Fourteen
“I can just make out your hands,” Falcon warned. “Move your arms and you’re a dead man.”
The man in the shadows chuckled. “Relax, Falcon. I’m a United States deputy federal marshal.”
“Name?”
“I’d best keep that a secret for the time being. I was sent into this area to find and arrest you. But I never did believe what those warrants said happened over in Utah. I tried to pet that horse or yours. Bastard tried to bite me.”
“It’s a wonder you still have a hand.”
“You want to put up the gun, now?”
“No. Not yet. Tell me more.”
“Can’t say as I blame you. All right. Long before the warrant on you was lifted, I started smelling the stink of all the rotten goings-on in this part of Wyoming. But I can’t do very much about it right now.”
“Why?”
“It’s all political, Falcon. Big money at work here, and big money puts politicians deep into those monied pockets.”
“Does it reach all the way to the president of the United States?”
“If it does, it will never be proven.”
“Nice system we have in place.”
“Believe me, Falcon, as time progresses and the nation grows, it will get much worse.”
“Hopefully, we won’t be around to witness that.”
“I share your sentiments.”
Falcon holstered his pistol and started to move toward the man standing in the shadows. The federal marshal held up one hand in warning.
“Don’t, Falcon. What you don’t know can’t be tortured out of you.”
Falcon stopped. “The cattlemen’s alliance has done that to people?”
“Oh yes. Rape, torture, murder, extortion ... you name it, they’ve had their greedy hands in it.”
“And the government can’t do anything to stop it?”
“Certain elected and appointed people in the government won’t do anything to stop it.”
“So the small ranchers and the farmers in this area are on their own, right?”
“That’s pretty much the way it is now, and pretty much the way it’s going for be for some time.”
“Until ... what changes?”
“Back east, the public doesn’t know what is really happening out here. To them, this is still wild and woolly country, untamed. Savage Indians, wild cowboys who settle every issue with a gun. People don’t carry guns back east, Falcon. They have policemen and courts and judges; that’s how they settle disputes, not with gunplay. But they need beef back east, and the big ranchers can supply that beef. And the big ranchers have a huge voice back east when it comes to the press. The public is getting only one side of the story, and they will continue getting only one side of the story.”
“So everything is stacked against the little man.”
“Unfortunately, yes.”
“No immediate relief in sight?”
“None whatsoever. And I doubt there will be any help for years. The sheriffs in every county in the northern part of this state are bought and paid for by the cattlemen’s cartel. You’ll get absolutely no help from them.”
“Why are you telling me this?”
“I can’t come close to making the odds even for you and the people you’re trying to help, but I can at least warn you what you’re up against.”
“But no help for us from the government?”
“None. It’s going to have to get a hell of a lot worse before the government will be forced to step in. And that will probably come about by an outraged public all over America.”
“I know that many small ranchers and farmers in the area have written letters to the government.”
“They never got past some obscure clerk in a dusty office.”
“I do appreciate you telling me this.”
“It’s about all I can do. I’ll be around, but for the most part, my hands are tied.”
Falcon stepped to one side and the shadowy figure walked past him and out the rear door of the barn without another word being exchanged between the two men.
Falcon stood in the silence and listened for the sound of a horse. He heard nothing. The federal marshal must have left his horse some distance away.
Falcon walked over to Hell and stroked the animal’s nose. The big horse nickered softly. Anyone else who had tried to touch Hell would have immediately been minus several fingers.
“Interesting little talk I just had, ol’ boy,” Falcon whispered. “But it damn sure pointed out plain and clear the direction the little man has to take against the cattlemen’s alliance.”
Falcon lit a lantern and inspected the still damp earth just outside the rear barn door. There were his own bootprints, and the prints of a person walking away from the area. Those prints had a clearly visible V-shaped cut in the right boot heel.
Falcon squatted there for a few moments. He wouldn’t tell John Bailey about the federal marshal. No point in further depressing the rancher; the situation was bad enough as it was without adding to it.
All Falcon could do was wait for the cattlemen’s alliance to make the next move.
* * *
Falcon told no one about his meeting with the federal marshal. All the hands stayed close for the next several days, for there was plenty to keep them busy. In the middle of the week, Falcon, Wildcat, and Stumpy hitched up teams to three wagons and pulled out early for the old trading post. Falcon had ordered enough supplies to last, hopefully, until the end of the summer. He had also ordered enough ammunition to start a major war.
A drifting cowboy had stopped at the Rockingchair the day before and told his story about approaching the Snake ranch to see about work. He had known nothing of the trouble in this part of Northern Wyoming. He said he had never seen so many hired guns in all his life. He said a man would be hard-pressed to find a real cowboy in the whole bunch. Falcon told him about a small rancher over east of the Rockingchair who needed a hand and the man thanked him and headed that way.
“So the hardcases have arrived,” Stumpy said, during a rest break at a shallow running creek.
“Looks that way. Some of them.”
“Least he didn’t didn’t say nothin’ ’bout no kid with silver dollars on his vest and gunbelt.”
Falcon smiled. “Don’t worry about the kid, Stumpy. I haven’t lost any sleep over him.”
Stumpy cut his eyes to Falcon. “You that sure you can take him?”
“I’ve seen the kid do his stuff. He’s a showboat. Most of the time he has to work himself up to gunplay. I don’t think he’s ever faced anyone who was really good with a gun.”
“Max Wells,” the older man corrected.
“Max was drunk. That’s the way I heard it.”
“Maybe so.”
“Max was also gettin’ on in years and he’d ’llowed hisself to get fat,” Wildcat said. “And careless. Thought his reputation could get him out of any trouble. He was wrong.”
“You was there?” Stumpy asked. “I didn’t know that.”
“I was there. Little town in Arizona. Max’s best days was long behind him and he’d taken the job as marshal just to have somethin’ to do. Max hadn’t pulled iron on nobody in five, six years. The kid comes sashayin’ into town, makin’ his brags. Backed Max into a corner and forced him to draw. But as drunk as he was, Max still cleared leather ’fore the kid plugged him.”
“My pa knew Max Wells,” Falcon said. “Rode with him a time or two. Said he was a good man as long as he stayed off the bottle.”
“That was his undoin’, all right,” Wildcat agreed. “I believe he’d a taken the kid sober.”
“We’ll never know,” Falcon said, standing up from his squat by the creek. “But if he braces me, I’ll kill him. I got no use for people like the kid. All right, boys, let’s push on. We’re going to have a slow pull back to the ranch.”
* * *
“I never seen so many supplies in all my borned days,” the trading post owner allowed. “I had to store some of them in the barn. I don’t think them three wagons you brung will hold ’em all.”
“Then we’ll come back another day for what’s left,” Falcon told him. “Soon as we finish this coffee, let’s get them loaded up and get out of here before trouble shows up.”
“You expectin’ trouble?” the post owner asked.
“The way this country is filling up with hired guns?” Falcon put it as a question.
“Good point,” the man agreed. “Say, you heard anythin’ ’bout the Silver Dollar Kid comin’ in?”
Falcon sighed. He was already getting weary about hearing the name of that crazy killer. “I heard Nance Noonan hired him. Don’t know if he’s here yet or not.”
“I heard he’s faster than Billy the Kid.”
“Billy isn’t fast,” Falcon corrected. “He’s just about half nuts, that’s all.”
“You’ve seen Billy the Kid?”
“I’ve seen him. He didn’t impress me.”
“Well, I’ll be damned! Have some more coffee and I’ll help you get loaded. Tell me about Billy the Kid.”
“Not that much to tell. If he ever had a stand-up face-off in the street with anybody who was any good, I haven’t heard about it.”
“Who’s the best?” the trading post owner asked.
“John Wesley Hardin,” Falcon said without hesitation. “The Texas gunfighter. But there’s probably dozens out there just as good or better. They just haven’t gone around looking for a name. John Wesley and Wild Bill Hickok faced each other a few years back. Neither of them would draw.”
“Hickok’s dead, ain’t he?”
“So I hear. Somebody name of Jack McCall shot him in the back over in Deadwood.”
“They hang him?”
“Not yet. I heard the first jury found him not guilty. Judge called for another trial. That jury found him guilty and sentenced him to hang.”
“Hickok was holdin’ aces and eights,” Wildcat said. “McCall slipped up behind him and shot him in the back of the head. Hickok never made a sound, way I heard it. He just straightened up for a few seconds, then fell over dead.”
“How come he shot him?” the trading post owner asked.
“Don’t no one really know.”
“I heard one story about the man claiming Hickok cheated him at cards,” Falcon said. “Then he changed that to claim that Wild Bill had killed his brother.”
“Had he?”
Falcon shook his head. “No trace of a brother was ever found.”
“When’s he gonna swing?” Stumpy asked.
“Soon, probably.” He sat his coffee mug down on the counter. “Well, let’s get to work, boys.” He smiled. “We’ve only got about three tons of supplies to load.” He looked at the post owner. “And don’t forget those shotguns and cases of shells.”
“They’re packed and ready to go.”
The men worked for over an hour, not working in a hurry, but getting a lot done and packing the boxes and crates and barrels of supplies carefully for the long pull back to the ranch.
They paused and looked up as the post owner came rushing out onto the loading dock after a trip back inside. “Trouble, boys. Snake riders comin’ in.”
“How many?” Falcon asked.
“ ’Bout ten or so. They don’t never ride nowheres ’ceptin’ in a big bunch.”
“Somethin’ tells me we’re gonna be late gettin’ back to the ranch,” Wildcat said, straightening up and mopping his sweaty face.
“Well, hell,” Stumpy said. “I want a beer anyways. It’s time to take a break.”
“Lars is with ’em,” the post owner added softly. “And he’s primed and cocked for trouble.”
“This should be very interesting, then,” Falcon said, stepping onto the loading dock. “Let’s go meet Mr. Lars Gilman. It’ll be my pleasure.”