HAWK REFUSED BAVISPE’S offer of a bed and took the carriage back into town. Somehow the luxury of the house made him feel uneasy: out of place. It might have been the casual display of wealth … the silver cutlery and imported china dishes, the French wines and rich food served by silent, white-tunicked waiters … or it might have been the subtly … hidden hostility of Victoria and her mother. Whatever, he felt like getting back someplace he felt at home … and the presence of the girl had excited him enough that he spent most of the journey thinking about the blonde in the house on Rivera Street.
The carriage dropped him in the main plaza, and the American watched it wheel round and head back towards the Bavispe place. Matanza was quiet now, the heavy-fronded palms circling the square dark and still as tombstones. The cantinas were closed down and the pale light of the moon outlined the darting shapes of bats, the occasional shuffle of a dog. Hawk took a deep breath, tasting the mingled odors of liquor and sweat and food, the sweeter scent of the hibiscus growing around the fountain at the center of the plaza. He let it out slowly, brushing a moth clear of his face as he thought about the mission he had undertaken. He didn’t like it much. Didn’t relish the thought of herding a ton of murderous animal all the way to Mexico City. But one thousand dollars was a lot of money. And he had given his word.
He hooked his thumbs into his belt and began to walk towards the house on Rivera Street, feeling better as he thought about the blonde.
The house was dark as he approached it, only a single red lantern glowing over the entrance. He stepped on to the porch and tapped on the door. It was opened by a sleepy-eyed mulatto who barely recognized the American.
‘I want Linda.’ Hawk pushed past the man into the vestibule. ‘She in her room?’
The whorehouse was dark and silent as the street. The salon opening off the vestibule was lit dimly with four shaded lamps that bled long shadows over the worn carpets. There was a smell of cigar smoke and liquor and sex. Cloths were draped over the glassed-in frontage of the bar and neat rows of tumblers were lined up like transparent troopers awaiting the assault of a new day. There was a dead feeling to the place: like a stage after the actors have left and only the memory of pretense remains.
‘She got someone with her,’ said the mulatto. ‘All night. Rosita’s free if you want her.’
Under other circumstances Hawk might have settled for the other woman. He felt no special affection for Linda other than that she was American like him, but tonight was different. He couldn’t say why, but he wanted Linda and no one else.
He peeled money from his pocket and tucked it inside the greasy front of the mulatto’s striped vest.
‘Tell the man there’s been a change an’ take him to Rosita.’
‘I can’t do that, Señor Hawk.’ The mulatto pulled the two notes out and thrust them back at the gunfighter. ‘You know I can’t.’
Hawk caught the out-thrust hand in his right. His fingers tightened, crumpling the mulatto’s back on the notes. The paper rustled crisply.
‘Do it,’ said Hawk, his voice cold and low. ‘Now.’
‘We got rules here,’ complained the black man. ‘You know I can’t break the rules.’
‘I want Linda.’ Hawk’s voice was flat, the words coming out with a dullness that was counterpointed by the intensity of his eyes. ‘No one else. Only Linda.’
The mulatto whimpered as Hawk’s grip got tighter. The notes got screwed up, and sweat began to bead his face.
‘All right,’ he said. ‘But you better come with me.’
Hawk followed him up the stairs. There was a wide, short stretch reaching up to a balcony that ran around two sides of the lower room. Doors opened off, each one decorated with a brass plate that had a number and a name engraved into the metal. They stopped at number three, which carried the legend Rosita. The mulatto tapped softly on the polished wood and swung the door open as a sleepy voice said, ‘Sí. ¿Que quiere?’
‘I think you got a customer coming,’ said the mulatto. ‘You best get yoreself ready.’
‘Oh, Maria!’ A dark-haired girl swung naked from the bed. ‘I thought I could sleep tonight.’
The mulatto shrugged and shuffled on down the corridor until he reached door number seven, with Linda etched beneath. He started to tap again, but Hawk grabbed his wrist and turned the handle himself.
The room was dark, only faint light coming from the lamp beside the bed. The wick was trimmed right down, giving off a dim yellow glow that turned the spread of yellow hair on the pillow to dark gold. The sheets were turned down, exposing a pert face, oval-shaped, that revealed wide, dark eyes that opened in fright as Hawk came in. The mouth that began to scream was wider than the eyes, the upper lip only fractionally smaller than the lower.
Beside her, a dark head with a bald spot spreading out from the crown stirred sleepily, and a hairy arm thrust out to slap over the small, darkly-nippled breasts.
Hawk crossed the room in three long-legged strides. His right hand clamped over the girl’s mouth, and he grinned as he touched his gloved left hand to his lips.
‘Jared?’ she gasped when he removed his hand. ‘What the hell are you doing?’
Hawk shrugged and dragged the covers off the sleeping man. Then he cupped both arms under the shoulders and lifted the Mexican clear of the bed in one fast sweep. The Mexican woke up as he hit the floor, a curse breaking from his lips.
‘Lo siento,’ said Hawk, ‘but your time’s up.’
‘¿Que es?’ The man began to stand up, then realized he was naked and sat down again with both hands cupped over his genitals. ‘Who are you?’
‘A friend,’ Hawk said. ‘I already paid for another girl, so you get two for the price of one. Just grab your clothes an’ get goin’.’
‘I bought this one,’ said the Mexican. ‘For the night.’
Hawk’s right hand dropped to his belt, lifting up with the Colt cocked and pointed on the man’s face.
‘It's morning now,’ he said; quietly; coldly. ‘Like I said: time’s up.’
Linda giggled as the Mexican clutched up his clothes and hurried from the room. ‘Number three,’ called Hawk. ‘Rosita’s waiting.’ He shut the door and jammed a chair against the handle, sealing the opening. Then he stripped out of his clothes and washed his face.
‘Jared,’ said the girl, ‘you’re the damnedest man I ever saw. Why’d you do that?’
‘Felt like I needed a friend,’ grinned Hawk. ‘To help me make it through the night.’
Morning dawned clear and hot. Somewhere out over the rooftops of the abode buildings that surrounded the wealthier, tile-roofed houses, a cock crowed. The stridency split the early morning sunlight like a blade slicing through silk, and got answered by a yelping dog and a burro that stretched its throat in competition.
Hawk woke up with a furred tongue and eyes that didn’t seem to open properly. There was a moment of fear: that instant between sleeping and waking when the world is gray and unrecognizable, and phantoms lurk in the corners of forgotten dreams. His right hand jumped instinctively to the Colt hung from the high brass head of the bed. It was in his hand, the hammer back, before he came fully awake. And then he recognized the sounds and dropped the hammer down, holstering the gun as he registered the safety of the room.
‘What’s wrong?’ Linda moved sleepily, rolling over on to her stomach as she peered up. ‘What’s the matter, honey?’
‘Nothing.’ Hawk reached over to lift the clay jug from the table beside the bed. He took a long drink of the fusty water before settling back against the pillows. ‘Nothing at all.’
‘What time is it?’ Linda asked, stretching her arms, letting the left drift down under the sheets. ‘Dawn?’
‘I guess,’ said Hawk. ‘Sounds like it. Why?’
‘Most men wake up horny,’ murmured the girl. ‘They don’t like to waste time. Or anything else.’
Hawk laughed, and agreed with her.
He ate breakfast in bed, then arranged to take a bath. The mulatto humped hot water and a tub up the stairs, and Linda got ready to scrub him down.
She was surprised when he climbed into the zinc tub with the glove still covering his left hand. More surprised when he eased the draw-strings fastening it about his wrist loose and plucked it clear in a single swift movement that dropped the glove on to the carpet and hid his hand under the surface of the water.
‘What is that?’ she asked, sliding soap over his shoulders and back. ‘Why do you wear that?’
‘I got a bad hand,’ said Hawk, not wanting to talk about it. ‘I got hurt a long time ago.’
‘It didn’t hurt you last night,’ the girl whispered. ‘Show me.’
‘I’m ripped up.’ Hawk stuck the hand deeper into the water; hiding it. ‘It’s ugly.’
‘Sweetheart.’ Linda stroked soap down his chest, working lower as she leant forwards to press her breasts against his back. ‘We don’t need to keep secrets.’
‘Jesus!’ Hawk twisted round in the tub. The movement just served to drop the girl’s hands lower down his body. ‘Why the hell do you want to know?’
The hands reached lower still, and Linda twisted round in turn; her breasts crushed over Hawk’s face as her hands fastened on his crotch.
‘I never met anyone like you before,’ she said. ‘Tell me.’
‘Jesus!’ Hawk brought his left hand up from the water. ‘That satisfy you?’
Linda gasped, stretching back from the tub: ‘Who did that to you?’
Hawk stared at his hand. The flesh was corpse-white under the glove. A uniform pallid color that was broken only by the ugly puckering of red scar tissue at the center of the palm and back, where two sunk-in holes showed. The tendons of the fingers stood out stark against the pale flesh, hooking the digits to a cupped stance that allowed only minimal movement between thumb and palm, only fractional movement of the fingers.
‘My father did,’ said Hawk. ‘Far away and long ago. I killed him for doing it.’
Iowa ...
The farm ...
One warm August evening ...
Hot and dusty. Birds singing along the creek. The smell of corn and horses. Of fresh-turned soil. Of cooking. Apples baking inside the pie.
And home-brewed liquor. Sweat. Pain.
The fork his father wielded going into his hand ...
Pain ...
And running ... Killing ...
The only way he knew how to stay alive ...
‘I never knew.’ Linda cupped both her hands around the scarred palm of Hawk’s, and kissed the puckered flesh. ‘Never.’
She reached under the water to grasp Hawk’s penis, leaning across the tub to press her breasts harder against his gasping face as her right arm drew him tighter against her.
‘What happened then?’ Her voice was hoarse and husky; excited. ‘Tell me.’
‘I killed him.’ Hawk sunk his mouth around a puckered nipple as he said it. ‘I went back an’ killed him. He drew on me first, but I was faster then. I shot him down.’
‘Yes,’ said Linda as the water got stained with the thick pourings of Hawk’s body. ‘You did what you had to do.’
Hawk groaned, shuddering not entirely from the girl’s deft ministrations. It didn’t seem to matter that Caleb had given him no choice in the matter, that his father had pushed the last fight to the point of no return, leaving his son only the decision to kill or be killed … which for Hawk was no choice at all, just a matter of instinct. There was still a residue of guilt that could only be hidden or ignored, like his hand.
‘Yeah,’ he grunted. ‘A man called Hickok told me that.’ He picked up the towel and dried his hands, shaking his head when Linda tried to help him. He pulled on the glove, tugging the strings tight about the wrist as the girl began to dry his body.
‘Where were you last night?’ she asked. ‘You were in some funny kind of a mood when you got here.’
‘Talking a load of bull with a man called Bavispe an’ Ramon Torres,’ shrugged the gunfighter.
‘Don Bavispe?’ Linda’s eyes got wide. ‘He staged the fight yesterday. He’s the richest man around here.’
‘It was money talking,’ grinned Hawk. ‘Ramon ain’t exactly short of a peso, an’ he owns the bull we were discussing.’
‘The one that killed the matador?’ Linda began to dry herself as Hawk dressed. ‘That black monster?’
‘It’s called Joselito,’ said Hawk. ‘An’ it seems like it’s real prime beef.’
‘What’s it to do with you?’ She fastened her hair on top of her head and slipped on a pale blue gown. Her nipples made dark shadows where they thrust against the flimsy material. ‘You’re no cowboy.’
‘For a thousand dollars I am.’ Hawk buckled on his gun belt. ‘As of tomorrow.’
‘I don’t understand.’ In the light filtering through the shades her face looked young, almost innocent. ‘Won’t they kill the bull now?’
Hawk shook his head. ‘No. Seems like it’s worth too much, so it gets to die a real happy old bull in a field full of cows. An’ I get to take it there.’
‘Where’s there?’ asked Linda, pouting as she reached up to brush his hair into place. ‘Does it mean you’re leaving me?’
‘For a few months,’ grinned Hawk. ‘I agreed to take the damn animal to Mexico City. Don’t guess you’ll be wanting for friends, though.’
‘They won’t be like you, Jared,’ whispered the girl, pressing against him. ‘No one could be like you.’
‘So make the most of me,' laughed Hawk, ‘an’ keep tonight clear: I’ll be leavin’ tomorrow.’
‘Sure,’ Linda kissed him. ‘I’ll keep the whole day free.’
Hawk chuckled and dropped notes on to the table.
‘See you tonight.’
He went out of the room and down the stairs. The mulatto glared at his back as he dragged his broom over the carpet, watching until the gunfighter was out on the street. Then he set the broom in a cupboard and slipped out of a side door, almost losing his footing on the wooden steps that led down to an alley running at right angles to the main thoroughfare.
He moved in a shuffling run to where the alley was crossed by a secondary road, and followed that along to a bisecting avenue that led into the main plaza. He halted at the corner of the square, staring towards Rivera Street to make sure Hawk was not in sight before crossing over to a cantina.
The plaza was bright with sunlight now, and the mulatto blinked in the gloom of the cantina, scanning the interior in search of the man who had paid him thirty pesos for the information he carried.
He spotted Jaime Agusto sipping coffee at a table at the far end, and shuffled over.
‘I got what you wanted, señor. I know where he’s headed. And when.’
Jaime eased thirty more pesos on to the table and watched them scooped into the pockets of the striped vest.
‘He leaves tomorrow. He’s been hired to take the bull to Mexico City.’
‘Is that all you know?’ Jaime jingled more coins between his fingers.
‘He was with Don Bavispe and Ramon Torres last night,’ said the mulatto. ‘That’s all I know.’
‘Gracias,’ murmured Jaime, turning back to his cup. ‘Es bastante.’
When the mulatto had gone, he finished his coffee and went out to find the other members of the cuadrilla. Of the original group, three had opted to seek work in Matanza, leaving Jaime with four men: Angelo Zorro, Juan Montes, Miguel Campos and Pedro Amado. Jaime settled up with the three traitors, deducting money in return for the trajes he allowed them to keep, then found Luis Garrano, who was bathing his hurt brother, Ramon. Jaime gave the two picadors what they were owed, and a little extra to cover the doctor’s bills.
‘If we pull it off I’ll send for you,’ he said. ‘Ramon’s leg should be mended by then, and we should have plenty of money. Maybe I’ll start my own cuadrilla. I’ll need good pics then.’
Luis said, ‘Gracias.’ Ramon just stared, with sweat on his face, and said, ‘Kill that black bastard, Jaime. I don’t think my leg is going to heal.’
Jaime Agusto shrugged and went out of the hot room. He organized the sale of the cuadrilla’s gear, keeping back just a few banderillas, the blood-stained muleta, and the sword. With the money he made he replaced the horses with better animals and two pack mules, then purchased supplies.
The five men pulled out of Matanza at noon, moving south. They all knew enough about bulls to guess the route the yanqui pistolero would take, and thought to get ahead of him to find a good place for the ambush.
After all, they had plenty of time. There were only two ways to herd a solitary bull over close on seven hundred miles of rugged country, and both were slow. The yanqui might try herding the animal on foot: which would mean at least one steer taken along to calm the bull and lead him forwards, and an escort of experienced men to handle the animal. It would be difficult, because the bull would get the chance to scent cows along the way, or get panicked, and both things would prompt him to break free. The second way was to box Joselito up in a wagon, which would cut out the need to take the slower-moving steers along, but could be difficult on the rougher ground. And that way they would need to secure fodder and halt regularly to exercise the bull. Either way, Jaime Agusto felt confident of staying level and picking his spot in good time.
There wasn’t much point to attacking far beyond Mexico City: let the yanqui do the work, then come in on the easy path. Let him get the bull close enough to its destination, and then kill the guards and take the bull. Take the pistolero’s money and sell the bull. When it was put out to stud, it shouldn’t be hard to fill the promise he had made to Felipe. ¡Dios! If he couldn’t do it with the sword, then he could shoot the bastard.
It should be easy.
Antonio Guerrama presented his excuses to Don Bavispe soon after first light. He felt uneasy lying to el jefe, but his nervousness served only to add credence to the yarn about a sick brother and dying children. Bavispe told the vaquero to stay away as long as he needed … on only half-pay … and to take whichever horse he wanted from the hacienda’s remuda.
Guerrama chose his favorite buckskin stallion and loaded the saddlebags with cartridges from the bunkhouse stocks. Then he rode away northwards, in the direction of Yanos, where his brother lived and the ground was hard and dry in the summer heat so that the Bavispe cattle were herded down to the lusher lowlands around the river. The land was empty here, just folds of parched grass with nothing on them but a few sheep herded by mestizos. Antonio rode hard for three miles, then swung to the west and circled round the hacienda until he struck the Rio Tenalta. He crossed the near-dry river and swung past Matanza on a wide, out-flung course that brought him back to the water where Cortafuego was huddled against the shallow banks.
The town was a thin sprawl of adobe shacks with a single two-story building with a wharf at the front stuck out against the stream. There was a fountain at the center of the village, where the inhabitants got fresh water, and one cantina. Cortafuego had lemon groves spread in yellow lines all around. It lived off the crop, existing for no other purpose than to grow the lemons, pick them, and load them into the warehouse. When they were ripe boats came down the river … flat-bottomed barges that could navigate the shallow stream to take the crop away. It was a silent, sleepy town. The kind of place where nothing happened and young men got bored. The kind where other men came to stay for a while, because they wanted that kind of quiet.
As Antonio Guerrama forded the stream the sharp odor of the lemons struck his nostrils like pincers, making him cough and squeeze at his nose.
He rode clear of the bank, feeling the sun already start to dry his pants, and walked the buckskin stallion towards the cantina. He rode into the plaza with the heat on his back and tethered his horse in the shaded alley beyond.
The cantina was cool and quiet. It smelled of sausage and chile, and there were two men seated at the far end. In shadow, where they could see the forward entrance and move fast to the rear door. Where their movements would not be seen. They were drinking tequila, each with the left hand: the right was hidden in each case beneath the table.
‘¡Hola!’ said Guerrama. ‘¿Qué tal? Yaqui. Manolito.’
‘I see you, old man,’ said the one called Yaqui. ‘What do you want?’
He was big. A combination of Indian mother and American father, with long legs and heavy shoulders. His face was wide and flat, broad of nose and dark of eye, tanned to the color of old leather. In contrast, his hair was light brown, falling in greasy slicks over the collar of his dirty red shirt, almost hiding the beaded necklace spanning his thick throat.
Manolito was smaller and lighter. His skin was the pale tan of a mestizo, and he wore the outfit of a pistolero: a black shirt that was covered in part with a concho-studded vest of black leather, tight pants with more conchos running down the sides, unfastened at the heel to allow spread for the silver spurs. His face was narrow as a rat’s, with a drooping moustache oiled shinier than his black hair, dripping into the corners of his mouth.
Yaqui wore a wide belt from which was hung a faded leather holster that contained a Colt’s Frontier model in .45 caliber. There was a broad-bladed machete sheathed on his left hip. Manolito carried two guns, both Colt’s Peacemakers, slung butts-forwards high up on his narrow waist.
‘I have a job for you,’ said Guerrama. ‘I will buy you tequila and tell you about it.’
‘I hope it is not near Matanza,’ said Yaqui. ‘They want to hang me there.’
‘They want to hang both of us in a lot of places,’ giggled Manolito. ‘¿No es verdad?’
‘This isn’t a man,’ said Guerrama. ‘At least, not one who’ll count. It’s a bull.’
‘A bull?’ Yaqui frowned. ‘You’re crazy, viejo. You want a man to kill a bull, you hire a matador.’
‘There’s five thousand pesos in it,’ said Guerrama. ‘Listen.’
Hawk stepped out into a high, bright morning. The sky was blue as a girl’s eyes, with the sun beating heat against the ground hot enough that the smells of Matanza were getting burned away, leaving behind only the hibiscus and the cholla flowers. There were larks circling round overhead, spinning dark circles against the clear blaze of the sky, and around the plaza there were people imitating the birds as they wandered around the square.
He stretched his shoulders, enjoying the heat, and began to weave through the carriages and horsemen circling the plaza.
Torres had arranged to meet him back at the Bavispe ranch, and the gunfighter planned to take a leisurely ride out, fetching his own horse from the stable rather than letting Bavispe send a carriage for him.
He was halfway down the narrow street that led to the stable when the voice stopped him.
‘Gringo!’ It was hot as the sun with anger. Accompanied by the familiar click of a pistol’s hammer going back. ‘You turn around.’
Hawk stopped in his tracks. He was between two white-walled adobe houses. Both were empty of windows or doors for several yards ahead. There was no sidewalk: no place to dive or run. He froze.
‘What do you want?’ The short hairs on his neck prickled. ‘Who are you?’
‘Turn around, gringo. I don’t shoot men in the back.’
Hawk lifted his arms a little bit out from his sides and muttered, ‘You’re stupid.’ Louder, he said: ‘No. Who are you?’
‘Remember last night, gringo?’ The voice got hotter still. ‘You shamed me. Now I’m going to kill you for it.’
‘In the back?’ called Hawk.
‘Turn around, you bastard. I’ll drop my gun.’
Hawk waited until he heard the hammer go down, noting that it settled on half-cock. When he turned around he saw the Mexican he had dragged from Linda’s bed glaring at him. The man looked more impressive with clothes on. Not much, but enough to make the American cautious. He was wearing a wide-brimmed sombrero that hid his bald patch and shaded most of his face. A white shirt with a string tie fastened under the collar was surmounted by a dove-gray jacket that matched the pants and the high-heeled boots. His left hand was tucked round his back, holding the tail of the coat clear of the black leather holster belted tight against his spreading belly. The holster was tied down on the right thigh, the butt of a Colt protruding from the silver-threaded hide.
‘I got no quarrel with you,’ Hawk said. ‘Don’t make me kill you.’
‘You shamed me.’ Little glistening drops of moisture fell from the man’s face as he spoke. ‘You dragged me out of bed and sent me away. You insulted my manhood.’
‘Shit!’ Hawk shrugged, using the movement to ease his feet round and drop his right hand closer to his own gun. ‘You were only sleeping. An’ I paid Rosita to take you on. That squares it, surely?’
‘Not for me,’ said the man. ‘I bought the yanqui girl for the night. No other.’
‘So you’re ready to die for a blue-eyed blonde?’ Hawk husked. ‘No other reason.’
‘Except my pride,’ said the Mexican.
And drew his gun.
It was half-cocked already so that all he needed to do was get it clear of the holster and trip the hammer the fraction of an inch further back that would spill the striker pin against the shell in the chamber. That, and line the muzzle on Hawk’s body. At the six feet range it wouldn’t have mattered much where the .45 caliber slug hit: anywhere on the main trunk would have sent Hawk back with a killing hole through him and pain blotting out his own reflexes.
But Hawk was fast.
Deadly fast.
He fastened his right hand over the grip of the Colt as the Mexican went for his gun.
It was slipping clear of the greased leather while the Mexican was still sighting in.
Hawk plucked the hammer back as he drew, clutching his forefinger tight against the trigger as his thumb held the hammer down. He didn’t bother to sight, just fired on instinct and knowledge and training, letting his thumb slip clear of the hammer the instant he knew the barrel was lined on the target.
The gun bucked in his hand, and automatic reflex swung it down and back into line, thumb taking up the pressure and forefinger squeezing again on the trigger. The Mexican fired once, his only shot lost between the detonations of Hawk’s two. His bullet flew wide, scarring chips of adobe raining white from the wall of the house to Hawk’s left.
The American’s first bullet hit the Mexican in the belly. It went in just over his gun belt, tearing through the shirt and the flesh behind to puncture the loose muscle and rip through the stomach sac before splintering a rib and deflecting off to the side, where it tore into a kidney and lodged against a second rib. The other caught the man as he pitched backwards with his face doubling over the pain in his gut. It struck his chest, glancing off the clavicle bone to erupt through a lung and plough out through his back. The Mexican’s body was hurled backwards under the force of the two bullets, long streamers of blood spraying from his spine and stomach. They were joined by brighter streams that plumed from his mouth and nostrils as he fought for breath against the upsurging pressure of his sundered organs. He fell back against the sand of the street, his gun leaping clear of his spasming fingers.
Thin columns of crimson sprayed the air above his face, and his boot heels dug gouges in the sand that got filled up with the spilling of his bowels. After a little while he stopped writhing and slumped still.
Hawk worked the ejector rod of his Colt to shove the spent cartridges free and dropped two fresh loads into the cylinder. He turned the central ring to drop the hammer on an empty chamber and holstered the Colt. Then he walked down the alley towards the stable. He ignored the crowd gathering around the body as he went to fetch his horse.
He wanted to sort out his business with Torres and Bavispe and get back to Linda.
‘Trouble with some folks,’ he murmured as he mounted. ‘They shoot their load too early.’