Hawk 03, p.14
Hawk 03, page 14
part #3 of Hawk Series
In the same way Hawk intended to honor his.
‘Where are they?’ Juan stayed mounted, right hand on the stock of his Winchester. ‘Have they tricked us?’
‘Trickery is for women and cowards!’ El Cicatriz’s voice cut loud through the noonday air. ‘And Mexicans.’
Juan’s grip tightened automatically on the rifle. Hawk reached out to clamp a hand over the youngster’s wrist, and Arturo Ortiz said, ‘No! Juan, leave it! ‘
From the arroyos and washes all around a circle of horsemen appeared. They were mostly Mimbreños, but Hawk recognized the markings of the Chiricahua and the Jicarilla, even a few Mescaleros. He saw that El Cicatriz must have found more warriors, for there were upwards of thirty armed men ringing the stunted tree. They held a collection of weapons: modem, lever-action guns such as the war chief carried, plus bows, lances, handguns. They sat their ponies in silence as El Cicatriz came forwards and looked down at Hawk.
‘You keep your word. I shall keep mine.’
He motioned to his left and a pair of warriors came over the rim of a shallow gulch leading a pinto mustang. Manuela was seated on the pony, her wrists lashed together and her ankles joined by a narrow length of rawhide. A gag filled her mouth and a blanket was draped about her shoulders.
When she caught sight of her father and brother she shook her head, her eyes flashing. The two Apaches reined in, holding the girl still on the edge of the depression. El Cicatriz sat his own pony, resting the Winchester almost casually across the pad saddle. He stared at Arturo Ortiz.
‘You are El Jefe of Santa Maria?’
Ortiz nodded. ‘Sí.’
‘You brought the paper I asked for?’
Again Ortiz nodded, reaching inside his jacket with his left hand. The clicking of gun hammers drowned the fainter creak of tightening bowstrings. The Mexican withdrew his hand very slowly, bringing out a rectangle of folded paper that was sealed with a heavy blob of wax. He stretched forwards, passing the paper to the Apache.
‘It was drawn up by the notary in Mantegara. Witnessed by the alcalde. It promises all you demand.’
El Cicatriz shoved a finger under the seal and broke the wax. Then he passed the paper to a younger brave on his right. ‘Cuchillo Blanco reads your words. He will tell us all what it says.’
The young warrior stared at the paper and began to decipher the flourishing script.
‘On behalf of the villagers of Santa Maria in the province of Sonora, I, Arturo Sebastian Miguel Ortiz y Aragon, duly appointed Headman of the said village of Santa Maria, by the grace of God and the assent of the people, do hereby agree that from henceforth no villager of Santa Maria will lay claim to, or attempt to trespass upon, those lands designated by common consent to the peoples of the Apache Nation, most particularly those of the clan known as Mimbreño.
‘It is further undertaken that the area of hills known as Las Tristas shall be regarded as the sole and exclusive property of the said Mimbreño Apache tribe for so long as my life shall last, that area being regarded as the land extending from the river known as Agua Verde in the north to the southern decline of the said hills; from the freshwater spring in the west known as Fuente des Indios to the canyon known as La Guarida in the west.
‘Further to this agreement, it is agreed that from henceforth the village of Santa Maria shall deliver to the Apache peoples occupying the area of land described above thirty head of good horses each year, these animals to be comprised of not less than three stallions and ten brood mares, the remainder to be colts in good health or yearlings.’
It was a fine, wordy document, signed with ornate signatures by men with no intention of honoring their agreements. The irony of it was that the part about so long as my life shall last rendered it as cynical on the Apaches’ side as it had seemed to Ortiz when he drew it up.
El Cicatriz listened to the flowery words and permitted himself the scar-twisted grimace Hawk recognized as a smile. He beckoned the warriors holding Manuela to come forwards, then stared at Ortiz.
‘You found silver on our land,’ he said slowly, ‘and when my brother, Aguila Roja, would not let you dig it out you killed him. You set a trap for my brother and all his people. You killed them. Now you would give me this scrap of paper and expect me to believe what is written there to get your daughter back. I do not trust your promises, Mexican. I do not believe your fine words. So I set a trap of my own.’
A lance flew through the air as the chief stopped speaking. It was reversed so that the butt struck Ortiz between the shoulders, pitching him forwards across the neck of his horse. He cried out, fighting to retain his balance, but a lariat whirled over his shoulders, dragging him clear of the horse to crash on to the cold ground Juan shouted and began to draw his pistols, but a second rope pinned his arms and yanked him backwards off his horse. He went on struggling until an Apache rode in and thudded a lance against his skull, smashing him down into oblivion. Hawk stood silent, not looking at Manuela.
El Cicatriz took the bridle of the girl’s pony and passed it to the American. ‘Take her. She is yours.’
Hawk hitched the mustang to the tree next to his own mount and pointed at Juan. ‘Him, too. He tried to kill me and I made him a promise.’
‘He helped his father,’ said El Cicatriz. ‘Helped him kill my brother’s people.’
‘You gave your word,’ said Hawk. ‘I don’t let a man go back on his word. I don’t let a man lie to me.’
The Apache chief laughed and nodded. ‘Very well. But let him watch first.’
Arturo Ortiz clambered awkwardly to his feet. The fall had bruised the left side of his face, and tears of rage, tears of pain, flowed down his cheeks.
‘You betrayed us!’ He ignored the watching Indians, concentrating his hate-filled gaze on Hawk. ‘You promised to get my daughter back.’
‘Sure.’ Hawk’s voice was cold. ‘And I kept my word. You promised me the Apaches were raiding you for no reason. Like I said: I don’t let a man lie to me. You should have told me about the silver. Told me about the massacre. If you’d been honest you might have lived.’
Ortiz gulped and began to tremble. His eyes closed and his lips moved in a mumbled prayer. El Cicatriz barked an order and a rope swished out as the lariat pinning the Mexican’s arms was drawn tight, spilling him off balance. The second rope encircled his feet and a warrior sprang down to loosen the first as the other was tossed over the limb of the withered tree. Drawn tight, so that Ortiz was lifted into the air, dangling face down with his fingertips four feet clear of the ground.
Hawk took the reins of his own horse and Manuela’s, leading them clear as the Indians walked their ponies round to form a semi-circle a few yards away from the writhing body.
Ortiz’s eyes bulged and saliva frothed from his mouth. The gold watch dropped clear of his vest pocket, dangling on its chain in front of his face. His gun fell from the holster, clattering on to the hard ground. A strangled screaming burst from his foaming lips.
El Cicatriz lifted his Winchester and fired once, sighting carefully.
Ortiz’s body convulsed, doubling over so that his face became splattered with the blood erupting from his groin. Then, one by one, the Apaches shot him. Those carrying firearms went first, the bullets striking the flailing arms or jerking legs. They took care not to hit a vital part, seeking only to inflict pain. Ortiz’s black suit got darker and blood pulsed from shattered wrists and broken legs, the wounds on his arms began to drip a steady trickle of crimson on to the ground. One bullet scored a ragged furrow along his cheek, tearing a hole through his right ear. The body began to twist round, its movement imparted by the force of the bullets and the agonized twitching of the man himself. Then the archers took their turn, not drawing the bowstrings to the full extent, but planting shafts just an inch or so deep into the flesh. Ortiz’s body resembled a pin cushion before the thrumming of the strings and the whistle of the arrows ceased.
Then El Cicatriz waved the lancers onwards. Some hurled their poles, but most galloped in, the tips ripping loose great chunks of flesh so that after a while Ortiz’s body was barely recognizable as human, his clothing and skin torn and mangled into a great bloody chunk of meat that somehow went on moaning.
Manuela began to choke and Hawk reached up to pull the gag from her mouth. The girl doubled over, splattering vomit on her dress and the mustang’s neck.
El Cicatriz cocked his rifle again, staring at Ortiz as though trying to pick a section of flesh that was not torn and running red. It was difficult, but finally he sighted on the face, firing twice in fast succession. The first bullet tore through the Mexican’s left eye, pulping the orb and exiting through the back of the skull with such force that the head jerked back, spraying a mixture of blood and bone and brain matter in a high-curving arc. The second shot hit the underside of the jaw as the head flopped back, deflecting off the descending jawbone to ricochet out through the neck. A thick fountain of bright crimson gouted from the severed jugular vein.
The body stopped moving, swinging gently to and fro as scarlet ran in steady streams on to the ground.
‘Now it is your turn.’ The Apache turned to Hawk. ‘Shall we put the niño up with his father?’
‘No.’ Hawk’s face was impassive. ‘He wanted a gunfight. I promised him that.’
‘And you keep your word.’ El Cicatriz motioned for the rope to be taken from Juan’s arms. ‘Very well.’
‘If he wins,’ said Hawk, ‘let him go. Him and his sister.’
The Apache grunted his assent, waving his men back so that they formed two lines with Hawk and Juan facing one another at a distance of around fifteen yards. The young Mexican was pale with shock, but the raw hate in his eyes was unmistakable as he glared at the American and rubbed feeling back into his limbs.
‘When you’re ready,’ said Hawk. ‘Any time.’
Juan rasped an inarticulate curse and braced his legs, bending his knees to assume the crouch he thought was the professional pistoleer’s stance, dropping both hands to hover close over the butts of his matched Remingtons. Hawk stayed upright, left foot slightly in advance and his shoulders slanted fractionally to the right. He stared at Juan, his eyes unwavering and cold.
Juan blinked and went for both guns simultaneously, lowering his body to lessen the distance of muzzle from holster. Hawk simply folded his knees, leaning back as the familiar grip of the Colt’s Frontier met his hand. His fingers closed around the grained butt, thumb snapping down on to the hammer so that the pistol was cocked before it left the cutaway holster. His forefinger closed on the trigger, shifting back the minimal distance necessary to trip the hammer.
Juan’s Remingtons were still clearing leather as Hawk’s Colt lined on his belly and the gunfighter released the primed hammer. The .45-caliber slug took the Mexican in the gap between his jacket and his belt, tearing through his stomach so that he was hurled backwards and doubled over at the same time. The Remington in his right hand discharged a shot that scorched a long bum mark down his leg, spanging off the conchos to shard earth alongside his foot. The left-hand pistol fell back into the holster unfired.
He was still falling as Hawk triggered a second shot, cutting off the scream that was bubbling up from Juan’s throat. The bullet struck the indented center of his collarbone, ripping through the soft flesh to plough down through the left lung and shatter the heart.
Juan sat down. His eyes were wide and blank, dead even as the massive spurt of blood erupted from his mouth and midriff. His hands remained fastened about the matched pistols, locked there in the instant of his dying. A second gout of blood poured from his mouth and he slumped back, blind eyes staring at the sky.
Hawk worked the ejector rod of the Colt and thumbed two fresh loads into the chambers, clicking the cylinder round to rest the hammer back on the empty sixth chamber. Then he holstered the gun and turned to El Cicatriz.
‘I done my part. Now I’ll take the girl back to her people.’
Manuela spat vomit. ‘I have no people now. You killed them.’
‘No,’ Hawk looked at her, his face cold, a mask devoid of feeling. ‘They got themselves killed by playing crooked. They wanted to load up on silver an’ they didn’t care how they did it.’ He glanced at the two bodies, the blood steaming slightly in the cool air. Trouble is they struck lead.’
Chapter Fifteen
HAWK CUT THE cords binding Manuela’s wrists and ankles and passed her a canteen The girl took it without speaking and cleansed her face, swilling the water around her mouth to wash away the sour taste of bile. She remained silent as she handed the canteen back to the gunfighter and he mounted the black stallion. She looked just once at her father and brother, then turned her face away, staring fixedly over the empty plain.
The Apaches began to drift away until only El Cicatriz and the one called Cuchillo Blanco were left. The chief looked at Hawk, his expression impenetrable.
‘It is done. For now.’ He paused, the ugly grimace that passed for a smile contorting his face. ‘You make a fine enemy, Jared Hawk, and for a little while you made a fine friend. But you killed too many of my people for the memories to die here, so when you cross the domain of the Apache, ride carefully. The next time I shall kill you.’
Hawk nodded. ‘You will allow me to take the girl back?’
‘I gave my word. Until the moon is full again you are free to ride unharmed. After that …’ He left the sentence unfinished, laden with menace.
Hawk reached out to take the single rein of Manuela’s mustang. He stared at El Cicatriz, recognizing in the scar-faced Apache a man who lived by a code similar to his own, a code he could understand. A code he could live—or die—with. He smiled and lifted his right hand in silent salute. El Cicatriz replied in kind, then wheeled his pony round and cantered away. Hawk watched him disappear into the network of arroyos and heeled his own mount round to the east, dragging the mustang behind.
They rode without speaking for the better part of one hour. Manuela appeared content to sit in silence, clutching the pony’s mane for support as Hawk steered both animals on to the Mantegara road. The sun traversed the sky so that their shadows elongated before them, striking flashes of light from the distant town. After a while the girl spoke.
‘I might have forgiven you for killing Juan,’ Her voice was dull. ‘He was always jealous of anyone who looked at me, and usually I listened to him. But you were different: I told him to leave you alone.’
‘He should have heeded you,’ Hawk stared ahead. ‘He was a fool.’
‘And my father? What was he?’
‘Greedy,’ said Hawk coldly. ‘He wiped out a village so he could mine that silver. The Apaches did the same to stop him.’
Manuela laughed. It was an eerie sound, bordering on the edge of hysteria. ‘Do you believe that killing him will stop it? Killing him just made it worse. For everyone.’
Hawk turned in the saddle, staring at her. She heeled the pinto mustang up level with the taller stallion and fixed a brown-eyed gaze on his face. Hawk noticed that her eyes were flecked with tiny gold sparkles. Her face was pale and her auburn hair tumbled loose about her shoulders. She looked beautiful.
She pursed her lips and spat in his face.
‘He was the only one who knew where the silver was. The village knew it was there, but he never told anyone the exact location. Now that he’s dead the whole village …’ She corrected herself. ‘What’s left of it, will go looking. Word will get out and there’ll be people coming from all over Mexico. The Indians will fight them and then the federales will fight the Indians. There will be a war.’
Hawk dragged the back of his gloved hand across his face, wiping the spittle clear. He stared for an instant at the glistening saliva, then shook it clear.
‘Yeah,’ was all he said.
And then there was silence again.
The shadows got longer as they approached Mantegara, afternoon whittling away into evening and twilight darkening the trail. Lights began to show beyond the walls of the town.
‘What will you do now?’ Hawk asked. ‘Where will you go?’
Manuela shrugged. ‘My father had money, and I have relatives in Mexico City. I could go back to Santa Maria, or go to the capital. I don’t know. Why should you worry?’
Hawk fingered the blue muffler and said, ‘I don’t know.’
They came closer to the western gate. There was the faint sound of a piano tinkling from one of the cantinas, the tinny jangling cutting through the more melodic rhythm of guitars. A full moon showed, resting low in the clear sky that was pricked through with a myriad stars. Idly, Hawk realized that a new year had begun.
And then his senses were snapped to full alertness as the triple click of a cocking hammer rang through the stillness. His right hand dropped to the butt of his Colt.
‘Don’t.’
He froze, reining in as the vaquero with the eye-patch stepped out from behind a clump of saguaro. The man held a Colt’s Peacemaker leveled on Hawk’s stomach and a wide smile on his face. The black patch was pulled clear of his eye, resting on his forehead so that both eyes held the gunfighter with a clear, unblinking gaze.
Manuela gasped, clutching at the mustang’s mane as Hawk let fall the rein.
‘Your friends talk too much, señor’ The hold-up man sounded amused. ‘And voices travel far on these still nights.’
‘What do you want?’ Hawk raised his arms as the Colt jerked up.
‘If my ears served me well, amigo, you have two thousand dollars on you.’ The man stepped in closer, the Colt unwavering. ‘And the girl is worth money, too. My ears hear very well. They are almost as good as my skill with a pistol.’
‘Who is he?’ Manuela directed her comment at Hawk.
‘A man who’s supposed to be lost in the wilds,’ grunted the American. ‘Felipe Morros, I presume.’
