Song of Eagles by William W. Johnstone

Author:William W. Johnstone [Johnstone, William W.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Kensington
Published: 2016-07-15T04:00:00+00:00

Twenty-four

Falcon was sitting at his usual table in The Drinking Hole, drinking coffee and reading about the latest exploits of the infamous Billy the Kid in the newspaper.

As he put a lucifer to his cigar, the batwings opened and in walked the most talked about outlaw in the state, the Kid.

Far from sneaking in looking over his shoulder, the Kid strolled in with head held high, like he was on top of the world.

Falcon leaned back, blew a plume of blue smoke at the ceiling, and smiled. One thing you can always say about the Kid, he thought, he has style.

As he made his way to Falcon’s table the Kid smiled and waved at the people in the saloon, most of whom greeted him fondly, some calling out, “Go get ’em, Kid, .” One of the Mexican vaqueros in the bar yelled, “Give ’em hell, Chivato.”

When the Kid got to the table he waved at Pat Garrett behind the bar and said, “How ’bout a sarsaparilla, Pat?”

Pat grinned, shook his head, and fixed the Kid his drink.

The Kid sat down, crossed his legs, leaned back in his chair, and said, “How’re things goin’, Falcon?”

Falcon laughed, signaling Pat to bring him a whiskey. He guessed a visit from the Kid was reason enough to celebrate.

“I’m doing just fine, Kid. I won’t ask how you’re doing, since I’ve been reading about you almost every day in the newspapers.”

The Kid scowled. “Don’t believe everything you read, Falcon. They’ve got me killin’ everyone in the county who dies for almost any reason, an’ stealin’ every cow that wanders off in the brush.”

He grinned again, and Falcon realized that Billy just wasn’t the sort to stay angry at anything for very long. His temper was explosive, but it cooled just as fast, and then he’d be the old Kid again, everyone’s friend, especially the ladies.

“Hell, I read the other day some woman in Ruidosa claimed I ran up to her and stole her purse.”

“Was there much money in it?” Falcon teased.

“Hell, no, it was near empty,” the Kid teased back, taking a deep drink of his sarsaparilla, then burping as he always did.

Falcon sipped his whiskey and took a drag on his cigar, unsure of how to begin. He had some things on his mind he needed to say, to clear the air between them.

“Kid, there’s some things I have to ask you.”

The Kid’s face sobered and he leaned forward, his elbows on the table.

“Go ahead, Falcon. I consider you my friend, an’ you can ask me anything you want.”

“These stories in the papers, about you killing all those people, are any of them true?”

The Kid thought for a minute, then shook his head.

“Falcon, much as I’d like everybody to believe I’m the fastest, meanest gun in the West, it just ain’t so. I ain’t killed anybody, far as I know, since the night we had the fight at McSween’s.”

Falcon was relieved to hear that. He didn’t know why, but he felt a strange kinship to this boy.

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