HAWK WAS RIDING the old Indian trail that led southeast towards the Presidio Mountains. The day was cooler than most and he had needed to get away from the ranch. The killings had had the desired effect—four of the Circle Y men had quit and those that still hung on were as dispirited as could be. If Baker rode his men into the place they’d likely throw down the guns at the first sign of him and turn tail. Yates, himself, spent more and more time shut away inside the house, leaving things to Rhodes. His voice, raised against that of his daughter, could be heard at any hour of the day or night.
Hawk’s horse suddenly reared up and he reached for his Colt; several feet to the right of the trail, sunning itself on a flat rock, a ringtail snake tightened the orange and black coil of its body.
Hawk steadied the gelding and talked to it, quietening it down. He set the animal into a fast trot, pushing his black hat back off his head so that it hung from the cord about his neck. The trot increased to a gallop; the breeze rippled the sleeves of his shirt and pulled at the tangles of his black hair.
A mile or so on, he eased back on the rein, aware of other riders, moving down from the north. Hawk left the trail quickly, heading up into the foothills that bordered it southwards.
There were three of them, taking their time yet seeming to be riding with a purpose. Hawk flicked the leather thong away from the hammer of his Colt and continued to watch. At a couple of hundred yards he thought he recognized them-at just over a hundred he was sure. He had ridden with them enough times when John Wesley Hardin had been calling the shots—before that deputy had been killed and they had gone over the border into New Mexico.
Hawk touched his spurs to the gelding’s flanks and moved back towards the trail. He shouted a greeting and raised his gloved hand.
Pop, the smaller rider at the center of the three, saluted back and headed to meet him.
Hawk recognized the short man’s gingery hair, though the moustache was new; Miles, tall and lean with hair that was almost white and an angular face; Big Dave Burchill, two hundred and fifty pounds without any waste fat, dark curly hair and eyes that were too small for his round features.
‘Jared!’
‘Hello, there!’
Hawk was too close before he bothered to check out the brands on the mounts they were riding. The two parallel lines leapt out at him—Double Bar.
Hawk’s face tightened, his right hand moved closer to his Colt Frontier; the eyes were cold, watching for the first signs of attack.
‘How long you boys been ridin’ for the Double Bar?’ he asked, almost with a sneer.
‘Week or so,’ replied Pop, turning his horse on the other side of Hawk.
‘That bother you?’ said Miles with the suggestion of a smile.
‘Depends how long you been killin’ for ’em!’
Pop edged his mount closer. ‘Who said anythin’ about killin’? What killin’?’
Hawk stared at him; his hand was resting on the polished wood of the pistol butt now. ‘Some cowboy out ridin’ line. A kid up in Doña Ana.’
Pop pulled his horse round and away. ‘We ain’t done none of that. Never shot no kid in no saloon.’
‘Who said it was in the saloon?’
‘Folk talk,’ interrupted Burchill from the other side. ‘Don’t mean it was us.’
‘Herdin’ cattle now, are you?’ snarled Hawk. ‘That don’t seem likely to me.’
‘Hell, no! You know us better’n that. Sure Baker took us on on account of he wanted a little muscle. That don’t put them shootin’s down to us.’
‘’Sides,’ Miles came in, ‘he’s got himself a new boy now, makes us look pretty damn tame.’
‘You believe it,’ echoed Dave Burchill.
Hawk looked at them. ‘Go on,’ he said coldly.
‘Baker’s hired on this big black feller,’ said Pop. ‘He’s the one you want to get concerned about. He sure is one big black bastard!’
‘Amen to that!’ called Miles.
Hawk knew the answer before the question had left his lips. ‘What’s his name?’
‘Turner. Aaron Turner. Dresses real smart. Totes a Colt on his left side. Winchester. He’d tread on your head as soon as pass the time of day.’
‘Yeah,’ added Miles. ‘An’ laugh himself silly while he was doin’ it.’
‘That’s true. He sure does like the sound of his own laughin’ voice.
‘You know him?’ Pop asked.
‘I know him.’ Hawk’s voice was low and slow.
Miles raised his eyebrows. ‘Tangled with him?’ he asked.
‘Not exactly. We rode together a while.’
‘Friends?’
‘I didn’t say that.’
Pop rode off a few yards, then turned. ‘Why don’t you come in with us? Baker ain’t goin’ to be objectin’.’
‘Do it, Jared,’ said Burchill. ‘Them two as quit the other day, they’re both ridin’ Double Bar stock now. You’re on a losin’ thing, backin’ Yates. His men are all goin’ to quit and then Baker’s goin’ to ride in and take over that land of his just the way he wants.’
‘Yates is payin’ my wages,’ said Hawk flatly.
‘Baker’ll pay more.’
‘I don’t double-cross folk that easy!’
‘Then you’re a bigger fool than I always took you for!’ Pop was glaring at him, his face nearly as bright as his ginger hair, his entire body bristling with sudden anger.
Hawk pointed at him with his gloved hand. ‘Listen good. I’m drawin’ my pay from the Circle Y and that says it all. Any of you boys cross me an’ I goin’ for you like we never met. You make sure that Turner understands that good as well. You hear me?’
Pop jerked at the rein and spurred his horse away, the other two following close. A little way off the trail, Big Dave Burchill turned again and galloped back.
‘You’d best know this, Jared. Baker’ll be ridin’ in. Any day now. Maybe to talk, maybe not. Either way, we’ll be with him.’
And he wheeled around and rode off after the others.
Hawk sat in the saddle for a while, thinking; then he, too, changed course and headed back for the ranch. The breeze had dropped and the heat had thickened, as if the sky was lowering itself down and the air was pressing close on his skin.
He didn’t leave it long: and when he came it was in strength. A line of twelve men, Baker himself and Aaron Turner at the head. They rode in at the trot, not bothering to look to right or left, aware that there was little that Yates could do to stop them.
Cyrus Baker was a strange-looking man; he sat in his saddle with difficulty. The front and rear of it had been specially built up to hold him in place. His left leg-hung straight down, clear of the stirrup; the left arm hung lifelessly too. That side of his face was drawn downwards as though he had suffered a stroke. The corner of his mouth, the left nostril, the eye socket—all were decidedly deformed.
Beside him, the negro was a total contrast. Tall, strong, healthy—his smiling face showed how much he was enjoying the situation. As usual he wore a shirt of laundered white cotton under his black cotton coat. The pants that were tucked into his boots were smart enough to be new. The Colt Peacemaker at his left side was still held fast by the leather loop at the hammer. The metal reinforcement on the butt of the Winchester caught the sun and flicked it up into his light-toned face.
Behind these two came Pop and a rider that Hawk didn’t recognize; then Miles and Dave Burchill; then the remainder.
Yates waited for them on the top step of the ranch house, the way he fidgeted with his hands and pushed his fingers through his silvery-grey hair betraying a nervousness he wanted to disguise.
Hawk positioned himself half way up the steps, legs apart, body braced, waiting for action. Rhodes and Walt and a few other hands stood close together at the other side of the ranch house, between there and the first of the adobes.
Baker rode on through until he was less than twenty yards off the bottom steps. Then he raised his right arm and brought the column to a halt.
Pop and Miles and the rest spread out so that they formed a curve around Baker and Aaron Turner. If Baker’s body was deformed, the voice that went with it was fine—strong, commanding and clear.
Thought I’d ride in an’ see you for myself, Yates. See if we can’t find a way to end all this killin’ once and for all.’
Yates coughed. ‘There’s a way to end it, right enough. You an’ your trash ride out of here and leave me in peace.’
‘It was you started on my stage line. You that attacked that bullion wagon and shot my men guarding it.’
Yates shot out an accusing finger. ‘That was the only way of tellin’ you to stop snipin’ at my land. Tryin’ to lay your greedy fingers on what ain’t yours.’
‘That range is only yours on account of you slung a fence round it when you didn’t have the stock as needed it. You still don’t need as much land as you got and by Jesus when I’ve finished with you, you ain’t goin’ to need a whole lot more than a couple of dozen acres!’
Yates came down the steps. He wasn’t wearing a gun that Hawk could see, but there might well be one holstered under the loose coat. If he pushed things far enough and the Baker men set into shooting he was asking to get them all killed in double quick time.
‘Listen to me, you goddamn cripple. You know this ain’t nothin’ to do with land. You’re tryin’ to get that from me to make up for not bein’ able to steal my wife. Begging her to go and live with you. With you!’
Yates pointed again at the rancher’s twisted frame and face. ‘Live with a man that ain’t no more than half a man!’
Hawk thought Baker was going to fall from the saddle. The entire right side of his body levered itself up and began to shake. Convulsive shudders racked the rancher through and through. It was minutes before he regained control. His face muscles relaxed enough for him to be able to speak. He stared with hatred at Yates and when he spoke his voice had the coldness and finality of death.
‘She may not have come to me, but neither did she stay with you. Call me a cripple and so I may be but what was wrong with you, Yates, that drove her away? You weren’t man enough for her either and you ain’t man enough to stop me from takin’ what I want.’
Baker’s eyes moved to glance at Hawk.
‘No matter who you hire to do your fightin’ for you. There’s no way I can use a gun, but you … what’s wrong with you? Why are you hiding behind a hired gun?’
Hawk straightened, wondering if this was going to be it. He figured he’d try to take the black first and then either Pop or Burchill, hoping that some of the Circle Y would make a play as well. It still left them heavily out-gunned.
But Cyrus Baker was becoming a victim of his own pain. His breathing was labored and his face was ashen. His voice had lost its power.
‘You … you sign over to … sign over to me the bottom half of your land. You give me title. You got … three days. After that I’m taking it. Takin’ … it all.’
The last word was no more than a dry sound like the crumbling of old wood. Baker pulled as hard as he could on the rein and turned his horse about. His men moved round and slowly rode after him.
Only Aaron Turner remained.
The negro rode close to Hawk and smiled down at him from the back of his horse.
‘Boy, you sure picked yourself a loser this time!’
‘That’s what you say.’
Turner laughed: ‘I say it and I’m right. You know I am.’ He leaned forward in the saddle and spoke softly so that only Hawk could hear. ‘We got friends of yours ridin’ with us. Come on over. It’ll be finished inside a week. You an’ me. We worked pretty well together that last time. We can ride together again. What d’you say?’
Hawk looked into the black’s face for a half minute before shaking his head. ‘Next time you ride on to this range, you ride over me.’
Turner pulled at his horse and laughed loud. ‘White boy, you’re a fool. And what’s more you’re a fool as is goin’ to get himself killed!’
The negro moved his horse slowly round and began to ride slowly and arrogantly away. He was still clearly in sight when Yates rushed over to Hawk, a rifle in his hands.
‘Here! You can shoot him from here. Easy.’
Hawk coldly glanced at the rancher. ‘Sure. In the back.’
‘So what? Wouldn’t he do the same to you?’
‘I don’t know. Maybe. That ain’t the point.’
‘Then what the hell is?’ Yates hissed.
‘I drop Turner an’ the rest of ‘em will be back here within minutes. We won’t stand a chance. None of us.’ Yates pulled away. ‘Damn you then!’
The rancher brought the rifle up to his shoulder, taking aim on the gunman who was still well within range.
‘No.’
Yates began to squeeze back on the trigger.
‘No!’ Hawk knocked the barrel of the rifle up and seized it, snatching it away.
‘You hired me to do a job an’ I’ll do it—but from now on things’ll get done my way. You better understand that.’
He thought Yates about to explode with rage but all the rancher did was rub his fingers across his jaw, glance once more at the disappearing figure of Turner, then walk back towards the house.