Blood of Eagles

Book 8: Eagles

by William W. Johnstone

Genres: Westerns

Synopsis

The Greatest Western Writer Of The 21st Century From USA Today bestselling novelist William W. Johnstone, author of the acclaimed Mountain Man and Preacher series, comes Blood Of Eagles, the eighth book in his extraordinary epic saga of the American West. . . One land. One law. One legend. The Oklahoma Panhandle is one hundred miles of lawlessness and danger: a no man's land designed to separate Texas from pro-Union Kansas. Through this desolate strip rides legendary gunslinger Falcon MacCallister, a young Indian boy by his side. Behind him lies a scene of horror left by outlaws who'd ambushed a small wagon train. As he searches the Panhandle for the killers, Falcon enters a storm of greed, thievery, and betrayal that has its roots in two long, gleaming bands of steel. A new railway is penetrating this hostile land--making some people rich, some people dead, and sending a gunfighter and a boy on their own brutal ride to revenge.

Release date: March 1, 2012

Publisher: Pinnacle Books

Print pages: 240

Sample

Fourteen miles west of the sorry little dugout settlement called Hungry, Owen Blanchard hauled his tired team to a halt and rubbed his eyes. For the past two hours the cold glare of spring sunlight had been in his face, and he felt half-blind.

He set his overland’s brake, tied off his reins, and slumped forward, resting his face on crossed forearms on the high toeboard while he rolled his shoulders slowly, easing the cramps from his back. When he straightened up again, he could see a little better, and he gazed around bleakly.

Ahead, the sun was down now, hiding behind the toothed blue-white peaks in the distance—peaks like a giant erratic saw blade that sliced upward out of the horizon and seemed no closer than they had this morning. All around, as far as he could see in the muted rays of early evening, the plains rolled away endlessly—surging upward toward the west, toward the seemingly near yet far-off mountains. In all other directions they just went on and on until they simply disappeared into the deepening sky.

“I guess we’re lost,” he admitted. “They said back there that we’d come to a town of some kind after we crossed Horse Creek, but that was way back yonder and I don’t see any town out here. I don’t see anything. ”

Beside him, Ruth pulled her skirts around her against the chill of evening wind. “I haven’t seen anything since we left that place this morning,” she admitted. “Those people said stay on the road, but I haven’t even seen a road.”

“Wasn’t anything but a few ruts to start with.” Owen stood, flexing his tired legs and stretching tall to peer out across the empty plains. “Then they disappeared in that sandy stretch.” He peered to his left and pointed. “I see some treetops or something ... I think. Off to the left there, just a little ways. God a’mighty, I can’t get used to this, hon. There’s a slough there, or a creek, but if it wasn’t for those bare limbs sticking up, I’d never know it was there. This damn grass prairie ... it just goes on and on, and you can’t even see where there are holes in it!”

“Maybe that’s a river,” Ruth said, standing and squinting to see. “There was supposed to be a river, wasn’t there?”

Behind them in the covered wagon, Dorothy and Tess pushed forward, curious to see why they had stopped. The girls had a little nest of bedding back there, among the packed furnishings and household goods. During the past few days Ruth had kept them close to the wagon, because of the dangers of walking.

A couple of hundred yards out ahead, young Bob Simms stood on a little rise, looking back at them. He held a forked stick in one hand and a rusty old saber in the other. Bullhide leggings covered his legs from the tops of his shoes to his knees. Ever since the scare two days ago, when the wagon had rolled out of a sage stand into a nest of rattlesnakes, Bob had made it his business to clear the trail of snakes. These first few days of spring sunshine had brought them out of their holes in droves, and they were everywhere.

The people at Hungry hadn’t helped matters, either, with their talk of snakes. “That mound ye passed by, back a ways,” an old man had said, giggling,“that were Rattlesnake Rock. Call it that cause the buzzers winter there. Stick aroun’ a while, we’ll fry some up for you. Tastes a mite like chicken.”

They had left Hungry in a hurry. Now Owen wondered whether they had made a mistake. Two or three days more, maybe a week, and there would have been a supply train coming up from Raton to meet the rail at Big Sandy. They could have traveled with the supply wagons, then gone on to Denver, but Owen had scoffed at waiting. At the next real town, there would be a road. How difficult could that be, just to push on to the next town? He wondered now whether his logic was sound. With all the charts and maps he had studied before setting out from Meade’s, and with the biggest of landmarks—the high Rockies up ahead—still, he was lost.

“They said we’d come down to a river,” Ruth reminded her husband. “Maybe that’s it.”

“That’s no river.” Owen shrugged. “I don’t see any river. Just a whole lot of ... well, of nothing. Whatever’s over there, it’s no more than a little creek. Damn these high plains!” He lowered himself onto the high seat, grunting as his aching legs and back protested the movement. “I guess we’d better take a look. At least maybe there’s a place we can make camp, and some wood for a fire.”

“Maybe we’ll see lights after dark,” Ruth said. “I thought a while ago that I saw some riders up ahead. Maybe we’ll see their campfire. There’s bound to be somebody around, to give us directions.”

Bob Simms came walking back, and he had the same idea. “I saw them, too,” he said. “Hour or so ago. Several riders, coming from maybe north. They’ll be stopping, too.” He grinned reassuringly. “Maybe we’ll see them.”

“You’re just like your sister, Bob,” Owen growled. “How can you always be so cheerful? Remember what they told us at Newton?”

“Oh, sure.” Bob shrugged, still grinning. “Outlawsand Indians, they said. Well, we haven’t seen either one, and I don’t believe we will. Those sure weren’t Indians I saw on that ridge out there. Just some men on horseback. And as for outlaws—well, brother-in-law, I don’t see what they’d want from us. We aren’t carrying any gold or anything.”

Owen felt uneasy, but what Bob said made sense. They were just harmless movers, heading west. What would anybody bother them for? The Blanchards were of eastern stock, of modest roots and gentle background. It would never have occurred to any of them that a fully provisioned ten-span overland wagon, the kind often called a prairie schooner, might be valued in these wild lands.

“Can we stop for the night, Daddy?” Dorothy urged. “I’d sure like to heat some water and get cleaned up. I feel as if my hair is full of sand.”

Ruth glanced around at her daughters. “You both need some washing and combing,” she decided.

The treetops led them to a sharp little gully that opened out into a wide ravine. Scrubby cottonwoods,still with their winter limbs, lined a foot-deep creek where clear cold water flowed from a spring. There was plenty of firewood, and winter grass stood pale and thick downstream. When the stars came out, Owen climbed to a high swale and looked all around. He had hoped to see firelight, where there might be friendly strangers, but he saw nothing anywhere.

In the ravine, limestone walls blocked the chill wind and reflected back the heat of a good fire. While Bob Simms tended the stock, Ruth and her daughters bathed themselves, put on fresh dresses, and combed out their hair. Three of one stamp, Owen thought, coming back. The girls, now fourteen and twelve, were becoming young ladies, and would be as pretty as ever their mother had been.

He would find and stake the land he had bought, and they would begin the building of cabins. His brothers would be along soon, with their families, to prove up their own claims.

Maybe when the cabins were in they could all go up to Denver. They could enjoy town life for a while, and he could talk with men there about his plans to breed highland stock. The summer would be time enough to begin settling in.

Asa Parker knew, as he watched the last railroad man fall, that it was time to leave Colorado for a while. He watched for a time to make sure none of them were moving. Then he got to his feet and came down from the water tower, carrying his rifle. As Asa stepped from the ladder Tuck Kelly joined him, and he saw the others coming—from the old corral, the broken-down barn, and the cabin.

“Slick as a whistle, Asa,” Tuck purred. “They never knowed what hit ’em.”

A few steps back, Billy Challis laughed. “Wonder what them rail spur promoters will think when they show up tomorrow for their land meetin’! Sorry, boys, but the buyers turned up dead, and the sale’s off?”

“Shut up,” Asa rumbled. “Just get over there and make sure they’re all dead. You can poke around that cabin, Tuck. Take anything you boys want, but keep it light. We’ve got travelin’ to do. And leave their stock alone! Those are all marked animals. Just take a look around and we’ll get out of here.”

“You plannin’ on sharin’ out any of that money, Asa?” Billy Challis demanded. “Looks like there’s enough to spread around.”

Parker frowned at the cocky little gunman. “The money’s for investment, Billy. I told you, we got bigger fish to fry. Now get those horses saddled!”

Aside, Tuck Kelly muttered, “What’s the matter, Billy? Don’t you trust Asa?”

“Hell, no!” the kid snapped. “Nor any of the rest of you, either. I’ll go along, but don’t nobody get any notions of shortin’ on me!”

Tuck turned away, shaking his head. Billy was about as sociable as a rattlesnake, but that was normal for him.

The three rail agents were as dead as they’d ever be. Two or three bullets apiece, from ambush, had seen to that. Kurt Obermire and Folly Downs went from corpse to corpse, relieving them of their guns, loose change, and pocket watches. The two men looked like hovering vultures in their dark coats, stooping over first one and then another of their victims.

The railroad money—intended to buy rights for a San Juan spur for the Kansas Pacific Railway Company—was fresh stacks of goldbacks in a little wooden chest.

“Nine thousand dollars!” Tuck licked his lips. “Lordy, I know what I’d do with a share of that. There’s a whorehouse up at Denver that—”

“There’ll be law crawlin’ over each other around here,” Asa rumbled. “Besides, we’re not goin’ to Denver. I told you all, we got a job to do! We’re headed for No Man’s Land, just as fast as we can pack up!”

It would be a long hard ride on short provisions—down across the Purgatoire and the Cimarron breaks. Casper Wilkerson glanced longingly at the busted buckboard lying askew in a gully. Its team had bolted at the gunfire, and it was a wreck.

“Wish we had that.” Casper shrugged. “Be easier travelin’ with a wagon.”

The six had put a hundred miles behind them when Billy first saw the lone wagon coming westward across the grasslands. A high-bow overland, it rocked along behind its ten-horse team miles from any road or trail. They watched it off and on for an hour or two, then noted where it halted for the night.

Settlers! A wagon like that was a rolling storehouse. With a wagon load of supplies, Asa reasoned, there would be no need to zigzag among the scattered little settlements and trading posts. And the prairie schooner itself was a prize. Where he was going, the big wagon might be very useful.

From a mile away, they watched and waited, letting the little camp settle in for the night. Then, when the fire’s glow was low, they went in.

Bob Simms barely felt the razor-edged blade that sliced his throat open. He came out of sound sleep when his blankets were thrown back, and hard fingers in his hair pulled his head back and down. He saw a flash of metal, and then a coldness crossed his throat. He barely felt it, but he heard the sound of it as it sliced across, and he felt the warm torrent of his own blood bathing him.

The pain came then, when he tried to yell and couldn’t. The pain slashed at him like fire, but only for a moment. It dimmed, right along with everything else, and Bob Simms sank into a blackness that would never end.

Owen Blanchard went down fighting, screaming and trying to load shells into the double-barrel greener that was the only gun he owned. He managed to swat one of the attackers with the shotgun’s butt and kick the feet out from under another one, but then they were all over him. A big revolver was shoved into the pit of his stomach, and three of its slugs had blossomed in him before he hit the ground.

Billy Challis looked down at the writhing gurgling man beside the wagon wheel and grinned happily. He put his iron away and stepped over the body. Folly Downs was at the wagon. Slicing lashes, he pulled the canvas back and Billy peered into the wagon bed. Three pale faces full of terror looked back at him from the shadows—pretty faces above the lace collars of demure sleeping gowns. “Well, well,” the gunman crowed. “This here night is our lucky day, fellers! Looky here what we got!”

Stepping up on the rear wheel hub, Billy grabbed a small arm and pulled. Amid screams of terror, he dragged fourteen-year-old Dorothy Blanchard from the wagon and threw her on the hard ground.

Ruth shrieked, and came over the sideboard swinging a skillet. Tuck Kelly intercepted her, swung a hard fist, and sent her rolling.

Beside the wagon, Billy grinned at the terrified girl trying to scramble away. Picking her up by her hair and one leg, he slammed her down again and fell on her. Slapping her hands away, he tore open the front of her gown.

“Come get ’em while they’re hot, boys!” He giggled.“This here one’s mine first!”

With his knife he slashed away her clothes, ignoring her screams and the blood that welled from a dozen cuts. When she fought at him he punched her in the face, breaking her nose.

Tuck Kelly swore and tugged at Asa’s sleeve. “Look what he’s doing!” he shouted. “I don’t like to see that!”

Asa shook him off and peered into the wagon bed. Behind him the girl’s screams died to moans as Billy pinned her arms back and forced her legs apart. Kurt sneered and turned away, not wanting to watch. Even Folly Downs, who would do most anything, turned away in disgust.

“Shouldn’t we put a stop to that?” Casper Wilkerson muttered, glancing toward Asa, who was climbing into the wagon. “That crazy son of a bitch makes me sick.”

Asa cut him short. “Let him have his fun,” he growled. “He isn’t hurting you, is he?”

“But, God, that’s disgusting!”

“Keeps him happy,” Asa said. “Let him alone.”

The outlaws took what they wanted that night, and it was a long night. In the dark hours Billy finally slept, sated and content, and the rest stayed clear of him. They all knew Billy was crazy, but he was quick and mean, and no man among them wanted to brace him. The only man Billy feared was Asa Parker, and Asa wanted him happy.

With first light of dawn they hitched up the wagon, and Casper Wilkerson drove it out of the ravine and headed it southeast. The rest saddled up and rode with him, Asa Parker leading the way. There was no one around to see them go, or to see what they left behind them in the little sheltered ravine.

Buzzards were still circling when a big man on a tall black horse rode up from the south and angled aside to see what was there.

Long hair the color of winter straw whipped in the wind as he removed his hat, gazing down at the mute evidence of a massacre. Eyes like blue steel went hard and cold as he poked around the ravine, studying what he saw, piecing together what he could find—a name in a trampled Bible, a knife, a piece of a map, a scrap of lace, a locket. Together, they told him their story. Travelers from the east. Movers, off to set their roots in a piece of Colorado real estate.

“You poor fools,” Falcon muttered, shaking his head. “Poor, innocent, greenhorn fools.”

He buried what was left of the family of movers, then stood over the rough grave and bowed his head. “Lord,” he whispered, “in case you’re paying. any attention now to what you let happen here, these were the Blanchard family, from east of Neosho. I don’t know anything to say about them, good or bad, except they didn’t deserve this.”

They didn’t deserve it, his deep grief echoed, any more than Marie Gentle Breeze deserved what happened to her, back then. But, then, things happen all the time that folks don’t deserve.

In that moment, Falcon MacCallister felt an anger deeper than any he had known in a long time. “I couldn’t do anything about you, Marie,” he continued,aloud, raising his eyes toward the sky where his beloved wife now dwelt among the spirits. “Lord,” he growled, “there’s a limit to what any man can tolerate, and I believe I just found it. Help me if you want to, or not if you don’t care, but I guess I have to go after those men. Somebody else tracked down those savages who should have been mine, but there’s another score here to settle and there’s nobody else here right now. Just me. Amen.”

On that clear spring day in those vast empty lands northwest of Black Mesa, nothing seemed very far away, but almost everything was. A dust-plume, rising from a little herd of buffalo grazing its way northward among the scattered bones of the great herds, might seem just past the next rise, and a man could almost count the feathers on an eagle patrolling its range.

But distances were deceptive on the high plains. That eagle might be three miles away, and the buffalo might be twenty.

Nearness was an illusion on the grasslands. What seemed close was usually far away, while the remote might lurk just over the next rise. A campfire or a flash of color might be seen twenty miles away, yet armies could hide where there seemed to be no cover at all. Where horizons stretched past imagination,and the only thing to measure by was the buffalo grass, distance meant nothing.

If it’s just yonder, Falcon MacCallister mused, topping out on another rise that was just like all the rises before it and no different from all those ahead, it’s in the next county. And if you don’t see it at all, it’s probably about to buzz and strike.

Just at dawn, when the winds had stilled for a moment and the giant land lay hushed, he had seen a tendril of smoke to the east. It rose in the morning sky so clearly that he felt he could almost smell it, but he knew from long experience that it was not as close as it seemed. It might be a mile away, or a day’s ride.

He had lost the tracks a day ago, when storm rains and hail swept down from the Sangre de Christos. It had been a cold trail, days old when he picked it up below Hickson’s Ford, but for two days he had found sign enough to stay on it.

In that two days he had covered nearly sixty miles, following wheel ruts and tracks.

Five riders, the faint impressions said. Six men, then, Falcon thought, counting the one driving the wagon. Six men, a prairie schooner, seventeen horses—ten in harness, three under saddle, one on a lead behind the wagon, and three more hazed along as extra stock.

From their trail he learned things about them. They made good time, bearing generally southeast, down through the foothills and onto the high plains of eastern Colorado. The one driving the team knew what he was doing. He was no stranger to teams.

Two of the riders were big men—big boots, deeply imprinted tracks, heavy on their horses. Big and arrogant,he thought, judging by the signs they left. Across the bottoms of the Purgatoire, these two had pushed through thickets, shoving aside anything in their way, while the other three riders and the overland wound around the obstacles, letting their mounts find easier paths.

The leader was one of the big ones, and despite his arrogance he was a careful meticulous man. The way he held close to the wagon said he didn’t much trust anyone—not even those riding with him.

They weren’t concerned about being followed. The trace they took in the rising grasslands said they didn’t expect anyone to be watching them.

Of course, it would be difficult to conceal a Staake Overland traveling across open country behind a five-team splay, but they made no effort to stay off skylines in that wide open country. They rode like men accustomed to having their own way and taking it.

He found where they had camped below a caprock butte, and it was the careless camp of travelers who saw no threat in the land around them. The wagon had been halted atop a little bluff, and they had made their fire just below. The saddle mounts and dray horses had been turned out to graze on spring grass around a seep, and only three of the animals had been hobbled.

While the leader was meticulous, Falcon decided, the rest were lazy. Lazy and lucky. There had been a time—and it was only a few years back, before Sand Creek—when such sloth would surely have cost the bunch their horses, and maybe their scalps, as well.

Still, they had kept a night guard, and at least two of them had climbed to high ground for a long look at their back trail. Cautions of old habit, Falcon decided. They didn’t expect pursuit. They were just taking a look around.

The now cold campsite confirmed what he had already noted. There were six men in the party, two of uncommon size and the others about average. The boots they wore were in fair condition—two of the smaller sets hobnailed in the fashion of mountain dwellers, the rest smooth-heeled and not too run over. The leader’s boots were cobbler-new, the boots of a city man.

They had made a meal of slab bacon and biscuit, with a big pot of coffee. They had finished it off with dried apples and pastries from a tin.

“You fellas aren’t wantin’ for anything, are you?” Falcon muttered, his eyes as cold as the frigid water pooled in the little grassy draw below where the wagon had rested. “Everything you want is right there in that rollin’ store you took.”

He saw where they had slept, wrapped in quilted soogans and oiled canvas where the thick grass gave them comfort, and he saw the marks of rifles kept handy—a Henry and a couple of Spencers, and what appeared to be a Colt’s cylinder repeater. He saw where the horses had grazed, and he saw their tracks where they had packed up, hitched up, saddled up, and moved on, still heading south.

Then, where the long cap of a distant mesa showed on the horizon ahead, they had turned east. It wasn’t as pronounced a feature from the north, but Falcon knew the landmark. That rising monolith out there, still twenty miles away or more, was Black Mesa.

If that was where the men were heading they had picked a hell of a fortress. Whole raiding parties of Kiowa—and sometimes Arapahoe and Comanche war parties—had been known to slip into that wilderness of canyons and gullies that was Black Mesa’s north face, and simply disappear. And where the Indians holed up, so did the wildest of white men.

Not everybody called it Black Mesa. Som. . .