Rage of Eagles Page 10

  “I’ll see to this one,” Puma called from the livery. “But he’s gut-shot and there ain’t much anyone can do for him.”

  “Oh, Lord!” the belly-shot man wailed.

  “You a little late callin’ on Him, son,” Puma said.

  The wounded man cussed him.

  “Shame on you,” Puma said. “You ’bout to meet your Maker with swear words in your mouth.”

  All over the small town, wounded men were crying out for someone to help them.

  “I’ll get the doc,” Wildcat called from across the street.

  “Better get him to call for a carpenter, too,” Dan Carson yelled. “We’ve got some dead.”

  “Oh, Lord!” the gut-shot gunny yelled. “I ain’t ready to die.”

  “Hardly anyone is, boy,” Puma told him. “Leastwise I ain’t never found nobody who was all that anxious.”

  Reverend Watkins walked up the street, Bible in hand. He knelt down beside a fallen .44 rider. “Would you like me to pray for you, son?”

  “I want a doctor, you psalm-singin’ son of a bitch!”

  “I’ll pray for you anyway.”

  The town’s doctor was working on one man who was sprawled on the boardwalk. A local was holding a lantern. The doctor stood up and shook his head, then moved on to another man. “Get the rest over to my office,” he said to no one in particular. “Come on. Help me get them out of the weather and the mud.”

  “Come on,” Falcon said to his men. “Let’s lend a hand.”

  “Yeah,” Wildcat said. “Then we can get back to the serious business of drinkin’.”

  * * *

  The cattlemen’s alliance lost six men that stormy night, and the doctor treated six others for wounds ranging from minor to serious. Two of those seriously wounded would probably not make it.

  Falcon gathered up all the pistols and rifles of the dead and wounded and stowed them in the back of Joe Gray’s wagon. “Keep those for me, Joe. I’ve got a hunch they’ll be put to good use later on.”

  The sky dumped rain on the land for most of the night, and the next morning the violent storm had rumbled on past and the sky was blue and the sun shining. Joe and his foreman and family headed back to the Four Star, Falcon and his crew headed back to Rockingchair range.

  “Joe’s a good man,” John Bailey told Falcon, after Falcon related all that had taken place in the town. “He won’t run and he won’t back up. But his son . . . ?” The rancher shook his head and fell silent. He lit his pipe and puffed, filling the room with fragrant smoke. “Jack is determined to tie up with Lars Gilman, and when he does, he’ll lose. Lars is just too good a hand with a pistol.”

  “I suppose he’ll brace me one of these days,” Falcon mused.

  “You can bet on it, son. If you’re ever in town at the same time, Lars will call you out. You can get ready for that.” He puffed for a moment, then asked, “What’s on tap for tomorrow?”

  “Rounding up more of your cattle.”

  * * *

  “Any activity on those twenty sections of land that were just sold?” Miles Gilman asked his foreman.

  “Couple of farmers have moved in, just north and south of the Rockingchair range,” Claude informed his boss. “The boys report that Joe Gray visited each family and armed them to the teeth with the guns taken after that shoot-out in town.”

  “That damn Val Mack is behind all this,” Miles spoke through gritted teeth. “John Bailey doesn’t have enough cash or sense to pull off something like this.” He looked at his foreman. “Will these sodbusters fight, you think?”

  “Right down to the last drop of blood, Miles. I done some checkin’ on them. Both men are veterans of the civil war. One fought for the north, the other for the south. And they won’t hesitate to pull a trigger.”

  “Well, leave them alone for the time being. It’s too late for them to get a crop in anyway. Soon as Nance and his boys get here, we’ll settle this thing.”

  Claude wasn’t too sure about that last statement, but he kept his thoughts to himself. His last two cowboys—those men not drawing fighting wages—had pulled out and gone to work for the Four Star. The men he had left, hired guns, were for the most part a lazy, surly bunch. They had been hired for their skills with a gun, not for their experience with cattle. But so far, Claude thought sourly, they sure as hell hadn’t showed him much when it came to gunplay.

  “When is Nance supposed to get here?” Claude asked.

  “Trailin’ a herd, so who knows? That bunch of so-called gunhands who blew in here said he told them to tell me he’d been delayed.”

  “So-called, is right,” Claude muttered.

  Miles heard him and smiled. “They’re really not much, are they?”

  “Well ...” Claude scratched his head. “Truthfully, Miles, they’re probably better than average. It’s just that the men they’re up against is old experienced hands, and they don’t waste lead.”

  “Nance is bringin’ his main guns with him. I think things will change when they arrive.”

  Claude almost said they damn sure couldn’t get much worse, but he held his tongue, figuring Miles didn’t need any smart-aleck comments like that at this time.

  “Claude, you and the boys keep an eye on Lars, will you? He’s makin’ noises about huntin’ up this Val Mack and drawin’ down on him. Lars is fast; he could probably take this Mack person. But a lot of things can go wrong in a gunfight. Just . . . keep an eye on him for me, will you?”

  “We’ll watch him, Miles.”

  “Hotheaded kid,” Miles said. “And his sister ain’t makin’ things any easier for him. She keeps eggin’ him on.”

  Claude knew some things about Terri he could tell Miles, too, but he knew better than to bring up anything bad about Terri, for she was the apple of her daddy’s eye. Miles went into a rage at the slightest hint of impropriety on Terri’s part. Her father thought his little darling was still as sweet and innocent and virginal as the day she was born. Claude suppressed a sigh: if Miles only knew the truth.

  Miles inaccurately read the expression on Claude’s face. “It’ll all work out, Claude. You worry too much about this Val Mack and them old men with him. If we have to wait until Nance gets here with his boys to settle this Val Mack’s hash, so what? All Nance is gonna do is complain, that’s all.”

  Claude didn’t immediately reply. He stood and fiddled with his hat. The foreman didn’t like to discuss Terri, for he knew the truth about that wild little heifer.

  “Anything else, Claude?” Miles asked.

  “Uh ... no, I reckon that’s it, Miles. I best be gettin’ back to work.”

  “Claude?”

  “Yeah, Miles?”

  “You and the boys find any Rockingchair riders on our range, kill them on the spot. Understood?”

  “Consider it done, Miles.”

  * * *

  Falcon and Puma were working the northeasternmost corner of Snake range. They were riding cautiously, and not just because they might run into Snake riders. For even though it had been a year since Custer and his men were slaughtered by the Indians, and an all-out campaign by the Army to end the Indian wars was proving successful, there were still roaming bands of warriors looking to lift some hair. The west was settling down as more and more settlers were coming in and building homes and towns and churches and schools, but it would be a good twenty-five more years before the law of the gun and the smell of gunsmoke would start to fade.

  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.

  Thirteen

  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.”