Blood of Eagles

by William W. Johnstone

  Calumet raised his eyes, squinting into the thicket. The little opening where their horses should have been was empty—just dim snowdrift and trampled ground.

  With a growl, the Canadian sprinted eastward, gun in hand, skirting the grove. He found two more of his vigilantes where they had fallen. One had a caved-in skull. The second was dead of a broken neck. There was no sign of the others, and no horses.

  “Mon Dieu, ” the Canadian hissed, then ducked as a rifle ball sang past him. Up on the ridge to his left, a shot flared and a voice called, “Yonder’s one of ’em, Omer! See him? Down in the slough!”

  Twisting and ducking, Calumet headed for the crusted creek, running as though the very devil were on his tail.

  In rolling hills northeast of the Barlow claim, FalconMacCallister wheeled Diablo at the top of a rise and looked down at the ambling herd of saddle mounts passing below. The clouds had broken overhead,and wan moonlight gave him a good view of the scene. Twenty or so horses, all wearing saddles, trotted eastward in good order, hazed by a single rider.

  Falcon took a deep painful breath, feeling dizzy for a moment. Back there, when he put the second of those night riders down, something had twisted inside him—a gut-wrenching pain that almost doubledhim over. But it had passed, a little. What remainedwas a throbbing ache that pulsed with each breath, each beat of his heart. Still, his wounds had held. He was not bleeding. He put the pain back where it belonged—in the back parts of his mind.

  As the herd neared, Falcon waved, and the rider waved back. Circling, Falcon picked up his four spare horses and angled them down the slope to join the herd.

  Jude Mason grinned as Falcon pulled in beside him. “You do get around for a dead man. We got us a nice herd here. Saddles an’ all. See you got a few, too. Learn anything?”

  “Names,” Falcon said. “Brett was right about the six men who murdered your kin. They’re the same ones running that town. Colonel DeWitt’s real name ... or at least another name he uses ... is Asa Parker. The ones with him were Kurt Obermire, Casper Wilkerson, Folly Downs, Billy Challis, and Tuck Kelly. The reason Brett never saw the last two is that they’re laying up at a place south of here. The Spring place.”

  “I know where that is,” Jude said.

  “Well, they’re the two that waylaid me out on the plains. I guess I winged one of them.”

  “That all fits,” Jubal nodded. “But there’s only five of them now. Folly Downs was killed in town. Did you do that?”

  “Not me,” Falcon said. “I haven’t been in.”

  “Well, somebody sure enough made him dead. He was shot to pieces. Small-bore rifle, used real mean.”

  “That leaves five, then,” Falcon said.

  “I guess so, but there’s no way to get to DeWitt and Wilkerson. They never leave town. And Obermire’sstayin’ there now, too ... surrounded by his hoodlums.”

  “So they’re spooked.” Falcon looked back. “Sounds like a war back there. Where’s Jubal?”

  Jude’s teeth glinted in a grin. “I saw him cut off halfway here, head out on his own. Guess he had an idea. Those vigilantes never got to where they meant to go. I’d say those squatters saw ‘em comin’.” He squinted, looking back. “You know, half the vigilantes are out here right now. We could ride back and ...”

  “And pick a few murderers out of an armed camp?” Falcon shook his head. “I want to get all of them, Jude, not just one or two. And I want the man behind them, too. I won’t settle for less.”

  Jude frowned. “You sound like hell, Mr. MacCallister.And the way you’re hunched over ... are you bleedin’ again?”

  “No, I’m not.”

  Jude shrugged. “You still look like hell. What are we supposed to do with all these horses?”

  “Well, this is No Man’s Land,” Falcon said. “No law here, so the rule is finders keepers. I’d say these horses and saddles all belong to you boys now.”

  “That’s nice,” Jude allowed. “But what do we do with them?”

  “Take them home,” Falcon decided. “Back to the haymeadows place. It’ll take the vigilantes a while to sort out where their horses went, and give Asa Parker something else to wonder about. With a little luck, the Barlows and their neighbors have set back his plans for Paradise. Take these critters home, Jude. Then you and the boys wait there for me.”

  Jude peered into the gloom and shook his head. Even in darkness, the big man looked half-dead, but he was riding. “Where’re you goin’?”

  “I’ve got some scouting to do,” Falcon said. He was thinking about the weird death of Folly Downs—how the man was “shot to pieces.” He was thinking of that ... and wondering.

  “Might sell these saddle mounts for a good price,” Jude mused. “There’s a town yonder that’s probably real short of horses right now.”

  “Just take ’em to the Haymeadows,” Falcon repeated.“Wait for me there.”

  “We’re gettin’ a little tired of pussyfootin’ around, Mr. MacCallister,” Jude said, reining his mount around. “We know who it was that murdered Owen Blanchard’s family, an’ we know where they are. We’re tired of waitin’. I guess we can wait around ’til you get to the haymeadows, but my brothers and me are about ready to open the ball.”

  Jude hesitated, expecting an answer, then turned. Like a shadow in the night, Falcon MacCallister had ridden away—a hunched shadowy figure on a big black horse.

  “Cripes,” Jude muttered. “Anybody else’d be flat on his back, trying to get well. Not him, though. He don’t even know he’s hurtin’.”

  SIXTEEN

  Jonathan Boles Stratton’s private rail coach arrivedat the Dodge City railhead in late March, in time to see the last snowfall of winter blanket the bleak hills along the Arkansas River. The gilded coach was shunted onto a dedicated siding where pennants whipped in the wind.

  The rowdy cowtown at the gateway to the plains had put on its best finery to welcome the representativeof the United States Bureau of Rails. Fresh paint glistened on doorways and storefronts, and temporary deputy marshals were out in force to keep the commercial area off-limits to its usual occupants.

  Stratton was escorted in style to Dodge’s best hotel,the Palace, by a contingent of smartly attired Kansas State Militia under the command of Captain Abe Burroughs himself. Marshal Sam Stroud’s deputiesprowled Trail Street and the intersecting ways, establishing a deadline against drunks, drifters, grubline cowboys, and anybody else who might appearin any way unsavory. Even the Dodge House had been spruced up. For the duration of Stratton’s stay, and for the benefit of the flood of railroad investorswho would follow him, the West’s roughest little city had put on its Sunday face.

  Along Trail Street all eyes were on the great man as he stepped from Harold Bolin’s best carriage to the boardwalk in front of the Palace, where dignitaries,photographers, and visiting capitalists gatheredbeyond a cordon of state guardsmen. Few paid any attention to the little flock of honorary bodyguardsand servants who followed Stratton into the new hotel—least of all to the gray little man who brought up the rear of the parade.

  Sypher was very good at not being noticed. Years of close association with preening politicians and pompous tycoons had honed his skills. In the circles where he moved, protective coloration was the best job insurance. In the bureau of rails, as in any federalmechanism, the Strattons came and went with each new tide of political patronage, but the functionaries—theunnoticed Syphers—went on and on, adapting grandiose legisation to their own agendas, running the country as they saw fit.

  When Stratton was comfortably ensconced in the Palace’s best and only dignitary suite, surrounded by fawning opportunists, Sypher went off on errands of his own. He spent an hour arranging for his employerto be provided with a discreet and plentiful supply of Dodge City’s best liquor, cigars, and whores, and spent ten minutes at the local Western Union office catching up on his correspondence. He dropped in at the town marshal’s office and listenedto the conversation there while he thumbed through sta
cks of warrants and claims. Then he made his way to the big livery barn at the lower end of Trail.

  Sergeant Jack Lyles was there, talking with Eugene Paul, when the functionary came in.

  “I want to rent a carriage,” the little gray man said.

  Paul nodded. “I have some rigs. Where do you want to go?”

  Sypher squinted at the liveryman. “I don’t believe that’s any of your concern,” he snapped. “I shall require a good carriage ... a surrey will do, if it has a supply box. And a strong horse. I shall be gone for possibly a week.”

  “Well, that’ll cost you,” Paul said. “I charge daily, in advance, and a deposit to cover loss.”

  “Loss?” The stranger bristled. “Sir, I am an employeeof the government of the United States of America! ”

  “Most would charge you extra for that.” Paul shrugged. “Not me, though. But I’m no fool, either. We’re at the end of the world out here, Mr. You’d be surprised how many rigs just take a notion to keep right on goin’ once they’re out of sight. And bein’ a government man gives you about as much credibility as a top hat gives a gopher.”

  “I don’t intend to steal your carriage,” Sypher growled. “Only to rent it.”

  “To go where?”

  “If you must know, I have business south of here, in the Neutral Strip.”

  Paul grinned. “Lot of rigs never come back from No Man’s Land,” he said. “Nobody there to say they have to. I can fix you up with that surrey out back. It’s sturdy and sound. And I’ve got a couple of good horses to choose from. I’ll need, ah ...”—he paused, considering—“ ... I’d say three hundred and thirty dollars will cover it.”

  “That’s highway robbery!” Sypher growled.

  “No, sir. That’s what I figure the rig’s worth. Rent will come to six dollars a day, for the horse and the buggy. If you bring my property back I’ll refund your money minus the rent. Take it or leave it.”

  Fuming and glaring, the gray man drew a wallet from his coat. He fingered in it, partially withdrew a printed leaf, then shoved it back and produced cash money. He counted out goldbacks and handed them over, and Paul gave him a receipt.

  “I’ll pick up the rig in an hour,” Sypher said. “And I’ll need some provisions. Blankets, a tarp ...”

  “I know what you’ll need in No Man’s Land.” Eugene Paul nodded. “I’ll have you stocked and ready. And I strongly suggest you get yourself a rifle if you don’t have one. It gets real lonesome out there, without protection.”

  When the easterner was gone, Jack Lyles said, “That’s one of the people that came in with that bigshot Stratton. Could be he’s scouting right-of-way.”

  “Could be.” Paul shrugged. “But he sure didn’t look like any surveyor I ever saw. And that was railroadscrip he flashed when he paid me. I’d give a dollar to know what he’s up to.”

  “Prob’ly never know unless he don’t come back,” Lyles said.

  “What do you mean by that?”

  “Well, if he don’t show up in a week like he said, you could file on him with the marshal. Then, if Buck sees fit, he might request a search for stolen property. Captain Burroughs would likely send a patrolout, since he don’t know any better, and I’d likely be with that patrol.”

  “But he wouldn’t be stealing anything,” Paul pointed out. “He’s already paid me the price of the rig and a good horse.”

  “Didn’t notice him payin’ you for the provisions, though.” Lyles smiled. “Just keep it in mind. My bet is, that feller’s headin’ for the same place Falcon MacCallister went.”

  The first shot at the Barlow place came from the shadows beside the barn. It didn’t hit anybody, but it was the bait that sprang the trap. Its muzzle flash was bright in the darkness, and eight or ten men in the advancing vigilante line returned the fire.

  The blaze of gunfire from the creeping attackers was all the Barlows needed. Guns in the loft, guns on the roof of the house, guns in the cover of the corral, and guns at various other points raked Jackson’svigilantes as they ran for cover in the open field.

  Jubal Mason was on the right flank, near a runoff wash that angled toward the brushy breaks. He dived into cover, then watched as the battle progressed. He had no intention of shooting any Barlows, but he didn’t want to get shot by any of them, either. He had planned to put on the yellow band in hopes of getting a shot at Kurt Obermire or another of DeWitt’s top dogs. But now he knew Obermire wasn’t there, and an owlhoot named Jackson was heading the strike force.

  So Jubal eased aside, watched and waited, hoping to help the squatters and wasn’t really surprised when the surprise raid on the Barlow place turned out to be no surprise at all.

  For a time, the affair was a battle in darkness—mostly just a lot of noise as people on both sides pumped lead blindly at people they couldn’t see. But within minutes, distinct patterns emerged. Jubal had spotted a sharpshooter not far from him, in brush at the edge of the draw, and now he saw that someone else had spotted the same thing. Fifty yards away from him, he saw movement in the broken cover of the sloping field. A man was advancing there, crouching and dodging, flitting from shadow to shadow, closing in on the concealed shooter with each flash of gunfire.

  The sharpshooter fired again, and in the field a hundred yards away a man screamed and fell, cursingas he thrashed about in pain.

  No more than thirty yards from Jubal’s cover, the moving vigilante sprinted across an open break and sprawled belly-down behind a sage stand. In that moment,Jubal recognized the attacker, and knew that the hidden sniper was in real trouble. It was Jackson himself, closing in.

  As silently as possible, Jubal crawled out of the wash and got his feet under him. Cradling a sawed-offten-gauge, he crept forward just as the sharpshooteropened up again from the draw and Jackson broke cover with his hands full of .45s.

  What came next all happened in an instant. Jacksonbounded to the edge of the draw, his revolvers leveled point-blank at the concealed shooter there. With a high-pitched squeal the shooter saw him—too late—and tried to roll aside to bring the rifle up. And Jubal cut loose with both barrels.

  The twin roar of the ten-gauge was deafening, and the twin charges of buckshot cut into Jackson and threw him head over heels, right over the sniper and into the brush beyond.

  Jackson’s .45s, triggered by dead hands, fired harmlessly into the air, and a rifle bullet sang past an inch from Jubal’s ear. With a yelp he dived and lost the empty shotgun. He landed smack on top of a squirming, kicking form that tried to brain him with a rifle butt while screaming curses in his ear—words that nobody who felt and sounded like that form should even have known, must less used.

  For a moment, Jubal was fighting for his life. Then, with an effort, he pinned the girl’s arms, shook loose her rifle, and rasped, “Will you shut up, damn it? You’re gonna have every yahoo out in that field over here tryin’ to kill both of us!”

  He could barely see her, but what he could feel was interesting. “Just simmer down, girl!” he ordered.“I’m on your side ... I think!”

  “You’re one of them!” she spat. “Let go of me!”

  “Not ’til we’re better acquainted,” Jubal said. “My name’s Jubal Mason, and I’m here on my own business.Hell, I just saved your life, didn’t I?”

  “Mind your language!” she demanded, but the struggles eased. “I’m Becky Barlow,” she admitted. “And you’re gonna be dead if Pa and the boys get you in their sights.”

  Cautiously, Jubal raised his head to look around. The gun battle was still raging, but it was too dark to see who was shooting at whom. He lowered himself,pressing her down, away from the gully rim. For a second or two, he really hated to leave. But there might be Barlows—or vigilantes—all over the place any minute now. “How do I know you won’t shoot me in the back when I turn away?” he demanded. “I mean, you didn’t sound too much like a lady a minute ago.”

  “I just might,” she admitted. “But I’ll have to find my rifle first. Where
are you going?”

  “North of here,” he said. “Ten, twelve miles, I guess, north and a little east. There’s several of us with a mind to do some horse farmin’ after we hang or shoot the fellers that run Paradise. Might be we’re all interested in the same notions, us and your folks. Come see us up there if you want to. We can talk ... and I’d like to find out what you look like in daylight,Becky Barlow.”

  It took MacCallister most of a day to pick up the trail of Woha’li. It would have taken longer if the boy hadn’t been still suffering from snakebite. The wound had reddened, swelled, and ached at first, then festered in an angry sore. Only a drop of venom had gotten into his system from the fang scratch, but the lasting infection took more time to heal. Even though most of the swelling was gone, the Indian kid was still weak sometimes, and careless.

  “A cripple chasing a cripple,” Falcon muttered as he followed cold trail south of Paradise. It was an easy track, or would have been if he felt better. He still got dizzy sometimes, and though he wasn’t spittingup blood any more he was weak and light-headed.

  But he pushed all that aside, impatiently. Like the searing pain of his deep wounds, it was something he could ignore.

  The pony’s prints were familiar, and the efforts at concealment clumsy. He wondered what had happenedto make the Indian boy so careless. Somehow the kid had crept right into an armed town and shot a man down in broad daylight—a dangerous man, at that. In Falcon’s mind there was no doubt who had killed Folly Downs, and the feat was awesome, considering the odds.

  But out here, having eluded pursuit, his day-old tracks were those of a weary horse with a careless rider. Had the kid been wounded at Paradise? Falcondidn’t think so. But there was something wrong.

  He was nearly ten miles south of DeWitt’s town on Wolf Creek when he spotted the tendril of smoke ahead—across half a mile of grass prairie—and knew where Woha’li was.

  But he didn’t expect what he found there. Deep in a brushy gully, the camp was almost invisible until he was right on top of it. And it wasn’t the camp of a sick, desolate fugitive. In a tiny cove created by a bend in the gully, cuts of freshly butchered cow hung on a willow rack in the smoke of a well-tended little fire. A cowhide stretched across a pocket and camouflaged with clumps of sod, made a snug nest against the wind. There was water in a snow-fed seep, and a battered saddle lay against the cut bank. Furtherdown the draw, on sheltered silver grass, the boy’s horse grazed contentedly.