Rage of Eagles by William W. Johnstone Page A

under a rattler’s belly.”
    The hired guns were standing shoulder to shoulder, all crowded up in one part of the large room, and Falcon could tell several of the older gunnies realized they were in a lousy position to start any gunplay. They started spreading out.
    â€œStand still,” Falcon said. “Or I’m going to think you boys are about to start something that’s going to get a lot of you hurt.”
    One of the older hands told Falcon to go commit an impossible act upon a certain part of his anatomy.
    â€œMy goodness!” Wildcat said, staring at the gunhand. “I’m deeply offended by your vulgar language.”
    â€œYeah, me too,” Stumpy said.
    Several of the newly hired mercenaries had confused expressions on their faces. They couldn’t figure what the three men at the table were up to. All three of them were sitting there making jokes.
    â€œYou boys don’t really want to sign on with the Snake, do you?” Falcon asked.
    â€œWhy not?” a man asked.
    â€œIt might be real bad for your health, that’s why.”
    â€œYeah, it’s plumb unhealthy over on the Snake range,” Stumpy said.
    â€œHow’s that?”
    â€œFolks keep getting shot,” Falcon told him.
    â€œThe Snake didn’t hire us,” another hired gun blurted. “We was hired by the Double N.”
    Wildcat cut his eyes to Falcon.
    â€œNoonan and his people,” Falcon explained, for Wildcat did not yet know the entire story. Falcon had only touched on the high points when he could get a word in during the insults being hurled back and forth between the two men.
    â€œAh,” Wildcat said. “The plot thickens.”
    â€œDo what?” Stumpy asked.
    â€œI heard that in a play oncet. I liked the sound of it.” He glared at Stumpy. “You uneducated heathen,” he added.
    â€œWho the hell is Plot?” Stumpy asked. “Is he part of the cattlemen’s alliance?”
    â€œI’ll explain later,” Falcon told him.
    â€œDon’t you call me no heathen, you popcorn fart,” Stumpy told Wildcat. “I read books.”
    â€œHey!” Bonnie shouted. “You want to talk to us?”
    â€œNot really,” Stumpy said, momentarily returning his gaze to the gunmen.
    The store owner, his wife, and his daughter were behind the counter, ready to hit the floor when the shooting started.
    â€œYou wouldn’t know what a book was if one fell off the shelf and hit you on the head,” Wildcat told his friend.
    â€œThem three ain’t got good sense,” one of the older hired guns said. “I think they’re loco in the head.” He moved sideways toward the door, keeping his hands away from his guns. “I’m outta here.”
    â€œI’m with you,” another said.
    Ten left in the room, facing the three men at the table. Several of the ten looked as though they wanted to let the whole matter drop. But the younger guns weren’t having any of that.
    â€œHave to be Rockingchair hands,” Bonnie said.
    â€œWell, I’ll just be go to hell,” Stumpy said. “The kid figured it out.”
    â€œTook him long enough,” Wildcat said. “I was beginnin’ to wonder if Miss Bonnie was touched in the head.”
    â€œMiss Bonnie!” the gunhand yelled, his hands hovering over the pearl-handled butts of his pistols.
    Two of the men hired on at the Snake for fighting wages began backing away, both of them holding their hands in front of them, signaling that they were out of it. They were old hands at hiring out their guns, and they realized there was something wrong with this picture. The three men at the table were too calm. That meant, to any experienced hand, the three of them had been down this road before . . . and lived to tell about it.
    The two men walked out the door and mounted up and rode away. Both of them were breathing easier as they put distance