Death's Bounty (A Hawk Western #3), page 10
part #3 of Hawk Series
He walked the stallion over to the outbuildings and tethered the animal, leaving it to chomp on the hay stacked in the manger built out from the wall of the tack room. Then he drew the Meteor shotgun and paced over to the rear wall.
The wagons were drawing closer as he saw the marks of knives and tomahawks on the wood of the shutters. Most were obscure, for El Cicatriz had planned his trap well, allowing time for drifting snow and settling ice to cover the cuts. Hawk spotted them and opened his mouth to shout a warning. Then he realized that the Apaches must have left men outside the building: which meant they would open fire if he warned the Mexicans. He closed his mouth and eased a shutter open.
He climbed inside, dropping over the sill into a room divided by a thick blanket strung from a rope so that a narrow bunk was cut off from a wider bed. He eased the blankets clear of the largest bed and saw blood on the sheets.
He cocked the Meteor.
Arturo Ortiz opened the front door. Three men with rifles accompanied him. The wagons shifted to a double line that flanked the frontage of the way station.
Hawk came out of the bedroom into the passage connecting the room with the front of the building.
And three Apaches dropped from the rafters as three more sprang up from the storm cellar that opened on the forward area.
Hawk fired without thinking. It was pure reflex action: the result of trained senses reacting to tension. A swathe of ought-ought shot blasted from the muzzle of the sawed-off scattergun, the weight of pellets hitting the falling men in the legs and backs, and those rising from the cellar in the head. The Apaches screamed. The three posted overhead found their legs torn away into bloody ribbons that dropped them on to agonized stumps, the pain of their wounds forcing them to let go their weapons as blood pulsed from shattered knees and bleeding buttocks.
The braves emerging from the cellar felt the weight in their eyes and chests and necks. The first man out was stripped clear of facial flesh by the first discharge of Hawk’s shotgun. He screamed and dropped his Spencer carbine as his head exploded around him, spraying tatters of skin over the others.
Hawk laughed and thumbed a fresh cartridge into the Meteor.
Then he bellied out to point the gun down the hole of the storm cellar. The Apaches had slipped back into the false safety of the vault. Hawk fired again, then three times more. And the spraying slugs bounced around the cellar and ripped through the Indians until they were dead.
Above, like a frightened puppet, Arturo Ortiz staggered back.
The men with him fired methodically, killing the Indians screaming across the floor.
The way station got filled up with powder smoke and the stink of dying. The villagers on the wagons began to scream.
Hawk reloaded the shotgun as he ran for the door, shouting at the Mexicans to check the rear of the way station. He got out on to the porch and met a crowd of shrieking women. As he shouldered a way through them the crackling blast of gunfire roared out from the far side of the wagons. Hawk dropped to one knee, peering under the tail of the nearest vehicle. Across the snow, riding hard from the south, was a line of yelling Apaches. The gunfighter cursed as he recognized the trap El Cicatriz had set. Then cursed the obduracy of the villagers in not listening to his warnings.
The Indians drew closer, mistaking the fire from inside the station, and the ensuing panic, for indication that the trap had worked.
Hawk stood up and spun round. Behind him, he heard Manuela scream as he ran for his horse. A cold, black humor gripped him as he realized the girl thought he was deserting them. He ignored her: the demands of the moment set automatic priorities in his mind, the priorities of survival. Get the Winchester first. Then shelter the horse. Then locate a fighting position, which must mean organizing the panicked Mexicans into a fighting force.
He reached the black stallion and snatched the carbine clear of the saddle boot. In the same movement he tore the reins loose and began to drag the nervous horse over to the shelter of the smithy. He manhandled the beast inside and grabbed a foreleg, throwing his shoulder hard against the stallion’s ribs. The big horse went over with an angry scream, dropping on its side with rolling eyes and jerking limbs. Hawk wrapped the reins around both forelegs. Saw a length of rope on the wall and used it to bind the hind legs. The stallion did its best to kick him, but he left it safely on the ground of the smithy and ran back to the wagons.
The Apaches were closing in now, and several of the male villagers had followed their women into the way station. Juan Ortiz was trying to organize a defense, recognizing the danger of losing transport in the winter-clad wastes. Hawk ran to join him.
A horse screamed and began to kick against the traces as two arrows flowered like bloody roses from its flanks. Its panic communicated to the other members of the team and they plunged clear of the line, thundering out across the Apaches’ charge. A volley of arrows and rifle fire echoed through the twilight. The right-hand leader went down coughing blood and dragging the other horses into a tangle of flailing limbs that was swiftly pierced with shafts. The wagon skidded on the ice, piling into the rear-runners and tipping over on its side.
Three more teams, deserted by their owners, followed suit. And each one died.
Hawk swung into the seat of the Ortiz wagon, surprised to see Manuela still crouched at the tail and firing a Winchester. Juan came running up, suddenly willing to listen to Hawk: ‘What do we do?’
‘Where’s your horse?’ The American lashed the team to a stumbling trot as he spoke, driving the animals round the way station so that the Ortiz wagon began the curve of a U-shaped defense. Arrows plucked through the canvas of the cover.
‘I don’t know,’ shouted Juan. ‘I let it go.’
Hawk eased the team to a stop and set the brake. ‘Find it!’ He jumped down from the seat, levering the Winchester before his feet hit the ground. ‘Get all the horses you can inside the wagons.’
Juan nodded and ran back down the line.
Hawk sprang clear of the team and fired twice at the Apaches. Two warriors tumbled from their ponies. He ran round to the back and shouted for Manuela to climb clear. The girl shook her head and went on firing.
Hawk was about to drag her loose when a runaway Mimbreño came out in front of the charge and levelled a lance on his belly. He lifted the Winchester, firing from hip height. And saw the Indian lifted clear of his saddle with most of his stomach streaming out through his back.
Then the mustang plunged through the line of wagons and struck Hawk. The gunfighter was levering the carbine as the blood-crazed animal came through. Its plunging head rammed against his face, then its knees struck his chest, and he felt the drumming of unshod hooves as he fell back and went away to a distant land that was very black and filled up with the noise of gunfire and pounding hooves and pain.
As the riderless mustang stamped over Hawk a second horseman came in, snatching Manuela Ortiz clear of the wagon so that Hawk was left with one final impression: of a scarred face that was cut from right temple to the lower side of the chin.
After that there was nothing but blackness.
Chapter Eleven
FIRE REPLACED THE darkness as his eyes opened; and the sound of crying took the place of hoofbeats.
‘They took Manuela,’ Ortiz said. ‘And the priest.’
Hawk sat up.
Then rubbed his hands over his face as sparking memories of the hooves pounded through his skull. Someone passed him a jug of water: he drank half and poured the remainder over his head. He opened his eyes. And saw a ring of faces staring at him.
‘I said he was no good. This proves it.’
He recognized Juan’s voice and shook his head. The movement lanced fresh shards of pain through his skull.
‘What happened?’ he asked. ‘Show me.’
Willing hands dragged him to his feet, lurching him out to the front of the way station where thirteen wagons smoldered into ruin. As many teams were dead, and then some. There were fifteen Apache corpses.
‘Coffee?’
It was a plea.
It was brought and he drank it. Four mugs that did something to drag the scattered remnants of his mind back together. He stood up and stumbled over to the door. Concussion still danced bells around his head, but he made his way to the smithy and loosed the black stallion from its bindings. The big horse climbed to its feet, snorting disgust.
Hawk led it out into the corral and left it cropping oats as he stumbled back into the way station.
‘How many wagons left?’
‘Eleven. But not all of them have teams.’ Ortiz’s voice was cold and angry.
Hawk rubbed his eyes, forcing his mind to fight clear of the numbing throb of the mustang’s hooves. ‘So get everyone together and load them in the wagons left. Move out now.’
‘What about Manuela and the priest?’ Ortiz demanded. ‘Will you leave them?’
‘We don’t stop for stragglers,’ grunted Hawk. ‘Remember? You agreed to that.’
Ortiz swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing over the open collar of his shirt. ‘She’s my daughter. I’d pay for her to be brought back.’
Hawk drank more coffee and climbed to his feet. ‘How much?’
‘Another thousand?’ Ortiz’s eyes got damp at the thought. ‘Will you find her?’
‘If I can,’ said Hawk. ‘For a second thousand dollars that sounds like a good deal.’
The wagons got organized again, those families bereft of transport taking rides with the others. They were overloaded, more horses killed than wagons were ruined, so that the final cavalcade consisted of only nine vehicles, the whole remuda lost to the Indians.
In a way it was a benefit to Hawk: if the Apaches were herding horses, they would leave clear tracks now that the snow had stopped. And it took Juan off his back, for he put the young Mexican in charge of the wagon train as he rode away after Manuela and the priest.
The tracks went off to the south. They were easy to follow because a large concentration of animals had plunged deep runnels through the softening ice, and a high, clear moon was rising into the sky, shadowing the tracks with clear pools of darkness.
Hawk followed them until the dark lip of an arroyo showed across his path. It cut clear across the trail, disappearing into darkness that evaded the splintering light of the moon.
He followed the tracks over the rim, riding slowly, with the Winchester cocked and ready in his right hand. The trail left by the Apaches wound down over the edge and then ran along a wide traverse before reaching the bottom of the gulch. The ground there was still frosted, thick with underlaying ice and a top cover of freezing snow. It was broken up by the hooves of many horses.
Hawk paused, then rode up the far side of the arroyo, turning to follow the depression as it wandered eastwards. Two miles down it split into a series of narrow cuts that faded away, fan-like, in a multitude of directions. The widest gulch curved off to the south, pointing towards a shallow ridge. Hawk reined in and clambered down the side of the gulch on foot. The tracks were clearly discernible here, the ground cover churned up as the escaping Indians and their captured horses were forced to ride a narrower path. The gulch seemed to angle directly towards the hills, and when Hawk climbed back to the rim he thought he saw the faint glow of fires against the distant rock.
He mounted the black stallion and rode hard towards the light.
The night got clearer and colder, the sounds of the stallion’s hooves echoing horribly loud as they clopped through the covering of frost and ice. Midnight passed and the pure chill of the early morning gripped the prairie. The swirling mists of the false dawn rose up wraith-like about Hawk’s figure, layering his coat with a glittering sheen of moisture. Then full dawn burst over the eastern sky, rising blood-red from the horizon to band the heavens with gold and crimson and translucent blue. Ahead, the ridge was rimmed with a reddish silver color that faded to black along the down slopes.
Hawk reined in, conscious of his exposed position on the snow-covered plain. As the light filtered over the edge of the distant Sierra Madre range he took the black stallion down into the gulch and heeled the animal to a fast trot through the ploughed-up snow.
By the time the sun had risen above the mountains he was dose enough to the ridge that he felt it better to move in on foot. He dismounted and led the horse down the gulch with his eyes scanning the slopes for sign of movement. He reached a place where the arroyo spread out into a series of minor branches and hobbled the stallion far enough down the driest split that a casual rider would not see the animal. He opened his saddlebags and doled out a measure of oats, spreading the grain dose to a still-running freshet. Then he moved forwards on foot.
The sun was risen higher now, slanting along the face of the ridge so that the sheer diffs that made up its northernmost frontage were lit with glistening light. Along the rock face there were deep pockets of shadow where the tendrils of the arroyo bled out from the stone. Most were little more than clefts, barely wide enough to allow a man entry, but one was wide as a wagon. Easily wide enough for three horses to enter abreast.
Hawk headed for that one.
He got up to the lip and halted, listening. There was the sound of voices from farther in. Mostly the rumble of Apache gutturals, but interspersed with screams that might have come from a man or a woman: it was impossible to tell. He waited, checking the ground ahead and above.
The bulk of the split was still swathed in shadow, though the upper edges were becoming light as the sun rose higher, reaching a point in the sky where it could shine into the gulch. As best he could tell there were no Apaches posted along the split, so he began to cat-foot through, every nerve tensed for indication of danger.
When he reached the farther end he saw that the gulch opened out on a recessed canyon. Like a great bowl pressed down against the ground supporting the ridge, the canyon spread out a three-hundred yards distance in all directions. It was like an enormous dish, the base thick with winter grass that was protected from the wind by the walls of rock. A spring burst from the east wall, disappearing into a wide hole at the foot of the cliffs. The rocks went up several hundred feet on all sides, the sole entry points being that which Hawk had used and a second, wider, gap in the southern wall.
Around thirty Apache lodges occupied the center of the depression, lines of horses tethered outside each wickiup. There was a corral of thornbush and sage off to one side, containing spare animals, amongst which Hawk recognized many from the remuda and wagon train.
But the focus of interest was the curious wooden structure built on the north side of the camp. The grass was flatter there, and stamped down to a kind of parade ground several yards wide and more in length. At the end closest to Hawk’s position there was a framework in the shape of a cross tilted over to form an “X”.
The priest, stripped of his vestments, was lashed to the cross-members at wrists, ankles, waist and chest, so that he hung rigid on the frame. At the far end of the grass runway three Apaches sat their ponies, grinning as they hefted lances and called insults at the priest.
A row of onlookers flanked one side of the runway, mostly men, but interspersed with about twenty women.
Hawk recognized the only one he knew.
Manuela was seated between two warriors. One was a brave Hawk had never seen before, the other was El Cicatriz. Both men cradled Winchester rifles in their arms, and were grinning at the trembling figure of the naked priest. Manuela was wearing the same blue dress she had on when she gave Hawk the muffler, but now her wrists were tied back behind her and her face was streamed with tears, the eyes closed and her mouth moving in a silent prayer.
El Cicatriz reached out to grasp a handful of her thick auburn hair, yanking it back so that the pain opened her eyes as the Apache chief waved his left hand to start the horsemen.
Manuela and the priest screamed together as the riders erupted their ponies into a furious gallop.
The lances came down, angling on the priest’s face, the feathers and scalps hung about the shafts fluttering in the wind of their passage. The horsemen drove straight at the twitching body of the fat man, screaming war-cries as they zeroed in. The priest lost his voice and began to mouth silent prayers as his bowels opened to spill a double stream of fear over the ground. The Apaches laughed.
And then three lances hit their target. One struck the crosspiece holding the priest’s left wrist, the second the limb binding his right. The third lance angled between his legs, digging into the ground as the rider turned his pony to leave the shaft stuck deep in the soil, springing forwards under the shock to vibrate savagely against the face and belly and genitals of the pinioned man.
El Cicatriz shouted a fresh order and five warriors stepped forwards. This time they carried bows. The chief shouted again and the archers loosed their arrows. Three struck the wood of the cross, but two hit the priest. One tore into the Mexican’s left palm, pinning his hand against the wood, while the other gouged a hole through his right thigh and hung, point and feathers, from either side of his leg as the crowd shouted its disapproval.
Hawk began to move into the canyon, using the available cover and the interest of the Apaches in their sport to hide his movements. As he moved down three more braves stepped forwards.
El Cicatriz called out again and three tomahawks whirled through the air. One struck the cross dose enough that its edge cut a narrow sliver of flesh from the priest’s left hand. The second hit an inch dear of his right. The third split the lance between the man’s legs and imbedded in the wood directly beneath his crotch, carving a jagged line down his scrotum.
Incongruously, the priest’s member became erect. A heavy spurt of urine jetted from his penis and he opened his mouth to allow the fear-spawned vomit to dribble from his lips. A squaw hawked laughter and ran forwards with a small skinning knife clutched in her hand. The priest screamed, writhing almost upright against his bonds as the squaw darted away with a bloody length of meat still spraying in her hands.
