Death's Bounty (A Hawk Western #3), page 12
part #3 of Hawk Series
Hawk shouted a greeting as he came up on the tail end of the column, wary of collecting a panicked bullet from some nervous guard. A hoarse yell answered him, and two riders emerged from the gloom. He heard someone call out, ‘E1 pistolero Americano.’ and Ortiz’s anxious reply: ‘Y Manuela?’
‘Solo!’ came the answer.
He rode past the wagons, aware of the faces that peered in his direction, the voices babbling questions and comments.
He reined in as he drew level with the leading wagon, matching his pace to that of the slower-moving vehicles.
‘Manuela?’ Ortiz looked haggard. ‘Where is she?’
‘The Apaches got her.’ said Hawk. ‘They’re holed up in a canyon. I couldn’t get close enough to bring her out.’
Ortiz’s swarthy face lost its color as he digested the lie. ‘She is dead?’
‘Alive.’ Hawk shook his head. ‘They killed the priest.’
‘¡Madre de Dios! I wish they had killed Manuela.’
‘You failed!’ Juan rode back from the point, his eyes accusing. ‘You left her,’
‘I didn’t have no choice.’ In a way it was true. There was nothing else I could do.’
Juan sneered. ‘You saved your own skin. I’ll go back. There are enough men who still have the cojones to rescue my sister.’
‘You try that,’ said Hawk evenly, ‘and you’ll guarantee her death. There’s upwards of twenty braves back there. We don’t have enough horses left to mount that many men.’
‘We can use the wagon teams.’ Juan gestured at the tired animals. ‘We can ride them.’
The cavalcade had drawn to a halt and the teams, close to exhaustion from the effort of hauling the overloaded vehicles, were standing with their heads drooping, their flanks matted with sweat.
‘How far d’you think you’d get?’ asked Hawk. ‘Those animals are worn out. Besides, you try hitting the Indians an’ they’ll slit her throat when they hear you coming.’
‘He’s right,’ sighed Ortiz. ‘All we can do is push on to Mantegara. Perhaps the federales will send a patrol.’
Juan spat. ‘I still say the gringo left her. I should have gone with him.’
‘Juan!’ His father’s voice stopped the young man’s insults. ‘He tried. Do you think he would have given up a thousand dollars so easily?’
The youngster glowered for a moment. ‘When we reach Mantegara I will find men with blood in their veins and go back for her.’
‘You do that,’ grunted Hawk. ‘But the blood’ll be coming out of her veins.’
It was a miserable camp, the Mexicans still recovering from the slaughter at the way station and now shocked further by the loss of the priest and Manuela. They drew the wagons into a tight circle and lit a series of small fires. Hawk posted guards as though still anticipating trouble from the Indians; indeed, he was not certain that El Cicatriz would hold to his side of the bargain.
The villagers were silent, the quiet broken only by the cries of the wounded and the voices of the guards as they called to one another around the reduced perimeter of the defensive ring. Hawk welcomed the silence, eating alone with only his thoughts for company. He set the roster of watches so that he would take the dawn guard duty, and spread his blanket close to the Ortiz wagon.
He buttoned his coat and stretched out on the damp bed, settling his hat over his face and then folding his hands across the Winchester resting on his lean belly.
A shadow blocked the firelight and he tilted the Stetson back, looking up at Arturo Ortiz.
The Mexican hunkered down beside the American.
‘Is there a chance? Of getting Manuela back, I mean.’
Hawk sniffed, the cold rage that had gripped him since El Cicatriz had told him of the silver shifting close to boiling point. He felt like telling Ortiz the truth and then killing the man. But he had given his word.
‘I reckon,’ He held his voice deliberately low, forcing himself to remain calm. They might be willing to trade. Let’s get the wagons to Mantegara, then figure out a way to work it.’
Ortiz nodded. ‘I’d trade anything to get her back. Anything at all.’
You will, Hawk thought. You’ll trade everything you have.
He said, ‘It might cost you. But there’s nothing we can do until we reach the town. Leave it for now. Just concentrate on getting through.’
Ortiz nodded, seeming slightly relieved. He stood up and moved away inside the wagon. You bastard! Hawk thought. You goddam, lying, two-faced bastard. You rotten, cheating sonofabitch. I’ll enjoy watching your face when I give you to El Cicatriz. He slid the hat back over his face and allowed a cold smile to curve his mouth. Had the expression been visible to the Mexican, Ortiz might have noticed the resemblance to a snarl. Hawk savored the thought of revenge and drifted into sleep.
Rain woke him, the soft pattering of the falling water splashing on to the slushy ground and soaking his trousers and coat. He was instantly alert, sitting up with his left hand reaching instinctively to wipe the moisture from the breech of the Winchester. The sky was gray, becoming lighter off to the east, though above and to the west it remained a deep black. He dragged a hand over his face and climbed to his feet. Gathered water spilled from his Stetson and he tugged a poncho clear of his saddle, settling the square of waterproofed cloth around his shoulders. Then he rolled his blanket and groundsheet, stowed them on the saddle and slung the leather over the back of the black horse.
The guard he was due to replace was dozing, leaning against the tongue of a wagon with a Henry carbine cradled in his arms and the rain splashing unnoticed from his shoulders.
Hawk nudged the man, motioning for him to crawl beneath the wagon to grab what little sleeping time he had left. The eastern edge of the horizon got brighter, the dull yellowish glow becoming pure gold that was followed by a wide band of red. Then, as though cued by some omnipresent controller, the rain stopped and the sun exploded over the edge of the world. Within moments the plain was steaming, the evaporating moisture lanced through with brilliant bands of light that danced in the mist to produce a myriad patterns of bright color. A rainbow cascaded across the sky and for an instant the featureless slush was transformed to a sparkling mirage of red and blue and gold and silver.
Hawk located a fire that was still glowing bright enough to produce heat and added more wood, blowing on the embers so that the kindling took flame, spitting like a scalded cat as heat fought damp and small streamers of fire sparkled upwards. There was a coffee pot nearby that he lodged over the center of the warmth, waiting until the dregs were bubbling inside before filling a cup. The coffee tasted bitter and old, but it warmed his belly and went a little way towards cheering his soul.
The camp began to come awake, sleepy-eyed women emerging from the wagons to start the first meal of the new day. Hawk accepted a plate of beans and tortilla, carrying it back to the rim of the wagon circle as he maintained the pretense of impending attack.
An hour later the wagons were moving out. Their passage was speeded by the drying ground, most of the overlying ice melted away by the warm wind and the rain so that now the rising sun began to bake the plain hard, affording traction for the wheels and hooves. The horses, fed and rested overnight, seemed to sense the end of their long journey and pulled more readily against the traces, shifting the vehicles at a fast lick towards the east.
Hawk rode out in front, preferring to stay clear of the Mexicans now that he knew their secret. He felt tired and bruised. The dampness of the dawn had started a dull aching in his bruised ribs and a hot, pulsing throb in the wound in his thigh. The arrow hole was clean of poison now, and for some time he had not thought to check it, but the rain seemed to have weakened the healing tissues so that the faster pace-and the residual fatigue of his chase after Manuela-awoke nervous warning from his system. Around noonday he stripped off and checked the wound. The flesh was healing into a puckered hole of reddish flesh, but there was no more sign of poison. He replaced the dressing and studied his torso and midriff. Bluish-black discoloration showed where the mustang had smashed against his ribs and chest. There was a certain amount of stiffness, but no more than he could expect. And not enough that he felt himself impaired.
He moved on, replacing Juan Ortiz at point.
The day got brighter and brighter. The wind died away and the sun rose up to fulfil the promise of the dawn. The covering of snow that had clad the plain with white disappeared. So did the slush of its melting. As if the same mystical design that had produced the dawn arid the rainbow were still in action, the flatlands dried out. Flowers sprouted from the cactus plants and a multitude of colors emerged along the edges of the rivulets cut through the ground by the melted snow.
Hawk’s coat steamed, extruding a damp odor of drying cloth that contrasted with the scent of the cactus flowers and the sweet stink of the horse’s hide.
No Indians showed as the wagons gathered speed, the horses seeming to sense the end of their journey. They pulled through to the closing of the day, then started up again as willing as when they left Santa Maria.
The reduced train reached the town late the next evening.
Mantegara was an old settlement, the houses confined inside the circle of a fifteen-foot wall with gates set into the adobe brickwork at the four points of the compass.
The western wall was pocked with holes, but the wooden gates looked solid as Hawk led the wagons in, and a high catwalk spanned the upper rim, fading away down the curve of the perimeter with ladders reaching up to the platform running along behind the crenellations of the defensive barrier.
The town was built on a wheel pattern, circular streets radiating from the central area with cross-set avenues leading to the four gates. Between the main hubs of the major roadways there were smaller alleys, so that the town resembled a spider’s web. The main roads disgorged on a plaza that was ringed with the most important buildings—the Federale station; the alcalde’s office; three cantinas; the stage office, and a solitary hotel.
Ortiz halted his ragged cavalcade along one side of the plaza and disappeared into the alcalde’s office. Hawk went off to find a stable.
He located a place just off from the main square and got the black stallion settled in a bay with the promise of a rub-down and a manger of oats, then walked over to join Ortiz.
He came in on the loose end of an argument …
‘… The problems of Santa Maria do not concern me. If the Indians have chosen to victimize you that is your affair, not mine. What do you expect me to do ? They have not attacked Mantegara. As far as I know, there are no Apaches closer than fifty miles. Besides, they would never dare raid this town. I am sorry, jefe, but there is nothing I can do.’
Hawk leaned against the wall and listened. He watched Ortiz’s face get dark with anger and wondered if Juan would show his temper and try to force the alcalde into action.
‘But they have my daughter!’‘ Ortiz’s voice was fraught, harsh with worry. ‘You cannot let her stay there.’
‘I can and will. Do you really expect me to send men out on a venture that might prove fruitless?’
‘They killed a priest.’
‘We have two priests here. Much as I love the good fathers I cannot risk men’s lives in a fruitless adventure.’
Ortiz shook his head, his mouth working without any sound emerging. Juan stepped forwards.
‘You can send a federale patrol out.’
The alcalde shook his head. ‘No. The federales are not here. A few days ago a bandit called Felipe Morros raided a hacienda. The Army is looking for him now.’
Hawk cut into the conversation.
‘Where’d he go?’
The alcalde looked surprised. ‘He attacked the hacienda Callenez and rode off thirty horses. He also stole thirty pounds of gold. No one knows where he went. That is why the federales are chasing him. Who are you?’
‘Uno explorador,’ said Ortiz quickly. ‘A guide we hired to bring us through. He helped us against the Apaches.’
‘He lost my sister,’ snarled Juan. ‘He left her with them.’
Hawk grinned an unpleasant smile. ‘They should have named you Tom, short-ass. You keep sticking your thumb out. And pretty soon it’ll get chopped off.’
‘By you?’ Juan moved clear of the desk.
The alcalde fluttered his hands around, shouting for order. Ortiz moved to put his body between Hawk and his son.
‘No! The Apaches still have Manuela. For God’s sake, don’t fight.’
‘The gringo doesn’t fight,’ sneered Juan. ‘He just runs.’
The fine rein Hawk had held on his temper snapped then. His eyes narrowed down and his mouth flattened to a thin, angry line. He turned to Ortiz.
‘How long before you can pay me?’
The jefe glanced at the ornate clock on the dirty wall. ‘Tomorrow? When the bank opens. I’ll pay you the thousand we agreed and another if you’ll fetch my daughter back.’
‘In advance,’ grunted Hawk. ‘I want the money with me when I ride out.’
Juan began to voice a protest, but his father motioned for him to be quiet.
‘All right. Two thousand dollars American. Tomorrow morning.’
Hawk nodded. ‘You got a deal. I’ll bring your daughter back.’
Ortiz let the glimpse of a smile cross his face. ‘A deal then?’
‘A deal. Two thousand American and you get your daughter.’
‘He can’t deliver,’ snarled Juan. ‘He’s bluffing.’
Ortiz rounded on his son and hit him back-handed across the mouth. ‘He brought us through from Santa Maria. I trust him.’
Juan swung back, touching his bruised lips. ‘I don’t trust him. I shall kill him tomorrow.’
‘Promises, promises,’ grinned Hawk. ‘Delivery’s something else.’
‘I’ll deliver,’ rasped Juan. ‘You stacked the cards wrong this time.’
‘Piled in spades,’ said Hawk. The ones that’ll cover your grave.’
Chapter Thirteen
THE ARGUMENT CONTINUED as the trio left the alcalde’s office and headed for the nearest cantina. Although the mayor had refused to attempt a rescue of Manuela—and Hawk, at least, accepted the logic of his reasoning-he had arranged accommodation for the refugees. The wagons were moving slowly out of the plaza, each vehicle surrounded by a crowd of questioning townsfolk, many of whom had already agreed to take in some of the survivors. Volunteers were carrying the wounded into the federale station, taking them to the dormitory that was mostly empty while the troops chased Felipe Morros. The two priests were much in evidence, supervising the dispersal of the homeless and the tending of the wounded.
The cantina was almost empty, the only drinkers two old men and a solitary vaquero with a black patch covering his left eye.
Ortiz called for tequila and pointed at a table set well apart from the others at the far end of the room. He filled the glasses and turned solemnly to his son.
‘I am sorry I struck you, Juan.’ The boy glowered, sipping his drink without replying. ‘But surely you can understand my problem.’
‘1 understand that this great pistolero left my sister with the Apaches,’ grunted the youngster. ‘And that you are ready to give him two thousand dollars.’
‘One thousand is owed,’ murmured Ortiz. ‘We agreed to pay him that much to bring us through.’
‘Then pay him that and send him on his way. ‘I’ll find Manuela.’
Ortiz sighed and stroked the heavy growth of his moustache. His florid face was darkened by exposure to the wind and cold so that the wrinkles lining his forehead and the deep grooves that curved down on either side of his fleshy mouth stood out pale against the weather-tan. He was thinner than before, the excess flesh he had carried in Santa Maria scoured away by danger and fear. His brown eyes were bloodshot, each one underlined by a dark, swollen ring. He no longer looked like the proud jefe of a successful village, his arrogance reduced by the deprivations of the journey and the loss of his daughter. He looked old and tired: a grieving father.
‘How?’ he asked. ‘How would you find her?’
‘If the gringo can find her, so can I,’ snarled Juan.
Ortiz shook his head sadly. ‘Juan, Juan. You are young and proud and as hot-tempered as I was at your age. But Jared has experience you lack. He knows where the indios are camped. He is trained for this kind of work.’
He glanced at Hawk as though seeking support.
The gunfighter was leaning back against the wall, listening with only half his mind. The other part of his concentration was focused on the one-eyed vaquero, who seemed more interested in the conversation at the end of the cantina than the excitement outside. That struck Hawk as wrong. As did several other things about the man.
Life had taught Hawk to make fast assessments of a situation; to gauge the potential of the people around him in the black and white terms of friend or foe. Small things—the kind that a casual observer might well overlook—registered automatically on his mind. Like the fact that the one-eyed man drank with his left hand even though he wore a pistol on his right hip. And that as he raised his glass, his dirty cotton shirt dragged tight against his side to expose the outline of some bulky object resting along his ribs. And that every so often he scratched the back of his neck as though something chafed his skin there. His pants matched the shirt—dirty cotton. But they fell over boots of tooled leather, the fancy patterning indicative of hand-stitching. The paleness of a recently-shaved beard was beginning to fade from his jaw-line and his visible eye flickered from the table where Hawk sat to the door and back again in a constant round of movement.
‘Is that not true, Jared?’ asked Ortiz.
‘I guess,’ said Hawk. ‘I’ve handled Indians before.’
