Rage of Eagles

by William W. Johnstone

  “You let them get organized!” Noonan fumed at Gilman.

  “I didn’t let them get crap!” Miles raged right back.

  “The hell you didn’t!” Noonan shouted.

  “All right!” Stegman said. “Settle down, the both of you. My God, men, listen to yourselves. You’re both losing it. You’re going into a panic. Settle down and let’s make some plans on how best to deal with this situation.”

  Stegman uncorked a bottle and poured them all stiff drinks. “That’s better, boys. Much better,” he said, after a moment of silence. “Now then, let’s go over what we’re up against. First of all, we have MacCallister. One man. About six old farts, all of them with one foot already in the grave. A few ranchers, and a handful of farmers. That’s it. That’s what we’re facing. And that’s all we’re facing. Without MacCallister, the opposition would fall apart. He’s the brains behind it all. So we take him out.”

  “I’ve tried to do just that a couple of times,” Gilman said, disgust in his voice. “It isn’t that easy, believe me.”

  “Then we keep trying until we do take him out,” Stegman replied. “We’ve got the men, and our payroll is costing us a bundle. I don’t know about you boys, but I can’t keep paying for much longer. The payroll will break me.”

  “It’ll damn sure do that,” Gilman muttered. “I’m going to have a cash flow problem before much longer.”

  Even Noonan agreed with that, nodding his head solemnly. “Yeah, me too. Hard money is gettin’ tight. We gotta do something and do it damn quick.”

  “The problem is, one of them, anyways, is that MacCallister could buy us all if he took a notion,” Stegman continued. “It’s common knowledge that he’s a millionaire. The whole damn family together is worth millions and millions of dollars. They’re the richest family in Colorado.” He waved a hand. “But that’s ain’t neither here nor there. Our problem is right here, with just one MacCallister ... Falcon.”

  “Let’s each pick five of our best men and send them after Falcon,” Noonan suggested.

  “That’s a good start,” Stegman agreed. “Let’s keep it rollin’.”

  “We’ve damn sure tried everything else,” Gilman said. “And nothin’s worked so far. What the hell do we have to lose?”

  “Nothin’,” Stegman said. “Personally, I’d like to get this war over with and get rid of about ninety percent of these lazy gunslingers we got on the payroll. Some of these men don’t know the ass end of a cow from the front end. All they do is eat and sleep and gripe.”

  “Kill the kids,” Noonan said quietly. “That will take the guts right out of Bailey and we’ll be shut of the main player in this little war. He’ll fold up like a house of cards.”

  “I don’t know about that,” Stegman said. “We start killin’ ranchers’ kids and the whole county will turn against us. You’d better give that some thought.”

  “So we make it look like an accident,” Noonan pressed on, leaning forward in his chair. “We kill some nester kids first. Nobody gives a damn about nesters’ kids. I think Bailey will get the message pretty quick.”

  Gilman laughed. “For a fact, some of them damn nesters probably wouldn’t even miss a kid or so for a week. They breed like rabbits.”

  The three powerful ranchers all enjoyed a good laugh at that. They each had another drink and were silent for a time. If their plans worked out, the three men would soon control the largest county in Wyoming. They would be running more cattle than anyone else. They would have an empire.

  “What about this Silver Dollar Kid?” Noonan asked. “You’re payin’ him top dollar, Miles. And so far he ain’t done nothin’. Turn him loose against MacCallister. Hell, if he’s as good as his reputation, he just might get lucky.”

  “I been savin’ him,” Miles said. “But now might be the time. I’ll cut him loose in the mornin’. He’s lightnin’ fast, for a pure-dee fact.”

  “Just to be on the safe side,” Stegman said, “let’s go ahead and each of us pick five men to go against MacCallister if this fails. We’ve got to start thinkin’ ahead.”

  “All right,” Noonan said. “I can name five of the slickest gunhands anywhere around in one minute.”

  “Me too,” Gilman said. “God knows they’re costin’ me enough money.”

  “That’s the truth if it was ever spoke,” Stegman agreed. “But first, let’s figure how to get MacCallister into town to face the Kid.”

  “I want to be there to see it,” both of the others said as one. “I don’t want to miss this.”

  “Oh, we’ll be there,” Stegman said. “I wouldn’t miss seein’ MacCallister take lead. That’ll be a tale we can tell our grandchildren.”

  “And that will also whip the townspeople back into shape,” Gilman mused softly. “They been gettin’a little uppity since it appears MacCallister is gainin’ the upper hand. I got to slap them back down a notch or two.”

  “I noticed right off they was sorta snooty,” Noonan said.

  “Look,” Stegman said, “we can’t be too obvious about this. As much as we might like to make it plain that we’re behind it, it’d be better if the showdown between the Kid and MacCallister, when it comes, looks as though it just happened. We’ll just send the Kid into town and he can get him a hotel room and he can wait it out. Lord knows, from what I’ve seen of him, he don’t know nothin’ about ranchin’.”

  “For a fact,” Gilman said. “He’s sorta goofy in the head.”

  “That ain’t all he is,” Stegman said drily, with a look of disgust on his face. “He makes my skin crawl just bein’ around him.”

  “Whatever else he might be,” Gilman said, “he’s the fastest gun I’ve ever seen. If anyone can take MacCallister, it’s the Kid.”

  “All right, Miles,” Noonan said. “Cut him loose and let’s see what happens.”

  Miles Gilman stood up and poured them all drinks. He held his glass out. “To the death of Falcon MacCallister!”

  The three of them solemnly clinked glasses.

  Twenty-Three

  The sky opened up shortly after the shoot-out on the main street of town and the rain didn’t stop for two days. During that time, everybody stayed close to their respective ranches. When the storm clouds finally blew away and the sky cleared, The Silver Dollar Kid got his go-to-work orders and rode into town and got him a room at the hotel. That was noticed by all the residents of course, but no one really paid much attention to it. The Kid was a quiet type who didn’t drink very much and took his meals alone and at odd times of the day when the dining room at the hotel was least likely to have many customers.

  The Kid lounged around town for the better part of a week waiting for Falcon to make an appearance. Not only didn’t Falcon come into town, no one from the Rockingchair came into town. Then on a Saturday morning, the Kid looked out his second-floor window and smiled. Falcon MacCallister was just stepping down from the saddle in front of the general store. John Bailey and his family were just reining up in the buckboard in front of the dress shop. The Kid stared at the lettering on the shop window. He never could figure that out. Shop was spelled with two p’s and two e’s. Stupid.

  The Kid buckled on his gunbelt and slipped into his fancy vest. He went downstairs to meet Falcon, certain that after today, his name would be right up there with Hardin and Hickok and Earp and Masterson and all the rest. He would be the man who outdrew Falcon MacCallister. He would be a legend. Tough men would step aside for him and singers would write and sing songs about him. There would be newspaper articles written about him, some penny dreadful books published, and maybe even some plays done about his life. The Silver Dollar Kid was sure all those things would happen . . . just as soon as word got out that he had killed Falcon MacCallister.

  The Kid walked through the lobby of the hotel and stepped out onto the boardwalk, looking first left and then right. The shops and businesses were busy with customers. That was good. The Kid wanted lots of people to see him gun down Falcon MacCallister. He to
uched the butts of both guns. He was ready.

  The Kid walked slowly up the boardwalk, toward the general store. He met a dozen people but spoke to none of them. He had just one thought on his mind: killing Falcon MacCallister.

  Falcon was standing on the boardwalk in front of the general store, chatting with a local. He saw the Kid walking up the boardwalk and immediately sensed the Kid was going to brace him. It was in the way he was walking, the stiff back and the way the Kid held his hands.

  “You’d better back away,” Falcon told the citizen. “I’ve got trouble coming straight at me.”

  The local stepped to one side, then backed up until he was standing in the doorway of the general store, out of the direct line of fire.

  “Falcon MacCallister!” the Kid called, stopping about a hundred feet from Falcon.

  Falcon turned to face the Kid.

  “I’m callin’ you out, Falcon MacCallister.”

  “Why?” Falcon asked.

  That confused the Kid for a moment. There was a look of puzzlement on his narrow face. “ ’Cause you’re you and I’m me, that’s why,” he finally said.

  “It was that way yesterday, last week, and last month,” Falcon said calmly. “Why brace me now?”

  The conversation was getting just a bit philosophical for the Kid. He narrowed his eyes and stared hard at Falcon. “Don’t try to weasel out of this, MacCallister. You knew it was comin’.”

  “I did?”

  That brought the kid up short again. This just wasn’t going exactly the way he’d had it all worked out in his mind. He’d envisioned crowds of people lining both sides of the street, standing silently and watching while he gunned down Falcon. He hadn’t expected a damn conversation with MacCallister.

  “Yeah, you did!” the Kid yelled in frustration.

  “Oh,” Falcon said. “Well. If you say so, Kid. Tell me, what are we fighting about?”

  Again, the Kid was brought up short for a moment. He stared at Falcon, anger clouding his features, darkening his face. Finally, he said, “To see who’s the better man with a gun, damn you, that’s why.”

  “Oh. Is that all? OK. You’re a better man with a gun. Does that make you happy?”

  Several men along the boardwalk laughed at that. The Kid looked as though he was about to cry. This just wasn’t working out the way he’d planned.

  “No, you bastard!” the Kid shouted. “You got to face me and hook and draw.”

  “Aww ... do I have to?”

  For a moment, the Kid looked as though he was going to jump up and down on the boardwalk and have a temper tantrum. “Yes, damn you, MacCallister. You have to face me. I’m callin’ you out, right now, right here. I’m sayin’ you’re a yellow dog and you don’t have the courage to face me. I’m sayin’ you got no guts and you’re a damn coward.”

  The men along the boardwalk knew then that Falcon could not get out of this fight. No western man would stand and take those insults without reacting.

  And Falcon was no different. He sighed and shook his head. “I wish you hadn’t said those things, Kid,” Falcon told the younger man.

  “Well, I said ’em, and I meant ’em, you yellow bastard! Now step out into the street.”

  Falcon stepped off the boardwalk and into the street. There was nothing else he could do. The unwritten code had just been violated.

  The Silver Dollar Kid stepped off the boardwalk and walked slowly to the center of the street, turning to face Falcon. The silver dollars on his vest, hat, and gunbelt twinkled in the sunlight.

  John Bailey and his family stood inside the general store, looking out one of the large front show windows at the life-and-death drama that was taking place on the main street of town. They did not speak.

  “Your play, Kid,” Falcon spoke softly. “You wanted this, now you have it. But I wish it didn’t have to be.”

  The Kid was all raging torrents inside. Outwardly, he was calm, but inside he was a spewing volcano. This was the moment he had lived for since he was just a pimply-faced boy. He was finally facing a top gun.

  The entire town had turned out, lining both sides of the street. The townspeople and those who had come into town to shop stood silently on the boardwalk, not moving, not speaking. Watching and waiting.

  “You got anything you want to say before you die, MacCallister?” the Kid called.

  “I have no intention of dying this day, Kid. You’ve got it all wrong.”

  “What do you mean? I’m the Silver Dollar Kid. No man has ever beat me to the draw.”

  “You never faced anyone worth a damn, Kid,” Falcon’s voice carried up and down the street. “All you’ve ever faced was two-bit wanna-bes and kids. I’m telling you right now to back away and get out. Or die where you stand.”

  “You’re . . . tellin’ me?” the Kid was amazed. Nobody talked to him like that. Nobody. It just wasn’t done. And he had faced men who were good with a gun. There was that marshal down south, and that gambler who cold-decked him that time. And that cowboy who was supposed to be good with a gun. The Kid laughed at Falcon. “I know what you’re tryin’ to do, MacCallister. It won’t work. You’re just tryin’ to save your own skin.”

  “You’re a damn fool, boy,” Falcon told him, his words hard and cold. “What’s Gilman paying you, seventy-five dollars a month? You ready to die for a few dollars? Is that all the value you place on your life?”

  “You got it all wrong, MacCallister. I’m not the one goin’ to die this day. You are!”

  Falcon slowly shook his head. “No, I’m not, Kid. Be smart. Turn around and walk away. You’ve got a long life ahead of you. Don’t end it in this street.”

  The Kid laughed at Falcon’s words. “Time for talkin’ is all over, MacCallister. You can’t talk your way out of this.”

  “I tried,” Falcon said. “Nobody can say I didn’t try.”

  “Now!” the Kid shouted, and drew.

  The Silver Dollar Kid was fast. If anything was ever written around him, that would surely be mentioned. He was only a hair slower than Falcon, and he got off the first shot. But he missed, the bullet digging up the dirt in front of Falcon. Falcon didn’t miss. His bullet hit the Kid just under the V of the rib cage and turned him around. The Kid lifted his .45 and thumbed the hammer back. Falcon shot him again, the slug striking the Kid in the chest and dropping him to the dirt. The Kid’s .45 slipped from his fingers just as he slumped over on one side, blood leaking out of a corner of his mouth.

  Falcon walked slowly up to the young man and stood looking down at him. The Kid seemed to be having a difficult time focusing his eyes. He opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came out except a mumble that Falcon could not understand.

  The Kid tried to pull his second Colt from leather but he could not make his finger close around the butt. He finally gave it up and lay still in the dirt.

  “My aim was off,” the Kid managed to say.

  Falcon said nothing in reply.

  The town doctor walked over and knelt down, examining the Kid. He stood up, looked at Falcon, and shook his head.

  “He just wouldn’t listen. I tried to talk him out of it, Doc.”

  “I know you did. I heard you. No one can fault you for this shooting.”

  Reverend Watkins and some ladies from his church had gathered on the boardwalk and were singing.

  “I’m too young to die. I don’t want to die,” the Kid muttered, his face pressing into the dirt.

  None of the men gathered around said anything.

  “It wasn’t supposed to be this way,” the Kid whispered. “I was gonna be famous.”

  Falcon picked out the empty brasses and dropped them into the street, filling up the cylinder with fresh rounds.

  Two little boys darted out and grabbed up the empty brasses and dashed back behind the crowd on the boardwalk. None of those gathered around the dying young man noticed them. Somewhere in the town, several dogs started barking.

  Reverend Watkins started praying for the Kid’s
soul and for the Lord to forgive Falcon for what he’d just done. The ladies broke out in fresh song.

  The Silver Dollar Kid closed his eyes and died.

  Falcon turned and walked away.

  * * *

  When the news of the Silver Dollar Kid getting gunned down by Falcon reached the hired guns in the county, some twenty of them packed their war bags and quietly rode out. They wanted no part of Falcon MacCallister. While the Kid may have been goofy in the head, he was still fast as a lightning bolt with a six-gun. Falcon outdrew him. That was it for those hired guns. This war was over for them.

  Stegman, Gilman, and Noonan at first did not believe it when they heard the news about the shoot-out, for all three of them had seen the Kid practice and knew how fast he was. This meant that finding anyone now to go up against Falcon MacCallister face-to-face was going to be very difficult, if not impossible.

  “Turn the boys loose and ambush the bastard,” Noonan ordered. “It’s the only way.”

  The fifteen gunslicks picked by the cattlemen’s alliance met and discussed plans on how best to kill Falcon MacCallister. A gunslick named Wilbur felt sure he could take Falcon face-to-face. So did a hired gun who went by the name of Dooley, as did another mercenary who was called Ed.

  “The Kid was all mouth,” Wilbur said. “He wasn’t as good as people thought he was.”

  “Yeah,” Dooley agreed. “And neither is MacCallister. I can take him.”

  “So can I,” Ed announced.

  The twelve others in the group said nothing. To a man, they all secretly believed they were faster than Falcon, but would keep their mouths shut about it for the time being. They all knew that the Kid may have had an off day. He might have had the sun in his eyes. His hand may have been sweaty when he drew. There were a dozen reasons why Falcon dropped the Kid, but none of the fifteen believed any of those reasons would ever happen to them . . . when the time came for them to face Falcon MacCallister. And that day would come.