Rage of Eagles by William W. Johnstone

good woman to take care of him durin’ his declinin’ years.”
    Stumpy spent the next several minutes calling Wildcat every vile name he could think of, then added, “I’ll be ridin’ the high country when it comes time for you to use a ladder to get in your wheelchair, you half-baked buffalo turd.”
    â€œTsk, tsk,” Wildcat said. “Such language in a public place.”
    Falcon shut his mind to their insults, for he knew it would go on for hours, and kept one eye on the door to the saloon while he ate. Wildcat hadn’t been kidding about the steaks being good. They were delicious. The meat was smothered in gravy, the fried potatoes tasty with spices, and the bread hot.
    Falcon ate slowly, but steadily, for he knew that when the door to the other side of the store opened, odds were good that there would be trouble.
    The owner of the store walked over, glanced toward the saloon, and said in a low tone, “Hired guns. They drifted in about an hour ago. They bought several bottles and told me to get out of the room.”
    â€œThey ask anything else?” Wildcat queried.
    â€œThe shortest way to the Snake ranch.”
    Falcon had looked around and spotted a rack of Greeners on the wall: mean-looking sawed-off shotguns. “How come you have so many shotguns?”
    â€œI ordered them for the stage line that used to run past here. They went out of business before I could get paid for them. You want them? I’ll make you a real good deal.”
    â€œI’ll take three of them now and put the others in with my order when it comes.”
    â€œComin’ right up.”
    â€œAnd all the boxes of buckshot you have.”
    â€œThat’s three cases!”
    â€œWell, give us a handful each and put the others with the order.”
    â€œI like a shotgun,” Wildcat said. “Buckshot don’t leave no room for doubt.”
    â€œWonder if the store owner can loan us a hammer and some nails?” Stumpy asked.
    Falcon looked at him. “Why?”
    â€œTo nail Wildcat’s boots to the floor. If short-stuff has to shoot one of them Greeners, the kick is gonna knock him clear over into the next county.”
    The insulting between the two old friends started anew.
    When the door to the saloon area finally open, the sawed-offs had been inspected and loaded up and were laying on the table, the noon dishes cleared away. Only a pot of coffee and three mugs remained on the table with the Greeners.
    The hired guns took a glance at Falcon and his friends, then grabbed a harder look as they spotted the shotguns on the table. One of them beat it back into the saloon. Soon the mercantile side of the store was filled with men, most of them wearing two guns, some of them even having a third six-shooter tucked down behind their belts.
    The hired guns mumbled and whispered among themselves for a moment before one of them stepped forward.
    â€œDamn, he shore ain’t much to look at,” Stumpy muttered.
    â€œWhat’d you say, grandpa?” the gunny asked in a too-loud voice. “If you was talkin’ ’bout me, speak up, you old fart.”
    â€œIf he don’t watch his mouth, he ain’t gonna have time to get much uglier, either,” Wildcat opined in low tones.
    â€œNow the dwarf is whisperin’, Bonnie,” one of the gunnies said, then took a slug of whiskey straight from the bottle.
    â€œBonnie?” Wildcat said, then laughed. “Your name is Bonnie? Does your mommy know you’re runnin’ with such a rough crowd, my dear?”
    Falcon could not contain his laughter at that.
    â€œNow the big ugly one thinks it’s funny,” another hired gun said.
    â€œAre you makin’ fun of my name, you old goat?” the man named Bonnie shouted.
    Wildcat smiled at him.
    â€œLet’s put it this way,” Stumpy said, “anybody who would hire on with Miles Gilman and his bunch is low enough to crawl