Blood of Eagles Page 16

  “All the comforts of home,” Falcon muttered, leaning on his saddle horn. He raised his voice. “Woha’li! It’s me! MacCallister! Can I come in?”

  The voice that answered him was scant yards away, to the side and behind him, and Diablo sidestepped nervously as sagebrush there whispered with movement.“I’m right here, Towo’di,” the boy said quietly. “Saw you comin’ long ways off. Want some meat?”

  The boy seemed older somehow—more assured and more contained than Falcon remembered. Still just a lanky half-grown kid, but the resolve in his eyes was that of a man. Over a meal of hot beef and biscuit, they studied each other across the fire. The kid’s scrape with a rattler had left its mark—a deep ugly scar that he might carry always. And the kid saw Falcon’s careful posture and knew that the big blond man had been injured too. But both of them were recovering, and neither was crippled.

  “You killed a man in that town up there, didn’t you, Woha’li?” Falcon asked. “Shot out his voice, then made him hurt dying.”

  “I’ll kill five more, too, if I can,” the boy told him. “They’re there, the ones that killed my parents. I know them. And don’t call me Woha’li any more. I have a new name now.” He indicated the snakebite scar. “It’s Utsonati. Means rattlesnake.”

  “You know I’m after that bunch, too,” Falcon said. “So are some others. You’ve made them harder to get. They’ll be spooked now. You go in there again, they’ll likely kill you. Why not let us handle it?”

  Utsonati gazed at him, a level gaze with no expression.“No,” he said. “I’m not through.”

  “Then throw in with us, boy. It’s the only way.”

  “Who did they hurt of yours?”

  “People just as innocent as your father and mother were,” MacCallister said. “People I never knew, but I buried what was left.”

  “Why do you care if you didn’t know them?”

  “Same reason I care about your folks.” The man gazed at the little fire, thoughtfully. “What would you do if you saw wild dogs trying to drag down a child?”

  “I’d shoot some dogs,” the boy said. “Make ’em stop.”

  “Even if the child was nobody you know?”

  Utsonati didn’t answer then, but later he said, “I’ll go along, yoneg. Far as I want to. Then I go alone. Where are we going?”

  “Place up north of town.” Falcon cut another strip of meat from the roasting loin. “Where did you get this cow?”

  “Found it,” the boy said. “It was a stray.”

  Falcon was studying the stretched hide. “This animal’s trail marked,” he said. “It’s from a Texas herd.”

  “Some of those Texas drovers catch an Indian near their cows, they’ll string him up for a rawhider,” Falcon warned. “I’m surprised they’d drive into No Man’s Land at all. Best cow trail’s along the scarp, past Fort Supply.”

  “Drovers didn’t have this one,” Utsonati said flatly. “It was yellow-bands, from the town. They had sixteen cows. Now they have fifteen. How you think all those white people over there stay fed, Towo’di? Half the jaspers in this strip steal cows when they can.”

  It was quite a crowd that Asa Parker—or Colonel Amos DeWitt—had gathered around him in No Man’s Land, Falcon mused. The worst of the lawless: killers and robbers, fugitives from all over. The NeutralStrip was full of them. Now a lot of them wore yellow bands and rode for Parker. With cash in hand, Parker and his buddies had built themselves a little empire in almost no time.

  Parker was in charge of the big swindle—selling land that wasn’t his to sell. And his hirelings were helping themselves to whatever was offered. And that included rustling cattle.

  Some changes had been made at the haymeadows when Falcon rode in with the Cherokee boy. A nice little herd of horses grazed on the lush winter grass, and Archer and the boys had put up a sign: A&M LAND AND CATTLE HORSE RANCH.

  “You’re looking better, Mr. MacCallister,” Brett Archer said as the newcomers dismounted. “Not so much like you’re going to die.”

  Falcon shrugged. “You’ve been working on the place.”

  “Yeah, fixing it up. Maybe we’ll stay a while. Go into the horse business.”

  “Might sell those vigilantes their own horses,” Jude Mason agreed, “or trade ‘em for a prairie schooner with a few well-chosen corpses hangin’ from its tongue.”

  “It’s a slap in the face to that bunch at Paradise,” Jonah chimed in. “Like a challenge.”

  “You think those outlaws will stand still for this when they hear about it?” Falcon shook his head. “How long do you think it’s going to take them to find you here?”

  “Not very long,” Archer grinned. “We were just waitin’ for you to get back before we rode down there and introduced ourselves. That land office in Paradise has a map of available claims, and this place is on it. Listed as four quarter-sections of improved uninhabited property. We need to set them straight about that. Most of the improvements here are ours, and we’re staking claim by right of presence.”

  “You’ll have a war on your hands.”

  “Fine. While they’re out here fighting us, we can be down there settling accounts with the men who killed Dorothy.”

  “Might keep things interesting,” Falcon said. “But whoever set that bunch off will show up sooner or later. That’s the time to get them all.”

  Jubal studied him through narrowed eyes. “No offenseintended, Mr. MacCallister, but it seems like you’re grinding different axes than we are. We know where the murderers are, and we’re plumb tired of waiting.”

  “So you think you’ll just force a showdown and take them all out?”

  Brett pursed his lips thoughtfully. “Maybe we won’t have to fight the whole gang,” he said. “I have an idea some of those vigilantes might be interested in a better deal.”

  The Mason brothers were eyeballing the Indian boy curiously. “Who’s the papoose?” Jubal asked.

  The kid started to bristle, but MacCallister waved him down. “His name used to be Woha’li,” he said. “Now he’s Utsonati. He’s after the same men you fellows are, for his own reasons. And don’t let his size fool you. He’s the one who killed Folly Downs.”

  The kid hung close, listening to the talk, and he shared a meal with them. He was around for a day or so. Then he was gone, and not a one of them had seen him leave.

  MacCallister had been hoisting a saddle onto Diablowhen sharp pains lanced through him and he noticed that the deep wound in his belly was bleedingagain. Jude Mason noticed it, too. Without a word, the youth went and hitched up the buckboard and brought it around.

  “Get in, Mr. MacCallister,” he said. “Let’s go for a ride.”

  Falcon squinted at him. “Where?”

  “Across the line. You might not recollect what Dr. Linsecum said when we took you there, but I do. He said come back when you need tendin’.”

  “I’m all right,” Falcon glared. “It’s just a hole healin’.”

  “Well, ‘til it does, I aim to have you see that doc when you bleed. I don’t know if you care about livin’, Mr. MacCallister, but I care if you do. I put too much fuss into haulin’ you down here to have you fold up on me now.”

  SEVENTEEN

  On a spring day as soft as warm velvet, the Mason boys rode in to Paradise and went directly to the land office. Their arrival caused no stir, though the town now swarmed with yellow-banded hoodlums, like bees around a disturbed hive. Following the aborted raid on the Barlow claim, the only safe place for known vigilantes was in town, and there was even some doubt about that.

  Even while the remnants of Jackson’s raiders were racing for home, harassed by angry squatters, several Barlow kin had raced through town, firing at whatevermoved and shouting curses.

  Fourteen of Obermire’s hoodlums had not returnedfrom the raid. Since then, Paradise had been an armed camp. Vigilantes patrolled the perimeters and prowled the street—surly unruly little gangs of gun trash held in check only by the promise of wages
in return for services. Colonel Amos DeWitt stayed close to his wagon, ready to defend it and the cash it held. Casper Wilkerson patrolled the nearby street with his shotgun cradled across his arm. Kurt Obermire strode up and down the street like a big thundercloud, muttering promises and shouting threats, reorganizing his Vigilance Committee.

  The Jackson raid on the Barlow place, and its disastrous outcome, had set DeWitt’s scheme back. A lot of yellow-bands were taking another look at their hole cards.

  The results were visible in the townspeople’s cautiousarrogance—those who were not part of the “Paradise plan”—and in the eyes of the squatters coming into town to trade. By brute force and gun wages, DeWitt’s bunch had come to Wolf Creek and taken over the settlement. Now the Barlows had shown that DeWitt could be backed down. Days passed, and there were no more night raids on homesteads in the Wolf Creek valley. All around was a feeling of barely repressed anger.

  Paradise was now a restless and surly little town. The vigilantes still controlled the street, but there was spirit in the glares of those who resented their being there. Still, business went on as usual. Each day a few more land-hungry westers arrived looking for claims, and O’Brien’s land office was doing land office business. The land shark frowned and cursed each time a customer arrived who might have paid cash for the choicest property, but he was careful now to issue no deeds to claimed steads.

  DeWitt had cursed him for his cautiousness, but O’Brien drew the line at putting his neck into a noose, and in his estimation the demoralized vigilanteswere poor insurance.

  Brett Archer had become a familiar figure in town. Smooth and striking in high boots, a black tailcoat and flare-brimmed hat set at a rakish slant, the Virginian strolled casually along Paradise’s only real street, calling attention to himself, distracting the loungers by his presence while Jonah, Jude, and Jubal Mason surreptitiously tacked up hand-lettered signs in several conspicuous places.

  For several days, Brett had been in and around Paradise, becoming part of the scenery. His presencedrew attention, as he intended. Nobody was quite sure who he was, but everybody local had seen him around. Among newcomers and townspeople he made a point of getting acquainted. On this morning he roamed the squalid town, exchanging friendly greetings here and there and tipping his hat to the ladies.

  He made a splendid diversion. Not once in the time it took the Mason brothers to post their signs did anyone so much as glance their way.

  Jubal and Jude were furtive at first. They could not be sure that some of the vigilantes might not recognize them from the night of the raid. Unlike his brothers, though, Jonah had been no part of that. Now, with his flop hat pulled down to his ears and a harmless grin on his face, he was a nobody who could have been anybody.

  Gongs rang at the beaneries at each end of the street, and crowds started drifting toward the places. The Masons met at the land office and waited patientlyuntil O’Brien was alone. Then Jonah stood guard at the door while Jubal and Jude braced the land agent.

  “We’ve found the land we want,” Jubal said, steppingaround O’Brien’s desk to the plat map tacked up on the wall. “These four quarter-sections right here, where this creek forks. We call it the HaymeadowsRanch. I guess you can issue clear deeds to this property?”

  O’Brien glanced at his map. The place was some distance out, and had no warning X on it. It was one of the older claims, with no Barlows on it. “Oh, indeed I can,” he assured, narrowing his eyes as he calculated the worth of the young drifters. “Of course, you realize that is choice property, with improvements already in place, so the price will reflect that. ”

  “Let me look at the deeds,” Jude said.

  O’Brien thumbed through neatly filed stacks of ornately embossed paper. “Here they are,” he said, pulling out a stack of four. “You won’t find a more choice investment than this, sir. Reacquired from the original owner, and all covered under the generalpatent of Paradise Land Company. A first-class package ready for immediate occupancy, and your choice of four town lots to go with it.”

  Jude scanned the carefully penned descriptions on the deeds and compared them to the map coordinates.“That’s fine,” he said. “We’ll take them. Sign and stamp the documents. Make them out to A and M Land and Cattle Company. The young fellowover there by the door can serve as witness.”

  O’Brien’s eyes narrowed. For the first time he noticedthe emptiness of his office, the alert stance of the youngster near the door, and the steely gazes of his customers. A shiver of apprehension went up his spine, and he hesitated.

  Casually, Jubal swept back his coattail, emphasizingthe big revolver at his belt.

  At the front, Jonah said, “Well, they’ve found the notice. Quite a crowd gathering over yonder.”

  Like most men of his time, Thaddeus O’Brien carrieda gun—a Colt “Baby Dragoon” that rested unseenbelow his left armpit. But O’Brien was no gunfighter. He was a salesman, and his salesman’s instincts told him he was far outmatched here.

  “Don’t worry, Mr. O’Brien,” Jubal purred. “We’re not here to rob you. We don’t intend to pay for the land we’re claiming, of course ... that land isn’t yours to sell any more than any other land around here is. But those printed deeds are right pretty, and they ought to be worth something. We’ll give a dollarapiece for them.”

  “Look here!” O’Brien stammered. “You can’t just—”

  “Yes, we can,” Jubal corrected him. “We’re doing it.”

  “Colonel DeWitt won’t stand for this!”

  “Do tell. Just execute those deeds, land shark.”

  With their deeds signed, stamped, and folded away in Jubal’s inside coat pocket, the Masons escortedO’Brien politely but firmly into the sturdy little closet behind the big desk, relieved him of his gun, and bolted the door.

  Thaddeus O’Brien had just finished prying his closet door open when the door of the land office crashed open and Colonel Amos DeWitt stormed in, followed by Casper Wilkerson. An angry crowd of vigilantes milled in the street outside.

  The colonel waved a poster in O’Brien’s face. “What the hell is this?” he demanded. “Where’s Haymeadows Ranch?”

  O’Brien read the poster, then read it again:

  HORSES FOR SALE—PRIME SADDLE STOCK—SADDLESAND TACK—SELECT NIGHT HORSES, PREVIOUSLYOWNED BY NIGHT RIDERS—EACH ONE A STEAL—FIRST COME FIRST SERVED—SEE AT HAYMEADOWSRANCH, TEN MILES NORTHEAST. A&M LAND AND CATTLE, PROP.

  “What the hell is this, O’Brien?” DeWitt repeated. “Where’s Haymeadows Ranch, and who has it?”

  “That’s what I was coming to tell you, sir.” O’Brien gulped. “Those three drifters—name of Mason, couple of hard cases and a kid looked like a farmer—they made me issue deeds to four quartersup on Cove Creek. They said they claim that property, and anybody who wants to contest the claim is invited to try.”

  Out on the street a wagon had hauled up and a gray-looking little man stepped down to fasten the tie at a hitch rail. Vigilantes glanced his way, then dismissed him and concentrated on the land office. The crowd parted and Kurt Obermire stomped into the office, carrying one of the signs. “That’s where our horses went!” he rasped. “Them Barlows!”

  “The Barlows have friends,” DeWitt said. “I want you to put a stop to this, Kurt. You and Casper, take some men out to this Haymeadows Ranch. Shoot anybody you find out there, and bring those horses back.”

  “The hell with that!” Casper Wilkerson said. “There ain’t anybody up there, Colonel. Be a wild-goosechase, just to get us away from town. That Barlow crowd’s got our horses, all right, but my bet is we’ll find them right down there where those squatters are nested.”

  Kurt nodded. “Them an’ their friends,” he said. “That was more than a bunch of dirt farm squatters Jackson ran into down there. Those squatters had help, an’ they knew the boys were comin’.”

  “So they’ve got some friends,” DeWitt scoffed. “Bunch of drifters, likely.”

  “Them drifters killed Jack
son, and damn near wiped out half my Vigilance Committee.”

  “They got lucky. And maybe some of your vigilantesdid it themselves. Maybe Jackson isn’t dead, at all. Maybe he’s struck out on his own, and maybe he’s thinkin’ about how to come in here and take my money.”

  “Our money, Asa.” Casper’s glare was as cold as snake eyes.

  “Sure, our money. That’s probably it. Damn drifterswant us chasin’ off north to Haymeadows so they can hit the town. Well, it won’t work. We know where the Barlows are. Just take the men you can trust and go down there and wipe ’em out.”

  “And get them horses back,” Kurt said. He shot a glance at Wilkerson. “You goin’ with me, Casper? Or do I do this myself?”

  Wilkerson ignored the giant. In his opinion, Kurt Obermire didn’t have the brains God gave a biscuit. “I don’t think those are just squatters out there, Asa. I got a bad feelin’.”

  “You think the Barlows have an army or something?”DeWitt glared at him. “I think you’re right about one thing, though. The Barlows won’t stray far from their own digs. They’re not going to leave their claims and go holing up somewhere else just to devil us. They held their ground against Jackson’s posse. They think they’ve got what they want, now.”

  “Yeah, our horses,” Kurt Obermire growled.

  “I’m not worried about the Barlows,” Casper said slowly. “There’s somebody else, Asa ... I mean, colonel. I’m thinkin’ what happened to Folly, right here in town. I got a feelin’ somebody’s drawin’ a bead on us.”