HAWK WOKE TO the sound of birdsong and the fresh smell of woodland at dawn. Thin streamers of mist trailed amongst the trees, filtering through the shadows and the early-morning sun. He built a small fire, using old, dry sticks, and brewed coffee. He drank two cups and chewed on a piece of hardtack, then rubbed the dew from his pony and got the saddle on.
It was not yet full light as he started down the slope.
The ridge was part of a bowl formation too thick with trees for him to see its extent, but he guessed it ran out several miles across, with the lake at its center. The ground was dense with undergrowth, small plants fighting to survive beneath the looming shadow of the timber, heavy roots spreading dangerously across his path. He moved slowly, letting the horse choose its own pace, until he saw the southern curve of the trail ahead. It ran on a curving, eastward line for a quarter mile or so, then swung due south. He stayed amongst the trees, following a parallel course that took him to where the straight avenue ran down to the lake.
As Luis had told him, it was a mile-long gap with the faraway shimmer of sun-lit water at the end. The ground looked to be solid stone, and both sides were banked up with dense timber lifting from the surrounding ridges.
Any approach would be clearly visible from the lake-side exit, and a rider trapped between the steep banks, with no cover, nor anywhere to run. Hawk eased the pony forwards through the trees, circling round the trail to continue over the more difficult ground to the east. The flank of land was steeper here than the western bank, and he saw that a series of shallow terraces ringed the bowl. He climbed higher, and followed one along to the south. It was easier than the descent of the first ridge, for he was riding now along a natural flattening of the land that was obviously used by deer and other woodland animals, so that a kind of path existed.
He came level with the lake and halted. He dismounted, tethering the pony to a low-spreading oak and sliding his Winchester clear of the saddle boot. The branches were rustling as a wind started up from the west. Hawk levered a shell into the long gun’s breech and began to move down the slope.
The lake was an oval of clear, blue water, shining like a mirror as the sun rose above the surrounding hills. Smooth banks of gray stone spread out all around, flat where they circled the lake, but then lifting abruptly to a vertical wall that went up fifteen, or more, feet before the first of the terraces provided sufficient dirt for the trees. It was a perfect place to ambush a bull. As Luis had told Hawk, it would take three days to negotiate the trail up, and the lake would be a natural stopping place. Anyone waiting would hear or see a wagon coming, and have ample time to get under cover which would, naturally, be amongst the timber surrounding the lake. Hawk squatted down beside a massive loblolly pine and thought about where he would lay up.
Given that the incomers might suspect a trap he decided that the southern exit would be the best point. They would need water, and therefore halt beside the lake. They would rest their horses and let them drink. The bull might stay inside the wagon, but the other animals would be unmounted and thirsty. One man with a rifle could kill them, or panic them, at least enough that the remainder … mounted … would head for the two exits. So … given that the escort was committed to taking the bull south … they would most likely head for the southern outlet: one man, at least, would be positioned there.
But someone would need to spot the approach. Maybe even cut off a dash northwards.
Hawk thought about what Luis had said of Antonio Guerrama. The links of friendship still existed. On Luis’s part, at least, and maybe on Guerrama’s, too.
Which might just cloud the ambushers’ judgement.
Hawk looked at the problem from a different point of view, trying to be subjective: to put himself in Guerrama’s mind.
Manolito wouldn’t give a damn about killing any of the men escorting the bull, but Guerrama might. So if Guerrama posted Manolito to watch the northern entrance, and laid up himself to kill the bull, towards the south ...
It made sense. Guerrama could bank on shooting the bull and getting out fast. If he killed the animal, then Manolito could just run for wherever they had arranged to meet. And Guerrama could hope to escape in the confusion, with his job done and no friends killed.
So: Guerrama should be located somewhere around the southern exit. And Manolito should be watching the northern one.
Hawk moved back the way he had come. He skirted down through the trees, checking the land afresh for the best places for an ambush. The eastern slope was steeper, and more heavily timbered, but the western approach offered cover enough, and would be easier to traverse on foot. And if Manolito was right-handed, then a westerly position would favor his angle of fire if he was shooting on approach.
But he wouldn’t be, Hawk decided. He would be there to spot and cover. To provide back-up, if necessary. So the steeper angle of the eastern terraces would provide both cover and a finer angle of fire.
Hawk slowed down, drifting cat-footed through the trees.
He saw a place below him where a thin outfall of rock jutted at a right-angle above the trail. It looked to be recent, for the trees had not yet taken a hold, and only bushes surrounded the spot. It was a thin, vee-shaped wedge. All tumbled stone on the sides, with streamers of dirt and anxious plants shading it from the trail. It stuck far enough out that it commanded a view directly into the approach road from Toquames and clear across the lake to the southern exit.
And the bushes moved slightly.
More than slightly: more than was natural.
More than the wind was shifting the surrounding mulberries, and in a different pattern.
Hawk eased down from the upper rim of the terrace and clambered through the roots and trees until he was crouched down directly above the spur. It was grassed over at the center, with a spread of bushes covering both sides of the vee-shape. Across the grass there was the dark outline of a man. Sun glistened off the conchos decorating his pants and vest, brighter light from the heavy spurs on his heels. He had a tall, black sombrero beside him, with cartridges for the Winchester rifle he held dropped into the upcurved brim. Two Colts dug, butts-forward, into the ground beneath him.
He yawned as Hawk watched, reaching up to scratch through his greasy moustache.
Hawk looked at the slope and made a fast decision. He pushed clear of the tree he was holding and went down the slope in a headlong, sliding run. The move landed him on his knees as he struck a root and sprawled forwards six feet from the bottom. He cursed as the pain lanced savagely into his legs, and pitched himself across the Mexican, with the Winchester thrust out in front.
The man … Manolito … began to turn when he heard the sound of Hawk’s descent. His own rifle was in his hands, so he started to swing that round. But Hawk’s gun hit it, the wooden forearm landing against the base of Manolito’s Winchester so that the weapon was driven back against the Mexican’s throat as the gunfighter sprawled headlong over him.
Manolito gagged, and Hawk realized that he had an advantage. He got both his knees spread over the ambusher’s body and pressed downwards, forcing the trapped Winchester harder and deeper against Manolito’s throat.
The Mexican’s face got darker, and his mouth opened wide as he fought to suck air into his starved lungs. He tried to push back against the force of Hawk’s grip, then gave up the attempt.
And sought another escape.
He reached down to the Colts twinned on his hips. Because they were holstered butt-forward high up on each side, he had to twist his hands round before he could grasp them. Hawk sensed, rather than saw, the movement, and lurched his body forwards. He lifted both knees clear of the ground and landed them on the insides of Manolito’s arms, just below the elbows.
The angle required of the draw meant that the knees turned the Mexican’s arms inwards, with the elbows pointing at his chest and his hands flattened palms-out. Hawk’s move crushed them in that position, against the grass, cutting off the flow of blood and threatening to shatter the bones. Manolito tried to scream as agony ran up from his wrists into his shoulders.
But Hawk just rammed the Winchester tighter against his throat and rode the kicking body until the face got purple and the Mexican’s tongue protruded from between his lips like that of a dog hungry for water. Or a man thirsty for air.
Then he eased the pressure and smashed Manolito’s rifle aside.
The Mexican didn’t notice that the movement tore a gash in his face.
Hawk settled his own rifle back across the man’s throat and asked,
‘Where’s Guerrama?’
Manolito gasped something that sounded like ‘Sow par thuh layg.’
‘Your horses?’ snarled Hawk. ‘Where are they?’
‘Ugga rig.’
Hawk watched the man’s face lose its color and turn the shade of dead ashes. He eased the rifle clear of the windpipe and asked, ‘Where?’
‘Up the ridge.’ Manolito’s voice was still strangled, but now the words came a little clearer. ‘We left them up high. Guerrama’s down by the lake. Close to the southern pass.’
‘Alone?’ asked Hawk.
‘Sí.’ It came out like Thee.
‘Where?’ demanded the gunfighter. ‘Which side?’
‘There’s a stand of timber on the east side,’ gargled the Mexican. ‘It hangs over the trail. All high timber. He’s in there.’
‘Thanks,’ said Hawk. ‘Thanks a lot.’
And settled the Winchester back tight against the man’s throat.
Manolito began to kick again as the pressure built up against his windpipe. But he couldn’t do very much with his arms pinned down and his lungs bursting for air. Not with Hawk settling all his weight on the rifle, so that it crushed the Adam’s apple downwards into the throat and held it there while the Mexican’s face got whiter still, and then black, as his tongue thrust from between his bluing lips and his eyes bulged, bloodshot, from his face.
After a while he was still, and Hawk stood up. Manolito stared at the sky through eyes that couldn’t see anything anymore. His tongue lolled black from between white lips that contrasted starkly with his purpled face.
Hawk moved around the bowl surrounding the lake.
Antonio Guerrama was where the dead man had said he would be. Crouched down inside a ring of timber where the trail stood out below the shoulder of stone. He was smoking a cheroot, with his rifle angled between the gap formed by his crossed knees and his folded arms. He looked patient: as if he might be willing to wait in that position for however long it took the wagon with the bull inside to reach the lake. The cheroot was settled between his lips like a permanent fixture, a thin, black stick that glowed faintly at the tip as smoke gusted from his nostrils.
Hawk got down on his belly and crawled the slope like a snake. He got in amongst the trees and worked his way to the innermost ring. Then he lifted the rifle to his shoulder, sighting down the barrel to line the upright notch of the foresight dead center of the vee-angled backsight on the center point of Antonio Guerrama’s shoulders.
He cocked the Winchester.
It would have been easy to kill the man where he sat, but Hawk had two reasons that argued against doing it that way.
The first was personal: he didn’t like leaving enemies behind him, and someone had paid Guerrama to kill the bull. Enough that it made him forget his old loyalties: enough that the vaquero was willing to go against his boss and his friends.
And Hawk wanted to find out who the person paying the money could be.
The second reason was less clear in his mind. It had something he could not define to do with Luis. Who had been sad to accept the fact that it was Guerrama who was trying to kill the bull.
In a curious way, Hawk felt sorry for both of them. Felt that he should give the Mexicans the chance to judge … and condemn … their friend.
He eased forwards and made his decision.
‘Freeze!’ he shouted. ‘Or you’re dead.’
Guerrama jerked round with his rifle lifting up to fire.
Hawk triggered one shot. One of the best in his life.
It struck the muzzle of Antonio Guerrama’s Winchester and ricocheted off into the trees. The force of it turned the rifle in the Mexican’s hands and tore it from his grip.
He was thrown back by the force, staring at his numbed hands as Hawk came tumbling down the slope in a sliding run that got lost under the pain of his bruised knees so that he ended on his belly with the rifle pointed and cocked on Guerrama’s stomach.
The Mexican looked at the ugly, dark hole of the Winchester’s muzzle and tried to flex his fingers.
‘What are you waiting for?’ he asked. ‘Don Bavispe hired you to take Joselito through to Mexico City, didn’t he? Paid you to kill anyone who tried to stop the bull?’
Hawk nodded as he got up on his feet.
‘Then kill me,’ said Guerrama. ‘I tried to stop the animal. God! I was responsible for Carlos’s death. I was going to kill Joselito here.’
Hawk shook his head.
He didn’t know why, but he felt sorry for Guerrama. Felt, too, that he didn’t have the right to judge the man.
‘I’ll take you back,’ he said. ‘Luis and the others can decide.’
Guerrama shook his head. ‘I don’t want that. Kill me now, pistolero. Or I shall kill you.’
As he spoke he reached for the Colt holstered on his hip.
It was easy for Hawk to kick the numbed wrist clear of the gun. Easier still to plant a boot over the hand and swing the stock of the Winchester down against Antonio Guerrama’s face.
The wood landed hard and heavy against the Mexican’s jaw. It snapped his teeth together and slammed his eyes tight closed into the instant oblivion of unconsciousness. He slumped back against the grass with his mouth gaping open and his body limp.
Hawk kicked the Winchester away into the trees and stooped down to drag the Colt from the holster, tossing the handgun after the rifle. Then he used Guerrama’s own belt to bind the Mexican’s feet, and his bandanna to fasten the wrists.
It took him one hour longer to locate the horses tethered up the ridge and fetch his own back, and by then it was close on sunset. He spread Guerrama over the saddle of the buckskin stallion and lashed the man in place, fastening his wrists and ankles together on a short, tight line. He fastened a drag line between the buckskin and the piebald and took them both out behind his own gray horse.
He got back to the ridge fronting Toquames as the sun faded redly behind the western slopes, and made camp close to his original stopping place.
In the morning he rode into the town with Antonio Guerrama still spread belly-down over the saddle of the buckskin stallion. It was too early for anyone to spot them until they reached the stable and Honcho came running out with an ancient Spencer carbine in his hands.
He halted as he recognized Guerrama, and said, ‘¡Madre de Dios! You were right.’
Hawk climbed down off the gray and stretched his arms. ‘Where’s Luis?’
‘He’s with the bull,’ said Honcho. ‘I’ll fetch him.’
A few minutes later the old man appeared. He stared at the body spread across the saddle and then at Hawk. Without speaking, he tugged a folding knife from his pants and cut Guerrama free.
The outlaw vaquero dropped from the saddle and curled into a ball as the cramps took hold. Luis helped him to his feet and asked, ‘Why?’
Guerrama shrugged as best he could and said, ‘I was doing my duty. Like you, Luis.’
‘We work for Don Bavispe,’ said Luis. ‘But you were trying to stop his bull from reaching Mexico City. How is that doing your duty?’
‘He is not the only one at the hacienda,’ said Guerrama.
‘Victoria?’ Luis shook his head. ‘Surely not?’
Guerrama stayed silent, just staring at his friend’s face without speaking.
Hawk broke the silence.
‘I could have killed him. The other one is dead. But I thought you’d want to work this out for yourself.’
‘How do you mean?’ asked Luis. ‘Is this another of your bad jokes?’
‘I just thought you’d want to decide if you need a friend,’ said Hawk. ‘Or kill an enemy.’
‘I don’t think I should decide.’ Luis looked suddenly old and cold and tired. ‘We should all make the decision.’
He stared at Guerrama and added, ‘I am sorry, but what else can I do?’
Guerrama shrugged, saying nothing.
Hawk said, ‘Someone gave him the money. There’s close on ten thousand pesos in his bags.’
Honcho whistled through his teeth.
‘Keep him here,’ said Luis. ‘I will fetch the others, and we will try him amongst ourselves.’
He turned away, striding towards the cantina where the other men were still asleep. Honcho dragged his pistol clear of the holster and pointed it on Guerrama’s belly.
‘Don’t try anything,’ he said. ‘I’ll kill you if you do. And I’m fast.’
Guerrama smiled like a man willing to accept his fate.
‘Don’t worry about me, boy.’ He walked into the stable. ‘I’m not about to take that toy from you.’
Hawk followed behind and pointed at an empty stall. ‘I think he’d like some rest. He had a pretty hard ride. Coffee might be good, too.’
Honcho stared at him, eyes getting wide as he lowered his Colt.
‘You would give this traitor coffee?’
Hawk watched Guerrama climb into the straw and settle down.
‘I don’t see why not,’ he said. ‘It could be the last drink he ever has.’
‘Judas took wine,’ snarled Honcho. ‘And thirty pieces of silver.’
‘Antonio here took ten thousand pesos,’ said Hawk. ‘Maybe that buys him a better deal.’
‘A hanging,’ grunted the youngster. ‘That’s all.’
‘And a cup of coffee,’ said Hawk. ‘That’s small change on dying.’