Hawk 13, page 5
‘He does,’ nodded Walker, ‘now. Back then, though, he just had a lotta money. Got the bank started an’ then set in to buyin’ land. There was a lotta little bitty spreads not makin’ much, an’ Mr. Sweeney, he kinda took them over one by one. Then ole Ben Vickers sold out to him an’ he put it all together into one big spread. Real clever. Folks hadn’t noticed how all the little sections added up. Not until they all got the Flyin’ S brand. An’ by then Mr. Sweeney controlled most o’ the water around.’
‘Ace said there was a ranch held out,’ murmured Hawk. ‘The Benson spread.’
‘Just about the last one.’ Walker spat a hunk of gristle into the fire. ‘Ole Rafe Benson’s about as stubborn as a shavetail mule. Him an’ them sons o’ his, they hung on. Ain’t got but a goddam dustbowl, too. The Flyin’ S fences them off from the Chiragua an’ the only other water they got’s the Little Mosby. An’ that ain’t but a dust bath come a hot spell like this.’
Lee chuckled. ‘They was always tryin’ to cut wire, them Bensons. Until we persuaded them otherwise.’
Johns and Walker laughed, and the big man continued: ‘Ace took some o’ us up there an’ we beat the shit outta Keefer Benson an’ the old man. Ain’t had no trouble from them since.’
‘How’d he manage for water before?’ Hawk asked. ‘Before Sweeney cut him off from the Chiragua?’
‘Ben Vickers let him use it,’ said Walker, still chuckling. ‘Mr. Sweeney put up wire. Said it was his water, bought fair an’ square, an’ he was damned if Benson was takin’ it outta the creek.’
‘Seems kinda rough on Benson,’ said Hawk. ‘If that’s all the water he’s got’
Walker shrugged. ‘Mr. Sweeney offered him a fair price, but ole Rafe wouldn’t listen. Said he wasn’t sellin’ out to no Johnny-come-lately from the East. The offer still stands, only the price is goin’ down while Benson’s land dries up.’
‘Ace said they’d be the ones to try something,’ Hawk murmured. ‘You agree?’
‘They’d be the only ones with the sand to try it,’ grinned Walker. ‘That’s one thing they do have—plenty of sand.’
Johns and Lee joined in his laughter. Hawk just sat, sipping coffee.
Chapter Six
THE HILLS SHOWED as a dark blue line across the eastern horizon, a solid band against the shimmering yellow of the flat. Closer in, the blue became green, a myriad shades of green where aspen and oak and maple covered the slopes, mingling with the cottonwoods that flanked the streams cutting down through the trees.
The Bensons climbed up from the open prairie, following a winding trail that ran all the way to the crest and then curled down the far side. The wide valley between the two ranges of hills was sheltered and thickly wooded, fed by a stream that ran down the center in a twisting line of silver blue. They rode fast through the trees, splashing across the water and heading directly for the next range. This was steeper-flanked, reaching higher into the azure of the sky, with bare rock showing along the rim. Rafe took them all the way to the top, halting where a shelf rimmed with pines jutted out like an observation platform overlooking the valley below.
‘I figger we’re at least two days ahead,’ he announced. ‘We wait up here an’ see which trail they take.’
From the vantage point of the shelf they could see several paths leading across the valley. The western range was hidden in distance and heat haze, but an approaching wagon would be clearly visible along the bottom, its eastern passage confined to one of the three trails winding up to the rimrock, its speed slowed by the angle of the slope.
‘Now listen.’ Rafe settled on the grass covering the shelf, thankful to be out of the saddle for a spell. ‘We gotta figger this feller Hawk ain’t stupid. He’s a professional like Keefer says, then he’ll know this is the place for an ambuscade. He’ll be comin’ up slow an’ wary with both eyes open. We got the advantage o’ height an’ bein’ here first. Means we can pick our place. When we got that sorted out, you just stay low until I fire. Keep behind cover an’ take ’em out fast.’
His sons nodded, grinning at one another as they checked over their guns and thought about the money on the wagon. By late afternoon the next day they had spots picked on each trail. Whichever path Hawk chose up the ridge, there was an ambush point picked out that the Bensons could reach in plenty of time to get settled in.
‘All right.’ Rafe nodded contentedly as he watched the sun go down behind the far ridge. ‘Now all we need do is wait for our money to come.’
Hawk saw the first line of hills and wondered if there was any way to go around. Studying the map Sweeney had given him, he realized that a detour would cost them at least a week, longer if they skirted the second line. It was too much time, and even though he knew this would be the place to mount an ambush, he opted to forge straight ahead.
‘How do we take it?’ Walker came up alongside the gunfighter, pointing at the high ground. ‘We’re gonna be sittin’ targets goin’ up there.’
‘I know.’ Hawk folded the map into his saddlebag. ‘So we leave the wagon here with Johns and Lee while you an’ me scout ahead.’
‘You trust them with all that money?’ grinned Walker. ‘Just the two of them?’
Hawk grinned back, but his voice was cold.
‘I got the same orders as you, feller. I kill anyone tries to take that wagon. Anyone.’
The smile left Walker’s face. He nodded, swallowing hard, then slid his Winchester from the saddle boot.
‘All right. Let’s go.’
Hawk chose a trail too narrow for the wagon. It ran up steep through stands of heavy timber, lifting over outcrops of bare rock and spills of shale to the crest of the ridge. He halted there and worked his way south while Walker scouted off to the north, riding the rimrock with his eyes casting over the ground for sign of riders, for indication of ambush. When he felt confident the topside of the ridge was clear he worked his way down, traversing the slopes until he felt certain the paths on the western side were safe. There was no point checking the eastern downslope: the wagon would be moving faster on the descent, with a chance of outrunning any attackers while the escort would have the advantage of height.
It was dark before he returned, and he nodded his approval of Johns and Lee waiting to start a fire until they were sure they were not watched from above.
Walker came in soon after, announcing that he had seen no sign of danger.
‘All right,’ Hawk took the coffee Johns offered. ‘We start up come morning. I want to be over the rim by nightfall.’
‘They could be waiting in the valley,’ said Johns. ‘Or on the next ridge. If there is anyone waiting.’
‘Yeah, I know.’ Hawk nodded. ‘We ride cautious from now.’
‘What we been doin’ so far?’ asked Walker.
The ridge was still in shadow as they started off, the sun only just beginning to slant light over the crest. Their passage was slow, the wagon laboring heavily up the slope, moving awkwardly around the curves. Off to the south, the stage trail cut through a pass where the going would have been easier and faster—and a whole lot more obvious. This way, Hawk anticipated retaining a degree of surprise against possible ambush. Not much, he realized, maybe not even any, but the gamble was calculated. And calculating his chances—and reacting fast to any upset—had so far kept him alive. He planned to stay that way.
They reached the crest and halted inside a stand of maple. The eastern slope went down steep before them, running into the valley below. Hawk looked down at the ribbon of water cutting through the bottomland, then over to the far ridge. That would be the place, he figured. Get up high and watch the valley: spot the wagon coming through and get into position for an ambush. Attack when the wagon was slowed by the upgrade, using the advantage of height to pick off the escort. That was how he would do it, and if there was going to be an ambush, then he had to figure that was how it would be mounted. Which should mean that going down the slope and crossing the valley was safe.
He led out, holding to the side of the trail as the wagon came down with Johns’ foot jammed hard against the brake.
They got down off the crest and halted for the night where a natural terrace ran out flat from the gradient. At dawn, they started down again, reaching the valley around late afternoon. When they reached the stream, Hawk called a halt. Behind them, the sun was going down, bathing the rimrock in red light. The facing ridge was still lit bright, but that would get lost fast when the sun settled behind the western ridge, and Hawk didn’t want to get caught in darkness on the slope.
They slept beside the stream and started out early the next morning. Hawk decided to scout the ridge with Walker again while Johns and Lee stayed with the wagon. They reached the foot of the slope sometime after noon and the gunfighter told Johns to halt the wagon where a shoulder of land hid it from the upper slopes.
With Walker close behind him, he began to ascend the gradient.
Then he halted as Johns grunted something and Lee shouted. He reined in, reflex action sending his right hand to the Winchester sheathed along his saddle, as he turned to look down at the wagon.
Stu Johns was standing up in the seat. He was still holding the reins in his left hand. His right was clutching at the arrow protruding from the right side of his chest. His eyes were opened wide with shock and as his lips moved a bubble of frothy blood formed, bursting to send a thin stream of scarlet out over his chin and chest. He shook his head as though he could not believe what was happening to him, the movement sending droplets of blood spraying from his lips. Then a second arrow hit his side and he was slammed clear of the wagon, screaming as he hit ground, the impact driving both shafts deeper into his body. He let go the reins, writhing on the grass so that the green got discolored by the red coming out of his wounds.
Hawk levered a shell into the Winchester’s chamber and drove his heels hard against the pony’s flanks, running the animal fast down the slope towards the wagon. Behind him, Walker was yelling, following on with his own rifle blasting shots wild into the undergrowth.
Lee was screaming, ‘Apaches!’ and firing his carbine from behind the shelter of the wagon.
A rifle cracked, and the fair-haired man’s horse went down screaming with a bullet through its neck. It blew blood and tried to climb upright, but three arrows thudded into its ribs and it went down again, hooves flailing as its cries died away.
Hawk reached the wagon and came out of his saddle while his pony was still running. He snatched the reins round, turning the animal’s head so that it twisted on itself and went down on its side. Swiftly, ignoring the shots whining over his head, he wound the reins around the forefeet, pinning the horse to the ground behind the wagon. Walker came up beside him, dragging his own mount down and pegging it flat. He was standing up, stooping as he ran towards the wagon, when an arrow took him in the left shoulder. It grated on bone, the impact sufficient to spin him round, hurling him flat. He let go his Winchester, a stream of curses spewing from his mouth as he grabbed the shaft and tugged it clear. His shirt tore, the ragged edges abruptly crimsoned as the wound opened. He tossed the arrow away and began to crawl towards the wagon.
Hawk ignored him. Ignored Johns’s moaning. Ignored everything except the need to reach cover and return the fire. He bellied down behind a wheel and stared out.
The Indians had chosen their spot well. Back the way Hawk had come, the ground was open, an expanse of grass running down to the stream with minimal cover and the water to slow a retreat. Ahead, the slope was too steep for fast riding, slower even for a loaded wagon. The shoulder of ground cut off their rear, affording some protection from immediate attack, but also giving the Apaches the chance to work round behind them and strike from above. The attack was coming from a cluster of trees that went down thick onto the grass, low branches throwing shadow dense enough that the attackers were hidden.
Hawk raked shots into the trees, then turned to Walker.
‘You bad?’
The big man shook his head.
‘Bleedin’ is all. Looks worse’n it feels.’
Hawk nodded, glancing at Lee.
The fair-haired man was standing up with his carbine rested along the wagon seat, sheltered by the bulk of the vehicle as he fired methodically into the trees.
Hawk shouted, ‘Watch that way. I’ll cover the slope.’
Lee nodded without speaking.
Walker crawled back to where he had dropped his Winchester. He lifted the weapon and tried to work the lever, but the movement contorted his face in lines of ugly pain and he dropped the rifle again, drawing one of the cross-hung Remingtons. He was wriggling towards the wagon when a movement above and behind him caught Hawk’s eye. Instantly, reacting without thinking, the gunfighter spun round, firing the Winchester from the hip. On the slope between the trail and the shoulder of land a bush shook violently, then erupted outwards as a dark-haired figure with flat features jerked upright, arms thrusting out to loose an arrow against the empty sky as Hawk’s bullet tore through his midriff. The Apache screamed once and doubled over, cartwheeling down the slope with crimson pumping from his belly and back.
Hawk fired twice more, then heard the hammer click dull on an empty magazine. He dropped the Winchester. And a screaming figure with paint on the face and a bright red headband wound around the long black hair launched itself at him. The Apache was holding a metal-bladed hatchet in his right hand and his left was clawed as though he sought to rip at the gunfighter’s face before the ax split his skull. Hawk’s hand closed on the butt of the cut-down Meteor, thumb snatching back the hammer as the shotgun lifted from the holster. The Apache was still in the air as the ugly weapon detonated. He seemed to hang there, suspended on the blast of double-aught buckshot that cannoned from the shortened muzzle as his chest and belly disintegrated. A cloud of crimson splattered from the wound, mingled with glistening entrails and shards of splintered bone. Then the body dropped to the ground. The hatchet fell from the dead fingers and both hands gouged into the soil, dragging long furrows as the Indian’s body twitched in rictus action.
While the warrior was still falling, a second came charging from the undergrowth. The attack was sudden enough that Hawk had no time to drop the Meteor and draw the Colt. Instead, he swung the scattergun like a club, deflecting the tomahawk that cut at his head to send the gleaming blade swinging away from his face. Swiftly, the Apache reversed the swing, bringing the hatchet back with the blunt tail of the head slamming against Hawk’s forearm. The gunfighter grunted, feeling his hand numb as his fingers sprang open to release the Meteor. He jumped back, avoiding a second swing that would have disemboweled him had it landed, and powered forwards, closing with the Indian as the Apache whooped in triumph. He blocked the down-swinging ax with his left arm, driving his right hand, fingers held stiff, into the warrior’s belly. The Apache gasped and twisted off balance, clutching at Hawk as he fell so that both men went down in a tumble of flailing limbs.
Hawk felt a hand lock into his hair, dragging his head back as the Apache butted against his face and tried to swing the tomahawk again. He got the maimed fingers of his left hand on the warrior’s wrist and held off the blow, slamming a knee up against the breech-clout. The Indian grunted, pain showing in his dark eyes as the gunfighter’s kick sent agony flooding through his groin. He doubled over, moccasins slamming against Hawk’s legs to drive them apart, loosing Hawk’s grip on the wrist. The gunfighter rolled, fighting to gain distance as the Apache came up on his knees with the tomahawk raised for a killing blow. He saw the face grinning like a death’s-head as anticipation shone through the pain. Then his right hand was on the butt of his Colt. Snatching the pistol clear of the holster as his thumb took the hammer back and his forefinger closed down the trigger and the ax swung towards his face.
It cut air an inch before his eyes, thudding into the ground as the Indian’s features exploded in a welter of blood and bone and pulpy brain matter. Long hair fluttered on the discharge, matted with gore. The headband spun loose, no longer supported by any structure of solid bone. A fountain of crimson erupted from the Apache’s ruined skull, splashing over Hawk’s face and eyes so that he was momentarily blinded. He twisted away, wiping his gloved left hand over his face. When he could see again, the Apache was kneeling before him, jaw bone dangling loose from what was left of his features. Then he toppled sideways, his opened skull spilling a sluggish trickle of brain over the grass.
Hawk picked up the Meteor and thumbed a fresh load into the breech. Clayton Lee was still firing his carbine from beside the wagon, and Jefferson Walker was kneeling with the Remington in his right hand, triggering shots into the trees. Stu Johns had stopped moaning. He was on his back, eyes still open and mouth moving slightly as he tried to spit blood clear of his windpipe. The first arrow had pierced a lung and he was drowning in the seepage from his own body. Hawk calculated his chances of reaching the man across the open ground and decided it was pointless trying: Johns was dying, useless in the fight.
‘They’re boxin’ us in!’
Lee reloaded the Winchester, pale eyes flickering over the slope.
‘Yeah.’ Hawk nodded. ‘Cover me.’
He picked up his own Winchester and shoved cartridges into the loading gate. Levering the hammer back, he took off at a run for the bushes clustering the foot of the ridge. Behind him, he heard Lee’s carbine blast into life again, the steady thumping counterpointed by the sharper crack of Walker’s handgun.
Two arrows whistled past his face and he saw a branch shatter under the impact of a slug as he hit the bushes and went down on his belly. Coldly, calmed by the flood of adrenaline through his system, he calculated the opposition. There were maybe six Indians, he reckoned; only one with a gun. A single-shot Henry by the sound and rapidity of fire. If the braves already positioned up the slope had been less anxious to get in and kill, they would have stood a better chance. They could have surrounded the wagon and picked off the defenders at leisure. He smiled—a cold, ugly expression—as he worked his way through the undergrowth towards the shoulder. From there he would overlook the wagon; hopefully overlook the Apaches, too. At least have a clear field of fire if they charged.
