William Johnstone - Thunder of Eagles

Slowly, and without calling attention to themselves, the other patrons began moving away from the bar to be out of the line of fire should shooting break out. But they were faced with a dilemma. No one wanted to be close enough to be hurt, but everyone wanted to be close enough to witness whatever was about to happen.

“What about you, Mullins?” Tyree asked. “What part are you playin’ in all this?”

“I am a law enforcement officer,” Mullins said. “You are a wanted man. I intend to see that you are brought to justice.”

“And just how are you going to do that?”

“Let’s put it this way,” Mullins said. He pulled the two hammers back on the double-barrel shotgun. “Before all this plays out, you are either going to leave here as Crawford’s prisoner, or as a dead body.”

Tyree shook his head slowly. “And here, I though me’n you had become good friends over the last few days. You knew all along who I was, but you never said or did anything about it,” Tyree said. “I guess the reward got to you, huh? Just too much money for a greedy fella to pass up.”

“Unbuckle your gunbelt and come along with us nice and easy,” Mullins said.

“Sure, Sheriff, whatever you say,” Tyree said, moving his hand down toward his pistol belt. Then, suddenly and unexpectedly, he drew his pistol, drawing and firing so fast that it appeared to be no more than a twitch of his shoulder. Seeing Tyree start his draw, Mullins pulled the trigger on both barrels of his shotgun, but it was too late. By the time he reacted to what he was seeing, it was over. The double-aught charges from his shotgun tore large, jagged holes in the floor of the saloon, even as the heavy bullet from Tyree’s gun was slamming into his heart.

Nobody was more surprised that Crawford. He had not even bothered to draw his pistol, believing that, because Mullins had the drop on Tyree with a double-barreled shotgun, the situation was well in hand. He realized too late that he was wrong, because even as his pistol was clearing leather, Tyree’s second shot crashed into his forehead. Crawford went down, dead before his body hit the floor.

“You all saw it!” Tyree shouted, still pumped up from the excitement of the incident. He pointed to the two bodies. “They drew on me first.”

“That’s ’cause they was lawmen,” one of the patrons said. “They was here to arrest you.”

“Are you saying it wasn’t self-defense?” Tyree challenged. He looked directly at the man who had pointed out that Mullins and Crawford were lawmen.

“If you ask me, it was self-defense,” one of the other men said. “Mullins was pointin’ a double-barrel shotgun right at him.”

“Of course he was. He was tryin’ to arrest him,” the first man said.

“Don’t you understand, Bob? It was self-defense pure and simple,” the second man said, staring pointedly at Bob.

Suddenly, Bob realized that he might be placing his own life in jeopardy. “Oh, uh, yes,” he said. “Yes, now that I think about it, it was self-defense.”

The others in the saloon, catching on quickly, began agreeing that it surely was self-defense.

“But here’s the thing, Mr. Tyree,” one of the men said. “I don’t see no way folks ain’t goin’ to hear about what just happened here, and they’re bound to come after you. Now, far as I’m concerned, and ever’one else for that matter, I mean, you’ve heard ’em.” He took in the others with a wave of his hand. “They all say you didn’t have no choice except to do what you done. But if more law was to come here, why, it’s just goin’ to wind up makin’ trouble for you. So, if I was you, I’d leave now.”

“Leave and go where?” Tyree asked.

“You might come to work for me,” a new voice said.

Tyree looked over toward the man who had just spoken. He was an older man, but with a hard look about him.

“Who the hell are you?” Tyree asked.

“The name is Clinton. Ike Clinton. I own a ranch near Higbee.”

Tyree laughed. “You wantin’ to hire me to punch cows, do you?” He shook his head. “Sorry, Mr. Clinton, but I ain’t no cowboy.”

“I’ve got plenty of cowboys,” Ike replied. “Cowboyin’ ain’t what I have in mind.”

“Then I don’t understand. If you own a ranch, and you want me to work for you, but not as a cowboy, what do you want me for?”

“Oh, for about a hundred dollars a month,” Ike said.

Everyone in the saloon gasped. One hundred dollars per month was four times as much money as a cowboy normally received.

“A hundred dollars a month?” Tyree replied.

“That’s right,” Ike replied. “Are you interested?”

“Who do you want me to kill for that much money?”

Ike chuckled, then took a swallow of his beer before he answered. “Funny you would ask me that, Mr. Tyree,” he said. “Because the answer is, I want you to kill whoever I tell you to kill.”

Tyree stared at Ike for a long moment. Then suddenly, he broke into a great belly laugh. “What did you say?” he asked.

“You asked who did I want you to kill, and I answered that I want you to kill anyone I tell you to kill.”

Still laughing, Tyree slipped his pistol back into the holster. “Mister, I like the way you think,” he said. “I’d say you just hired yourself a ranch hand,” he said.

“How long will it take you to get ready to leave?” Ike asked.

“About as long as it takes me to walk out to my horse,” Tyree replied.

“Let’s go,” Ike said.

Thompson Arroyo

“How long is your pa going to be gone?” Lou asked.

“I don’t know, he didn’t say,” Ray replied.

“You sure he knows about this?”

“It don’t make no difference whether he knows about this or not,” Ray said.

“It’s just that I don’t like to do things without him knowin’ about it.”

“Reeder, as far as you are concerned, anything me or my brother tells you to do is the same as Pa tellin’ you to do it,” Cletus said.

“Yeah, I know that, but—”

“There ain’t no buts,” Cletus said.

“Stop talkin’. If my information is right, we’ll be comin’ up on them soon,” Ray said.

“Your information is right, big brother,” Cletus said. “There they are,” He chuckled. “Look at them. Ha! It’ll be like shooting ducks in the water.”

Cletus pointed in the predawn darkness to the construction camp, consisting of a dozen or more sleeping rolls circling the still-burning campfire.

“Looks like they’re making it easy for us,” Cletus said. “They’ve even kept the fire lit to light the way for us.”

“Yeah,” Ray replied.

“How are we going to handle this, Ray?” Pete asked. Pete was one of the La Soga Larga riders.

“We’re goin’ to handle it real easy,” Ray replied. “We’re just goin’ to ride down there and start shootin’.”

Ray pulled his pistol, then cocked it. “Is everyone ready?”

“Ready,” the others replied.

“Let’s go!” he shouted, slapping his legs against the side of his horse.

The horses thundered down the gentle rise that led to the carefully arrayed bedrolls. Ray fired first, and had the satisfaction of seeing a little puff of dust fly up from the roll and the point of impact of his bullet.

The others began firing as well, and within a few seconds they were right on the camp, shooting into the bedrolls.

Cletus noticed it first.

“Ray!” he said. “Ray, hold it! There ain’t nobody in them bedrolls!”

“What?” Ray replied.

“Look at ’em! The bedrolls is all empty!”

“What the hell? What’s goin’ on here?”

“Now!” they heard a voice call from the darkness, and the riders suddenly discovered that the tables had been turned. Instead of shooting at targets, they were the targets, and muzzle flashes from the nearby rocks had bullets whizzing by in the night.