Midnight hawk, p.1
Midnight Hawk, page 1
MIDNIGHT HAWK
By the same author
Brazos Guns
MIDNIGHT HAWK
JACK SHERIFF
© Jack Sheriff 1997
First published in Great Britain 1997
ISBN 978 0 7198 2386 2
Robert Hale, an imprint of
The Crowood Press Ltd
The Stable Block
Crowood Lane
Ramsbury
Wiltshire SN8 2HR
www.crowood.com
www.bhwesterns.com
This e-book first published in 2017
The right of Jack Sheriff to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
ONE
Paiute Hawk was cat-walking out of the barn into the blazing noon sun when he heard the rattle of hooves and three riders on lathered mustangs came hammering around the corral into Pete Slocombe’s yard. Hard faces glistening with sweat, they sawed on their reins and dragged their mounts to a slithering halt in front of the house. They wore Colt .45s in tied-down holsters. Two of them had the scarred butts of Winchesters jutting from worn saddle scabbards.
About to check over an expensive rig that had been lying idle for six months, Hawk was holding Distant’s saddle in his gunhand. But as one of the men hollered towards the house then drew his six-gun and fired a shot towards the wide blue skies, Hawk lowered the saddle into the dust, flexed his fingers, then straightened and melted back into the sweet, hay-smelling shadows.
Behind him in the gloomy stall, Distant whickered softly. Hawk raised a hand, snapped a finger against his hard palm, heard the big horse blow through its nostrils then subside into absolute silence.
Tall, lean, with raven-black hair worn long, Hawk felt the old, familiar surge of excitement, greeted it with a sense of joy as it sang through his veins. Instinctively his hands hooked at his sides and his wide shoulders flexed. Steel-blue eyes narrowed as still-tender scar tissue across his back stretched tight, pulling painfully. Then, as the front door of the house opened, his right hand slid around to his hip and with a cold sense of shock he remembered that his gunbelt and old Remington .36 were draped uselessly over the back of a chair in the Slocombes’ kitchen.
Pete Slocombe stepped out on to the board gallery.
‘There’s no call for what you’re doing, Deke Farrar,’ he said loudly. ‘You, Col Regan, and your Mexican friend, why’n hell are you mixed up in this?’
Even from across the yard Hawk could hear the faint tremor of anger in the old man’s voice. Tall and bony, grey hair flopping over his forehead, the rancher had an old Sharps single-shot carbine held loosely in one gnarled hand.
Deke Farrar tipped back his stetson with the muzzle of his still smoking .45, then turned to grin at his companions. Tort Mendez, the darkskinned Mexican with drooping moustaches and a filthy sombrero, spat wetly into the dust. Col Regan laughed softly, teeth flashing beneath his ragged blond moustache. Saddle leather creaked as he dragged his rifle clear and kneed his bronc around so that he sat side-on to the old log house.
‘You know darn well what this is all about, Slocombe,’ Farrar said, spinning the .45 deftly back into his holster as he pinned the old man with his fierce black eyes. ‘What should scare the hell out of you is what you ain’t doin’ – an’ far as I kin see you ain’t done much to load up your belongings and git the hell off Running-J land.’
‘My land,’ Slocombe said flatly, and his head turned a little at some sound behind him in the house. ‘You know that, Farrar. All the grassland bordering Silver Springs was given to me ten years ago by Will Carter, for as long as I have use for it. Nothing’s changed.’
‘Except that your friend Will Carter got hisself shot. What’s left of him’s buried six feet down in the family grave back of the Running-J ranch house. He cain’t help you none.’
Slocombe moved restlessly, glanced down at the Sharps, then across towards the barn. ‘In perpetuity,’ he said softly.
Mendez had caught that second glance. One gloved hand lifted the reins high and he swung his horse around so that he could cover both the house and the barn. Then he swept off his sombrero exposing lank, greasy hair, fanned himself with the hat and grinned. ‘Fancy words, eh, Deke.’
‘He means Will give him this land for all time,’ Farrar explained. ‘An’ there ain’t nobody lives that long.’
‘Sure. An’ he is wrong, things have changed. John Fraser owns Running-J. He don’t want no free-grazers on Silver Springs.’
Off to one side there was the sinister, oily click of a breech as Col Regan punctuated the Mexican’s words by working the lever of his saddle gun.
In the barn’s cool shadows Paiute Hawk felt the first hot stirrings of anger. At the same time a feeling of sick helplessness swept over him as he realized that without his Remington he was powerless to help the honest man who had given him shelter and quickly become his friend, a man who was telling the truth because he knew no other way, but who was up against a rich, unscrupulous business man who was employing ruffians to enforce the seizure of what he knew was legally his.
In the year of 1870, the winds of change were sweeping across Kansas. Pete Slocombe couldn’t hope to hold them back with his single-shot carbine.
Conscious of the argument growing more heated, Hawk’s hand absently drifted to the open neck of his shirt, out of long habit felt for the heavy silver hawk medallion on its leather thong. But it wasn’t there; it had been gone, months ago, when he had first opened bleary eyes to consciousness and pain. Someone, somewhere.…
Angrily, swallowing bitterness, he allowed his blue eyes to range over the yard, measuring the distance and with it his chances of reaching the house and his gunbelt.
The corral was fifty yards away to his left. Its peeled poles glistened white against the backdrop of dark green pines that covered the nearby ridge. Half a dozen of Slocombe’s horses moved uneasily, nostrils flaring, as if sensing the violence hanging in the air. If he went that way their restlessness, imprinted comfortably on the minds of the gunmen, would mask his own movements. But it was the long way round, and he was short of time.
If Hawk shifted his eyes to his right he was looking directly at the drama being played out thirty yards away in front of Pete Slocombe’s old log ranch house. Between the barn and the house there was no cover. Hawk felt confident that if he embarked on a ducking, swerving run he would reach the shelter of the timber walls some paces ahead of the inevitable hail of hot lead. If his was the only life in danger, he would take that chance, but he was uncertain about the speed of Pete Slocombe’a reactions, and such a move would leave the old rancher dangerously exposed.
Deke Farrar was losing patience. Half listening, narrowed blue eyes still ranging, Hawk heard the gunman’s voice grate angrily, caught the hot retort from Pete Slocombe that was drowned by the Mexican’s cruel guffaw.
The hot breeze sent a tumbleweed lazily rolling across the empty stretch of packed dirt. It rustled drily over the surface dust, rolled across the narrow border of coarse grass and came to rest against the neat picket fence. As Paiute Hawk lifted his eyes he saw Francesca Slocombe come around the side of the house, long muslin skirt lifted in one hand, a bucket held in the other.
The bucket was heavy.
As she opened the gate and stepped through she stumbled, and Hawk opened his mouth to call a warning. Then, across that emptiness that was totally exposed to the watching gunmen, their eyes met and locked. She paused, deliberately glanced down at the bucket, brushed back a lock of flaxen hair and again looked up to meet Hawk’s eyes. Then she started across the yard, her worn shoes kicking up puffs of dust.
The fickle breeze caught her full skirt. The faded blue material tugged at her hand, wrapping about her legs and emitting a whisper of sound like the lazy Rapping of a distant pennant. The Mexican whipped around in his saddle. A lustful grin slashed his swarthy countenance as he caught sight of the shapely young woman.
Hawk tensed. His eyes, flicking left and right for something he could use as a weapon, spotted a heavy length of chain. Then, as the man called Farrar snapped out a command and the Mexican snarled a reply before turning reluctantly back to the job in hand, Francesca Slocombe reached the shelter of the barn.
She stepped into the shadows, her breath a nervous catch in her throat. When Hawk grasped her arm she was trembling, but a look at her blazing eyes and flushed cheeks and the firm set of her chin told him that the tremor was as much from excitement as from fear. This girl was one to be reckoned with, and he reached up, touched her cheek with his calloused palm.
‘That’s about the first time I’ve known anyone hang on to a pail so tight,’ he said quietly. ‘I reckon there’s gotta be something in there that’s mighty unusual.’
‘Come on, Hawk, with Pa out there facing those villains you know there’s only one thing’d bring me over here.’ And with a bright smile of triumph she bent, scooped a hand into the pail and came up with his gunbelt.
‘Well, now,’ Hawk breathed. ‘All of a sudden the odds have tipped in our favour.’
‘I’ve heard tales about you, boy,’ she said, and now her eyes were grave, a searching entreaty swimming in their soft, violet depths. ‘They say,’ she said softly, ‘that any time, anywhere, when the shooting stops and the gunsmoke settles the one man always left standing is Paiute Hawk.’
‘I can’t argue with that,’ Hawk said, supple leather snapping as he strapped the gunbelt about his lean waist.
‘Then pro ve it to me, Hawk,’ she said, reaching for his hand. ‘Because if you can’t do that, then truly, I fear for my pa’s life.’
Gently he pulled free of her grasp, gripped her shoulders and moved her deeper into the shadows. Then he stooped to pick up the short length of iron chain. With a final hitch to his gunbelt, a touch with his right hand on the smooth familiarity of the Remington’s butt, he swung the heavy chain at arm’s length in a wide circle then loosed it so that it flew in a high, whirling arc across the yard.
And as the chain hit the packed earth behind the gunmen with an unholy clatter, Paiute Hawk stepped from the barn into the noonday sun.
The falling chain had the impact of an exploding stick of dynamite.
The Mexican’s sombrero flew high in the air then floated down to roll in the dust as he grabbed for the reins of his rearing horse.
Col Regan fought to control his startled mustang, his head jerking from side to side as he searched for the source of the noise and found only emptiness. Cursing, he swung about. His angry eyes located the motionless Hawk. His lips twisted in a snarl.
Farrar’s horse danced sideways. Standing stiff-legged in the stirrups, the Running-J ramrod fixed Hawk with his mean, glittering eyes and slapped leather. His right hand came up, heavy .45 flashing in the sun. Amid the violent commotion the snap of the hammer cocking was almost drowned. But Hawk caught the sound, and he spoke in a voice that was quiet, but as cold and as brittle as ice.
‘You forgotten Sedalia, Farrar?’
In a simultaneous, flashing blur of speed the Remington was in Paiute Hawk’s hand and spitting flame. He fired twice, fanning the hammer. The twin shots blended into one thunderous detonation. The first plucked the .45 from Farrar’s grasp, sent it spinnning through the air to clatter across the boards at Pete Slocombe’s feet. The second spanged off Regan’s Winchester and whined away like an angry hornet into the heat-haze.
The ensuing deathly hush was broken by Tort Mendez’ whispered ‘Madre de Dios!’ He slid lithely out of the saddle, collected his sombrero and stood spread-legged as he slapped it on his extended forearm. Dust was a drifting cloud.
Carefully, Col Regan rested the butt of his Winchester on his thigh, the muzzle pointing skywards. He glanced up, thoughtfully ran his thumb across the fresh scar shining like silver on the blued barrel.
Farrar swore softly, nursing the knuckles of his gun hand. He rocked with a natural ease in the saddle as his horse backed stiffly away, ears pricked. But in his face there was something more than the knowledge that he had been beaten by a faster man. His black eyes were narrowed. Muscles twitched and knotted in his lean jaw. Then he nodded his head, slowly, a grimace twisting his face like a man who has dug deep into bitter memories and come up with a hated name.
‘Paiute Hawk,’ he rasped, and the way he uttered that name it was a curse. He watched Hawk walk boldly across the yard, faded denim pants tucked into long, soft moccasins, the heavy gunbelt strapped about a loose cotton shirt that hung well below his hips.
‘Baxter Springs, four year ago,’ Farrar said, remembering. ‘The Sedalia Trail. About the only Texas herd made it to the railhead had you for escort. The ’breed, Lomax, he gave you a name, after that long night of hell. You heard it?’
‘I’ve heard it,’ Hawk said.
Farrar nodded. ‘Yeah. You would’ve. Midnight.’ He grinned savagely. ‘I hear after all that time Thak Parker finally caught up with you halfway across Indian Territory. He’d’ve been whisperin’ that name in your ear when he hung you head down over the mesquite flames and left you to die.’
‘He should have waited to gloat over my screams,’ Hawk said.
‘That’s a fact,’ Farrar agreed. ‘Now, seein’ as you ain’t dead, he’s got the whole thing to do over again.’
‘Tell him I’m ready,’ Hawk said.
‘Me an’ him had words. Last I heard, he was camped on the Red with Lomax and that sonofabitch Peso Ballard. That Texas beef’s been movin’ north for a while now, invitation of Joe McCoy over’t Abilene.’ Farrar grinned derisively. ‘Go tell Thak yourself, Midnight.’
‘Midnight?’ the Mexican said, his voice dripping with acorn. ‘What the hell is thees Midnight?’ His snigger was cut short as Farrar’s black eyes flashed a warning.
‘Don’t ever ask, amigo,’ Farrar said bleakly. ‘Because the day you find out why is the day they drag those fancy boots offen your stone-cold feet.’
‘Could be avoided,’ Hawk said mildly. He sensed the girl, Francesca, watching him from the barn, glanced across at Slocombe and called, ‘Pete, I want you to pick up that .45. If one of these three makes a play, use it.’
‘He’s no gunman, Hawk,’ Farrar stated flatly. ‘You’re delayin’ the inevitable. He leaves now, or dies later’. He stared across at the board gallery where Slocombe stood, sucked in an angry breath as he found himself gazing into the black muzzle of his own gun.
‘John Fraser’s trying to shift the immovable,’ Hawk said. ‘He’s ordering a man out of his home, off the land he’s worked. Given ordinary circumstances, that’s a mighty tough task.’
‘I ain’t seen one darn thing makes this situation unusual,’ Col Regan declared. There was a look of bored scepticism on his face. He let the scarred Winchester droop, rested it across his thighs, his eyes fixed on Hawk. Off to one side the Mexican’s spurs jingled as he stepped up into the saddle and, as if at a signal, rode his horse in a half-circle towards the barn.
‘Pay Mendez no mind, Hawk.’ The girl’s voice rang out sweet and clear. ‘There was room in that bucket for two pistols. He makes a move, he’s dead.’
Pete Slocombe’s gravelly voice echoed her words, steady now but still tight with fury. ‘That goes for every goddamn one of you,’ he grated. ‘Get off this spread, tell your boss what he already knows but don’t seem to understand: I ain’t movin’ from Silver Springs, not now, not ever.’
Suddenly a shot rang out. There was a hoarse cry of pain, a flurry of movement behind Hawk. He stood motionless, the hot breeze plucking at his shirt. Then the Mexican’s horse trotted past, eyes white and wild, empty stirrups flapping. Col Regan leaned out of his saddle to grab the trailing reins while Farrar spat his disgust.
‘All over, gents,’ Hawk said. He turned to watch as Francesca prodded the dazed and bleeding Mexican forward with a big Dragoon Colt held in both her slim hands, grinned across at Col Regan as he steadied the horse for his wounded companion.
‘Don’t know how you see it, Regan, but that there’s about as unusual as anything I’ve seen in years,’ he commented, and the girl flashed him a pale smile as she let the big Colt drop to her side.
Seconds later it was all over. With the Mexican back in the saddle and bent over holding tight to the pommel the three gunmen wheeled their broncs and rode out of the yard at a fast clip.
But that was for now, and just the start of it, Hawk knew. The Slocombes had shown grit and determination and his presence had tipped the scales in their favour, but how long could he stay to help?
With bitterness he remembered his reasons for being on the Slocombe spread. An outlaw with a long memory and a simmering grudge had left him to an agonizing death by fire as payment for ripping apart his gang of rustling bushwhackers. Thanks to a roving band of Indians led by the unpredictable Rain Dog, he had lived, and slipped out of sight to recuperate for six long months at the home of a man who asked no questions.
But now Deke Farrar, once a member of the Parker gang, had recognized him. If Thak Parker was camped on the Red waiting to pick clean the endless waves of Texas trail drives, word would eventually get to him. Hawk could ride south and force a showdown, or wait for Parker to come after him, as he surely would.
But that meant all hell would break loose on Silver Creek, and the Slocombes surely had enough troubles of their own.
‘Seems I recall hearing angry words out in the yard from time to time,’ Hawk said. ‘Not that I was in any shape to pay attention, but I guess those fellers’ve been around here more’n once.’
Pete Slocombe sucked at his pipe, stretched out his legs and set the old, rug-draped chair he was sprawled in gently rocking. ‘Yep. Today was the fust time they got wind of you, or you of them. Till now you’ve been mostly driftin’ in and out of consciousness, fightin’ that fever brought on by your wounds. But it’s been goin’ on for two, three months. Will got killed, then John Fraser bought the Bar-W and changed the brand to his own Runnin’-J. I knew trouble was brewin’, but all it started out with was tough words. Then, without a hint of warning, those three hombres came pilin’ into the yard. Told me I’m trespassin’ on Fraser’s land and I’ve gotta get out, or there’ll be trouble.’
