AARON TURNER WAS astride his mount alongside the sidewalk. Marshal Cooke stood in the doorway of his office. Both men looked at Hawk as he walked down the street towards them. As soon as he was within reach, Turner threw a cotton pouch towards Hawk. Hawk noticed that the negro used his right hand, keeping the left one free and close enough to his pistol to use it if necessary.
‘Best count it,’ laughed Turner.
Hawk pushed the pouch down into his back pocket. ‘I can trust you, I reckon. You said we was partners, remember?’
‘Sure,’ Turner answered. ‘I’ll know.’
Seth Cooke stepped across the boards to the hitching rail. Turner pulled on the rein and started to turn his horse around.
‘Be seein’ you,’ he waved.
Hawk raised an arm. ‘Maybe.’
The black gunman showed Hawk his back and set his mount into a trot, raising a light dust from the center of the street. After a few moments Hawk looked away, over at the marshal.
‘You mean what you said ’bout wishin’ someone would put a bullet in his head?’ Hawk asked him.
Cooke rubbed at his spreading belly. ‘Not enough to put a price on it, if that’s what you’re thinkin’. But someone’ll settle him one day. Bounty hunters ain’t among the most popular of men especially if’n they’re blacks.’
‘He brings in a lot of reward money that could be yours.’
The marshal shook his head: ‘Man lives this long in this job, he gets a mite jealous of his time. Likes to save it.’
‘What for, Marshal?’
‘Bit more livin’. Another year, month, another week maybe. Gets so you see it’s more important than money.’
He looked down at Hawk standing in the street.
‘You just wait.’
Hawk smiled: ‘I intend to, Marshal, I intend to.’
He spun round on his heels and set off back up the street. Ten yards on, the marshal called him back.
‘Ain’t sure why I’m tellin’ you, but ’bout an hour ago, maybe less, there was these fellers lookin’ for you.’
Hawk felt his muscles go tense and taut; his eyes narrowed.
‘Who was they?’
‘Didn’t give no names. Wasn’t any boys I knew. But one thing I noticed, they was all ridin’ Circle Y brand.’
‘Circle Y?’
The marshal rubbed his belly some more and nodded. ‘You have a run-in with them boys?’
Hawk was thinking; he looked up the street and said nothing.
‘Circle Y’s up north of here. Into New Mexico.’ said Cooke, almost as if he was thinking aloud. ‘Didn’t Aaron, say as how you caught up with that Calhoun around that way? Near Doña Ana?’
Hawk nodded.
‘He know these fellers was in town?’ he asked a couple of moments later.
‘Sure did.’ The marshal smiled. ‘Told him like I’m tellin’ you.’
Hawk glanced in the direction the bounty hunter had taken, then away. Cooke set a hand on his shoulder; it was big-boned, strong. ‘This is my town. I don’t want no trouble if’n it can be avoided.’
Hawk turned towards him.
‘It could have been avoided, Marshal.’
‘How’s that?’
‘Circle Y could have stayed out of town.’
Hawk shrugged off the man’s hand and moved away up the street. At the third saloon he saw the horses tethered outside. Five of them. Fair enough. Hawk’s steak had gone down just enough for him to be in need of a beer or two. And this place looked about as good as any.
The room was long and narrow and the back of it was well shaded. The bar ran down the right hand side, stopping midway into the shadow. There was a scattering of tables, half of them with the chairs still stacked up on top. A piano over by the opposite wall had its lid closed and there was a black and white dog sprawled along it, both forepaws dangling over the edge.
Three of the Circle Y men were standing in a line at the bar and a fourth was sitting at one of the tables, dealing a pack of cards face upwards on to the top. Hawk couldn’t see the fifth.
He stepped towards the bar and before he got half way one of them had recognized him. Hawk ignored his shout of surprise and kept on going.
‘Beer!’ he called along and the barkeep shuffled his way forward.
Hawk waited while the beer was poured and noticed the sweat starting to stand out on the barkeep’s forehead. The inside of the saloon had gone very quiet; the sound of the liquid settling into the glass was the only thing to be heard.
Hawk tossed a coin in the air; the bartender made a grab at it; missed and sent it skittering along the floor. Hawk picked up the beer in his left hand and threw back his head, sinking half the contents in a swallow. Only then did he incline his body to the left.
All four Circle Y men were staring at him. A couple of folk not wanting to get involved slipped out into the street. Hawk recognized two of the cowboys from the raid he and Turner had made on the ranch, but that didn’t mean the others hadn’t been there as well.
Hawk lifted the glass towards them in a mock toast and then emptied it.
‘Another.’
He banged the glass down on to the bar. The barkeep didn’t move. Hawk glanced at him and he moved. Slow, careful, thinking that shooting was going to start at any moment and frightened to get caught in the cross fire.
‘I hear,’ said Hawk deliberately, ‘that you boys was lookin’ for me.’
The man at the table turned over another card and looked up. ‘Mr. Yates, he sent us.’
One of those by the bar, a scrawny man. with folds of loose skin that wobbled at his neck when he spoke, carried on. ‘Wanted us to find you.’
‘Bring you back,’ finished the card player.
‘Peaceable,’ added turkey-neck after a moment.
Hawk laughed. ‘Why in hell’s name should I do that?’
Another card was laid. ‘You rode in last time without no invitation. That didn’t seem to stop you.’
‘Thought this time …’
‘You’d come all the happier.’
Hawk drank from his fresh glass of beer. He knew that if he were Yates he wouldn’t be any too keen on seeing either Turner or himself again. At least not unless it was to avenge himself for being made a fool of and having some of his men shot up the way they had been. Besides, why send five men if it was a friendly request?
Five men…
Hawk sensed rather than saw. The glass fell away from his hand as he spun round, dropping into a natural crouch, right hand describing the same deadly arc, fingers sliding round the polished butt of the Colt .45. The hammer came back, the triple click loud in the stillness of the saloon.
He stood in the doorway and he was just a kid.
Sixteen.
He had a pistol strapped down to his side but never made a move towards it.
‘Mister, don’t!’
The shout rang out from one of the men. Hawk’s eyes were like slits. His finger still tight upon the trigger. The kid’s mouth was open and his eyes were wide. The space at the other side of the doorway was filled by Seth Cooke’s bulk. The marshal glanced from Hawk to the kid and back again.
‘Trouble?’ he asked, half-amused. The rifle in his hands was levered and ready.
‘No.’
Hawk carefully released the hammer and stood straight, letting the Colt slide back down into its holster.
‘You with these fellers, son?’ Hawk asked the kid by the door.
‘Yeah.’ The response was so quiet as to be almost inaudible.
‘What’s your name?’
‘Marl.’
Hawk looked him over. Cotton work shirt with frayed collar and sleeves, a pair of patched dungarees with a scuffed leather gun belt tied below the waist. Boots that looked to have been handed down from owner to owner for more years than the kid had been alive.
He was staring back at Hawk, his head hung to one side so that the tousled mop of fair hair fell past his ear. His blue eyes had lost most of their fear and now were just curious.
‘Tell you somethin’, Marl. Don’t never come up quiet on a man’s back the way you done. Not if he’s wearin’ a gun an’ you are too. Least, not while your own pistol’s still in its holster. That’s the best way to get yourself dead I know.’ Hawk coughed. ‘One of the best.’
The marshal slapped Marl on the arm. ‘That’s sound advice, son. Now get in there with your friends an’ let a man get through for a drink.’
He stepped over to the bar and the bartender hurried to pour him a whiskey from the best bottle. Cooke nodded and drank.
‘See you all found yourselves, then. That’s good.’
He turned to Hawk with a grin. ‘No problem, is there?’
‘Not yet. Yates wants to see me. Friendly invitation.’
‘Ain’t that nice?’ grinned the marshal. He turned towards the Circle Y men. ‘What exactly has yore boss got in mind?’
The one at the table answered first. ‘Wants to put a business proposition to this feller here.’
The marshal laughed. ‘Well, it don’t need a whole lot of wisdom to know what kind of business that might be, seein’ as how there’s only one kind of business Hawk here’s interested in.’ Seth Cooke stood away from the bar and walked over to where the Circle Y man was turning over the cards.
‘This business, it wouldn’t be to do with another, rancher name of Baker, would it?’
The man set the Queen of Spades down on top of the Jack of Hearts; he smiled but gave no other answer.
‘Just keep it out of town, boys. That’s all I’m askin’.’
Hawk walked over to the door with the marshal, talking quietly to him, never quite letting the Circle Y men out of his sight.
‘This Yates, you know him?’
‘Not met the feller more’n a few times.’
‘You trust him?’
Cooke stopped and glanced at the five men, then back at Hawk. ‘No, but that don’t mean they’re lyin’. Yates’s bin havin’ a deal of trouble with a feller name of Baker. Got a spread north-east of here. Past the old Padre silver mine. It’s big an’ Baker won’t be happy till it gets bigger. He’s an ambitious man. Got his fingers in all kinds of pies. An’ he’s one bastard I wouldn’t trust.’
‘You don’t make neither of ’em sound like you’re awful keen on ’em.’
‘I ain’t, but then they got a whole lot of cash and a deal of land an’ maybe all I’m goin’ to be gettin’ afore long is about six foot of baked Texas earth.’
‘Marshal, you’ll have me cryin’ for you soon.’
‘Just mind what I said ’bout keepin’ dear of town if’n you’re takin’ Yates money. I might not be ready to take over that patch of dirt I was talkin’ about quite yet. Not even for the likes of you.’
He shifted his hand along the barrel of his rifle and walked through the doorway and out into the street. Hawk turned back to face the others. One he hadn’t specially marked before stood clear from the rest. He wasn’t tall but he was built like a blacksmith and where his short legs bulged at the thighs they almost broke through his pants. His shirt sleeves were rolled over the muscles of his arms. His hair was receding on either side of the dark streak that poked along his broad forehead.
He spoke as if he wasn’t over-used to saying anything out loud at all, almost as if he was surprised by the grating tone of his voice.
‘One thing ought to be settled. Here and now.’
Hawk held his breath for a few seconds, then released it slowly. Here it comes, he thought, it isn’t going to be as straightforward as they were making out—nor as friendly.
‘Those men you shot—’
‘Winged,’ put in Hawk.
‘Those men you shot.’
‘They was comin’ at me with guns—they could have kept out of things.’
‘The one as took a slug in the leg, he was my brother.’
Hawk licked his tongue along the top of his mouth. ‘He could have been dead and buried.’
The big man took a pace towards Hawk, then another. ‘He ain’t never goin’ to walk right again.’
‘That’s better than not walkin’ at all.’
The huge fists bunched and the muscles in the arms tightened.
‘That’s sure goin’ to rankle me. Less’n I can find some way of gettin’ it clear of my mind that I ought to do somethin’ about it. Him bein’ close kin an’ all.’
Hawk ran his eyes along the rest of the men, but they didn’t seem anxious to get involved. The one talking to him wasn’t wearing a gun.
‘Thing is …’ He slapped at the sides of his legs. ‘… I don’t pack no iron. Could borrow one, of course, but I wouldn’t be no good with it an’ you’d drop me before I cleared leather. So—’
‘So?’
‘I was wonderin’ if we could find some other way of goin’ about it. Then I wouldn’t feel so bad with you maybe workin’ for Mr. Yates, and that …’ The gruff voice faltered to a standstill.
Hawk pointed at the kid. ‘Marl, get over here.’
The tousled head looked at him questioningly. Hawk began to unbuckle his gun belt.
‘You take care of this good, Marl. You stand well away from anyone an’ don’t let no one near them guns. That clear?’
‘Yes, sir.’
When they took the heavy belt, the youngster’s hands were shaking. He backed away, almost tripping over his own feet as he went.
Hawk watched him and then began to turn back. He was midway round and not quite balanced when the man came at him. One almighty dive that went crashing into Hawk and sent him staggering backwards, going down, legs giving way beneath the weight. A chair bounced away towards the bar and Hawk hit the boards hard.
The man’s skull rammed upwards and struck Hawk under the chin, jolting his head back and making his eyes close. A fist or a knee thumped into his chest and the breath was driven out of him. When one of Hawk’s eyes opened, he saw a hand as big as a ham punching towards his face. Just fast enough, he ducked under the blow, feeling the speed of it inches above him.
Hawk levered himself upwards and flung a right hand punch into his attacker’s stomach. The man didn’t seem to notice. Hawk punched again with as much effect. Then he felt himself being hauled to his feet and this time there was no way he was going to duck the blow.
Knuckles crashed into his face and his head seemed to be knocked off his body except that when it went hurtling back on to the edge of the bar his body went with it.
Hawk felt the bar counter going into his back and tasted blood in his mouth. He kicked out without seeing and felt his boot strike something very solid.
It didn’t knock the man back but it did stop him closing in.
For a moment.
It was all that Hawk was going to get and he knew it.
He swung the top half of his body over the bar and grabbed at the first bottle he saw. A hand caught hold of his shirt at the back and pulled him round. Hawk let himself come and swung the bottle high and hard. The head he was aiming at dodged sideways and the bottle crashed against the man’s shoulder.
Cracked.
Glass splintered and pieces of it scattered to the ground, whiskey pouring over both of them.
‘You ain’t gonna …’ the man began growling.
Hawk brought his knee up into the man’s groin and let it fall six inches, ramming it back again harder. The mouth fell open and Hawk swung his left arm, punching for the side of the head. He threw all his weight behind the blow and moved the man back a full foot.
He attempted to follow up the advantage but ran into one of the oversize fists with his chest. He stumbled back, evading the bar, watching as his opponent closed in. When he judged the distance to be right, Hawk dummied to dive sideways but went forward instead, his head directly between the man’s legs, arms going round behind and pulling.
The two of them hit the ground together, Hawk on top. He threw punches at the man’s face then sprang back and swung his right leg. The toe of his boot landed on the point of the jaw and the man’s head jerked backwards and struck the boards with a solid thump.
Hawk jumped over him and grabbed at a chair; turning fast he brought it down on the man’s head and saw the legs break apart from the seat. He hit him with the chair back and threw it aside.
The stocky cowhand was getting to his feet, but not so surely and Hawk didn’t waste the opportunity. He spun him round and threw a fist into his face, following up with a double punch low in the belly. Again. Again. He staggered in front of Hawk, weaving from one side to the other, not going down.
Finally Hawk had to kick his legs away from underneath him.
He seized the neck of the broken bottle and leant over the man’s chest, the jagged edges of glass inches over his face.
Eyes looked at him from a daze and blinked. His voice was less certain than before, creakier than ever. ‘Guess that settles it,’ he said.
Hawk tossed the bottle neck aside and it spun in a circle where it landed. ‘You mean we can leave now?’
The man grunted and Hawk pulled him to his feet.
‘Name’s Walt,’ he said, shaking the hand he was holding.
‘Hawk. Jared Hawk.’
At the table the man shuffled the deck of cards together and stood up.
‘You two got that off your chests, then we’ll ride.’
Marl walked over to Hawk, holding out the gun belt with the Colt and the sawn-off Meteor. Hawk nodded thanks, took it from him and strapped it on, leaning forward to fix the holster ties. His face was burning and blood still trickled from the side of his mouth into the mouth itself and down on to his neck. The other side of his head felt as if it had met with a charging buffalo head on.
‘Thanks, kid,’ he muttered.
The card player stood alongside Hawk. ‘Seein’ as how we’re goin’ to be ridin’ together. My name’s Rhodes. That big feller you was just playin’ around with, he told you he’s Walt. Marl you know already. Other two are Davey an’ Frank. Davey talks a bit an’ Frank don’t talk at all. Injuns cut his tongue out for him.’
A lanky cowboy with a white streak through the side of his hair grinned at Hawk lopsidedly.
‘So let’s go,’ said Rhodes.
‘Why don’t we go?’ echoed Davey.
They went, leaving the bartender to come out from behind his counter and start clearing up the mess. But not until he had heard their horses move away.
The dog still lay along the top of the piano, only now one of its paws had moved to cover its nose.