Rage of Eagles

by William W. Johnstone

  Falcon took the hand, hard as a rock, and shook it. “Val Mack.”

  “Uh-huh,” the older man said, just as Falcon got the distinct impression that somewhere down the line he’d met the man. “You know what you’re gettin’ onto here, Val?”

  “A peck of trouble, I reckon.”

  “More like a wagon load, Val. Come on, let’s walk over to the bunkhouse and get you settled in.”

  The bunkhouse was well built and snug, the bunk comfortable and long enough for Falcon’s tall frame. He’d been in some fancy hotels where his feet hung over the end of the bed.

  Cookie limped back to the house and Falcon unpacked his gear and stowed it away. Then he went down to the barn and brushed his horses and forked hay to them. He had noticed that Cookie wore a pistol all the time, so Falcon checked his own six-shooters and his rifle. He made sure all the ammo loops in his cartridge belt were full, then sat outside the bunkhouse on a bench, smoking a cigarette.

  Nice spread, Falcon thought. John Bailey’s done well for himself and his family.

  Then he wondered what had happened to the man who’d fathered Angie’s child. Dead? Drifted away like some men do? Fine-looking woman like that, he rather doubted the husband drifting off. Course, he smiled, she might have a temper like a wolverine. That had caused many a man to haul his ashes.

  Then Falcon gave some serious thought to the men he’d try, and the optimum word was try, to get hold of, come the morning. He would send a wire to some settled-down friends of his, and then they would attempt to get hold of the ol’ war-hosses ... somehow. Money to get them here as quickly as possible was no object, for Falcon had money in banks and with investment houses and attorneys all over the west, under various names. He had five thousand dollars with him, in a money belt and in his saddlebags (now hidden under a loose board in the bunkhouse, which was loose no longer), in gold and greenbacks.

  But Gilman was small potatoes compared to Nance Noonan and his nutty brothers, and on his way to the cabin where he’d holed up, Falcon had learned there were ten Noonan boys. Well... there were eight left, since Falcon had dispatched Chet and Butch. And each of the brothers had five or six kids.

  “Jesus,” Falcon whispered to the breeze. “Nance has an army just with his brothers and their kids.”

  Plus, Falcon knew, with all hands combined, there were at least a hundred men at Nance’s command . . . probably more.

  Well, Falcon thought, his pa’d had about that many men chasing him on more than one occasion. Falcon smiled at that, knowing that he wasn’t quite the hoss Jamie Ian MacCallister had been. Close, but not quite.

  Hell, no man was.

  Falcon rose from the bench and went to the washbasin to clean up for supper, scrubbing his face and neck and hands with strong soap and drying off with a towel from a peg. He ran his fingers through his thick hair and then looked at his reflection in the piece of mirror affixed to a post. In the mirror, he caught movement and turned. Kip was walking up behind him.

  “Supper’s nearabouts ready, Val. John wants you to come up to the house now for a drink ’fore we eat.”

  “I could stand a drink.” Falcon stared at the foreman for a moment. “A question or two, Kip?”

  “Ask away. You got the right now that you’ve throwed in with us.”

  “What happened to Angie’s husband?”

  “Name was Charles. He was a good boy. Him and Angie got married when she was sixteen and he was seventeen. Had Jimmy a year later. ’Bout two years ago, Gilman’s oldest son, Lars, braced Charles in town one afternoon. Hell, Charles wasn’t no gunhand. He was a pretty good shot, but no fast gun. He didn’t want to fight Lars. But you know how it is out here. Lars called him some really vile names and Charles jerked iron. Lars is almighty quick. Remember that, Val. He’s fast. Lars gut-shot him and left him in the street to die. Took the lad about forty-eight hours to die. Died hard, too. I ’spect you’ve seen men who was belly-shot.”

  “Yes. It isn’t pleasant.”

  “No, it shore ain’t. Well, after the family shook off the grief, the war was on. But John Bailey didn’t start the second round neither. Gilman did. We had ten hands here then. Not countin’ me nor John nor Cookie. One by one Gilman’s men scared them off or killed them off. You ever heard of a man calls hisself Border?”

  “Oh, yes. Supposed to be one of the fastest guns anywhere around.”

  “He is. Lightnin’ quick. A killer through and through. He’s crazy, I think. He’s been on Gilman’s payroll for about a year now. He can usually be found at the Stampede Saloon in town, waitin’ like a damn rattlesnake for someone to say somethin’ to him so’s he can call them out and either back them down and run them out of town or kill them.”

  “Nice fellow.”

  “Just peachy,” Kip said sourly.

  “You reckon he’ll be there about dawn tomorrow?”

  “He lives at the saloon. Got him a room on the second floor. Why?”

  “ ’Cause I plan to be in town about dawn.”

  Kip sighed. “I feel obliged to ride in with you.”

  “If you want to.”

  “I’ll meet you at the corral about four.”

  “Suits me. Now let’s go eat supper. I’m hungry.”

  Three

  The town of Gilman had grown since Falcon had last seen it. And Falcon did not recall it being named Gilman.

  “It wasn’t when we first come out here,” Kip said. “Then Gilman became top dog and decided the town should have his name.”

  “The people didn’t object?”

  “Them that did have the courage to kick up a fuss soon changed their mind about it. Or left.”

  “Seems like to me the territorial governor would have something to say about this situation.”

  “He don’t even know what’s really goin’ on. He did send a man in, but nobody in town would talk to him. ’Sides, Gilman ain’t really doin’ nothin’ illegal . . . that can be proved, that is. It’s our word against his. If one of us says he done something, he’s got fifty people who says he didn’t.”

  “Is there an attorney in town?”

  “One. But he’s in Gilman’s pocket. Gilman gave him a small spread he took away from the Nettles family after Tom Nettles turned up dead one night.”

  “Dead? How? And what did the sheriff say about it?”

  Kip smiled, rather sadly, Falcon thought. “Sheriff’s two days hard ride away, with two deputies to cover the entire county. ’Sides, Gilman’s bought him off too. He’s not goin’ to do a damn thing.”

  The men were resting their horses on a small rise overlooking the town. Just looking at the town, it seemed quite pleasant. A bank and a church had been built since Falcon had last seen the place, and a dozen or more other homes and businesses.

  “Gilman owns the bank?” Falcon asked.

  “Shore does. The man’s got all bets covered.”

  “Not all.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I just bought into this card game, and I’m a damn good gambler.”

  “But you’re playing against a marked deck, son.”

  Falcon smiled. “I’ve played against a few of those in my time, too, Kip.”

  Kip grunted and pointed. “If drunk cowboys or crazy Injuns, or vicey-versie, ain’t tore down the wires, the telegraph office is wedged in ’tween the general store and the barber shop.”

  “Fine. Should be opening up about right now. Is there a café in town?”

  “Rosie’s Café.” Again, he pointed. “There. That’s the only spot in town that’s neutral ground. Or supposed to be. It don’t always work that way. But it’s the only really nice café where a man can take his family for eighty miles any direction you want to ride.”

  “I’ll meet you there in a few minutes. We’ll have breakfast.”

  “I could use some food in my belly.”

  Falcon sent his wires, using a name the Cheyenne had given him long before he married Marie. He did not request a reply. I
f the mountain men got the word and could make it, they would be here. If not, well, they wouldn’t.

  “Funny name,” the telegrapher said with a frown. “Injun name.”

  “That’s right.”

  “These messages don’t make no sense to me.”

  “They will to the people who get them.” Falcon stood by the cage, waiting.

  “I’ll send them in due time.”

  “You’ll send them now. And I read the code, and read it well.” Falcon wasn’t bluffing. He had learned it as a boy. He stood by the cage and read each tap until the last message was sent. Then he tossed money on the counter and left. With any kind of luck, he and Kip should have had their breakfast and been on their way long before the telegrapher could have gotten word to Gilman.

  However, the gunfighter who called himself Border was another matter.

  On the boardwalk, Falcon looked over at the Stampede Saloon. The doors behind the batwings were still closed, and the swamper had not yet begun his work for that morning.

  Falcon walked over to Rosie’s Café and pushed open the door. The place was already about half filled with men. Kip was sitting at a table in the corner. The buzz of conversation stopped when Falcon stepped in, the men looking him over. Falcon ignored them and walked over to the table where Kip was waiting and sat down.

  Falcon waited until the waitress had brought them huge mugs of coffee and taken their orders before asking in a low tone, “Which side are these men on?”

  “Some are solid with Gilman, others just members of the alliance. But that don’t mean they even like or really believe in what Gilman is doin’. Just that they’re afraid of him.”

  “So you don’t really know which way they’ll go if someone stood up to Gilman and forced his hand?”

  “For most of them, that’s true.” He smiled. “They’re givin’ you the once-over, that’s for sure. I ’spect the story ’bout the gunfight at the tradin’ post and what you done to Red has spread all over the area.”

  Falcon took a sip of his coffee. It was fresh and hot and good. The odor of potatoes frying and bacon and eggs cooking filled the café.

  “Damn!” Kip suddenly blurted in a low tone.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Here comes Border crossin’ the street.”

  Falcon was sitting to Kip’s left, his back to a wall in the corner, and he lifted his eyes to the street. Falcon had seen the gunslick a couple of times in the past. Not a big man, but lightning quick with a Colt. Take his guns away from him and he wouldn’t be much at all.

  The waitress brought their orders, large plates that could almost be called platters filled with fried potatoes, a huge slice of ham, and three eggs. Half a loaf of fresh-baked bread and butter and jam on the side. She placed their orders before them and the men dug in. Both men heard the bell on the front door chime as it was opened. Neither of them looked up.

  “Damn good grub, ain’t it?” Kip asked around a mouthful of breakfast.

  “Best I’ve had since supper last night,” Falcon agreed with a smile, busy filling his own belly. He tore off a hunk of hot bread just as bootsteps sounded behind him. He still did not look up.

  “You’re sittin’ at my table,” a voice spoke.

  “I didn’t see your name on it, so pick another one,” Falcon told the voice without looking around. He knew it was the gunhand, Border, looking for trouble.

  “Get up!” Border commanded.

  “Go to hell,” Falcon calmly told him.

  The café became hushed as a church as all conversation ceased. All eyes shifted toward the table in the corner.

  “What did you say to me?” Border almost shouted the shocked words. Nobody spoke to him in such a manner.

  “I said go to hell. Are you deaf as well as ugly?”

  “Stand up!”

  “When I finish my breakfast, little man,” Falcon replied, smearing butter and jam on a hunk of bread. “Now go away, you’re bothering me.”

  “Little man?” This time the words were shouted.

  Falcon ignored him.

  “Get up, you son of a bitch!” Border almost screamed the words.

  Falcon told him to go commit an impossible act on his person. Kip almost choked on his breakfast. About half the ranchers and cowboys and local businessmen in the café could not hide their smiles.

  Border dropped his left hand on Falcon’s shoulder. Falcon knew the man’s other hand was hovering near the butt of a gun. It was an old gunfighter’s trick. Turn, and he was a dead man. Instead, Falcon reached up, grabbed hold of Border’s index finger, and broke it.

  The gunfighter screamed in pain and backed up. Falcon pushed back from the table and stood up. He set himself and hit Border a combination of punches: a left to the belly, then a right to the jaw. Border’s boots flew out from under him and he landed butt first on a table, collapsing it.

  Falcon was on him as fast as a striking snake. He jerked the man to his feet and began pounding him in the face. Before Border could even think about recovering, Falcon had flattened his nose and pulped his lips with hard fists. Then he picked up the gunfighter bodily and threw him through the café’s front window. Border landed on the boardwalk and rolled off into the dirt and horseshit of the street.

  Falcon calmly walked out the front door, jerked Border to his knees, and placed the man’s hands on the edge of the boardwalk. Then he proceeded to stomp on Border’s hands with the heel of his boot.

  Everybody in the café cringed as Falcon’s boots came down on Border’s hands, breaking fingers and crushing knuckles. Border’s days as a feared gunfighter and hired killer were over. If not forever, at least for a long time.

  Falcon threw the man into a horse trough and walked back into Rosie’s. He took his seat at the table, picked up his knife and fork, and resumed his eating.

  Kip stared at him in amazement for a moment. Slowly the buzz of conversation began among the ranchers and hands and businessmen. Two men got up, paid their bill, and walked out the door. One of them hauled Border out of the horse trough and dragged him across the street toward what passed for the town’s doctor.

  “Jonas Chapman and Paul Major,” Kip said, loud enough for everyone in the room to hear. “Neither one of them can go to the privy without askin’ permission from Gilman.”

  Some of the men in the room frowned, others smiled. One said, “So you scraped enough money together to hire one tough man, Kip. You still ain’t gonna win in the long run.”

  “Maybe not, Ned,” Kip replied. “But you and Gilman will know you been in a fight.”

  “I ain’t never done you a hurt, Kip,” Ned said.

  “You ain’t never done me and John no good neither.”

  Ned got up, his back stiff with anger, and stalked out of the café.

  Another rancher looked at Falcon for a few seconds. “You got a name, mister?”

  “Val Mack.”

  “Seems like me and you have crossed trails somewhere down the line. Your face is familar.”

  “Could be, I get around.” Falcon sopped up the last of his eggs with a hunk of bread and chewed slowly.

  “Riders comin’ in,” another man spoke. “It’s Gilman’s boys.”

  Falcon and Kip watched as Ned waved the riders to a dusty halt and spoke briefly, more than once pointing to the café.

  “You boys better hit the back door,” a woman spoke from the kitchen archway.

  “I ain’t never took no back door to avoid no man, Rosie,” Kip said. “And I’m too damn old to start now.”

  Rosie immediately took down from the wall a small mirror and a painting of a mountain scene with a bear. She didn’t want them pockmarked with bullet holes.

  “Kip,” another rancher spoke in a not unkindly voice, “you and Mr. Mack clear on out of here. When you’re outnumbered five to one, that’s just good sense, not cowardice.”

  Kip shook his head. “Those boys out yonder are trouble-huntin,’ Jeff. And you know it. Better to face it here than
out at the ranch where Martha, Angie, and the boy could catch a bullet.”

  “Any of those cowboys gunslicks?” Val asked in a whisper.

  “None of ’em is known as such. But they’re all drawin’ fightin’ wages. I’d say they’re all better than most with a six-shooter.”

  “They’ve all had a hand in attacking and running off other small ranchers in the area?” Again, the question was whispered.

  “Oh, yeah. I can state that for a pure-dee fact. All their names was told to me by one or the other of the families who was burnt out.”

  “Then that makes them no better than Gilman.”

  “That’s the way I see it.”

  Falcon had spotted a Greener propped up in a corner behind the counter. A double-barreled sawed-off shotgun was a fearsome weapon, and would back down anyone if they had good sense.

  “Get that Greener over there, Kip,” Falcon whispered. “And a few extra shells. We’ll meet them face to face on the boardwalk when they dismount. That way, we’ll have the high ground.”

  “Good idea.” Kip pushed back his chair and walked behind the counter, picking up the sawed-off shotgun and breaking it open. Both barrels were loaded. He grabbed a handful of shells from a box and stuck them in his jacket pocket just as Falcon was rising from the table and dropping a couple of coins for their breakfast.

  The men looked at one another, smiled, and nodded, and then walked out of Rosie’s Café to stand on the boardwalk. Before they reached the door, Falcon slipped his guns in and out of leather a couple of times to loosen them.

  Two of the Snake riders had gone over to the doc’s to check on Border. Eight had dismounted and were standing by the hitchrail.

  “Claude,” Kip said to an older man, “like the Injuns used to say, it’s a good day for dyin’. If that’s what you got in mind.”

  “We come into town for breakfast, Kip,” Claude replied in an even voice. “Then we was headin’ back to the ranch.”

  Kip smiled. “With bedrolls and your saddlebags packed heavy full of grub? I don’t think so.”

  Claude returned the smile. “I keep forgettin’ that you’re an old Injun fighter, Kip. You don’t miss much, do you?”