Hawk 13, page 9
Sweeney nodded, an ugly smile curving his fleshy lips.
‘That makes sense.’ He turned to face Hawk. ‘You willing to do that?’
Hawk began to smile, relishing the situation.
‘It’ll cost you,’ he grinned. ‘Thirty dollars a day.’
‘That’s goddam robbery,’ snapped Sweeney.
‘That’s what it costs,’ murmured the gunfighter, enjoying himself now. ‘Take it or leave it.’
‘Damn you!’ Sweeney spoke through gritted teeth. ‘All right. Starting from tomorrow.’
‘Fine.’ Hawk put down his glass. ‘I’ll come by to collect.’
‘Ace’ll pay you.’ Sweeney said it fast. ‘He’ll be close to you all the time.’
The way he said it, the big Negro wouldn’t be there for Hawk’s protection. Ace smiled without showing much humor and went down the stairs with the gunfighter. He halted at the door, still smiling at Hawk.
‘So you’re still workin’ for Mr. Sweeney,’ he said, his deep voice pitched low enough it wouldn’t carry up the stairs. ‘Means what you said about business an’ pleasure not mixing still goes?’
‘Yeah.’ Hawk nodded. ‘I guess it does.’
‘That’s good,’ murmured Ace. ‘That’s real good.’
‘For one of us.’ Hawk turned away, pacing down the corridor. ‘Means you headed me off an’ I lose on tail.’
Chapter Eleven
SANTAN ROSA WAS as dull and as dusty as he remembered it. The heat showed no sign of abating, the sun blazing with baleful indifference out of a clear and cloudless sky that was empty of any feature save the occasional specks of circling vultures. The cattle country around the town looked like it was drying up and getting ready to blow away on the first wind to stir the cloying heat. The grass was yellow, dried out by the sun and parched for want of water. There were reports of springs drying up and dependable streams turned to beds of sunbaked mud. Cows denied ready access to water were dying.
Hawk waited; his boredom alleviated by amusement. Sweeney was paying him thirty dollars a day to sit around doing nothing: it was the first time he had been paid for just killing time.
And there was Leonora.
She drifted through the burning days like a seductive promise of forbidden delights. Hawk recalled her saying something about spending most of her time in the hotel, and he had assumed that Sweeney’s jealousy kept her locked in her rooms. But now she seemed to be out a lot, appearing on her husband’s arm or escorted by the ever-watchful Ace. She greeted Hawk formally enough, but in her lustrous eyes there remained a promise that stirred him, leaving the memory of her body demanding in his mind. He drank a lot of beer and spent a lot of nights with the fair-haired whore. Her name was Lucinda, though most people—if they called her anything at all—called her Lucy, and she came from West Texas. She satisfied Hawk’s needs without asking questions, and they became something close to friends.
Hawk was thinking about visiting her when the desk clerk called him over. The man glanced around the vestibule as though afraid of being overheard, then leaned across the counter with his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper.
‘I got a note for you.’
Hawk took the envelope the man proffered him as the clerk said, ‘I don’t know nothing about it. I’d appreciate you keeping it that way.’
‘Sure.’ Hawk nodded; intrigued.
The envelope was a lavender color, smelling faintly of a scent he recognized. He tore it open and thumbed out the sheet of paper inside. That, too, was lavender, the scent stronger. The message was cryptic and direct. It said: Your room tonight. There was no signature, just a flourishing L. He folded the paper and tucked it into his vest, ignoring the curious gaze of the desk clerk as he turned back to the stairs.
His room was hot, smelling faintly of unwashed sheets. The windows were open, with the drapes drawn across against the night insects, hanging motionless in the windless air. Hawk lit the lamp suspended from the ceiling and poured himself whiskey. He wasn’t sure just how Leonora planned to escape Sweeney and Ace; less sure what he intended to do about it. The undertaking he had given the Negro was not a light promise, nor was Hawk the kind of man who went back on his word. Business and pleasure didn’t mix—especially not when the pleasure was married to the business. And yet the woman had got under his skin. She was an itch he couldn’t scratch. He was always thinking about her when he climbed into Lucinda’s arms, and as she had said, he lived dangerously. He knew the sensible thing was to walk out of the room and go find Lucinda. Throw away the note and forget about Leonora Sweeney. He thought about doing just that.
He thought about it long enough that he was still sipping whiskey when a light tapping echoed on the door. He drew his Colt, holding the pistol at his waist as he turned the key and swung the door back.
Leonora came through fast. She was wearing a long black dress with some kind of white pattern on it, sleeveless and cut low at the front. The lamplight shone on the cleavage, shadow between the mounds of her breasts. She smiled at his gun.
‘Are you planning to shoot me?’
He shook his head, holstering the Colt as he closed the door and turned the key in the lock.
‘Then how about giving me a drink?’
He passed her his glass, watching as she took a long swallow and he wondered if he wasn’t letting himself get dragged into some kind of game she was playing. A potentially lethal game, given Ace’s reputation.
Then his doubts got crushed under the pressure of her lips as she put her arms round him and began to kiss him. He responded instinctively, not thinking about it, just answering the demand of her mouth and body with the sudden upsurge of need in him. For a while he was lost, totally given over to the desire he felt. And then she pulled away.
‘Not yet,’ she murmured, holding him at arm’s length. ‘We have to wait.’
Hawk didn’t feel like waiting for anything, but he shrugged and said, ‘Why’d you come here?’
She stepped away from him, pouting; looking at him from under hooded lids, a pink tongue touching her scarlet lips.
‘Because I want you, Jared. Don’t you want me?’
‘You’re married.’ His want was obvious. ‘You’ve got a husband.’
‘Charles?’ She smiled: a cynical expression. ‘I’m a trophy to him, not a wife. Do you think he compares with a man like you?’
Hawk shrugged. ‘I work for him.’
‘Does that matter?’
‘To me.’
‘Or is it Ace?’ Her smile became questioning, challenging. ‘Are you afraid of Ace?’
‘No.’ Hawk shook his head. ‘I’m not afraid of Ace.’
‘Good.’ Her smile became coquettish. ‘I didn’t think you were. You’re not the kind of man to get frightened of anything.’
It wasn’t true. Hawk would have been a fool, or totally uncaring of his life, if he never knew fear. It was a constant part of his existence, a lurking warning each time he walked into a fight, a threat each time he paced a darkened street. He knew fear like any other man. The difference was, he had learnt to control it, to hide it and use it, so that the fear lent speed to his draw and caution to his actions. Just as another man’s anger might be used against him—as Hawk had used Keefer Benson’s—so the gunfighter’s fear could be used to aid him.
But he said nothing, waiting for Leonora to speak again. She picked up the glass and sipped whiskey.
‘I don’t have long,’ she murmured, her husky voice fueling his desire. ‘Charles and Ace will be back soon, but I had to see you. Charles is going away before long. He has to visit one of his mines. He’ll take Ace with him.’
‘And you’ll be alone?’ Hawk asked.
‘Yes.’ Leonora nodded, the glow of the lamp burnishing her hair a rich coppery color. ‘I’ll get a message to you.’
Before Hawk could say anything, she was pressed against him again, her mouth demanding he forget anything except her presence. Then she pulled away and was turning the key, slipping out the door to leave him with a renewed memory of her body, of the promise it held out to him. He closed the door and filled the glass, tossing back the whiskey in a single fast swallow.
He was getting in deeper than he liked.
A heavier hand pounded on the wood and he opened the door again, leveling his Colt on Ace Black. The big Negro smiled at him, leaving Hawk to wonder if the expression was suspicious as he came inside. His wide nostrils flared sightly as though he picked up the aftermath of the woman’s scent, but he said nothing about it.
‘Day’s pay.’ He held out three ten-dollar bills. ‘Easy money.’
‘You wanted it this way.’ Hawk took the bills. ‘Still think the Bensons are coming looking for me?’
‘Maybe.’ Ace shrugged. ‘Maybe I just figger it’s better havin’ you on our side. Workin’ for Mr. Sweeney.’
The implied reminder was obvious: Hawk grinned.
‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘I ain’t forgotten.’
‘Good.’ Ace nodded, moving towards the door. ‘See you.’
‘Yeah.’ Hawk watched the door close, knowing he didn’t want to spend the night alone. Knowing he couldn’t spend it where he wanted. He trimmed the lamp and went out into the corridor in search of Lucinda.
The next day he was sitting outside the saloon with his feet hiked up on the rail and a mug of beer balanced on his hip when a buggy came down Main Street. There were two horses pulling the vehicle, guided by a woman with a lined face and iron-gray hair drawn back under a faded poke bonnet. She wore a gray dress, sleeved and high-necked, with a prim collar of white cotton and cuffs to match. She looked like a homesteader’s wife on her way to church. Except Santa Rosa didn’t have a church and it wasn’t Sunday. Hawk registered her presence the same way he registered all the movement on the street, hardly seeming to notice it. He would have forgotten her had she not reined in directly before his position.
She looked at him for a long time, her eyes nervous, as though she was seeking something to say. Hawk watched her, waiting for her to make up her mind. He eased his feet off the rail.
Then: ‘You’re Hawk. The gunfighter.’
Her voice was dry, as if her throat was coarsened, but she said it definitely enough. Stating a fact, rather than asking a question.
Hawk nodded. ‘Yes, ma’am.’
‘You’re polite.’ She seemed surprised. ‘I’m Martha Benson.’
Now Hawk was surprised. Not letting it show.
‘Ma’am?’
‘I have to talk to you.’ The words came fast now, like a prepared speech that was getting confused and forgotten in the speaking. ‘It’s important. Please. It’s very important I talk to you.’
‘Sure.’ Hawk stood up, head shifting to check the street for sign of her husband or her remaining son. ‘What about?’
‘Vance died,’ she said quickly. ‘Keefer hasn’t come back.’
‘He’s dead,’ Hawk told her. ‘I shot him.’
Her reaction was unemotional: Hawk’s announcement had merely confirmed a fact she already knew. A fact she had accepted.
‘He was always wild, Keefer was.’ She spoke as though her time of grieving was over and done, replaced by some new determination. Hawk sensed from her manner that it was not revenge she wanted. ‘I asked them not to go. Not to do it.’
‘They tried,’ he said.
‘Yes.’ Her eyes searched his face for answers he wasn’t ready to give yet. ‘How did Keefer die?’
‘Fast.’ Hawk could see no sign of Rafe or Tommy. ‘He didn’t feel much.’
‘That’s good.’ Her voice dulled for a moment, faltering before it caught again the resolve of her purpose. ‘Can I talk to you?’
‘We’re talking, ma’am.’
‘Not here.’ She glanced up and down the street as though expecting some kind of ambush. ‘Somewhere Sweeney won’t see us. I have to talk with you in private.’
Hawk saw the possibility of a trap, but sensed it wasn’t more than natural suspicion. ‘The livery?’
Martha Benson nodded. ‘I’ll meet you there.’
The livery was cooler than Main Street, and empty. The sunlight filtering in through the high windows and the open doors filled the place with a warm, golden glow. There was the comfortable odor of horseflesh and leather and hay, sharpened by the tang of dung. Flies buzzed lazily in the shafts of sunlight and the horses stood quietly in their stalls.
Hawk watched the buggy draw up outside and the woman climb down. Her hands were empty as she came inside, and she carried no bag that might conceal a gun.
‘This private enough?’ asked the gunfighter.
‘Yes. Thank you.’
‘I’ve not done anything yet,’ he murmured. ‘What do you want to talk about?’
‘Rafe and Tommy,’ she said. ‘My husband and my son.’
Hawk shrugged, not speaking.
‘They went crazy.’ She stared up at him as she said it, trying to force acceptance on him with the intensity of her gaze. ‘The spread’s dryin’ up. Ready to blow away. The Little Mosby’s no more’n clay now, and the spring don’t give enough water for what cattle we got left. Without the Chiragua we don’t have a chance.’
‘Sweeney offered you a price,’ said Hawk. ‘Didn’t he?’
The woman nodded, her mouth twisting in bitter lines.
‘Oh, he offered us a price,’ she said harshly. ‘He bought Ben Vickers out and put up his fences, then he offered us a price. He knew how the value would drop without we had access to the Chiragua. His price wasn’t a shade near what the land’s worth with that water, an’ it goes down every year.’
‘So your menfolk decided to take Sweeney’s money,’ Hawk said quietly.
‘Like I said,’ she answered, ‘they went crazy. Ma Rainey—over to the store?—she stopped our credit. Now all we got is a dustbowl. All we got to look forward to is watchin’ it blow away from under us. Watch the cattle die. That, or sell out to Sweeney. Take what he offers—which ain’t enough to give us even a halfway decent start someplace else. We worked that land, Mr. Hawk. We put our sweat an’ our blood into it. Sellin’ out to Sweeney’s more than my husband can take. That’s why he went crazy like that.’
Something about her reminded Hawk of his own mother. She didn’t look anything like the way he recalled his own mother, but she had the same determination, the same kind of weary courage. He saw dead hope in her tired eyes, brightened by the glimmer of fresh hope.
‘What do you want me to do?’ He said it gently, without cynicism.
‘Don’t kill them!’ Now she laid her purpose bare. ‘Please don’t go after them for what they done. They was talkin’ of coming in here. To face you. Get it over with. But I talked them out of that! I told them I’d speak with you. You left Vance alive an’ you could’ve killed Tommy. Would have had the right. But you didn’t. Now I’m asking you to leave him again. Him an’ his father. Please, Mr. Hawk. Don’t kill them.’
‘I wasn’t plannin’ to. Not unless they come after me.’
The statement hit her like a flood of cold water. Her mouth opened in surprise and held-back tears moistened the corners of her eyes. She stared up at him, hands writhing together as the words sank in.
‘You mean that? You really mean that?’
‘Yeah.’ Hawk nodded. ‘They stay clear of me, I ain’t goin’ after them.’
‘Thank you,’ she whispered. Then, with a sudden rush of doubt: ‘But you work for Sweeney.’
‘He’s paying me to wait around,’ Hawk grinned. ‘That’s all. Him and Ace figger your menfolk’ll get nervous. Come lookin’ for me. Then Ace can gun them. They reckon I’ll join in.’
‘Would you?’ she asked.
‘Man points a gun at me,’ said Hawk, ‘I shoot him. They stay outta town, they’re safe from me. I can’t speak for Ace.’
‘I’ll tell them,’ she said. ‘Thank you.’
Hawk shrugged, embarrassed by her gratitude. He walked her back to the buggy and handed her up onto the seat. The tears were still in her eyes as she took the reins and looked down at him.
‘Thank you,’ she said again. ‘Thank you.’
Hawk ducked his head in a swift gesture that combined acceptance with embarrassment and turned away. He walked leisurely back to the saloon, halting as a husky voice called, ‘Good day, Jared.’
He turned to see Leonora and Ace coming out of one of the stores. Leonora was wearing a wide-brimmed hat with long ribbons trailing down, and a pale dress that showed off her shoulders. She was smiling at him with the same promise smoldering in her eyes. Ace just looked at him, his black face expressionless.
‘Leonora,’ Hawk murmured. ‘Ace.’
‘It’s so hot.’ Her tone was conversational, betrayed by her eyes. ‘Don’t you find it so?’
‘Yeah.’ He nodded, bemused by the reaction the woman sparked in him. ‘It’s pretty warm.’
‘I saw Martha Benson comin’ from the livery.’ Ace’s voice was dangerously casual. ‘So was you. What goes on?’
‘She asked me not to kill her kin.’ Hawk faced the Negro’s steady gaze. ‘Said they’re scared I’ll be goin’ after them.’
‘What did you tell her?’ Ace demanded.
‘Said I wouldn’t shoot them lessen they give me reason,’ Hawk replied.
A hardness came into the black man’s eyes then and he stared at the gunfighter for a long time before nodding in the direction of the hotel.
‘Best be gettin’ back, ma’am.’
Leonora went on smiling at Hawk. ‘Goodbye, Jared. I’ll see you soon, I hope.’
Hawk touched the brim of his hat and watched them cross the street to disappear inside the hotel. He went into the saloon and called for whiskey.
‘It’s some kind of double-cross.’ Charles Sweeney set his glass down hard enough that liquor splashed over the rim. ‘It has to be.’
‘Maybe. Maybe not,’ Ace murmured. ‘The Bensons don’t have enough money to hire a gun like Hawk, an’ I don’t think he’d go back on his word.’
