Rage of Eagles

by William W. Johnstone

  Falcon stepped out of the shadows and walked over to the stage company’s office. The noon stage had come and gone and Falcon was interested in seeing if he’d received any postings from his attorneys. He had . . . several letters, all addressed to Val Mack, and all from various attorneys in San Francisco, Denver, and St. Louis.

  One of the letters advised him that any and all warrants against Falcon MacCallister had been withdrawn. But Falcon knew that while that was wonderful, legally speaking, there were still hundreds of wanted posters with his name on them tacked up and posted all over the west, and they would stay up for a long time to come. There would be a dozen or more bounty hunters looking to collect the reward on his head.

  They would not know the reward had been withdrawn.

  One of the other letters was from his sister, Joleen, down in Valley, Colorado, bringing him up to date on anything and everything that was happening and had happened since Falcon left the town their father and mother had settled shortly after the fall of the Alamo down in Texas.

  The third letter was from an attorney in St. Louis advising Falcon that he was several hundred thousand dollars richer (at least on paper) due to the rising value of stock in the railroads. Falcon smiled at the irony of it all: One of the richest men in the west was working as a ranch hand for a few dollars a month and found.

  Falcon tucked the letters into a breast pocket of his suit coat and stepped out into the street, crossing over to the Stampede Saloon. He pushed open the batwings and stepped inside, standing for a moment to let his eyes adjust to the sudden darkening.

  His men were sitting at a far table, playing cards and sharing a bottle, but actually drinking very little.

  Falcon walked up to the long bar and ordered a drink, conscious of many eyes on him. He ignored the open stares, concentrating on his shot glass. Trouble would start soon enough, he felt. No need for him to hasten it.

  All that changed when a local sidled up to his side and whispered, “You see that big feller at the end of the bar, mister?”

  “Yes,” Falcon returned the whisper.

  “He’s been braggin’ for several days. Ever’ time he comes into town. He claims to be one of the men who killed Jamie MacCallister.”

  Falcon felt a coldness wash over him. He lifted his eyes and stared down the bar at the man pointed out to him. A big burly fellow, with swarthy looks and a scar on one side of his face.

  “What’s his name?” Falcon asked the local.

  “I heard him called Rud a time or two.”

  Falcon motioned for the bartender and told him to give the citizen a drink. The drink poured, Falcon said, “You’d better drink that and then get out of the way.”

  “Yes, sir. Thank you.” The citizen gulped down the bourbon and walked off to a far corner of the huge first floor of the Stampede Saloon.

  Falcon brushed back his coat, exposing both .44s, and stepped away from the bar, down to the end. “I hear tell there’s a man here claims to have killed Jamie MacCallister,” he spoke in a loud voice.

  Sal and Joe Gray and his son Jack were standing on the boardwalk outside the saloon, looking through the windows.

  “I killed Jamie MacCallister,” the swarthy man said, stepping away from the bar. “It was a fair fight.”

  “You’re a liar. Way I heard it, Jamie MacCallister was shot in the back. Twice, with a rifle.”

  “No man calls me a liar, mister.”

  “I just did,” Falcon said. “I knew Jamie MacCallister. No two-bit loudmouth like you would have had the courage to stand up and hook and draw against a man like him. So that makes you a liar and a back-shooting murderer.”

  “I was there, mister. I faced MacCallister and shot him dead. So you can take your mouth and go to hell, or drag iron.”

  “Make your play, back-shooter.”

  Rud cursed and went for his gun and Falcon drilled him just as his hand touched the butt of his .45. The bullet slammed into the center of the man’s chest and knocked him back against the bar. He slowly sank to the floor, dead.

  Falcon holstered his .44 and stepped back to his position at the bar, signaling for the barkeep to pour him another drink.

  “Jesus Christ,” Sal breathed. “I never saw a man that fast.”

  Young Jack was standing with his mouth open, speechless.

  The mountain men smiled and returned to their card game. None of the other hired guns standing at the long bar seemed at all anxious to pick up the fight.

  “Well, hell!” the bartender shouted. “Somebody haul the body out of here. We can’t have a body sittin’ on the floor. That’s bad for business.”

  Two Snake riders grabbed Rud by the arms and feet and toted him out and over to the undertaker’s down the street.

  “Val Mack,” Falcon heard someone say in a hoarse whisper.

  Falcon drank his whiskey and left the saloon. He nodded at Sal and Joe and Young Jack and walked across the street to take a seat in front of the hotel. In only a couple of minutes, his crew walked out, booze and women forgotten for the time being. The six of them spread out all up and down the main street, taking chairs in front of establishments or sitting on the edge of the boardwalk. They all knew that after the hired guns in the Stampede knocked back a few more drinks and worked up their courage, they would be ready for trouble.

  It was just a matter of time before the streets of the small town would become a battleground.

  “Why don’t you take your men and leave?” The question came from Falcon’s right side. “How many more must die from your guns?”

  Falcon had seen the man walk up, all dressed in a black suit with a white collar. Reverend Watkins, the town’s preacher.

  Falcon cut his eyes to the man. “Just ride away and let the evil continue?”

  “There are different kinds of evil, sir.”

  “Double-talk, Preacher. Words won’t stop men like Miles Gilman and Stegman and Noonan and all the others in the cattlemen’s alliance.”

  “And bullets will?”

  “They seem to have a permanent effect if placed in the right spot,” Falcon said drily.

  “Who was that man who was just killed?”

  “His name was Rud.”

  “That’s all? Just Rud?”

  “That’s all I know.”

  “And you killed him?”

  “Yes, I did.”

  “I’ll pray for you both.”

  “I’m sure I need some prayer, Preacher. Now you better get off the street before the lead really starts flying.”

  “More people are going to die this day?”

  “You can count on that, Preacher.”

  Thunder rumbled in the distance. The dark clouds were still gathering, turning the midafternoon dark and ominous. But still the rain held off.

  Falcon dug in his coat pocket and handed the preacher some money. “For the collection plate in the morning.”

  Watkins looked at the money. “Blood money from a hired gun? You think that will appease God?”

  Falcon chuckled. “I’m no hired gun, Preacher. I’ve never hired my guns out to any man. You want this money, or not?”

  “That’s a lot of money. Who are you to come riding in here with your pockets filled with gold and greenbacks?”

  “Maybe I’m an avenging angel.”

  “Ahh ... you’re a Saint, then?”

  “No. I’m not Mormon, Preacher.”

  “God doesn’t send mercenaries.”

  “And what was Michael, Preacher, if not God’s warrior?”

  Watkins was silent for a moment. “You’ve had some religious training, that’s evident.”

  “Up to a point. I do read the Bible occasionally.”

  The Preacher took the money and tucked it away in the breast pocket of his suit coat.

  “Why don’t you go over to the doc’s office and see about Mrs. Gray and her children, Preacher? I’m sure you could be a comfort to them.”

  “You’re a strange man, gunfighter.”

&
nbsp; Falcon smiled. “I’ve been called worse.”

  “I will pray for your soul.”

  Falcon watched as several men pushed open the batwings to the saloon with a bang. “Get off the street, Preacher. Right now!”

  Watkins hurried away, quickly crossing the dust and ruts of the road to the doctor’s office.

  The guns of the cattlemen’s alliance spread out under the awning over the boardwalk in front of the saloon. Falcon knew they were sizing up the situation and not really liking it. More men pushed open the batwings and crowded the boardwalk, spreading out left and right.

  Sal, Joe Gray, and young Jack had moved away from the saloon, down to the general store. The door to the general store was now closed, the shades pulled down tight over the front windows. The storekeeper and his wife had probably retreated to the rear rooms, getting as far away as possible from any stray bullets.

  There was no resident foot traffic on either side of the street. The town’s hundred or so citizens had gone home and closed the doors behind them.

  Lightning licked the dark sky, thunder bumped the clouds, and a few fat drops of rain fell plopping to the dust of the street. But the main force of the storm was not yet ready to roar in.

  Falcon stood up and brushed his coat back.

  A couple of the hired guns left the boardwalk and led the horses away to the livery. The street was now empty.

  Falcon waited for the other side to start the dance. He cut his eyes left and right. His men had left their chairs and perches on the boardwalk to stand in doorways and alleys.

  Still, the hired guns of the cattlemen’s alliance hesitated in hauling iron and letting the bullets fly.

  The piano player in the Stampede Saloon had ceased his banging of the ivory. The sighing of the wind before the storm was the only sound as it whistled through the street and the alleyways.

  “All right!” a man’s voice cut the silence. “Snake riders get your horses. We’re out of here. You Rockingchair and Four Star men just stand easy. We’re pulling out.”

  Two minutes later, Miles Gilman’s men had cleared the town and were heading back to friendlier range.

  “Since we’re bunkin’ at Snake, I reckon we’ll head on back, too,” a bearded man called to Falcon. “That suit you, Val Mack?”

  “Suits me,” Falcon called. “We just came into town for a good time.”

  “Rud didn’t have no good time.”

  “Rud was a liar and a back-shooter.”

  “Maybe so. We’re gone. Let’s ride, boys.”

  The riders for the alliance pulled out. The piano player at the Stampede began tickling the ivory. The shades at various businesses were raised and the front doors opened, welcoming trade from everybody except from the Four Star and Rockingchair crews.

  Falcon walked over to Stumpy. “You think they’re circling around, Stumpy?”

  “Yeah, I do. I figure about two hours. They’ll slip back into town and get into positions to ambush us, one by one. Just about at dark.”

  “That’s the way I figure it. Let’s see if we can’t turn this thing around to our advantage.”

  “I’ll tell the boys.”

  Falcon walked across the street to Joe Gray. “I think they’re circling around. If you’re going to stay in town, I suggest you get your family situated in the rear of the hotel and tell them to stay put.”

  Joe nodded his agreement. “I’ll register them now. The doc’s just about done lookin’ over the kids.”

  “Anything serious?”

  “Childhood sniffles, that’s all. Some castor oil will get them goin’ again.”

  “It always did me. If ma could catch me and hold me long enough to pour it down my throat, that is,” Falcon said with a smile.

  Twelve

  About an hour after the hired guns rode out, the clouds began spilling over, dumping torrents of rain on the small town. The downpour lasted about fifteen minutes, then eased off to a softer steady rain.

  Sarah Gray and her younger children were safely tucked away in a far room of the hotel, while Falcon sat with his men and with Sal, Joe, and Jack in the saloon. Young Jack had his lip all poked out because he could not have whiskey. He had to be content with a glass of sarsaparilla, and was none too happy about it.

  “I reckon ’bout one more drink and we’d all best be thinkin’ ’bout gettin’ into position,” Puma said, pouring another shot glass full to the brim.

  “They’ll be soaked clear through and madder than all get out,” Mustang said with a chuckle.

  “And them that brought slickers will be sweatin’ like hogs in ’em,” Big Bob added, a mean twinkle in his eyes.

  Wildcat Wheeless cut his eyes to the outside. “Good night for what we have to do.”

  Falcon knocked back the last of his drink and pushed his chair back. He stood up. “Might as well get to it.” He looked down at the foreman of the Four Star. “Sal, you and Jack take the hotel lobby, if you don’t mind. Joe, the upstairs. OK?”

  “Suits me,” Sal said, pushing back his chair and getting to his boots.

  Joe stood up. “Sounds good. I’ll be on the upstairs overhang with a rifle. Let’s go, boys.”

  When those three had exited the saloon, Dan Carson said, “I’m glad to see that squirt gone. The kid is too hotheaded for me. That was good thinkin’. Sal will keep him in line and behind cover.”

  “It’s quit rainin’,” Stumpy said. “But it’s gonna be muddy and sloppy out there. We should be able to hear at least some of them when they make their move.”

  “I’ll be in the alley between the saloon and the ladies’ shop,” Falcon said. “Luck to you all.”

  Falcon looked up at the sky. The storm was far from over, but for now the sky was only drizzling rain, the clouds producing a fine mist. Falcon pulled both guns from leather and waited at the rear of the alley. By now, his men would have spread out all over the town, waiting for the attack.

  Falcon’s eyes had adjusted to the darkness and he caught a dark blot of movement, the shadow darting from the two-hole outhouse behind the saloon to the single privy behind the dress shop. The shadow was carrying what appeared to be a rifle. Falcon did not fire. The movement might have been a local citizen with a cane, although Falcon doubted that.

  Gunfire shattered the night, coming from down by the livery, followed by a harsh scream of pain. The man Falcon had been following stepped out from behind the privy and raised his rifle. He was wearing a hat with a tall crown. None of Falcon’s people owned a hat like that. Falcon drilled Tall Hat in the shoulder and the man screamed and dropped his rifle, one hand clutching his bullet-torn shoulder. He staggered back behind the outhouse, out of Falcon’s line of sight.

  Falcon shifted positions in the alley, moving to the other side and crouching down to present a small target. Two fast shots cut the night, the muzzle of the pistol flashing a tail of fire behind the slug. The bullet slammed into the side of the building where Falcon had been standing.

  Falcon fired twice, both .44 slugs hitting their mark. Falcon watched the outline of the gunman as he fell to the wet ground and was still.

  From over the first floor of the hotel, Joe Gray’s rifle barked several times. A man fell off the boardwalk at the mouth of the alley, behind Falcon, the fallen man’s pistols clattering down the steps, suddenly loosened from numbed fingers.

  Falcon quickly reloaded and, staying in a crouch, moved back to his original position, kneeling down, one knee sinking into the wet ground.

  Across the street, hard gunfire ripped and roared. Falcon could not tell if it was coming from his people or some of the hired guns. A few seconds later, that was settled, as a man staggered off the boardwalk, both hands holding his belly. He lurched to the middle of the street and collapsed facedown in the mud.

  From the other end of the street, pistol fire lashed, followed by a yelp of pain and a lot of cussing. Falcon did not recognize the profane voice.

  Falcon smiled, thinking that the hired guns did not r
ealize that with his men, they were up against of crew of highly experienced Indian fighters: men who had lived their entire adult lives on the razor-sharp cutting edge of danger, where one careless move could mean death. Men such as Puma and Wildcat and Big Bob and the others were as calm as a stump in a fight, making no moves they hadn’t proven out over years of harsh living in the wilderness.

  From the lobby of the hotel, pistols barked half a dozen times. Then, silence slowly enveloped the small town and settled in for a few moments. The Four Star and Rockingchair men waited, guns ready.

  “Let’s ride!” came a shout. Falcon could not tell where it was coming from. “This ain’t no good.”

  Falcon waited, suspecting a trick. A few seconds later, his suspicions proved accurate as he heard a sound behind him. He was facing the street, so his white shirt, soiled and wet as it was, could not be seen. His black suit and black hat blended in with the night. He waited without turning around. The sound of footsteps grew closer.

  Falcon threw himself to one side and the gunman behind fired, the slugs ripping into the side of the dress shop. Falcon fired just as he hit the ground full length. The impact threw his aim off, and he missed. He fired again and this time his aim was true. The man doubled over and then staggered from the alley.

  All over the town, gunfire was tearing the night apart as the hired guns’ trick backfired on them and Falcon’s crew poured on the lead.

  This time when someone shouted to pull out, it was no trick. The sounds of running boots slopping through the mud faded as the hired guns exited the town. In a couple of minutes, the sounds of horses galloping away into the night reached Falcon, then faded into silence.

  “Anybody get hit?” Falcon called.

  No one had gotten a scratch during the nighttime shoot-out in the town of Gilman.

  “Lucky,” Mustang said, strolling up the boardwalk toward Falcon. “But we sure put some hurt on them gunslicks.”

  “Help me!” a man called from the alley that ran between the hotel and a small leather shop. “I’m hard hit.”

  “Me, too,” another man called weakly, his voice just carrying up the street.