Rage of Eagles (10 page)

The two men had found only a few head of Rockingchair cattle, and they had headed them back toward their own range. But five or ten or fifteen head a day adds up over a period of time.

The two men rode deeper into Snake range. They found five more head of Rockingchair cows and got them walking and grazing back east.

“That's ten head for the day,” Puma said. “Want to try for more?”

“I guess we'd better head on back, Puma. It'll be late afternoon time we get back as it is.”

“I was hopin' you'd say that. Miss Martha and Miss Angie was goin' to spend the afternoon makin' bear sign and my mouth's been salivatin' something fierce just thinkin' about it.”

Falcon smiled. Just the smell of doughnuts cooking could bring cowboys riding in from fifty miles in any direction.

“Well,” Falcon said, straightening in the saddle, “I hope the boys leave you some, Puma. 'Cause I don't think we're going to make it back in time for supper.”

Puma jerked his head up, his eyes sweeping the landscape. He twisted in the saddle, looking all around him. “Damn!” he muttered.

There were riders all around them, four and five to a bunch. And the way the riders were positioned, escape for the Rockingchair men was impossible.

“I'm thinkin' 'bout that cluster of rocks just up ahead,” Puma said. “With that cold little bubblin' spring smack-dab in the middle.”

“I was thinking the same thing.”

“We got ammunition aplenty and cold biscuits and beef left.”

“You ready?”

“Now!” Puma yelled.

Both horses jumped forward, heading for the rocks at a full gallop.

Bullets whined all around the two men as they made their run toward the rocks, some of the bullets coming so close Falcon and Puma could feel the heat. They reached the rocks and threw themselves from the saddle, grabbing their rifles and getting into position. The horses walked toward the spring and drank deeply, then stood with heads down. It had been a long day and the animals were tired.

Falcon and Puma settled in for a siege. They had food and water and each carried several boxes of cartridges in their saddlebags, plus their belt loops were full. They could hold out for a long time.

The Snake riders had dismounted and taken cover wherever they could find it all around the upthrusting of rocks. There were several in an old buffalo wallow, several more behind natural depressions in the earth. Others were on the far side of the shallow creek behind the rocks. Left and right of the rocks, Snake riders had disappeared into the tall grass.

It was midsummer in Wyoming, and the sun was high and hot.

“Gonna be a lot tougher on them ol' boys out yonder than it is on us,” Puma remarked. “We got a little shade and lots of cold water. They got the sun and that's it.”

Puma wasn't expecting a reply and Falcon didn't offer one. He took a sip of water from his canteen and then rolled himself a cigarette. A couple of exploring shots hammered at the rocks. Falcon and Puma did not return the fire. There was nothing to shoot at.

It was going to be a waiting game.

“Falcon?” Puma asked.

Falcon cut his eyes.

“This may seem like a stupid question, but I ain't kept up with the news lately. Who is president of the U-nited States?”

“Grant, isn't it?”

“Damned if I know. Last time I heard, it was Johnson.”

A couple of rifle shots interrupted their political conversation.

“No. Grant got elected in '68, then got elected again. I guess we have a new president now. Why? You thinking of writing Washington and asking for help?”

Puma chuckled and took a bite from his plug of chewing tobacco. He chewed for a moment, then hollered: “Hey, you boys out yonder! Anybody know who the president of the United States is?”

Several heartbeats thudded silently by. Then, from the tall grass, a voice called: “It's Ulysses S. Grant!”

“It ain't done it,” another voice called. “We got us a new one. It's Hayes.”

“Who the hell is Hayes?” another Snake rider shouted.

“Hayes?” Puma asked Falcon.

“That's right. I recall reading about that. Rutherford B. Hayes.”

“I sure am behind the times,” Puma remarked. “Thank you!” he shouted.

“You're welcome,” a Snake rider called.

Then there was no more conversation as both sides fell silent. The sun beat down and the trapped and their attackers sweated under its glare.

“Oh, my,” Puma called, after a trip to the spring and a long drink of the cold pure water. “This here spring water is sure tasty. Anytime you boys want a drink, just come on down and hep yourselves.”

“Very funny,” a Snake rider called, a definite edge to his voice.

“I thought it was right neighborly of me,” Puma returned the shout. “I just hate to see a man goin' thirsty when they's water aplenty.”

One Snake rider got a tad careless and exposed part of a leg. Falcon broke it with a bullet and the man began yelling in pain.

“We got to get him to a doctor!” a Snake rider yelled.

“Why, sure, boys,” Puma yelled. “Three, four of you just amble on over to him and tote that sufferin' feller off into town. I 'spect that bullet's still in the leg, and it might get infected. We wouldn't want that.”

“Why don't you boys surrender?” another Snake rider yelled. “You ain't got a chance.”

“Why don't you go to hell?” Puma replied.

“You're trapped. We'll get you sooner or later.”

Any other time, those words might have been true, but not this afternoon. If they weren't back by dusk, the rest of the crew would come looking, for Puma wasn't about to miss chowing down on a couple dozen bear sign.

Falcon watched as Puma carefully lifted his rifle and sighted. He had spotted something that was out of place. After a moment he squeezed the trigger, and a man suddenly rose up out of the grass, grabbing at his shoulder. Puma put a round in the man's leg for insurance, and the already wounded man's leg buckled under him and he fell to the ground, out of sight of those in the rocks, and started hollering.

“There's two that need to go see a doctor,” Puma shouted. “You best get them into town 'fore they croak on you. They'd never forgive you if that happened.”

“Of course you'll let us gather up the wounded and ride out without openin' fire?” the question was shouted from the buffalo wallow.

“Why, sure we will,” Puma yelled, enough sarcasm in his words to fill a coffeepot. “Go right ahead, boys.”

“You can all ride out,” Falcon shouted. “Gather up your wounded and ride out. We won't fire.”

“You go to hell!” came the reply.

“Suit yourselves,” Falcon yelled, and settled back in a more comfortable position among the rocks.

Over the next hour, a few shots and several dozen insults were tossed out from both sides. The Snake riders' horses, although ground-reined, had wandered off a few yards during grazing. The Snake riders' could not reach them without exposing themselves. Both sides were, in effect, trapped.

“This ain't worth a damn,” one disgusted Snake hired gun called to another.

“Sure ain't, Ted,” his partner agreed. “I'm hungry, I'm thirsty, and I'm sweatin' like a hog.”

“Me too. Seems like we've trapped them and they've trapped us. And if they ain't back to the Rockingchair by dark, some people's gonna come lookin'.”

“You can bet on that.”

Ted called across the grass: “What do you think, Greely?”

“What d' you mean?”

“This situation. It ain't no good.”

“You got a better idea?”

“I do,” a .44 hand called. “Leave.”

“I'm for that,” an N/N rider called. “We can't even see where them two are up in them rocks. This ain't gettin'us nothin' but picked off, one by one.”

“We go back now,” another entered the debate under the blazing sun, “and some of us are gonna lose our jobs. Gilman will be madder than hell.”

“I wasn't lookin' for a job when this one come along,” still another spoke up.

“Me neither,” his partner said. “I've had a bad feelin' about this country ever since that damn Val Mack come ridin' in. Then he brung in all them old mountain men and things ain't been doin' nothin' but gettin' worser.”

“If they'll let me, I'm ridin' out of here,” still another rider tossed out. “If Gilman wants to fire me, that's OK with me.”

This mixed bunch of Snake, .44, and N/N riders had no boss riding with them. Their only orders from Claude had been to find Rockingchair hands and kill them if possible. On this day, that was proving a very difficult task.

“You in the rocks!” a .44 rider shouted. “You let us ride out?”

“If you all go in a bunch,” Falcon called.

“We'll all leave.”

“Get your horses, then get your wounded, and ride out then. We'll hold our fire.”

No one had been killed that day, and the men who had been shot, while their wounds were serious, would live. The Snake, N/N, and .44 hands rode west, and Falcon and Puma headed east, toward Rockingchair grass, pushing their small herd of cattle ahead of them.

* * *

“You boys were lucky,” John Bailey said. “They jumped the gun, that's all. Showed their hand in the worst possible place, for them. I know those rocks and that spring. You could have held out there for a long time.”

Puma grunted his agreement. He couldn't speak; his mouth was stuffed full of bear sign, which he was washing down with great gulps of coffee.

“Me and Miles held off Injuns there all one day and night,” Kip said.

“You and Miles?” Falcon asked, surprise in the question.

“Oh, yeah. We used to be friends. All of us used to socialize. Till Miles started gettin' greedy and wantin' more and more land. Miles's foreman Claude and me was pals for years. Till he turned just as mean as Miles.”

“We all went through the bad times together,” John said. “Drought, Injuns, terrible winters. That's why this whole situation leaves such a bad taste in our mouths.”

“Miles's wife saw it coming before any of us,” Martha said, placing another hugely piled platter of doughnuts on the table in front of the men. “She warned me that Miles was changing. And she was right.”

“In one way,” Puma finally spoke up, taking a rest between doughnuts. “What happened this day ain't gonna be good for us. Them ol' boys that pulled out, some of them anyways, is gonna lose their jobs. And they're gonna be replaced with hardcases. This will probably be the last time any agreement will ever be reached 'tween any of us.”

“You're right about that, Puma,” Kip said. “From now on, you boys stay on Rockingchair range. You've brought back a lot more head than any of us ever expected you to find, and that will have to do us.”

“Kip's right and that's settled,” John said. “The young stuff have to be branded anyway. We'll have work aplenty right here close to home.”

“Well, in a few days the additional supplies will be coming in over at the post and they have to be picked up. We're going to have to patch up some wagons to haul it all back here. That'll take a day or two. We've got enough work to last us for a time.”

“I reckon we can call this the quiet time before the storm,” John said.

“Oh, it's going to bust loose,” Falcon agreed. “We haven't seen anything yet.”

“Have any of you ever heard of a gunfighter people have nicknamed the Silver Dollar Kid?” Kip asked.

Puma shook his head. “That's a new one on me.”

“I have. I've seen him,” Falcon said. “He's crazy. He's just a kid, only about twenty or so, but he's killed a lot of men. Has silver dollars on his vest and gunbelt and holster. He's vicious. Why, John?”

“Nance Noonan is rumored to have hired him and about a dozen more just as bad to clean out the farmers and small ranchers in this area. Friend of mine from up in Montana came through here while you boys was in town. He was on his way down south of here to buy a herd of horses. Told me about this Silver Dollar Kid. Said wherever he goes, people die.”

“That's the truth, and he's quick, for a fact,” Falcon conceded. “But like so many fast guns, he doesn't really have good control. You can count on him missing his first shot fifty percent of the time.” Falcon sighed as he reached for his hat. “I wondered when Nance or Rod or Miles would start bringing in the real shooters. Now we know.”

“These boys won't be makin' no stupid mistakes, neither,” Puma added. “And they won't be playin' by no rules 'ceptin' their own. I 'spect we'd all better ride in pairs from now on. And Miss Angie doesn't dare leave the compound without an escort.”

“You're mighty right about that, Puma,” Kip said. “John, you're gonna have to put your boot down about this.”

“I will. And I think Angie will understand the seriousness of the situation.”

“She better,” Martha said grimly. “Or I'll step in and put
my
foot down.”

“Oh, Lord have mercy on us all!” her husband said, rolling his eyes.

Martha took a fake swing at him and he laughed and ducked. Falcon and Puma took that time to exit the main house, after Puma had filled up his hat with bear sign.

“Gettin' serious now, ol' son,” Puma said, during the walk to the bunkhouse.

“It is for a fact.”

“You seen this Silver Dollar Kid work?”

“Once. He's quick.”

“Better than you?”

“He's just as fast as I am, Puma. But he counts on speed rather than accuracy.”

“And he's crazy?”

“Nuttier than a tree filled with squirrels. Laughs uncontrollably. Giggles like a girl. Very touchy; takes offense at anything. You never know what's going to set him off.”

“And he likes to kill?”

“He lives for it. I think he's twisted, if you know what I mean.”

“One of those.”

Puma frowned. “I don't even like to be around that type. Gives me the goose bumps.”

“Stay away from the Kid, Puma. Pass the word to the others.”

“I'll be sure do that, son. But you know he's been hired to kill you?”

“Probably. But that's been tried before.”

The men paused at the bunkhouse door. “You comin' in now?” Puma asked.

“No yet. I think I'll take a walk around for a bit. I'm a little restless.”

“Want some company?”

“No.”

“I know that feelin'. Night, boy.”

“Night, Puma.”

Falcon circled the house, then walked down to the corral. The horses were restless, moving. They sensed something amiss. But what was it? The Baileys didn't have a dog. Night riders had killed Jimmy's little dog before Falcon had appeared on the scene. That irritated Falcon, for he liked dogs and didn't have much use for men who killed them just for the hell of it. Another mark against Miles Gilman and the men who rode for him.

Kip had told him it was Lars who'd shot the dog. Falcon would settle Lars's hash one of these days—he was sure of that. But he wanted to do it with his fists, not with guns. What Lars needed was a good old-fashioned ass-kicking.