Border war, p.13
Border War, page 13
In fact, Hawk was thinking about Charlotte Kilpatrick. He was remembering her long legs and her smooth body and the way she had talked about her brother. He wondered how she would talk about Ford now that he was dead; wondered how she would feel when Hawk told her that he had killed him himself. Somehow, he thought that however she reacted to the news of Ford’s death, she wouldn’t be surprised. And with Ford and her father both dead and her younger brother content to run the books, she was left in charge of the ranch just the way she wanted to be.
Yes, Hawk thought, she might even turn over the money with a kind of a smile.
She might even …
A sudden movement from the Ranger close alongside him switched Hawk’s thoughts back to the here and now. There was a cloud of dust rising up from the south and it sure didn’t seem like that thrown up by a herd of longhorn cattle.
He touched the butt of his Colt as if for luck, slid the rifle from its scabbard and levered a shell into the chamber. His tongue tip wet his lips and his eyes took on a shine. All around him, the Texas Rangers were drawing back so that Martinez would not be aware of their presence until it was too late.
Hawk turned his horse around and moved with them.
Jesus Martinez rode at the head of his men, moving them along the trail at a canter, enjoying the sensation of riding at the front of such a column and knowing he had the power to burn the Kilpatricks to the ground and leave them all for dead.
In a little less than an hour the ranch buildings would be in sight. A smile crossed his face and he turned in the saddle and looked at the young man riding to his left. The smile broadened and the other returned it with a wave of the hand.
¡Madre de Dios! thought Martinez. Life is sweet!
Away out of his sight, Captain Nicol hunched his Winchester tighter against his shoulder and fired the first shot, the signal to his men to shoot at will.
As Martinez looked longingly at the handsome young Mexican just behind him, Nicol’s bullet shot the youth out of the saddle. One moment he was there, the next he was plunging to the ground, a gash through his neck and bleeding savagely before he even struck the ground.
Jesus Martinez yanked hard on the reins and his horse reared up. As he plunged back down, Martinez reached for his gun and shouted both a curse and a warning.
His shout had not faded when two men at the back of the line took deep wounds and another had his horse shot from under him.
Martinez wheeled round and some of the bandits did their best to follow suit, others kicked their horses hard and galloped on. A small bunch of foolhardy riders charged straight at the Rangers up the incline to the west.
Martinez was past the rear of his ramshackle column when the Gatling gun opened fire. Suddenly everything around him was a wild mass of terror and bloodshed. He averted his face instinctively from the sight of a gringo, half of whose face seemed to be hanging down towards his neck, and was in time to see another jerking insanely in the saddle as bullets riddled through him and tore him to bloody pieces.
Martinez fired three shots aimlessly at the nearest Rangers and spurred his horse south, but Nicol had anticipated his move and had already dispatched half a dozen men to block his escape.
If the Rangers captain had acted promptly, Hawk, whose eyes had been for the bandit leader alone, had acted faster.
As Martinez pulled on the reins and changed direction to avoid the group of Rangers he could see heading diagonally towards him, he heard through the clamor and the constant chatter of the Gatling, someone shouting his name.
He swung his head and as he did so Hawk fired from the saddle and a bullet went over Martinez’s head by inches.
Martinez recognized the hat, the gloved hand, the look of cold determination on Hawk’s face and kicked his horse harder, leaning low over his neck as another shot sought him out and missed.
One of Martinez’s men, panicking, veered across him and Martinez cursed him for a fool and slashed out at him with the pistol that was clenched in his hand.
Behind him, his followers were being shot from the saddle one by one. Some had already thrown up their hands in surrender, weapons tossed aside. Martinez was gaining on Hawk and then he was losing ground. Hoofbeats thundered close at his back and he swerved in the saddle, loosing off a couple of shots as he did so.
If Hawk noticed them, he gave no sign.
His Colt was back in its holster and he was guiding the galloping horse with his knees. Both hands were free, the reins looped around the pommel of the saddle. He gained on Martinez foot by foot, inch by inch. The Mexican fired wide of Hawk’s swaying body, then aimed a swing towards his head. Hawk easily ducked beneath it before hurling himself out of the saddle. His left arm encircled Martinez’s body and his right hand grasped the Mexican’s fat neck. Hawk’s hunched shoulder struck Martinez full in the middle of the back and jolted him from his horse.
They crashed to the ground, Martinez underneath.
Both men rolled over and over, first clinging to each other and then tumbling apart.
Those of Martinez’s men who were neither dead nor seriously wounded were sitting upright in their saddles, arms stretched tall towards the wide Texas sky as the Rangers disarmed them.
Martinez groaned and pushed up onto one knee only to buckle down again. He used his elbow to lever himself onto his side and with his free hand he reached towards his belt. His pistol was trapped under his body. As his fingers hit the grip, he heard Hawk shout: ‘Don’t!’
Martinez blinked and pushed his body into a kneeling position, turned towards the direction of the shout. His hand was still on the gun. Behind Hawk he saw the Texas Rangers dragging what was left of his men from their saddles and beginning to tie their wrists behind their backs with rope.
Martinez stared into Hawk’s eyes.
Stared into the barrel of Hawk’s gun.
‘I’m goin’ to kill you, Martinez,’ Hawk said softly.
Martinez opened his mouth wide and jerked the pistol clear: Hawk shot him twice, head and heart. Jesus Martinez’s mouth stayed open as his body arched deeply backwards, keeled over, struck the Texan soil and died.
When Hawk stood over him moments later, staring down, he was looking at one thousand dollars.
About William S. Brady
William S (Stuart). Brady is the pseudonym for the writing team
of Angus Wells and John Harvey.
Angus Wells was a British writer of genre fiction, including fantasy and, most famously, westerns. In addition to a few standalone novels written under his own name, Wells wrote under numerous pseudonyms, including Andrew Quiller (The Eagles), James A. Muir (Breed), Charles R. Pike (Jubal Cade), William S. Brady (Hawk and Peacemaker), Charles C. Garrett (Gunslinger), Richard Kirk (Raven), J. B. Dancer (The Lawmen) and Ian Evans.
Read more about Angus
John Harvey is a former English and drama school teacher. Since 1975, he has been a professional writer with something in excess of 100 published books to his credit. Harvey’s genre fiction appeared under both his own name and the pseudonyms John J McLaglen (Herne the Hunter), William S. Brady (Hawk and Peacemaker), J. D. Sandon (Gringos), J. B. Dancer (The Lawmen), L. J. Coburn (Caleb Thorn) and William M. James (Apache).
Read more about John
By William S. Brady
The Hawk Series
The Sudden Guns
Blood Money
Death’s Bounty
Killing Time
Fool’s Gold
Blood Kin
Gates of Death
Desperadoes
The Widowmaker
Dead Man’s Hand
Sierra Gold
Death and Jack Shade
Killer’s Breed
Border War
Killer!
The Peacemaker Series
Comanche!
Outlaws!
Whiplash!
Lynch Law!
Bloodrun!
War-Party!
One Thousand Dollar Death
The Lost
Shoot-out
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HAWK 14: BORDER WAR
By William S. Brady
First published by Fontana Books in 1982
Copyright © 1982, 2025 by William Stuart Brady
This electronic edition published July 2025
Names, characters and incidents in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons living or dead is purely coincidental. You may not copy, store, distribute, transmit, reproduce or otherwise make available this publication (or any part of it) in any form, or by means (electronic, digital, optical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorized act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.
This is a Piccadilly Publishing Book / Text © Piccadilly Publishing
Series Editor: Chris Haynes
Published by Arrangement with the Author’s Estate.
i See HAWK 13: KILLERS’ BREED.
ii Read about the adventures of John T. McLain in William S. Brady’s other exciting Western series, Peacemaker.
William S. Brady, Border War
