“You got it to do, boy,” Kip calmly told him.
Kip, Big Bob, and Falcon had spread out, twelve to fifteen feet between them. All three of them were wearing two pistols; Kip and Big Bob had the second pistol tucked behind their gunbelts, Falcon wearing a two-gun rig, the left side .44 worn on a slant, butt forward.
“Drop them guns, boys,” one of the Snake hands told the trio. “We caught you cold rustlin’, so there’s no use arguin’ ’bout it.” He grinned and tossed a running iron down to the ground, the rustler’s best friend landing with a plop and a spurt of dust close to the fire. “There’s the proof.” He laughed and the others joined in.
“Don’t git dirt in the coffee,” Kip warned. “I got my mouth all fixed for a cup.”
“You’ll never get a chance to drink another cup, you old fart,” the Snake hand said.
“To be no more than a couple of years away from your mommy’s titty, you’re ’bout a mouthy son of a bitch, ain’t you?” Big Bob said.
The Snake hand who had just flapped his lips cursed and lifted his rifle. A second later the Snake-branded cattle were off and running, the sudden sounds of gunfire spooking them from their quiet grazing into a stampede.
Seven
Falcon blew the flat-faced one out of the saddle. Bob’s pistol barked and the mouthy puncher went ass over elbows backward, hitting the ground and not moving. Kip’s six-shooter roared and a third Snake gunhand’s butt left the saddle.
Falcon, Kip, and Big Bob each hammered out three more shots and two Snake punchers were mortally hit and two wounded. Kip had a burn on the outside of his right leg from a rifle bullet, Bob had a crease on his left arm, and Falcon’s hat was blown off his head. But the Rockingchair riders were still standing and the Snake riders had three dead and several wounded. Those Snake riders still in the saddle dropped their rifles, managed to get their rearing, frightened horses calmed down, and raised their hands in the air, the two of them bleeding from minor wounds.
“You boys shuck them gunbelts,” Kip ordered. “Now!”
Falcon and Bob were busy ripping the gunbelts off the dead and the wounded and gathering up rifles. They hoisted the dead belly-down across saddles and helped the wounded get back on the hurricane decks of their still spooked horses.
“You boys can round up your own damn cattle,” Kip told the Snake riders. “Just clear out and do it right now.”
Ten seconds later, the Snake riders were gone, taking their dead with them.
Falcon found his hat and looked sadly at the huge holes in the crown, front, and back.
“It’ll help keep your head cool in the heat,” Bob told him, squatting down and pouring a cup of coffee.
“We were damn lucky, boys,” Kip said, leaning over and dabbing at the slight wound on his leg with a bandanna. “By all rights, we should be eatin’ dirt about now.”
“It ain’t my time yet,” Big Bob said, slurping at his coffee. “A gypsy woman tole me oncet that I was gonna die in bed, an old man, surrounded by six beautiful young women, all moanin’ and sobbin’ and carryin’ on ’bout my passin’.”
“And you believed her?” Falcon asked, still irritated about his hat.
“Hell, no! But it’s a beautiful thought, ain’t it? You boys sit and have some of this coffee. Hits the spot after that little fracas.”
“Rider comin’,” Kip announced, looking toward the east. “Now who could that be?”
“It’s Angie,” Falcon said, standing up and squinting.
“Alone?” Kip blurted. “Out here?” He shook his head. “That girl’s always been headstrong . . . .”
Angie galloped up and swung down. Bob’s mouth fell open and he gaped at her. She was wearing men’s britches and had been riding astride.
Kip just shook his head at the unseemly sight.
Falcon stood and let his eyes take in her figure in the tight-fitting men’s pants. The young woman filled them out admirably.
“I was riding and I heard shots,” Angie said.
“Girl,” Kip admonished her, “you been told and told ’bout ridin’ alone. They’s still Injuns out here, not to mention Snake riders who would shoot you on sight. Or worse,” he added.
“Now I’ve been told again,” Angie responded. “Anyway, I’m here. You want me to ride back alone?”
“No!” the foreman said firmly. “Girl,” he said patiently, “your pa bought you a sidesaddle rig. It ain’t proper for you to be wearin’ men’s britches and ridin’ astride.”
“Oh, pish-posh!” Angie said. “I hate that uncomfortable thing. Why ...” She paused. “You men are wounded!”
“Nothin’ serious, Miss Angie,” Bob said, pouring her a tin cup of coffee. “Grab you a piece of ground and rest a spell. Then we’ll head on back.”
Kip was walking around in tight little circles, muttering to himself about a woman’s place and indecent behavior . . . among other things about women in general.
“Oh, settle down, Uncle Kip,” Angie said. She had told Falcon that Kip wasn’t really her uncle, but that he had been with her father since before she was born and he was accepted as a member of the family.
“Let’s get back to the ranch,” Falcon suggested. “I don’t like the idea of Martha being alone.”
Kip smiled at that. “Don’t you worry none about Martha, Val. Or this gal here, for that matter.” He cut his eyes to Angie. “They’ve both fought off Injun attacks more times than you can count. And they’re both crack shots with a rifle and pretty fair shots with a pistol. Any Snake rider who comes within shootin’ range of Martha is gonna be in real trouble. Believe it. But we do need to get back, I reckon. Miles Gilman ain’t gonna like what we just done to his hired guns.”
* * *
The owner of the Snake ranch sat in his study and listened as his foreman, Claude, told him about the shooting. He didn’t get mad, not at first. He just had a slight sick feeling in the pit of his stomach. Ever since this Val Mack had met up with some of his men at the old trading post, Miles had felt somewhat disturbed about the situation. Now there was another man riding for the Rockingchair who was quick on the shoot. An older man, but slick with a gun nonetheless.
“All right, Claude,” Miles said, in a surprisingly calm tone of voice. “Thanks. Get them wounded into town to the doc’s and I’ll see about buryin’ the others.”
“All right, Boss.” The longtime friend and foreman hesitated. “You all right, Miles?”
“What? Oh. Yeah, I’m fine.” Miles sighed. “Claude, Dexter described the other feller with Val and Kip. You got any idea who this older man is?”
Claude fiddled with his hat for a few seconds. Opened his mouth a couple of times. Closed it without speaking.
“Come on, Claude,” Miles urged. “You’re holdin’ back on met.”
“Well, from his description, my guess is that it just might be Big Bob Marsh.”
That brought Miles straight up in his chair. “The army scout? The bounty hunter?”
“Yeah. And a hell of a lot more than that. Big Bob’s been prowlin’ the high country for forty-five years. Ever since he was about twelve or thirteen years old. He’s friends with ol’ Preacher and Smoke Jensen too. Big Bob Marsh is one mean son of a bitch, Miles. If he was to put the call out, this country would be swarmin’ with what’s left of the mountain men. And them old bastards don’t know the meanin’ of the words fear or back-up.”
Miles’s oldest son, Lars, had entered the study and was standing quietly, listening. Now he snorted contemptuously. “Crap! A pack of old turds who need help gettin’ on a bronc. I can’t believe you’d be afraid of a pack of old men.”
Miles lifted wiser eyes to his son. “Boy, them men opened up this country. They might not have been the first white men here, but they wasn’t far behind. Them ol’ boys is wang-leather tough and mean as a grizzly. Back in ’61 or ’62, when I was down in Colorado, I seen a mountain man name of Jack Stump kill five men ’fore any of ’em knew what was happenin’ to them. I s
een another mountain man name of Dick Wheeless, goes by the handle of Wildcat, cut three men twicest his size all to bloody pieces. Dick’s about five feet, five inches tall and don’t weigh a hundred and twenty pounds, but every pound is mad-dog mean. Don’t you never tangle with no mountain man, and I don’t give a damn how old he is.”
Lars mouthed a few very ugly words, all of them tinged with disgust and sarcasm—but none of them directed at his father—and left the room.
Embarrassed, Claude waited until the angry flush had left Miles’s face. “Damn hotheaded kid,” Miles muttered.
“His brothers ain’t far behind him in that department, Miles,” Claude took a chance by saying.
“I know, Claude. Bein’ raised without a ma might have something to do with that.”
Miles Gilman’s wife had taken off for parts unknown after their last child, Terri, was born. Miles had tried to raise four boys and one girl.
Unsuccessfully, for the most part.
* * *
Dan Carson and Jack Stump rode in together. Both of them were men of about sixty years, and both of them in excellent physical shape for their age and the time. Both had come west as boys just moving into their teen years and had stayed to become legends.
Unlike Big Bob Marsh, both Dan and Stumpy—as he was called—were not physically overpowering men. But there was a lasting toughness and capability about both that invisibly marked them as men to ride the river with . . . and as men that it would be best not to crowd.
Falcon left them to settle in the bunkhouse, and for Big Bob to explain the situation to them, and walked over to the ranch house. Kip saw him heading toward the house and joined him in the short walk.
“I’d hate to mess with either one of them ol’ boys,” the foreman said.
“They won’t take much pushing, for a fact, Kip. My father had a lot of respect for them.”
“Your pa a mountain man, Falcon?” the foremen gently prodded.
Falcon smiled. “Not really. But my grandfather sure was.”
“Ah. That explains a whole lot. So your family’s been long in the west?”
Falcon never lost his slight smile, knowing that whatever he said would get immediately to John Bailey and family. “My grandfather came to the high lonesome before the turn of the century, I think. And when my father came out here he took to the mountains like he was born there.”
“A lot of men do,” the foreman agreed, and asked no more questions about Falcon’s family.
Seated around the big table in the huge kitchen and dining area, Falcon laid a thousand dollars in gold coin and greenbacks on the table. John Bailey’s eyes bugged out for a moment as he stared at the hard cash. A thousand dollars was two and a half years’ work for the average cowboy.
“That’ll help with the wages for the men coming in,” Falcon said. “And to feed these randy yahoos. ’Cause until you’ve seen mountain men eat, you have missed a sight.”
“How can I repay you?” the rancher asked.
“Don’t worry about it. I have ample funds, believe me. And by the way, I ’spect there are telegrams for me in town right about now stating very clearly that I am now the sole and legal owner of twenty sections of land north and south of the Rockingchair range.”
John and Kip’s eyes bugged out again. Kip stuttered, “But. . . how?”
“Miles claimed it, but he didn’t bother to clear the titles through the bank or the land office. I bought up the mortgages and paid the taxes. It’s all free and clear.”
The Bailey family and Kip sat around the table and stared at Falcon. Falcon smiled and took a sip of his coffee, which had now cooled enough to drink. Finally, John asked in a very quiet voice, “You going to start your own spread, Val?”
“No. But you can use part of it if you like. I thought I might sell or lease a few sections to farmers. But for most of it, I’m going to let Big Bob and Jack and Dan and the others have use of it when they finish working here. Believe it or not, a couple of them are pretty good farmers.”
“And with that bunch on the land, the cattle barons will think a long time before attacking them,” Kip said.
“Exactly,” Falcon replied.
“Who are you, Val?” Martha gently asked.
Falcon shrugged his shoulders. “Just a drifting gambler, Martha.” Not really a lie. “A man who enjoys getting away from a deck of cards every now and then and doing some hard physical work.” Falcon pushed back his chair and stood up. “Well, the others will be here within the week. I’m going to ride over to the trading post in the morning and order about four wagons of supplies. Stumpy or Dan will probably ride with me. Anything special you ladies would like?”
“Can’t think of a thing,” Martha said.
“Then I’ll surprise you,” Falcon said. “I’d better go check on the boys. See you all at suppertime.”
Kip and the Bailey family sat in silence for several moments after Falcon had left the house. John finally sighed and finished his coffee. Martha got up and refilled her husband’s cup and Kip’s. John said, “Man talks about thousands of dollars the way we’d talk about pennies and nickels.” He looked at the stack of greenbacks and gold coins on the table.
Martha said, “He’s no dandy dude from back east, that’s for sure.”
“No, mother,” John agreed. “You’re right about that. He’s a western man, through and through. He knows cattle, knows horses, knows guns.”
“And I guess he knows cards,” Angie said.
“I’d hate to face him across a poker table, for sure,” her father said.
“His grandpa was a mountain man,” Kip said. “He told me that not thirty minutes ago. But Val’s pa come out later. I didn’t want to push no further.”
Martha shrugged her slender shoulders. “Well, whoever he is, he’s a godsend. He’ll tell us who he really is when he’s good and ready.”
John smiled. “I’ll just bet ol’ prune-face Willard at the bank is beside himself.”
Kip chuckled. “And you can bet on something else, too: Whatever Willard knows, Miles Gilman knows it within the hour.”
“True,” John said, stirring his coffee. He looked at his daughter, who was smiling. “Something funny, girl?”
“I was just wondering what Miles’s reaction will be when he finds out about Val buying all those sections of land. His attorneys surely went through the state office to do that.”
“I hadn’t thought of that,” her father said. “But you’re right. It might be days or even weeks before news of that reaches Gilman.”
“Don’t bet on it, John,” his wife gently contradicted, “considering all the men at the capital who are taking money from the cattlemen’s alliance.”
John patted his wife’s hand. “Right again, mother.” He smiled at her. “As usual. Whichever way the wind blows, it’s gonna be interestin’ around here from now on.”
Eight
Falcon saddled up and was gone before dawn, Jack Stump riding along with him. The men had fixed a pot of coffee at the bunkhouse and eaten a couple of cold biscuits before setting out.
Stumpy was a man who usually had little to say, only occasionally engaging in idle chitchat. He was not a dour man, just a man who kept his thoughts to himself. He was a man who enjoyed solitude. But he could be a very dangerous man when crowded. He was no quick-draw gunfighter, but he almost always made his first shot count. Falcon didn’t really know how old Stumpy was, guessing him to be in his early sixties. He rode a Palouse, a tough-bred mountain horse that could go all day and still have some bottom left.
“Dan shore was glad to get shut of that woman.” Stumpy surprised Falcon by opening a conversation. “She had gettin’ hitched up permanent on her mind.”
Falcon smiled.
“Woman had three of the most worthless growed up kids a man could ever see. I met the whole kit and caboodle of ’em ’fore we rode up here. Sorry bunch.”
And that was the extent of the conversation until the men reached the tradi
ng post.
As they topped the ridge overlooking the creek and the store, Jack grunted. “Looks like we’re gonna run into a crowd.”
There were a dozen horses at the hitchrails, and the horses appeared to have been hard-ridden. When the pair of Rockingchair men drew closer and could make out the brands, they were unfamiliar to them.
All but one.
Stumpy smiled. “That’s Dick Wheeless’s mustang in the corral. I was with him when he caught it a couple of years ago. I don’t know them other brands.”
“You can bet they’re not drifting cowboys just passing through,” Falcon said.
“I already gleamed that, Falcon.”
Falcon laughed at the expression on Stumpy’s face and swung around to the rear of the old trading post. Stumpy walked over to Dick’s horse and tried to stroke the animal’s nose. The mustang tried to bite him.
“Son of a bitch!” Stumpy jerked his hand back and cussed the once wild horse. “Got the same disposition as Wildcat—lousy!”
The mustang peeled back his lips and showed Stumpy his teeth.
Walking back to Falcon, Stumpy said, “I told Wildcat when he caught that damn horse the best thing he could do was shoot it. But no, he said he just had to have it ’cause it was purty. Goddamn worthless hammerhead.”
“Dick or the horse?”
Stumpy grinned. “Both of ’em.”
Falcon pushed open the rear door of the old store and stepped in, quickly moving to one side to allow his eyes time to adjust from the bright outside light. Stumpy stepped in and moved to the other side. The men stood there for a moment, listening to the rough language and hard laughter coming from the saloon side of the store.
They walked through the storeroom and entered behind the store. The owner looked up from the counter and nodded his head, then cut his eyes to the closed door leading to the saloon. Falcon nodded his understanding and looked over at the half dozen tables. A small man was seated at a far table, his back to a wall. He grinned at Falcon.
“Howdy, you young squirt,” Dick “Wildcat” Wheeless said. “Who’s that damned ugly old reprobate trailin’ you?”
Rage of Eagles Page 6
