Blood of Eagles (12 page)
Authors: William W. Johnstone
He recognized a few of them, faces he had seen at Dodge. One of them he knew by name. Sandy Hogue was still awake, near the fire. Falcon knew that Jack Cabot was there, too.
Watching the men around the fire, it was easy to spot the one who dominated this gang. A short barrel-chested young man with the shoulders of a wrestler and the eyes of a snake made it clear by his every move and glance that he was in charge. Falcon studied him closely. Long cornsilk hair hung wild below his flat-crowned hat, and the firelightlit a face that might have been a child'sâa round-cheeked beardless face with only a little stubble,a face that seemed designed for laughter until one looked again at these cold slitted eyes in it.
Instinct told Falcon that this was no show-off kid. This was a dangerous man, with a flaring temper that could be wild and lethal. Despite his youthful appearance, this one was no child. This was a dangerousmanâfar more dangerous than most of the toughs and saddle tramps around him.
In the shadows just away from the fire, another one who didn't seem to fit lay sprawled on a sand slope, resting on a saddle as if it were a forty-pound pillow. This one didn't join in the talk, but Falcon had the feeling that these two were partners. Where baby face went, the quiet one would be there, too.
Then he heard a few words of conversation on the faltering wind, and learned a name. Baby face was called Billy.
Falcon catalogued them all in his mind. Billy and his quiet shadow, Jack Cabot and Sandy Hogue, two or three more from the tables at Spiro's. The rest were saddle bums, fiddle-footed badmen along for the ride, and maybe a share in whatever came to hand. There were thirteen in all.
Falcon spent an hour in the gang's camp, slipping from one point to another, listening and sizing them up, before he decided he had learned all he could.
Cabot and Hogue might have set this bunch onto Falcon's trail, or some of them might be thinking of that private bounty that someone with the initial S had advertised. Mostly, though, the bunch was heading for No Man's Land, to sign on for wages with someone called The Colonel. Billy and his partnerwere encouraging them, and directing them.
Someone in No Man's Land was paying top dollar for gunhands, and among the words Falcon heard were Wolf Creek and Paradise.
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Falcon was watching from a distance when the gang headed out at dawn. They scattered out and circled for a time, looking for his trail, then began drifting southwestward by twos and threes, toward the Cimarron Valley. He lost sight of a lot of them for a while, and when he saw them bunched again they were half a mile awayâtiny figures of mounted men heading away.
Patiently he lay concealed atop a dune and counted them. Then he counted them again. There were only eleven now. He scanned the surrounding lands, and watched the gang until they were out of sight, but saw no sign of the missing two.
He was on his way back to where he had left his horse when something whisked past his ear like an angry bee. Even before the sound of the gunshot reached him, he was crouched and running, headingfor the only cover in sight.
A second bullet kicked sand in his face as he dived into a shallow wash screened with sparse bone-white grass. He tried to see where it had come from, and something hot scorched his shoulder like flying fire.
He flattened himself, counted six heartbeats, and rolled aside, belly-down and several feet from where he had been. Hanging his hat on the muzzle of his rifle, he held it at arm's length and raised it slowly, only a few inches. Hard sand erupted six inches from its brim, and this time he saw where the shot came from.
The shooter was a hundred and fifty yards away, firing from behind a comblike ridge. Now he knew where the missing outlaws had gone.
Without returning fire, Falcon edged farther to the left. Winds had scoured out a little shelter here, a foot-deep depression under the shallow swell of the sand. He kept low and out of sight, digging in, giving himself a little cover. Then he waited.
Moments passed. Then, on that comb ridge out there, a shape changed. Aligning his rifle, Falcon pumped three quick shots toward it and saw the dust spray as his bullets struck.
He didn't think he had hit anybody, but he had given them something to think about. He rested his rifle on cold earth, braced himself, and waited. They would have to show themselves to shoot, and now he was ready.
When the shots came, though, they were from his left, and the first bullet almost flattened him as it smashed into his ribs just above the canteen slung there. Like a coiling snake he swivelled, belly-down, and emptied his magazine at the disappearing silhouetteatop a rise a hundred yards away.
Long wild hair waved beneath a flat-crowned hat as the sniper disappeared from sight in a shower of spraying sand and singing lead. The man was hit, but moving. He stumbled, swayed, then was gone.
Another shot from the north buzzed over Falcon as he struggled to reload his .44-40. The gun felt unusually heavy, and his fingers were awkward. Glancing down, he saw dark blood spreading, seepingthrough the cold sands beneath him. Too much blood.
With a dry curse he thumbed the last shell into the rifle, worked the lever, and began a methodical fire-and-fire-againâfirst at the knoll to the north, then at the rise to the west, then north again. Big lead bullets tore up the ground out there, and his shots echoed like rolling thunder.
The morning didn't seem as bright as it had. His vision was dimming from shock and lost blood. But he kept it up. He fired, waited a heartbeat, and fired again, as flitting shadows flicked along the crest of the north dune and disappeared.
Falcon was hit bad, and he knew it. His only hope now was that the ambushers didn't know how bad.
Staying flat, he got out his knife and cut a wide strip from the bottom of his buckskin shirt. He rolled over, wrapping the cured hide around him. He could feel the hole in his side, way around to the back, and could see the one in frontâa gaping, bleeding tear just above the waist. Holding the bandage tight, he fired again, with one hand, toward the north ridge. There was no response.
Awkwardly, he levered another round into the chamber, then laid the rifle down to pull the bandagetight with all the strength of both hands. It was slippery, soaked with his blood, but he managed a tight knot. Drawing his belly gun, he pushed its muzzleunder the buckskin on the right side, then twisted it there. The pressure of the binding sent flaring agonies through his left side, almost blinding him with pain, but he held the twist in place. Then he gave the gun one more cruel push and snugged its butt into the loop of his belt.
Falcon couldn't tell whether the hint of movementbehind the little ridge to the north was the brim of somebody's hat, or just the grass waving in the wind. He managed one more shot from the .44-40.A cloud of dust scudded above the distant grassy dune.
He was still trying to work the lever for another shot when darkness closed in on him, shutting down like curtains all aroundâa darkness full of the sound of guns.
THIRTEEN
The buckboard wagon was no ambulance, but Jude Mason handled it like one. A blacklands farm boy grows up handling teams, hitches, and loads. He learns the feel of the leads, the sway of the bed, and how to avoid sudden bumps. From the first crossings of Cumberland through the war of Yankee aggression to the great migrations westward, those who handled the rigs and guided the wheels were always those whose roots were in the rich soil.
With strong sensitive fingers he manipulated the traces, guiding the buckboard up the long undulating slopes with the river behind them and the high plains still miles ahead. He eased around a washout while Jubal clung to the plank seat beside him. Behind, the horses on leads skipped this way and that, finding footing.Just behind the seat, Jonah crouched in the wagon bed and yelped, “Easy, easy, Jude! Lordy, you just goin' out of your way to hit every bump there is?”
“You can get out and ride your own horse if you don't like it,” Jude said stolidly. “I'm doin' the best I can.”
There were six of them in the party. Brett Archer was out ahead, riding lead and setting the pace. Two others, Johnny Lawrence and Buck Tyber, rode flank, keeping pace with the buckboard. Jubal and Jonah had tied their mounts on behind, with the found horse, and now rode the pitching wagon with their brother. Of the three Mason boys, only Jonah, the youngest, was distinguishable, mostly because of his age. Jude and Jubal, the twins, were alike as peas in a podâtwo sunburned farm boys cut from identicalcloth.
Now Jubal turned to look back at their kid brother. “Just hang on, Jonah,” he said. “And try to keep that feller from bleedin' any more. We still got a ways to go, but it'll smooth out once we're past these wash banks.”
Muttering, Jonah relaxed a little and turned his attention to the sleeping man sprawled among the expedition's luggage. A big man, his straw-blond hair matted around his ears, he lay untroubled by the bumpy ride. The fresh linen wrapped around his middle showed a little blood, but no more than before. And though he looked as pale as death, his breathing was regular. He had been deathly pallid at first, and they had feared he would die during the night. But he had held on, somehow. He was still breathing shallowly, and gasping with each breath, but at least he was sleeping.
A smaller bandage covered a bullet burn on the man's shoulder, and a dozen small scabs were formingon his face, neck and the backs of his hands, where flying pebbles had nicked him. The main wound, though, was high on his belly, just left of the breadbasket. A bullet that had struck him low in the left back had come out in front, leaving a jagged hole that bled profusely. He had lost a lot of blood by the time they found him.
“Why were those jaspers shootin' at you, Mr. MacCallister?” Jonah muttered to his sleeping patient. “They run off when we showed up, and we never saw where they went. Brett figures they were some of that crowd that pulled out of Dodge last mornin' early. Why do you suppose they took you on that way?”
The sleeping eyes twitched as though the man might wake up, but then he settled again into sleep.
His head rested on the saddle they had taken off the black horse, and the horse plodded along on lead, with their own mounts. Brett Archer had thought he might ride the big black today, to rest his own horse. He had changed his mind about that. The stranger's horse didn't intend to be ridden.
At their noon stop, where cottonwoods grew along the streambed of the Cimarron, they had debated turning west for a few miles, to deliver their burden to the settlers at Hardwoodville. But they decided against it. The man called MacCallister was still alive, and all they could do at Hardwoodville was bury him. He stirred a little now and then, struggling, and they got some thin stew into him. He went back to sleep.
“We'll go on with him,” Brett had decided. His dark eyes went moody and fierce as he fingered the little inlaid and ivory gold locket in his hand. “Maybe he'll come around before he dies. From what we heard in Dodge, Mr. MacCallister's our best hope of finding those ... those damned snakes who killed Dorothy and her family.”
Jonah squinted. “That blacksmith at Dodge said something about a medical man who had staked a claim at Horse Spring, right near the Strip line. I say we stop there, and get this gent looked at. Lord knows I'm no doctor, but if we need him alive, let's get help.”
It wasn't so much concern for their passenger that guided them toward Horse Spring, as it was the notionthat he could help find the killers.
It was the goal they all shared in common now. Of the six of them, five were kin. The Mason brotherswere cousins of Tom and Owen Blanchard. Hardly a word had passed among them that evening when they stood by as Falcon MacCallister delivered his news to Tom Blanchard. Owen was dead. He, his wife Ruth, their daughters Dorothy and Tess, and Ruth's brother Bob Simms. Outlaws had killed them. And MacCallister was going after the outlaws.
The three had made up their minds at that moment.Where outlaws could go,
they
could go, and their guns would be loaded. They might not be able to keep up with the moon-haired man on the black horse, but they could follow.
they
could go, and their guns would be loaded. They might not be able to keep up with the moon-haired man on the black horse, but they could follow.
Buck Tyber and Johnny Lawrence were cousins of Simms, and they went, too.
Of the six, only the Virginian, Brett Archer, was not kin to any of the victims. But what drove him was strong. His reason was Owen Blanchard's oldestdaughter, Dorothy. The locket the stranger broughtâivory hearts in goldâwas Dorothy's. Brett Archer had given it to her before her family set out from Neosho, and he'd promised her that he would follow.
So now they turned south at Hackberry Ridge, and Archer rode ahead. Jubal and Jonah took turns nursing the wounded man while Jude drove the buckboard. They had set out from Dodge, thinking to follow his tracks. Now, without his tracks to follow, to lead them to the killers, they needed him.
As the wagon cleared the rutted wash to smoother ground, Jonah looked again at their passenger. The man looked more dead than alive, but he was still breathing. “You got the fortitude of a stud bull, Mr. MacCallister,” he muttered. “By rights that back-shotshoulda killed you, but it looks to me you're still fightin'.”
They found Horse Creek, and they found the medical manâa horse doctor named Linsecum who changed the dressings on MacCallister's wounds and shook his head. “Reckon he'll be dead by night,” he pronounced. “If it was me, I would. But if he sets out to mend, get him back here an' I'll take another look. An' tell him to come back if he commencesbleedin' again.”
At midafternoon they topped out on the southwestrim of the valley, and Brett Archer came riding back to call a halt. As always, his presence was a sobering influence on the rest of them. Even though he was barely past twenty, the dark-haired Virginian was an educated man, with the touch of sophisticationthat The College of William and Mary provided. He had a smooth maturity about him, and a manner that made a man keenly aware of the pair of DragoonColts that lurked beneath his dark coat.
Rumor had it that Brett Archer had killed a manâmaybe more than oneâin a stand-up duel back east, before migrating to the Neosho Valley, where the Blanchards met him. Certainly there was a dark brooding quality about the young man from Virginia.
Still, although the ominous rumors persisted, the people on the Neosho found no reason to shun the easterner. His manners and appearance were above reproach. Quiet and solicitous, Brett was a decent enough young man. He had a fine manner, and was always courtly in his dealingsâa gentleman through and through. But not a man to be pushed.
Archer reined in beside the buckboard and looked down at the big man sleeping there. “He's still alive,” he noted. “Keep him covered with those quilts, Jonah. The wind is cold. Has he said anything?”
“Not a word.” Jonah shrugged. “Thought a coupleof times he might be comm' around, but he just lays there.”
“Loss of blood.” Brett nodded. “It's like shock. Lord's wonder he's still twitching. Keep feeding him that beef stock whenever he'll take it.” He stepped down from his saddle and looped the reins on the buckboard's wheel rim. “While we're resting here, let's have a look at that map the blacksmith drew. The state border is along here somewhere. Beyond is the Neutral Strip. Let's see if we can determine where Wolf Creek is.”
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Falcon awoke to the sight of starry skies seen through a broken roof, and the smell of coffee. He turned his head, squinting at what seemed to be the remains of a crude sod cabin. The roof was partly caved in, the strap-hung door was aslant, and the two little windows gaped shutterless into the night. The soddy looked as though a conquering army had marched through. The only shelter it offered was from the cold wind, but the baked mud hearth still kept a fire.
Falcon lay beneath piled quilts on a rickety canvas-and-stickcot. The only light was the fitful glow from the hearth, where several men huddled together.
He tried to raise himself, to sit up, and groaned when pain lanced his midriff. Beside the cot a figure stirred and said, “I think he's awake, fellers.”
A moment later there were young men all around him, looking down at him. “You'll be all right, Mr. MacCallister,” one said. “Do you remember getting shot?”
The memories came back, and he nodded, grittinghis teeth against the pain that seemed to envelopehis entire left torso. “Where are we?” he rasped. “Who are you?”
“We were there when you told Tom Blanchard about his brother's family,” the same one said. “We're kin. This place is an abandoned soddy. Looks like squatters built it, then moved on. We're somewhere in No Man's Land. Do you know who shot you?”
“I've got a name and a face,” Falcon said. “A hard case named Billy Challis. I guess the one with him was his pard. What happened to them?”
“Don't know,” another of the group said. “I guess we interrupted them. When we came up, they fired a few shots our way and we shot back. Then they ran off. One of them was saggin' like he'd been hit.”
One of them pushed through with a plate and a spoon. “We got hot stew, Mr. MacCallister. Best you eat some of it if you can. I'm Jude Mason. These are my brothers Jubal and Jonah. That's Brett Archer there, and Johnny Lawrence an' Buck Tyber. Right now let's see if we can get some stew into you.”
“Did you find my horse?”
“He's in the corral with the rest of the stock.” Brett Archer's smile was just a quick pull at his cheeks below dark serious eyes. “The beast tried to kill me. Why do you keep him?”
“Don't take it personal.” Falcon sighed. “Diablo doesn't tolerate anybody much. But I like him.”
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The spring of 1881 was a peculiar season, even by high plains standards. The thaws came early that year in the lands east of the Rockies, earlier than anybody could remember. With them they brought windstorms, sudden rains, flash floods and whirlwinds,topped off by unseasonably warm weather that brought the buds out on the cottonwoods and gave a greenish hint to the pale eternal grass.
Then, in late March, as though to emphasize that this was still the high plains, it turned around and snowed.
There was a patch-up roof on the soddy by then, and oilcloth laced over windows and door. There was even a shed of sorts for the horses, though the snow that fell was only “mush” snowâbig wet flakes out of an overcast sky with almost no wind.
The wound in Falcon's belly was scabbed over and healing, but he still felt as though he had been kicked by a mule. “I expect you've got a cracked rib or two,” Jonah Mason had diagnosed. “Prob'ly gonna hurt like hell for a month.” With a buck-toothedgrin, the kid had proceeded to prod and poke until Falcon could have strangled him. “You're lucky,” Jonah added. “Most men'd be dead from a wound like that.”
Day by day, the achingâthe sharp pain every time he movedâdiminished. By the end of a week he was up and about, sweating in the cold as he gatheredwinter hay on the meadows above the stead. By the time the snow fell he was breathing easier, and had a cribful of hay stored in the shed.
But sometimes sharp pains shot through his chest when he turned abruptly or moved in some wrong way. Sometimes the agony doubled him over and left him pale and shaky.
Big flakes were drifting down when Brett Archer rode in from a long scout. The Blanchard kin were scattered around, tending stock and hauling deadfall wood from a lightning-felled cottonwood by the creek. Falcon sat on a fence rail cleaning and oiling his .44s.
Brett hauled rein near him and stepped down, glancing at the sky. His hat and shoulders were white with snow. “I've been to Wolf Creek,” he said. “They're there.”
Falcon loaded the cylinder of a clean .44 and thrust it into his belt, picking up the other one. “You're sure?”
Brett nodded. “I know Owen Blanchard's wagon, and I know who's got it.”
“You're determined to take a hand in this?” Falconran a scrap of cloth through the .44's barrel, scrubbed oil into its cylinder, and reloaded.
“We all are,” Archer said. “Those animals killed Dorothy.” His narrowed eyes were as cold as the snow falling around them. “When you found the remains, back there in Colorado ... when you found Dorothy ... they raped her, didn't they?”
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