Dreams of Eagles (29 page)

Taos, named San Geronimo de Taos, was settled first in 1621 by a Spanish priest. For well into the middle and late 1870s, the town was wild and free-wheeling. It was that way when Jamie and sons rode in. It was mid-morning. That day and night and part of the of next day would be the stuff of legends. It was also the day that the Bar-B, its owner, his sons, and many of the toughs who rode for the brand would cease to exist.

The three men had camped the night before along the Rio Grande bathed, shaved, and changed into clean clothing.

“You boys sit out here and relax,” Jamie said, reining up in front of the marshal's office. “Watch my back. I'm going to have a little chat with the marshal and see if I can find out about Morgan.”

Kit Carson had called Taos his home for many years, but even though he married a local woman, he was gone most of the time.

Jamie pushed open the door and stepped in. A man Jamie assumed to be the marshal was at his desk and two of his men were lounging about the office. They looked up at Jamie's entrance and immediately cut their eyes to one another as the MacCallister family resemblance sank in.

“Morgan MacCallister,” Jamie said, blunt and right straight to the point. “Where is he?”

“How the hell should I know?” the man behind the desk said. “I'm actin' marshal. Who are you?”

“Jamie MacCallister. Morgan is my son.”

“Well, well,” the man said, leaning back in his chair. “Another big-shot MacCallister come to town. I'll say this, if you ain't no more than your son, that means you ain't jack-shit, mister. Now get out of my office.”

Jamie took two steps, jerked the acting marshal out of his chair, and threw him out the front window. He turned and drew at the same time and blew a hole in one of the two men who was just clearing leather. The man fell back against the potbellied stove, knocking it over, soot flying in all directions, sighed once, and was dead.

“I'm out of this!” the third man screamed, holding his hands wide. “I'm clean out of this.”

“My son. Where is he?”

“Back yonder in a cell. He's been hit but the doc says he'll live. I didn't rough him up, MacCallister. The marshal yonder did. Big Ben Barlow railroaded your boy. Morgan was takin' the side of some homesteaders who made the mistake of squattin' on land that Barlow claims is his.”

“Is it?”

“No, sir. It's free land.”

“Did the marshal rough my son up before or after he was hit?”

The man hesitated, then blurted, “After.”

“Pa?” a weak call came from the rear of the jail. “Is that you, Pa?”

“I'm here, boy. Hang on.” Jamie didn't just open the front door to the marshal's office, he tore it off the hinges and threw it out into the street. “Ian, Matt, see to your brother.” Jamie stepped out onto the boardwalk just as a crowd was gathering across the street and the acting marshal was getting to his feet.

He didn't stay on his feet long.

Jamie walked up to the man and slapped him, knocking the man clean off his boots and into the dust of the street. “You like to rough up wounded men, you bastard. Try roughing me up.”

The marshal got to his feet and Jamie then proceeded to stomp him. Three times he knocked the man unconscious and three times Jamie dunked him in a horse trough and brought him back to very painful awareness. Finally, Jamie let the man slump to the street.

During the decidedly one-sided fight, Jamie had seen Morgan being led out of the jail by Ian and Matt and across the street to a doctor's office. If his son was up and walking, he would be all right.

“That's Ben Barlow's man,” a citizen said, pointing to the bleeding and unconscious acting marshal.

“Big deal,” Jamie said.

“He'll be comin' in here with all his toughs, rippin' and stompin', mister. You got no right to get innocent people hurt.”

Jamie then proceeded to tell the citizen what he thought about people who kowtowed to tin-horn tyrants . . . among other things, many of which were extremely profane and would be quite painful to the citizen's rear-end if actually attempted.

The citizen's face turned chalk-white and he went flapping his arms and squawking like a goose back into his store. He slammed the door and hung a “CLOSED” sign in the window.

Jamie slapped the acting marshal awake and threw him on a horse. “You go tell Barlow I'm here. Tell him to come foggin' if that's his intention. This town's graveyard ain't half-filled yet. Now ride, you two-bit bastard!”

Then Jamie went into the doc's office to get the full story from Morgan.

“After Barlow and his men and that actin' marshal shot and roughed me up, they killed that whole family, Pa. Just rode up and shot them down. Killed everything. Horses, cows, dogs—everything that was alive. It was senseless.”

“What was Barlow going to do with you, son?”

“Bust me out of jail and hang me. It was all planned. I heard them talkin' about it.”

Jamie looked at the doctor. “How bad is he?”

“He'll live. Bullet went clean through the fleshy part of his shoulder and out the back. Another bullet went through the upper part of the back of his thigh without doing much damage. Mister MacCallister, Ben Barlow has anywhere from fifty to seventy-five tough hands out at the Bar-B, and that's not counting his foreman Nick Geer or his top hand Miles Swift. Or his sons Ben, Jr., Royal, Chris, Guy, Hugh, and Andy. Big Ben came in here about twenty-five years ago, married a Mex woman of money and prestige and a lot of political influence. She died shortly after Andy was born. He actually owns about two hundred thousand acres. He claims God only knows how much more. He owns the next town down, that's about twenty miles south of here, and claims everything around it as far as the eye can see in any direction—and that's standing on top of the highest mountain in four counties. Are you going to take on the whole damn bunch of them?”

“Why not?” Jamie replied.

* * *

Jamie and his sons, except for Morgan, went to the general store and bought double-barreled 12-gauge shotguns, then sawed the barrels down to about fifteen inches from the breech. They stuffed their pockets full of shotgun shells and then ordered food sent over to the doctor's office so they could eat and talk to Morgan.

“Ben Barlow's ranch house is halfway between here and that little no-name town where they held me for a time,” Morgan said. “So he should be here in about an hour. Ian, you stack mattresses and such over this front window to soak up the lead. Leave me a place to shoot from. That's my revolving shotgun over yonder in the corner. Matt, fetch me my Colts and my rifle. Thank you.”

Morgan eased himself into a more comfortable position. “Now, then, I can probably tell you how Big Ben will ride in. He's a man who places a lot of importance on being king of the hill. So he might gather all his hands in a bunch and ride in like some fancy general, showin' off all his strength. Then they'll all go over yonder to the saloon and drink for a time, waitin' to see what you and the boys will do. If you don't do nothin', when they all get their snoots full of Who Hit John, they'll come out shootin' at anything that moves. He
might
do it that way.”

“Describe Ben Barlow,” Jamie said.

“Big as you are, Pa. Ain't no fat on him, 'ceptin' for his big mouth. He loves to hear himself talk. I 'spect he's in his late forties or early fifties. I was sent in here by the army to do some snoopin' on Ben. The government is just about to move in on him but they can't get around some powerful politician in Washington that Barlow's got in his pocket. Some sleazy bastard name of Olmstead.”

“Olmstead!”
Jamie almost shouted the word.

“Yeah. What's wrong, Pa?”

“That was your mother's maiden name, boy. Have you forgotten? This Olmstead got a first name?”

“Jubal.”

“Damn! That's your ma's brother.”

Matt called from the door. “Couple of hardcases driftin' in from the south, Pa.”

“I'm going out,” Jamie said. “When it starts, you boys be careful. Anything happen to any of you and your ma would skin me.”

Jamie stepped outside onto the street and eyeballed the two riders. They were riding Bar-B horses and both men looked capable. Very capable. They dismounted, being careful to dismount with their eyes on Jamie.

Jamie felt the Warrior's Way take possession of him as he wondered whether these were part of the Bar-B group who shot his son and then stood by while the acting marshal and several other members of Barlow's bunch beat him.

Jamie stepped out into the wide street.

The two Bar-B hands stopped their walking into the saloon and turned around.

“You Bar-B trash looking for me?” Jamie called.

Jamie could see the flush on their faces from where he stood.

“Trash?” one of the hands called. “Us?”

“You ride for Ben Barlow and the Bar-B, then that makes you lower than snake shit,” Jamie said. “Especially if you had anything to do with the shooting and the beating of my son.”

“We ride for the brand, MacCallister,” one called. “And your son had no call comin' in here and snoopin' around.”

“Every right,” Jamie contradicted. “Morgan works for the government, the government sent him in here, and unless you two are as ignorant as you look, most of the land Barlow claims as his belongs to the government.” Jamie didn't know who the land belonged to, but he was mad clear through and pushing hard.

“Something pulled Pa's temper-trigger,” Morgan said.

“He's damn sure on the prod,” Matt said.

“I ain't never seen Pa hook and draw,” Ian said. “I think I'm quicker, but Pa never liked to show off, so I don't know.”

“Get on your horses and ride out of here,” Jamie told the two Bar-B hands. “That's the only warning you're getting from me. Do it if you want to live.”

“Falcon says he's quicker than Pa,” Ian said. “But I got me a little hunch that Pa's been lettin' him win.”

“We'll soon know,” Morgan said.

“MacCallister,” one of the hands said, “you ain't gonna be nothin' but dog meat in about half a hour. You and them goddamn sons of yourn that rode in here with you, stickin' their damn noses in things that don't concern 'em. But if you don't want to live no longer, just insult me again.”

Jamie smiled.

“Pa's smilin',” Matt said.

“Won't be long now,” Morgan said.

“Whut the hell you grinnin' at?” the second Bar-B hand shouted.

“Two yellow-bellied rabid coyotes,” Jamie said.

Both Bar-B men grabbed for their guns. Jamie's Colts roared and the men went down. Neither one had cleared leather.

“Jesus!” Ian gasped. “I ain't nowheres near Pa's class.”

“I didn't even see the draw!” Morgan said.

“I seen a blur,” Matt said.

“Shot them both in the center of the chest,” Ian said. “Hooked and drawed with both hands and was dead on the mark.”

Several men came rushing out of their stores and more men came running out of the saloon. “Leave them where they lay!” Jamie shouted. “I want Big Mouth Barlow to see what he's up against.”

The street suddenly cleared.

Jamie stepped out of the sun and under the overhang of a store that had suddenly closed. He reloaded and waited. It was not a long wait. A half dozen riders appeared at the end of the street, took one look at the dead Bar-B hands sprawled in the street, their guns still in leather, and high-tailed it out of town, heading south at a gallop.

“Take your positions, boys,” Jamie called. “It's down to the nut-cuttin' now.”

Jamie waited until he heard the ground beneath his feet begin to tremble with the pounding of many hooves. He pulled both Colts from leather and waited. The Bar-B men came galloping up the street, shouting and yelling and firing indiscriminately. Jamie and sons opened up from both sides of the street and a dozen saddles were suddenly empty. The street was littered with the dead and the dying and the wounded.

Jamie reloaded, wanting to save his other cylinders until the fighting got red-hot, as he suspected it would very shortly. He watched as a man with a shattered shoulder tried to pull himself out of the street. Jamie walked out and helped the man to his feet, half carrying him out of the street.

“Thank you,” the wounded rider said. “You're all right. I didn't have nothin' to do with the shootin' or the beatin' of your son.”

“I believe you. Get fixed up and ride out of here, partner,” Jamie told him. “Your boss is finished.”

“I'll take your advice and give you some, MacCallister. Barlow's got a damn army ready to throw at you.”

“Then the undertakers are going to be very busy for a couple of days, aren't they?”

Another doctor came out and helped the man into a saloon, where he had made ready two tables to use for operations.

“You can help the wounded,” Jamie told the town's doctors, who had gathered at the saloon. “Just take their guns away from them.”

“How about the dead?” a shallow-faced man dressed all in black said.

“Leave them where they lay.”

“Yes, sir, Mr. MacCallister. Whatever you say, sir.”

Those Bar-B riders who managed to escape the raid on the south part of the town made their report to an astonished Big Ben Barlow.

“You mean MacCallister is just standin' out on the street and you men can't bring him down?” he demanded.