Rage of Eagles

Book 5: Eagles

by William W. Johnstone

Genres: Action & Adventure; Historical Fiction; Westerns

Synopsis

THE GREATEST WESTERN WRITER OF THE 21ST CENTURY JUSTICE GETS ITS REVENGE Jamie Ian and Kate MacCallister are together now, buried side by side on a ridge overlooking the huge Colorado valley they had settled and the town they had founded. It’s up to their children now to carry on the MacCallister legacy. Falcon MacCallister is more than willing to take on that task. He’s the spitting image of his father, Jamie. He stands six foot three and is heavy with muscle. Just like his father, Falcon is quick on the shoot. Lightning quick. Now, after the cowardly murder of his father, Falcon is out for revenge against the Noonan gang. On his quest, he’ll become embroiled in the deadly Wyoming Range Wars and face down the notorious Silver Dollar Kid, before coming face to face with Nance Noonan himself.

Release date: July 26, 2016

Publisher: Pinnacle Books

Print pages: 262

Sample

It was time to move on. He had waited long enough. Falcon had holed up for a month in a tiny cabin built into the side of a mountain. His grandfather had told his father about it and Jamie had told Falcon. He had received word that Nance Noonan had sent an army of men in pursuit of him after the shooting in Utah during which two of Nance’s brothers had been killed after an altercation with Falcon. With an army chasing him, Falcon had wisely holed up. It was now summer in the high country, the sun hot upon the land, and Noonan’s hands would be busy moving herds of cattle, getting them ready to drive to market. They would not have time to hunt for him ... at least not for a while.

Falcon had grown a beard during the time he’d been holed up in the cabin. Now he carefully sculpted the beard and trimmed his hair. He inspected his face in the piece of broken mirror he’d found in the cabin: a little older, his eyes a little wiser as they reflected back at him. He turned away from the mirror and rolled up his blankets in his ground sheet, then carefully tidied up the cabin. Someone else might need a place to bed down and Falcon didn’t want to leave the cabin looking as though a hog had taken up residence during the summer. He slung his saddlebags over one shoulder, picked up his rifle, and closed the door behind him.

Falcon was slap out of supplies: no salt, no coffee, no flour, no beans, no smoking tobacco, nothing. It was past time to saddle up and move on.

Shortly after the shoot-out, he’d had traded horses with a man from Idaho Territory who had trailed a herd of horses down south and was heading home with a few of his hands. Falcon had told the man who he was and what had happened, not wishing the man to get shot by Noonan’s hands or some damn bounty hunter for riding the wrong horse.

“Son,” the rancher had said slowly. “I know Nance Noonan, and I don’t like Nance Noonan. I knew your pa, and I liked and respected Jamie MacCallister. Anytime Noonan wants to lock horns with me, he can damn sure start gruntin’ and snortin’. Now, sit down and eat.”

Falcon picked out a good packhorse, then chose a huge chestnut gelding with mean yellow eyes. He was one of the biggest riding horses Falcon had ever seen.

“You sure you want that horse, boy?” the rancher asked. “He’s a mean one. I’ve come damn close to shootin’ him several times since I acted the fool and traded for him. Can’t nobody ride him. He’s done stove up three of my hands. He’ll stomp you if he gets half a chance.”

“He won’t stomp me,” Falcon replied.

An hour later, Falcon rode away on the big chestnut horse.

“Well, I’ll just be damned!” the rancher said. “I always heard them MacCallisters had a way with horses.”

The rancher had said the horse had no name, but everybody who had tried to ride him got throwed off and when they hit the ground they always said, “Oh, hell!”

“That’s good enough,” Falcon said.

“What’s good enough, son?” the rancher had asked.

“Hell. That’s what I’ll call him. ’Cause that’s where he just might be taking me.”

Falcon had holed up in Wyoming, on the east side of the Wind River Range. He stayed on the east side as he headed north toward a town just beginning to blossom.

No one gave him a second look as he rode in; most were busy hammering and sawing and stretching canvas over hastily erected wooden frames to serve as makeshift roofs.

Falcon registered at a hotel that was so new it still smelled of fresh-cut lumber and there were little piles of sawdust in the corners of the room.

He hid a smile as he signed the book: Val Mack.

“Mr. Mack,” the clerk said with a smile. “Welcome to our town. Here on business?”

“No. Just passing through.”

“Going to be a fine place to settle down and start a business. Town’s booming. Enjoy your stay, Mr. Mack.”

“I’m sure I will.”

The room was small, but clean, and the bed comfortable. The sheets appeared to be fresh. At least there were no bugs hopping around ... that Falcon could see. He’d know for sure come the morning.

Falcon wadded up some dirty clothes and took them over to a laundry, then he walked over to the general store and bought new britches, shirt, socks, and underwear. He also bought a box of .44s.

At a bathhouse, he soaked and scrubbed until he was clean and free of fleas and dirt, then had the barber shape up his beard and trim his hair. He felt a hundred percent better as he located a café and walked over for a meal.

The stew was hot and there was plenty of it, and the apple pie was tasty. But the coffee was too weak for Falcon’s liking. He walked back to the livery to check on his horses . . . mainly to see if Hell had killed anyone who got too close to him. The big chestnut had his nose stuck in a feed bag and was quiet, as was Falcon’s sturdy packhorse.

“Be careful around the chestnut,” Falcon warned the liveryman.

“I done figured that out, mister,” the stableman told Falcon.

Falcon went in search of the marshal’s office, found it, but the door was locked.

“Out of town, mister,” a little boy playing in the dirt of the alley said. “Won’t be back for a couple of days.”

Falcon thanked him and walked on. One less obstacle he’d have to hurdle. Not that he was all that worried about what the local law might do. In the early days of the settling of the west, local lawmen took care of local business. What happened outside their jurisdiction was of little concern to many sheriffs and marshals unless the man in question caused trouble in their town or county.

Falcon strolled the town’s business district, which did not take all that long . . . up one side and down the other. He did not want to attract undue attention by wandering through the residential areas. His tour of the town complete, Falcon went back to the hotel, took a chair under the awning on the boardwalk in front of the hotel, and lit a cigar.

A cowboy, by the look of his clothes, walked up and sat down in the chair beside Falcon. They were the only ones sitting on the hotel’s boardwalk. The cowboy pulled out a sack of tobacco and rolled him a smoke. He licked and lit and said in a whisper, “Your pa befriended me a few years back, Falcon. He was a good man. I was bad down on my luck and headed down the wrong trail. He seen some good in me where nobody else could and straightened me out. You ride careful. Nance Noonan’s got friends all over the damn place; any direction you want to ride for five hundred miles. What they’re doin’ is, they’re all workin’ to set up a cattle empire. I don’t know if they’ll be able to pull it off, but if they do, small ranchers won’t have a chance. Rod Stegman married Nance Noonan’s sister. He owns the .44 Brand. And Rod is one mean son of a bitch and his sons is all about half crazy. Same with his brothers, and they’s about six or seven of them. They’re all power-drunk. But the thing is, when one itches, they all scratch.”

“And I cause them to itch,” Falcon said.

“You shore do. In the worst way. Noonan and Stegman and some of the others has had riders out all summer lookin’ for you. It’s about to drive Nance even nuttier than he is already. They’s federal warrants out for you, Falcon. Chet Noonan really was a deputy federal marshal. I don’t know how he got that appointment, but he did.”

“Probably his brother arranged it. How about the marshal here?”

“Oh, he’s all right. For the time bein’, that is. But he better watch his back. If he tries to buck the powers that be, some of Nance’s cohorts will put a bullet in him and stick that badge on one of their own. It’s gettin’ really bad out here, Falcon. Worser than most folks realize.”

“I’ve been thinking about heading back to Colorado.”

“I don’t know where to tell you to head. Ain’t no place gonna be very safe for you as long as they’s a single Noonan or Stegman alive. And maybe some of their friends. They’re all a bunch of thieves and murderers.”

“How’d you recognize me?”

The puncher chuckled. “Man, you and your pa look so much alike it’s scary.”

Falcon smiled. “We do resemble some.”

The cowboy stood up and toed out his cigarette butt on the boardwalk. “Watch your back trail, Mr. Mack.”

“I’ll do it, friend. And thanks. Cowboy?”

The puncher cut his eyes.

“If you’re ever in Valley, Colorado, look up any MacCallister and tell them about this meeting. They’ll help you out. No questions asked.”

The cowboy touched the brim of his hat with his fingertips and walked away.

Falcon walked over to the general store and bought supplies enough to last for several weeks. A different clerk waited on him this time. Falcon added several boxes of .44s to the list, then asked, “You got any dynamite?”

“Sure do.”

Falcon bought half a case, caps, and fuses, and carried the supplies over to the livery, stowing them in the stall with Hell. No one would steal them from under the baleful gaze of the big chestnut . . . not if they valued their life.

Falcon went back to the hotel, ate an early supper, then went to bed. He was riding out of town before dawn the next morning, heading for the grasslands and cattle country.

He skirted a small settlement—which would be very nearly a ghost town in a few more years—giving it a wide berth, and kept riding, riding for days. He saw signs of Indians, but if they saw him—and they probably did—they decided to leave him alone. Then he remembered a trading post and cut toward it.

Falcon looked the place over carefully before riding on in. There were some saddled horses at the hitchrail that looked as though they’d been hard-ridden. He couldn’t make out the brands and it wouldn’t have made any difference if he could have read them. He was tired of riding around trouble. If there was trouble waiting for him at the trading post, so be it.

Falcon rode up and swung down at the rear of the building, now more of a huge general store than a trading post. He remembered the saloon section was at the west end of the long, low building, a partition separating the drinking area from the general merchandise part of the store. Falcon slipped the hammer thongs from his pistols as he walked around the building, entering the trading post from the front. He quickly stepped to one side, allowing his eyes time to adjust to the sudden dimness after hours of bright sunlight.

The interior of the place had been changed. There were now tables off to one side for eating. Falcon sat down at one, his back to a wall. He faced the closed door that led to the saloon. An Indian woman—he remembered the owner had married an Indian—walked over to the table and stared at him for a moment. Then her eyes filled with recollection. She cut them toward the saloon and Falcon nodded in understanding.

She smiled faintly and said, “Got stew. It’s good.”

“Bring me a plate. And a pot of coffee.”

The stew was beef and potatoes, spiced with onions, and it was hot and good. The fresh baked bread was tasty and the coffee was good and strong. Falcon was working on his second plate of food when he heard horses outside, then a wagon rattle up. The Indian woman looked first at the front door, then at the closed door to the saloon, then at Falcon. She sighed audibly. Falcon made the sign for trouble and she nodded her head.

Falcon resumed his eating; the stew really was good and he was hungry.

The front door pushed open and a man who looked to be in his late fifties stepped inside, a woman of about the same age behind him. They were followed by another man of about the same age, then a young woman and a boy of about ten or so. Falcon could tell by their clothing and boots they weren’t farmers. Small ranchers, he figured.

A man suddenly parted the curtains that led to the living quarters behind the counter and gave Falcon a very startled look.

So much for my growing a beard, Falcon thought. I might as well shave the damn thing off. Everybody I’ve run into has recognized me.

Falcon took a second look at the young woman. She was a beauty. Blond hair, pretty face, and a figure that would warrant a second look from a corpse. She was also dressed in men’s britches, something that was rare in these days. The lad with the young woman was blond and the two bore a strong resemblance. The younger woman and the older woman also bore a resemblance and Falcon figured them for mother and daughter. The daughter must have married young, Falcon thought. She cut her eyes to Falcon and he smiled at her. He got a frown in return and feeling somewhat rebuked, went back to eating his stew.

“Mr. Bailey,” the store owner said. “Mrs. Bailey. How y’all today?”

“Fine,” the older man said. “We’ve come for our supplies.”

The man with Bailey, whom Falcon figured to be the foreman, stepped to one side and faced the closed door leading to the saloon. Falcon noticed he was all ready to hook and draw.

Mother and daughter moved to the bolted cloth section of the store. The older man, Falcon figured the husband of the woman and the father of the younger woman, paused and gave Falcon a look. It was not an unfriendly gaze.

“Afternoon,” Falcon said, tearing off a hunk of bread.

“Afternoon,” the man replied. “Haven’t seen you around here before.”

“Just passing through.”

“Maybe he’s one of them hired guns of Gilman,” the young boy blurted.

“Hush, Jimmy,” the grandfather said. He lifted his eyes to Falcon. “He didn’t mean nothin’ by that remark, mister.”

“I didn’t take anything by it,” Falcon said. “Who is Gilman?”

“The man who figures himself to be the he-coon of this area,” the other man said. “Part of the cattlemen’s alliance.”

“Well, I don’t know what that is either,” Falcon replied. “I’m a long way from home ground.”

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.

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/bathhouse—the owner serving as the town’s barber, doctor, and undertaker—couple 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. . . .