking of a pistol.
There was a deafening noise. Deke felt his front teeth shatter, and something akin to a hot branding iron ran through his head.
Then Deke Slaton was surrounded by darkness, and silence.
Thirty-eight
Falcon walked over to where the Kid was standing above the man he’d shot.
“Got him right through the heart,” the Kid said, “only he’s still alive.”
“Won’t be for long,” Falcon observed, for even in the dark of the piñon forest an inky pool of blood was spreading around the body, easy to see.
“He kinda whispered his name,” the Kid went on in a quiet voice. “Roy Cobb.”
“He called the other one Deke,” Falcon remembered.
“Cobb said they didn’t work for Jimmy Dolan or Murphey or any of the Lincoln County bunch. They came straight down from Santa Fe, bein’ paid by Thomas Catron, the leader of the beef ring that started all this trouble. That’s what this feller told me just before he blacked out.”
“Somebody needs to pay a call on this Thomas Catron. Tell him what happened to his boys and his Apaches here tonight. It ain’t over yet. There’s still nine or ten Apaches out there and I intend to kill ’em all.”
Song of Eagles Page 24
