Midnight hawk, p.5
Midnight Hawk, page 5
Leaving his words hanging heavy in the air, Thak Parker spurred his horse and cut across the herd’s flank towards the powerful figure of big Jim Banner. Banner was owner of the Lazy B; the long-term prosperity of his sprawling ranch on the banks of the Brazos rested with his getting the herd safely to the Abilene stockyards. Right now he was taking a breather, enjoying a leisurely quirly with his trail boss, Charlie Harris and watching the approach of Parker with eyes veiled by mistrust.
Cassidy, the tow-headed youngster on the blue roan, had listened to the altercation between Parker and Ballard with his mouth hanging open. Now he edged his horse closer to Ballard.
‘Ain’t no reason to listen to old Thak,’ he complained. ‘We can ride along nice and easy, take time to wash the dust out of our throats while the cattle’re bein’ loaded fer Kansas City. After that we can ketch the Texans on their way to the bank with the money. Hell, Thak ain’t got no say in it.’
‘Got it all figured out, have you?’ Ballard asked drily.
‘I jest told you,’ the youngster blustered. ‘There’ll be so much whoopin’ an’ hollerin’ when these steers hit Abilene we could ride in stark naked and folks’d pay us no heed!’
For a few moments Peso Ballard rode in silence. He was a strange, contradictory figure atop his gaunt pony: nondescript in trail-dusty black clothing, his lean body bowed over gloved hands folded loosely on the saddle horn, he would attract no attention from the casual observer.
But those more astute would look beyond the drab attire and observe the intelligence shining in the cruel black eyes, see not lassitude in the posture but relaxed vigilance, and note the well-oiled appearance of the Colt .44 and the way the man casually kept the tail of his black broadcloth jacket eased well away from the pistol’s walnut butt.
‘Thak was only part right concernin’ the legitimacy of what we’re doin’,’ Ballard said at last, and he turned to grin across at Gar Lomax. ‘In Abilene we’re gonna take two bucks a head off this Jim Banner for protectin’ his herd from wild renegades. What he maybe don’t realize is, the only renegades around is us.’
Gar Lomax chuckled appreciatively at the irony, but only briefly for he was doubly preoccupied. He’d dragged a sack of Bull Durham from his shirt and was busy rolling a quirly. He did it expertly with one hand, his slight form rocking with the horse’s motion. At the same time his narrowed, bloodshot eyes were carefully scrutinizing a tree-lined rise that lay some 600 yards ahead.
‘And if he figures it out,’ Cassidy said, ‘he still cain’t do nothing ’cause the doggone outlaws’re right there with him.’
‘That’s about the size of it,’ Ballard said. ‘What it amounts to is a man can do what he wants if there ain’t no law around to stop him. In Abilene that ain’t the case, and a few noisy waddies herdin’ a bunch of steers ain’t likely to distract a vigilant marshal.’ He shook his head at Cassidy. ‘Besides which, ain’t it occurred to you that big Jim Banner don’t get his money until those steers are safely penned?’
‘Sure it has,’ Cassidy said, and the look he flashed at Peso Ballard held a deliberate, arrogant taunt. ‘But, hell, Peso, ain’t it occurred to you that a stockyard gate that’s been fastened can be opened agin – an’ a stampede through the town when there ain’t nobody expectin’ it is likely to send the smartest marshal into a flat spin. A time like that a kid with a toy pistol could creep into the jail, steal a prisoner out from under his nose!’
Ballard opened his mouth to give vent to his disgust, then his eyes narrowed as the import of what the kid had suggested hit home. But whatever he was about to say next never got said; their evil repartee was cut short by a sharp warning from the ’breed.
‘Thought I saw a flash, up ahead,’ Lomax said, eyes still fixed on the distant trees. ‘Now I’m sure,’ He glanced across at Peso Ballard.
‘Friend, I reckon there’s somebody up on that ridge with a long rifle – and my guess is he’s pointin’ it in this direction.’
Hawk saw the dust cloud to the south as he emerged from tall trees lining the high ground. He found himself gazing across a grassy escarpment littered with scrub and boulders, with only the occasional stand of wilting trees to break the monotony. In the distance water was a silver ribbon glistening in the hot sun, its steely glitter dulled by distance and the high, hanging dust. But this was not the Red, this was a northern loop of the Arkansas. If a Texas herd had made it this far it suggested to Hawk that Thak Parker had changed his tactics.
Hawk reined in, gazing thoughtfully into the shimmering distance. He took a long drink of tepid water from his canteen, then hooked a foot over the saddle and fired up a smoke. Distant tossed his head, bridle jingling, and Hawk absently reached forward and fondled the noble head with his gloved palm.
Some deep cogitating, while the quirly burned down and the faint rumble of the vast, slow-moving herd drifted to his ears, told Hawk that the situation in Kansas was far different from that facing the Texas drovers in the spring of 1866, when they had cut across the eastern corner of the Nations, bound for Missouri.
Then they had faced united opposition. In the Nations the trail-weary Texans had encountered marauding bands of Indians who had stampeded cattle and raided supply wagons, others who had demanded cattle or cash in payment for allowing the herds across their grasslands. Once they reached the Missouri border the drovers were met by grim-faced, law-abiding citizens who were roused to action through fear. Terrified of the tick-borne Texas fever carried by the advancing herds, they used an 1861 law forbidding the entry of diseased cattle into their state as authority to form armed posses and close the border.
Hawk killed the cigarette and flicked it away, harsh memories narrowing his blue eyes.
Thak Parker was of a different breed from those essentially good townsfolk. Parker had ridden savagely through the Civil War as the hard-bitten leader of a band of bloodthirsty guerrillas. To such restless men the Texas herds, bogged down at the Missouri border, offered rich pickings. Weary drovers were no match for trigger-happy gunmen, and Parker, Peso Ballard and Deke Farrar had rustled their cattle with impunity, gunning down those foolish or brave enough to stand in their way.
Hawk had entered the fray because there was a wild streak in him that time and again impelled him to take the side of the underdog. Often, rolled in his blankets and gazing into the blackness of another lonely night under the stars, he had tried to analyse this quirk in his character. Usually he ended up blaming an orphan childhood in the dry heat of New Mexico when he had got neither food nor shelter unless he fought for it, tooth and claw.
The plight of those weary, embattled Texans had struck a chord. Hawk had latched on to a small herd, used a talent for diplomacy to reason with the Missouri posses, then on a black night riven by flaming gunfire, had led the Texan waddies to a breathtaking triumph over Thak Parker’s lawless band.
It was on that war-torn night that the ’breed Gar Lomax had christened him Midnight. And not long after that Deke Farrar had slunk away across Indian Territory nursing a shoulder torn by a slug from Hawk’s .40-90 Sharps.
That was four years ago. Now, by sheer chance, Hawk had again encountered Deke Farrar, this time hired into a less risky game in which the only opposition came from an old horse rancher and his elegant daughter. From Farrar he had learned of the whereabouts of Thak Parker. And it seemed that an older, wiser Parker had also taken the easy option and was acting bodyguard for the herds he would once have pillaged.
In the West of 1870 progress was a raging, unstoppable forest fire fed by man’s ambition and greed. The Texan ranchers’ first success had come in 1867 when, instead of being held back by angry Missouri mobs brandishing guns, they discovered that on the Chisholm Trail to Kansas they were being greeted with open arms by a man called William Sugg, a close friend of Joe McCoy. A business man from Springfield, Illinois, McCoy was erecting stockyards in Abilene as fast as lumber could be shipped in from Hannibal, Missouri. His aim was to pay up to forty dollars a head for the Texas beef, and use the Kansas Pacific Railroad to move the steers East.
Thirty six thousand cattle were shipped that first year. Rumours of Spanish fever carried by the Texas longhorns killed the market in ’68, but thanks to hard work by McCoy and the effect of flaming advertisements on canvas streamers hung from his ‘buffalo train’, 160,000 cattle passed through Abilene in 1869.
By 1870 there was still some opposition, just about enough to make experienced Texan drovers who had been with the doomed Sedalia drives a shade jumpy.
It was this nervousness, Hawk reckoned, that was going to make Thak Parker some easy money.
Well, that was between Parker and the boss of this Texas herd, Hawk decided philosophically. His main priority was deciding what to do about Thak Parker, while at the same time keeping a watchful eye for Deke Farrar and his sidekick.
Hawk had been aware of the two riders closing on him not long after leaving Abilene, and had prudently ridden off the trail and taken cover in thick scrub while they rode by. After a leisurely smoke to let them get well clear he had ridden across country and rejoined the trail. For a while after that their dust had clogged his throat, Then even that had thinned until there was nothing but emptiness and the hot, dry air.
Hawk took a deep breath. Then he reached down, settled the Sharps in its scabbard and started Distant down the long slope.
He took a diagonal path, staying high above the rutted Chisholm Trail but moving steadily towards the approaching herd. Across from him the land rose again. On a straggling rise dark trees were outlined against the blue sky, while far below a broad, shallow stream flowed slickly through the wide valley towards the Arkansas, gliding over glistening rocks to pass through a thin grove of slender trees. It was around those trees that the lead steer appeared, and suddenly there was movement and an immense wave of sound as the herd rounded the trees and swelled to become a dark, sluggish river of noise. The sun danced its highlights across the shifting, sweating hides of the longhorns; the herd rolled northwards, and faintly to Hawk’s ears there came the shrill, excited cries of the punchers.
Again he pulled Distant to a halt, then edged him a short way down the slope to where scrawny trees afforded some shade and cover. He took a battered pair of field glasses from his saddle-bag, dusted the lenses with his bandanna then lifted them to his eyes.
At once the herd sprang into vibrant life. Dust boiled, He could see the drooping heads of tired steers, the whites of rolling eyes, the strings of saliva trailing from slack jaws. A point waddie on a dusty paint rode tight alongside the lead steer, then spurred ahead. For a few seconds Hawk swung with him, followed the racing horse, saw the waddie come up with the jouncing chuck-wagon that had utterly escaped his notice, ride close to catch hold of a rail and lean across to gesticulate to the indistinct figure crouched at the reins.
Hawk grunted impatiently. He shifted the glasses, moved them back down the flank of the herd, saw three figures riding abreast. At once he became still. His breathing slowed, tightened. He lowered the glasses, squeezed his eyes shut, then again lifted the glasses.
He saw a dark, powerful man on a blue roan. Riding tall in the saddle he was talking animatedly, lifting his arm in a wide sweep to indicate the herd. Another, smaller man rode alongside. He rode easily, but with one shoulder askew as if at sometime an injury had healed badly. His head was cocked to one side as he listened.
Rancher and his trail boss, Hawk decided. Abilene’s getting close. Figuring on whether to make camp for the night, or keep the herd rolling to the stockyards.
Then he shifted the glasses to take in the third man, and he was looking at Thak Parker.
‘Well, now,’ Hawk breathed.
The intensity of the emotion that hit him took him by surprise. He was immediately conscious of the hard length of the Sharps under his thigh, had to quell a fierce desire to reach down, drag the rifle free and with a single, well-aimed shot blast the bloated figure out of the saddle.
Savagely he dragged the glasses away from the man who, six months ago, had left him for dead in Indian Territory, swung them down the length of the herd, taking nothing in, fighting his rage.
Suddenly, as quickly as the red flood of fury had washed over him, it receded, and Hawk understood why he had ridden south from Silver Springs to the banks of the Arkansas River. It was not in order to kill Thak Parker, but to gaze on the man’s grossness and realize that on him, vengeance was wasted. Thak Parker was a violent outlaw whose name, from the day he was born, had been scratched in the soft lead of the bullet that one day would kill him.
Who the man was that carried that bullet Hawk neither knew nor cared. He lifted his head, dragged in a deep, shuddering breath, revelling in the taste of freedom.
Then, as he shifted the glasses back down the herd towards the drag riders, he saw three more horsemen, recognized two of them, watched with puzzlement as Peso Ballard spurred his horse cruelly up the heaving, rolling length of the herd. One arm was raised. He held his black hat high, and was waving it madly. His mouth gaped in a silent shout.
Behind him Gar Lomax crouched low in the saddle of his racing bronc. As Hawk watched, the ’breed’s right hand dropped to his side. He drew his sixgun. The barrel flashed in the sun. Gunsmoke belched as he fired several warning shots in the air. Seconds later, the faint crack of the pistol carried to Hawk’s ears.
Baffled, Hawk again swung the glasses, swiftly caught up with the racing Peso Ballard. He fiddled with the screw and brought the black figure into focus as he reached the three men who had been riding up ahead, absently listened to the crack of another shot, saw Ballard draw rein so fiercely his bronc punched dust with stiff forelegs, sat down, then came up fast and bucking.
Peso Ballard’s furious ride and the ’breed’s warning shots had been wasted effort.
Hawk took the glasses away from his face, scrubbed at his eyes then jammed the glasses back in place in time to see the powerful rancher and his trail boss swing their horses about and pile from the saddle, A short way back down the trail Thak Parker’s horse was now riderless. And as Hawk lowered his glasses to the heavy figure lying motionless beneath the horse’s hooves he clearly saw the puff of dust spout as a heavy slug slammed into Thak Parker’s shirt front.
The crack of the shot came sharp and clear. Hawk lowered the glasses, eased Distant tight under the trees and turned his head to look across the valley to the line of trees on the opposite ridge.
‘Move,’ Deke Farrar snapped.
Col Regan slithered backwards, dragging the Winchester. Farrar was already climbing into the saddle, swinging his horse about and moving off the skyline. Regan reached his ground-tethered horse, swung into the saddle and moments later the two men had ridden deep into the trees. At the bottom of a steep, uneven slope strewn with fallen branches and loose rocks they drew rein, their faces tight with tension.
‘You see him?’
Regan nodded. ‘On the opposite slope, high up. Watching through glasses.’
‘That bein’ the case he’ll know there ain’t no more need for him to hang around,’ Deke Farrar opined. ‘With Thak Parker out of the way he’s almost certain to head back to Abilene. He’ll ride easy. That’ll give you plenty of time.’
Regan eased forward in the saddle, settled back, his eyes thoughtful. ‘Could be your thinkin’s wrong, Deke. From what I hear Thak Parker ain’t going to be missed. Some folk hereabouts’d give his killer a vote of thanks. That Peso Ballard, he ain’t going to raise sweat chasin’ a feller done him one hell of a favour.’
‘Sure he is,’ Farrar snapped. ‘And he’ll do it because he’s lookin’ after his own skin. When you ride down there you point out that the killin’ doesn’t stop here. Thak Parker was shot down in cold blood by Paiute Hawk. Word is Hawk’s goin’ after every one of his men with that big Sharps.’
‘Owlhoots, every one of ’em,’ Regan mused uncertainly. ‘Bear River Tom ain’t going to pay much heed to accusations made by that bunch of misfits.’ He tipped his hat back, dragged the back of his hand across his brow, then nodded in the direction of the muted rumble of the moving herd that drifted to them through the trees. ‘If one of those Texans rides with us, that’d give the story some weight.’
‘Work on them,’ Farrar said, nodding. ‘Convince them that Paiute Hawk behind bars’ll make Abilene a safer place for Texan waddies. Paint him real mean, real bad. Remind them of all those Yankee dollars they’ll be carrying when that beef’s sold, the risk they’re takin’.’
He kneed his horse, rode out on to level grassland and began to skirt the lower fringe of the woods. Col Regan followed, and together they rode a wide sweep to where the timber petered out on the lower slopes of the broad valley.
‘This is where we part company,’ Farrar declared. ‘Peso Ballard knows me, knows I’d kill Parker soon as look at him. We’ve got to make sure Hawk’s the only one could’ve killed him. I’ll head north, ride around Abilene and head for the Running-J. From now on it’s your play.’
He slid from the saddle, saw Regan frowning questioningly at him, and grinned. ‘This has got to look right. I just told you about Peso Ballard. He don’t miss a trick. He catches sight of your Winchester, he’ll get suspicious. I don’t carry a saddle gun. We swap horses, that problem won’t arise.’
He waited for Regan to dismount, climbed into the vacant saddle, jerked the reins hard as the strange horse moved restlessly.
‘You saw it all,’ he said, going over the story they’d patched together on the ride out of Abilene. ‘A man wearin’ moccasins and a calico shirt, ridin’ a big bay. Holed up in the woods, used a fine Sharps breechloader to knock that big feller out’ve the saddle.’
‘Sure,’ Regan said. He grinned as he moved away on Farrar’s horse, started down the slope. ‘Act dumb. Tell the story straight, let Peso Ballard fill in the names.’
