Hawk 03, page 4
part #3 of Hawk Series
Hawk levered the Winchester and came clear of the wash in a fast run.
From up ahead there came the strident cry of a prairie chicken; answered by a similar call, then two more. Hawk bellied down behind a stand of cholla and waited.
The cries came again, but each one closer now.
The mist seemed very thick, and time seemed spaced out as he listened for the sound of approaching footsteps. He heard none, and the first sign he got of the Apaches was the sight of a warrior pacing through the fog with a Henry rifle in his hands.
Hawk watched the man go by, then swung the Winchester to cover his back. He fired once, planting the bullet neatly between the shoulder blades so that the Apache jumped forwards, dropping his rifle as the front of his chest exploded outwards.
Hawk worked a fresh load into the chamber and darted dear of the cholla patch as two Indians came running through the mist.
He shot one as he dropped to the ground, planting the bullet in the Apache’s belly so that the brave doubled over and lurched back, upsetting the aim of his comrade. Who had little time to worry about it as Hawk’s traversing sights picked him up and the gunfighter squeezed the trigger. The shot took the Indian in the chest, blasting through his clavicle to spray out of his back in a fountain of crimson lung blood. Hawk worked the action of the Winchester and swung the muzzle round. There was no sign of the remaining Apache, so he fired again at the gut-shot brave, ending the man’s screaming with a single shot that tore through the rear of his skull to implant in his belly.
Hawk anticipated the shots that rang out ahead of his position, aimed at the place he should have been if he was on the move. He stayed where he was, shouting like a man bad hit, and bellying down on the sand with the Winchester tossed clear of his sprawl. In its place he had the scattergun. The hammer was cocked and his left arm hid most of the ugly weapon’s length. He waited.
The last Apache showed through the fog, moving cautiously with a Winchester rifle cocked and pointed ahead. He saw the dead Indians and paused, cold eyes scanning the ground. He saw Hawk and chuckled, coming forwards.
The gunfighter waited until he was no more than ten feet away. Then rolled back with the Meteor lifting up to angle on the Apache’s midriff. The shotgun went off before the rifle. Its blast took the Apache at the waist, tearing through the soft flesh of his stomach to shatter ribs and puncture the vital internal organs. The whole front of the brave’s body was instantly transformed to a gaping red hole and he stumbled backwards, his own weapon exploding uselessly into the sky.
Hawk climbed to his feet, thumbing a fresh load into the shotgun and then reloading the Winchester. He left the dead Indians where they lay, hurrying back to the one remaining pony.
He took the animal out on to the trail and transferred his saddlebags from the dead stallion. Then he climbed astride the mustang and urged it back towards Santa Maria.
It was hard to be sure, but he thought he heard the sound of ponies closing in as he rode away from the site of the ambush. It sounded like a whole lot of ponies, mostly unshod. Like Apache horses. He didn’t wait to find out.
The early sun was beginning to clear the mist as he approached the village, the ground getting slushy as the heat melted the frost. He rode up to the eastern edge and saw men waiting around the low walls with guns pointed at him.
‘Amigo!’ he shouted. ‘I’m an American.’
A man stood up and waved him to come closer. Hawk walked the mustang forwards, feeling uncomfortable with so many guns aimed in ‘his direction.
‘El gringo,’ shouted the first man. ‘The one who left us.’
‘E1 repetido!’ called another. ‘He can’t keep away.’
Hawk ignored them, steering the mustang in through the low walls to head down past the adobe houses to the plaza. He got to the cantina and dismounted.
When he stepped inside the barkeep looked at him with the same disinterest he had shown the day before.
‘Don Arturo told you no one could get out. You want more beer?’
‘Tequila,’ said Hawk. ‘And coffee.’
Tequila I got,’ grunted the bartender. ‘Coffee? That’s difficult.’
‘Give me the tequila.’ Hawk took the bottle and poured himself a generous measure. ‘Get Ortiz.’
‘I don’t know where he’ll be,’ argued the barkeep. ‘Best you go look for yourself.’
Hawk emptied his glass and filled it afresh.
‘Best you find him, compadre. And fast. We got business to discuss and I don’t want it to wait.’
‘Everyone waits in Santa Maria,’ grunted the barkeep. There’s nothing else to do.’
‘I’ll think of something,’ said Hawk, ‘if you don’t find Ortiz.’
The bartender nodded and scurried out through the bead curtain.
Chapter Four
ORTIZ’S HOUSE WAS large by the standards of the village, a wall of whitewashed adobe enclosing a small patio containing a well and the wintry remnants of a flower garden. The main building had three bedrooms, a kitchen and a room at the front crammed with overstuffed chairs and a fancy, glass-fronted dresser. Ortiz motioned Hawk to a chair and opened the dresser.
‘Whisky? I have some left.’
‘Thanks.’ Hawk accepted the glass. ‘Salud.’
‘Y pesetas,’ answered the Mexican formally.
‘Y amor.’ Hawk finished the toast as the kitchen door opened and a girl came out. He stared at her with unashamed interest.
‘My daughter.’ Ortiz saw Hawk’s look and moved to block his view. ‘Manuela, do you have no work?’
‘I must fetch some eggs,’ She blushed, her naturally olive skin darkening. ‘Excuse me.’
‘Señorita.’ Hawk grinned at her, dipping his head in salute. ‘Pleasure to make your acquaintance.’
Manuela blushed some more and smiled nervously. Hawk decided she was the prettiest thing he had seen in a long time and watched her hurry from the room.
‘She is young.’ Ortiz sounded simultaneously nervous and defensive. ‘Just sixteen.’
‘Sweet sixteen,’ murmured Hawk, ‘and never been …’
He let the sentence tail away as Ortiz spun to face him, his features clouded with a mixture of concern and anger.
‘I presume you came back because the Apaches stopped you,’ he said. ‘You wished to speak with me because you will now listen to my offer. It does not include my daughter. Please keep your eyes to yourself.’
‘I wasn’t planning to give her my eyes,’ grunted Hawk. ‘Something else, maybe.’
Ortiz’s flush got deeper and he dropped his hand instinctively to the butt of the Colt bolstered on his waist. Hawk followed the movement, then looked up at the Mexican’s face.
‘I told your son twice about drawing on me.’ His voice was cold now, all humor gone. ‘He’s just a kid, so I reckoned he deserved a chance. You’re old enough to know better: you only get the one warning.’
Ortiz’s hand jumped away from the gun as though he had discovered a scorpion sitting on the butt. He nodded and sat down.
‘Sí. We are here to discuss business. But a father protects his children; that is only natural.’
Hawk glanced at his gloved left hand, remembering his own father. ‘Yeah,’ he grunted, his lip curling in a sneer.
The Mexican took it for agreement and became businesslike again.
‘You will accept our offer, now?’
‘I guess,’ nodded the American. ‘One thousand dollars to ride herd on the village as far as Mantegara. Few things you’d best know, though.’
Ortiz topped the glasses and waited for Hawk to speak again. It seemed almost as if he was grateful to share the problem, anxious to pass the responsibility over to the gunfighter.
‘Bunch that jumped me was mixed, like you said. That’s not usual. Be times the Mimbreño will run with the Chiricahua, but I never heard of either band goin’ with the Jicarilla. Not unless a few broncos team up.’
‘These are not broncos,’ said Ortiz. The tribes have joined under a chief called El Cicatriz.’ He traced a line across his face from right temple to the left corner of his mouth. ‘The Scar. A rurale saber cut him, and ever since he has been raiding Mexico. He is a Mimbreño, the brother of Aguila Roja.’
‘Who’s he?’ asked Hawk. ‘The ones I met didn’t hand out visiting cards.’
‘Aguila Roja was the chief of the rancheria in the hills to the north.’ Ortiz fiddled with his glass, hiding his face from Hawk’s gaze. ‘He led the band we killed.’
‘So his brother organized a big revenge war,’ Hawk wondered why the Mexican was suddenly evasive. ‘How come you’ve not sent riders out? There’s a federale station in Mantegara, isn’t there?’
‘Sí. And we did send riders. We thought the first one had got through, but no help came back so we sent another, then a third. The Indians must have waited until all three were captured.’ He shook his head. ‘We heard them screaming for a whole day.’
Hawk recalled the three bodies he had seen, and nodded. ‘Guess I saw them. They looked kind of flat.’
‘A few families tried to get through alone,’ continued Ortiz. ‘But the Apaches must have stopped them, too.’
‘Yeah,’ Hawk nodded again They won’t be the last. It don’t matter how well we organize this thing—there’ll still be folks killed along the way.’
‘We have guns,’ said Ortiz. ‘We can fight.’
Hawk grinned without showing any sign of humor. ‘I rode scout for the US Army a while back. There was a captain called Fetterman said much the same thing. Real confident, he was. Said, “With eighty men I could ride through the Sioux nation”.’
‘What happened to him?’ asked Ortiz.
‘Famous last words,’ replied Hawk.
The Mexican went pale. ‘You don’t think we can make it?’
‘I don’t think everyone will,’ said Hawk bluntly. ‘The Apache’s a mean fighter. Got tricks that ain’t even been thought up yet. And your people aren’t exactly trained soldiers.’
‘But most of us will get through?’ The way Ortiz said it clearly meant me. ‘If we stay here we shall starve.’
‘I don’t enjoy going hungry,’ said Hawk, ‘and I can think of better places to spend my old age. What you need to realize is that there’ll be wagons drop out. We leave them. No matter what. No matter who’s on them or how long they scream or whose kin they might be. When we start, we go fast and hard for Mantegara. We stop when I say so, no other way.’
‘Si. Claro.’ Ortiz nodded. ‘A few must be sacrificed for the general good.’
Hawk sniffed and emptied his glass. ‘Another thing. I’ll want out-riders. Men who can handle themselves. I don’t reckon on winning no popularity contests, but you better let your son know that he does what I say—just like everyone else—or I’ll bust his knees and leave him for the Indians.’
‘They will do what you say,’ agreed Ortiz. ‘All of them. Including Juan.’
‘Good.’ Hawk helped himself to more whisky. ‘We’ll need wagons. As many four-wheelers as you can muster-those two-wheel carts move too slow. And they better be light. Folks’ll have to leave most of their stuff here.’ He gestured at the chairs and the ornate dresser. ‘Anyone prefers to keep his furniture gets to lose his hair.’
Ortiz agreed readily, thinking that whatever got left behind could be replaced when the silver started coming in. Hawk sipped his whisky, thinking.
‘Best muster all the horses you can manage,’ he said after a while. ‘We’ll need remounts, and a few loose ponies might just distract the Apaches. Weapons and ammunition get divided up—I want every wagon armed, be best if there’s a gun front and rear. Anything left over gets loaded inside a single wagon, that way everyone knows where to find cartridges.’
Ortiz nodded. ‘Anything else?’
‘Yeah.’ Hawk drained his glass and stood up. ‘You got a church. Might be an idea if you said a few prayers.’
He opened the door, stepping out into the patio and glancing up at the sky. The yellow tinge he had noticed that morning was creeping steadily westwards, filling the gray with sullen color. The air was chill, carrying a hint of moisture on the wind that was blowing steadily from the west. He thought it might begin to snow soon and remembered that it was almost Christmas. He turned to the Mexican.
‘What’s the date?’
Ortiz shrugged. ‘December the twentieth. Why?’
Hawk made a fast calculation, and decided they might-if they were lucky—reach Mantegara by Christmas Day.
‘It’s the season of goodwill,’ he said, winding the muffler about his throat. ‘But I guess the Apaches don’t celebrate that. For them, it’s the season of good kills.’
Ortiz shuddered and accompanied Hawk to the gate. ‘Shall I get the village ready?’
Hawk nodded. ‘Yeah. It’ll take a day to organize, I reckon, so let’s get the wagons prepared tomorrow, then go out the day after. I’ll be over at the cantina if you want me.’
He crossed the patio and shoved the gate open, stepping out into the narrow street beyond. Half-way to the plaza he met Manuela Ortiz coming back with a wicker basket full of fresh eggs. He smiled at her, touching the brim of his hat. Manuela began to smile back, then averted her eyes, tugging the shawl she was wearing closer about her face. Hawk went on smiling as she hurried past him, moving fast enough that her skirt swirled around her ankles, exposing a hint of olive skin.
Hawk nodded his appreciation of her legs and began to amble back towards the cantina.
He was level with an alleyway running between two rows of low adobe houses when the knife flashed out.
The first warning he got was a vague inkling of movement to his right; something he was barely conscious of recognizing until the sun flashed on the spinning blade and the faint disturbance of the air registered on his senses.
Even then, he was not sure what was happening: just that danger threatened. He halted his forwards motion and let his knees fold, tumbling him down and back. If someone was waiting up to ambush him they would almost certainly count on surprise to take him. That meant the shot, or knife, would be angled to hit the place the ambusher expected him to be; like trailing a gun on a flying bird.
His abrupt halt saved his life because a slender-bladed throwing knife hurtled through the air to imbed its point into the adobe of the flanking house. Had he gone on walking, the knife would have cut through his neck and killed him.
Part of his mind registered the quivering blade. Another part registered the movement he had spotted. In the time it takes a thought to form he assessed the angle of the throw and its direction. Simultaneously he drew his Colt. Thumbed back the hammer, and swung the pistol round to cover the alley as his forefinger closed on the trigger.
The gun went off before he hit the sidewalk, blasting a .45 slug into the shadows. The bullet ricocheted off an adobe wall, bouncing back and forth until the echoes of its passage got lost along with the sound of running feet.
Hawk crossed over to the alley and found it empty. He waited a while, but no fresh attack came, so he went back to tug the knife from the adobe. It was a good knife, the blade sharp on both edges and honed to a needle tip. The hilt was wrapped in leather with a silver boss and brass guard. Hawk stowed it in his belt.
Someone emerged from one of the houses shouting questions about the gunfire. Hawk grinned and went on up the street to the plaza. He went into the cantina and ordered a meal, then sat waiting for the food to arrive while he sipped tequila and thought about the problems of taking a whole village through the Apache lines.
Around sunset Arturo Ortiz brought a parade of wagons into the square. There were thirty, ranging from heavy-bedded Conestogas through lumbering flatbeds to a single phaeton. Ortiz led them round the plaza and halted in front of the cantina.
‘Will these do?’
Hawk had stepped out on to the frontage at the first sound of rolling wheels. He studied the vehicles.
‘I guess they’ll have to. Be things need doing to them, though.’
‘What?’ Ortiz sounded surprised. ‘What needs doing?’
‘I want every wheel and axle greased,’ said Hawk. ‘The poles and traces, too. I want the harnesses soaped up so they don’t creak. After that, I want every driver to provide enough cloth that he can wrap his wheels and his ponies’ hooves.’
‘I’ll tell them,’ said Ortiz. ‘They’ll do it.’
‘By dawn day after tomorrow,’ said Hawk. Tomorrow I want to see the animals.’
‘You demand a great deal,’ said Ortiz. ‘As if you command us.’
‘You hired me to keep you alive,’ grunted Hawk. ‘I’ll do it if I can, but you got a whole lot of enemies out there and no way to face them. Listen to me or pay me off. Or die.’
‘I’m too young,’ said Ortiz. ‘I have too much to come back to.’
‘Sure,’ said Hawk. ‘So let’s ride that high country to Mantegara. We’ll risk the guns in the afternoon. Just get things together.’
Chapter Five
HAWK WAS UP at dawn and, one hour later, bathed, shaved clean, and breakfasted, he was standing on the porch of the cantina watching the animals paraded for his inspection. There were as many mules as he had expected, outnumbering the horses on a two-to-one ratio. It worried him, because the sterile crossbreeds possessed strength and staying power rather than speed, and for the journey ahead speed would be essential. Speed and staying power.
He checked each animal, calling instructions to Ortiz, who scribbled them down so that the animals were sorted into positions in the cavalcade. As far as was possible, Hawk left teams together, realizing that the animals would know one another and haul more surely in a familiar set than if a strange beast was introduced. He left one old man weeping when he pronounced his four oxen too slow for the passage, and shocked three families by declaring their mules too old and spavined to make the distance.
