HAWK WAS AWAKE. Suddenly. Within the space of a couple of seconds he was fully alert, ready. It was something he had taught his body and brain, something which any amount of whiskey or high-living failed to impede.
The first light of day was beginning to straggle through the gap between the curtains.
Hawk stretched his arms and legs, making the muscles tighten then relax. Curled next to him, the girl stirred. She half-turned her head, made a little moaning sound, then pulled at the covers. Her behind pressed against Hawk’s thigh, wiggled some and pressed harder. One of her hands reached round and slid its sleepy way up Hawk’s leg.
‘Uh-uh, honey. That was last night. There’s other things to do this mornin’.’
A head of disordered brown curls appeared over the edge of the blanket and two brown eyes peered out of puffed lids.
Hawk splashed cold water from an earthenware jug over his face.
‘Yes, ma’am, this very mornin’ we have got to be about the Lord’s business. Savin’ a poor unfortunate from hangin’.’
He pulled on his shirt and turned towards the bed. The head had disappeared back under the covers and from the sound of her breathing the whore had gone back to sleep.
Hawk took his gun belt from the end of the bed and strapped it on. He tied the leather strips at the bottom of both holsters tight about his thighs. Drew the Colt smoothly and enjoyed the feel of its weight in his hand, sensing with pleasure the perfect balance. He spun the chamber, smiled, and slipped it back.
Hawk threw his saddle bags over his left shoulder and went to the door.
The girl moved a little under the blanket but no more.
Hawk looked at the money he had given her, stuffed into one of her shoes beside the bed. He had half a mind to take it back, but she’d been good at her job and besides, Hawk thought with a grin, they were in similar trades—the whore and himself.
Satisfaction guaranteed.
He was still grinning when he stepped out into the street.
The sky to the east was purple shot through with streaks of yellow. Everywhere else was a barely lightening grey. The fresh wind that wound down between the adobes came from the north, bringing a slight smell of the waters of the Rio Grande with it.
From the north also came Aaron Turner, riding his own black stallion and leading the grey gelding and a spare mount. Hawk walked slowly down to meet him.
The ranch was to the south of Doña Ana, between the El Paso trail and the Rio Grande. There were a couple of adobes used as bunkhouses for the hands and a tall, wooden barn with a peaked roof which was sharply angled and jutted out over the front.
The ranch house was stone and adobe for the bottom floor, planks of timber higher up. A balcony had been built along the front with broad steps leading up to the main door, which was on the level of the first floor.
The main corral was off to the left of the ranch house, maybe a dozen head of stock inside it. A smaller corral was fenced around from one of the adobes; that one was empty.
Hawk and Turner stood on the rim of the low hills to the north-east of the place, looking down.
At first, no one seemed to be stirring, but then the door to one of the bunkhouses was pushed open and a short, stocky man came out wearing long johns and a faded pink vest. He looked up at the sky, yawned, wandered to the side of the adobe, put his hand inside the front of his long johns and proceeded to piss up against the wall.
A cock crowed from the direction of the barn.
The door to the second bunkhouse opened enough for a sandy head of hair to push round; the man’s mouth opened and he spat down on to the ground. The head withdrew and the door shut again.
The stocky man in long johns went back inside, leaving that door partly open. The sound of voices began to drift up on to the hill through the stillness of the early morning.
The cock crowed again and Hawk looked at the barn. The cross-piece at the bottom of the triangle of the roof was solid timber six to eight inches thick. From the middle of that timber hung a length of thick hempen rope. The cock was perched on the rope where it went over the beam, head back, wings flapping, announcing itself to the world.
Hawk pointed; Aaron Turner nodded.
‘That’s where it’s goin’ to be.’
‘This morning?’
Turner nodded. ‘Soon as they’ve had breakfast.’
Hawk’s eyes wandered over the spread once more. ‘How d’you figure it?’ he asked. ‘It’s your show.’
‘No sense in ridin’ in and tryin’ to break him out. We got to wait till he’s out in the daylight and no one down there reckons anything’s goin’ to stop ‘em.’
‘Uh-huh.’
‘‘Sides, that bastard Calhoun gave me one bitch of a chase. I’d sure like to see him sweat a little.’ The black’s eyes shone with the thought.
‘You’re goin’ to let ‘em get the rope round his neck?’
‘I’m goin’ to let ‘em slap that horse right from underneath him so he can feel his ass drop through space and his eyes start to pop.’
They stopped talking as more men began to emerge down on the ranch. A fat figure wearing a dirty white apron trotted up the steps and into the house.
‘I don’t mean to interfere,’ said Hawk with a grin, ‘but ain’t that leavin’ things a mite close?’
‘That’s what gives it the extra edge,’ smiled Turner.
‘But you did say if this Calhoun dies there’s no money for either of us, didn’t you?’
‘That’s right.’
Hawk shook his head. ‘I hate to see half of five hundred dollars blowin’ in the wind that way.’
‘Don’t worry. He’s only goin’ to be blowin’ for a couple of seconds. Then I’m cuttin’ the bastard down.’
Hawk gave a low whistle. ‘You’re cuttin’ him down?’
‘With this.’ Turner lifted up the Winchester that was in his left hand. It was a seventy-three model, the .44-40 with an extra rear sight. The light wood of the stock and along the barrel was polished so that the grain shone in the early sun.
‘That’s got to be some shot. You ain’t goin’ to get time for a second. By that time the boy’ll be dead.’
Turner patted the rifle. ‘I know it. But this gun an’ me’s been livin’ together best part of ten years. I can make the shot.’
He stared at Hawk, as if daring him to contradict his claim.
But Hawk merely shrugged and said, ‘What you want me to do?’
Aaron Turner explained.
They dragged him out from under the steps of the ranch house, where he had been kept locked and tied. Hands pulled at his arms, pushed at his back, punched at his mouth when he opened it to scream and shout.
Hawk had seen a lot of men go to their deaths and none of them had gone willingly. Those who had kept clammed up and silent until nearly the last minute had made so much noise hollering when the noose was lowered over their heads as to make up for what had gone before.
Calhoun wasn’t wasting any time.
His cries rose up the hill and Hawk turned his head and saw the deep pleasure registered on Turner’s smooth, black face. The negro was a man who had learned well how to hate.
Hawk reckoned as how he likely had good reasons. Better than Hawk himself—and he was a man who could boil hatred within himself until it finally erupted in an outburst of killing violence that knew almost no bounds.
There were a dozen of them surrounding Calhoun now, both threatening him and jeering at his helplessness. The noise rose to a crescendo and then faded fast as the double doors to the ranch house opened and a man came out and stood at the head of the steps.
Turner touched Hawk lightly on the shoulder. ‘That’ll be Yates.’
Hawk nodded briefly, concentrating on the ranch owner. He was tall and rangy, his head slightly stooped forward as he stood looking down. He wore light-colored pants and a check shirt with a leather waistcoat buttoned over it. No hat covered the silvery-grey of his hair.
A pistol was holstered at his right side, the butt of the gun as black as the leather of the belt.
He pointed a lean arm down at the men. ‘That’s enough of that messin’ around. Let’s get this thing over with. We waited long enough.’
Aaron Turner looked at Hawk. ‘Guess it’s time for you to be makin’ your move.’
‘Guess so.’
Hawk slid backwards, then stood upright and hurried to where the horses were hobbled. Turner watched him go, then brought the Winchester close to his shoulder.
Down below, one of the men had led a horse out of the corral and was taking it over towards where the others were clustered about the horse thief.
The sandy-haired cowboy they had glimpsed earlier went into the barn and reappeared a few moments later on the beam of the roof. He carefully worked his way along it, then straddled it close to where the lynch rope was already tied.
‘You ready, Matt?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Let’s get him on that horse, then.’
Calhoun started to struggle again and a fist slammed deep into his stomach, doubling him forward. Another man brought his knee up into Calhoun’s face and he jerked upright. The blood was welling from his nose and falling on to his grey shirt, splashing across it.
‘Come on, boys,’ said Yates.
Turner levered the rifle and set his head alongside the stock, aligning the sights with the dangling rope.
A minute later Calhoun’s head rose up and filled the v of the sight. It bobbed from side to side until someone jumped up on to the horse’s back and held it still. The sandy-haired man reached down and took hold of Calhoun’s hair. He dropped the noose on to the top of his head, then let it fall on to his shoulders. From behind, another pair of hands tightened it against Calhoun’s neck.
Turner began to squeeze back on the trigger.
For a few more moments, Calhoun wriggled but then he was still.
The trigger came back fractionally more.
Gently.
Gently.
‘This is what any goddamn horse thief who takes it into his head to steal my stock gets for his troubles.’ Yates raised his right arm high.
Behind the horse, a half-breed Apache waited with his hand holding a quirt to slash against the animal’s rump and set it into sudden motion.
Gently back.
‘Let the bastard swing!’
The breed brought the quirt down on to the horse’s rump with a slap. The animal reared slightly then jerked forward, breaking into a gallop. Calhoun was hauled back by the rope, his legs stranded in mid-air, dancing.
The rope tightened with the strain as the body pulled down on it.
Calhoun’s neck seemed to stretch, threatened to snap.
Twisting, twisting…
Back.
Before the sound of the rifle shot had sung out over the men below, the rope had been severed by the shell and Calhoun had plummeted to the ground.
Almost at the same moment as the body struck the earth and started to roll sideways, Hawk appeared at the side of the ranch house. He was riding the grey gelding hard, his Colt drawn and firing above the heads of the startled men.
Turner levered the Winchester and transferred his aim.
On the beam, Matt started to lever himself backwards, reaching for the gun at his hip as he did so. Turner put a bullet in his leg, tearing through the soft flesh behind the bone in the thigh.
The sandy-haired cowboy flailed his arms, trying to keep his balance. The gun fell away and he went down after it, crunching to the ground on head and shoulder. Twisting and then laying very still.
Hawk fired twice more and Yates and his men scattered in various directions—the adobes, the corral, the steps to the ranch house itself.
He wheeled the gelding about in a tight circle, close to where Calhoun lay on his side, arms tied tight behind his back, the hemp noose still tight about his neck, trying desperately to understand what was happening and failing.
A shot rang out from the nearest bunkhouse and the shell drove a line through the ground a couple of feet away from Hawk’s horse.
Hawk swiveled in the saddle and snapped off a shot. He swung his right leg over the saddle and dropped to the ground.
Yates hollered from the ranch house steps and one of his men emerged from the nearest of the adobes and began to run towards Hawk and Calhoun. A quick shot from Turner’s Winchester sent him scurrying back.
Hawk bent low and used both hands to prize free the knotted rope from Calhoun’s neck. The skin underneath was twisted up, shredded and raw.
He dragged Calhoun to his feet.
‘Get your foot in that stirrup!’
Bullets whined about them as Turner kept up a blistering covering fire. Hawk pushed Calhoun up into one saddle and made to jump up behind him. From his right three of Yates’s men came fast; for the moment the Winchester was still. A pistol shot cracked out and a shell struck the ground less than six feet behind Hawk. He spun round, body dropping into the gunfighter’s natural crouch, right arm going into its curve, fingers of the hand opening like the talons of a bird of prey.
One of the men stopped. Stared.
Hawk put his first shot into the shoulder of the man to his left, the impact spinning him round as if he’d been suddenly hit by an invisible fist. His pistol flew away from him as he fell sideways, clutching the wound, fingers pressed against the torn flesh, running with his blood.
Hawk let the second man get another yard then shot him in the left leg; high up, between knee and hip. For a few paces the man kept going, then he swiveled round and his other leg gave way underneath him. The .45 shell had ripped through flesh and sinew, tearing at the cartilage and deflecting off the bone, exiting higher up close to the buttock.
The third man still stood in the open. Still stared.
From the hill came the sound of Turner’s reloaded Winchester.
Hawk holstered his gun and took a running leap on to the back of the gelding, immediately sending it forward. A few shots chased after them, but they were soon well away from the ranch and climbing the side of the hill.
Hawk reined in and slipped from the gelding’s back. He helped Calhoun down and worked some more on the knot of the noose, finally freeing it and throwing the severed piece of rope aside.
‘Jesus, mister,’ said Calhoun, his voice little more than a hoarse whisper. ‘I don’t know who the hell you are or why you did this, but you saved my life an’—’
The words faded. Fear returned to his flickering eyes. Something about the way the tall, lean man stood looking back at him. Something about the way he’d shot those men at the ranch. Real fast, but still picking his spot, stopping them and not killing them because killing wasn’t necessary. Something, too, about that bastard of a sawed-off he had holstered at his belt like some great pistol.
‘Mister, you wouldn’t…’
Calhoun’s mind raced.
‘The one who’s with you. Up on the hill. The rifle. That weren’t …’
Hawk smiled a slow, cruel smile.
Turner rode into sight, leading the spare horse.
‘Christ, no! This ain’t … this ain’t…’
Turner got down and crossed towards Calhoun, a knife in his hand.
‘Turn round.’
‘I ain’t …’
‘You want us to hand you back for ’em to string you up again?’
Calhoun didn’t answer.
‘Then turn around.’
Turner sliced through the ropes that were holding Calhoun’s arms and hands fast. He slipped the knife back into its sheath and spun Calhoun round by his shoulders.
‘You gave me one hell of a chase, you bastard! And then thinkin’ you could cheat me by gettin’ yourself hung?’
He laughed and in the middle of the laugh threw a punch at Calhoun’s stomach, doubling him up. Calhoun staggered back, rubbing himself, staring from lowered eyes at the black gunman.
‘You son-of-a-bitch, lettin’ me drop the way you did. You could have made your play before they did that to me.’
Turner sneered. ‘Quit belly-achin’. Only thing I care ’bout far as you’re concerned is what that miserable body of yours is worth back in Texas.’
‘You black bastard!’
Turner jumped at Calhoun, slashing sideways with his left arm and driving his elbow into the man’s jaw. Calhoun went backwards, then down on to one knee. Turner swung his right fist and caught him alongside the mouth, knocking him to the ground.
More blood fell on to Calhoun’s grey shirt.
Turner hadn’t finished. He hauled Calhoun up again and held him fast with his left hand while his right sought the hilt of the knife. He brought it round fast, whipping the blade diagonally down the side of Calhoun’s face.
Hawk watched as the skin split open like a fruit and a line of blood bubbled brightly out.
‘You let that fool tongue run away with you again,’ warned Turner, ‘an’ I’m goin’ to leave more marks over you than a map of Arizona Territory. You understand that, you white trash?’
Calhoun took his hand away from his face and nodded, fear and hatred mixed in his expression.
‘We’d best ride,’ said Hawk. ‘Else those boys down there are goin’ to recall where their guts are an’ get up here after us.’
‘Okay,’ said Turner. ‘You called it.’
He pointed at Calhoun. ‘Mount up an’ keep between the two of us. Any time you decide to play funny remember that one of us is goin’ to shoot you in the leg or arm or someplace else where you ain’t goin’ to die. Not till we handed you over and got what you’re worth.’
He laughed: ‘After that they can string you up all over again.’
‘Let’s move out,’ called Hawk. ‘I got a strong taste for seein’ Texas real soon.’