Hawk 13, page 3
‘That’s as maybe,’ said Con, ‘but Mr. Sweeney figgers things different.’
‘Sweeney figgers to dry me out,’ snarled the older man. ‘That bastard figgers to buy my land cheap. He knows I need the Chiragua come the hot weather.’
Con shrugged. ‘Ain’ fer me to say what Mr. Sweeney wants. I just do what I’m told.’
Benson’s hand touched the butt of the old Colt’s Peacemaker holstered on his waist. The movement wiped the lazy grin from off Con’s face and both Winchesters swung round to point at the rancher.
‘Don’t try nothin’, Mr. Benson,’ Billy said. ‘Please.’
Benson’s hand came away from the gun slowly. His lips were thin under the stubble, dragged out on a line somewhere between rage and hopelessness. His eyes got suddenly tired so that he looked his full fifty years.
‘Yeah,’ he said thickly. ‘I won’t try nothin’. Not now. Not here.’
‘That sounds awful like a threat,’ said Con, the grin coming back to his face.
Benson shook his head. ‘I ain’t sellin’ out. You tell Sweeney that, Con. You tell that nigger gunhand, too. You tell ’em I’ll see hell dry out before I sell my land.’
‘Maybe you will,’ murmured Con. ‘Maybe you will.’
Benson glared at the two men, then swung his horse around and began to canter back up the ridge. His cows were too exhausted by the heat to scatter as he rode between them, just turning their heads to watch him go by, ignoring the dust that rose in a marker line behind him.
He slowed once he was over the crest, not wanting to tire the pony, easing it down to a walk as he headed back to the ranch house. Christ! he thought as he watched the huddled building take shape through the heat haze. You work all your life an’ you got nothin’ to show. Just a patch of land that ain’t much more’n a bowl of dust an’ a few head of dyin’ cows. Jesus! what am I gonna do?
His wife looked up as he approached. A razor-back woman with gray hair tugged back in a dusty bun and tired eyes, more lines on her face than age gave her a right to. She wiped floury hands on her apron as he dismounted, watching his face nervously.
‘Trouble?’ she asked.
‘No, Martha.’ Benson shook his head. ‘No more’n usual.’
‘What we gonna do, Rafe?’ She said it without really expecting an answer: a question posed too many times before to have any real meaning.
‘I don’t know,’ he said automatically. ‘I’ll think of something.’
He sank a dipper into the water bucket and swallowed. At least he had a well to serve the house. Trouble was, that was all it served. It didn’t produce enough water to accommodate the cattle, barely enough to see the ponies watered. He splashed some on his face, smearing dust into streaky lines, then pulled the saddle off the horse and turned the animal into the corral. He eased down into a rocker and watched his wife kneading dough.
‘The boys in yet?’
She shook her head. ‘Keefer’s still in town. Tommy an’ Vance ain’t back from diggin’ out the Mosby spring.’
Benson nodded and shut his eyes. The thin protection of his lids did little to shut out the light. He let his head rest against the back of the rocker, feeling the heat on his face, feeling it seep down into his bones, curdling in the pit of his belly.
He looked up as hoofbeats thudded on the baked ground and his two younger sons rode in. They had shovels lashed behind their saddles and mud caking dry on their clothes. They looked as tired as he felt; looked older than young men should.
‘Well?’ he asked.
‘We went down around ten feet.’ Vance poured water over his face, wiping mud from his blond mustache. ‘Ten goddam feet before we even saw seepage!’
‘It’ll fill,’ said Tommy. He was always cheerful. He was like his mother had been before the Arizona sun boiled the optimism out of her. ‘Be enough to water a few come mornin’.’
‘A dozen,’ grunted Vance. ‘Fifteen, maybe. Then it’ll dry out again.’
Their father grunted and thought about the old days, when Ben Vickers gave them free access to the Chiragua. Before that goddam land-hungry bastard Sweeney moved in.
‘Maybe we should cut wire again,’ suggested Vance. ‘Take a chance.’
Benson shook his head. ‘I was just lookin’. Con an’ Billy was ridin’ line. There’ll be others. Sweeney’s always got others. An’ even if we did pull it off, he’d send that goddam nigger over.’
‘Someone should do somethin’ about that feller,’ grunted Vance.
‘You?’ Benson laughed: a dry, rattling sound. ‘Me? You know how fast that bastard is.’
‘Ain’ no one fast enough he can outrun a rifle bullet,’ said Vance. ‘Not even Ace.’
‘Forget it.’ Benson shook his head again. ‘You lay fer Ace an’ Whittaker’ll come lookin’. That, or Sweeney sends a bunch o’ men to burn us out.’
‘Maybe it’ll rain.’ Tommy smoothed his hair down. ‘Could be the weather’ll break.’
Benson and Vance looked at him without speaking. Tommy shrugged and went to unsaddle the horses. His mother called after him, ‘Leave those things out. I’ll wash them come mornin’.’
A line of billowing dust marked the approach of a buckboard. Keefer Benson reined in before the house and grinned at his mother, nodded to his father. He looked more like Rafe than either of his brothers: a tall man with wide shoulders and dangerous eyes, thick brown hair curling over the shoulders of his sweat-stained shirt.
‘Ma Rainey says she can’t give us no more credit,’ he announced. ‘But I got everythin’ we need this time. An’ I got some news.’
‘Get the buggy unloaded,’ grunted Rafe. ‘First things first.’
They took the supplies off the buckboard, carrying them into the low-ceilinged ranch building and stowing them in place around the large room that occupied most of the structure’s ground space. Keefer took the horse out of harness and watered it before leading it over to the corral. Then he picked up a jug and popped the cork, taking a long swallow with excitement glinting in his eyes as he waited to impart his news.
The three men went out onto the stoop and began to pass the jug back and forth.
‘Well?’ asked Benson. ‘You gonna tell?’
‘Was a bank raid,’ said Keefer. ‘Three fellers come ridin’ in an’ shot the place up. They killed two o’ Sweeney’s tellers an’ come out all loaded down with money.’
‘Sweeney’s money,’ chuckled Tommy. ‘They get away?’
Keefer shook his head, drawing out the story.
‘Where was Whittaker?’ asked Rafe. ‘Where was the nigger?’
‘Ace was up in the hotel,’ said Keefer. ‘Never took no part. Whittaker, though, he come a runnin’ with that ole pistol of his firin’ an’ his badge shinin’ bright as noonday. One o’ them fellers just turned around an’ let him have it with a big ole LeMat. Used the shotgun part, too. Blew Whittaker clear to hell.’
‘Christ!’ murmured Vance. ‘What happened then?’
‘Was the damnedest thing I ever did see.’ Keefer frowned and grinned at the same time. ‘There was this feller outside Wilt’s saloon. Just sittin’, sippin’ a beer. He watched Whittaker go down, then drew on them when they rode past him. He was a gunhand, clear. Fast, too. Had this little-bitty scattergun down there on his left side an’ a Colt on his right. He pulled the scattergun an’ blew one o’ them right outta the saddle. Then he shot the others. Just dropped ’em like they was targets at a County Fair. Left them bleedin’ all over the street.’
‘Sweeney’s man?’ demanded Rafe. ‘He brought a new one in?’
‘No.’ Keefer shook his head, reaching for the jug. ‘I heard his name was Jared Hawk. Somethin’ like that. But he wasn’t no Sweeney man. I know that, ’cause Ace come over to the saloon when the dust was cleared an’ bought him a drink. Took him on over to meet Sweeney. I heard he was just passin’ through.’
‘So they got the money back?’ Tommy sounded disappointed.
‘Yeah.’ Keefer nodded. ‘But that ain’t all.’
He lifted the jug to his mouth and took a long swallow, waiting for the excitement to build up.
‘Word in town is, Sweeney’s got somethin’ goin’ on.’ He looked at his father as he said it, his eyes getting calculating. ‘Somethin’ real big. The way I heard it, he’s fixin’ to send a wagon-load o’ money over to Tucson. Most of what he’s made.’
‘So?’ Rafe shrugged. ‘The nigger’ll ride shotgun. He’d gun us, we got inside spittin’ range o’ Sweeney’s money.’
‘No.’ Keefer smiled, ignoring the anxious look his mother cast in his direction. ‘It can’t be like that. Not with Whittaker gettin’ killed. Folks was talkin’ last night. After it happened. You know Strother? Desk clerk in the hotel? Well, he was sayin’ how Sweeney don’t want Ace to go, not with Whittaker dead. Figgers he needs Ace around now Santa Rosa don’t have a regular lawman. Seems like he’s hired this Hawk feller to take the money through.’
‘Another professional,’ said Vance. ‘An’ good as Ace, from what you just said.’
‘Sure he is.’ Keefer nodded. ‘Maybe even better. But there’s one thing—he don’t know us the way Ace does.’
‘You sayin’ what I think you’re sayin’?’ asked Rafe, staring moodily at his eldest son.
Keefer shrugged. ‘It’s up to you, Pa. All I’m sayin’ is Sweeney’s sendin’ a pile o’ money to Tucson with a feller don’t know what we look like.’
He paused, pointing out over the spread to where the sun painted the parched ground a leprous yellow. To where the cattle stood unmoving and thirsty on the shadeless land.
‘I could add we might as well sell out while we still got some cows standin’. I could remind you Ma Rainey ain’t givin’ us credit no more. An’ the creek ain’t about to start spurtin’ water.’
‘No!’ said Martha Benson. ‘Don’t even think about it. I ain’t got much, but at least I got a husband an’ three sons. I don’t want four markers out there.’
Keefer went on looking at his father. Vance was smiling now, and Tommy was looking thoughtful. Rafe rubbed a finger down the side of his nose and sniffed.
‘I’ll think on it,’ he said.
‘Don’t think too long,’ murmured Keefer. ‘Word is, they leave tomorrow.’
Rafe stood up and peered out over his dying homestead.
‘I’ll think on it,’ he repeated.
Hawk looked at the map Sweeney had spread out on the table. It was a Government commissioned survey of the Arizona and New Mexico territories, dated exactly six months ago.
‘I’ll pick my own route,’ he said evenly. ‘Be best that way. That way no one can slip word so folks can wait up on me.’
Sweeney glanced over to where Ace was lounging, looking down at Main Street. The big Negro looked back, shrugging.
‘Makes sense, Mr. Sweeney. Word’s already out you’re fixing this deal. If only Jared knows which way he’s goin’ it’s gonna be that much harder to jump him.’
The gray-haired man nodded thoughtfully, tapping a carefully-manicured nail against the map. He looked at Hawk, then nodded again.
‘Very well, Mr. Hawk. If that’s how you want to handle it.’
‘I do,’ said the gunfighter. ‘What about your men?’
Ace moved with cat-like grace across the room, pouring himself a drink as he grinned at Hawk.
‘I picked three good ones. That be enough?’
‘I guess,’ said Hawk. ‘Yeah.’
‘You can trust them,’ Ace murmured. ‘Far as you can trust anyone with that much money. They’re fast an’ they’re mean. I told them they take their orders from you. So long as you don’t cross what I ordered them.’
‘Which is?’ Hawk asked, already guessing the answer.
‘That the money goes through,’ grinned the Negro. ‘That if you get any ideas, they kill you.’
‘You got a lotta trust in me,’ Hawk grinned.
‘Friend,’ said Ace, ‘I trust just two things. This.’ He patted the pearl grips of the Colt holstered on his waist. ‘An’ a stacked deck. You got that?’
‘Yeah.’ Hawk nodded, smiling coldly at the black man. ‘In spades.’
Chapter Four
HAWK BUTTONED HIS leather vest and slung the bandolier of shotgun cartridges around his waist. The familiar weight of it settled snug and smooth, and he checked the hang of his gun belt, fastening the tie-thong about his right thigh. He slid the Colt a time or two from the holster, satisfying himself that the interior was greased right and the hammer resting on an empty chamber. Then he pushed back his long hair and set the black Stetson in place, glancing out the window.
The street was quiet, not yet fully light. The sun was just beginning to show through the gray that followed the false dawn, promising another burning day. Santa Rosa was still asleep, the only sounds the creaking of a wagon and the occasional muffled cry from one of the men loading Sweeney’s money. Hawk picked up his saddlebags and his Winchester and unlocked the door.
As he stepped out into the corridor, the door at the far end swung open and Sweeney’s wife came through. She was wearing a light blue dress with little ruffles of frothy lace at the cuffs and neck, a black shawl draped around her shoulders. Her hair was piled up on top of her head, emphasizing the huge eyes and the slender neck. She smiled as she saw him, sensuous lips parting to reveal perfect white teeth.
‘Mr. Hawk.’ Her voice was deep and soft: a bedroom voice. ‘We’ve not been introduced.’
‘Ma’am.’ He touched the brim of his hat.
‘Please, call me Leonora.’ Her hips swung as she came towards him. ‘And I shall call you Jared. May I?’
‘Sure.’ He nodded. ‘You’re out early.’
‘I thought I’d come watch you leave.’
He waited for her to draw level, noticing that she was only an inch or so shorter than he. She took his free arm and he caught a drift of perfume, slightly heady in the cool air as she turned to smile at him. There was a hint of laughter in her eyes, as though she was playing some private game. Her hip brushed against him as he escorted her down the corridor and into the lobby.
Outside, the air was beginning to warm up. Leonora Sweeney adjusted her shawl, the movement causing her breasts to touch his arm. Hawk wondered if the pressure was accidental or intentional as he realized that she was naked under the blue dress, not confined by stays or corset or underclothing.
‘It’ll be warm again.’ Her long legs matched Hawk’s stride. ‘Another hot day.’
‘I guess.’ Down the street he saw Sweeney frowning. ‘Leonora.’
‘This is the best time,’ she murmured. ‘Once it gets warmed up I can’t do a thing. Except take off my clothes and hope for a breeze. It gets so hot up there. Alone.’
Hawk nodded, wondering if that was some kind of invitation. Maybe the reason the door to the upper level of the hotel was kept locked. He remembered Ace’s warning; what the whore had said about Leonora Sweeney. He inhaled her perfume again and faced her husband as the fat man stamped down the sidewalk. Sweeney looked angry.
‘What the hell are you doing out here?’ Under the curly brim of his Eastern-style beaver his florid face was a deeper shade of red. ‘I thought you were asleep.’
‘I woke up,’ she said. ‘I wanted to watch Jared leave.’
Sweeney grunted, looking from his wife to Hawk. He was shorter than the woman.
‘I’ll fetch my horse.’ Hawk disentangled his arm from the woman’s grip, handing her to her husband. ‘Leonora, Sweeney.’
He turned away as the gray-haired man muttered something in a hoarse undertone and the woman’s deep-throated laugh echoed down the still street. He walked to the livery, throwing his saddle on the pony’s back and sliding the Winchester into the scabbard. A dog yapped once as he led the horse out and took it down Main Street to the wagon.
By now Sweeney’s men had the crated money stowed on board, a tarpaulin lashed in place. Four deep-chested horses were in the traces and Ace was talking with the waiting men. Sweeney and Leonora were walking back towards the hotel, the man clutching her arm like he was afraid she might run off. She turned as Hawk went by, smiling as she said, ‘Take care, Jared. I’ll see you again.’
Ace stared at the gunfighter, opening his mouth to speak. Hawk beat him to it.
‘I ain’t forgotten.’
‘Good.’ The Negro touched the knot of his bow tie. ‘You ready?’
‘As I’ll ever be.’
Ace nodded and introduced him to the three men going with him.
Jefferson Walker was a tall, thick-set man with a lazy, good-humored face, his easy manner contrasting with the way his hands never moved far from the twinned Remingtons holstered butt-forwards on his hips. Clayton Lee was thin and short and nervy, his blue eyes shifting constantly, as though he wasn’t quite sure of his friends and thought he might need to use the Winchester carbine that appeared to be his only weapon. Stu Johns looked bored, lounging back against the wagon with his thumbs hooked into the gun belt on his waist and flicking his head to keep his long brown hair clear of his eyes.
‘Who’s taking the wagon?’ Hawk swung into the saddle.
‘I am.’ Johns climbed on board, swinging the reins clear of the brake handle.
‘All right.’ Hawk waited for Walker and Lee to mount. ‘I’ll lead out. You two stay behind.’
‘Good luck.’ Ace raised a hand in farewell. ‘I’ll see you back here.’
Hawk nodded and walked the horse out in front of the wagon. Johns kicked the brake off and flicked the reins, urging the team into a stolid walk. Ace moved into step alongside, keeping pace.
‘Hawk.’ His eyes caught the gunfighter’s, then lifted towards the upper level of the hotel. ‘When you get back it might be best you don’t stick around.’
Hawk followed his glance. There was a brief movement at one of the windows and he saw an oval face with big eyes and a smiling mouth looking down at him before it moved away, replaced by Sweeney’s flushed features.
‘You got a memory to match those warnings you’re always givin’?’ He saw anger flicker briefly in the Negro’s eyes before Ace nodded. ‘Then remember what I told you. Business an’ pleasure don’t mix.’
