“They’ll shoot us the minute we step outside,” McSween said, peering cautiously out a side window.
“We’ve gotta try it,” Scurlock said. “Otherwise we’re gonna be burned alive in here.”
“I’ll go out first,” volunteered the Kid. “The rest of you come behind me. We’ll stay next to the wall and use it for cover as long as we can, until we can make a dash for the trees along the riverbank.”
“It’s about the only choice we have,” McSween said as smoke from burning wood shingles began to fill the kitchen and some of the other rooms.
“I’ll be right behind you,” Chavez said, leaving the window to hurry over to the back door.
Scurlock and more than a dozen others carried rifles over to stand behind the Kid and Chavez.
“Go whenever you’re ready,” Chavez said, levering a shell into the firing chamber of his rifle.
“If we throw enough lead back at ’em, maybe they won’t be so damn brave,” the Kid said, opening the door an inch or two to take a look outside.
“There may be some deputies hiding on the other side of the wall,” the Kid warned.
“We’ll kill the bastards,” French snarled, coming up beside the Kid with his rifle cocked.
The Kid glanced over his shoulder. Alexander McSween sat on the floor, sobbing softly. He carried no guns, and seemed to be in the depths of despair.
“Follow us, Mr. McSween!” the Kid cried.
McSween merely wagged his head.
“C’mon, Kid,” French said, shoving past Chavez and the others to be first out the back door.
Next came Harvey Morris, then Tom O’Folliard, before José Chavez and the Kid made it out to the wall. Flames from the burning roof illuminated them as they crept toward the river, making them easy targets.
A commotion at the front of the house made the Kid stop in his tracks to look back inside the house, and what he saw made his blood run cold.
Three men rushed through the unguarded front door with guns leveled.
“Give up, McSween!” a deep voice shouted.
“I shall never surrender!” McSween yelled back.
Then guns began to explode.
Five bullets cut down McSween so quickly that he did not have time to shield his face with his hands.
The next to fall was a new Regulator making his escape through the back door, Vincente Romero. He flew off the porch after two shots caught him in the back.
Francisco Zamora wheeled around with his rifle to come to the aid of McSween. A slug caught him in the throat and he fell back on the seat of his pants, dropping his gun to grab his neck with both hands before he fell over dead.
Young Yginio Salazar crumpled with a bullet in the back fired by one of the posse. He began crawling toward the back door as smoke poured through holes burning in the roof, filling the house.
Ignàcio Gonzalez cradled his wounded arm as he came after the Kid and the other Regulators. He screamed in pain as another bullet grazed his side, but kept on running toward the wall, gripping his shattered arm, leaving a trail of blood behind him.
Florencio Chavez dashed out the back, ducking down so low he made a difficult target. José Sanchez was right behind him, and they turned away from the river, racing toward a chicken house a few dozen yards behind McSween’s. In a matter of seconds they were out of sight.
“Run!” French cried, leading the rest of the Regulators toward the river.
Suddenly, two shadows appeared in the trees along the riverbank. Henry Brown and George Coe were motioning them toward the thicket.
“Hurry!” George shouted as the shooting behind them grew louder.
“This way!” Henry added before ducking back behind the trunk of a cottonwood tree.
The Kid fired over his shoulder when a man raised up near the adobe wall. A man screamed and the figure dropped out of sight.
French and O’Folliard were the first to reach Coe and Brown while Chavez and the Kid covered everyone’s escape from the rear with occasional gunshots.
“This way,” the Kid heard Coe say.
“Stay in them reeds an’ keep down,” Brown added in a quiet voice.
“We got horses tied downstream,” Coe said as the Regulators trotted away from McSween’s burning house.
“I saw ’em kill Mr. McSween,” the Kid said to Doc Scurlock as they came to the water’s edge.
“Damn,” Scurlock hissed. “McSween never even carried no kind of gun.”
“We’ll get the yellow bastards another time,” the Kid promised as they ran among tall canes growing along the bank. “They murdered Mr. McSween just like they murdered Mr. Tunstall that time.”
“Damn right,” Scurlock said, trotting through deep shadows, his mouth in a grim line. “We’ll get revenge on ’em. Just you wait an’ see.”
“I’ll be right there to lend a hand,” the Kid said after a glance over his shoulder to see if any of the posse were following them. Flames from the roof of the house licked high in the night sky.
“The shootin’ stopped,” French said, slowing until the Kid and Scurlock were beside him.
“I reckon they killed all the others,” Scurlock said bitterly.
The Kid couldn’t shake the memory of Alexander McSween, sitting unarmed on the floor of his burning house when bullets tore through his body.
He remained silent about it now, but as they neared a group of saddled horses in a cottonwood grove downriver the Kid swore revenge against the killers of McSween. Their day of reckoning would come soon enough . . .
Twenty-four
Falcon was sitting at his usual table in The Drinking Hole, drinking coffee and reading about the latest exploits of the infamous Billy the Kid in the newspaper.
As he put a lucifer to his cigar, the batwings opened and in walked the most talked about outlaw in the state, the Kid.
Far from sneaking in looking over his shoulder, the Kid strolled in with head held high, like he was on top of the world.
Falcon leaned back, blew a plume of blue smoke at the ceiling, and smiled. One thing you can always say about the Kid, he thought, he has style.
As he made his way to Falcon’s table the Kid smiled and waved at the people in the saloon, most of whom greeted him fondly, some calling out, “Go get ’em, Kid, .” One of the Mexican vaqueros in the bar yelled, “Give ’em hell, Chivato.”
When the Kid got to the table he waved at Pat Garrett behind the bar and said, “How ’bout a sarsaparilla, Pat?”
Pat grinned, shook his head, and fixed the Kid his drink.
The Kid sat down, crossed his legs, leaned back in his chair, and said, “How’re things goin’, Falcon?”
Falcon laughed, signaling Pat to bring him a whiskey. He guessed a visit from the Kid was reason enough to celebrate.
“I’m doing just fine, Kid. I won’t ask how you’re doing, since I’ve been reading about you almost every day in the newspapers.”
The Kid scowled. “Don’t believe everything you read, Falcon. They’ve got me killin’ everyone in the county who dies for almost any reason, an’ stealin’ every cow that wanders off in the brush.”
He grinned again, and Falcon realized that Billy just wasn’t the sort to stay angry at anything for very long. His temper was explosive, but it cooled just as fast, and then he’d be the old Kid again, everyone’s friend, especially the ladies.
“Hell, I read the other day some woman in Ruidosa claimed I ran up to her and stole her purse.”
“Was there much money in it?” Falcon teased.
“Hell, no, it was near empty,” the Kid teased back, taking a deep drink of his sarsaparilla, then burping as he always did.
Falcon sipped his whiskey and took a drag on his cigar, unsure of how to begin. He had some things on his mind he needed to say, to clear the air between them.
“Kid, there’s some things I have to ask you.”
The Kid’s face sobered and he leaned forward, his elbows on the table.
“Go ahead,
Falcon. I consider you my friend, an’ you can ask me anything you want.”
“These stories in the papers, about you killing all those people, are any of them true?”
The Kid thought for a minute, then shook his head.
“Falcon, much as I’d like everybody to believe I’m the fastest, meanest gun in the West, it just ain’t so. I ain’t killed anybody, far as I know, since the night we had the fight at McSween’s.”
Falcon was relieved to hear that. He didn’t know why, but he felt a strange kinship to this boy. Perhaps it was because without some lucky breaks in his life, Falcon could be riding the same owl hoot trail Billy was, for much the same reasons.
“Good,” Falcon said. “So, tell me what has really been going on in your life, Kid.”
The Kid waved at Pat for another drink, then pulled a toothpick out of his pocket and began chewing on it as he spoke.
“You heard those bastards burned Mr. McSween’s body, then went over to Tunstall’s store and tore it up, stole most of the supplies, and all of the money out of his safe?”
Falcon nodded. “Yeah, I heard. Only Peppin’s story was they were chasing members of your gang out of there and that you and your friends did all the damage and stole the money.”
“That figures. Peppin never did stand too close to the truth, him and lying being such good friends.”
“What happened after you escaped from McSween’s?”
“I rode on over to San Patricio and met up with what remained of the Regulators. They decided that I should kind’a take over leadin’, since everybody else was killed or on the run.”
“I heard they called you to testify at a hearing at Fort Stanton about what happened at McSween’s.”
The Kid frowned. “Yeah, an’ I told ’em just like it was, only Peppin and Colonel Dudley twisted everything around to make it sound like we was in the wrong. The coroner’s jury, appointed by Peppin, of course, finally said that McSween, Harvey Morris, Francisco Zamora, and Vincente Romero died while they were resisting arrest by the sheriff’s posse with force of arms.”
He chuckled. “Hell, Falcon, those men offered to surrender two or three times, and those bastards led by Peppin and Dudley wouldn’t let ’em.”
“The papers said you killed one of Agent Godfroy’s clerks over at Blazer’s mill after you testified.”
“Another lie,” said the Kid bitterly. “Hell, Falcon, Atananacio Martinez done testified he shot Bernstein in self-defense, but Dolan went around claimin’ it was me, so of course Judge Bristol laid that one on me, too.”
Falcon shook his head. “I heard a group of soldiers almost caught you one night, but they said you just disappeared like smoke from a campfire in a storm.”
The Kid threw back his head and laughed. “You want to know what really happened?”
“Sure.”
“I was on the run from the soldiers, who said I killed some Injuns on the Mescalero reservation—which I didn’t, by the way—an’ a Mexican farmer and his wife let me hole up in their little ’dobe house. It only had the one room, and they was sleepin’ on a mattress in one corner and I was layin’ down on another mattress in the other corner. When the soldiers came knocking at the door, the Mex and his wife put me betwixt the two mattresses and laid down on top of me. Those stupid soldiers went around the room lookin’ but couldn’t find me.”
The Kid paused, took another drink of sarsaparilla, and smiled. “Hellfire, Falcon, I ’bout smothered under those mattresses, but I got away again.”
“So, what are you going to do now?”
He shrugged. “Don’t have much choice. The Dolan forces have me branded as the worst outlaw in the land, so won’t nobody hire me for any real work. Guess I’ll just stay with the Regulators and try to somehow avenge Tunstall’s and McSween’s deaths.”
“What about Jesse Evans and his men?”
The Kid looked up. “What about them? Last I heard Evans was in custody over at Fort Sumner, being held for the murder of Mr. Tunstall.”
Falcon shook his head. “Well, he and his men are out now. With the help of Judge Bristol, Rynerson staged a mock hearing, and he was acquitted. Rynerson let him plead self-defense, and the hand-picked jury bought it.”
The Kid slammed his hand down on the table. “Damn! I swear to you, Falcon, if it’s the last thing I ever do I’ll see Evans in hell for what he did. Him and the whole Dolan group.”
Falcon leaned forward and put his hand on the Kid’s arm. “Kid, take it easy. There’s nothing you can do now, it’s all over. The law has spoken.”
“Not my law, the law of the gun!” The Kid stood up and put his hand on his Colt. “I’ll see you later, Falcon. I got me some men to hunt.”
Without a backward glance, the Kid stormed from the saloon. Falcon sat helplessly watching a good man throw his life away with no chance at all of coming out of this fracas alive.
* * *
Falcon closed and locked the doors of The Drinking Hole at two in the morning, climbed on Diablo, and headed home toward the Ruidosa River under a full moon.
The sky was cloudless and clear, the air crisp and cold, and Falcon was enjoying his ride, until Diablo shook his head and nickered softly.
Pulling back on the reins, Falcon studied the trail ahead of him as Diablo slowed to a walk. Uh oh, he thought, there’s company up ahead waiting in that copse of mesquite trees.
Watching closely, Falcon could see the intermittent glow of a cigarette as someone smoked while waiting for him to appear.
He unbuttoned his heavy coat and pulled the sides back, hooking them in his belt so they left his Colts exposed. He loosened the hammer thong on the pistols, then drew a short-barreled, ten gauge express gun from his left hand saddle boot.
Laying the shotgun across his saddle horn, he let Diablo walk up the trail until he was about thirty yards from the trees. By now he could see the fog-breath of several horses among the trees, and dark shapes of the men riding them. He counted four riders.
Falcon pulled Diablo to a halt, and sat there on the trail, silently staring at where the men were hiding, letting them know he saw them and was ready for them to come out.
Finally, after a few minutes, the riders emerged. Jesse Evans came out of the trees, followed by Smokey Johanson, “Turkey Neck” Bill McGraw, and Jack Spears. They were all hard men, and were among those who had ridden with Evans from the first, assisting him in all the rustling and shooting he had been doing over the past year.
As they came toward him, Falcon used the noise their horses made to cover the sound of him earing back the hammers on his shotgun.
“Howdy, gents. What can I do for you?” Falcon asked, as casual as if middle of the night confrontations were an everyday occurrence for him.
“Hello, MacCallister,” Evans said, pulling his horse to a halt ten yards from Falcon.
Evans sat back against the cantle of his saddle, tipped his hat back on his head, and glanced at the moon overhead. “Nice night, ain’t it?”
Falcon nodded, his eyes fixed on the men in front of him. “Yes. It’s a good night for dying.”
Evans stared at him, his eyes cold as the night air, shining in reflected moonlight. “Who said anything ’bout dyin’, MacCallister? We just wanna ask you some questions ’bout Billy the Kid.”
“Yeah,” “Turkey Neck” McGraw growled, “we wanna know where the little bastard’s hidin’ out. We plan to pay him a visit.”
Falcon pulled gently on Diablo’s right rein, moving the bronc a little sideways so the shotgun pointed at the group in front of him.
“I don’t know where the Kid is, at the moment. I do know he intends to kill you, Jesse, and all the men who ride with you, for what you did to his friend John Tunstall.”
Evans emitted a harsh laugh. “Is that so?”
Falcon nodded. “Yes. However, I don’t intend to let that happen. I’m reserving that pleasure for myself.”
“Why you . . .” Smokey Johanson said, and Falcon saw his hand
move toward his pistol.
Without another word, Falcon let the hammer down on the ten gauge, sending a load of 00-buckshot exploding out of the barrel toward Johanson. The molten pellets caught the big Swede in the chest, blowing a hole clean though his body and catapulting him backward off his horse.
As Diablo shied from the sudden noise, Falcon threw the shotgun to his shoulder, fired the other barrel at McGraw, and could see his head disappear in the flash from the barrel.
“God damn!” Spears yelled as his and Evans’s horses reared and crow-hopped, trying to get away from the noise and smoke.
Falcon dropped the express gun and grabbed iron as a pistol appeared in Spear’s hand and he frantically tried to get his mount under control to get a clear shot at Falcon.
Falcon fired both Peacemakers from the hip, one slug tearing off Spear’s right ear as it cut a deep furrow in his scalp, the other bullet entering his left eye, putting out his lights and slamming him to the ground, dead before he hit dirt.
Evans was holding onto his reins with both hands, still trying to get his horse calmed down. After a moment, he managed to still the frightened animal, and sat looking around him at his men, all lying dead on the ground.
“Hell, MacCallister,” he said, his eyes wide and scared, “why’d you do that? We just wanted to talk.”
Falcon put his pistols in the holsters and faced Evans. “Jesse, you been calling the dance around here for some time, riding roughshod over anyone who got in your way. You’ve killed some good men, men who were doing you no harm.”
Falcon stared into the killer’s eyes. “Now, you’re going to learn that he who calls the dance has to pay the band. Fill your hands, or die where you sit.”
Evans licked his lips, eyes darting to and fro, looking for some way to escape. Finally, he took a deep breath, and grabbed for his pistol.
Falcon drew and fired before Evans cleared leather, his bullet hitting Evans square in the chest, punching a hole through his breastbone and in his left lung.
Evans grunted and slumped in the saddle, staring at the front of his shirt, where blood, black as coal in the moonlight, pumped out in small squirts.
Song of Eagles Page 16