Blood of Eagles

by William W. Johnstone

  “Well, take what you can get! And bring Billy Challis back with you. That crazy possum’s been lazingaround long enough. I need him here!”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And see if you can find Casper Wilkerson, too. He’s supposed to be here on the street.”

  “Maybe he’s takin’ a crap, Colonel.”

  “Find him!”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Smith hurried away, and Parker headed for his overland wagon. From the high perch of its box, he scanned the roads out of town, east and west. There wasn’t much to see. The day was ending, and long shadows trailed away to the east, where sunlight’s trailing edge crept up the long sloping prairie away from Wolf Creek.

  To the west, the glare of red sunset hid everything but itself. He had men out there, too, guarding the town, but against the sundown nothing could be seen.

  Just one more day, Asa Parker told himself. One more miserable day, and I’ll see the last of this hellhole. Ducking into the wagon he lit a lantern, drew the flaps closed, and opened the hatch on the strongbox in the floor.

  Of the nine thousand dollars he had taken from the Kansas Pacific Railway, more than seven remained.Seven thousand dollars. A lot of money in some respects, but only a drop in the bucket comparedto what he would have once those eastern buyers signed over their collateral accounts tomorrow.

  He would leave the wagon, leave the locked strongbox, and leave Paradise far behind. Oh, there would be those expecting a share, all right. Sypher would want half of it. O’Brien was in for a tenth. And the rest—he realized that now it was down to Billy Challis and Casper Wilkerson—they would want shares of the remainder.

  But Asa Parker didn’t mean to share with anybody.The collateral accounts would go straight into his own account in St. Louis, and he would be far from Paradise before anybody realized he was gone. Sypher would be on his own, holding worthless paper that would trace only to him when the transaction was investigated. O’Brien might rant and rave, but what could he do? He was only a land drummer.

  Casper and Billy? Well, they were another story. He would have to deal with them eventually. But that might be a while.

  Out of habit, Asa Parker cleaned and oiled the .45 he always carried and returned it to its holster with fresh loads. Then he retrieved the little .44 hideout gun from his sleeve and cleaned it, too.

  When the time came, Casper Wilkerson would be no serious problem. The man was a killer, but not a gunfighter. When the day came that it was necessary,Parker would simply ventilate him before he could even begin to raise that ugly shotgun he carried.

  As to Billy Challis, Parker had little doubt that he could beat the beat the loon in any stand-up match. It would be close, but slick as Billy was, he still was only a fast hand.

  Asa Parker had made a study of shooting. Back in St. Louis he had learned from the best—a professionalduelist named Clay who had once instructed at the Military Academy at West Point. Asa’s craft with a revolver was honed to perfection, and tested to his satisfaction twenty-three times.

  He could take Billy Challis if it came to that. But why take chances? Billy knew about the .44 hideout gun. They all knew about it. Funny thing, though, even though everybody knew Asa carried a sleeve derringer, nobody ever seemed to expect it.

  He put the gun away and doused his lantern. Again he heard gunfire in the distance, and he frowned. Those damned fools couldn’t do anything right!

  Oddly, though, the sounds didn’t seem to come from the south this time. If he hadn’t known better, Asa Parker would have sworn they came from the west.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  As the sun lowered from quarter-high to horizon, Ram Sullivan and five other drifter vigilantes prowled the westward road out of Paradise and shaded their eyes against the lowering glare. By the time the sun touched the horizon their eyes burned, their tempers were short, and all but Sullivan were snugged into a little gully a hundred yards off the trail, playing cards.

  “There’s nobody comm’ in from out here,” they generally agreed. “Hell, there’s nobody out here but us. DeWitt’s just tryin’ to keep ever’body out of town while he flimflams them easterners.”

  Ram Sullivan was about to give up and join them when he heard muffled hoofbeats on the road and shaded his aching eyes one more time against the sunset.

  There was movement in the glare. Reining his mount to a halt, he tensed, trying to see. A riderless horse ambled past, then three more, two of them carrying empty saddles. There were others just behindthem, strung out the way riding stock will when being moved from place to place.

  “What the hell,” Ram tensed as a lineback mare that he knew very well came into view. It was his own horse—one he had stolen back in the territories and then lost the night Jackson led the raid on those Rabbit Creek settlers.

  He stared at it, then at the man riding the big, black, stud horse just beyond. The man was a stranger—a big wide-shouldered hombre with hair the color of moon-straw blowing wild beneath a flat-brimmedhat.

  The man reined toward him and approached, waving casually. “How do,” he said. “Does that yellowneck-wrap mean you’re one of Asa’s boys?”

  Ram squinted. “It means I’m Paradise Vigilance Committee,” he said. “Who are you? And who’s Asa ... ? and where did you get my horse?”

  The big black ambled up alongside him. “I meant DeWitt,” the stranger said. “Colonel DeWitt. I guess you work for him, all right. I got horses here from Haymeadows that I heard some of you boys lost.”

  “Damn right we did!” Ram spat. “How’d you get hold of ’em?”

  “Oh, I was there,” the stranger drawled. “I took a few of them myself. So you boys are still hangin’ on with Asa Parker and that crowd, huh? Don’t you have anything better to do?”

  It was then that Ram realized that the man had edged in right beside him, way too close. With a snarl, Ram went for his gun, and suddenly an arm the size of a corner post shot out and a steel-hard hand closed over Ram’s gunhand. “Don’t do that,” the stranger said. “You’ll just wish you hadn’t.”

  “Like hell!” Ram twisted, and found his arm was imprisoned in a hold he couldn’t break. Just beyond the stranger, a dozen or more horses were plodding past, and the sunset glare made silhouettes of the men driving and guiding them.

  Ram felt sudden panic. His horse skittered and he was dragged half out of his saddle by the unyielding hand that held him. “Boys!” he yelled. “Fellers, help me! Shoot him!”

  A hundred yards away, surprised heads popped up from a gully’s rim, and a wild gunshot rang out.

  “Now that was really dumb,” the big stranger told Ram. A fist like a mule’s kick lashed out, and Ram Sullivan toppled from his horse.

  Falcon MacCallister loosened his grip and let the cowboy fall, then reined toward the gully and dug in his heels. Diablo bunched his powerful quarters and sprinted, straight toward the gully. There were shouts there, and two more gunshots. A bullet whipped past Falcon’s ear, and then his .45 was out and thundering.

  It was all over in an instant. Jude Mason watched his brothers wheel away to gather their startled herd, then cut northward across the trail. At the edge of a wash—a runoff gully that had been a creek not long ago—Falcon MacCallister sat easy in the saddle of his black stallion, with his gun in hand. Below him on the sloping bank, two terrified-looking outlawsstood with their empty hands in the air. Three more lay scattered on the slope, none of them moving.

  “Better gather up those guns,” Falcon told Jude. “Then swing around yonder and pick up these boys’ horses. They won’t be needing them.”

  Jude gawked, then grinned. “Hot damn,” he said.

  When all the fallen guns were gathered up, Jude took Ram Sullivan’s mount on lead and swung northward to bring in the picketed animals of the other five.

  “You boys are out of the vigilante business,” Falcontold the two still standing. “Pick up your pard over there.” He gestured over his shoulder at the sleeping Ram Sullivan.
“And get moving. Either that, or die right here.”

  “Get ... get movin’?” one of them managed. “Where?”

  “Go someplace else,” Falcon shrugged. “Kansas is that way, Texas is that way, and there’s a whole lot of No Man’s Land out that way. Just start walking, and don’t stop.”

  “It’s gonna be dark soon, Mr.,” the owlhoot whined. “You ain’t gonna set us afoot out in those breaks ... at night?”

  “You afraid of snakes, bub?” Falcon’s deep voice was hard as steel. “Your choice. Out there, the rattlersmight not find you. You come back this way, though, and I will.”

  There was no room for argument, and the yellow-bandsknew it. They just weren’t welcome in hell any more.

  Falcon watched them get their buddy on his feet, and watched idly as they plodded away, going more or less southwest. They wouldn’t be back.

  Joshua Mason rode up beside Falcon. “Ain’t this somethin?” The kid grinned. “Seems like a land with no law just plain sprouts horses. That makes twenty right here an’ twenty more back at the place.” He chuckled. “Found horses! This horse-takin’business could be habit-formin’. How you holdin’ up, Mr. MacCallister?”

  Falcon paused thoughtfully, and nodded. The buckskin corset under his coat was makeshift, but the chronic pain in his midsection was only an ache now. The horse doctor, Linsecum, had been right. Whatever had still not healed inside Falcon, the lacingseemed to be holding everything in place. “I believe I’m hanging together just fine, Joshua,” he said.

  Jude came back from the point, glancing at the setting sun. “This was all they had between here and the town,” he reported. “The main bunch is out east, along the trail. You were right—they expected company from that direction.”

  “Fine.” MacCallister nodded. “Let’s go to town.”

  The first Asa Parker knew of the invasion was when the street filled up with horses. He had just come out of the big prairie schooner and was on his way to the cookshed, where a couple of hired cooks were pit-roasting a beef while swampers set up plank tables for the visiting investors.

  Sypher and O’Brien were already there, supervising,and Asa started to call to them.... Then he sidestepped as a wandering mount, still wearing its saddle, pranced from an alleyway and cut him off. Several others followed, and suddenly there were horses everywhere.

  Skittish and wild-eyed, the animals milled around, finding nowhere to go as dusk-shadowed riders cut them off east and west.

  Parker cursed and sidestepped again as a nervous roan switched ends and tried to kick him. Somewherein the dusk a deep commanding voice said, “Lay down your weapons, Asa Parker. You’re through here.”

  For an instant, Parker couldn’t see where the voice came from. Then he spotted him—a big shadowyman with pale hair, tall on a midnight horse.

  The horses milled, and Parker took advantage of that to slip between turning animals, hidden by the shadows. “Who are you?” he yelled, moving as he did, taking cover among the horses.

  “My name’s Falcon MacCallister. I’m here to deliver you to the Kansas and Pacific Railroad Company.They want to talk to you about a robbery and murder in Colorado.”

  Parker straightened, squinting over the backs of horses. Dust and descending darkness made it hard to see, but the man wasn’t where he had been. He turned, saw the tall figure again, and drew his gun. “The hell you say!” he rasped. He raised the weapon to fire, but a raised horse head blocked his view.

  “I need help here!” he shouted. “Intruders!” He scurried aside again, working toward the cookshed pits, and had a glimpse of the pale-haired man dismounting,over toward the hotel. Shoving and kickingat the nearest horses around him, he turned in that direction.

  Now where did he go? he thought. He’s playing a game here, hide-and-seek. “Stand still, damn your soul!” he demanded. “What’s the matter, bounty hunter? You afraid to face me?”

  There was no answer. On impulse, Parker straightenedup to stand tall, turning this way and that, squinting and searching. “You’re lying!” he prodded.“Falcon MacCallister is dead! Billy Challis killed him up north of here!”

  Now the voice answered again, from somewhere behind him. “Billy Challis has done a lot of things, Parker, but he didn’t kill me. This is the last warning,Parker. You surrender now, or this is where you’ll die. Your choice.”

  There was no taunting in the voice, nor even a hint of a threat. It was just a proclamation, said as a statement of fact, and abruptly Asa Parker’s blood ran cold. Desperately he wheeled around, saw no one in the choking dust, and ducked again, pushing at horseflesh and dodging hooves as he changed position.

  Over the din of the milling horses he heard shouts and curses. There was a gunshot, answered by three more, then a thunder of gunfire that seemed to come from all around. It seemed to Parker that the dust hanging in the dark air had begun to glow. And there was a distinct smell of smoke.

  “Wilkerson!” Asa shouted. Then, “O’Brien? Sypher? Where the hell is everybody? Where’s the vigilantes?”

  Like echoes in the distance, a rattle of gunfire drifted on the wind, sounding as though it came from a long way off. Standing upright, Parker sensed the direction of it. It was east, out on the main road. Somewhere out there, people were shooting.

  Barlows! he thought. The damned squatters are trying to get to town!

  From overhead he heard a shout and glanced up. In lighted windows of the hotel, men were crowding to look outside.

  “Colonel?” Wigginton’s voice called. “Colonel DeWitt, is that you down there? What’s happening, sir? Where did all those animals—”

  A shot rang, window glass shattered, and the clamor from above went still. The windows were empty.

  And now the glow was brighter in the dust aura. From two points beyond the herd, flames leapt upward.The land office was ablaze, and across from it the old barn that had served as a tackle shop for the building of Paradise.

  For an instant, Parker made out the figure of a rider circling the milling herd, bunching them inward.He snapped a shot and knew he had missed, but was encouraged when nobody shot back. The horses. They didn’t want to shoot into the horses!

  But then there were shots—a thunder of them from the west, just beyond the herd, and the horses wheeled as one and bolted.

  Asa Parker dived out of the path of a rearing, neighing saddle horse and skidded on his belly in the dust and filth, his arms up to cover his head as the animals stampeded over and around him.

  The vigilantes standing guard on the east road sort of let their guard down at sunset. They hadn’t seen a thing all day, not so much as a single squatter trying to make his way toward Paradise. They were tired and hungry.

  By twos and threes, they clustered at a point where scrub cedars blocked the wind, and most of them dismounted. It was time for a stretch, and nothing was going to happen before morning now that the light was failing.

  Tired and angry at the detail they had pulled, they didn’t notice the stillness of the evening or see even a glimpse of what was coming.

  When Horace Barlow’s mounted unit swept down on them, the vigilantes didn’t know what hit them. These were hard men, outcasts and drifters who had survived by their reactions. A few cut and ran when the first riders appeared, but some put up a fight.

  The engagement lasted no more than three minutes.At the end of it, eight vigilantes were dead, four more down hard, and an uncounted number heading for other places.

  Two Barlow men—a farmer named Hewitt and a sometime preacher turned miner by the name of Poley—were dead.

  Hewitt had left a wife and three shirttail urchins at his little digs on Rabbit Creek. Poley had been considered a stranger among the Barlow clan, but his death there and then made him kin.

  Three of the yellow-scarf vigilantes—one with a bullet burn on his neck—were caught in the cleanup.

  It was full dark when they got it all sorted out, but Horace Barlow was of no mind to wait for morning.In the distanc
e, to the west, firelight grew above the town of Paradise, and in the eddies of breezes they could hear gunfire from there.

  They found only one tree big enough to hang men from, but it had a sturdy branch big enough for three ropes neckties.

  In the west, a glowing cloud of dust swept leisurely over Paradise, flickering with the light of dancing flames below. “I ’spect we’re wanted yonder,” Horacedecided. “Looks like the party done started.”

  For a big man, Asa Parker was quick. Elusive and cunning, he moved among the milling horses, and it was all Falcon could do to keep track of where he was.

  But when Jude and Jubal got the horses bunched in the middle of town, then set them off with some shots in the air, only dust remained to hide a man.

  Holding Diablo on tight lead, Falcon had backed off around the corner of the hotel. But when the thunder of the stampede had passed he dropped the reins and stepped out into the street. There was no need to shout orders, and no one to shout them to. The Mason boys knew what to do, and they were doing it.

  While Jude headed off to knock down the fences at the livery and corrals, Jubal prowled the edges of the town, looking for snipers. He had already found one, and the man lay sprawled under the rickety water tank. Now Jubal was hunting for more of them, keeping pace with his little brother Joshua as the kid moved from building to building, setting fire to everything that would burn.

  Fading babble, punctuated by shouts, dimmed as the various noncombatant residents of Paradise fled for their lives.

  Falcon strode the fire-lit street, his hunter’s eyes cutting this way and that. The street was a littered shadowy clearing where dust still swirled on the breezes like mist on a pond. From knee-level down, it was hard to see anything.

  Down the street Jubal yelled a warning and Falcon ducked and turned, feeling a jab of lingering pain as his .44 came up. It bucked once, licking at the gloom with a fiery tongue, and a man with a yellow sash pitched headfirst from the roof of the old tradingpost.