Carnage of Eagles

by William W. Johnstone

  Those on the street and several who had been inside hurried down to the stage depot, many of them arriving in time to see the dead passenger being removed.

  “Who is that?”

  “Who was it got shot?”

  “Who done it?”

  “Mary!” an Indian man shouted. He moved quickly to look down at the young woman.

  “I’m sorry, chief,” the driver said. The Indian wasn’t a chief, and the driver had used the word not as a pejorative but as a term of congeniality.

  “Your daughter?” someone asked.

  “My daughter,” the Indian said. He looked over toward the horse he had brought for his daughter to ride home on. It was decorated with a colorful blanket, feathers, and bits of red and yellow yarn.

  “What happened here?” Sheriff Poindexter asked, the last one to arrive on the scene.

  “We was held up by Coop Winters and another man,” the driver said.

  “You sure it was Coop Winters?”

  “Yeah, I’m sure.”

  “How could you be sure, with him wearin’ a mask?” Poindexter asked.

  “How do you know he was wearing a mask? The driver didn’t say anything about the robber wearing a mask,” Denham said.

  “Well he was wearin’ a mask, wasn’t he?”

  “Yes,” the driver said.

  “Then how do you know it was Coop Winters?”

  “The other fella called him Coop. And the Injun girl had heard of him, so she said his name. And when she did, he shot her.”

  “How much money did they get?”

  “I don’t have no idea how much it was. But they got whatever was in the messenger pouch.”

  “I expect that would be five thousand dollars,” another man said. This was the banker. “We were getting a money transfer today.”

  “They also got a hundred and twenty dollars from me,” Paul said.

  “What was you doin’ carryin’ so much money?” Poindexter asked.

  “We’re moving here to Sorrento. That money was to help us get set up.”

  “Are you Mr. Montgomery?” the banker asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Mr. Montgomery, your bank back in Dallas contacted us about you moving here. We will be happy to loan you the money to get started.”

  “Thank you,” Paul said. “That is very good of you.”

  “Are you going after the stagecoach robbers, Sheriff?” Denham asked.

  “How am I supposed to go after them? I don’t know where they are.”

  “Couldn’t you go back out on the road where it happened, then follow the tracks?”

  Almost as soon as Denham asked the question, a peal of thunder rumbled through the sky.

  “What tracks?” Poindexter asked. “There’s a rain comin’. By the time I get out there, the rain will have washed all the tracks away.”

  “Well, you have to do something,” Denham insisted. “After all, you are the sheriff.”

  “That’s right. I am the sheriff, and that means I’ll make up my own mind what I have to do, and when I have to do it.”

  As Denham and Poindexter argued, and the others discussed the robbery at length with the driver and guard, as well as with Paul, Gladys, and Kenny, Mary’s father rode out of town with his head bowed. Mary was with him, not riding proudly on the back of her new horse as he had planned, but being pulled behind the horse on a hastily constructed travois.

  Not until the first drops of rain started to fall was the crowd broken up.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Less than an hour earlier the sky had been clear and blue, but now dark rolling clouds darkened the day and sent jagged bolts of lightning streaking to the ground. Falcon got his slicker out and had just managed to put it on when the rain started. It poured down in torrents, while lightning bolts boomed and snapped, arcing from the sky to the ground.

  Falcon could handle the rain, but he didn’t like the idea of being in the open while lightning was flashing all around him. Although he could give no scientific explanation as to why, he knew that lightning tended to be drawn toward the highest point. And as a rider on horseback, on a mostly treeless plain, Falcon was the highest point.

  Then fortune smiled on him and he saw a cabin ahead. It didn’t look occupied; there were no outbuildings around it, and neither barn nor lean-to for stock. There wasn’t even an outhouse. Falcon figured that it was probably an abandoned line shack. Whatever it was, it would provide temporary shelter from the rain, and more important, from the lightning.

  He saw a flash of light at the window of the cabin and heard the report of a rifle shot. The bullet struck the saddle horn in front of him, which, fortunately, prevented the bullet from hitting him, or his horse. It did, however, startle his horse, who reared up on his back legs, dumping an unsuspecting Falcon to the ground.

  “Get out of here!” Falcon shouted to his horse, wanting it to get to safety. He would be in a great difficulty if his horse got killed. With the horse out of harm’s way, Falcon pulled his pistol and looked toward the cabin. Realizing that he was exposed, Falcon started running toward a nearby rise, when there was a second shot from the cabin. Falcon spun around, then fell.

  “I got ’im! I got the son of a bitch!” someone shouted.

  A moment later, two men left the cabin, then came riding up toward him, slowly, confidently.

  “You be careful now, Travis.”

  “Ain’t no need to be careful. I hit the son of a bitch dead center. Didn’t you see the way he spun around when he went down? Whooee, that was some shootin’, I tell you.”

  Because Falcon had seen no horses, he thought the cabin was unoccupied. Evidently the horses had been around back.

  Falcon was lying on his back with his hand wrapped around his pistol. His hat was over his hand, covering his pistol, and he lay quietly and unmoving as his two assailants approached. They stopped over him, then looked down.

  “What do you think, Coop?” Travis asked.

  “He ain’t dead, Travis.”

  “He ain’t dead, but he looks bad hurt. You bad hurt, mister?” Travis asked. He was narrow faced, hook nosed, and with one eye that didn’t quite track with the other one.

  “I think I broke my back,” Falcon gasped. “I need help.”

  Coop laughed, a high-pitched cackle of a laugh. Coop was the larger of the two. His most prominent feature was a mouth full of crooked and yellow teeth.

  “He needs help. Ha! We shoot ’im, an’ he says he needs help, like maybe we come out here to help him, or somethin’.”

  “Why did you shoot at me?”

  “Because you come ridin’ up here all fat and sassy,” Travis said. “You a bounty hunter, are you? After the reward money?”

  “I don’t know anything about reward money,” Falcon said. “All I was doing was looking for a place to get out of the rain.”

  “Yeah, well whatever reason it was you had to come here, you come to the wrong place. You see, here’s the thing, mister. We ain’t the kind of people who are wantin’ to share our house with anyone.”

  “Really? That doesn’t seem all that friendly,” Falcon said.

  “We ain’t exactly what you would call the friendly type,” Coop said.

  “That’s good to know,” Falcon replied in a low and strained voice. “I guess maybe I better make sure I don’t invite you to my next birthday party.”

  Coop laughed again. “Did you hear that, Travis? He ain’t goin’ to invite us to his birthday party,” he repeated. “You’re a funny man, mister. You know that? I almost hate to have to kill you.”

  “You know what I think? I think it doesn’t bother you at all. I think you’re looking forward to it,” Falcon said.

  “You got that right, mister,” Travis said. He aimed his pistol at Falcon and pulled back the hammer, but that was as far as he got before Falcon pulled the trigger on his own pistol. The bullet hit Travis under the chin, then exited through the top of his head. He fell from his horse, dead, before he hit
the ground.

  “Travis!” Coop shouted. He turned his pistol toward Falcon. “You son of a bitch!” he shouted.

  Falcon shot Coop before he could pull the trigger. Standing up then, he looked down at both men. Both were dead, with the rain beating down on them and the water welling up in their open but unseeing eyes.

  The rain continued to pour down in large, heavy drops. The lightning increased in frequency until it was almost one sustained lightning flash, a new bolt striking before the previous one left. The thunder boomed in a continuous roar, not unlike the artillery bombardments Falcon could remember.

  Taking the reins of the two horses, Falcon hurried toward the cabin, which he was now sure was a line shack. Behind the shack there was a lean-to, and he was happy to see that his horse had found the shelter, coming there of his own accord.

  “Good boy, Lightning,” Falcon said, rubbing his horse behind its ears. He took Lightning’s saddle off but left the bridle so he could secure him to the hitching rail. He unsaddled the other two horses as well.

  “No need in you two having to stand here with your saddles,” he said to them. “I don’t have anything against you just because your riders were a couple of bastards.”

  There were no other horses in the lean-to, so Falcon was reasonably certain the line shack was empty. Nevertheless, as he thought of the two men who were lying in the mud a hundred yards behind him, he realized there could be another one waiting for him. So, deciding it was better to be safe than sorry, he kicked open the door, then fell to the floor inside, rolling away from the door with his gun at the ready.

  His entry wasn’t challenged.

  Falcon lay on the floor for a moment, making a slow, thorough perusal of the cabin. Convinced that the cabin was empty, he stood and returned his pistol to the holster. He smelled hot coffee and, looking toward a little pot-bellied stove, saw a pewter coffeepot. It did not take him long to find an empty, clean cup. Pouring himself some of the brew, he took a swallow, then smiled.

  “I’ll say this,” he said aloud. “One of you could make a pretty good pot of coffee.”

  It was midafternoon before Falcon got started again. He threw the bodies of Travis and Coop over the saddles of their horses so he could take them into town with him. He wasn’t sure which body went with which horse, but at this point he didn’t think it mattered; they weren’t going to challenge him, and the horses accepted their load without complaint.

  It was ten miles into town, and the sun had been down over an hour by the time he approached the little municipality. It was dark and everyone was in off the streets. The only indications of life were in the lights that shone from the houses around the edge of town, and from the three saloons that were in town. From the nearest saloon, he could hear a piano playing, the sound of men’s voices, and the occasional trills of women’s laughter. He saw the Sorrento Advocate newspaper office as he passed it by, noticed the window was broken, then rode on until he reached the sheriff’s office. Stopping there, he tied the horses off at the hitching rail in front, then went inside.

  There was a man, wearing a badge, sitting at the desk. Technically he was sitting, but in reality his chair was leaning back against the wall, his feet were up on the desk, his arms were folded across his chest, and his hat was pulled down over his eyes. He was snoring loudly.

  “Sheriff?” Falcon said.

  Startled, the chair came forward, and the front two legs hit the floor loudly. His hands slapped the desk in front of him, and he let out a loud hurrumph.

  “Sorry about waking you up, Sheriff,” Falcon said.

  The man swung his legs down from the desk, then pushed his hat back.

  “You didn’t wake me. I wasn’t asleep,” he insisted. He rubbed his eyes. “And I ain’t the sheriff. The name’s Sharp. I’m a deputy. What do you want?”

  “I’ve got two bodies outside.”

  “Bodies? Who are they?”

  “I only heard their first names. One was Travis and the other was Coop.”

  “Coop? It might be Coop Winters. Where did you find the bodies?”

  “It wasn’t hard,” Falcon said. “They were laying right where they were when I shot them.”

  “You shot ’em? Both of them?”

  “Yes.”

  “You a bounty hunter?”

  “No.”

  “Then what did you shoot ’em for?”

  “Because they were trying to shoot me.”

  “I’m goin’ to have to get the sheriff in on this. He’s the only one can authorize the bounty money to be paid. How about you come back tomorrow?”

  “All right,” Falcon said. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

  The lobby of the town’s only hotel was dimly lit by a couple of lanterns, one of which was on a small table next to a settee and the other at the front desk. The desk clerk was reading the newspaper, holding it under the lantern so he could see.

  “Would that be the Sorrento Advocate?” Falcon asked.

  “Yes, sir, you know our paper, do you?”

  “Not exactly. But I know Harold Denham.” The clerk chuckled. “He’s a Jim Dandy, he is. You got to hand it to Mr. Denham. He sure don’t pull no punches when it comes to writin’ up stories.” The clerk lay the paper down, then stood up. “Are you needin’ a room?”

  “I am.”

  “Well, you come to the right place,” the clerk said. He chuckled. “Fact is, you come to the only place, seein’ as we’re the only hotel in town.”

  “Where can I put my horse?”

  “No problem, we got us a livery out back. We keep fresh water and hay there all the time. No extry charge.”

  “Good,” Falcon said.

  Falcon signed the guest register.

  “What brings you to Sorrento?” the clerk asked.

  “My horse,” Falcon said without looking up.

  “Your horse,” the clerk said. He laughed. “I get it, mister, it ain’t none of my business. Your horse,” he repeated, and he laughed again. “That’s a good one.”

  After paying fifty cents, Falcon took care of his horse, then went upstairs to his room. There was no lantern, but there was a candle, and Falcon lit it, then had a look around. The room was very small, barely large enough to hold the bed, but it was dry and that suited Falcon’s needs for the moment.

  He stood at the window for a minute or two and looked out onto the street, but it was too dark to see anything other than a few dimly glowing lights. There was still activity from the saloon, and if Falcon had not been tired and wet he might have stopped there for a few minutes. As it was, he went to bed that night without supper.

  When he awoke the next morning, he heard the ringing sound of a blacksmith’s hammer. The storekeeper next door was sweeping his front porch, and MacCallister could hear the scrape of the broom.

  The blacksmith’s hammer and the scratch of the broom played against each other; the ring and scratch interspersed with the squeaking sound of the hotel sign, which, suspended from the overhanging porch roof just below Falcon’s window, was answering the morning breeze. From halfway down the street a new edifice was being built, either a house or a business building, and the carpenter’s hammer and saw joined the morning symphony of sound.

  Falcon lay in bed for a full minute before he got up and walked over to the window to look out over the street of the town he had, thus far, seen only at night.

  There were puddles of water in the street, and the mud and horse droppings had mixed together to form pools of ooze. There were planks laid across the street, and he watched as a few people negotiated the planks, which were, themselves, so covered with mud that they were only slightly better than crossing in the street itself.

  Down the street a short distance he saw a saloon, advertising itself by a huge, wooden sign that read HOG HEAVEN. Next to the words was painted the caricature of a pig holding a golden mug of beer, and superimposed over the beer was a large “5¢.” Next door to the saloon was a dry goods store. Next to the
store was the newspaper, and at the far end of the street was a church.

  He also noticed, standing in the middle of the street at the opposite end of town from the church, a gallows, and not just any gallows. This gallows was painted red, and there was a hangman’s noose dangling from the gibbet. He didn’t think he had ever seen a red-painted gallows before.

  He wanted to go see his friend Harold Denham, but decided he would have his breakfast first. Having passed on his supper last night, he was very hungry this morning. Getting dressed, he went downstairs and found the Hungry Biscuit restaurant on the same side of the street, right next door to the hotel.

  “Yes, sir, what’ll it be for you this morning?” a middle-aged woman asked when Falcon sat at a table. She was wearing a scarf, and when one strand of gray hair slipped out, she pushed it back.

  “I’ll have about eight slices of bacon, half a dozen eggs, half a dozen biscuits, and maybe some gravy.”

  The woman smiled. “Whooee, mister, you’ve got some kind of appetite. Would you be wantin’ any grits with that?”

  “Grits? Yeah, I’ll take some grits.” Grits were not something Falcon encountered very often, but he remembered that his mother, who was from Kentucky, would sometimes boil corn in lye until it swelled up and turned white. Then she ground it and made grits.

  Half an hour later, Falcon was pleasantly full, and he pushed away from the table with a feeling of contentment. That contentment was interrupted by a loud voice calling to him.

  “Mister, are you the one who brought them two dead bodies in last night?”

  The voice not only got Falcon’s attention, but it got the attention of everyone else in the restaurant as well. All conversation stopped, and everyone stopped eating as they looked on in interest.

  The man who had called out to Falcon was wearing a badge. He also had an eye that was so strange looking that it took Falcon a moment to realize that it was missing an eyelid. That fit Jim Courtright’s description of Poindexter.

  “I am,” Falcon answered. “You must be Sheriff Poindexter.”