Hawk 13, page 2
‘Whittaker didn’t seem to know that,’ said Hawk.
Ace chuckled again. ‘Whittaker was the town marshal, feller. Be a feather in his cap if he’d stopped them inside town. Outside, now that’s something different.’
‘You’d have got it back?’ Hawk asked.
‘Sure.’ Ace nodded, flashing a set of even white teeth. ‘There ain’t no one can shake me.’
Something about his manner suggested he wasn’t boasting. Just stating a fact again. Hawk wondered where it was all leading.
‘You’re Sweeney’s man?’ he said. ‘Who’s Sweeney?’
‘I work for Mr. Sweeney.’ For an instant the easy humor left the black man’s face. ‘I ain’t nobody’s man but my own. Remember that, Jared Hawk.’
‘Sure.’ Hawk grinned. ‘But who’s Sweeney?’
‘Mr. Sweeney owns most of this town.’ Ace topped their glasses. ‘The bank, that’s his. Why he wants to see you.’
Hawk shrugged. ‘I ain’t looking for a reward.’
‘He wants to thank you.’ The way Ace said it, it was a command. ‘In person.’
‘I’ll be here.’ Hawk set his glass down. ‘Any time he wants.’
The smile stayed on the Negro’s face, but his eyes got cold. Then he shrugged, seeming to recognize a man as independent as himself.
‘He wants to talk business,’ he said. ‘About money. He’d appreciate your stepping over to the hotel.’
‘You should have said that first,’ Hawk grinned. ‘That’s a language I understand.’
Ace stared at him, amusement replacing the anger in his eyes. The deep-chested chuckle echoed again and he shook his head.
‘I think we’re gonna get on, you an’ me. Either that, or I’ll end up killing you.’
‘Maybe.’ Hawk’s voice was even. ‘Let’s go.’
Ace led the way down the corridor past Hawk’s room and halted at a door at the end. Producing a key from inside his fancy vest, he unlocked the door and stood back to usher Hawk ceremoniously through. A flight of stairs faced the gunfighter, leading up to a second door. Ace eased past him and knocked. A muffled voice called for them to enter and the black man pushed the door open, motioning for Hawk to follow.
The gunfighter found himself in a room that he realized must be part of a suite occupying the entire upper level of the hotel. It was spacious, with windows looking out over Main Street and three doors opening off into other rooms. A thick carpet covered the floor, muffling the sound of his boots, its colors matching the drapes at the windows. Soft-looking chairs were spaced around the room and over to one side a big mahogany cabinet showed an array of decanters and glasses through its etched frontage. A man was standing in front of the cabinet, pouring whiskey into a tumbler that looked to have been carved from a single chunk of crystal. He turned, offering the glass to Hawk.
He was shorter than the gunfighter, with a head of thick gray hair framing a florid face that might once have been handsome. Age and too much good living had weakened the features now, adding excess flesh to the cheeks and chin so that folds hung pendulous around a small, almost pouting mouth. His nose was fleshed-out in the same way, reddened by burst veins so that his small blue eyes seemed almost to squint at the bulbous tip. He was coatless, a dove-gray vest strained across his spreading belly, the color matching his pants. Tiny feet wearing patent leather boots poked from under the cuffs.
He looked old and weak and confident.
‘His name’s Jared Hawk, Mr. Sweeney.’ Ace crossed to the cabinet and helped himself to liquor. ‘He’s the one.’
‘Perhaps.’ Sweeney eased his bulk into a chair. ‘I hope so.’
Hawk sat down without waiting to be asked. Sweeney frowned slightly, rolling his glass between small, almost womanish hands.
‘You just killed three men, Mr. Hawk. You did it in a most professional manner.’
Hawk took a drink. The whiskey was a lot smoother than the stuff he got in the saloon.
‘I am a professional,’ he murmured.
‘Ace said you were.’ Sweeney nodded. ‘I trust his judgment in such matters.’
The Negro smiled and took a seat across the room. He was positioned so that he could watch the door and Hawk without Sweeney interrupting his view. Or getting in the way of his gun. Hawk waited.
‘I own most of Santa Rosa,’ said Sweeney, smiling as though congratulating himself. ‘This hotel, the bank, several stores. I own a good deal of land, too. Some of it cattle country, some mining. I have enemies.’
‘The three I killed?’ Hawk asked.
‘Possibly.’ The gray-haired man shrugged. ‘We’ll never know. Not now.’
‘Does that matter?’ Hawk said. ‘You got your money back.’
‘Yes.’ Sweeney smiled at him. ‘I’m grateful for that. I’d like to show my appreciation.’
Hawk shook his head. ‘I told Ace I wasn’t looking for a reward.’
‘But you are a professional gun.’ Sweeney looked at Hawk from over the rim of his glass. ‘You hire out, I take it.’
Hawk nodded.
‘Then I may have a proposition that will interest you.’ Sweeney lowered his glass onto a lacquered table. ‘I need a man I can trust.’
‘You can trust Ace,’ said Hawk. ‘Can’t you?’
‘Of course.’ Sweeney’s mouth smiled slightly, a pink tongue flicking over his lips. ‘But I need Ace here. With Abel Whittaker dead, there’s no one to enforce the law in Santa Rosa. Not until we can get a new marshal appointed. I need someone now.’
‘For what?’ Hawk asked, ignoring his instinctive dislike of the man.
‘I have a considerable sum of money that must be transported to Tucson.’ Sweeney’s pale eyes fixed Hawk with a stare that reminded the gunfighter of a rattlesnake sizing up its prey. ‘It must arrive within two weeks. And it must arrive intact. No matter what.’
‘You’re saying someone could try to take it,’ grunted Hawk. ‘Along the way.’
‘Exactly.’ Sweeney nodded. ‘I can—shall—send some of my own men. But twenty thousand dollars is a great deal of temptation.’
‘Yeah.’ Hawk whistled softly. ‘That’s a whole lotta temptation.’
‘You see my problem?’ Sweeney spread his hands in an expansive gesture. ‘I must keep Ace here in case something else happens, but I still need to get the money to Tucson.’
‘Send it by stage,’ said Hawk.
‘C’mon, feller.’ Ace chuckled. ‘Stagecoaches follow fixed routes. An’ they carry passengers. Anyone can buy a ticket an’ climb on board. Everyone knows where they’re goin’.’
‘Yeah.’ Hawk acknowledged the point. ‘But how d’you know you can trust me?’
‘Five hundred dollars,’ said Sweeney. ‘On your return with bank receipts.’
‘Five hundred against twenty thousand?’ Hawk grinned. ‘That’s a whole lotta trust.’
‘Not really,’ said Sweeney. ‘You don’t appear stupid, Mr. Hawk, so you must realize that a drifting gunfighter with twenty thousand dollars would be somewhat noticeable. Besides, you’d have my men with you—they’d watch you while you watched them.’
‘There’s something else,’ Ace added. ‘What I told you about no one shakin’ me off?’
‘Yes.’ Sweeney went on smiling. ‘Ace is the finest tracker in the territory. And the fastest gun.’
‘Maybe.’ Hawk stared at the Negro.
‘Well?’ Sweeney asked. ‘You’re a professional, Mr. Hawk. I’m offering you a job of work. Will you take it?’
Hawk sipped his drink, thinking about it.
‘You reckon I’d be attacked,’ he murmured. ‘By who?’
Sweeney shrugged again, his eyes not quite meeting Hawk’s.
‘I have enemies. Any wealthy man has enemies. I’ve bought land that squatters thought they owned. I control water rights. People would know I was sending the money out, though they need not know which route you take.’
‘How many?’ Hawk demanded. ‘Enemies.’
‘Does it matter?’ asked Sweeney.
‘Like you said,’ countered Hawk, ‘I’m a professional. I like to know what I’m going up against.’
‘He’s got a point, Mr. Sweeney,’ said Ace, grinning in Hawk’s direction. ‘A man likes to know who’s tryin’ to kill him.’
‘There’s a family called the Bensons,’ Sweeney allowed. ‘Rafe Benson and his three sons. They’d be the ones to try it. Other than them, four or five, perhaps.’
‘Throw in some bandits an’ maybe Apaches,’ Hawk murmured, ‘and I could be riding into a lotta trouble. At least seven-fifty worth of trouble.’
‘You’ll accept?’ Sweeney looked pleased. Mostly with himself. ‘For seven hundred and fifty dollars?’
‘I guess.’ Hawk nodded. ‘One hundred in advance. For expenses.’
‘Done!’ Sweeney rose to his feet, crossing the room to one of the doors. ‘Help yourself to a drink while I get the money.’
Hawk rose, turning to watch Sweeney as the fat man swung the door open. There was a bedroom beyond, dominated by an enormous brass bed with dark silk sheets rumpled over the surface. Beyond the bed there was a dressing table with a three-part mirror and a store’s worth of cosmetics. A woman was seated before the mirror, brushing her hair. She had long dark hair, the kind that looks almost red in the sun. She was half Sweeney’s age, maybe even less, with voluptuous lips and huge, dark brown eyes. Her swift adjustment of the skimpy robe she was wearing didn’t quite hide the fullness of her breasts before Hawk saw their smoothness, the dark aureoles around the nipples. For the instant before Sweeney closed the door, her eyes caught Hawk’s. And a faint smile curved her full mouth.
‘You can look.’ Ace’s voice swung Hawk’s head around. ‘But you better not touch.’
‘The boss’s woman?’ Hawk poured whiskey.
‘Wife,’ said the black man, his eyes going past Hawk to the closed door. ‘Mrs. Charles Sweeney. Private property.’
‘I’m working for him now,’ said Hawk. ‘Business an’ pleasure don’t mix.’
Ace nodded, staring thoughtfully at the gunfighter.
‘Remember that, Hawk. Last feller forgot it, I had to kill him.’
‘You do a lot of killing for Sweeney?’ Hawk raised his glass.
‘When it’s needful,’ grinned Ace.
Hawk drank, ignoring the sound of the opening door as he stared back into the challenge of the Negro’s eyes.
‘One hundred dollars.’ Sweeney was holding out a wad of new notes. ‘Six hundred and fifty when I see the receipts.’
Hawk folded the money into his pants.
‘When d’you want me to leave?’
‘Day after tomorrow,’ said the gray-haired man. ‘Ace will have a wagon loaded and the men waiting. Come back here at noon tomorrow. I’ll fill you in on details then.’
Hawk emptied the glass and set it down in the cabinet. Nodding to the two men he crossed the room and went down the stairs. Night was settling over Santa Rosa, the stores closed down and lights showing in the saloons. The air was still hot, cloying and dusty, plastering his shirt to his back. He wanted a bath. And suddenly he wanted a woman.
The desk clerk supplied both, regarding Hawk with new respect that had more to do with his visit to Sweeney than the foiling of the bank raid.
The bath was hot and the woman not yet thirty, with fair hair and a slender body. She was almost good-looking, save for a nose that had been broken a long time ago and hadn’t set quite straight. She climbed into the tub with Hawk and began to soap him down, staring curiously at the glove he kept on his left hand.
‘I don’t take it off,’ he said before she could ask.
And his mind drifted back …
To the day that had made him what he was …
Iowa …
An evening like this …
Hot and dusty …
And Caleb Hawk coming home drunk one more time. Drunk and fighting mad. Beating up on Hawk’s mother until the youth intervened. Almost winning the fight … until his father lifted a pitchfork and drove the tines through his son’s left hand. Crippling him, leaving the fingers stiff and withered, hooked like the hate in his heart. A permanent reminder.
He had run. Run west until he dropped from his stolen horse and found refuge with a farming family. Nursed back to health, he had drifted. North, then west, and then south, picking up skills along the way. Mostly skills with guns. Learning how to stay alive. Learning that he was good. Learning how to kill.
He had gone back just once.
Not for long.
Just long enough for his father to pick another fight. This time with guns. And this time Jared had won: he was very good with guns by then.
He had left his father dead and ridden away knowing he could never return. Knowing that the black glove covering his deformed hand would always be there.
Something to remind him …
‘Yore choice, honey.’
The woman smiled her acceptance: she was getting paid for other things than asking questions. Hawk nodded, standing up and stepping out of the tub. He began to towel himself dry, helped by the whore.
‘You know some people called Benson?’ he asked.
‘Sure.’ She nodded, going down on her knees to dry his legs. ‘They had a spread north of here until their water was cut off. They mostly counted on the Chiragua Creek for summer waterin’. The Little Mosby dries up come the hot weather.’
‘What they do now?’ he queried.
‘Hang on, mostly.’ The woman stood up, smiling at him. ‘They do odd jobs when they can find work. Some folks say they pulled a coupla hold-ups, but there wasn’t anythin’ proved. They’re pretty mean folks.’
‘Sweeney owns the Chiragua.’ It wasn’t a question.
‘Sure he does.’ She frowned. ‘I figgered you’d know that. He owns most things around here.’
‘What you know about him?’
‘What’s to know?’ She moved towards the bed. ‘He’s rich. That nigger runs things for him. He’s a bad man to cross.’
‘His wife?’ Hawk asked.
‘Trouble.’ The woman stretched on the sheets, touching her body in invitation. ‘Don’t even think about her.’
Hawk ignored the advice as he lowered himself onto her and saw the dark-haired woman through his closed eyes.
Chapter Three
RAFE BENSON DROVE the toe of his boot hard against the dirt, grunting irritably as the top soil crumbled to a powdery consistency, giving off a cloud of dust that drifted on the burning air. He watched the cloud settle over the yellowed grass, and his grunt turned into an obscenity. The Little Mosby was drier than a dead cow’s udder the full length of the creek, even the source spring nothing more than a baked mud pit. He looked up at the sky and wiped one hairy forearm across his stubbled face, seeing there was no more sign of rain than the last time he’d looked. For a moment, resignation slumped his broad shoulders, then anger took hold to straighten his back and send him stamping over to his horse.
He mounted up and began to ride slowly eastwards, a big, heavy-built man with salt-and-pepper hair and a face scoured like wind-blown rock from sun and weather and work. His dark eyes got sparky with anger as he passed a bunch of lean-ribbed steers, heads low and eyes dulled by dehydration. It was the driest summer he could remember since he’d staked out his claim and his spread looked like it was blowing away from under him. He crossed the line of the Little Mosby and swung southwards, cutting along a draw where a few bushes were turning yellow in the heat, and climbed the low ridge beyond. A line of cottonwoods ran down the slope, their branches more use as perches for the crows watching his cattle die than as shade, but at least providing some cover as he approached the boundary of his land. There, running east to west with shiny metallic finality, was a line of barbed wire. It was supported on deep-sunk posts, nailed firm in place. Rafe knew exactly how firm and exactly how deep the posts were sunk. Tearing up a section had cost him three cows, and his eldest boy a savage beating from the Sweeney hands patrolling the line.
Beyond the wire he could see the Chiragua running silver in the sun. Cool and wet and promising. Like a full canteen held just out of reach of a man dying of thirst. Rafe cursed some more and turned his pony to move parallel to the wire: there was always the chance some natural accident might have dropped a section and he could drive a few cows through to snatch water before getting chased off.
It wasn’t much of a hope and it faded completely as the two Sweeney riders topped the ridge and came slowly towards him. When they spotted him they both slid Winchester carbines from their saddle scabbards and came on with the long guns canted menacingly over their thighs. He recognized them: Con Winters and Billy Anstruther. Not bad boys—just knowing it was Sweeney put the butter on their bread. They reined in, waiting for Rafe to come level.
Con grinned at him from under the shade of his wide Texican Stetson, his voice a twangy drawl.
‘Rafe. You’re lookin’ at that wire kinda mean.’
Benson spat, struggling to control his temper. He looked at Con, then over to where three of his herd were panting in the heat. Two of the cows were down on the ground.
‘This keeps up, I ain’t gonna have no herd, Con. Them cows are dyin’.’
Billy looked almost embarrassed, but Con just shrugged.
‘Way it goes, Rafe. You shoulda posted yore markers a mite farther south.’
Benson’s teeth ground together, hollowing his lean cheeks and drawing the tendons on his neck into taut lines that stood out from the tanned skin.
‘You know damn’ well ole Ben Vickers owned that section, Con. He never kept me off the Chiragua. We had us an agreement.’
‘Ben don’t own it no more,’ drawled the cowboy. ‘Sweeney land, this is. Marked off proper.’
‘Sweeney wouldn’t miss what I’d take outta the creek,’ grunted Benson. ‘Ben never thought he’d cut me off from water when he sold out.’
