Rage of Eagles Page 15

  Neither Stegman nor Gilman had a reply to Noonan’s hate-filled comments. Both men knew that just the mention of Falcon’s name could send Nance off into a towering rage. They waited until Nance had calmed down a bit.

  “He’s organized and armed all the small ranchers and farmers in this part of the state,” Miles said. “He’s armed them with weapons taken from the men I hired to run them out!”

  “Where is he getting supplied?”

  “From the old trading post.”

  “Well, hell, man!” Nance yelled. “Put the damn trading post out of business! Burn it down. Blow it up. Kill the bastard who runs it.”

  “Can’t do that, Nance,” Miles spoke calmly, hoping that if he stayed calm, some of it would rub off on Noonan. “The place is a stage stop and is also a remount station for the cavalry. We don’t want private detectives and the cavalry taking sides with the small ranchers and farmers.”

  Nance thought about that for a moment, then slowly nodded his head. “Yeah, you’re right about that. Damn! The federal marshal for this area?”

  “He won’t bother us.”

  “You’re sure about that?”

  “Positive.”

  “And the county sheriff is out of it?”

  “All the way.”

  Nance stared at Miles for a moment. “Six old men join up with Falcon MacCallister and bring everything to a halt. Incredible.”

  “You know who these old men are, Nance?”

  “No, I don’t. What the hell difference does that make?”

  Miles named them all and Nance’s mouth dropped open. Miles had just named some of the most famous mountain men of the west: army scouts, Indian fighters, explorers, trailblazers, and so much more.

  Nance got up to pace the room for a moment. He stopped, poured another drink, then sat down. “Books and stories have been written about those men. We can’t afford to have the eastern press get wind of this. They’d come swarmin’ in here. But neither can I afford to have this drag on for months. I’ve got cattle comin’ in and they’re gonna need graze and water. Money is not the answer—MacCaHister could buy and sell all three of us. And I’m not kiddin’ about that. What’s a fortune to us is nothin’ but pocket change to Falcon. And if all the MacCallisters was to get involved in this fight . . .” He shrugged muscular shoulders and let that trail off. “... They’d just hire a damn army to come in and wipe us out, right down to the last man. There’s as many of them as there is my kin, practically, and they’ve got the money to do whatever they damn well please. If I had any sense I’d back off and out of here and just look somewheres else. But this is personal, ’tween me and Falcon, and by God I intend to see it through to the finish.”

  “I’ve got to stay,” Stegman said. “I got no choice in the matter. And you know that, Nance.”

  Again, Noonan nodded his head. “I know, Rod, I know. Don’t worry: I’m not goin’ to quit on you.”

  “We’ve got to give this situation some hard head rumi-natin’,” Rod said. “Miles’s way ain’t workin’, that’s plain to see. So we got to come up with another plan.”

  “Good thinkin’, Rod,” Nance said, very sarcastically. “Excellent.” But the sarcastic words were lost on his brother-in-law. He cut his eyes to Miles. Went right by him, too. Nance knew that when it came to thinkin’, Miles and Rod weren’t among the best. They were men of action, first, last, and always. If there was to be any planning, it would be up to him to come up with it and spell it all out, carefully.

  “We can outlast them,” Miles said. “If you had to, Nance, you could graze your cattle south and west of here until all this was settled.”

  Nance changed his opinion of Miles . . . a little bit. That wasn’t a bad plan. “If it comes to that, yeah. But we’ve got a few weeks before the herds arrive. We might get lucky ’tween now and then.”

  “Let’s just ambush MacCallister and have done with it,” Rod growled.

  As if that hadn’t been tried about two dozen times over the years, Nance thought. The man’s as savvy as his father. Nance stood up. “Let’s have some breakfast,” he suggested. “Think on this some. Maybe get some rest. More men will be comin’ in today and tomorrow. I want the next move we make to end it. I want to see Falcon MacCallister dead!”

  Nineteen

  The Noonan clan began arriving and settling in. The families took up residence in the ranch houses that had been vacated when the former owners were either run out of the country or killed by the hired guns of the cattlemen’s association. There were eight Noonan brothers, counting Nance, six cousins, and a small army of kids, ranging in age from toddlers to grown men in their early twenties. The Noonan clan swelled the population of the county by about a hundred and they claimed thousands of acres of land. Each family had six to ten hands, most of them hired guns. Stegman claimed as his own what had been the third largest ranch in the area and moved in his family and a few of his hands. The rest of he and Noonan’s cowboys were pushing the herd up and were still several weeks away.

  The businesspeople in the town of Gilman were overjoyed at the prospect of new customers. A new café had been added, as well as a new saloon and several other businesses. The new saloon was called the Purple Palace, but was soon shortened to just the Palace. It was anything but a palace, but no one seemed to object to its rather raw and austere interior. The dozen girls that worked at the Palace livened up the joint considerably as soon as the sun went down: They had to wait until it got dark before making an appearance, for most of the soiled doves were so ugly they could have made a living haunting graveyards.

  “Good God!” Wildcat blurted, at his first glimpse of the ladies employed by the Palace. “I’m glad I waited ’fore eatin’ lunch.”

  Falcon chuckled at the words of the older man and cut his eyes to Stumpy, who had just walked up to stand with the men on the boardwalk after seeing to their horses. Stumpy grimaced at the sight of the soiled doves, lounging under the awning of the Palace.

  Stumpy said, “I’ll bet when them gals was borned their mamas didn’t know if they was gonna walk or fly!”

  “Be kind, boys,” Falcon said. “You know what they say about whores having a heart of gold.”

  “I ain’t found one yet that did,” Wildcat said. “And I have had a bit of experience with whores.”

  “No!” Stumpy gasped. “I never would have guessed that of you, Wildcat. I’m plumb shocked to hear it. I don’t know whether I want to associate with you no more, seeing as how you cavort about with loose women and all.”

  Then there was no more time for banter as a dozen horses came galloping into town, the riders reining up in front of the Palace, to go stomping and cussing and laughing inside the saloon, the soiled doves latching onto them immediately.

  “Double N hands,” Wildcat observed. “Seem like a real nice bunch of boys, don’t they?”

  “Certainly some I’d take home to meet my sister,” Stumpy said. “Providin’ I had a sister, that is.”

  “I didn’t even know you had a mama,” Wildcat told him.

  The two mountain man would spend the next ten minutes insulting each other, while Falcon went into the bank to see about some land that the bank had foreclosed on.

  The president of the bank, Willard, almost had a heart attack when Falcon strolled in. But he knew perfectly well that if the MacCallisters took a notion to do so, they could buy the bank and put him out slopping hogs somewhere. He forced a smile and greeted Falcon.

  Falcon came right to the point. “The small ranch just west of the Rockingchair ... you just foreclosed on it and I want to buy it. How much?”

  Willard breathed a sign of relief. “That was the Rone place, Mr. MacCallister. It’s already been picked up. Honestly, it has.”

  “I doubt if it was done honestly,” Falcon replied. “But probably legally.”

  Willard stood passively and said nothing. Falcon was one of the bank’s biggest depositors—he couldn’t afford to anger him.

  “All rig
ht, Willard,” Falcon said. “Thanks.” He turned and walked out of the bank, stepping back out onto the boardwalk just in time to see Jim Wilson and his family rattle into town in a wagon.

  The Wilsons had moved into the area just before Falcon had arrived, having inherited a farm from Wilson’s older brother, who had been killed by night riders. The farm was a large one, for the elder Wilson had bought a number of sections over the hard months before his death from people who had given up under threat from Gilman. Jim wasn’t about to give up his land, determined to make a go of it. Jim’s wife, Peggy, was a tiny thing, but with steel in her backbone and a set to her jaw that told anyone with half a brain this was one woman who wouldn’t easily give up. The Wilsons had four kids, two boys and two girls. The boys were fourteen and twelve, the girls were ten and eight. Jim was a former captain in some unit of the Tennessee Cavalry: a highly decorated Confederate officer. He was quiet and soft-spoken, but a man with no back-up in him.

  Since Falcon had suddenly become one of the county’s money-men, his money had become good all over town, and that was something that not even Gilman could prevent. Falcon had also passed the word that the farmers and small ranchers, who had heretofore been prevented from shopping in town, had better be welcomed with open arms in every store. Miles Gilman had not even tried to stop the store owners from doing business with the farmers and small ranchers, knowing when it was wise to hold his cards and when it was smart to fold and let someone else have the hand. There was always another shuffle and deal.

  Falcon watched a couple of Double N hands as they stood under the awning in front of the Palace and scowled at the Wilsons as they rattled and bounced into town. Then the hired guns stepped back into the saloon.

  Be trouble in a few minutes, Falcon thought. He lifted his eyes, looking for Wildcat and Stumpy. They had spread out, across the street and left and right of the front of the Palace. The two experienced frontiersmen were ready for whatever trouble came their way . . . probably looking forward to it.

  The boardwalk in front of the Palace was soon crowded with Double N hands, all of them with bottles of whiskey in their hands, drinking and getting themselves primed and cocked for trouble.

  The Wilsons stopped in front of Dean’s General Store and got out of the wagon.

  Falcon moved half a block closer to the store, staying in the shadows. So far, he was sure he had not been spotted by any of the Double N hands.

  The Double N hands were making some pretty vulgar comments about the Wilsons, and getting louder with them. There was no way Jim and his family could keep from hearing the filthy talk.

  Falcon moved closer to the general store and watched the Wilsons climb down from the wagon and enter the store. Several Double N hands began walking toward the store, swigging whiskey as they walked. Falcon moved to the end of the street and crossed over. The Double N hands paid no attention to him; just another cowboy crossing the street.

  The cussing had gotten louder and more vulgar. Falcon decided it was time to step in before Jim took some sort of action and got himself hurt or killed.

  There were four Double N hands entering the general store when Falcon stepped up on the boardwalk from the street. Falcon heard one make a very filthy comment to Peggy.

  “Now that’s enough of that kind of talk!” Jim shouted.

  Dirty laughter followed that, then: “Pig farmer is gettin’ mad, Jess.”

  Falcon had reached the front doors when Jess said, “Man’s got a big mouth for someone who ain’t wearin’ a gun.”

  Falcon stepped through the open doors and stopped just inside the store. He stood for a moment, allowing his eyes to adjust to the gloom.

  “What the hell do you want, mister?” a Double N hand demanded of Falcon.

  “Oh, maybe some peppermint candy. Yes, that would be a very nice treat today.”

  “Oh, my!” another of the Double N men mimicked nastily. “The big man wants some peppermint candy. Quick, get him some candy.”

  “Ooohh!” the fourth Double N hand said. “I bet he’s a real tough feller, all right. What’s your limit, cowboy? Two pieces of peppermint candy?”

  The four Double N guns burst into hard and mean-sounding laughter.

  Falcon smiled and stepped toward the counter. Peggy had the two girls close to her. The youngest was pale and frightened.

  “Let him through, boys,” Pete hollered. “Mr. Two-Guns has to have some candy.”

  “What do you reckon he’s got them guns loaded with?” another Double N rider yelled. “Sugar cookies?”

  That got the hired guns started again. They howled and slapped each other on the back and cussed, the filth rolling from their mouths.

  “I really wish you boys wouldn’t cuss in front of the lady and her children,” Falcon said softly, moving closer to a barrel that was filled with ax handles.

  “Oohhh, my!” a gunny hollered. “We shouldn’t cuss in front of the pig farmer’s woman and kids, boys. Mr. Peppermint Candy is takin’ off-fence at our language. What do you think about that, Pete?”

  Pete mouthed some very filthy words concerning Falcon and what he could do with several sticks of peppermint candy.

  Falcon jerked an ax handle out of the barrel and popped Pete right between the eyes. Pete’s hat flew off and his eyes rolled back in his head as he hit the floor, out cold.

  Falcon spun around and jammed one end of the ax handle into the stomach of a Double N rider just as Jim jerked an ax handle out of the barrel and slammed the business end of it against the back of a third Double N gunhand’s head. He yelled and went to the floor.

  The fourth Double N rider grabbed for his pistol just as Falcon swung the ax handle, connecting with the side of the man’s head. The Double N rowdy went down to the floor, blood suddenly leaking from a long cut on his jaw.

  Falcon smiled at Jim. “You ready for a fight, my friend?”

  “I’m ready, Mr. MacCallister,” the farmer said. “But I’m not armed.”

  Falcon began jerking the Double N riders’ pistols from leather and tossing them to a very startled storekeeper and his wife, both of whom were standing openmouthed behind the counter. They caught the six-guns, handling them as if they were live giant bees.

  “Now neither are they,” Falcon said, hauling Pete up to his boots and busting him right in the mouth with a hard fist. Pete went staggering and stumbling out the front door and fell off the boardwalk into the street.

  Jim had jerked up another Double N rider and smacked him on the jaw with a work-hardened fist. The man followed his buddy out the front door and into the street.

  Falcon put the toe of one boot hard into the stomach of a third hired gun just as the man was getting to his hands and knees. The air whooshed out of him and he stretched out on the floor, gagging and puking.

  Jim was pounding a fist into the face of the fourth gunslick, smiling as he was doing so. After a few seconds, Jim jerked the man up bodily and sent him stumbling through the open front doors, off the boardwalk, and into the street. The hired gun landed face-first into a fresh pile of horse crap.

  Falcon reached down and pulled up the last of the Double N men and sent him out the front door. He went off the boardwalk and impacted against Pete, who was just getting to his boots. Both of them went sprawling into the dirt of the street.

  “Put those guns into a sack, Mr. Dean,” Falcon told the store owner. “And put them with the other supplies Mr. and Mrs. Wilson decide to purchase.”

  “Ye . . . ye . . . yes sir, Mr. MacCallister,” Dean stammered. “I’ll do that.”

  “And anything the Wilsons want, let them have. Put it on my account, understood?”

  “Yes sir! I certainly do. Anything at all. You betcha, Mr. MacCallister. Consider it done.”

  The remaining Double N hands were gathering outside the general store, standing over their fallen friends and muttering and cussing.

  “What about them?” Jim asked, jerking his head toward the street.

  “I’ll wo
rry about them,” Falcon told him. “You folks just do your shopping.”

  “It’s my fight, too,” Jim reminded him.

  “You’re not carrying a gun, Jim. This is going to be a shooting fight.”

  “One man against six or eight?”

  Falcon smiled. “I have a couple of boys outside. You helped out in here, now let me handle the outside. You and your wife go on shopping . . . and stay away from the front door and windows.”

  “All right, Mr. MacCallister. We’ll do as you ask.”

  “Falcon. I told you, it’s Falcon.”

  Jim smiled and nodded his head. Falcon turned and walked outside to stand on the boardwalk, over the moaning Double N hands, who were just now getting to their hands and knees. Double N riders were beginning to gather around, trying to help their buddies.

  One of them nudged another and jerked his head. His friend cut his eyes. Stumpy and Wildcat were standing on the street behind them, ready to hook and draw.

  Falcon detected movement behind him but did not dare take his eyes off the Double N riders. Jim stepped up beside him, to his left, a rifle in his hands.

  “I’ll take that stocky one with the beard,” the farmer said softly, but with steel behind the words.

  “All right, Jim,” Falcon said.

  “And I’ll make sure that tall skinny one never bothers another woman or child,” Peggy spoke, walking up to stand on Falcon’s right. The farmer’s wife carried a double-barreled shotgun she’d taken from the gunrack. “And I loaded this up with buckshot.”

  “Ma’am,” the skinny Double N rider said, his face suddenly paling at the thought of what that shotgun could do at this range. “I didn’t say nothin’ to you atall.”

  “Your friends did,” Peggy reminded him. “Filthy things, and they thought it was funny to say them in front of children.”

  The tall skinny rider sighed. He didn’t know how to reply to that, so he said nothing, just waited.

  The Wilsons’ oldest boy, James, walked out onto the boardwalk, carrying a rifle. He stepped up to stand by his father. “I’m tired of people looking down at me and making fun of me because I’m a farmer. I’m not going to take it no more. I’m proud to be a farmer.”