Carnage of Eagles Read online

“You going to spend any time in town, Mr. MacCallister?” Doc Burtz asked.

  “I’m just passing through,” Falcon said. “I’m heading on down to Sorrento.”

  The other players looked at each other just for a quick beat before one of them spoke.

  “You live in Sorrento, do you?”

  “I’ve never been to Sorrento,” Falcon replied. “But I have a friend who does live there. Well, more of an old acquaintance than a friend. His name is Harold Denham. He owns the newspaper there.”

  Buck Paddock chuckled. “He sure does,” he said. “And he is a ripsnorter, too. It’s a wonder Judge Dawes hasn’t closed his newspaper down, when you read some of the stories Denham has printed about him.”

  “You mean close him down just for what he is printing? How can he do that?” Falcon asked.

  “How can he do it? It’s very simple,” Paddock replied. “All he has to do is order Sheriff Poindexter to do it, and it’s done.”

  “Sheriff Poindexter is Judge Dawes’s man. He doesn’t do anything unless Judge Dawes tells him to. And he’ll do anything the judge tells him to do,” Tidball said.

  “Whatever happened to freedom of the press?” Falcon asked.

  “Freedom of the press?” Paddock replied. “That’s a good question. And I have to hand it to Denham. He is doing everything he can to keep a free press. I have to confess that he has more gumption than I do. I don’t know but what I wouldn’t just leave.”

  “Ha!” Doc Burtz said. “Mr. MacCallister, our newspaperman here was born in Wisconsin, a Yankee who believed so much in states’ rights that, at the age of seventeen, he left home and went to Mississippi to join the Confederacy.”

  “Where, I might add,” Tidball continued, “he became the youngest officer in the entire Confederate army.”

  “So when he says he lacks gumption and would leave, he is being disingenuous,” Doc Burtz added.

  Paddock chuckled. “My, my, ‘disingenuous.’ That’s quite a word for you, Doc.”

  “Are you surprised? The books in medical school are written in English,” Doc Burtz said.

  “Yes, well, getting back to Sorrento and freedom of the press. If left up to the judge and sheriff, there would not only be no freedom of the press, you wouldn’t even be able to go out on the street and start speaking ill of the judge or the sheriff. You can’t say anything negative about either of them, because the judge has passed a rule against it.”

  “What kind of rule can prevent freedom of the press or freedom of speech?” Falcon asked.

  “A rule that says such conduct promotes disorder and advocates the violent overthrow of a legally constituted government,” Tidball said.

  “That’s ridiculous.”

  “Yes, indeed it is. But that is also Sorrento,” Paddock said. “However, I am proud to say that my fellow crusading journalist, Harold Denham, is fighting to maintain those freedoms which every American holds so dear to their heart.”

  A new man stepped into the saloon then, and he stood just to one side of the batwing doors, backed up against the wall as he studied the saloon. He was taller than average with shoulder-length black hair and deep-set dark eyes. His skin was naturally dark and deeply tanned so that he lacked only the high cheekbones to pass as an Indian.

  After perusing the room for moment, he stepped up to the bar, where, without asking, he was given a beer.

  “There’s Marshal Courtright,” Doc Burtz said.

  Falcon looked up. “Courtright? Jim Courtright?”

  “You’ve heard of him?”

  “Yes, I’ve heard of him.” Falcon stood up and turned toward the tall man at the bar. “Courtright! You low-life mangy cur! Turn around and face me like a man!” he shouted.

  Courtright was known as a man who was quick on the draw and a deadly accurate shot. At Falcon’s challenging words, everyone in the saloon moved quickly to get out of the way of any impending gunfire.

  Courtright turned toward Falcon with an angry expression set on his face.

  “So, MacCallister,” he said. “You didn’t learn the lesson the last time we met? I have to teach you again?”

  “You couldn’t teach a thirsty dog to drink,” Falcon replied.

  The saloon grew very quiet as the two men looked at each other, and the bartender moved to the far end of the bar. The tension was palpable, and both Falcon and Courtright held their hands just over the grips of their pistols, their fingers curling and uncurling.

  “What’s this all about?” Tidball asked in a voice so low as to nearly be a whisper.

  “I don’t know,” Paddock replied, his voice as quiet as Tidball’s. “But I sure don’t like the looks of it.”

  The pregnant silence continued for several seconds more as the two men glared at each other. Then, suddenly, and unexpectedly, both men began laughing and moving quickly toward each other, shook hands, and grasped each other by the shoulder.

  There was a corporate sigh of relief from everyone in the saloon.

  “Falcon, you mangy old mountain lion, how are you?” Courtright asked.

  “Doing well, Jim. The last time I saw you, you and your wife were doing trick shooting with a Wild West show. How is Betty, anyway?”

  “Just as bossy as ever. You’re looking good,” Courtright replied.

  “How about joining me at the table with my new friends?” Falcon invited.

  Tidball hustled to bring another chair to the table, and Courtright sat down to join them.

  “Now, this isn’t fair,” Courtright teased. “These gentlemen always let me win when I play. But with you in the game, I don’t know.”

  Paddock laughed. “Jim Courtright, you haven’t won a hand of poker since Reconstruction. But I give you credit for continuing to try.”

  As a new hand was dealt, the five men continued with their conversation.

  “What is the story with Posey, Slim, and Red?” Courtright asked. “Someone stopped by the office and told me they were making trouble. That’s why I came down here.”

  “They tried to make trouble,” Paddock said. “But Mr. MacCallister handled them.”

  “Oh?”

  Paddock, Tidball, and Doc Burtz took turns then, with laughter and elaborate hand gestures, describing how the three belligerent cowboys were sent home.

  “You be on the lookout for them, Falcon,” Courtright said. “I’ve had run-ins with them before. They are troublemakers.”

  “Thanks for the warning.”

  “Mr. MacCallister is going to Sorrento,” Tidball said.

  “Why in heaven’s name would you want to go there?” Courtright asked.

  “A friend has written to me for help.”

  “Denham,” Paddock said.

  “Denham? Oh, yes, the newspaper editor. Has he wound up in jail?” Courtright asked.

  “Not yet, though from what these gentlemen have been telling me, he may be there now, for all that I know.”

  “Falcon, I advise you to be very careful around Poindexter and Dawes. They have more power than any other judge and sheriff that I know of in the entire State of Texas.”

  “How did they get so much power?” Falcon asked.

  “That, my friend, I can’t tell you, because I don’t know,” Courtright replied.

  “Jim, maybe you could do something to help him,” Tidball suggested.

  “What, you mean go to Sorrento with him? I don’t think the city fathers of Fort Worth would care much for that, do you?”

  “I wasn’t talking about that,” Tidball said. “I was talking about Senator Maxey. You know him very well. Maybe he could get Mr. MacCallister appointed Deputy U.S. Marshal.”

  “Yes,” Courtright replied. “Yes, that’s not a bad idea. I’m sure it would only be a temporary appointment, but it would give you the authority you might need to deal with a sitting judge and sheriff.”

  “How long would it take you to do this?” Falcon asked.

  “I’m not sure, a few days, a few weeks. Would you be interested?”
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  “Yes, I think I would be. But I don’t want to wait around here for it. From the tone of Denham’s letter, I need to be getting on to Sorrento as soon as I can.”

  “All right, you go ahead,” Courtright said. “As soon as the appointment comes through, I’ll send it to you by telegraph.”

  “May I make a suggestion?” Paddock asked.

  “Sure.”

  “You had better work out some code to use in the telegram. From what I understand, you don’t quite know who you can, and who you can’t, trust in Sorrento. If you send MacCallister a telegram saying he has been appointed a Deputy U.S. Marshal and the telegrapher is in the camp of Dawes and Poindexter, MacCallister might not even get it. And if he does get it . . . chances are Dawes and Poindexter would get it first.”

  “You may be right,” Courtright agreed. “All right. As soon as the appointment is confirmed, I will send a telegram that says, ‘the horse you want to buy is for sale,’ and that will be your signal.”

  “Your bet, Jim,” Paddock said.

  Courtright looked at his hand. “Who dealt this mess?”

  “I did,” Doc Burtz said.”

  “I ought to throw you in jail for malpractice.” With a groan, Courtright threw down his hand. “I’m out.”

  Falcon took a room in the El Paso Hotel. The El Paso advertised itself as one that could “match any hotel in San Francisco, St. Louis, or New York,” and having stayed in the finest hotels in all those cities, Falcon couldn’t argue with the boast.

  His room was large, well lighted by gas lanterns, and comfortably furnished. Because he would have a full day of riding the next day, he decided to go to bed early. Through the open window, he could hear the sounds of the town at night: competing music from half a dozen saloons, a departing train down at the depot, the braying of a mule. Finally it all faded away as he drifted off to sleep.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Outside, Posey, Slim, and Red were standing on the bank of the Trinity River, looking at the reflection of the moon in the dark water that flowed swiftly by. Red picked up a rock and tossed it into the river, then watched as the ripples caused the reflected moonlight to shimmer.

  “I’d feel better waitin’ until tomorrow when we have our guns,” Red said.

  “You heard what they said. He’s leavin’ town in the morning,” Slim said.

  “Besides, I don’t want to kill the son of a bitch, I just want to beat the livin’ hell out of him,” Posey said.

  “Yeah, well that didn’t work out too well the last time, did it?” Red said. “He was just one man, and he handled all three of us.”

  “That’s because he caught us by surprise,” Posey replied. “You don’t really think he could whip all three of us at the same time if it was a fair fight, do you?”

  “I don’t know,” Slim said. “He handled himself pretty good.”

  “That’s why this time, the surprise is goin’ to be on our side,” Posey said. “What time is it?”

  “It must be after midnight,” Red said. “There’s a city ordinance that says the pianos in the saloons have to quit playing at midnight, and I don’t hear none of ’em playin’. Do you?”

  “No, I don’t hear nothin’, neither. Let’s go.”

  “You’re sure he’s stayin’ at the El Paso?” Slim asked.

  “We seen him go in, didn’t we?” Posey replied. “Did we see him come out?”

  “No.”

  “Then the son of a bitch is in there.”

  “How are we goin’ to do this?”

  “This time of night, it’s more’n likely that the clerk is goin’ to be sound asleep. We’ll just take a look at the registration book, figure out which room MacCallister is in, go up to his room, sneak in, and just start beatin’ the hell out of him.”

  “Well, if we’re goin’ to do it, let’s do it,” Red said. “Ain’t much need in just standing around like this.”

  “Red’s right,” Posey said as they started toward the three horses standing nearby, tied to the branch of a tree.

  The three men mounted, then rode back into town, the clopping sound of hoofbeats echoing back from the dark and quiet buildings.

  They dismounted in front of the hotel, tied their horses off at the hitching rack, and then went inside.

  The lobby was dimly lit by the gas lights that hissed quietly in the background. The three men moved silently across the carpeted floor to the check-in desk. Posey’s declaration that the clerk would be asleep was correct, as he was sitting in a chair that was tipped back against the wall.

  Posey turned the registration book around, ran his fingers down the list until he came to the name MacCallister. Then he got the room number and, reaching up, over the desk, took the spare key down from a hook of the same number.

  “Let’s go,” he whispered, starting back across the carpeted floor to the stairway.

  Falcon was awakened from a sound sleep. He wasn’t sure what woke him up, whether it was a sound or something as subtle as a change in the air pressure when the door to his room opened. Or perhaps it was just a sixth sense developed over years of living on the edge. Whatever it was, he no longer questioned it. Instantly alert, he sensed danger, and very quietly he rolled out of his bed on the side away from the door, snaking his pistol from the holster at the same moment. He crawled, quickly, to the opposite side of the room, then stood up in the shadows of the corner.

  From the dimly glowing gas lantern that provided illumination for the hallway, a wedge of light spilled into the room. Falcon saw three men come quietly inside. He could see them in silhouette only, but because there were three of them, he knew that they were the same people he had encountered in the saloon earlier today. Or was it yesterday? He had no idea whether it was before or after midnight.

  “Let’s see you fight now, you son of a bitch!” one of the three men yelled, and they leaped onto the bed.

  “What the hell? Where is he?”

  “Hello, boys, I thought you might come back for a visit,” Falcon said. Even as he spoke, he struck a match head with his thumb, then held it to the gas lantern on the table beside him. A glowing bubble of golden light filled the room.

  Startled, the three men turned toward him and would have rushed him had they not noticed that he was holding a pistol leveled toward them.

  “What? What are you going to do?” Posey asked, his voice edged with fear.

  “What would anybody do when they see someone breaking into their bedroom?” Falcon asked. “I’m going to shoot you, of course. All three of you.”

  “What? No!” Posey said. “No! Don’t shoot us!”

  “Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t.”

  “I . . . we’ll leave!” Posey said. “The three of us! We’ll go back to the ranch, and you’ll never see us again.”

  “And Millie?” Falcon asked.

  “Millie?”

  “The girl in the bar. You won’t bother her anymore?”

  “Why do you care? She ain’t nothin’ but a whore. Whores is supposed to be bothered,” Red said.

  “And people who break into other people’s rooms are supposed to be shot,” Falcon reminded them.

  “All right, no, wait. All right, we won’t none of us bother Millie no more,” Slim said.

  “Not just Millie. Don’t you mistreat any woman, anywhere. Because if you do, I’ll come back here and settle with you, personally.”

  “No, we won’t. We’ll treat ’em all good, I promise,” Posey said.

  “Get out of here,” Falcon said. “Don’t ever let me see any one of you again. And you,” he said, pointing specifically to Posey.

  “Yes?”

  “Change your pants.”

  “Oh, damn, oh, damn, I peed in ’em,” Posey said as the three men shuffled out of the hotel room. “I peed in ’em.”

  Falcon chuckled as he crawled back into bed. But before he got into bed this time, he moved the heavy clothespress against the door.

  Somewhere in the predawn d
arkness, a calf bawled anxiously and its mother answered. In the distance, a coyote sent up its long, lonesome wail, while out in the pond, frogs thrummed their night song. The moon was a thin sliver of silver, but the night was alive with stars . . . from the very bright, shining lights, all the way down to those stars that weren’t visible as individual bodies but whose glow added to the luminous powder that dusted the distant sky.

  Around the milling shapes of shadows that made up the small herd rode three cowboys, all of them riders for the Big Star Ranch, located seven miles south of Sorrento. Known as “nighthawks,” their job was to keep watch over the herd during the night.

  “You know what?” one of the cowboys asked. “I think Lucy is in love with ole’ Arnie here.”

  Arnie was seventeen, and the youngest of the three.

  “Hah, Lucy’s a whore. She’s in love with anyone that has a dollar and a half.”

  “No, Cal, I’m serious. I think Lucy is in love with Arnie. What have you done, Arnie? I been tryin’ to make her fall in love with me for the longest time, but here you come; you ain’t been here more’n six months and she’s in love with you. You must’a shown her a real good time.”

  “Stop your teasin’, Parker,” Arnie said. “You know I ain’t never been with Lucy.” He was quiet for a moment. “Fact is, I ain’t never been with no woman at all.”

  “You never had a woman? Why, boy, you ain’t goin’ to be a man till you have yourself a woman. How come you ain’t never been with Lucy? I mean, her lovin’ you so much ’n’ all.”

  “She don’t love me.”

  “You know what I think?” Cal said. “I think she loves ’im just ’cause he is a virgin. Whores likes to break in young virgins.”

  “That’s it,” Parker said. “Arnie, next time we go into town, you are goin’ to get broke in, and Lucy is the one that’s goin’ to do it.”

  The calf’s call for his mother came again, this time with more insistence. The mother’s answer had a degree of anxiousness to it.

  “Sounds like one of ’em’s wandered off,” Arnie said. “I’ll go find it.”

  “Hell, why bother? It’ll find its own way back.”