Blood of Eagles

by William W. Johnstone

  Just in the past year, though, he had heard the place had grown. Persistent old rumors of gold—ru—mors that probably had been around since Spanish explorers first saw Black Mesa rising ahead of them—were circulating again. Most of the footloose men wandering the Cimarron breaks nowadays were running from something. But now, the bluecoats said sardonically, some of them had decided they were miners.

  That would be what the kid was talking about. From his own sources, Woha’li’s father had heard the same stories.

  Outpost—the last refuge of fiddle-footed humanity, Falconthought as they climbed the rises toward Robber’sRoost. After this place, there’s nothing but purgatory one way and No Man’s Land the other.

  The bullet that whanged off the limestone bluff to his right as he crested out above Outpost came as no surprise. It came from the vicinity of the nearestcabin, and missed Diablo’s nose by at least ten feet.

  “Don’t come unwound,” he cautioned the Indian kid riding close behind him. “That’s just to let us know we’ve been seen, and had better behave ourselveswhile we’re here.”

  “Yonega!” Woha‘li spat, making a curse of the Cherokee word for white men. “Coulda’ just put up a sign.”

  “Some folks can’t read signs,” Falcon explained. “Everybody understands bullets.”

  Despite his reassurance, MacCallister eased his guns in their holsters before riding down the steep slope. The little settlement was bigger than he had expected. There were six or seven buildings clusteredamong the leafless elms, willows, and cottonwoodswhich lined the bank of a brushy river. A mile or so upstream, right down in the bottoms, was what looked like a second settlement—tents and shacks, lean-tos and lashed wagons.

  “So that’s the mining camp,” Falcon muttered. His eyes took in the panorama and then beyond, to the rising foothills where dark clouds gathered above the crests. “Damn fools,” he said. “Don’t they look to see where the floodbanks are?”

  The largest building in Outpost itself was a low sprawling thing that might have been a barn, hay shed, stable, or storehouse—or all of those combined.And at the hitchrails in front of the second largest, several saddled horses stood waiting.

  “Busy day.” Falcon shook his head grimly. “Transientsand sand miners. Business must be booming at Outpost.”

  SIX

  The warning shot had told everyone at Outpost that a stranger was coming in. As Falcon stepped through the canvas-frame door of the trading post, a dozen sets of eyes were on him. Just inside, he stepped quickly aside, out of the doorway’s light, to let his eyes adjust to the gloom. It was an old habit, and one that had kept him alive more than once.

  Outside, while he looped Diablo’s reins over the rail, he had taken a good look at the horses tied there, and the sign in the muddy street. The mounts were tired. They had been ridden hard, a long way. They had come in from the west, all together.

  Some bunch just passing through, he decided. Down from the high breaks of New Mexico and eastboundinto No Man’s Land. Among other things, the Neutral Strip served as a natural highway from the Territories to the foothills.

  As the canvas door opened again, and Woha’li stepped through, Falcon shifted his position once more.

  There were an even dozen customers in the big, low, sod-roofed building—four at the plank bar, leaning on their elbows and nursing rotgut whiskey, the rest scattered around at tables and benches. A mixed bunch—travelers and workmen down from the digs upstream. A tough-looking oldster stood behindthe bar, and a gimpy swamper was leaning on his mop near the rear.

  He felt the eyes of all of them sizing him up, and most turned away after one good look. Standing more than six feet tall, with shoulders that bulged his buckskin shirt and calm hands that rested close to a pair of .44s, Falcon MacCallister was not a man to go unnoticed. But the scrutiny was brief. Only a few of them—a couple of young roosters at the bar and the old man behind it—showed any real interest in the newcomer.

  “Lost your way, Mr.?” one of the squirts asked, letting the big gun at his hip be noticed. The kid had carrot-red hair, and the look of trouble trying to happen. “This place ain’t on your usual trails.”

  Falcon ignored him, looking instead at the old man. “I need supplies,” he said. “You selling?”

  “For a price,” the barkeep nodded. “Don’t keep nothin’ fancy here, though.”

  “I’ll need flour and sugar.” Falcon glanced at the dingy shelves and crates around the walls. “Side of that smoke-cured bacon ... coffee if you have it...”

  The redhead with the big gun glanced at Woha’li and frowned. “Mose, when did you start lettin’ Injunsin this place?”

  “I let anybody in that’s got the money to buy somethin’, Tad,” the barkeep growled. “You’re here, ain’t you?”

  “Papoose is totin’ a rifle, too,” the squirt’s partner muttered. “Just like regular folks. I don’t much cottonto—”

  Falcon cut him off. “Reminds me. I’ll want some of those .32-20 cartridges, too. And some soap. I noticed a washtub out back. How about some hot water in it?”

  “Cost you a dollar for the bathwater.” Mose frowned. “Damn nuisance heatin’ up water.”

  Being ignored didn’t set well with the redhead at the bar. His face was flushed, and his eyes glittered as he stepped out clear, his fingers brushing the butt of his low-slung hogleg. “I was talkin’ to you, Mr.!”

  Over by the east wall, a gent with a dusty dark hat scooted his chair on the gravel floor. “I’s you, Tad, I’d watch myself,” he said calmly. “Drunk ain’t any way to brace a stranger.”

  The squirt didn’t even glance at him. His eyes were fixed on MacCallister, and he went into a slight crouch, like a banty rooster fluffing for a fight. “Knew somethin’ was stinkin’ in here,” he pressed. “I reckon it’s that little Injun ... and maybe the company he keeps.”

  Falcon shook his head slightly, then stepped forward... and again. Before the punk could realize what was happening, a hand like an iron band pinned his wrist and another one closed on his shirt front, wadding the fabric and drawing it tight. With no visible effort, Falcon lifted the young drunk off his feet, held him dangling for a moment, then shook him the way a dog shakes a rat.

  Tad’s bleary eyes went as wide as dollars, his hat flew off, and his kicking legs swung like pendulums. He tried to cry out, but the choking grip on his shirt collar stifled him.

  “I’ve had all the fuss I’ll tolerate from you, boy,” Falcon growled. “Now you just settle down!” With a casual flip he dropped the gunny to the floor, off-balance,and brushed his feet out from under him with a businesslike boot. Before Tad hit the floor, Falcon had relieved him of his gun. Calmly he unloaded it, then unscrewed its ejector rod and pried it sideways, jamming the action. He dropped the uselessweapon on the floor.

  “It’s your lucky day, Tad,” he said solemnly, standingover the scrabbling gunny. “You’re still alive. If you’d touched that gun, you wouldn’t be.” Without another glance at the young drunk he stepped to the bar. Tad’s partner, apparently having second thoughts on the matter, stepped aside obligingly.

  “If you can fire up that griddle,” Falcon told the storekeeper, “my young friend and I will want a coupleof beef steaks off that quarter hanging out front. Burn them good, and throw in some onions and potatoes if you have them. And coffee.”

  The iron washtub outside was rusty, and the water the swamper hauled out wasn’t much warmer than the cool spring air, but Falcon made Woha’li strip down to his longhandles and climb in, then handed him a chunk of yellow lye soap. “Bathe,” he ordered.“Get yourself clean. And do it right, or I’ll take a wire brush to you.”

  He cleaned himself up at the rain trough, and shaved. While he was there, Tad and his partner came out carrying bundles. The young gunny didn’t look so cocksure any more, but the set of his shouldershinted at the rage within him. Without so much as a glance at MaCallister, he mounted up and rode out, followed by the other one. They angled
down to the river and headed east along the bottoms.

  MacCallister was putting on his fresh buckskins when the man with the dark hat came out. “Name’s Dawson,” he said. “I know you, don’t I? Your name happen to be MacCallister?”

  “It’s a real common name where I’m from,” Falconshrugged. “It’s a big family.”

  “Yeah,” the man said. “But only one MacCallister I’ve heard of carries iron the way you do. I’ve got a notion that yahoo Tad come off lucky today.”

  MacCallister strapped on his gunbelt. “If those boys were riding with you, I guess you broke up.”

  “Aw, we’ll see them again.” Dawson shrugged. “We’re all headed for the same place. Wolf Creek. Heard there’s work there, and not too many questionsasked.”

  “That a fact?” Falcon combed back his straw-gold hair with his fingers and put on his hat. “Didn’t know there was much work in No Man’s Land. Nobodyaround to hire a man, the way I heard it.”

  “Not necessarily,” Dawson said. “There just isn’t anybody there legally. That’s because there’s no law, no legal ownership of land, and no court jurisdiction.But there’s folks there, all right. Way I hear it, the whole Barlow clan is movin’ in yonder.”

  “Barlow?”

  “Hill folk. Bad medicine if they’re pushed, but they keep to themselves.”

  “Barlows don’t hire hands,” one of Dawson’s men said. “But somebody’s hirin’. Word is, somebody’s gonna build a stock spread over ’round the haymeadows,south of the Kansas line. To make a thing like that work, they’ll need hands.”

  “Need more than cowpokes to build a spread in No Man’s Land.”

  “That’s what the boys and me figure.” Dawson nodded. “Without real law, they’re gonna need regulators.” The dark hat tilted as the man glanced sharply at Falcon. “Happen you’re lookin’ for work, you might drift over to Wolf Creek. See Colonel Amos DeWitt.”

  “Well, I’ll keep that in mind.”

  “ ’Course, your name bein’ MacCallister, might be you already got work,” Dawson said. “Word’s out, all along the foothills, that the Kansas Pacific’s lookin’ for Falcon MacCallister. Somethin’ to do with trackin’ down a bunch that robbed a courier. The way I hear it, they’ll pay top money to get the bunch that did it.”

  Falcon ignored the pointed comments. “Why go so far looking for work, when they’re mining gold a mile from here?”

  Dawson cut his eyes upstream, grinning. “Bunch of idiots. Nobody’s found gold in Black Mesa yet, nor likely to. And if there’s any in the Cimarron, it’s so far down in that river sand that the devil himselfcan’t reach it.”

  Dawson started away, then turned back. “Don’t underestimate Tad Sands, Mr. MacCallister. He was drunk today, an’ feelin’ his oats. But he’ll be sober by and by, and he ain’t likely to forget bein’ humiliated.”

  “Better than being dead,” Falcon pointed out.

  When the Indian boy was presentable, Falcon marched him into the store and matched him up with some denim britches, a sheepskin coat, boots, and a couple of ready-made shirts. The new clothes fit the scrawny kid like a tent, but it was still an improvement.The storekeeper brought out steaks, beans, and coffee, and they both ate as if food were going out of style. The proprietor of Outpost, Mose Polan accepted the lame horse in exchange for Woha’li’s new wardrobe, and threw in a wide-brimmedhat.

  Falcon settled up for his purchases, asked a few questions, and the two saddled up. They would head out—eastbound—when the sun was sinking below dark clouds in the west.

  Mose had offered lodging for the night, and Dawson and his bunch were toting their bedrolls to the barn. “We’ll see what the mornin’ looks like,” Dawson said. “Funny spring, this year. Got here real early, but that don’t mean it’ll last.”

  Falcon wasn’t staying. He could still make a good ten miles before nightfall, and he preferred an honestoutdoor camp to sleeping in a mule barn, no matter what the weather.

  As he guided Diablo up the slopes, to the high flats above the river, Woha’li rode beside him thoughtful. “You gonna find those yonegs with big wagon?” the boy asked.

  “Yeah. I’ll find them. But I don’t know what I’ll do about you. You have kin anywhere, boy?”

  “I go with you,” Woha’li said flatly. “We find those yonegs, I kill them.”

  I do believe you’ll try, Falcon thought, glancing aside at the hard narrowed eyes in that young face. He recalledhow well Woha’li had used the Winchester, and now it was loaded again—twelve rounds of .32-20 in its magazine, one in the chamber, and the action on half-cock.

  He didn’t know yet who those six men were, out ahead somewhere with an overland wagon. He only knew what they had done to the people whose wagon that had been. He had seen the remains, buriedwhat was left of them, and he meant to find the brutes responsible. It brought a hard anger welling up in him to even think about what those men had done to that woman and those two little girls.

  Falcon had no use for a kid tagging after him, but he didn’t argue the point. Woha’li had an even better reason to hunt down the killers. Those same six men had killed his parents ... for no more reasonthan that they happened to be there. They had missed the boy simply because Woha’li had been out on the prairie, trying to snare some quail or robins, when they came. He had seen them, but only from a distance, and too late.

  Falcon looked again at the Cherokee boy, and kept his peace. Woha’li might be only a kid—probablynot more than twelve or so—but those outlaws had made a bad mistake when they overlooked him. The Cherokee, as a people, were generally the most civilized people in North America. But even the wildestComanche knew that a Cherokee—any Cherokee—wasabout the worst enemy a man could have.

  A few miles from Outpost, fresh scuffs in the bluff above the river caught Falcon’s eye. He had almost missed them. Evening light faded quickly as the clouds marched in from the west, and a chilly wind had picked up.

  It was wheelprints—three-inch iron tires six feet apart and carrying a load. An overland wagon had jostled down the slope there, angling toward the river flats.

  On the sandy flats they picked up the trail again, and followed it. The prints were clear there, even in the dimming light of evening—the five-span team and outriders. The outlaws had followed the river, looking for a good place to put the wagon across.

  In last light of evening, Falcon saw firelight—the slightest tiny glow, a few miles ahead. There was a bend in the river there, and the little spark of light was on the high bluff beyond. The killers had crossed the river.

  But they weren’t all there. He had read the sign, and he counted only four men now in the wagon party. One was driving, the rest trailing along on horseback. Somewhere back there, two of them had left the group.

  Woha’li had seen the fire, too. The kid was ready to head out there and kill everybody in sight, but Falcon held him back. “Two of them are missing,” he said. “I want them all. So we’ll wait ’til they’re together again.”

  “Ha-la‘ya?” Woha’li demanded. “When? How far?”

  “I think I know where they’re going,” Falcon said. “Place called Wolf Creek. Something’s going on there that’s drawing hard cases. We’ll find this whole bunch there, I imagine.”

  He peered into the twilight ahead, puzzled. The fire they saw was at least two miles away, but in the momentary shift of winds he caught just a hint of woodsmoke.

  Billy Challis and Tuck Kelly rode into Outpost late that evening. Billy was itchy, like a hungry cat scentingfresh blood, and Tuck was looking for a little fun. They were both disappointed. There were no whores at Outpost just then. The usual little flock of soiled doves that sometimes hung around there had migrated up to Taos some months ago, and no new ones had come in yet.

  There was a crowd, though, and it wasn’t a crowd that any man—even Billy—wanted to fool with. There were some hard men in the bunch passing through on their way into the strip called No Man’s Land, and the few hards
crabble river miners they saw were hard-eyed and close-knit. Even Billy Challis, mean and spoiling for trouble as he usually was, saw no percentage in bucking that kind of odds.

  They held their tongues, had a meal, and spread their rolls in a cold smelly loft above a mule stable, apart from the other travelers staying over.

  They did learn something, though. There had been another stranger at Outpost, just hours before them, who might have been that Colorado gunslick, Falcon MacCallister. He had been there and gone, but there was speculation about him. From his questions,it was clear he was looking for somebody.

  “Whoever it is, I’d hate to be him,” a man named Dawson allowed. “What I’ve heard of that MacCallister,he’s pure-dee hell in a handbasket when he’s riled.”

  Tuck had a notion—from the questions the man had asked—who he was looking for.

  He was looking for them.

  The two gunnies were both stone sober when they rolled in for the night. They decided to double back in the morning—follow the north rim of the valley and maybe catch up with the wagon at the bend crossing. If they missed the trace, they would head straight for Wolf Creek, maybe be there when Asa Parker arrived. Asa Parker could decide what to do about MacCallister.

  “And don’t call him Asa Parker any more,” Tuck reminded Billy. “Remember, from now on we call him colonel! He’s Colonel Amos DeWitt.”

  SEVEN

  Tad Sands was madder than Pete had ever seen him, and for three miles or more he took it out on everything in sight. The redhead rode like a madman,ignoring cuts and washes along the upper bank, pushing through thickets that he could as easilyhave gone around, not giving a damn what it cost the horse beneath him.

  The sorrel was bleeding from flank and mouth. Its eyes were wild and its ears laid back, and Tad raked it savagely with his spurs as it shied away from a washout.

  Pete Monte winced, despite himself. “You’re gonna kill that horse if you don’t ease up,” he called from behind. “How about—” He went silent as Tad swivelled half around in his saddle, glaring at him. The redhead’s eyes were pale blue rage, and Pete’s hand dropped instinctively to hover at his waist, his fingers touching the butt of his cross-draw Colt.