Blood Kin, page 4
None of them knew the man upstairs, though they had all heard stories, rumors enough about him. The man with the strange gloved hand; the man with the sawn-off shotgun he wore like a pistol. Yes, they knew a lot about Hawk, right enough.
Behind the bar, the barkeep wet his lips nervously as he moved quietly along, refilling glasses, waiting for the inevitable to happen.
‘Damn him!’ Benny Murphy stopped suddenly and pointed towards the head of the stairs. ‘Ain’t he never comin’ down?’
A couple of dozen faces looked at him and when he swung his head round the saloon almost all of them looked away.
‘One of you go up an’ get him. Tell him I’m waitin’ for him down here. Ezra, you go. Lefty, you.’
Two men shook their heads slowly and sank a little more of their beer.
‘Mister!’ Benny yelled suddenly, foot on the bottom tread of the stairs. ‘Mister! You hear me? You comin’ down or are you showin’ yourself for some coward, lockin’ yourself away up there?’
If Hawk heard the kid’s remarks he gave no sign. There was no reply, no movement. Benny Murphy hurried to the bar and leaned across it, pushing one of the men out of his way.
‘Where’s that kid of yours?’
The barkeep blinked. ‘What kid? You know I ain’t got no kid.’
‘Don’t mess with me. You know who I mean, that cripple kid as runs errands.’
‘Aaron.’
‘Yeah, that’s him, Aaron.’
‘What about him?’
‘You get him.’
‘What for?’
‘He’s been goin’ up there, ain’t he? Takin’ meals an’ such?’
‘Sure, but …’
‘Then you get him and send him up with a message. A message he ain’t goin’ to be able to leave alone.’
Benny Murphy stared hard at the bartender, mouth slightly open and sweat beginning to show on his beardless face. The barkeep shrugged and threw down his towel and went out back to fetch the cripple kid, all the time wondering how long it was going to take the marshal to figure out what he was going to do and get it done.
Hawk tensed as he heard the steps on the stairs, relaxed as he recognized them as belonging to the boy who’d fetched up his meals … though he knew he wasn’t due to be eating. Just in case, he slipped the Colt from its holster and held it in his right hand as the limping walk stopped outside his door.
‘What is it?’
A pause, then: ‘Got a message.’
‘Who from?’
A longer pause: ‘Someone downstairs.’
Hawk sighed and swung his legs round from the bed. ‘Okay, bring it in.’
Benny Murphy couldn’t write, least not more than his name and you had to get him to explain to you what the squiggle was before you knew it was that. But he didn’t want to risk some fool cripple getting it all wrong. So he’d dictated his message to the bartender, who’d scribbled it down with a stub of pencil on the piece of paper.
Hawk was looking at it now: the meaning was clear enough. If he didn’t get himself downstairs inside ten minutes he was a stinking coward and likely to get blasted out of his room instead. Benny had signed it himself, the scrawl sliding awkwardly off the edge of the page much as the cripple kid couldn’t hold a straight line when he walked.
Hawk looked at Aaron, who looked away towards the window. ‘This the one who’s been shootin’ off his mouth downstairs for the past while?’
Aaron nodded yes.
Hawk sighed again. He stood up. ‘Okay, Aaron. You go back down and tell him not to worry, I’ll be down. You got that?’
Aaron nodded again, more excitedly, his eyes flickering on to Hawk’s face now, then down to the Colt that was still in his hand.
‘Yes, sir. Yes. I got it. I got it.’
‘Good boy. You get along. Tell him now, I’ll be down.’
‘Right.’
Aaron did his hurried, clumsy dance towards the door, gave a quick glance back over his shoulder and went out. Hawk dropped the gun down on to the bed and poured water from the earthenware jug into the bowl that usually sat beneath it, he splashed water up into his face, rubbing at the corners of his eyes, shaking his head as a dog might.
‘Damn!’ he said out loud. ‘Damn!’
‘Gimme a drink.’
The bartender eyed Benny Murphy a trifle uneasily and rubbed the flat of one hand down his apron; it left a damp, sweaty line.
‘You heard me … gimme a drink!’
‘Sure, kid, only—’
‘Don’t call me kid. I ain’t no kid, see?’ Murphy’s hand was close enough to the butt of his new pistol for the bartender to nod and pull his lip back over his top teeth.
‘Okay, Benny, sure. Didn’t mean nothin’ by it.’
‘The drink,’ said Benny, impatience grinding his voice sharp and sour.
The man behind the bar nodded, glancing at the doorway and wondering what the hell the fool marshal was playing at. ‘Beer?’ he asked.
‘Whiskey.’
‘But …’
‘Whiskey!’ Benny slammed his bunched left hand on to the counter.
Without another word the bartender poured him a shot of whiskey. As he turned to replace the bottle he saw in the mirror, a little to the left of the painted woman’s round and dimpled right knee, the crippled boy nearing the foot of the stairs.
Benny Murphy left the whiskey and half-ran towards the kid, grabbing him so hard by the front of his shirt that he almost threw him off his already precarious balance.
‘You give him the message?’
Aaron nodded, fear in his young eyes.
‘What’d he say?’
Aaron swallowed and Benny shook him some. The kid swallowed again, half-choked and said in a voice that was quiet yet which everyone in the saloon heard: ‘He said you wasn’t to worry. He’ll be down.’
Benny let go of Aaron and laughed, swinging his head back in the direction of the bar. The cripple boy sidled awkwardly away. Benny went back to his whiskey and sipped it, knowing that if he drank it too fast it would make him choke and his eyes water and he wasn’t about to let that happen. Not in front of so many men … not at a time like this.
Benny Murphy held the glass in his left hand and leaned back against the bar, watching the stairs and waiting. The hand that held the glass was almost steady.
Hawk adjusted the heavy gun belt around his hips and patted the buckle flat. He leaned forward and tied the two lengths of hide that hung from the ends of the holsters, securing them inside his thighs so that the holsters were held tightly in place. He felt for a moment the smooth wooden butt of the shotgun and then lifted the Colt several inches out of the right holster, doing this several times until he was satisfied with its smoothness.
A nerve at the end of his left arm tensed and Hawk grimaced. He lifted his hat from where it hung at the bed-end and angled it on his head. There was nothing more to do.
He opened the door and let himself out of the room. The buzz of subdued conversation in the room below stilled as his boots were heard on the landing, then at the top of the stairs.
Benny Murphy ground his teeth and moved away from the bar, not looking where he was stepping but both eyes narrowed and focused on the stairs. He banged into the back of a man’s chair with his hip and cursed. The man half-stood and scrambled out of his path. When the lower half of Hawk’s body was in sight, Benny stopped and rested his right hand on the butt of his Colt.
Hawk carried on until he was two steps from the floor. He looked directly at Benny Murphy, as if no one else were in the room.
‘You wanted to see me.’ It wasn’t a question.
‘Yeah.’ Benny’s voice was so quiet he wasn’t certain that he’d spoken out loud at all. ‘Yeah,’ he said again, and the voice, though louder, sounded like someone else’s and not his own.
‘What for?’ Hawk’s own voice was flat and clear; there was no emotion in what he said or showing in his face.
Benny licked his lips and shook his head to the side. What fool sort of a question was that?
‘What for?’
‘Goin’ to show you … show everyone … you ain’t nothin’ to be feared. No more’n the next man. Ridin’ in here way you done. I’m goin’ to prove you ain’t nothin’ special at all. No. No, sir.’
Hawk nodded slowly. ‘Well, that’s okay, ’cause I don’t lay claim to bein’ nothin’ special anyway. I’m just restin’ up before ridin’ on. You ain’t got nothin’ to prove.’
Benny Murphy put pressure on the Colt beneath his right hand. Once again he didn’t know what to say. He hadn’t thought it would be like this … talking and such. He’d figured the stranger would come down and they’d go for their guns and that would be all of it.
Hawk started to turn away and go back upstairs.
‘No!’ Benny’s shout was loud and his voice broke into a jagged squeak at the end of it. ‘Don’t you turn your back on me. I ain’t lettin’ you chicken out of this like some skunkin’ coward!’
Hawk sighed and turned his right shoulder back towards the youngster. Everyone in the saloon was looking up at him, waiting.
‘Boy, we got no cause to fight.’ Hawk’s voice was cold blue steel.
Benny flexed the fingers of his right hand. ‘We got all the cause we need. I’m callin’ you out. You ain’t walkin’ away from that.’
Three men who were sitting close to what might be the direct line of fire, shifted backwards, scraping their chairs with them. No one else spoke. Time seemed to walk a tight rope.
‘All right.’ Hawk said it quietly, turning easily as he did so, looking down at the youngster standing towards the front wall of the saloon. ‘Let’s get to it.’
Benny Murphy made a hasty movement with his head and shifted his feet so that his legs were wider spread. His hand was almost touching the shiny butt of his new pistol.
Hawk let his own body fall into a crouch, fingers a clawing arch above the holstered Colt, perfectly balanced, watching, waiting.
Something flickered across Benny Murphy’s eyes and, mouth open, he made his draw.
Hawk’s hand blurred faster than the watching eyes could follow; one moment it was hovering above the gun, the next the Colt was levelled at the youngster and the triple click of the hammer coming back was sudden, loud and clear.
Benny’s pistol was but half clear of leather. His muscles froze. His mouth dropped wider and his eyes squinted and blinked. Cold gripped his bowels and twisted them tight. He could only wonder at the speed of the stranger and wait for the bullet to strike.
‘That settle it?’ asked Hawk, staring Benny down.
The youngster tried to speak but no sound came. Men around were beginning to speak, quietly from the corners of their mouths, feeling the tension relax.
‘Next time,’ said Hawk, ‘you take it into your head to cash in your piggy bank and buy yourself a brand new gun, make sure you learn how to use it first.’
Benny Murphy’s eyes jammed tight but that didn’t prevent the first, choked tears from beginning their slow roll down his cheeks. His insides squirmed and bit; his hand was still fast on the butt of his half-drawn pistol.
‘Now just so’s there’s no mistake, you lift that nice new Colt clear. Not the whole hand, just the finger and thumb. Easy so’s we can all see what a good boy you’re being.’
Benny did as he was told, looking at Hawk through the haze of tears that stung his eyes and pride.
‘Someone get that thing off him,’ said Hawk.
A couple of men began to move but were interrupted by a voice from the doorway. ‘I’ll get it.’
Marshal Litterick moved his stocky body through the batwing doors and into the saloon. His carbine was at his hip. Hawk wondered how long the lawman had been standing outside, what he had been waiting for. Litterick went slowly towards Murphy and held out his left hand; the youngster refused to move the Colt towards him, simply waited until Litterick took it from his finger and thumb.
‘It’s the best way,’ said Litterick quietly. He nodded his head backwards towards where Hawk was standing. ‘Better’n you could’ve hoped for.’
Benny Murphy turned suddenly away, arms folded across his stomach like he had the cramps real bad.
Litterick tucked the pistol down into his belt and stood clear. There was a lot of noise now, men talking excitedly, pointing, staring at Hawk and exclaiming about the unusual back-up weapon and about the gloved hand.
‘Buy you a drink,’ Litterick offered, walking towards the stairs.
Hawk hesitated and then shrugged. ‘Sure. Why not?’
The bartender had a bottle of good whiskey ready on the counter for them and two fresh-wiped glasses without a chip or crack in sight.
Hawk and Litterick had the first drink in silence, men keeping clear of them on either side, still in awe of the speed the stranger had shown on the draw.
‘What you did,’ Litterick began. ‘The way you handled that fool kid, that was more than most men would’ve done. Fast as you, they’d have blown him away without givin’ it a second thought.’
Hawk nodded and made no reply, pouring himself a second shot of whiskey instead.
‘You out there all the time?’ he asked.
‘Most.’
Hawk leaned against the bar. ‘What was you figurin’ on doin’ if things’d come out different?’
Litterick waited until he had drained his glass. ‘Damned if I know.’ He shook his head and reached for the bottle. As his fingers grazed it, a shot rang out across the room and the painted mirror behind the bar erupted into shards of splintered glass. Hawk swiveled fast and leant his weight backwards. While the marshal was still groping for his carbine, Hawk’s Colt .45 fired twice.
The first shot took Benny Murphy high on the right side of his chest, smashing him backwards, legs going beneath him, arms flailing, the gun he had snatched from someone else’s holster pitching towards the floor. The second bullet struck him lower down, more central and drove him into a round table, sending it skidding over towards the wall. Men jumped awkwardly clear. Glasses pitched and broke. A chair collapsed as Benny rebounded heavily against it.
Hawk was half a dozen paces away from the bar, the hammer thumbed back in case another shot was needed.
Behind him, Marshal Litterick had the Winchester carbine mid-way between hip and shoulder.
Benny Murphy didn’t move. His breast bone was shattered, three ribs broken. Blood ran slowly from his nostrils, from between his pale lips, from his right ear. It darkened the front of his torn shirt. Below him, more blood spread over the sawdust-strewn floor, mixing with spilt beer and spit. He looked young and he looked dead.
Hawk turned to face the marshal, who hesitated for several seconds before lowering his carbine. Hawk shrugged, almost apologetically, then released the hammer of the Colt and slid it back down into its holster. A small, hunched man came scurrying through the door, through the circle of watchers that now surrounded the dead body. He stopped a few feet away and stared down at the boy and the blood and fell to his knees, hands clawing the air in front of him as if he were desperately trying to seize something back. But it was too late: years too late.
When most of the men had lost interest and gone back to their drinking or their cards, the small, hunched father knelt amongst the sawdust and the blood and the beer, cradling his son’s head in his lap and smoothing his bent and worn fingers over the boy’s face. His eyes were small and dark and empty of tears.
When he left the bar and went back to his room, Hawk was careful to avoid those eyes.
Chapter Five
THE EYES THAT surveyed Hawk carefully through the side window of the saloon were bright and dark. They looked at him for some time-taking in the curve of his neck, the slim, muscular back tapering in towards his waist. The man’s dark hair, the occasional glimpse of the leather covering on the left hand. Laura wondered what had happened to the hand that only allowed him now to push the food across his plate with the knife held inside that glove. She wondered about the guns holstered at the man’s sides, the thongs released as he sat at breakfast.
Ham and eggs and grits.
Laura stood back from the window and nodded at Marshal Litterick. ‘I’ll talk to him,’ she said.
Litterick shifted one foot uncomfortably. ‘You want me to …’
‘No,’ with a toss of the head, curling, black hair glinting in the morning sun, ‘it isn’t necessary.’
Hawk heard the swing of the door; saw her reflection first in the bar mirror. A woman broken jaggedly across by the cracked glass, two-thirds of her dressed body merging incongruously with the outlines of the painted nude. The woman’s face was a spider’s web of shattered glass. It turned towards Hawk and looked at him openly, without smiling.
Hawk held her gaze for a moment, then went back to his part-eaten meal. When she walked towards his table he tried not to look up at the fullness of her figure.
‘My name’s Laura Friedman.’
‘Uh-huh.’
She stood there as Hawk forked a piece of ham into his mouth; a drip of egg fell from the meat on to his jaw. Hawk set down the fork and wiped the egg away.
‘You always enjoy your food that much?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Even after you’ve killed a man?’
‘Sometimes, ’specially after I’ve killed a man.’
Laura’s cheeks tightened and she inhaled deeply through her nostrils. ‘How about boys?’
Hawk looked at her sharply. ‘Huh?’
‘I said, how about boys? How does that settle your appetite? Gunning down young kids?’
Hawk pushed the plate away from him enough to rest his forearms on the table. ‘You talkin’ ’bout that kid in here last night?’
‘I don’t know. How many you killed lately?’
Hawk levered a piece of ham from between his lower teeth with his tongue. ‘Just the one.’
‘And did it feel good?’
Hawk shifted in his chair, staring at her hard now, jaw set. ‘Lady, you ask a lot of damn questions. You relation of his or something?’
