Song of Eagles Read online

  Falcon glanced at the place as they passed it, thinking the Kid was right. It was a very large building for a general store. He looked up at the second-story, which had a row of windows across the front, showing either offices or living quarters above the store itself.

  The next building they came to was the county courthouse. Since Lincoln was the county seat it, too, was large and impressive. Right next to it was the bank, with a sign over it saying Lincoln County Bank, J.J. Dolan, President.

  Falcon looked farther up the street, wondering if there were any saloons. Chisum had said most of the men in the surrounding area went over to Fort Sumner to gamble. The upstanding citizens of Lincoln were not allowing any gaming houses in their city. The town was fairly busy, with dogs and children running up and down the street, wagons being loaded with supplies in front of stores, and horses being shod at the blacksmith’s small barn farther down the street.

  All in all, the city looked not much different to Falcon than dozens of others he had seen in his travels. It was a more or less typical cow town which served the main purpose of supplying surrounding ranches with supplies, a place for punchers to let off steam when the branding and calving of the herds was done.

  As they walked their mounts down the street, the Kid said, “I’m so hungry my belly must think my throat’s been cut.”

  Falcon removed his hat and sleeved sweat off his forehead. “Me, too. What say we pull up to the hotel over there and see if they’ve got any chow worth eating?”

  The Kid cut his eyes toward Falcon. “Naw, I think I’ll just grab me some water over at the town well and see if I can find out which direction Tunstall’s ranch is from here.”

  “Kid,” Falcon said, “it looks like we’re both going to be here for a spell. How about I treat you to some grub, and you can pay me back from your first month’s wages?”

  The Kid shook his head. “Never did much like bein’ beholden to anybody. I can make my own way.”

  As they came up on the hotel, the smell of enchiladas, beans, and rice cooking tickled their noses. The Kid smacked his lips as his mouth watered at the delicious aroma.

  “Come on, Kid,” Falcon urged. “I’m flush right now, and like I said, you can pay me back later.”

  The Kid sighed. “Well, all right, but I’m gonna give you my marker so’s there won’t be no mistake about this bein’ a handout or anything.”

  Falcon laughed. “Have it your way, Kid, but hurry up. My stomach’s beginning to growl at the smell of that food.”

  They dismounted and strolled into the hotel lobby, paused a moment to get their bearings, then headed into the main dining room.

  There were six tables spread out across the room, four of them full of cowboys with heads bent over plates shoveling in food and washing it down with pitchers of beer.

  Falcon and the Kid took a corner table and sat with their backs to the walls where they could see the entrance to the room.

  A heavyset Mexican woman wearing a bright red apron walked over to their table. “What would you gentlemens like?”

  “Bring us a couple of steaks, charred on the outside and bloody in the middle, a plate of enchiladas, some beans and rice, and a handful of tortillas.” He looked at the Kid. “That all right with you?”

  “Yeah.”

  “And a pitcher of some beer, if it’s cold,” Falcon added.

  “We no serve it no other way, señor,” the woman said, grinning and showing a dark gap where her front teeth were missing.

  “You got any lemonade?” Kid asked.

  “Si, señor.”

  After she left the Kid explained, “I don’t hardly ever drink alcohol.”

  A few minutes later a young, black teenager brought a pitcher of beer for Falcon and lemonade for the Kid and two glass mugs to their table. After pouring the lemonade, Billy held his glass up and said, “To a new start in a new town, Falcon.”

  Falcon smiled and drank. The beer was cold and tasted good after their hours on the trail. He wiped foam off his mouth, and asked, “You don’t like beer?”

  “It’s not that so much, Falcon. It’s just that I’ve never seen it do no man any good. Most of ’em get a snootful of that stuff and think they’re right handy with a gun. Usually just gets ’em killed.”

  “I hope you are able to settle down here, Kid,” Falcon said. “It seems a good town to make a new start in.”

  The Kid’s eyes grew serious. “Yeah, I hope so. I’m tired of moving from place to place. I been on the go since I was a pup, never staying in one town long enough to make no real life for myself. It’s time I settled down and picked me a spot to take root.”

  Their waiter returned with a large tray covered with plates of steaming food, which he set down on the table in front of them. “Time to quit jawin’ and start eatin’,” Billy said.

  As they ate, Falcon let his gaze wander around the room, watching the other cowboys at the surrounding tables. At a table in a far corner there were four men eating and drinking. The man doing most of the talking was tall, with wide shoulders, a barrel chest, and an ample paunch. He was wearing a black leather vest with a silver star on his right breast. He had a loud, strident voice which carried across the room, and his eyes were star packer’s eyes—never still, flitting back and forth around the room as if looking for trouble.

  His eyes met Falcon’s, and he seemed to notice Falcon watching him. A slight frown creased his forehead as his mind worked, trying to recollect if he recognized the stranger.

  As Falcon watched, the star packer nudged the lanky, gangling man next to him and nodded in Falcon’s direction. The skinny man looked over with narrowed eyes, as if he were a bit shortsighted, then shrugged and went back to his beans and enchiladas.

  Falcon broke eye contact and finished eating. He wasn’t too worried about the lawman. He knew the Wanted Posters on him had been recalled after his brother had talked to the governor, so he was no longer a fugitive from the law. Still, it paid to be cautious in new towns. Some sheriffs took instant dislikes to strangers, especially ones who weren’t cowboys working for the local brands.

  As Falcon took his last bite of steak and drained his beer glass, the door to the dining room burst open and two men came running into the room. It was the tall, skinny galoot with the chin whiskers and scar on his face, one of the four who had braced Falcon and the Kid on the trail into town.

  He and his companion walked straight to the table where the lawman sat and began talking in a rapid voice, too low for Falcon to hear what was being said.

  He nudged the Kid with his elbow and inclined his head toward the group across the room. “We may have some trouble, Kid.”

  The Kid looked up from the last of his beans, wiped his mouth on his sleeve, and reached down to loosen the hammer thongs on his Colt.

  Falcon noticed the movement and put his hand on the Kid’s arm. “Easy, cowboy. Remember, you’re here to make a new start. Getting into a shooting match with the sheriff is not a good way to begin your stay here.”

  “I’m not plannin’ nothin’, Falcon. But it don’t hurt none to be ready, just in case.”

  After Scarface stopped talking, the man with the star nodded in their direction. The two new arrivals turned to stare at Falcon and the Kid, then pointed and nodded their heads.

  Star packer pursed his lips, then got to his feet, hitching up his gunbelt and getting his hat from a nearby hatrack. He ambled across the room, followed by the six men with him until he stopped to stand in front of their table.

  “Howdy, gents,” he said, hands hanging near his pistol.

  Falcon pushed his chair back, leaned back, and extended his right leg, with his right hand on his thigh near his Colt in case the sheriff gave him no choice.

  “Good morning, Sheriff,” Falcon said, staring at the man with the badge but watching his friends out of the corner of his eyes.

  The Kid said nothing, but Falcon noticed he shifted in his chair so his pistol was within ready reach should the nee
d arise. He, too, watched the group before them, a slight grin curling the corners of his mouth, his eyes as cold as a winter blizzard.

  “My name’s Sheriff William Brady. My men tell me you drew down on them, and shot one of my deputies.”

  Falcon cut his eyes to Scarface. “Then your men are liars, sheriff.”

  Scarface blanched at the insult, his hand falling toward his pistol as he leaned forward.

  Falcon didn’t move or take his eyes off the man. “Your man drew on my friend and me first, Sheriff, for no reason.”

  Falcon paused for just a second, then continued. “And if you don’t control that one there, he’ll be the next one lying on his back with a bullet in his chest.” He inclined his head toward Scarface.

  Brady’s eyes narrowed as he studied Falcon and noticed the way his Colts were tied down low, and the way his hands were quiet, with no sign of nerves at facing seven men to their two. He chewed on his lip, considering his options.

  “Well, whatever the cause I don’t take kindly to strangers shootin’ up my men.”

  Falcon shrugged. “I don’t take kindly to tinhorn deputies trying to throw their weight around by hassling law-abiding citizens who aren’t breaking any laws, Sheriff. Last time I looked, it was still legal to ride down a trail minding your own business.”

  “They was comin’ from Chisum’s, Bill,” Scarface said in a whiny voice.

  “That true, mister?” the sheriff asked.

  “Yes. My father was an old friend of Mr. Chisum’s, and I stopped by to give him my regards on my way to Fort Sumner.”

  “Then you don’t work for him?”

  Falcon shook his head. “No.”

  The sheriff turned his attention to the Kid. “How about you, boy?”

  The Kid’s grin faltered for just a second at the word boy, then returned, as insolent as ever. “Not me, neither,” he said.

  “That’s the one shot Johnny Roy,” Scarface said, pointing at the Kid.

  “That so, boy?” the sheriff asked.

  The Kid leaned back in his chair, his hand near his pistol. “If Johnny Roy is the name of the fat tub of lard who tried to draw on me, then I’m the one that shot him.”

  “What’s your name, son?”

  “The name’s Billy Bonney, Sheriff, but I go by Kid.”

  “How about you, mister?”

  “My name is Falcon MacCallister, Sheriff, and the Kid is right. As I said earlier, your man drew on us without provocation or cause, and we acted in self-defense.”

  Brady frowned. “If Johnny drew first, how’d you manage to put lead in him? He’s pretty quick with a six-gun.”

  Kid snorted. “Quick? The man was slow as molasses in January.”

  Scarface said, “Johnny never ever cleared leather, Bill. He never had a chance.”

  Kid glanced at where Scarface held his hand on the butt of his pistol. “Neither will you, if you try to pull that hogleg,” he said. “I’ll drop you where you stand.”

  Brady shook his head. “That’s mighty tough talk for someone outnumbered three to one, boy.”

  Kid smirked and started to stand up, but Falcon put a hand on his arm. “Sheriff, have we broken any laws?”

  Brady glanced at Falcon and rubbed his chin. “I don’t suppose so, not if the shootin’ went as you say it did.”

  “Then I suggest you question all your men about the events on the trail before we start something here that might get someone else hurt.”

  Brady nodded. “I’ll do that, Mr. MacCallister, and I’ll also take a look at my posters, see if there’s any paper out on you boys.”

  Five

  As Brady walked out of the room Falcon noticed the Kid watching him with narrowed eyes and pursed lips.

  “You worried about what Sheriff Brady might find among those wanted posters, Kid?”

  Kid shrugged. “Not really. I done told you I was in jail a couple of times and broke out.” He rubbed his chin, then felt the thin, wispy hairs of his sparse moustache, a thoughtful look on his face. “ ’Course, that was under another name, so I doubt it matters what the sheriff does.”

  “What name were you using then?”

  “Henry Antrim, but I was called Kid Antrim.”

  Falcon shook his head, sighing. “Well, I hope the sheriff is as dumb as he looks, and doesn’t make the connection between Kid Antrim and Billy Bonney.”

  Kid looked surprised. “I never thought of that.”

  “Let’s hope the sheriff doesn’t either, Kid, or we’ll both have some heavy explaining to do.”

  Falcon stood up, threw some coins down on the table, and said, “Now, let’s see if we can find out where this Mr. Tunstall you’re looking for lives.”

  The Kid raised his hand, summoning their waitress.

  “Si, señor, may I help you?”

  “Yeah. Can you tell us where to find a Mr. John Tunstall?”

  The Mexican’s face paled, and her eyes widened as she looked over her shoulder to see if anyone was listening. “Not so loud, señor. This place not like Mr. Tunstall much.”

  She glanced around again, then whispered, “He has general store at other end of town. You cannot miss it.”

  When she finished, she picked up Falcon’s money and hurried back through the door into the kitchen, casting a worried look over her shoulder at the Kid and Falcon before she disappeared.

  “What do you suppose she meant by all that?” Kid asked.

  “Only one way to find out, Kid. Let’s mosey on down the street and look for his store.”

  As they walked down the wooden planks of the town’s boardwalk, Falcon watched the townspeople as they scurried about their business.

  “You notice anything funny about these people, Kid?”

  The Kid glanced around, shrugging. “Naw. Why’d you ask?”

  “It’s just a feeling I get . . . seems they’re all so serious, almost as if they’re walking on eggshells, waiting for something to happen.”

  The Kid shrugged again. “Couldn’t tell it by me, Falcon. They just look like ordinary folk doin’ whatever it takes to get along.”

  He stopped and pointed up ahead. “There it is—Tun—stall’s Emporium, the sign says.”

  Falcon, more observant than the Kid, also noticed the pair of tough-looking gunhands hanging around the entrance to Tunstall’s place. They were leaning back against the wall on either side of the door, thumbs hooked in belts with holsters tied down low on their legs. Though their posture was relaxed, he could see their eyes scanning the street, missing nothing.

  “I wonder why Tunstall feels the need to have armed guards in front of his store” Falcon muttered to himself.

  “What’d you say?” the Kid asked, impatient now to find Tunstall.

  “Nothing,” Falcon answered, “just thinking out loud.”

  They walked up the boardwalk and had started to enter the store, when one of the gunnies grabbed the Kid by the arm. Suddenly, he was staring down the barrel of a .44 Colt that appeared as if by magic in the Kid’s hand.

  “If’n I was you, mister, I’d let go of my arm, real gentle like,” the Kid said through tight lips.

  Falcon put a hand on the Colt, pushing it down. “That’s all right, Kid. This man is just doing what Mr. Tunstall pays him to do, guard his establishment.”

  The Kid raised his eyebrows. “That right, mister? You work for Tunstall?”

  The cowboy nodded, sweat running down his forehead to drip into his eyes, his gaze locked on the Colt in the Kid’s hand. “Yeah. We’re supposed to keep any of Dolan’s or Riley’s men outta here.”

  “Who?” the Kid asked.

  “Never mind, Kid. I’m sure Mr. Tunstall will fill us in once we get to talk to him.”

  A voice from inside called, “It’s okay, Roy. Let the gentlemen in, please.”

  Falcon and the Kid walked into a large room filled with all manner of ranching implements, clothes, and foodstuffs. There was a counter running along one side of the wall off to the right,
and in a far corner sat a large, potbellied stove. Next to the stove was a table where four men sat drinking coffee.

  One of the men was young, appearing to be in his early twenties, with a fair complexion and bright green eyes, wearing a brown jacket over corduroy pants. The other men were older. One wore a suit and vest with a gold watch-chain hanging across it. The other two were cowboys, wearing jeans and shirts and Stetson hats which had seen plenty of wear. Like the two outside the door, the punchers were packing pistols tied down low on their legs, and looked ready to use them.

  The Kid walked up to the older man in the suit and stuck out his hand. “Mr. Tunstall, my name’s Billy Bonney and—

  The man held up his hand, grinning. “Hold on there, slick. My name is Alexander McSween. I’m Mr. Tunstall’s lawyer. ”

  He inclined his head to the younger man sitting next to him. “There’s the man you want to talk to.”

  Tunstall stood up and held out his hand. “Mr. Bonney, I’m John Henry Tunstall,” he said with an English accent. He looked at the other men, adding, “Alex McSween is my lawyer, Dick Brewer there is foreman of my ranch, and the chap next to him is his assistant, Charlie Bowdre.”

  The Kid tipped his hat, “Howdy, boys. This here is my friend, Falcon MacCallister.”

  Falcon nodded and Tunstall grinned, saying, “You any relation to Jamie MacCallister?”

  “Yes. He was my father.”

  Tunstall frowned. “Was?”

  “Yes. He died a while back.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” Tunstall said. “I can’t tell you how many times I’ve sat here next to this very stove during a blue norther and listened to John Chisum tell tales of how the two of them rode together, fighting Indians, rustlers, and seems like just about everyone else, in the old days.”

  Falcon smiled. “Probably the same tall stories I used to hear from my dad, and he had more than his share of adventures in his life.”

  “Well, maybe we’ll get a chance to share some stories, if you plan to be around here long enough.”

  He looked back to the Kid. “What can I do for you, Mr. Bonney?”

  “I spoke with Mr. Chisum, an’ he said you could maybe use another hand. I’m lookin’ for work.”