Rage of Eagles

by William W. Johnstone

  “I sure wouldn’t bet against you, Bob.”

  Big Bob Marsh grinned, exposing a pretty good set of choppers for his age and the time. “Let’s finish up this coffee and head on to the ranch, boy. I want to meet the folks I’ll be working for and stow my possibles.”

  * * *

  John, Martha, Angie, Jimmy, Cookie, and the foreman, Kip, stood in a group and stared for a moment at Big Bob Marsh. He was the biggest man any of them had ever seen: six feet, seven inches tall and weighing about two hundred and ninety pounds, all bone and gristle and muscle.

  Finally, John found his voice. “Bob,” he said, walking up and holding out his hand, “welcome to the Rockingchair.”

  Bob’s hand swallowed the rancher’s. “Thankee, Mr. Bailey. You can be shore I’ll give you a day’s work for a day’s pay. I don’t believe in slackin’ none.”

  “I’m sure you will, Bob,” the rancher said, looking up into the broad and whiskered face. “I’m payin’ fightin’ wages: sixty a month and found.”

  “Whew! Them’s good wages. If the grub’s as good as the pay, I found me a home for a time.”

  John smiled. “We’ve got the best cook in this part of Wyoming.”

  Kip stepped up and howdied and shook. “Come on, Bob. Let’s get you settled in.”

  After the foreman and Bob had walked off, Jimmy asked, “Is that man a giant?”

  After a good laugh, John tousled his grandson’s hair and looked at Falcon. “How’d you find him so quick?”

  “I didn’t. He found me. We just crossed trails a few miles north of here. Bob was just wandering. He’s known me since I was just a tadpole. He and my father were good friends.”

  “Someday you’ll have to tell us about your father,” Angie said, smiling at Falcon.

  “Someday I will, Angie. My dad was quite a character.”

  “Brothers and sisters, Val?” Martha asked.

  “A whole bunch of them, Mrs. Bailey. It’s a long story.” He touched the brim of his hat with his fingertips. “Now if you all will excuse me, I want to get Bob settled in and pick out some horses for him to ride. It takes a big horse for him.”

  As Falcon walked away toward the bunkhouse, Angie said, “I am determined to learn the truth about that man.”

  John took off his hat and mopped his forehead with a bandanna. “He’ll tell us when he’s good and ready, daughter. And maybe he never will.”

  Martha smiled and took her daughter’s hand. “Let’s go bake some pies for supper.”

  “Now, that just might do it,” John said with a laugh.

  * * *

  There were a few moments of silent shock and then some mild panic at the Bank of Gilman as the bank president read the wire just received from a very prestigious bank in San Francisco. A line of credit had been set up for one Val Mack in the sum of twenty-five thousand dollars, the money guaranteed by the bank in San Francisco.

  Within minutes, the bank president was in his buggy, heading for the Striking Snake ranch.

  “Twenty-five thousand dollars!” Miles Gilman screamed. “Where the hell does a saddle-bum gunfighter get that much money?”

  “I ain’t never even seen that much money all in a bunch,” Claude spoke the words wistfully.

  “Damn few people have,” Miles told him, settling down somewhat. He waved the wired message. “What the hell is goin’ on around here?”

  “I think we best do some checkin’ on this Val Mack,” Claude said. “Take a look down his back trail real close.”

  Miles thought about that for a time, then shook his head. “Time we arranged for all that and got it done, it would be too late. Stegman and Noonan is movin’ herds from their range down south right now. It’s gonna take some time ’fore they get here. But I don’t want this Val Mack to be around when they do. Cut the boys loose, Claude.”

  “Consider it done, Miles.”

  * * *

  “You noticed, I reckon, this place is built like a fort?” Big Bob said to Falcon. “Main house, bunkhouse, even the barn.”

  “Ten years ago there was a lot of Indian trouble here. Many of the settlers didn’t last long. Men like John Bailey dug in and stayed. They built to last.”

  The men were sitting on a bench outside the bunkhouse, smoking and jawing while they waited for the call to come to supper at the main house. While there was just the two of them, they would eat with the Bailey family. When, or if, the others showed up, the hands would eat separately, their meals prepared by Cookie in the kitchen adjoining the bunkhouse.

  “Sooner or later, boy,” Bob said, “you gonna have to tell these good folks who you are.”

  “I know. Sooner or later.”

  “That Angie gal, she’s got her cap set for you.”

  Falcon sighed. “I haven’t been able to think of another woman since Marie was killed. Too soon, Bob.”

  “I understand, boy. I felt the same way when Crow Woman was killed back in ’51. I tracked them damn men for five years. But I finally got ’em all.”

  “What happened to your kids, Bob?”

  “Fever got one. I heard the other was killed at the Little Bighorn. Me and him never was close.”

  “How long after Crow Woman was killed ’fore you could take more than a passing interest in another woman?”

  Big Bob Marsh was silent for half a minute. “Long time, boy. I reckon that was the only woman I ever loved. You might be the same way.” Then he smiled. “But that don’t mean that ever’ now and then you can’t get an itch that only a woman can scratch.”

  Falcon laughed, then sobered. “I haven’t even had one of them since Marie was killed.”

  “You will, boy. You will. Give it time. You’re still followin’ a trail called grief. But it will fork one of these days. Believe me.”

  “Yo, boys!” John Bailey called from the front porch. “Supper’s on the table. Got steaks and taters and gravy and hot bread and fresh-baked apple pie.”

  Big Bob slapped Falcon on the leg and Falcon wondered if he could even stand up after the blow. “Let’s eat, boy!” the big man thundered.

  “I don’t know if I can even walk,” Falcon muttered, standing up. He bent over to rub his leg just as someone on the ridges around the ranch complex squeezed the trigger. The bullet tore a hole in the outer wall of the bunkhouse, missing Falcon by only a few inches.

  Five seconds later, Falcon and Big Bob Marsh were inside the thick walls of the bunkhouse, rifles in their hands.

  “Now this really pisses me off,” Big Bob grumbled.

  “Getting shot at?”

  “No. Startin’ a war ’fore I have time to eat my supper!”

  Six

  “Stay in the house!” Falcon shouted through an open bunkhouse window. “The rifleman is on the ridge behind you.”

  “Either of you men hit?” Kip shouted.

  “No. We’re all right.”

  “Keep the supper hot,” Big Bob roared, lifting his rifle and banging off several fast shots toward the ridge.

  “Will do,” Kip yelled.

  Several minutes passed with no more shots from the ridge. Bob took his hat and stuck it on the end of a broom handle. He slowly edged it past an open window. Nothing. “Either they ain’t fallin’ for that old trick, or they’re gone.”

  “I think they’re gone. That shot was meant for me. They missed. They’ll try again.”

  “Damn sure wasn’t no warnin’ shot. If you hadn’t a bent over, right now we’d all be arrangin’ mourners and horn tooters for your plantin’.”

  “You’re such a cheerful man, Bob.”

  “I know it,” the big man said with a straight face. “It’s one of my finer qualities.”

  Falcon shook his head and slowly opened the door to the bunkhouse. No shots split the warm late-afternoon air. Falcon took a deep breath, then sprinted toward the barn, no gunfire nipping at his heels. He quickly threw a saddle on a horse, opened the big rear doors, and left the barn at a gallop. He stayed low in the saddle, ben
t over the horse’s neck, and headed for the ridge above the house. When he reached the crest of the ridge, he found exactly what he thought he’d find: nothing but a few tracks.

  Dismounting, Falcon carefully scouted the area. He found one cartridge casing and lots of bootprints. He found where the gunman had picketed his horse, and hoofprints leading off toward the north. There were no distinguishing marks on either the bootprints or the horse’s shoes.

  Falcon rode slowly back to the barn and stabled the horse, then walked to the bunkhouse.

  Big Bob took one look at his face and said, “Nothing?”

  Falcon held out the brass casing. “Just this.”

  Bob grunted. “Too bad it wasn’t a .32-.20. That would have made it easier to find the owner.”

  “Well, there’s one thing for certain.”

  “Whoever it was will try again.”

  “You got it. Come on, let’s eat.”

  “I’m shore ready for that.”

  But Falcon wasn’t sure the Bailey family and Kip were ready for the big man’s appetite. Falcon remembered how Big Bob could stow away the food and he had to fight to keep from laughing at the expressions on the others’ faces as Big Bob ate enough supper for five people. There wasn’t a scrap left on the table when Bob finished his third piece of pie and drank his fifth or sixth cup of coffee . . . Falcon had lost count.

  “That there is the finest grub this child ever et,” Bob proclaimed, wiping his mouth on a checkered napkin. Then he let out a thunderous belch and said, “ ’Scuse me.”

  Everybody at the table sat in shock for a few seconds, then, as if one, burst out laughing while Big Bob grinned.

  “Good thing you hauled in those other supplies, Val,” John Bailey said, wiping his eyes with his napkin. “If all the others you contacted do show up, food’s goin’ to be a problem.”

  “Yes, but that will probably be the last time I can pull that stunt. That’s why I laid in such a supply of dried beans and the like. I don’t figure we’ll run short on beef.”

  “Oh, them other boys will be here, John Bailey,” Big Bob said. “You can count on that. Let’s just say they owe, uh, Val, here a favor or two.”

  “You know the others, Bob?” Kip asked.

  “Been knowin’ ’em all ’bout forty years. They’re good boys, too. Ain’t no back-up in none of ’em.”

  “I’m looking forward to meeting your friends, Bob,” Martha said.

  Falcon smiled at just the thought of that day.

  * * *

  Big Bob and Falcon stayed on Rockingchair range for the next week, familiarizing themselves with the land and checking on John’s herds. The cattle were in fine shape, fat and ready for the drive to market. There were a number of Snake-branded cattle among the Rockingchair herds, as well as several other brands.

  “They all belong to members of the cattlemen’s alliance,” Kip said. “They claim all this land for their own.”

  “Even though John and his family have legally filed on it and proved it up?” Falcon asked.

  “That don’t make no difference to those bastards,” Kip said. “They want all of Wyoming for their own. No farmers or small ranchers allowed.”

  “Then the federal government is going to have to step in and do something.”

  “Not damn likely,” the foreman replied. “The cattlemen’s alliance has too much stroke with the politicians for that to happen. Lots of money bein’ passed under the table. Over in Johnson County it’s gettin’ real bad.”

  “I heared ’bout that place,” Big Bob said. “They’re hangin’ people and shootin’ others. Night riders callin’ farmers rustlers and takin’ the law into their own hands.”

  “That’s right,” Kip said. “And it’s gonna get that way here, too, ’fore it’s all over.”

  “What are they waiting on to start it here?” Falcon asked.

  “Nance Noonan and Rod Stegman and their army of gunslingers. Soon as they arrive, all hell’s gonna break loose. They’re fixin’ to claim everything from the Johnson County line west.”

  “How far west?” Big Bob asked.

  “Far as the law will allow ’em. Probably over to Dakota.”

  “That’s hundreds of thousands of acres.”

  “You bet it is, Val. And if they get their way, there ain’t gonna be a small rancher or farmer left alive to talk about it.”

  Kip busied himself rolling a cigarette and Big Bob and Falcon exchanged glances, followed by tight, mean smiles. The slight curving of the lips silently stating that the grand plans of the cattlemen’s alliance just might be subject to change.

  “Let’s cut out the Snake brands and start them movin’ toward their own range,” Kip said. “I’m agin it, but them’s John’s orders. He likes to play it straight and on the up and up.”

  “Good way for them to call us rustlers if any Snake riders come up on us,” Falcon stated.

  “I know it. But John don’t want no other brands mixed in with ours.”

  Falcon checked his guns and Big Bob did the same. Falcon asked, “Where is John this morning?”

  “Him and little Jimmy is ridin’ the east range. It’s fairly safe there. By that I mean there ain’t been no trouble so far over there. That’s just a tad too many miles away from the Snake riders’ home base.”

  “That’s where most of the remaining smaller ranchers and farmers are located?”

  “You got it. The Rockingchair is sort of the line ’tween the Snake range and what’s left of the small ranchers and farmers. If we was to pull out, it would be a slaughter.”

  “So if they can’t run you out, they’ll have to kill you all,” Falcon stated.

  “That’s it. Gilman and them in the alliance ain’t got no other choice in the matter.”

  “They’d kill the boy, too?” Big Bob asked, open disgust in his voice.

  “Sure. They’ve killed several boys younger than Jimmy. They’ve killed whole families by burnin’ their houses down around them whilst the night riders laid down gunfire to keep them from runnin’ outside.”

  “Real nice folks, these rich cattle barons,” Big Bob muttered.

  “Yeah,” Kip said, as he pinched out the end of his cigarette and touched spurs to his horse’s sides. “Regular salt of the earth. And that’s ’xactly where I’d like to put them.”

  “Maybe we’ll get lucky today,” Big Bob said. “And run into a passer of them.”

  Falcon’s thoughts were of the times his town in the valley had been hit by brigands, and of the dead women and kids . . . and of his mother, Kate. His face was tight with fury when he said, “I think I’d like that, too, Bob. I really would.”

  “I wouldn’t mind it a bit myself,” Kip said. “I was tellin’ John this mornin’ that it was high time for us to start drawin’ some decent cards in this game.”

  “What’d he say ’bout that?” Bob asked.

  “Oddly ’nough, not much. Usually, he’s the peacemaker, but ever since that rifleman on the ridge the other day, John’s changed some. I think he knows now that the time for talkin’ is over. I think he knows it’s gun time.”

  They were moving the cattle along at a walk. Even though they were someone else’s cows, and that someone a sworn enemy, they didn’t want to run any pounds off of them. That was typical of many ranchers in the west.

  When the sun was center-sky, they stopped to noon. They ate sandwiches Cookie had fixed for them before dawn, and Falcon made a small hat-sized fire to boil coffee. Just as Falcon was adding cold water to settle the grounds, Bob lifted his shaggy head and said, “Riders comin’. Sounds like a bunch of ’em.”

  “We’re still on Rockingchair range, aren’t we?” Falcon asked.

  “It’s debatable,” Kip replied. “I say yes, the Snake people say no.”

  The three of them loosened their pistols in leather and waited. They had been pushing about forty head of Snake-branded cattle along, and they all felt they knew what the Snake trouble-hunters would say when they rode up.<
br />
  “Eight of ’em,” Bob announced.

  “That’ll give ’em courage,” Kip replied. “Agin three of us.”

  Without looking up, Falcon asked, “Can you recognize any of them, Kip?”

  “Not yet. Is that coffee ready?”

  “Just about.”

  “Smells good,” Big Bob said. “I’d favor a cup of coffee ’fore the shootin’ starts. But,” he added mournfully, after glancing at the fast-approaching Snake riders, “looks like I’ll have to wait. Story of my life.”

  “You’re breaking my heart, Bob,” Falcon said.

  “I know it. I can get right pittyful at times, can’t I?”

  The Snake riders reined up a few hundred yards away from the Rockingchair men. They stared at the cattle for a moment, then pulled rifles from saddle scabbards. They began walking their horses slowly toward the smell of coffee.

  “I don’t know a single one of them,” Kip said softly. “Must be those new hands Gilman hired. I heard people in Rosie’s talkin’ ’bout them. Hired guns from Texas and New Mexico.”

  Falcon stared at the slow-approaching riders. “They’re about to start earning their pay.”

  The Snake bunch stopped their horses about twenty-five feet away from the three Rockingchair riders. “Well now,” a stocky, flat-faced man said. “Looks like we done found us some rustlers. The boss said he’d been losin’ beeves out here.”

  “We’re pushin’ those cattle back to Snake range,” Kip told him. “If you had any sense you’da circled ’round and seen that by lookin’ at the tracks ’fore you came ridin’ in here and runnin’ that mouth.”

  One of the hired guns laughed. “I reckon he done told you how the cow ate the cabbage, Monroe. I think that old-timer just called you a dummy.”

  “Yeah, Monroe,” another Snake hand said. “You gonna take that lip offen that old coot?”

  With a flush rising from neck to cheeks, Monroe looked square at Kip and said, “I think I’ll hang you first, you old bastard.”