Rage of Eagles by William W. Johnstone Page B

between the old trading post and themselves. There would be another day, maybe. And just maybe the two men would forget the fighting wages and just punch cows. Let somebody else get shot full of bloody holes.
    â€œWell,” Falcon said, after drinking the last of his coffee. “I think the time for talking is over.”
    â€œYep,” Stumpy agreed. “We done listened to the band, now it’s time to pay up or leave the dance hall.”
    â€œThe only way you three is leavin’ is for somebody to carry you out,” Bonnie made his brag.
    â€œThen go for your iron, boy,” Wildcat slapped him with a verbal glove, “or shut your damn mouth.”
    Bonnie reached for his guns.

Nine
    Falcon and Stumpy threw themselves backward to the floor, Greeners in their hands, just as Bonnie pulled iron and fired. They eared back the hammers and let the shotguns roar. Wildcat had ducked under the table in a move that caught the hired guns by surprise, and added his shotgun music to the deadly symphony of buckshot. The low-ceiled room was filled with arid gunsmoke and the roar of gunfire. The wall separating the store from the saloon was splattered with blood when the howling of lead faded away.
    The shotguns had put every hired gun on the floor. Three were dead, nearly cut in half by the sawed-off shotguns. Two were wounded, and the others had all the fight ripped from them.
    â€œNo more!” one shouted. “We yield. No more shooting.”
    Falcon stood up, his eyes burning from the thick gunsmoke and his hands filled with .44s. “Get up!” he commanded. “Leave your guns on the floor and put your hands in the air.”
    Those who were unhurt, just scared crapless, crawled to their knees, hands high over their heads.
    Bonnie was on the floor, shot in both legs. He was moaning about dying.
    â€œShut up,” one of his pals told him in a shaky voice. “You ain’t hurt bad.”
    â€œOh, Christ,” another of those unhurt said. “Look at Manley’s head. It’s blowed ’most clear off!” Then he threw up on the floor.
    â€œGet their guns,” Falcon told the store owner.
    The trading post owner gathered up all the guns, being careful to avoid stepping in the gore, then quickly backed away.
    â€œYou boys take a message to Miles Gilman,” Falcon told the survivors of the shoot-out. “Tell him we can either live in peace and get along, or we can have the damnedest war he ever saw. It’s all up to him. Now clear out of here. And leave the dead men’s horses.”
    Those few left alive helped the wounded to their boots, left the dead behind them, and scrambled for the door, and were in the saddle and gone half a minute later.
    â€œYou bury them and you can have their horses and guns and money,” Falcon told the post owner.
    â€œDeal, if you’ll help me drag ’em out of here.”
    â€œDone. You going to get in trouble with Gilman for this?”
    The post owner grinned. “Not damn likely. The cavalry leaves patrol remounts here and this is a stage stop. Gilman leaves me the hell alone.”
    â€œGood enough. Let’s get the bodies out of here.”
    The hired guns had managed to bang off only four shots, hitting nothing but a side wall of the old trading post.
    Falcon bought several bolts of cloth for the ladies, some candy for Jimmy, and the three of them headed back to the ranch.
    * * *
    Miles Gilman was in a blue funk. The news of someone buying twenty sections of land, north and south of the Rockingchair range, had just reached him, and he had gone into a towering rage. To make matters even worse, he had no idea who had bought it, for it had all been done by a bunch of lawyers in San Francisco and Denver. And now the hired mercenaries sent by Noonan had come staggering in, shot all to pieces at the trading post by Val Mack and two old geezers.
    â€œJesus Christ!” Miles screamed. “What in the