The Sudden Guns (A Hawk Western #1), page 4
part #1 of Hawk Series
They reached the place late the next morning. The landscape grew steadily rougher as they came closer to the mountains, the sandy flatlands giving way to the outlying feelers of bedrock, the trail growing imperceptibly steeper until they were moving through wide avenues of jumbled stone. The way got narrower as they climbed higher, winding up towards the distant rim of the peaks. Their pace slowed and the mules began to strain in the traces. The passengers climbed down, walking beside the wagons as Garrett and Glazer urged the laboring animals onwards.
Then the trail widened out again, spreading through a great gash in the mountains that ran east to west, wide enough for the wagons to travel side-by-side. The pass continued to climb, but the gradient was shallower than before, easier going for the mule teams. Martha Glazer climbed back on her wagon, grumbling all the way; Sarah continued to walk, enjoying the freedom. Hawk rode on ahead to scout their forward path.
So far they had seen no other travelers, nor any sign of either Indians or the hired men Garrett thought might be waiting. Yet Hawk felt uneasy. They were moving steadily deeper into Chiricahua country, and he had heard that two of the chiefs – Geronimo and Victorio – had quit the Fort Bowie Reservation to settle around the Hot Springs. That put a sizeable band of hostiles within a half day’s ride, and the nearest Army post more than two days north of their position. The Apache were unpredictable: they might let the wagons go through unharmed or they might decide to attack, it would depend on their mood and the power of their leaders. Mostly, the chiefs held the warriors in check, content to hunt the high meadows and collect supplies from the Government Agencies. There had been peace for some time, but the year before, a band of bronco Apache had killed a trader and prompted Geronimo to leave Fort Bowie for fear of Army reaction.
Hawk moved cautiously, scanning the high ground flanking the trail for signs of Indians.
The rocks seemed empty, but twice he caught the flash of sunlight on polished metal and knew that he was being watched. Long before the Army began to use the heliograph to pass messages the Apache had developed a system of mirrors or metal to send word through the mountains. The flashes came from positions north and south of the pass, close on a mile distant. Hawk rode on with his hands in clear sight and an uncomfortable prickling running down his back.
He reached the spring Willy Glazer had described and watered the gray. The spring started out from the rockface north of the pass, running down through a stand of windswept trees into a tiny meadow before curving off to the west and disappearing amongst the rocks. There were birds singing amongst the trees and as Hawk approached a big buck hare bounded away. He filled his canteen and turned his horse back to the east.
The Apache showed as he left the meadow.
They came out from the trees on wiry mustangs, five men with shoulder-length hair bound round with bright strips of cloth. Two of them carried Winchester carbines, the others held bows levelled on his chest. Hawk reined in. One of the Chiricahua, a squat, broad-shouldered man with a flat, calm face, rode out ahead of the others. He held his carbine loosely across his chest. Hawk waited for him to speak.
‘Why are you here?’
The words were in Spanish and Hawk answered in the same language.
‘I am riding through. There are two wagons back there,’ He pointed down the trail. ‘We are going to the place called California, where the land ends and the big water begins.’
‘We know about the wagons. We have watched them since you came into el canon de viento,’ He seemed pleased with himself and Hawk let surprise show on his own face. ‘You did not see us?’
‘No,’ Hawk shook his head. The warriors of the Chiricahua are like the shadows of noonday.’
The Apache grunted his appreciation of the compliment and Hawk began to feel a little safer.
‘You carry much with you?’ asked the Indian, calmly. ‘On your way to this Cal-if-or-nya.’
‘Not much,’ said Hawk. ‘Only those things we shall need on the journey. But we would share what we have with you, for the right to cross your country.’
‘We could take it all,’ said the Apache. ‘Take your wagons and your women and your guns. What would you do then?’
‘Fight you,’ Hawk said it flat and cold, staring at the deep-set eyes and deciding to use the shotgun first. To take out as many as possible with the first blast. ‘I would kill some of you. Perhaps all.’
‘You would die,’ The Chiricahua was enjoying the argument. ‘There are too many of us to fight.’
‘Perhaps,’ Hawk’s body tensed and he felt the familiar calm that preceded a fight settle on his mind. ‘But I am very hard to kill. Many men have tried.’
The Apache laughed and slapped his thigh, calling back over his shoulder in the guttural, clicking language of the Be-don-ko-he. The others replied in the same tongue, two laughing while two drew their bowstrings tauter. Hawk let his pony ease round to the right, thinking to go backwards off the animal and use its body for cover.
There was a sound behind him, and he glanced round to see three more Indians emerge from the trees.
‘Would you still fight us?’ The Apache’s voice was innocent, amused. ‘Or would you give us your women and your wagons for your life?’
‘I would fight you,’ said Hawk, knowing it was the only answer. ‘I would kill many of you.’
The Chiricahua laughed again, translating Hawk’s words. There was a murmur of surprise and amusement from the others, then the leader stared hard at the gunfighter.
‘You are brave,’ he said slowly. ‘You speak like a Be-don-ko-he. You are also very lucky, for my father Goy-ya-thle, who you call Geronimo, has said that we should not fight you pinda-lick-oyi. I am his son, Naiche, and I shall let you pass through here. Go and bring your wagons to the water.’
The Indians drew back to let Hawk by. He heeled the gray horse to a canter, still conscious of the prickling sensation down his back. It was not until he had rounded a bend in the pass that he felt the tension ease.
The wagons were a half mile distant, moving slowly as the afternoon began to fade into evening. Garrett shouted a greeting and Hawk swung round to pace alongside. Glazer brought his wagon up so that he could hear what Hawk was saying.
‘There’s Apache up by the water,’ The gunfighter kept his voice calm, wary of frightening the women. ‘About eight, maybe more. Their leader’s called Naiche, an’ he says we can go through.’
‘Oh, dear Jesus! Savages!’ Martha Glazer wailed, her eyes opening wide in fear. ‘They’ll kill us all.’
‘No.’ Hawk spoke fast. ‘Not so long as you stay quiet. Don’t spook them. Keep your guns close, but don’t make a move unless I give the word.’
‘You spoke with them?’ Garrett sounded surprised. ‘They let you go?’
‘I’m here ain’t I?’ grunted Hawk. ‘They’re peaceable, so long as you don’t rile them. They’re not looking for trouble.’
Willy Glazer nodded, easing a Spencer carbine from under the wagon’s seat. ‘They’re like that sometimes. Unpredictable. Trouble is, they could change their minds.’
‘What choice do we have?’ asked Garrett. ‘We can’t turn back.’
‘No choice,’ said Hawk before Glazer could answer. ‘You try to run an’ they’ll hit you for sure. Just keep on goin’ like you’re meeting friends.’
He turned to Sarah, pointing at her fair hair.
‘Might be best to keep that covered. No point to tempting them.’
For once Sarah had no retort ready. Instead she nodded dumbly and climbed over the seat into the wagon. A few moments later she came back out with a dark blue kerchief knotted over her head. She also carried the Colt Lightning, which she stashed under the seat. Hawk grinned, but said nothing.
They moved on in nervous silence.
Up at the meadow Naiche and his warriors had a fire started and were busy quartering a deer. The young Chiricahua came over as Hawk approached and told him to park the wagons to one side, close by the spring. He stared curiously at Sarah, then smiled as she climbed down.
‘Muy guapa,’ he said to Hawk. ‘She will give you strong babies.’
He turned away, shouting for his men to begin cooking the deer meat. Sarah came over to where Hawk was unsaddling his horse, doing his best to act casual.
‘What did he say?’
‘Paid you a compliment,’ Hawk grinned. ‘Said you were real pretty. Said you’d give me strong babies.’
‘What?’ Sarah’s eyes blazed. ‘Why, that ignorant, stupid—’
‘Shut up!’ Hawk pitched his voice low, cutting through her anger. ‘He thinks you’re my woman. So long as he goes on thinkin’ that you should be safe. Just try to act the part. Unless you want one o’ them Chiricahua to start hagglin’ for you.’
Reluctantly, accepting the logic of his argument, Sarah nodded.
‘All right,’ she murmured, her voice icy with suppressed anger, ‘but don’t you get any ideas.’
‘Sarah,’ Hawk said solemnly, ‘there ain’t no ideas Naiche can give me. I got them all already.’
He turned away before she could answer and walked over to the fire.
It was a strange, tense evening, only Naiche and Hawk seeming at all at ease. The Chiricahua sat in a semi-circle, facing the whites while Martha Glazer huddled close to her husband and Garrett tried to keep up a conversation in faltering Spanish. Sarah sat quietly between her uncle and Hawk, and Willy Glazer studied the Indians nervously, his hand never far from the old Starr belted on his waist.
The Apache shared their deer and Garrett produced coffee and jars of peaches, then a box of dark, aromatic cheroots. The sweet, syrupy fruit and the tobacco found favor with the Indians, who settled back after the meal with a cheroot apiece. On Hawk’s suggestion, the storekeeper dug out a second box which he presented to Naiche, eliciting a solemn speech of gratitude. Sarah and Martha were left to clean up, ignored by the men as would be the custom in a Chiricahua camp. Then they retired inside their respective wagons. Hawk, Garrett and Glazer stayed talking, learning that most of the Apache bands spread across the Arizona territory were peaceful for the moment, though Naiche warned of a few bronco groups raiding out of the Dragoons.
It was late before they finally settled down to sleep, the two parties moving by mutual consent to either side of the meadow. Garrett and Glazer spread their bedrolls under their wagons, while Hawk chose a spot close by the picketed mule teams. Force of habit prompted him to sleep near to his horse, where he would hear any warning of danger the animal might give.
None came, and when he awoke the Chiricahua were already preparing to leave.
Naiche walked his mustang over to the gunfighter and solemnly shook his hand. Hawk wondered where the young Apache had learned the habit.
‘Your way will be clear,’ said Naiche. ‘At least to the edge of these mountains. Beyond that, I cannot say. May Usen watch your path.’
‘And yours,’ Hawk replied, recognizing the Apache word for God.
Naiche wheeled his pony round, fading away into the dawn mist like a drifting shadow. Hawk watched him disappear, then kicked the fire to fresh life. Before the others woke he had coffee brewing and had scraped the stubble from his jaw with the straight-blade razor he carried in his saddlebags.
‘Thank God they’ve gone.’ Martha Glazer peered round as though expecting an ambush. ‘Filthy savages.’
‘They didn’t do you no harm,’ grunted Hawk. ‘They even shared their food.’
‘We was lucky,’ announced Willy. ‘Them Chiricahua are about the meanest of all the Apache. They got a lot to answer for.’
‘Depends how you see it, I guess,’ Hawk felt vaguely irritated. ‘We’re in their country, an’ they surely had plenty of it taken away by the Army. Lucky they was friendly,’
‘Let’s get moving,’ suggested Garrett. ‘Before we outstay our welcome.’
They ate a fast breakfast and headed out of the meadow while the sun was still climbing its way above the eastern ridges. A mile down the trail Naiche showed again, moving up alongside Hawk and speaking fast before disappearing into the hills.
Hawk pulled back between the wagons.
‘He said there’s three riders coming fast behind us. Reckons they’re followin’ us. Big red-headed feller seems to be in charge. The other two are younger. A sandy-haired man with a moustache an’ a kid with freckles.’
‘The Bradens,’ Garrett sounded troubled. ‘Bozeman must’ve told them about Rafe.’
‘What you gonna do?’ asked Glazer. ‘Those boys are meaner’n a bobcat with its balls in a snare.’
Hawk shrugged. ‘I was hired to see you through to California, I ain’t about to let three cowboys hold me off of my money. Keep on goin’, I’ll hang back an’ wait for them.’ They won’t listen to reason,’ said Garrett. They’re not the kind to talk.’
‘I wasn’t plannin’ on giving them a lecture,’ grinned Hawk. ‘Just a fast lesson in punctuation. Mostly full stops.’
Chapter Four
HAWK PULLED BACK to the meadow and walked his horse into the trees. It was unlikely the Bradens were expecting an ambush-there was no reason for them to think he knew they were following -but they would most likely slow down to check the dead fire and water their animals. That would give him an excellent chance to kill them.
It didn’t occur to Hawk that there might be another choice. His morality was brutally simple: Sarah Lee would have called it non-existent. He would give a man a chance in a fight so long as it stayed fair, but three on one was a balance weighted too heavily against him. He would, therefore, swing the odds a little. In his favor.
He tethered the gray a few yards out from the meadow, where the trees hid it from view. Then he crossed over to the far side and took up position in a clump of aspens overlooking the grass. He carried the Winchester rifle from his saddle scabbard, levering a shell into the breech as he checked the range and windage with automatic precision. The Winchester was two inches longer than the more common 1873 carbines and capable of throwing a .44 caliber bullet several hundred yards with devastating accuracy. He estimated his distance from the dead fire at around a hundred yards: an easy shot. The first time. After that, events would depend on the gun skills of the three Bradens. If they were good, they would know roughly where the first bullet came from and set in to firing in that direction. It would take a lucky shot to harm him so long as he stayed in amongst the trees, but if they laid down a volley they might buy themselves time to grab cover.
The way Hawk saw it, one of the Bradens would go down on the first shot. He should be able to kill a second while they were still confused. Then he could take his time finishing off the third brother.
He waited, letting the familiar, cold anticipation creep through him.
There was a sound of galloping hooves. A muffled shout. Then three riders came fast into the meadow. Hawk watched them, noting the way they were spread out, not bunching up. They were good.
The lead rider dragged his pony to a halt, staring at the ashes of the fire. He dismounted, sifting the grayish flakes through his fingers.
‘Still warm,’ He glanced up the trail. The bastard can’t be far ahead.’
He was a big man, heavy shoulders straining the coarse material of his sweat-stained shirt. A spill of thick hair curled from under his Stetson, and he kept one hand close to the Smith & Wesson American on his right hip. From Garrett’s description, Hawk recognized him as Linus Braden.
The one with the moustache and the Winchester carbine would be Pauley; the other, little more than a boy, must be Matthew.
Pauley moved past his brothers, scanning the trail out of the meadow. He spotted the tracks left by the wagons and the Apache ponies and came back to Linus, tugging fretfully on his moustache.
‘There’s two wagons just like Bozeman said. But there’s a whole mess o’ tracks mixed in. Injun ponies by the look.’
‘Think they was tradin’ with the goddam cherry-cow?’ Linus stared round. ‘That don’t sound like ole Garrett.’
Pauley shrugged. ‘Looks like they was here same time as the Injuns, then went on west. The cherry-cow look to have gone north.’
‘What we gonna do?’ Matthew spoke for the first time; nervously. ‘We never figgered on tanglin’ with Injuns.’
Linus wiped a hand across his mouth. ‘We’ll do what we came for, boy. They ain’t no more’n an hour or so ahead, an’ they ain’t gonna be movin’ fast with them wagons. We’ll rest the horses a spell an’ then go on. Kill that bastard bounty hunter.’
He led his horse over to the stream and dropped the reins. Pauley and Matthew followed him.
Hawk stood with his feet apart, cradling the stock of the Winchester against his shoulder. The wood was warm on his cheek, the familiar weight balancing easily as he sighted down the octagonal barrel. The upright blade of the foresight cut vertically down through the vee-shape of the rear sight, forming an arrow symbol with the tip centered on Linus Braden’s chest. Hawk eased back on the trigger, taking up the slack. He let his breath out slowly, tightening his forefinger on the trigger.
The Winchester cracked viciously.
Linus threw up his arms and went back like a runaway steer had hit him. A dark smear showed on his shirtfront and when he hit the grass he left a wide crimson trail over the green.
Hawk levered a second shell into the breech and raked the Winchester over in Pauley’s direction.
The blond man was already moving, launching sideways to place his dying brother’s horse between himself and the trees. He rolled, firing his carbine from under the pony’s belly, blasting shots in an arc across Hawk’s position. Matthew Braden shouted in surprise and hauled a Peacemaker from his holster, jumping back to find cover behind a rock.
Hawk went down on his belly, letting Pauley’s shots whistle over his head. He began to crawl to the right, fetching up behind the slender trunk of a low-branched tree.
