Blood of Eagles (23 page)

Read Blood of Eagles Online

Authors: William W. Johnstone

BOOK: Blood of Eagles
12.33Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
“Rustlers,” Vince decided. “The Supply trail's fifty miles southeast of here. I guess these fellers cut a herd down there and helped themselves to what they could get.” He turned north, peering at where little herd had gone. “What's up there that a man would drive cows to?”
“Kansas,” John Moline offered. “If it was me, I'd be takin' 'em up toward Hardwoodville.”
“That's across the line, ain't it?”
“Yeah. But not far. Me and Cabot know our way around up there, Vince. Not much law 'til Dodge. Some rawhiders got a place up there most everybody knows about. They'll buy cows, then sell the beef at Dodge. They don't ask questions.”
“Fifty head of beef make a nice grubstake,” Stone suggested. “Them rustlers ain't all that far ahead of us, Vince.”
 
Print Olive had been labeled “the meanest man alive” in Texas, for his treatment of rustlers. Olive and his whole family hated rustlers, and Print found ways to express that hatred. When he moved to Nebraska he took his methods with him, and expanded his attentions to homestead farmers and rawhiders.
One of the trademarks of Olive's style of justice was the “horizontal hanging”—involving a stump, a noose, and a team of horses. There was a story in Texas of a rustler caught by Print himself and several of his black cowboys. Having no trees handy, Print used a stump as anchor, and a wagon.
Unfortunately, the wagon's team spooked and ran.
After being strung out, they said, the rustler was solemnly buried in two counties.
The Olives were also noted for the burning of corpses, and for shallow burials with an arm or leg sticking up out of the ground to mark the grave.
Print Olive left Nebraska the same way he left Texas—ushered out because of public outrage at his excessive methods. He had settled finally at Dodge City, Kansas.
In Kansas, the Olive bunch modified its behavior. Old Print was tired of being run out of places by his neighbors. But his attitude toward rustlers and herd-cutters didn't change. He didn't tolerate them, and used whatever means he had to put an end to their activities.
The difference was that by the early eighties Print had begun to work with the law—if there was any—instead of around it.
Print Olive was well on his way to becoming respectablewhen Joe Sparrow shot him down over a ten-dollar debt.
Print had been dead for a couple of years now, but the Sawlog and Smokey Hill ranches he founded near Dodge City still maintained his philosophies. So it was that, as the cattle drives began showing up this season, Marshal Sam Stroud was involved in the investigation of rawhiding operations over west of the sand hills, around Hardwoodville.
The dressed beef that came in from there almost weekly, in the form of butchered carcasses hanging from the slats of high-rack wagons, was stolen beef. Everybody knew it, but everybody bought it anyway, and the commerce cut deep into the profits of Sawlog and Smokey Hill.
The big ranches swung some weight with the merchantsof Dodge, and merchants ran the city. They brought so much pressure to bear on Stroud that he sent Ben Wheaton over to Hardwoodville to see if he could dig up some evidence. And because Sawlog held a seat on the Western Kansas Stockman'sAssociation board of directors, orders came out of Topeka to provide the deputy with a military escort.
Wheaton and the soldiers had been digging—lit—erally—for most of a day before they found what they were looking for. Behind Wendell Murray's place, they uncovered dozens of buried cowhides still fresh enough to read the trail brands. Most of them were Texas stock.
Murray and the half-dozen men he employed on his place sat in glum silence as the stink of unearthedevidence increased.
“I guess we got enough evidence here,” Wheaton told the Kansas-State Militia Lieutenant John Colgrave.“We'll haul a few of these back to Dodge and let Sam decide what to do about it.”
“You're not going to arrest anybody?” the lieutenantasked.
“For what? Butcherin' beef? The only charge I've got here is receipt of stolen property. If I was to start arrestin' people for things like that, I'd have to jail damn near everybody in Dodge City.”
“How about rustling?” Sergeant Jack Lyles suggested.“Maybe these here boys rustled some of those critters they dressed out.”
“Can't prove it.” Wheaton shrugged. “And tell you the truth, I doubt it. These fellers haven't got the makin's of cow rustlers. They just buy 'em from whoever does.” He thought it over, then cocked his head, looking off to the south. “Now, if we could catch us some actual rustlers coming up from the strip, that would be a different story.”
“Are we in a hurry?” Lyles looked around at the ugly chutes and slaughter pens of the butchering camp. “Those wagons over yonder have fresh rope on their meat hooks, but I don't see any beef waitin‘ to be loaded ... or any cows ready for cuttin'. Looks to me like they're expectin' a new crop.”
“I guess we could wait around a little while.” Wheaton nodded. “Just in case. Might take the pressureoff Sam if we could bring in a few rustlers with fresh Texas beef. I expect that Sawlog outfit would enjoy seein' a real lawful trial of malefactors at Dodge City.”
“Molly ... facters?”
a soldier muttered. “Is that the same as outlaws?”
“Don't remember that happenin' very often,” Lyles commented.
“Been a while,” the deputy agreed. “Lot of folks get planted at Dodge City. Happens all the time. But it's usually just social occasions. Been a while since anybody was hanged proper.”
With Murray and his rawhiders under guard, the Kansas State Militia—or that part of it consisting of Lieutenant John Colegrave and a patrol from CompanyB, Second Kansas—waited.
In the clear light of high plains evening they saw the cattle coming up from No Man's Land when the little stolen herd was still eight miles away. Fifty head or so, and at least a dozen riders pushing them.
It wasn't in the young lieutenant's nature to wait much longer. It was clear that the cattle were stolen, and it was obvious they were crossing into Kansas, heading for the slaughter camp.
“You know they'll run when they see us coming,” Wheaton commented, saddling his mount.
“Of course they will,” Colegrave said. “And that gives us a hot pursuit situation, to cross the line. A fine opportunity to exercise the troops.”
Sergeant Lyles hid his smile. Colegrave wouldn't be a lieutenant much longer, he decided. The youngster had
cojones,
if not common sense.
“Give that shavetail a few more years,” he told Wheaton, “he'll be wearin' birds. Maybe even commandin'a regiment.”
TWENTY-FOUR
The weird spring of that year had run its course and wrung itself out. Dry hot winds blew now from the south, and the fresh green grass of weeks before had begun to parch as probing roots sucked the last of the winter's moisture from arid sandy soil.
On a rise west of Paradise, four riders and fourteenriderless horses—several of them saddled—filed down from caprock just as the full sun of evening touched the distant hills. Falcon MacCallisterand the Mason brothers had been on the move since morning. Moving at a steady pace, they had pushed the little cayuse herd from Haymeadows Ranch westward, circling finally to approach from the west while a far different kind of force gathered three miles above the north rim of Wolf Creek, ready to move at the setting of the sun.
Falcon and the Masons paused now to watch the deployment of distant riders moving down toward Paradise—tiny specks on the deceptive plainsland, but none the less ominous for their distance. There were only twenty or so riders out there, but somehow their coordinated implacable thrust toward the north bluff above the outlaw town seemed like the tide of doom descending.
Twenty or so motley riders, and behind them a plodding line of men on foot, were dotted here and there by ramshackle wagons, drab carts and barrows, and ambling draft animals. The riders at the point all carried long guns of various types, and some of the walkers had firearms. Most, though, carried spades and scythes, axes and sledges—implements of all kinds.
The entire assemblage moved toward Paradise, anglingtoward the east slopes of the chalk bluff that stood above the north verge of Wolf Creek.
“Our pa faced folks like that in the war,” Jude drawled. “Just like those Barlows out yonder. Folks from Tennessee, Kentucky, Virginia ... hill people.”
“Pa had bad dreams all the time,” Joshua added. “I guess I see why, now. When he used to talk about ‘Johnny Reb' I 'magined regular troop soldiers in gray uniforms. But he didn't mean ordinary soldiers. He meant Barlows.”
In the distance below, the jumbled little sprawl of Paradise lay like thrown refuse along the south bank of Wolf Creek. Lingering breezes from the south blew across the hogpens and carried their smoke and stench toward the main town, then died against the high bluff on the north. Paradise lay misted with eddying smokes, like dying smoking embers on a trash heap.
“I'd hate to be the one those dirt farmers go after,”Jude allowed.
Falcon nodded. “Plain people,” he said. “Just pushed one push too far.”
Jubal eased out ahead, getting a better look at the panorama. He moved carefully, even though the loweringsun behind them would hide them from view of the town. Joshua sat off to one side, checking the loads in his rifle and his handgun while he kept the little horse herd tight.
MacCallister stepped down from Diablo and took off his coat. He stripped off his linen shirt, baring his torso. Despite the ugly scars that had formed there, back and front, he looked as smooth and muscledas a draft horse.
Like an oak tree,
Jude thought.
Big and tall, and rock-hard solid. Just looking at the big moon-haired man, a body wouldn't guess at the damage inside him, where the bullet ripped across bone and through muscle.
The wounds were healing, but it would be a time yet before the big man was truly sound.
“You want to give me a hand, Jude?” Falcon asked. From a saddle pouch he drew out his old buckskin hunting shirt and slipped it over his head. Then with his knife he began making little holes in it—a string of little holes two inches apart running from breast to waist down the right side, and anotherstring of holes on the left.
“What are you doing?” Jude asked, puzzled.
The holes completed, Falcon reached into his saddlepouch again and brought out a roll of cut thong. “Binding,” he said. He began threading thong through the holes in the buckskin, left to right to left, starting at the bottom and working upward. With two holes on each side laced, he lapped the shirt close over his belly and drew the laces tight. They left a four-inch gap.
His cheeks paled slightly, and his breathing went ragged. “You do the rest,” he told Jude. Spreading his arms like wings, he stood firmly as Jude took the strings. “Tight as you can pull them, all the way up.”
At the third lace, Jude hesitated as a groan escapedfrom MacCallister's clenched teeth. The big man only glared at him. “Tighter,” he rasped. “Put your shoulders into it.”
Jude continued the lacing, putting all his strength into the pull of the thongs. Once or twice he thought MacCallister's knees would buckle, but the big man steadied himself, bracing against the pull.
When all the crisscrosses were tight, Jude tied off the ends in a hard knot.
“This ain't ever gonna be untied, Mr. MacCallister,”he apologized. “Only way to get it loose will be to cut the cords.”
MacCallister took a deep breath, his heavy muscles swelling against the confining buckskin. “It'll do.” He nodded.
He strapped on his gunbelt, tested the smooth draw of the holstered .44, and slipped the other .44 into his waistband. “It'll do,” he said again.
Jubal was back, holding hard rein on a skittish horse. “Well, are we goin' in?” he demanded.
MacCallister took Diablo's reins, stroked the big black's powerful neck and shoulder, then stepped into the stirrup and swung aboard. It was the first time Jude had seen him mount a horse without grittinghis teeth.
In the saddle, Falcon looked down at the corset-lacedbuckskin wrapped around his belly. “It'll do just fine,” he said. He turned to glance at the eveningsun, which sat like a big intense ball on the horizon. “Good a time as any,” he said. “Let's get these remounts strung out and moving, boys. It's time to go to town.”
 
Evening sun sat a smoky haze over the twisted warrensof sheds and lean-tos of the hogpens when a stifled scream cut the air—just an instant of blood-chillinganimal sound, abruptly silenced.
Such sounds were not uncommon around the hogpens, and hardly anybody even looked around when a filthy flap was pushed aside and Billy Challis stepped out into the evening. If anyone noticed the fresh scratches on his cheek or the blood on his hands and his stained shirt, they thought better about mentioning it.
“Damn Injun whore,” Billy muttered. “Not even worth the trouble.” He paused, looking around, then picked up a fallen jug, pulled the cork, and tipped it up for a long swig.
Two swallows, and it was empty. With an oath he cast it aside and headed for the shallow cistern that served as a water well. Men stepped aside as he passed, giving him a wide berth. By now everybody in the settlement knew about Billy Challis, and not a man among them—not even the hawkers and vendorswho prowled these alleys, was interested in catching his eye.
A butcher of women, the rumors said. Crazy as a loon, and just plain mean.
Billy had never been much to look at, but in the past few days he had become a filthy strutting scarecrow,bearded and unkempt, his dark-stained clothinghanging around him in tatters. It was as though, without Tuck Kelly to rile him and ride herd on him, he had just gone to pieces.
But the unkempt sloppy appearance of him was only surface. Like a snake shedding its winter skin, Billy was more dangerous than ever.
Tuck had been, in some odd way, a rudder to him—an influence checking and balancing his wild impulses. Tuck was gone, and Billy didn't miss him. Now nothing held him in check.
At the cistern he dropped a bucket, hauled up water and leaned over to douse his head. The cold water made the scratches on his face burn, and he growled. The squaw had marked him, and now a barely contained rage burned in his eyes. Wiping his hands on his stained shirt, Billy fingered the gun at his hip and turned slowly, full around, daring anybodyto so much as look at him.
But there was nobody near. Folks tended to get scarce when any gunman's mood turned ugly, and when it was Billy Challis they scattered fast.
Muttering, Billy turned back to the cistern and drew up another pail of water. Cupping his hands, he dipped and drank. Then he froze as a crisp voice said, “Turn around, you killer of women. Turn and face me!”
Billy straightened slowly, and his frown became a grin of anticipation. “Now who the hell is that?” he drawled, not turning. “You sure you want me lookin' at you, Mr.? You sure you hadn't better just shoot me in the back?”
“I said turn around, you son of a bitch!”
Billy glanced around, and his grin widened. The man behind him was fairly tall, slim, and somehow elegant—dark hair neatly cut, clean-shaven, clothing of foppish Eastern cut ... and though he stood slightly crouched, his coattail pushed back to clear his holster, he had no gun in his hand. A slicker! A duded-up young gentleman playing by some kind of sporting rules!
“Well, well,” Billy purred. “Looky what we got here.”
Slowly, arrogantly, he turned and faced the dude. “That how you want it, Beau?” he smirked. “I'm lookin' at you now. Make your play.”
The dude glared at him with eyes as hard as flint. “Billy Challis,” he said, “You are a woman killer, and a beast. Draw your gun when you're ready, becauseI intend to shoot you—”
The talk ended there. Brett Archer was skilled with a gun, and had the nerve to duel, but he was no match for Billy Challis. Brett didn't even see the blur of Billy's hand as the outlaw's hogleg sprouted there and belched fire. Something hot and vicious smacked him in the upper right chest and spun him halfway around, carrying him backward to sprawl on the littered sand.
He coughed and tried to move, to reach his gun, and a disinterested voice said, “Damn! I must be drunk! You ain't dead yet!”
Standing over the fallen slicker, Billy Challis shook his head and giggled. He hesitated, trying to decide whether to finish the dude off or let him bleed a while. Then, on impulse, he put his gun away and drew his knife. The man on the ground was still moving, struggling.
Suddenly Billy realized what the stranger was doing.He was trying to roll over, to reach his gun with his left hand.
Billy kicked him. Then he stepped over him, turned, and kicked again.
“A goddam hero!” He chuckled. “Of all things! Well, go ahead an' roll over. I never castrated a real, honest to God dude before. Might just gut you, too ... see how you holler.”
Once more Billy kicked the dude, rolling him over onto his back. Pain-filled eyes stared up at him, hatinghim. Then the man's left hand darted across, reaching for his weapon, and Billy dropped to one knee beside him.
In that instant a roar like thunder filled the air. Billy's hat flew off and talons of fire raked his scalp.
Throwing himself to one side, the outlaw twisted and rolled. His gun came out blazing, but the shot was off.
Just behind where he had been, Casper Wilkerson stood, his dark hat, black coat, and shadowed beak making him look for all the world like a tall somber buzzard rearing upright in the evening's haze. Casper'sbig shotgun smoked from both barrels, and he was breaking the action to shuck the loads.
“You wormy bastard!” Billy shrieked. Half-sitting on the ground, he raised his .45, thumbed its hammer,and fired point-blank.
Almost drowned in the Colt's roar was the sound of ringing metal, like a muffled iron bell. Wilkerson staggered back a step, then straightened and pushed fresh loads into his greener.
The twin muzzles came up and Billy rolled frantically,firing again as he turned. The shot was dead center, but this time Casper didn't even stagger. He just stood there, raising the shotgun to his shoulder.
Billy bumped up against the cistern, grabbed the loose pail from its hook, and flung it as hard as he could. As Casper dodged it, he got his feet under him and ran.
Last rays of evening sun lit the smoke haze as Billy crawled under a broken wagon, out the other side, and dodged among the ramshackle sheds and sties of the hogpens. “Bastard tried to kill me,” he muttered.“What the hell's the matter with—”
He cut through a stinking alley and ducked behinda shack, and then the answer came to him.
“He's going for the money!” Billy hissed. “That bastard Wilkerson! He's after the money in the wagon!”
A hundred yards away, Casper Wilkerson gave up his search. He had missed, and Billy was moving. Beside a collapsing soddy, Casper paused to unbuttonhis coat. He had bruises on his chest and under his arms, but the iron plate had held. A two-foot square piece of tank plate, hammered into a curve and slung on harness, the thing had stopped Billy's slugs. Deep dents pocked the rusty surface now, but the bullets had not gone through.
Fastening his coat, Casper hurried toward the alleywhere he had left his horse. He had to get back to Paradise now. It wouldn't take Billy long to figure out what he was after, and then Billy would come.
 
The sound of distant gunfire, drifting in on the evening wind, was scarcely noticed in Paradise. In upstairs rooms at the hotel, though, a few of the day's newcomers paused for a moment to listen. John Wigginton, who led the Morley Syndicate delegation,stepped to a dusty window and looked out. The sun was almost down, and though there was still daylight he could also see the fires and lanterns of a cluster of structures in the distance.

Other books

Way Station by Clifford D. Simak
Cloak (YA Fantasy) by Gough, James
Rain man by Leonore Fleischer
Running Wilde (The Winnie Wilde Series Book 1) by Chambers, Meg, Jaffarian, Sue Ann
Red Highway by Loren D. Estleman
A Vengeful Affair by Carmen Falcone
Hell's Belle by Karen Greco
The Wrecking Light by Robin Robertson