Hawk 13, page 6
He reached the shoulder and paused as he heard a rustle of branches off to his left. Dropping the Winchester, he drew the shotgun again and fired at the sound. A bush was suddenly stripped of leaves, bared branches waving in the discharge as a crouching Indian was picked up and hurled back with most of his belly spread red around him. Hawk reloaded and shifted onto the shoulder. Bushes and rocks littered the perimeter and he worked his way, belly down, to the edge.
The wagon was below him, his vantage point commanding a view across the slope. He saw two Apaches moving through the timber in a flanking action. Fired twice. And saw both warriors go down, only one rising to run back into the trees with blood pumping from a hole in his side.
He fired at random into the trees, not really hoping to hit any target. Thinking that a display of firepower might convince the Indians to back off. The sun was close to the rim of the western ridge now, and before long it would be dark. That would give the braves the advantage. Give them the opportunity to work up and along the slope to come in from all angles under cover of night. Alone—even with the wounded Walker slowing him down—he might have outrun the Apaches. But Lee’s horse was dead, and the wagon didn’t stand a hope in hell of outdistancing the warriors. It was a stalemate; with the advantage going to the Indians.
He settled against the grass, watching the sky along the western ridge turn red and the shadows begin to creep down the slope.
Then, from off to the north, there came a concerted volley of rifle fire. Screams echoed from amongst the trees, and three Indians burst out of cover. Hawk shot one, seeing a second go down to Lee’s Winchester, the third clutch at his spine and flip backwards.
The firing went on, turning the fight away from the wagon. Hawk rose to his feet, moving back along the shoulder to climb down to where Lee and Walker were peering curiously into the trees.
‘What the hell’s goin’ on?’ demanded the fair-haired man.
‘We just got rescued,’ Hawk grunted.
‘Yeah.’ Walker pressed a bandanna against the wound in his shoulder. ‘But by who?’
Hawk didn’t answer. He was listening to the shooting, sporadic now and punctuated by the screams of the dying Apaches.
‘You get hit?’
Walker was looking at Hawk’s face. The gunfighter remembered the blood from the dead Indian and shook his head. It was drying on him, crusting against his skin, splattered over his shirt. He left it, concentrating on the trees, where the shooting had now stopped.
Three men came out in the open. They wore long yellow dusters and held rifles in their hands. In the fading light it was impossible to make out their faces as they walked leisurely towards the wagon.
Hawk held the Winchester across his belly, watching them approach. Lee began to feed shells into his carbine and Walker stood up, clutching his damaged shoulder. Shadow pooled the foot of the ridge, only the reflected glow of the setting sun shining off the darkening sky to afford any light. The three men came up close.
The leader said, ‘Guess we saved you. Them Apache had you dead to rights.’
‘Guess you did.’ Hawk kept his finger on the Winchester’s trigger. ‘Thanks.’
‘My pleasure,’ said Rafe Benson. ‘Hate to see my money fall into the wrong hands.’
Walker shouted, ‘Christ! It’s the Bensons.’
And Hawk brought the Winchester up and round as a shot blasted from behind him and pain exploded inside his head.
Chapter Seven
TOMMY BENSON GRINNED as he saw the gunfighter twist sideways and go down with his hat flying loose from a mane of long black hair. In the muzzle flash of his brothers’ and his father’s firing, he saw blood spilled over the man’s face and figured he must have hit him clean through the skull. He whooped, standing up as the others went over with blood erupting from the multiple wounds riddling their bodies.
Clayton Lee got off three shots before Vance and Keefer downed him, their fire picking him up and sending him hurtling backwards with holes blowing all over his chest. His lungs and heart were punctured, blood pouring from the wounds in his chest and back, coming out of his mouth, clogging his nostrils. He was dead before he hit the ground, but a smile curved his thin lips as his fading brain remembered the red that he had seen blossom on Vance’s belly as the bullets took him.
Walker, slowed by the arrow wound, was less quick to react. He was lifting the Remington, cursing as he realized the handgun was empty. He dropped the pistol and reached across his body for the second gun. His fingers brushed the butt as Rafe shot him in the throat, ripping out his windpipe so that his head jerked back, eyes focusing on the thick column of blood that spouted from his neck. Rafe fired again, planting a slug in his belly that doubled Walker over around a core of pain. He was going down on his knees as the third bullet hit his ribs and burst his heart, slamming him flat on the stained grass with his hand a long way from the unfired Remington.
Gunsmoke hung heavy on the darkening air as Tommy moved down to join the others.
‘Guess we done it,’ he grinned. ‘I guess we pulled it off.’
‘There’s one still alive.’
Keefer pointed his Winchester at Stu Johns.
‘Finish him.’ Rafe glanced at his eldest son. ‘I want to get the hell outta here before there’s more goddam injuns come lookin’.’
Keefer nodded. Walked over to Johns. He put the muzzle of his rifle up close to the man’s face and squeezed the trigger. Johns stopped coughing blood.
‘He dead?’ Rafe looked at Hawk.
The gunfighter was on his face. His hair was matted thick with blood, his features dark with the stuff. Heavy droplets oozed from the side of his head. Tommy kicked him: there was no movement.
‘Sure,’ he said. ‘One shot. In the head.’
‘Good.’ Rafe looked around warily. ‘Cut them horses loose an’ let them go.’
Tommy fetched a clasp knife from inside his duster and cut the reins holding the two animals. They surged to their feet, eyes rolling as their nostrils took in the stink of powder smoke and the smell of dying. Their ears flattened back and they took off into the trees, heading towards the stream.
‘Worked out nice,’ grinned Keefer. ‘This way, it’ll look like the Apache done it. If they’re ever found.’
‘Yeah,’ grunted his father. ‘Now let’s get the hell outta here.’
‘Pa?’ Rafe turned as Vance spoke. ‘I’m hit, Pa.’
Benson swung round. Vance was slumped against the side of the wagon, one hand pressed to his stomach. His face was pale in the darkness, his lips thin over gritted teeth.
‘Where?’ Benson moved towards him, lined face set suddenly in anxious wrinkles.
‘In the gut,’ moaned Vance. ‘It hurts, Pa.’
‘Benson forced his son’s hand away from the wound and grunted, ‘Christ!’ Then he spun to face Keefer and Tommy.
‘Get him up on the wagon. Tommy, you handle the team. Keefer, go get our horses.’
They lifted their brother onto the seat. Vance was whimpering, pressing both hands against the hole. His breath came in short gasps, each movement of his chest wracking his body with a fresh wave of agony. He leaned against Tommy as the youngest of the clan settled into the drive seat and turned the team around to face back westwards.
Keefer came over the grass leading the horses. He hitched Vance’s and Tommy’s ponies behind the wagon and swung into the saddle as his father mounted up and led the way out.
‘We’ll get you back home, son.’ His voice was hoarse. ‘We just hafta get this wagon hid, then we’ll get you back home.’
‘I don’t think I can ride.’ Vance’s voice was harsh, the words coming out in a series of pain-wracked gasps. ‘Not saddle-back.’
‘You gotta.’ Benson spoke with more conviction than he felt. ‘We can’t take that wagon back home.’
He motioned to Tommy, and the youngest son set the wagon in motion, following his father and Keefer down towards the stream.
The moon was up as they crossed the valley. Its pale light accentuated the ashen pallor of Vance’s face. His high cheekbones threw deep shadows, matching the dark hollows of his tight-shut eyes. Sweat beaded his forehead, glistened along his upper lip. He went on whimpering, crying out loud each time the vehicle jarred. Tommy steered as gently as was possible, left hand around his brother’s shoulders to prevent him toppling from the seat. They went over the stream and moved on through the timber growing thick down the length of the depression. The wheels thudded over roots, jolting Vance so that the grinding of his teeth was audible as he tried to choke off his hurt.
‘He ain’t gonna make it, Pa. Not like this.’
Benson swung round to look back at Tommy. There was no humor on the boy’s face now: only concern. Vance looked already halfway dead, face white as a bleached skull, eyes screwed hard closed, the tendons on his neck standing out in stark relief beneath a jaw straining to hold in the pain.
‘All right,’ he said. ‘We’ll get him as far as the ridge. Then we’ll hide the wagon.’
Tommy nodded, wondering what the hell they’d do after that. Vance wasn’t going to survive any horseback riding. But he wasn’t about to argue with the old man. Not now.
Night paled into the approach of the false dawn. Gray mist rose from the stream behind them and the way ahead got suddenly bright before it faded again into the gloom preceding full light. Then the sun rose over the eastern ridge and the slopes in front were bathed in the golden glow.
Vance looked no better. His pallor was flushed with the red of fever and his body had begun to tremble, shaking under Tommy’s restraining arm as he went on moaning. Sweat ran down his face in a glistening veneer, dropping off his lips and chin, matting his hair. Under the duster, his shirt was dark with perspiration, his body burning despite the early morning chill.
They reached a place where a narrow stream came down the slope to run on into the main tributary. It was flanked by two long spurs of raised ground, the gently angled secondary ridges timbered thick, grass covering the bottomland. Benson turned aside, leading the way into the vee of the meadow.
‘We’ll leave it here,’ he announced. ‘In the trees.’
Keefer and Tommy lifted their brother down.
Keefer said, ‘He ain’t gonna make it back home. That ride’ll kill him.’
Benson climbed to the ground. Beard growth covered his jaw and as he stretched his back he looked suddenly old, his eyes very weary.
‘Oh Christ!’ he muttered. ‘I didn’t figger to have it go like this.’
‘It did,’ said Keefer flatly. ‘What we gonna do now?’
Benson shook his head; confused. He looked as lost as he looked old. He stared at Vance’s face.
‘He needs doctorin’,’ said Tommy. ‘Needs it bad.’
‘Jesus!’ Benson shook his head some more. ‘We try to fetch Mulligan from Santa Rosa; it’ll be like pointin’ Sweeney to the money.’
‘There’s a feller in Cojeta,’ said Keefer. ‘Does doctorin’ sometimes. That ain’t more’n three days there an’ back. We could bring him.’
‘Yeah.’ Benson nodded, hope sparking in his eyes. ‘We could do that. Tommy can stay with him, while you an’ me ride over there.’
‘Let’s get it done.’ Keefer spread a blanket over Vance. ‘Faster the better.’
‘We’ll be back inside three days.’ Benson looked at Tommy, avoiding Vance’s face. ‘Wait for us here.’
‘Sure.’ Tommy nodded. ‘I ain’t goin’ nowhere.’
He watched as his father and Keefer mounted again, moving off northwards along the lower edge of the ridge. Soon they were lost amongst the trees and he turned back to Vance.
‘Shit!’ he muttered. ‘Why’d it hafta turn out like this?’
Hawk felt a throbbing inside his skull. It felt like a mule was trying to kick its way out, and when he opened his eyes, it felt a whole lot worse. His vision was blurred, light sending shafts of pain along his optic nerves to jar with the pounding in his head. His mouth was dry, tongue furred, feeling crusted to his lips.
He forced his eyes to focus.
Saw brown grass.
And realized it was brown with dried blood.
There was a buzzing all around him that seemed to recede and approach again as he moved his head.
Flies, he thought through the pain, goddam flies. All over me.
He got his hands under him and shoved himself over. Clayton Lee was stretched out on his back with a thin smile on his dead lips and bullet holes all over his torso. Jefferson Walker was on his face, back thick with insects. Hawk turned his head, the motion bringing a stream of sour bile up from his stomach so that he doubled and began to vomit through the drumbeat of the pain.
When he could see again, he saw Stu Johns with his face blown apart. A litter of corpses where the Apaches had fallen. There were vultures picking over the bodies, hooked beaks rising with streamers of gut hanging down. A beat of wings from behind him got him on his feet, scattering the birds as he thought, Not me. Not yet.
There was no sign of the wagon.
He touched his head, wincing as his fingers brushed his temple, where a raw furrow was plowed above his right ear. They must have thought he was dead, he decided. Killed with a head shot. It must have looked that way, with the Apache’s blood all over his face.
He smiled, cold and deadly, staggering as the throbbing in his skull went on pounding.
But I’m not dead, he thought. I’m alive. I’m still alive, and I’ve still got a job to do.
He looked to where the grass was crushed down by the wagon, the double line of tracks pointing back to the east. Gingerly, he settled his hat over his drumming skull and took Lee’s canteen from the dead horse. He picked up his Winchester and began to walk in the direction of the stream, following the wagon tracks.
Walker had yelled something as the men approached. Said they were the Bensons. So it was out in the open now: clear and simple.
‘All right, Benson,’ he grunted. ‘Let’s quit fooling around.’
Chapter Eight
EACH STEP SENT a fresh wave of pain throbbing through Hawk’s skull. The sun seemed to burn into him, lighting a fire inside his head and masking his features in a sheen of sweat. The blood coagulating over the wound along his temple prickled, the raw flesh stinging as salty perspiration dripped over the cut. Every so often the valley swam before him, his vision blurring in the heat and the fierce drumbeat tattoo of the pain.
Several times he tripped and fell flat, groaning as the impact brought the pounding inside his head to a new peak of agony. But each time he forced himself upright again and staggered on, eyes squinted in the effort of focusing on the tracks running through the grass.
He reached the stream and went down on his knees. The water was blue and cool-looking, and he lowered himself full-length into it, letting the coolness wash over his face and head. Downstream, the blue clouded as the blood cleared from his features. He gulped in great mouthfuls, feeling the cold water settle in his stomach, clear his head, sting against the cut on his temple. After a while he rose and crouched on the bank. His head was clearer now, the throbbing reduced to a dull ache. He soaked his bandanna in the stream and tied it about his head. Then he waded over and climbed the shallow slope of the far bank.
His horse was grazing there and he moved cautiously towards it, crooning softly to calm the animal. It let him get close enough that he was able to grasp the reins and climb wearily into the saddle, the motion causing his head to spin afresh.
When the wave of dizziness was past he turned the horse west and continued after the wagon tracks. It was around mid-afternoon and he had regained consciousness sometime after dawn. The Bensons had attacked at dusk, and most likely pulled out immediately after. They wouldn’t have wasted time hanging around, so they had a full night and more than half a day’s start on him. But they wouldn’t be expecting any pursuit, so they might not be running too hard. And he was mounted now: another advantage.
He rode on, calculating the odds.
Three men had crossed the grass towards the wagon. The shot that had downed him had come from behind. So: four of them. Slowed to the best pace the wagon could make. Not knowing he was coming up behind. No reason for them to expect that, so probably not bothering much about watching their back trail. He could make faster time. Catch up and pick them off. Hell! He could do what they must have planned for him: get ahead onto the high ground and take them as they came up. That must have been what they planned, how they came to work in behind the Apaches.
He moved on through the trees, watching the tracks.
That was lucky, too. The timber was thick enough to shade out a good deal of sun, keeping the ground protected enough that the crushed grass wasn’t drying out to hide the marks that ran westwards towards the ridge.
He looked up at the sky, calculating the hours of light left. Not too many, but if he speeded his pace he could reach the foot of the rise by dusk. He began to ride faster.
Then halted, frowning as he saw the tracks curve away from the trail leading over the ridge. They went off to the north, running parallel to the lower slopes.
The diversion gave him a problem. He had figured on outriding the wagon to get ahead, to get higher. If he followed the line of the tracks, he could lose the advantage of height. Equally, if he pushed straight on up the ridge, he could lose the wagon. Maybe the Bensons were planning on taking an alternative trail. Or maybe they thought to hide the wagon somewhere.
He chose to reduce the risk of losing his quarry and turned north.
The tracks went on for about a mile, then curved away into the timber studding the gradient of the downslope. They appeared to lead into a kind of canyon, where two spurs thrust out in a vee shape either side of a rivulet. It looked a good place to fort up.
