Hawk 13, page 8
When they were finished, Hayes turned back to Hawk and said, ‘You’ll want receipts. I’ll have it counted by morning.’
‘Fine.’ Hawk stood up. ‘What’s the best hotel here?’
‘The Alhambra.’ Hayes looked almost pleased he was going. ‘Two blocks down.’
‘A doctor?’
‘Collins,’ said the banker. ‘He has a place between here and the hotel.’
‘Thanks.’ Hawk moved to the door. ‘I’ll come by tomorrow.’
He went across the outer room, ignoring the curious stares of the tellers and the angry glare of the guard. Climbing onto the wagon, he sent the team at a slow walk down the street, looking for a stable.
There was a sign partway down, pointing off into a wide alley with a livery at the far end. Hawk steered up to the big building and halted outside. A tall man with gold framed spectacles perched on the bridge of his nose came out, and Hawk asked him for a price on the wagon and the horses. They haggled for a while, then the gunfighter pocketed the money the man passed him and got a stall for his own pony. Draping his saddlebags over his left shoulder, he clutched the Winchester in his right hand and walked back to Main Street, heading for the doctor’s place.
A while later he emerged with the wound on his temple cleaned up and a potion in his belly that stopped his head aching. He got a room in the Alhambra Hotel and took a long, hot bath, then headed for the dining room. A big steak with hash browns and greens on the side settled the uncomfortable feeling in his stomach, and he went back to his room. The bed looked soft, the sheets clean: he climbed between them and closed his eyes.
Food, sleep, and whatever the doctor had given him drove the weariness from Hawk’s body. He woke feeling good, ready to start back for Santa Rosa.
After breakfast he headed for the bank to collect the receipts from Hayes. Main Street was just starting to open up, not crowded yet, so that the air still retained an aftermath of the dawn cool. There was a horse hitched outside the bank, a big, lean-ribbed bay that looked like it had been hard-ridden. A man stood on the sidewalk beyond the horse. He was tall, with broad shoulders and lank brown hair straggling from under a wide-brimmed hat. His eyes were red and ugly, fixed on Hawk.
The gunfighter watched him, instinct and experience sending warning signals tingling along his nerve ends. The man looked like he had been living rough and riding hard, but whatever weariness he might have felt was banished by the feral anticipation gripping him. His whole body was tensed, right arm bent at the elbow so that the hooked fingers of his hand hung close to the butt of the Colt holstered high on his waist.
He stepped out from the wall to block Hawk’s path.
‘You’re Hawk.’
He said it flat, not questioning. Hawk said, ‘Yeah,’ without taking his eyes off the man’s face.
‘I’m Keefer Benson. Vance’s brother.’
Hawk went on watching him.
‘So?’
He felt neither anger nor remorse for what he knew was coming. Either feeling would have been a wasted emotion, detracting from the hard core that was the central part of Hawk’s professional skill, perhaps the central core of his personality. Instead his whole concentration focused on the single, simple fact of staying alive. Keefer Benson was going to draw on him and Hawk was going to do his best to kill the man. But Keefer wanted to talk about it. Whether because he needed time for his father and brother to get into position, or because he needed to work himself up to it, Hawk couldn’t know. He remembered—a flash of instantaneous recollection—something James Butler Hickok had told him when he had worked Ellsworth for a spell, a raw deputy to the legendary marshal.
There’s two kinds of killer …
The talkers an’ the doers …
‘Man ain’t used to killin’,’ Hickok had told him as they sat turning cards in the office, ‘he’ll talk himself up to it. Spout reasons for doin’ it. He’ll need to make himself good an’ mad before he can work up the sand to draw on you.
‘The other kind, he just does it. No fuss. No talk. He’ll just call you out an’ draw.’
‘So who’s worse?’ Hawk had asked.
And Hickok had grinned and spread a king high flush on the table as he said, ‘The doer. He’s ready for it. Knows the score an’ knows he’s goin’ through with it. The other kind, he’s too edgy. You can prod him—make him mad enough he gets careless.’
Hawk had seen the effects of that philosophy a few nights later when a gambler had questioned Hickok’s skill with the cards. The man had started making noises about Hickok’s run of luck, and the long-haired marshal had just sat calm and patient, listening to him. Finally, he had pushed back his chair and told the gambler to close his mouth or back his words—if he had the belly for it.
The insult had pitched the gambler over a peak of rage and he had snatched a derringer from inside his vest. Hickok had been waiting for the move. His hand was already on the .36 caliber Colt’s Navy he wore tucked under his waist sash. He had drawn and fired, planting a ball neatly through the gambler’s heart while the derringer was still lifting. The gambler had gone down, dead before he hit the floor.
‘See?’ Hickok had remarked to his deputy. ‘You’re gonna kill a man, it’s best to get on with it. Don’t waste time talkin’ about it.’
‘Vance is dead,’ snarled Keefer.
‘I ain’t sheddin’ tears.’ Hawk watched his words curl Benson’s mouth into a savage line. ‘He knew the chances when he jumped us.’
‘You took our money.’ Keefer’s hand moved closer to the Colt. ‘You left Tommy afoot.’
‘Like you left me,’ Hawk grunted. ‘Where’re the others?’
‘Gone home.’ Keefer spat the words as though they tasted sour in his mouth. ‘You broke pa.’
Hawk knew what he had wanted now: Keefer was alone, there were no rifles aimed at his back. He shrugged.
‘The price you pay,’ he said coldly. ‘When you try takin’ something doesn’t belong to you.’
Keefer’s fury boiled over. It showed in his eyes the vital fraction before his hand closed on the butt of the Colt. It gave Hawk all the warning he needed. All the time he needed to shift the balance in his favor: no real competition at all.
His right hand fisted his own Colt clear of the holster. It swung smooth and familiar and fast out of the greased leather, thumb taking the hammer back as his forefinger closed down on the trigger. The muzzle was lining on Keefer’s belly as the brown-haired man snatched his gun up. Hawk slid his thumb clear of the hammer, feeling the Colt buck in his grasp as the .45 caliber slug blasted from the barrel.
The bullet hit Keefer directly above his belt buckle while his own gun was still lifting. It tore into the muscle and plowed on through into the intestines, slamming Keefer back with his shout of rage transformed into a scream. His pistol detonated into the street, raising a cloud of dust a yard wide of Hawk. The gunfighter fired again while the body was still in the air. The bullet hit Keefer’s ribs and smashed through to ricochet off to the side, tearing out his back with a fist-size hole showing the exit point. Keefer twisted, thudding down on his side with blood exploding from the two holes and more coming from his belly and mouth. The rage twisting his face bled away, the features slackening into an expression akin to surprise. Crimson began to drip through the cracks in the sidewalk.
The door of the bank flung open and the guard Hawk had seen the day before came running out. He halted with the shotgun waving between Keefer’s body and Hawk. Then he went pale and turned the twin muzzles away as the gunfighter’s pistol swung to cover him.
‘What happened?’
Hawk worked the ejector rod to send spent cartridge cases spinning into the dust. They glittered briefly in the early morning sun. He replaced them, turning the cylinder to drop the hammer back on an empty chamber.
‘He pointed a gun at me.’
The guard got paler still and took care to hold the shotgun well away from Hawk.
‘He was one of the men tried to jump the wagon.’ Hawk elaborated as Hayes showed in the doorway. ‘Figgered he still had a score to make.’
‘Fair fight.’ The banker turned towards the guard. ‘Tell the marshal when he shows up. Mr. Hawk will be with me.’
Hawk followed him inside the bank. Hayes led the way into his office and invited Hawk to sit down.
‘You knew him?’
Hawk shrugged. ‘Well as you know anyone tries to jump you. Tries to kill you.’
The flat indifference of his voice closed the banker’s mouth on his next question. Hawk was grateful: he was not sure why, but he felt no wish to get further involved. Had he said he knew the dead man was Keefer Benson, there might have been further questions; legal entanglements that would delay his return. Or maybe tie him up in Santa Rosa. Whatever quarrel the remaining Bensons had with Sweeney was their personal affair: Hawk’s involvement was limited to the job he had been paid to do, no more.
‘I have the receipts.’ Hayes indicated a thick envelope sealed with wax. ‘Exactly twenty thousand dollars.’
‘Thanks.’ Hawk picked up the envelope. Tucked it inside his shirt. ‘I’ll give it to Sweeney.’
‘You’ll be leaving?’ Hayes sounded like he’d prefer it sooner, before Hawk spilled more blood on his doorstep.
‘Today.’
Hawk rose, crossing the room to the door. A crowd had gathered on both sides of Main Street, watching as a thin man in a black suit and a stovepipe hat supervised the loading of Keefer’s body onto a wagon. He glanced at Hawk as though measuring the gunfighter. Hawk grinned at him, shaking his head.
‘Not yet, feller. Go case somebody else.’
Chapter Ten
‘OH, GOD!’
Martha Benson’s cry was a thin, shrill wail of despair. She sank limp into the rocker, hands knuckled white on the arms as though her grip could drive away the grief. Tears ran down her cheeks, splashing unheeded onto the worn material of her faded dress.
‘I’m sorry.’ Rafe said it dull; his voice spiritless; empty. ‘I never meant it to be like this.’
He stared at his wife, afraid to touch her. Afraid his hand might somehow burst the pain she was fighting to bottle inside her and spill it out harder than either of them could bear.
‘Keefer’s dead, too,’ she said. ‘I know it.’
‘Maybe not.’ Benson wiped his mouth. ‘Could be he killed Hawk.’
His wife looked at him and shook her head, the movement slow, somehow final.
‘He’s dead. And Hawk will come back looking for you and Tommy. Or he’ll tell Sweeney. Then Ace will come out.’
‘If Keefer’s dead, it’ll be Hawk’s word against ours.’ Benson looked for hope. ‘Sweeney can’t act on that. Not legally.’
Martha’s face lifted to stare at him. In her eyes there was an expression that mingled hate with love.
‘This man Hawk,’ she said, her voice controlled now, ‘what’s he like?’
Benson shrugged, not knowing what to say. Tommy answered for him: ‘He left me alive, Ma. He coulda killed me an’ Vance.’
That Hawk’s reasons for leaving them alive had nothing to do with mercy was lost on the youngster. If his father guessed differently, Rafe was too broken to say so. And Martha clutched at the straw with all the heartbroken determination of a woman with too much lost to lose any more.
‘I’ll talk to him,’ she said. ‘I’ll ask him to let you go. Maybe he’ll listen to me.’
Rafe and Tommy stared at her in amazement, too surprised—too frightened of her grief—to argue.
‘When he comes back,’ she continued. ‘I’ll go into town. I’ll speak with him.’
Hawk knuckled the door leading to Sweeney’s private rooms. Down the corridor of the hotel a solitary lamp burned in answer to the encroaching night. The air was hot and still, quiet. Above him he heard a door open, then footsteps on the stairs, the faint rattle of the lock turning.
Leonora Sweeney stood before him. Her hair was loose, a tumble of burnished auburn that framed the oval of face dominated by the huge eyes. The eyes smiled as she saw him, her full lips curving.
‘Jared!’ She held the door wide. ‘Come in.’
Hawk nodded, wondering.
‘Well?’ She went on smiling at him. ‘Charles won’t be long.’
Hawk stepped through the doorway and she let the door swing shut behind him. There was the sound of the key turning again, then she led the way upstairs.
The light coming from the room above shone through the thin material of her gown, showing him the clear outline of long, slender legs that curved softly into rounded hips. She seemed unaware of the transparency. Or too aware: it was impossible to guess which.
‘Where is he?’ Hawk followed her into the room. The door opening into the bedroom was wide. ‘And Ace?’
‘Talking business somewhere.’ She turned, the movement skirling the gown so that the full length of her legs was momentarily visible. ‘Why don’t you pour us a drink?’
Hawk shrugged and crossed to the cabinet.
‘I’ll have whiskey,’ she murmured.
He poured two glasses and passed her one. As she took it, her fingers brushed his hand. She was still smiling.
‘You did it?’ she asked. ‘You got the money through?’
Hawk nodded, telling her about the attacks, about Keefer Benson in Tucson. Her eyes got excited as he spoke, and she tossed down the whiskey, holding out the glass for refill.
‘You live dangerously,’ she murmured, staring into his eyes. ‘How dangerously?’
There was a challenge and a promise in her gaze, emphasized by the stance of her body. Her scent was seductive on the warm air. Lamplight accentuated the filmy nature of her gown, shadow pooling beneath the jut of her breasts. She set her glass down and stepped closer to him, the gown rustling as she whispered again, ‘How dangerously?’ She raised a hand to touch his face, the movement stretching the material taut across her breasts, so that he saw her nipples thrusting erect against the fabric.
Then her hand was on his neck and she was drawing his face down until her lips fastened on his and he forgot Sweeney and Ace’s warnings as her tongue probed into his mouth and he felt her body firm and soft against him. His arms closed round her, pressing her close as her hips thrust forward, moving against his body so that he reacted with pure biological instinct. She moaned deep in her throat, wriggling her body so that the gown parted at the front and she was guiding his hand to her breasts. He felt the soft skin, firm and full. The hardness of the nipples, straining against his touch. He felt the curve of her ribs beneath his fingers, stroking down to the roundness of her hip, the soft tautness of her buttocks.
And then footsteps on the stairs tore them apart. Leonora hurriedly rearranged her dress, tongue flicking over her swollen lips.
‘There’ll be another time,’ she whispered, moving away from him. ‘I promise.’
Hawk swallowed whiskey, not sure he wanted to risk another time. Knowing the temptation might be too much.
‘What the hell!’ Sweeney came through the door with his florid face getting purple. ‘What are you doing here, Hawk?’
Behind him, Ace Black’s eyes were thoughtful as he stared at the gunfighter.
‘I got your receipts.’
Hawk produced the envelope, dropping it on a table. Sweeney ignored it, his gaze fixed on his wife.
‘I heard Jared knocking,’ she shrugged. ‘I let him in.’
Sweeney grunted as though the statement held a myriad different implications. ‘How long’s he been here?’
‘Just a few minutes,’ she said. ‘I’ll go back to my room. I expect you want to talk business.’
Hawk watched her go into the bedroom. She didn’t look back, but her hips swayed in defiance and promise.
Ace went over to the big cabinet and poured whiskey. He passed Sweeney a glass and turned to Hawk, his eyes still speculative in his ebony face.
‘You have trouble?’
‘Your men got killed,’ Hawk said. ‘Apaches jumped us, then the Bensons.’
‘Goddammit!’ Sweeney transferred his anger to an easier target. ‘You kill them?’
‘Vance was dying,’ Hawk shrugged. ‘He was gut-shot. I killed Keefer in Tucson.’
‘That still leaves the old man and Tommy,’ rasped Sweeney. ‘What about them?’
‘Alive, I guess.’ Hawk emptied his glass. Let Ace fill it again. ‘You owe me six hundred an’ fifty dollars.’
Sweeney picked up the envelope. Tore it open to glance at the papers inside. Then reached into his dark blue coat to produce a wad of notes. He handed the wad to Hawk.
‘It’s all there. No reason for you stay in Santa Rosa.’
The accusation in his voice rubbed a raw edge in Hawk’s mind. There wasn’t any reason for him to stay around—unless he counted Leonora’s promise—but he didn’t enjoy getting run out. Not on the say-so of a fat man in a business suit who hired men to do his work for him.
‘I guess not,’ he said evenly. ‘Except I don’t like traveling with rifles on my back.’
‘I’ll take care of the Bensons,’ grunted Sweeney. ‘Ace will handle them.’
The Negro looked at his boss, then at Hawk. He seemed to be balancing alternatives in his mind, not much liking any of them.
‘It might be an idea if he stayed, Mr. Sweeney.’
The gray-haired man turned with his features screwed into an angry frown. He glanced at the bedroom door, then back at the black man.
‘How the hell you work that out?’
‘We got no law here with Whittaker dead,’ said Ace. ‘It’s just Hawk’s word against the Bensons’ they hit the wagon. I go up there an’ kill them, we could have a U.S. Marshal come askin’ questions.’
Sweeney went on frowning, but now he was catching the gist of Ace’s reasoning.
‘They know Hawk’s still around,’ continued the Negro, ‘they might get nervous. Come in lookin’ for him. Especially if he gunned Keefer. I stick close to Hawk, then we can handle them together. A straight-up fight—no legal problems.’
