That ended the chitchat and Falcon returned to his half-finished plate of stew and another cup of coffee. He was just sopping up the gravy with the last hunk of bread when the door to the saloon was flung open and several men stomped into the room. Falcon recognized one of them immediately. A bully and hired gun from down New Mexico way who was known as Red Broner. Falcon didn't know the other three but could tell they were of the same stripe as Red: hired guns who probably didn't know one end of a cow from the other. They had all been drinking and were now looking for trouble. Falcon sat motionless at the table, which was partly obscured by shadows in the dimly lit room. So far, the gunnies had not noticed him.
“Well, now,” Red said, an ugly tone behind the words. “If it ain't the Bailey family done come to pay us all a visit. I figured you folks would have turned tail and run off by now.”
“You figured wrong, Red,” the foreman said, leaning against a counter.
Red cut his eyes. “Old man, you keep that mouth of yourn shut 'fore I shut it up permanent.”
“Anytime you feel lucky, Red,” the foreman said, straightening up, his right hand close to the butt of his pistol.
Bailey stepped between the two men, and cut his eyes to the foreman. “That'll do. We came in for supplies. Not trouble.” He lowered his voice to a whisper and added, “I need you alive, Kip.”
“All right, John,” the foreman said in a low tone. “This time.”
“I reckon two old men would near 'bouts make one whole man, don't you, Red?” another of the hired gunnies spoke.
“Now, that makes right smart sense to me,” Red replied. “We could get shut of some pesky little trouble for the boss right here and now.” He turned to face John Bailey. “How about that, Bailey? You think that's a right smart idea?”
“You leave my grandpa alone!” Jimmy yelled, running up and hitting Red in the belly with a small fist.
Red laughed and shoved the boy away.
Another of the hired gunnies laughed. “Hell, the boy's got more nerve than both them old men.”
Jimmy lunged at Red and this time Red backhanded the boy, knocking him to the floor.
Before either the grandfather or the foreman could react, Falcon stood up. It was time for him to step in and get dealt some cards in this game. He knew that Red was pretty quick on the draw and doubted that either Bailey or Kip were really gunhands; just hard-working ranchers.
“Don't hit the boy,” Falcon said.
All eyes turned toward Falcon, a tall figure standing in the shadows.
“This ain't none of your affair, mister,” Red said. “Stay out of it.”
“I'm making it my affair,” Falcon told him.
“Do tell,” another hired gun said. “And who might you be?”
“Val Mack,” Falcon said. “If names make any difference.”
“Well, Val Mack,” Red spoke slowly, squinting his eyes, trying to get a better look at Falcon in the dimness of the large room. “You buyin' chips in a losin' hand here. You know who we ride for?”
“No, and I don't care.”
“I'll take the drifter, Red,” the fourth gunny spoke.
“He's all yourn, Green,” Red said. “But he's got to be some sort of idgit for stickin' his nose in this.”
Jimmy had retreated to the safety of his mother's arms. The women stood off to one side, backed up against the front wall of the building. The owner and his wife were behind the counter, ready to hit the floor when the lead started flying.
“Your play, Green,” Falcon spoke the words very softly.
Green smiled. His teeth were rotting and yellow. “OK, tinhorn. Now!” He grabbed for his pistol.
Two
Falcon shot Green in the chest before the so-called fast gun's hand could close around the butt of his .45. Green slammed back and sat down on the floor of the store.
“Jesus,” breathed the foreman, Kip.
Falcon holstered his .44 and turned slightly, to face Red. “Looks like I won that hand, Red. Now, you big-mouth son of a bitch, it's your turn. You going to fold, call, or raise?”
Red suddenly looked a little sick around the mouth. He'd been around, he'd seen some fast gunhands, but he had never seen anything even come close to this tall stranger. Who the hell was this guy?
“Red,” one of his men said. “Gilman needs to know about this. Let's ride.”
“Good idea, Red,” Falcon said. “You just tuck your tail 'tween your legs and slink on out of here. Run home to your master and whine. And take these rabid coyotes with you.”
“He's crazy in the head, Red,” another of the gunnies said. “Got to be. Let's get the hell gone from here. This guy's plumb loco.”
“Drag Green out with you,” Falcon told them.
“You're a dead man, Val Mack,” Red said, his voice just a tad shaky.
“Shut up and get out of here!” Falcon replied.
“We're gone, Mack,” a gunny said, bending down and grabbing Green by the armpits, dragging him toward the door. The other gunny grabbed Green's feet and he was toted out the front, slung over his saddle, and roped down.
But Red wouldn't leave it alone. He just had to run his mouth one more time.
“Val Mack ain't your real name, mister. What is it?”
“Well now, Red,” Falcon said, “some folks say I'm part timber wolf, part grizzly bear, and part puma. I've been called lots of things in my life ...” Falcon smiled, letting the lie grow bigger. “... but Val Mack is my real name. But you can just call me the better man.”
That did it. Red flushed and said, “Why you dirty son of a bitch!” He jumped at Falcon.
Falcon reached up and jerked a bridle off a nail on a post. The bridle was fancy, with lots of silver work on it, and it was heavy. Falcon proceeded to beat the snot out of Red with the silver-inlaid bridle, the bit drawing blood each time Falcon swung. Falcon hit him in the face about a dozen times, until finally Red was begging for mercy.
“Ride, Red!” Falcon told him. “And you walk real light around me should we ever meet up again. Now, get out of here!”
Red crawled out of the store on all fours and managed to get into the saddle and gallop off. Falcon hung the bridle back on the nail and returned to his coffee. It had cooled until it was just right to drink without scalding his lips.
Falcon sat back down and rolled a cigarette and drank his coffee.
“Who are you, mister?” Mrs. Bailey blurted. “Red is supposed to be one of the fastest guns around.”
Falcon ignored the question and said, “He's a yellow-bellied, back-shootin' tinhorn. Tell me, how many small ranchers are in this area?”
“Not near as many as there was a year ago,” John Bailey replied. “I reckon there's 'bout eight of us left.”
“This Gilman playing the game rough, eh?”
“There's been some night ridin' and house and barn burnin's,” Kip said. “And some killin'.”
“And Gilman then picks up the property for ten cents on the dollar or so?”
“You got it. Them that's left alive to sell, that is,” John added.
The trading post owner's wife came out with a mop and a bucket and began mopping the floor where Green had bled and died.
“We'd better get the supplies and get on back to the ranch, John,” his wife said.
“What? Oh. Yes. Of course. I'd forgotten why we came in.”
Falcon knew there was a little two-bit town not far from here and wondered why Bailey didn't shop there. Probably because Gilman owns the town, he concluded. He tried to think of the name of the town. Wasn't much of a town, as he recalled. A big general store, a saloon, a livery, a barber shop/bathhouseâthe owner serving as the town's barber, doctor, and undertakerâcouple of other buildings.
Falcon drank his coffee and watched as the trading post owner began bringing out and stacking up bags and boxes and sacks of supplies.
“You want some friendly advice, Mr. Mack?” the rancher's wife broke the silence.
“Sure.”
“You'd better not dally too long. Soon as Gilman's gunhands report what happened here, Miles will be riding to find you.”
“That's good advice, Mr. Mack,” Kip said. “He's got a rough bunch working for him.”
“Oh, I like it around here,” Falcon replied. “I just might stay for a few days.”
The trading post owner gave him a quick glance and rolled his eyes. The expression said silently:
I hope to hell you don't do it here!
Falcon looked at the little boy, standing wide-eyed, staring at him. He walked to the counter and got a fistful of peppermint candy and handed it to Jimmy. “Here you go, boy.”
“Kind of you, Mr. Mack,” the boy's mother said.
“The boy's seen some awful sights this day, ma'am.”
“He's seen killin' before,” John Bailey said. “That ain't nothin' we're proud of. Just statin' a fact.”
Falcon nodded his head in understanding while Jimmy chomped away at the stick candy. Too many kids in the west had to grow up awfully fast; many of them doing a man's job by the time they reached Jimmy's age, never really enjoying any carefree times as a youth.
The Indian woman had cleaned up the spot where Red died and disappeared into the back of the store. The two ranch women were busy shopping. John Bailey looked at Falcon and jerked his head toward the outside. Falcon stepped outside with the ranch owner and foreman.
“You wouldn't be lookin' for a job, now, would you, Mr. Mack?” John asked.
Falcon smiled. Due in no small part to his own ambition and also to his father's inheritance, Falcon was probably one of the richest men in the west. Jamie MacCallister had left all his kids enormously wealthy. “Well, sir, not really. But I do know something about cattle and horses. You need a hand for a few weeks?”
“We sure do,” John replied.
“I can stick around for a few weeks,” Falcon said. “Let me settle up for my meal and I'll follow you out to your ranch.”
“Not even goin' to ask what we pay?” Kip questioned.
“No. Three hots and a cot will do me for a few weeks.”
“You're mighty easy to please, Mr. Mack,” John said.
“Oh, I'm really a very easygoing fellow,” Falcon replied with a smile.
“So's a grizzly,” Kip said very drily. “Till you mess with it.”
Falcon chuckled. “Oddly enough, that's what some folks used to say about my pa.”
“He must have been an interestin' man,” John said.
“Oh, I think you'd be safe in saying that. Yes, sir. A real interesting man.”
* * *
John Bailey's ranch was not small by anyone's standards, and he was running a pretty good sized head. Problem was, as John had explained on the ride out, he couldn't get them to market 'cause he couldn't hire hands.... Miles Gilman had put out the word and that was that in this part of the country.
Falcon smiled when he first saw the brand: the Rockingchair. John watched the smile form on Falcon's lips and chuckled.
“You like that brand, Val?”
“I do. That'll be difficult to change into anything else.”
“You seen the Gilman brand?” Kip asked.
“No.”
“Striking snake. A really ugly brand.”
“Another unusual one.”
“It fits him just right,” John said. “Miles is a human rattlesnake.”
The ranch house came into view, and it was a nice, strongly built home, plain, but practical. The bunkhouse sat off to one side. There was smoke coming from the ranch house chimney.
“Cookie,” Kip explained. “He's too crippled up to ride much, but he's a good cook. And he hates Miles Gilman.”
“Too many broncs bust him up?”
“No,” John said. “Miles Gilman crippled him with a shotgun. Shot him in the legs. Cookie can get around, but he limps badly. And he's got a touch of old age comin' on him, too. But he's a damn good man. He wouldn't back up from a puma.”
“You real particular about your hands, John?” Falcon asked.
The rancher gave him a quizzical look. “I don't follow you, Val.”
“Well, I know some old boys who don't scare worth a damn. But they aren't really cowboys.”
“Can they sit a horse?”
“They can ride anything with hair on it. Including a grizzly bear.”
John gave him another funny look and nodded his head. “But they would ride for the brand?”
“One hundred and ten percent.”
“How long would it take for you to get them here?”
“Where's the nearest telegraph office?”
“In town. But town is dangerous.”
“What's the name of this town?”
“Gilman.”
Falcon laughed. He should have guessed. “Oh . . . I can have them here in a couple of weeks. Give us a couple of weeks to round up the cattle, and we can have them on the trail to the railhead.”
“How many of these men can you get?” Kip asked.
“Oh ... six, maybe seven. But I have to warn you, they're not spring chickens. They'll be men mostly in their late fifties and early sixties. Maybe a couple older than that.”
John gave him another very curious glance as they rode up to the ranch house. “You're sure they can stand up to a cattle drive, Val?”
“I'm sure.”
“Well,” the rancher said. “Hell, get them. I sure ain't got nothin' to lose.”
“I'll ride into town first thing in the morning. I'll leave early and get there just as the telegraph office is opening.”
“Son,” John said, “that town is a death trap.”
“We'll see,” Falcon replied with a smile.
“I'll get you fresh blankets for your bunk,” Angie said, smiling at Falcon.
Amazing how attitudes can change so quickly, Falcon thought, hiding his smile. Five hours ago she wouldn't give me the day of the month. “That's very nice of you, Miss Angie.”
“Angie, please,” she said, batting her eyes at him.
Falcon helped carry the supplies into the house, got his blankets, and by the time he returned, a man with a bad limp had taken his horses down to the corral and was waiting to howdy and shake with Falcon. He had not attempted to unsaddle Hell.
“I'm Cookie,” he said, holding out a callused hand.
Falcon took the hand, hard as a rock, and shook it. “Val Mack.”
“Uh-huh,” the older man said, just as Falcon got the distinct impression that somewhere down the line he'd met the man. “You know what you're gettin' onto here, Val?”
“A peck of trouble, I reckon.”
“More like a wagon load, Val. Come on, let's walk over to the bunkhouse and get you settled in.”
The bunkhouse was well built and snug, the bunk comfortable and long enough for Falcon's tall frame. He'd been in some fancy hotels where his feet hung over the end of the bed.
Cookie limped back to the house and Falcon unpacked his gear and stowed it away. Then he went down to the barn and brushed his horses and forked hay to them. He had noticed that Cookie wore a pistol all the time, so Falcon checked his own six-shooters and his rifle. He made sure all the ammo loops in his cartridge belt were full, then sat outside the bunkhouse on a bench, smoking a cigarette.
Nice spread,
Falcon thought.
John Bailey's done well for himself and his family.
Then he wondered what had happened to the man who'd fathered Angie's child. Dead? Drifted away like some men do? Fine-looking woman like that, he rather doubted the husband drifting off. Course, he smiled, she might have a temper like a wolverine. That had caused many a man to haul his ashes.
Then Falcon gave some serious thought to the men he'd try, and the optimum word was
try
, to get hold of, come the morning. He would send a wire to some settled-down friends of his, and then they would attempt to get hold of the ol' war-hosses ... somehow. Money to get them here as quickly as possible was no object, for Falcon had money in banks and with investment houses and attorneys all over the west, under various names. He had five thousand dollars with him, in a money belt and in his saddlebags (now hidden under a loose board in the bunkhouse, which was loose no longer), in gold and greenbacks.
But Gilman was small potatoes compared to Nance Noonan and his nutty brothers, and on his way to the cabin where he'd holed up, Falcon had learned there were ten Noonan boys. Well... there were eight left, since Falcon had dispatched Chet and Butch. And each of the brothers had five or six kids.
“Jesus,” Falcon whispered to the breeze. “Nance has an army just with his brothers and their kids.”
Plus, Falcon knew, with all hands combined, there were at least a hundred men at Nance's command . . . probably more.
Well, Falcon thought, his pa'd had about that many men chasing him on more than one occasion. Falcon smiled at that, knowing that he wasn't quite the hoss Jamie Ian MacCallister had been. Close, but not quite.
Hell, no man was.
Falcon rose from the bench and went to the washbasin to clean up for supper, scrubbing his face and neck and hands with strong soap and drying off with a towel from a peg. He ran his fingers through his thick hair and then looked at his reflection in the piece of mirror affixed to a post. In the mirror, he caught movement and turned. Kip was walking up behind him.