Carnage of Eagles

by William W. Johnstone

  Unconsciously squaring his shoulders, he took a deep breath and went into Lockhart’s Emporium for the first time in over five years.

  It was a big rectangular space, with a short wall fronting the street. Rows of shelves filled with goods lined both long walls. Beyond the door lay an open center aisle flanked by trestle tables, bins, and barrels filled with merchandise—everything imaginable. From black broadcloth jackets and gingham dresses to bolts of cloth, needles, and thread. Hardware, including plows, tools, harnesses, traces and saddles. Cracker barrels and casks of nails, sacks of beans and flour, rows of canned goods. Luxuries and necessities, it was filled with a world of stuff.

  Owner Russ Lockhart, Fay’s father, was absent from the premises. No doubt he was at the big table in a private dining room at the Cattleman Hotel, where his brother-in-law, town boss Wade Hutto, held court every Saturday morning, attended by Hangtown’s gentry of bankers, merchants, and big ranchers. The Saturday morning meets were one of the few things that could entice Russ Lockhart out from behind the store’s cash register.

  The store was busy, crowded with customers. Johnny didn’t have to look hard to find Fay. She just naturally stood out from the rest as she showed a bonnet to a townswoman. Her aunt Nell, a sour-faced old biddy, was helping out.

  A watchful young woman who kept a wary eye on the clientele, Fay glanced up to see who had entered. She saw a handsome, well-dressed young man about her own age, a not-so-usual sight that made her look twice.

  “Would you take care of this lady, Aunt Nell? I’ll only be a moment.” Not waiting for an answer, Fay put the bonnet down, scooting out from behind the counter and down the center aisle.

  Nell started to squawk, choking it off as Fay kept moving toward the newcomer, her eyes shining, smiling warmly. “Johnny! Johnny Cross!”

  “Howdy, Fay. Long time no see.”

  She reached out with both arms, taking his hands, squeezing them warmly. He couldn’t help noticing a thin gold band circling the base of her ring finger. Wedding band.

  Unsure how to respond, he was a bit awkward.

  Fay leaned forward, kissing him lightly on the cheek. His skin tingled at the contact. Some free-falling strands of her hair brushed his face, smelling sweet. Intoxicating.

  She stepped back, still holding his hands, looking him over. “It’s so good to see you!”

  She released him, hands falling to her sides. “I heard you were back. I was wondering when we’d run into each other. Why didn’t you come to see me sooner?”

  “I’ve been busy getting settled back at the ranch, fixing the old place up,” he said.

  “You’ve been busy, all right. Everybody’s talking about how you cleaned up that awful outlaw gang. You’re a hero, Johnny!”

  “Don’t believe everything you hear, Fay. These things are like fish stories, they get all puffed up in the telling. I just pitched in and helped out a little where I could, that’s all.”

  “Don’t be so modest. It was a wonderful thing you did. Not a man or woman was safe with those killers on the loose.”

  “Nice of you to say so, anyhow. I was sorry to hear about your loss, Fay. Your husband, that is. Real sorry.”

  Fay’s face clouded, emotion flickering across it. Her blue eyes were shadowed and sorrowful, her mouth turned down at the corners. “Thank you, Johnny. Lamar—Captain Devereaux—was a gallant officer and a gentleman.”

  “I’m sure.”

  “You would have liked him.”

  Johnny wasn’t so sure about that, but he nodded as if he was.

  Fay said, “Who hasn’t lost someone in the war? Your brother, Cal . . .”

  Johnny shook his head. “No, Cal didn’t make it.”

  “That’s what I heard. Now it’s my turn to say I’m sorry.”

  “Thanks.”

  Behind the counter, Aunt Nell snapped, “Fay! I could use some help here!”

  “In a minute, Aunt Nell. I’m talking with an old friend.”

  Nell thrust her head forward, peering at the young man. “Johnny Cross! Land’s sakes! I didn’t recognize you. It’s the first time I ever saw you in clean clothes.”

  “Nell!” Fay said sharply.

  Johnny touched the tip of his hat brim to the older woman. “And a good morning to you, ma’am.”

  “Is it? We’ll see,” Nell said, her tone and expression indicating otherwise.

  “So you’re going to be staying in Hangtree?” Fay asked.

  “For a while,” Johnny answered.

  “Good. I’m glad.” Faye smiled, putting the full force of her considerable personal appeal behind it.

  Johnny felt it all the way down to his toes as he became distantly aware of some kind of commotion brewing outside. It was like the buzzing of a nearby fly that hadn’t quite yet begun to pestify.

  Somebody shouted out in the street. People in the store started moving up front to see what it was all about.

  A man outside was yelling, going on about something at some length and sounding distinctly unhappy.

  Muffled by distance, Johnny couldn’t make out the words. But he didn’t care for the man’s tone. Something about it, some raw, ragging note of derision, made the back of his neck start to get hot.

  Fay frowned, glancing toward the storefront windows.

  “What’s all that commotion?” Nell said, sharp voiced with irritation.

  “Some drunk, probably,” a stiff-faced rancher put in.

  “Hmph! And before noon, too! I declare I don’t know what this town is coming to!” Nell exclaimed.

  “He don’t sound like no happy drunk,” Johnny noted. He was just getting reacquainted with lovely Fay when a shot sounded.

  “Uh-oh.” That’s Hangtown for you, he thought. A fellow can’t even strike up a chat with a pretty girl on Saturday morning without gunplay breaking out.

  Fay started toward the door. Nell thrust out a hand as if to arrest her progress. “Fay, don’t—”

  Others moved toward the storefront for a better look. Johnny, cat-quick, rushed up the center aisle, smoothly interposing himself between Fay and the open doorway. “You want to be careful when bullets are flying, Fay. Best wait here where it’s safe. I’ll go take a look.”

  She started to say something but he was already out the door. The disturbance was centered two streets east on Trail Street. Only the one shot had been fired. The shouting continued, however, with no letup. It was louder and more abusive than before.

  Johnny started toward it, then glanced back to see what Fay was doing. She stood just inside the doorway looking out but not following.

  Glancing right, Johnny saw Luke standing along the rail of the Cattleman’s front porch, facing toward the ruckus. He breathed a silent prayer of thanks that Luke wasn’t involved in the fracas. Trouble had a way of finding Luke, and vice versa.

  Of course, Luke thought the same thing about Johnny. They were both right, but at least, they were both well out of the trouble this time.

  The street ahead was emptying. Scrambling for the sidelines, some sheltered in doorways, alcoves, or behind abutments. Others, farther away, thinking themselves safe, stood out in the open, craning to see what the ruckus was all about.

  Men came out of the hotel lobby and dining room in a rush to see what was happening. They stood flattened behind upright pillars, crouched behind rocking chairs, peeking around corners. Staring oval faces clustered in the front entrance, others pressed against the windows.

  Luke stood leaning for support against a porch column. Johnny pressed forward, boot heels scuffing on the plank boardwalk, until he crossed the street and climbed up on the porch. “Hey, Luke.”

  “You’re just in time for the show.”

  Two men faced off in the square where a side-street met Trail Street. They were at opposite ends of the square, one at the northeast corner, the other at the southwest, facing each other across the diagonal.

  A man standing near Luke peeked out from behind a white column. “Bliss Staff
ord’s gunning for Damon Bolt! Called him out!”

  “He must be crazy.” Another man stood on one knee, peering between the bars of the porch rail.

  “Crazy drunk,” said a third.

  “I seen it all,” said the first speaker. “Damon was going to the barbershop when young Stafford ran out of the hotel and drew on him.”

  “He must’ve been inside laying for him,” the second man said.

  Damon Bolt was the owner of the Golden Spur, a saloon and gambling hall frequented by a fast, hot-blooded sporting crowd. A riverboat gambler from New Orleans, he’d come west after the war, settling in Hangtown.

  Johnny knew him casually. He liked the man, what he’d seen of him. Liked the way he handled himself. Bliss Stafford was unknown to him. It was the first time he’d heard the name.

  Bliss Stafford stood with his back to the hotel. Hatless, he showed a mop of yellow-gold curls. His expensive clothes were rumpled and wrinkled, as though he’d slept in them. He crouched with a smoking gun in his right hand, swaying, as though reeling under a wind only he could sense.

  Opposite him stood Damon Bolt. His right hand rested near the butt of a holstered gun worn low on the right hip. He was tall and thin, almost gaunt, with a high pale forehead and deepset dark eyes. The hair on his head and his mustache were raven black.

  He wore a brown morning coat, red cravat, tan waistcoat, and brown pants. His neat, small feet were encased in shiny brown boots. He seemed calm and self-possessed, oblivious of being under a drawn gun.

  Bliss Stafford circled around to one side, angling for a better line of fire on Damon. His movements showed his face in three-quarter profile to those on the hotel’s front porch.

  He seemed younger than Johnny, and more immature. Handsome in an overripe way, his looks were spoiled by a sullen, sneering mouth. His face was flushed, his eyes were red.

  Johnny nudged Luke. “Who’s this here Stafford?” he asked, low-voiced.

  “Stafford family came in last year,” Luke said, speaking out of the side of his mouth. “Ranchers—a hard-nosed bunch. Bought up some prime land on the South Fork. Ramrod Ranch, they call it. Got more gun hands than cowhands riding for the brand. Bliss is the youngest, the baby of the family. A mean drunk and not much better sober.”

  “He must be a damned fool, calling out Damon Bolt,” Johnny whispered.

  The man standing by the white column turned and gave them a sharp look. “Walk soft, strangers. Bliss has killed his man and more. All the Staffords have. A bad outfit to buck.”

  “I’ll take my chances,” Johnny said. “But thanks for the advice,” he added, seeing from the other’s demeanor that he meant only to pass along a friendly warning.

  Bliss Stafford drew himself up. “I’m calling you out, gambler!”

  “I have no quarrel with you, Stafford,” Damon Bolt said.

  “I got a quarrel with you. You should never have got between me and Francine.”

  Damon frowned. “This is hardly the time or place to bandy words about a lady, sir.”

  “Things were fine between us until you horned in!” Bliss shouted.

  “You are mistaken, sir. Miss Hayes has made it clear your attentions to her are unwelcome.”

  “You’re a liar!”

  Damon shook his head, seeming more in sorrow than in anger, almost pitying the young man.

  Bliss’s face, already florid, reddened further as he went on. “You’re a fine one with all your fancy talk, making out like you’re a real Southern gentleman. You ain’t fooling nobody. Everybody in town knows what you are—a four-flushing tinhorn and whoremonger!”

  Damon gave off a chill. “Have a care, sir. Say what you will about me, but I don’t care to hear the ladies in my employ being abused.”

  “You don’t, eh? What are you going to do about it?”

  “You’re the one with the gun. What are you going to do?”

  “I’m going to kill you.”

  A man stood at the head of a press of spectators thronging the front entrance of the hotel. He pushed forward, starting across the porch. He wore a broad-brimmed hat, good clothes, and shiny boots. He was fiftyish, trim, with a handsome head of silver hair, a neatly trimmed mustache, and the beginnings of a double chin.

  He was Wade Hutto, a powerful man in the town and the county. He descended the front stairs into the street, circling round into the intersection. Moving at a measured pace, he approached the face-off from the side, showing himself to both men yet careful not to get between them.

  Johnny nudged Luke with an elbow. “Looks like the bull of the woods is sticking his horns in.”

  “Must be something in it for him. Ol’ Wade don’t stick his neck out for nothing,” Luke said.

  In the street, Hutto harumphed. “What the devil are you two playing at?”

  “Ask Stafford. He threw down on me,” Damon said.

  “You got a gun—use it,” Bliss Stafford spat out.

  “Put that gun away, Bliss,” Hutto said.

  “Like hell! This is no business of yours, Hutto. Back off before you get hurt,” Bliss warned.

  “Everything that happens in Hangtree is my business, you young jackaknapes,” Hutto said, coloring.

  “You might throw some weight with these toothless townmen, but nobody tells Bliss Stafford what to do.”

  “Vince might see it different.”

  Some color came into Bliss’s face. “Yeah, well, Pa ain’t here now.”

  “A good thing for you he’s not, otherwise he’d knock some sense into you,” Hutto said. “I’ve got a lot of respect for Vince, too much to let you go off half-cocked and get yourself into bad trouble, Bliss.”

  “I kicked over the traces a long time ago. Now I do what I please. And it pleases me to give this tinhorn what he’s got coming to him.”

  Hutto turned to Damon. “Maybe I can get a straight answer out of you, Bolt. What’s this all about?”

  Bliss Stafford spoke first. “It’s about my girl, Francine. Damon’s trying to keep me from her, keep us apart. That’s why he’s got to die.”

  Hutto looked grave, like a doctor giving a heedless patient bad news. “You’re playing with fire, Bliss. Vince told you to forget about Francine Hayes.”

  “What does Pa know about it? He’s old. I’m young! I got blood in my veins, hot blood, not ice water. Francine belongs to me. She’s mine!” Bliss made a warning gesture with his free hand, dismissing Hutto. “I’m through talking. Slap leather, gambler!”

  “Against a drawn gun?” Damon said lightly, the corners of his lips upturned in a mocking smile. “I think not.”

  Bliss Stafford thought that one over. From his deeply lined brow and fierce frown, it could be seen that thinking was hard work for him. Coming to a decision, he shoved his gun back in the holster. “There! Now we’re even up. The odds good enough for you, now? There’s nothing to stop you from reaching. Why don’t you draw?”

  “It’s too nice a morning for killing,” Damon said.

  “Draw, damn you!”

  Damon tsk-tsked in a tone of real or affected sadness. “You see how it is, Hutto? There’s just no reasoning with the boy.”

  “Boy? Who you calling boy? You see a boy around here, kill him. Because I surely mean to kill you,” Bliss cried.

  “Don’t do it, Bolt,” Hutto said.

  “You’re my witness, Hutto. You and everyone else here. I gave him every out,” Damon said.

  Bliss Stafford shook with rage. “Enough talk! I count to three and then I’m coming up shooting!”

  “You’re making a big mistake, Bliss,” Damon said.

  “One!”

  “Still time to back off and save yourself.”

  “Two!”

  “Shoot and be damned, then.”

  “Three!” Bliss drew his gun, clearing the holster.

  A shot rang out.

  Bliss jerked as a slug tore into his chest. The impact spun him around halfway, his leveled gun unfired.

  Damon’s
gun was held hip-high, pointed at Bliss. A puff of gunsmoke hovered around the muzzle.

  Bliss looked surprised. He crossed gazes with Hutto, whose face showed pity mingled with contempt, but no surprise. Bliss toppled, falling sideways into the dirt. A final trembling spasm marked the last of the life leaving him.

  Hurrying west on Trail Street—too late!—came Sheriff Mack Barton and Deputy Clifton Smalls.

  Damon stepped back. Turning, he covered the newcomers with his gun. The lawmen slowed to a halt.

  Barton, in his mid-forties, had a face like the butt end of a smoked ham. A wide straight torso hung down from broad, sloping shoulders; his legs were short and bandy. He wore a dark hat, gray shirt, black string tie, and a thin black vest with a tin star pinned over the right breast.

  A Colt .45 was holstered on the right hip of a well-worn gun belt. He’d stayed alive for a long time by not rushing into things blindly. He was not about to start.

  Deputy Smalls was tall, thin, reedy. Storklike. His gun stayed holstered, too. He took his cue from his boss.

  Wade Hutto hauled from his jacket pocket a handkerchief the size of a dinner napkin and mopped his face with it. He’d sweated plenty during the face-off. “Nice work, Sheriff. You managed to get here too late to stop it.”

  Few dared talk to Barton in that tone, including Hutto, except when he was rattled, as he was now.

  “You got no call to speak to me like that, Wade,” Barton said.

  Hutto had put Barton in as sheriff. For most intents and purposes he was Hutto’s man, but Barton had a stubborn maverick streak that showed itself when he was crowded—he was a real son of Texas. There was no sense in getting on his bad side anytime, but especially with a potential crisis brewing.

  Hutto backed down. “You’re right, of course, Sheriff. I spoke out of turn in the heat of the moment. Sorry.”

  “That’s all right,” Barton said gruffly.

  “This is a hell of a mess!”

  Damon eased his gun into the holster, hand loitering not too far from the gun butt.

  “Might as well inspect the damage.” Barton and Smalls edged around the body, Hutto joining them. Bliss Stafford lay twisted on the ground, upper body turned faceup. A dark red hole marked his left breast.