Rage of Eagles (21 page)

Lars managed to kick free of the firewood and jump up, looking for a bucket. Big Bob let fly another arrow and the stick of dynamite blew while still about fifteen feet in the air, just above and behind Lars. The concussion lifted the young man off his boots and turned him a slow flip in the air. He landed on his belly on the ground, the impact knocking the wind from him and the force of the explosion leaving him momentarily even nuttier and more addled than before. The young man managed to get to his hands and knees and began crawling around in circles, reciting a nursery rhyme remembered from his childhood.

“Somebody help me!” Terri screamed. “I'm trapped in here. Help, help!”

Several of the hired guns came staggering out of the ruined bunkhouse, their hands filled with pistols, firing wildly up into the hills. Rifles cracked from hidden positions and the hired guns went down in lifeless heaps.

More fire arrows were arched into the ranch house and the bunkhouse and soon both structures were blazing uncontrollably. Falcon and his men slipped away, back to their horses. They rode away from the scene of burning devastation, heading deeper into Snake range, all of them smiling. They were not yet through with Miles Gilman. The score in this deadly game was beginning to inch toward a tie.

Gilman was ruined: His home was destroyed and the large bunkhouse was rapidly turning into ashes. Only his barn remained intact. He'd lost more than twenty of his hired guns, most of them out of the fight with broken arms and legs and heads. Six of them were dead.

And Falcon and his mountain men still had half a night's work ahead of them.

“When we reach the main herd,” Falcon called, “start them running toward the grasslands and keep after them; keep them moving. It'll take weeks for Gilman to round them all up.”

“That's where Stegman's first herd is,” Big Bob called, a slow grin working its way onto his face.

“You bet,” Falcon called. “And when we push Gilman's beeves into that herd, we use dynamite to get them all in a stampede.”

“Hell,” Dan yelled over the pounding of hooves and the rush of the wind. “Some of these cattle will travel all the way to the mountains.”

“That's my plan,” Falcon said.

Laughing, the men rode on into the deepening dusk. They were going to have a good time this night.

When Gilman got word the morning after the attack on his ranch, he knew he was finished as a power in the county. Night riders had hit his herds after his ranch was destroyed and scattered them all to hell and gone. It would take weeks to round up the cattle, and even then many would never be found. Half a dozen of his regular hands had been wounded in the raids and another half dozen had quit. His two sons who had preferred the range to the ranch had been among the wounded. They were not seriously hurt, but they were out of it for a time. Lars had packed up a few things and moved into town with his sister, swearing he would shoot Falcon MacCallister the first chance he got. Miles Gilman had him a hunch that Lars would not live out the week, but made no attempt to dissuade his youngest son. All the steam had gone out of Miles for a time. He just sat among the ruins of his ranch and wondered why everything had gone to crap in such a hurry.

Nance Noonan and Rod Stegman had left Miles sitting amid the ruins of what had been his ranch. The only thing that remained was the barn. Miles appeared to be a broken man. And whether he would snap back or not was no concern of Noonan and Stegman's. Those two had suddenly been forced into a defensive posture, all because of Falcon MacCallister and six old mountain men.

The deputy federal marshal who had talked with Falcon in the darkness of the Rockingchair barn that night sat in his hotel room and chuckled at the developments. This was turning out to be the easiest assignment he'd ever had. All he was going to have to do was sit around and relax and drink coffee and let Falcon MacCallister and his friends handle the situation. He'd been warned by his superiors back in the Washington not to get directly involved; just hang around and keep tabs on the trouble in this part of Wyoming. Well, he was hanging around, for a fact, and he sure as hell wasn't getting involved.

The deputy U.S. marshal stretched out on his bed in his hotel room and decided to take him a little nap. Sure wasn't much else to do. The deputy federal marshal glanced out the window as three men came riding into town on Double N–branded horses. Three of the Noonan brothers. The Noonan brothers were easy to identify: They all bore a strong resemblance; they all looked like something that had just crawled out of a cave. It had been several days since the raid on the Snake ranch, and there had been no trouble.

The deputy U.S. marshal had had the thought just that morning that it was time for something to pop. And something sure was about to pop, for coming in from the other end of town was Falcon MacCallister, riding alone.

The deputy U.S. marshal slipped into his coat and left his room, walking down to the hotel lobby and taking a seat by a front window. He wasn't going to get involved in any fracas, but he did want a front row seat to this upcoming fight . . . and he was certain there was going to be a fight. The three Noonan brothers were riding stiff in the saddle and the smell of trouble was in the air. The deputy U.S. marshal had worn a badge for a long time; he knew trouble when he saw it.

Falcon stepped down from the saddle in front of the general store. He'd promised Jimmy some stick candy and decided he'd get that first and stow the peppermint candy in his saddlebags, then he'd go see Willard at the bank. It was then Falcon noticed the three men reining up in front of the Purple Palace Saloon and stepping down from their saddles. They slowly turned as one to face him. They were half a long block apart. Falcon silently cursed. He recognized the men as Noonans. Had to be. Hell, they all looked alike. They were all as big as bears and their facial features made them look like apes.

“You've done all you're gonna do, MacCallister,” one called. “You've interfered in affairs that ain't none of your business for the last time. I'm tellin' you that now.”

“You boys have to be related to Nance,” Falcon returned the call. “You sure look alike.”

Falcon had to get off the street. Had to pull these Noonan brothers with him. The street had a dozen or more people on both sides, on the boardwalks, including some kids. If lead started flying now, some innocent people would get hurt.

“Time for talkin' is over and done with,” one of the three brothers said. “Your time is over.”

“Who am I talking to?” Falcon said, stepping up onto the boardwalk and taking a couple of steps toward an alley. Just a few more steps and he'd be in the alley.

“Howard, Mark, and Nap Noonan,” another of the brothers called. “The three brothers who is gonna kill you.”

“Oh, I don't think so,” Falcon said, then quickly stepped into the alley and ran down to the end, stepping out behind the general store.

“Get that son of a bitch!” one of the brothers hollered. “Take the alley, Nap.”

Falcon took half a dozen steps and crouched down behind the privy that was shared by the general store and a farm supply business.

Nap came boiling out of the alley, six-gun in hand. He looked left and right as he muttered to himself about killing Falcon. He wanted to shoot Falcon in the belly and watch him die.

Nice fellow, Falcon thought.

“Where are you, you bastard!” Nap said.

“Right here,” Falcon called, then quickly shifted to the other side of the rear of the privy.

Nap triggered off a shot that knocked a chunk of wood from the privy.

“No doubt about them wanting to kill me,” Falcon said, as he leveled his .44 and put a round into Nap's belly.

Nap grunted and sat down on the ground, a strange expression on his apelike features. Then he hollered as intense pain struck him hard. “Howard, Mark!” Nap screamed. “I been hit. The bastard done shot me.”

Keeping the two-hole privy between himself and the badly wounded Nap, Falcon quietly slipped back a few yards and slid down into a ditch behind the long block of stores. He crouched there, waiting for the other Noonan brothers.

He could hear a lot of excited voices from the street side of the buildings, and a number of running feet as the shoppers went scurrying for cover.

Falcon cut his eyes to his right just as another of the Noonan brothers came around the corner of a building.

“Nap!” the brother called. “Hang on, boy. I'm comin' to help you.”

“Be careful, Howard,” Nap called weakly. “The bastard is hidin' in the ditch. Kill him for me, brother. The son of a bitch has done me in. Kill him.”

Falcon shot Howard in the chest and the man staggered backward, dropping his pistol, grunting and cussing. A six-gun barked and Falcon's hat flew off his head. Falcon threw himself to one side and bellied down in the ditch, leveling his .44 just as the third brother stepped out the back door of a store. Falcon drilled him in the belly and the brother fell back into the store.

“Mark!” Howard called. “Boy, come help your brother. I'm hard hit. I done lost my gun.”

“Stay where you are, Mark,” Nap called, his voice getting weaker. “That MacCallister is still alive and waitin'. Save yourself.”

Mark stepped out of the rear door, one hand holding his bloody stomach, the other hand holding a pistol. Falcon shot him in the chest and Mark tumbled face first onto the ground and lay still amid the broken bottles and debris.

Three of the Noonan brothers were down and dying. Falcon wondered how many more brothers there were. He'd heard there were seven or eight of them all told.

But these three were finished. Nap had fallen over on his face, kicked a couple of times, and now was still. Mark was still on the ground behind the store. Howard was still alive and cussing Falcon. But his pistol was six feet away from where he sat on the ground, his back to a building. Falcon looked around for his hat. It was ruined, laying a few feet away from him, full of huge holes front and back.

He picked up his hat, stuck his fingers through the holes, and sighed. It was his good hat, too.

“You played hell, boy,” Howard gasped. “You're as lucky a man as I've ever seen.”

“I had a good teacher,” Falcon told him, rising to his boots in the ditch. “My father.”

“Nance will kill you for shore over this, MacCallister.”

“I doubt it.”

“If he don't, I got three strappin' sons who'll avenge their pa's dyin'.”

“Not if they're smart, they won't.” Falcon walked over to where the man sat on the ground, his back to a building. “You got any words you want me to repeat to anybody special?”

“I reckon not.”

“Your wife?”

“She died years back. You go to hell, MacCallister.”

Falcon stood silent, looking down at the man. The town's doctor appeared at the other end of the alley, his black bag in hand.

“You want me to call Reverend Watkins?” the doctor asked.

“If you want to,” Falcon told him.

“I don't need no damn preacher,” Howard said.

“Suit yourself,” the doctor said, walking up and kneeling down. He pried Howard's hand away from his chest and opened the man's shirt.

“Don't bother,” Howard said. “I know I'm dyin'.” His voice was very weak and both Falcon and the doctor had to strain to hear his words. “I want . . .”

Whatever it was Howard Noonan wanted, he took the request to the grave with him. He died before he could finish the sentence.

“I only came into town to see the banker and to buy some peppermint candy,” Falcon said.

“Nobody is blaming you, Mr. MacCallister. Most of the town is behind you and John Bailey now. Now that Miles Gilman's stranglehold is broken. But I have to warn you: Lars is in town. That young man is, well, seemingly not right in the head.”

“He just needs a little straightening out.” Falcon looked at his hat. It was ruined. Falcon left the doctor and entered the general store through the back door. The Deans were both standing behind a counter, looking at him as if he had suddenly grown horns and a tail. Falcon waited on himself, selecting a new hat, then picking out a dozen peppermint sticks. He laid the money on the counter, then stowed the candy in his saddlebags. He was aware the entire time that Lars Gilman was standing in front of the hotel, watching his every move. He hoped the young man would not brace him, but he knew there was only a very slim chance he could mount up and ride out of town without Lars calling him out.

Falcon turned away from his horse. Lars was walking toward him, walking slowly up the boardwalk. The rancher's son was going to brace him. It was in his walk and his bearing. Falcon sighed.

Falcon waited for a moment. Lars pointed toward the street and stepped off the boardwalk.

“Kill him, Lars!” Terri shouted from the open hotel doors. “Kill him!”

The deputy U.S. marshal looked at the young woman. He wondered if the entire Gilman family was addled in the head? He had certainly never seen a stranger bunch.

Lars ignored his sister and stopped in the center of the street. The wind picked up and created a dust devil that danced wildly in the street for a moment, then vanished.

Falcon stepped away from his horse and walked to the center of the street. He called, “Don't do this, Lars. Go on back to the Snake and help your father. But don't do this. It's going to get you killed.”

“The Snake is ruined. You and them old men did it,” Lars shouted over the distance. “There ain't nothin' left.”

“Kill him, Lars!” Terri screamed.

The deputy U.S. marshal shook his head at the venom in the young woman's voice. He'd never heard such hate-filled words.

“The land is left, Lars,” Falcon called. “You and your father can rebuild and become a part of the community. You're a western man. You know how forgiving western people are. Everything that's happened will soon be forgotten.”

“Too late, MacCallister,” the young man called, then resumed walking toward Falcon.

“It's never too late, Lars. There's been enough killing. Too much. Let's stop this.”

The townspeople had gathered on the boardwalk on both sides of the street. Many of them nodded their heads silently at Falcon's words. Falcon was trying to bring the bloodshed to a halt. Lars was pushing for more blood to be spilled. The sentiment among the townspeople had changed drastically and dramatically.

“Stop this!” Reverend Watkins shouted. “Stop this killing at once.”

“Shut up, you crazy psalm-singing fart!” Terri screamed. “Shut your goddamn mouth.”

“I'll pray for you,” Reverend Watkins called from across the street.

“Stick it up your butt!” Terri responded.

The deputy U.S. marshal shook his head in wonderment. He'd never heard a lady use such language.

“Your soul is in terrible danger, Miss Gilman,” Reverend Watkins called. “I'll pray that you never see the flaming pits of Hell.”

Terri told the preacher where to stick his words. Sideways.

The deputy U.S. marshal's eyes widened at that. “My word!” he said.

Terri ran over to where he was sitting and got all up in his face. “You got a problem with something I said, you goofy-lookin' prairie dog?” she screamed at the man.

The marshal resisted a nearly overpowering urge to take the young woman across his lap and spank her butt . . . something her father should have done years ago.

“Back off, Miss Gilman,” the deputy U.S. marshal said softly. “Right now.”

Something in his words caused Terri to momentarily shut her mouth and step back. She recovered enough to cuss him and return to the open hotel doors, giving him a few dark glances on the short walk.

In the street, Lars was working himself up into a frenzy of hate. He stood in the center of the main street and cussed Falcon. Falcon stood tall and did not respond to the profanity ... not at first. But he soon grew weary of the cussing. He had taken just about all he was going to take from the Gilman family.