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Authors: William W. Johnstone

BOOK: Blood of Eagles
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“That's what reputation does for a man,” he told himself sardonically. “All of a sudden I'm in demand... to be a policeman.”
Still ...
March the ninth. That was only a few days before the slaughter of those homesteaders he had found. The location could have put the robbers there, then, and men on the run eastbound—in that country—might have truly coveted a prairie schooner.
It was a plausible connection, and the count of outlaws was interesting. Six men! There were six in the bunch he had been trailing into No Man's Land.
Asa Parker. The name didn't mean anything to Falcon, but it obviously did to somebody. It wouldn't be hard to find out more, by wire.
He didn't intend to contact Mr. Wylie, and he didn't intend to use the post telegraph at Fort Dodge. Too many people had access to military messages,and nosiness made him edgy. The general inquiryabout him, the one that had led to his escort to Dodge, had obviously come about because somebody,somewhere, had read his name in the “coded” telegraph from Horner's man.
Who was A. Sypher, and why did a private message to Falcon MacCallister make him so curious ... unlesshe knew something about the subject of the message?
“The post telegrapher can send your response, if you like,” Captain Burroughs had offered. Falcon decided to decline.
Bathed, shaved, and fed, Falcon headed for the stable carrying his saddle gear and his pack. SergeantLyles and three of the greenhorns from the patrol were waiting for him inside, at the feed stalls. Falcon stepped out of the daylight and eased aside, letting his eyes adjust. It was long habit, this gatheringof advantage in an uncertain situation.
But the soldiers showed no hostility. Seeing the cautious move, a couple of the recruits grinned and turned away, and the third spread his hands to show that he was not armed. Of the four, only Lyles carrieda sidearm. The rest had carbines, but the guns were stacked aside, away from them.
“Thought you might not stay the night, Mr. MacCallister,”the topkick said affably, crossing his arms on a rail. “There seems to be a whole lot of interest in you around here.”
Falcon said nothing, just returned the sergeant's gaze.
“Telegrapher's a friend of mine,” Lyles said. “When the captain sent his answer to the railway bureau, a couple of boys from Dodge—they haul meal for the quartermaster from time to time—they managed to have a look at it. Then they lit out for Dodge City with a pair of drifters. They work for the land drummer, O'Brien.”
“I saw them leave,” MacCallister said. “Is there a good farrier in town?”
“Eugene Paul's about the best there is.” Lyles grinned, cutting his eyes toward Falcon's big black horse waiting in a feed stall. “He's got the little barn behind the livery. I don't know if he's ever put shoes on any son of a bitch as mean as that, but I reckon he'd try.”
“And a hotel?”
“Dodge House, I guess. It's open all the time. Ah ... these boys and me, we're goin' to town after a bit. I could show you where the smithy is.”
“I'll find it,” Falcon said. “Thanks again.” He led Diablo from his stall, spread a folded blanket on the black's broad back, and threw his saddle atop it.
The three privates had hung around, listening. Now one of them, an eastern kid named Finch, said, “I read about you back home, Mr. MacCallister. The papers say you're sure and sudden with those guns of yours.” Finch glanced at the big .44 at Falcon's hip, and at its twin thrust into his belt. “Do you really shoot like they say?”
“I don't know what the newspapers say.” Falcon shrugged, cinching up the saddle. “But I don't considera revolver an ornament. In this country, a man carries guns because he might need them. Happen he does need them, he'd best know which end to point.”
“Yes, sir.” Finch grinned. “I guessed that's how you'd see it. We've got day leave, an' we heard the talk. There's always a few hard cases looking for trouble in Dodge. Do you think you might need any help?”
“They mean that,” Lyles assured him. “These boys may be green to army life, but I'll vouch for all three of them in a social situation.”
Falcon removed Diablo's tether and set his headstall,easing the bit into his mouth. The horse was as fresh and ready to run as though he had been on pasture. “I'll keep that in mind,” he said. He turned to Lyles. “Who's O'Brien?”
“Land drummer,” the sergeant said. “He's been around lately, hawkin' squatter plots in the Neutral Strip. ”
“No Man's Land?”
“Sure,” Lyles shrugged. “Folks are land hungry. Some come to homestead, some with booster patents.Buy acreage sight unseen, anyplace somebody'll issue a title. Lately it's been foothills claims over in Colorado. Folks back east buy land from some riverboat drummer, then they haul out here thinkin' they'll settle on their property. The latest bonanza is the Neutral Strip. Some speculator's claimed a land patent down there, south of Hardwoodville.O‘Brien's sellin' town lots an' parcels.”
Falcon's eyes narrowed. That was what had happenedto those massacred travelers he found. They had been on their way to the foothills to prove up on a land deed bought back east.
Apparently the land sharks were becoming more brazen now. There was no legitimate claim land in the Neutral Strip. It was a lawless zone—no law, no legal residents, no claimable land.
“Who's doing the selling?” he asked offhandedly.
“The deeds are issued by a Colonel Amos DeWitt. They're patent claim deeds. Don't have any weight in a court of law, but then there's no courts in the Neutral Strip. Anybody can sell anybody anything down there, if anybody wants to buy.”
“So what makes them valuable?”
“O'Brien claims there's a town down there, past the line, with a railroad headin' for it.”
Shouts and a clatter of harness chain came through the open doors. Outside on the parade ground, a dozen soldiers were piling aboard a wagon. When they were aboard, the driver hied the mule team out through the main gate and turned west.
“Looks like you fellows missed your ride to town,” Falcon noted.
Lyles shrugged. “We'll get there,” he said.
The sun rode low on the western horizon when Falcon MacCallister headed out of Fort Dodge, bound for the brawling little town five miles away. Up ahead, where the trail dipped into rolling hills, he could still see the furlough wagon—a rocking dusty silhouette against the horizon. Even there, along a traveled road in settled country, the land was vast and lonely.
He tipped his hat low, shielding his eyes from the headlong glare of sunset. With sunset, the wind turned chill and a million stars emerged in the sky. From the first rise, he could see the sprawling lamplit stain that was Dodge City, straight ahead.
It would be full dark when he got there, but Dodge didn't look like a town that would close when the day ended. He could smell the place on the west wind, and a mile out he could hear it.
With that sixth sense that a man develops when he's outlived some who tried to kill him, Falcon read the wind and knew that there were men nearby whose eyes were on him, and their intentions weren't friendly.
In any trail town—particularly a boomtown like Dodge where men came together in the most volatileconditions—there were always those who hungeredfor gold, those who thirsted for blood, and those who dreamed of power. There were ambitious men, driven men, hell-raisers, and bullies. And among them, always, were the hard-eyed predators whose lust was for combat—to prove and prove again, by provocation and duel—that they were betterthan other men at the art of killing.
Falcon was used to that. His size, his appearance, and the big gun he wore in open leather made him a natural target for those fools who wanted to try their luck. And for any who recognized him, his name and reputation magnified the attraction.
The trouble with having a reputation as a gunslingerwas that every fool kid, crackbrain, and mean drunk with a six-gun just ached to test that reputationif it was the last thing he did.
ELEVEN
Trail Street was quiet when Falcon rode in from the east. The general stores, millineries, shops, and markets were locked and boarded, the stage depot and bank dark, the dozen or so land offices, law offices, and hide brokers closed for the night. Most of the locals had gone home to their suppers and their beds. It was early yet for the night crowds, though the number of horses at hitching posts outsidethe town's saloons and eating places showed that they would begin spilling out into the streets soon enough.
In the lingering twilight of the high plains Falcon spotted two tin stars—a deputy marshal carrying loaded trays across from the nearest beanery to the jail, and a second one standing guard for him in the doorway there. He passed them by, headed for the sprawling outline of the livery barn, and found the smith's cabin just beyond it.
There was lantern light in the windows, and Falconrapped at the door. The man who opened it, Eugene Paul, was young, dark-bearded, and husky.
“I need a stall for my horse,” Falcon said, gesturing,“and a span of shoes when your forge is hot.”
“That'll be morning,” Paul told him. “But I can board him for the night. You want to leave him?”
“I'll give you a hand.” Falcon smiled. “Diablo doesn't often tolerate strangers.”
In the rear of the livery barn, Falcon stripped off Diablo's saddle, rubbed him down, and gentled him into a stall by lantern light while the smith forked winter hay into the trough and added a bait of sorghumgrain.
As Paul closed the gate, another lantern appeared at the barn door. Falcon eased into shadows, then stepped out again when the new glow revealed a tin star.
It was one of the deputy marshals—the one who had been standing outside the jail. He stepped forward,squinting, and held his lantern high. Behind him came a taller older man with bushy eyebrows and a big mustache. “You're MacCallister, aren't you?” he asked.
“You know me?”
“You're a known man. And I've heard some talk.” He stepped past the deputy, nodded at Eugene Paul, and came near, peering at Falcon. “The name's Stroud,” he said. “Sam Stroud. I'm the city marshal here.”
Falcon relaxed a little. The eyes and the tone said he was an honest man—a worried one, but fair. “This here's my deputy,” the marshal continued. “Name of Bud Wheaton. You
are
Falcon MacCallister,aren't you?”
“I am,” Falcon said. “Any problem with that?”
“Well, there could be,” Stroud said. “You have some enemies, MacCallister. There are people lookingfor you around here.”
Falcon shrugged. “I wouldn't be surprised. I saw a couple of hotheads coming this way, from the fort sutler's store. I know them, and they know me. But I wouldn't worry too much about them. Jack Cabot and Sandy Hogue aren't the kind to stand up to a man face-to-face, and I don't think they'd try back-shootingwhere there are witnesses.”
“Cabot and Hogue?” Stroud squinted. “Those must be the drifters that came in with the Carlyle boys. They're around here someplace, and so are the Carlyles. But you've got more trouble than that. Some jasper put out a wire on you today. Half the gunnies in town have probably seen it. It offers five hundred dollars for your head.”
Falcon stared at the lawman in disbelief. Even in a place like Dodge, a little helltown two hundred miles from anyplace, offering a public bounty on a man was almost unheard of.
“A private bounty?” he demanded. “Who did that?”
“Well, that's an odd thing. The telegram was sent from Newton, but the only name on it was the letter S. It was sent to the land drummer, August O'Brien. He must have shown it around. By the time I heard about it, half the fools in Dodge had read it. I know it don't hold water, Mr. MacCallister. A private bounty's ridiculous, this day and age. But there are some around here who don't show good sense when they're liquored up. There's just no telling what might happen as long as you're in town.”
“What about this O'Brien? Have you talked to him?”
“He isn't here. Bud thinks he lit out this afternoon,heading for the Neutral Strip.”
“His horse is gone,” Bud Wheaton said. “Real nice sorrel racer. One of the hide traders across the river saw him going southwest. I guess he's headed for the Neutral Strip, because there sure isn't much else in that direction.”
Falcon cut his eyes toward the deputy, then back to Stroud. “So what do you want from me?” he asked.
Outside the barn, a racket arose as two buckboard wagons passed slowly, both loaded with talking, laughing men. “Potatoes?” a jovial voice whooped. “You plan to grow potatoes in Colorado? Blanchard, you're crazy as a loon!”
“Tell me that when I'm rich, Tom!” a man answered,“I'm tellin' you, that's the best cash crop a man can have. Sell direct to miners an' railroaders! I'll sell potatoes by the long ton, you watch!”
“I'll put my money on corn and beans!” another offered. “Potatoes take sandy loam, and regular water. You won't find that just ever'place!”
“It'll be there!” the one called Blanchard said. “My brother's already out there, pickin' and choosin'. He left early to get us the right claims!”
The wagons passed, and from somewhere else nearby a chorus of taunting voices erupted: “Squatters!”“Live good while ya can, fools!” “You'll starve on dry-land claims!”
“We'll be there when you're gone, cowboy!” someone responded. “We won't be starved out nor burned out, neither!”
Slowly, the mounting hostilities receded up the street. “I've got me a handful of town here,” MarshalSam Stroud said. “Settlers and speculators, gunslingersup from No Man's Land, grudge fights and brawls. Night riders burnin' barns for twenty miles around, and the damn lawyers and land sharks alwaysstirrin' things up. I just try to keep Dodge as peaceful as I can. I'd appreciate your cooperation.”
“I don't aim to start any trouble,” Falcon assured him. “I'm here for a meal and a night's sleep, and to use the telegraph when the office opens. Then I'll be on my way.”
“That sounds all right,” Stroud nodded. “I'd let you bed down at the jail if you want, but that's just an offer. I don't have cause to insist.” He glanced at the big .44 at Falcon's hip. “Word is, you're mighty sudden with that iron. What if somebody takes a notion to try you on for size?”
Falcon smiled coldly. “What would
you
do, Marshal,if somebody shot at you?”
“I'd shoot back, of course.”
“Then you understand my inclinations. I appreciateyour offer, but I don't believe I want to spend the night in jail. I'll make do.”
“Palace Hotel,” Bud offered. “You can get a meal there, too. They'll have the kitchen fire goin' 'til midnight.”
Out on the street, the noise level was rising. Some riders had come in—men from the farms downriver and from the wagon camp out on the flats—and the sounds of voices carried into the barn. Somewhere a piano was being tuned up.
The saloons were serving, the dance halls were open, and the gaming tables were getting some use. There was talk on the street of night riders and squatter disputes. There were some powerful grudges out there. It was going to be a typical Dodge evening.
“Oh, Lordy.” Stroud shook his head, listening. “Drifters, land sharks, politicians, mean drunks, and lawyers. First sign of spring, they pop up like ragweed.Not to mention the hell bein' raised over those rawhiders butcherin' stolen cattle down around Hardwoodville.”
“That's a little outside your jurisdiction, isn't it?”
“It would be.” Stroud sighed. “Except they bring their beef to Dodge and sell it. The Sawlog and Smokey Hill ranches are out to put a stop to that, sure enough.
“I don't mean offense, Mr. MacCallister,” he added, “but I'll rest easier after you move on.” The marshal turned and strode out of the barn, followed by his grinning deputy.
Eugene Paul hadn't said a word through the entirediscussion. Now he watched the law depart, then turned to Falcon. “Jamie Ian MacCallister was your father, wasn't he?”
Falcon turned. “He was.”
“Then you have a friend in me,” the smith said. “And some others, too, if you want them. Hadn't been for Jamie Ian MacCallister, my family would never have made it through the war. I don't recollect much of it, and I never quite sorted out all of Pa's stories about what happened in sixty-seven, but I know I owe your daddy my ma's life, and maybe my own and my sister's.”
“He got around some.” Falcon nodded. “I guess none of us ever heard all of it. Your family's name is Paul?”
“It was Paulson, back in Tennessee. Pa changed it when he got to Missouri.”
“I heard the name Blanchard a bit ago. You know any Blanchards?”
Paul thought for a moment. “None here in town. Maybe out at the wagon camp. Want me to ask around?”
“Never mind. Just take care of Diablo.”
The smith stuck out a hand, and Falcon clasped it. It was a good honest hand, as hard as the metal it worked. “You need anything around here, you just sing out,” Paul said.
“Obliged,” Falcon told him. “But I'm just passing through.” He walked the few feet to the open door and peered out into the deepening dusk. In the distance,eastward along Trail Street, several buckboardsfull of hungry men—and a few women among them—had pulled up in front of a two-story building. Lanterns on posts lit the sign that said
PalaceHotel Dinah's Fine Food.
Eugene Paul stepped into the stall with Diablo and patted the horse on the neck, then worked his way to the black's nose, murmuring to him. He came out a moment later. “Your horse will be ready when you are,” he said. We'll get along fine.”
As Falcon picked up his gear the smith said, “Keep an eye out for a big buster named John Moline, Mr. MacCallister. He's a local bully, hangs around the Palace and Spiro's looking for trouble. He's gunned down a couple of drunks, and thinks he's a bad man.”
 
A cold wind was blowing from the west when FalconMacCallister stepped into the warmth and glow of the Palace Hotel lobby. The lobby occupied one fourth of the ground floor of the two-story building. The remaining three-fourths, opening off the lobby through a wide open archway with a gilt sign proclaimingDinah's, was a big dining room served from a busy kitchen.
The place was packed with people of all descriptions.At every table and bench men, women, and children dined on beefsteak and fresh bread while others stood along the walls, waiting. A dozen or so harried-looking women with starched bonnets and long aprons hurried in and out through the back serving door, carrying platters.
Falcon's stomach growled appreciatively at the wafting aroma of freshly baked bread. It was a while, he realized, since he had eaten any decent cooking but his own. But he had things to do, first.
At the lacquered desk, a night clerk watched him approach and opened the registration book. Any man carrying saddlebags, duffle, bedroll, and a rifle was obviously a customer.
“I need a bed for the night,” Falcon said. “Private room, if you have it. And I'll want one of those beef steaks in there.”
“Room's a dollar,” the clerk said. “Clean sheets and two oil lamps. Privy's just outside, and there's water on the washstand. Dinah's charges separate.”
Falcon signed in, glancing at the names on the register. “You know any of those people who just came in?”
“Those are wagon people.” The clerk shrugged. “Homesteaders, mostly. They come in all the time, but just for a meal. They don't sleep here.”
A big smudge-faced man lounging at the end of the counter had been looking Falcon up and down. Now he said, “That's big iron you carry there, Mr. Know how to use it?”
“Well enough,” Falcon said, not looking around. He paid over his dollar and picked up his gear. “Which room?”
The clerk handed him a skeleton key on a brass ring. “Two-oh-five,” he said. “Upstairs, on the left.”
Falcon turned toward the stairs.
The smudge-faced man scowled and straightened. “I believe I was talkin' to you, Mr.”
“Go talk to somebody else,” Falcon muttered. Withouta backward glance, he went to find his room.
 
The Palace Hotel, like every other plank-built structure in Dodge City in 1881, was so new its timbers still creaked and settled. But behind its elaboratefalse front it was a sturdy structure, built by a crew of German immigrants out from Mound Ridge.
Falcon glanced around the little room, then tested the bed and judged it acceptable. He stripped down, washed himself at the washstand, then put on a fresh shirt from his pack and cleaned his hat and boots. The dark broadcloth suit in his duffle was a pleasant change from worn buckskins. He shaved, and put it on. Finally, he cleaned and oiled his .44s, strapped one on, and shoved the second into his waistband.

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