Hawk 12, p.3
Hawk 12, page 3
They’d done a lot of things between them, stood up to a lot of men and faced a lot of guns. Once the pair of them had walked side by side down the dusty main street of Nogales with two pistols and a sawn-off Remington between them, eleven desperadoes littered over the street after the gun smoke had faded and the echoes of the shots dispersed into the heavy air.
A lot of things and all of them honest.
Until one night up in the hills with a campfire between them and Jack Emery urging Dent to fall in with him and make off with Prior’s gold, the shipment they were being paid to guard. It still haunted Dent that he had somehow allowed himself to be persuaded; haunted him still more that the man who’d turned his mind was the one above all else he would have trusted.
Now there was to be an end to it, a reckoning. Jack Emery had said he was heading out towards Sacramento. After all, that was the destination of the gold in the first place. The difference was that Emery wouldn’t be putting it in Prior’s deposit box in the bank; he’d be spending it freely in every saloon and whorehouse that took his fancy. He’d spend it until it was gone and then he’d be back where he was before—another old man with a .45 he couldn’t use as fast as even the year before. That and a hodgepodge of old memories he’d soon be trying to trade for drinks in the cheapest bar in town.
It pained Matt Dent to think about it. Hurt him more than the guilt that still lingered over his own part in things. Up there by that camp fire he’d stood facing Emery with his fingers close to the butt of his gun, Emery dropped into a gunfighter’s crouch across from him, his own hand inches away from the grip of his Webley.
‘They owe it to us!
‘All the fellers like this Prior, them as owns the things we been drawin’ pitiable pay all these years to protect. The mine owners and the ranchers an’ the men with three-piece suits who get themselves elected leaders of the town council so’s they can call meetin’s and stuff fat cigars in their faces and issue orders like they was talkin’ to scum!’
Up there with the cold of the wind for company and the soles of his boots all but wore through, it had seemed right. Only common sense. Now even those parts of it that seemed right still didn’t mean that stealing another man’s gold was any way to change things for the better. He hadn’t drawn on Jack Emery then, but next time it would be different. Matthew Dent wiped finger and thumb across his thin lips and vowed it would be different.
Lizzie had found them two of the largest steaks to have come out of her kitchen since she took the place over. She was forced to set them down, running with juice, on to two separate oval platters and give Hawk and Dent fresh plates for the mess of squash she fried up to accompany the potatoes and beans. Thick slices of cornbread had been stacked at the center of the table between two full glasses of beer.
Waiting out back for the main course to be dealt with were a half-dozen pancakes with maple syrup and homemade plum jam as well as a whole apple pie sprinkled with cinnamon and nutmeg.
The two men took their time, Hawk content to listen to the older man’s stories about his times down in Arizona and New Mexico, occasionally interrupting whenever Dent mentioned a place he knew or a man he had met.
Lizzie wandered up to the table from time to time and asked if everything was fine, which, of course, it was. Hawk, remembering the way the evening had finished on his last visit, couldn’t help but pay a deal of attention to Lizzie’s pearl-colored blouse, the way her black skirt stretched tight along her thighs when she moved. He admired the reddish tinge through her long brown hair and the way the tops of her boots turned and cut slightly against her legs. He admired her mouth and recalled the warmth of her lips.
He saw all this and tried not to make his interest too obvious, but there was no disguising his thoughts from Dent for one, nor, he guessed, from Lizzie either.
Well, what did it matter?
Hawk ate well, enjoying his meal, savoring in his mind the night ahead. When Lizzie came to clear away the plates and leave them a pot of freshly-brewed coffee, her hand rested on the back of her neck for an instant and despite himself Hawk smiled at a contract sealed.
Dent nodded and leaned well back in his chair, rolling a cigarette. The other customers shouted their good nights and left. Smoke drifted up from the lamps and lay along the ceiling like a gray-white blanket.
Lizzie pulled off the apron she wore over the front of her skirt and tossed it onto one of the tables.
Matt Dent shuffled to his feet, mumbled something about being plumb tuckered out and left the dining room, doing his best not to grin from ear to ear.
‘Why don’t you sit down?’ Hawk said, turning.
Lizzie smiled with her eyes and brushed a hand down her skirt at one side. She brought a cup and poured herself some coffee from the pot. For maybe half an hour they sat and talked about very little of importance.
‘When you leaving?’ she finally said, resting one arm across the table.
‘Sunup.’
‘Uh-huh. You got your supplies in already.’
‘S’afternoon.’
‘Taking Matt with you?’
‘Yeah.’
‘You think you’re bein’ fair to him, doing that?’
‘He wouldn’t have it any other way.’
‘That wasn’t the question.’
For several moments they stared at one another, before both looked away.
‘It concerns him,’ Hawk said. ‘Something he has to do.’
‘Something about Jack Emery?’
Hawk eyed her questioningly. ‘You know about that?’
‘I can guess.’
‘Then you know why Matt’s got to go.’
‘And get himself killed?’
‘It doesn’t have to be that way.’
‘Doesn’t it?’
Hawk shook his head. ‘I’ve seen him go up against men half his age and quick. He ain’t afraid an’ his nerve’s steady as a rock. I’d back him against most men.’
‘You still don’t have to take him.’
‘He wouldn’t agree.’
‘You could ride out tonight. Catch up with Emery before he ever finds you.’
A smile returned to the corners of Hawk’s mouth. ‘Not tonight.’
‘What’s so important about tonight?’
He reached out and took hold of her arm between wrist and elbow, firm but not hard. ‘I’ve got other plans.’
Lizzie pulled her arm away and stood up. ‘That’s nice,’ she said. There was something close to a smile on her face, except that it lacked a single degree of warmth. ‘That’s good. Don’t let me keep you from it.’
She was past the table when Hawk touched her hair and she whirled on him so fast he thought she was going to take a slap at his face. Her mouth was little more than a tight line and her eyes were darker than he’d seen them.
‘I thought. . .’ Hawk began, uncertain.
‘Yes?’
‘I thought … well, last time … it was good.’ He took a pace closer. ‘Wasn’t it?’
She stared right back at him. ‘Sure. It was fine.’
‘So?’
‘So what? I could say the same about a steak.’
‘If you have a good steak don’t that make you want to eat another?’
‘Not right off it don’t.’
‘I would have said you’d had plenty of time to get good and hungry.’
‘Would you now? That goes to show your appetites and mine just ain’t the same and that means you’ll have to go wanting. Difference between eating a good steak an’ what you got in mind is a person can eat steak on his own.’
She went to the door and held it open, a key in her hand ready to lock up. ‘Thanks for the coffee and the talk, Jared. If you’ve got time for breakfast before you leave, I’ll see you then.’
Hawk straightened up and walked past her with a nod but without a word. Five yards along the boardwalk he heard the key turn against the heavy lock and when he looked back crossing the street the lamps had been put out at the front. Only one in the kitchen still burned. There was a jangle from a piano in the saloon down towards the edge of town and through its discordant melody a tomcat howled at the moon.
He knew that Matt Dent had taken a room along the corridor and hesitated, thinking about joining the old man for a drink before turning in. Someone to talk to that would get Lizzie James off his mind. Maybe Matt would still be awake and pleased to waste a further hour talking. Maybe. But right then Hawk didn’t want to have to admit to another man that Lizzie hadn’t wanted anything to do with him. He could see the unspoken question forming on Dent’s face, the wondering about Hawk’s performance on the previous occasion.
He gripped the banister rail so tight that it creaked and shifted slightly. Took half a dozen paces back towards the stairs; a bottle from the bar would ease him into sleep. A woman who’d lay down with no questions asked as soon as the greenbacks were folded inside the top of her stocking. No questions and no clever talk about steak and responsibilities.
The banister gave a little more as Hawk turned and went back to his own room. He didn’t want whiskey and he didn’t want a woman—not just some other woman. Not now. He took a key from his side pocket and turned the lock, swung the door back and stepped inside, a pale rectangle of light slanting across the carpet, the edge of the bed, from the window.
Hawk used the sole of his boot to push the door closed at his back. He was halfway towards the window before he realized there was someone else in the room.
Spinning fast, dropping into a crouch, his right hand found the smooth grip of his Colt and had it almost clear of leather before he saw clearly enough the pistol that was less than ten feet from his head and aimed directly at it.
Hawk hesitated, blood pumping.
A nerve screamed in his left hand.
He slowly let the Colt slide back down into its holster, just as slowly straightened up.
In the darkness he could almost hear the man smile.
Questions raced in Hawk’s mind, all of them coming back to Jack Shade. But how had the connection been made so fast? How had Shade or one of his men got to him there in Hollister? If it was Shade … and if not …
‘Why don’t you unbuckle the belt?’ The voice was smooth, almost a purr. Soft like a woman’s yet deeper. ‘Oh, no. Not with that hand. I don’t think so. Use the glove, use the hand with the glove. You can use it, can’t you? Enough, I mean.’
Hawk could. It took longer and it was clumsy, but he finally had his gun belt unbuckled and was holding it by one end. The intruder showed him that he should drop it to the floor and then kick it over towards the chair where he was sitting.
‘That’s good. Now you could light the lamp.’
It stood on the chest of drawers beside the window and for a moment Hawk considered diving through the glass down on to the street below. But if the fall didn’t cripple him, he’d still be presenting his back for too long as a target. The moon was far from full and the stars were none too many, but for a man who knew how to use a gun he would be like a tin can stuck up on a fence.
Hawk reckoned that whoever his visitor was, he knew how to use a gun.
The lamp flickered, released a small cloud of dark smoke that stank of tallow, and finally settled into a yellow light that spread itself across half the ceiling and down the faded pink flowers of the wallpaper, the worn carpet on the floor.
Now Hawk could see that the man behind the gun was close to thirty; he had a face that was both soft and alert at the same time, the nose and mouth were somehow too rounded and small but the eyes were dark and bright, never quite still. His hair was dark brown, cut short and close to his head. He was wearing a thin cotton coat and a vest that was buttoned over a gray shirt; gray pants fell outside boots that held a dull shine and looked to be of soft, supple leather.
Without the pistol deviating one inch, the man dipped his free hand into the inside pocket of the black cotton coat and pulled out a card, holding it out for Hawk to take.
An open eye was framed on the card by ornate lettering which read: Pinkerton’s National Detective Agency. Beneath the eye was the slogan: ‘We Never Sleep’.
Hawk read the agent’s name at the bottom of the card. Read it twice. He nodded and handed the card back, the gun and those alert dark eyes watching him close.
‘What can I do for you, Mr. Beckstein?’
Sam Beckstein smiled and allowed his body to ease a little into the back of the chair. ‘We can, I hope, do things for one another.’
Hawk raised an eyebrow questioningly and said nothing.
‘You don’t think so?’
‘I’m waiting to hear what you got to say.’ He was also waiting for the detective to relax enough to lower his pistol but so far there was little sign of that happening.
‘We have a mutual interest, I believe.’
‘Yeah?’
‘A man by the name of Jack Shade.’
Hawk’s mouth went dry and a nerve started to tick more quickly at the side of his head.
‘You know him?’ Beckstein asked.
‘No.’ Hawk shook his head.
‘You know a man called Slattery.’ This wasn’t a question.
Hawk hesitated too long, finally said, ‘Maybe.’
Beckstein allowed himself a smile. ‘At Cathay’s Lake you knew him. Maybe I should remind you. A tall albino with long white hair and pink eyes …’ Beckstein’s smile showed in his voice. ‘… a little difficult to forget, wouldn’t you say?’
Hawk shrugged. ‘You’re doin’ the talking.’
‘After you and the old man left Slattery and his men dead you left Cathay’s Lake with a quantity of money and three pack loads of crates which I would be surprised to find contained anything other than rifles. United States Army rifles at that.’
‘What’s this got to do with Shade?’
The Pinkerton man lifted his shoulders and his eyes momentarily towards the ceiling; the pistol didn’t budge. ‘I am not a fool, Mr. Hawk.’
‘I didn’t take you for one.’
‘Then why pretend you do not know that the money and the rifles are both belonging to Jack Shade?’
Hawk shook his head. ‘They belong to me.’
‘Shade may not see it that way.’
‘You working for him?’ Hawk asked, clenching his right fist.
Beckstein smiled. ‘You’ve seen my card. You know for whom I’m working.’
‘Men’ve worked for two masters before.’
‘This is true.’
‘So why not you?’
Beckstein shook his head almost sadly. ‘You may know of our arrangement with the military. We are, what would you say, their secret service. Not quite officially, but that is the way it works. For some months now we have been attempting to track down a quantity of missing arms, rifles and ammunition, some smaller quantities of other items. Always the name of this Jack Shade is to be found at the heart of things. Sometimes the guns are stolen and he has received prior information about their shipment; sometimes they are smuggled out of army stores and he has paid a generous bribe. Some weeks later, often months, the same guns will reappear south of the Mexican border, from time to time the Apache will have fresh weapons.’
Beckstein wasn’t smiling anymore and what had seemed soft in his face was no longer so.
‘Jack Shade,’ he pronounced in a whisper.
‘You want him,’ Hawk said.
‘We shall get him.’
Hawk released the fingers of his right hand from their fist. ‘Where is he?’
Beckstein actually laughed; the hand holding the gun actually wavered but by no more than a couple of inches and as soon as Hawk tensed and started to lean his body forward the pistol was rock steady and the laughter had choked off to sudden silence.
‘We don’t know.’
‘You mean you ain’t sayin’.’
‘I mean we’re not sure,’ said Beckstein a shade apologetically.
‘So how come you know so much about Slattery and what went off up at Cathay’s Lake?’
The Pinkerton man smiled. ‘Aren’t I a detective?’
‘You knew about Slattery and the guns, why didn’t you tell the Army? Move in and get them back?’
Beckstein made a quick sideways gesture with his head, one of irritation. ‘Slattery was nothing to us. Until he got greedy enough to steal his employer’s money. Then he became interesting. We watched him, not too close, but close enough. We were waiting for Jack Shade to come and get back what was rightfully his.’
Beckstein shrugged philosophically. ‘You came instead. You and this old lawman named Dent.’
‘You sound as if you want an apology.’
‘Maybe. I suppose you had your reasons. It could have been you didn’t even know about Shade. Now I’m certain that you do.’ Beckstein smiled. ‘Just what are you intending to do with those crates of Army issue rifles that are illegally in your possession, Mr. Hawk?’
It was quiet inside the room for several moments. The sound of someone snoring penetrated the walls and Hawk wondered if it could be Dent.
‘I could say I was handin’ ’em over to the sheriff first thing,’ Hawk said.
‘So who would believe you?’
‘Does it matter?’
‘Tell me what you intend for the rifles, Mr. Hawk.’ Beckstein was sitting forward now, close to the edge of the chair. The finger that caressed the trigger was a fraction tighter against the smooth metal. The dark eyes had narrowed and the small, soft mouth was like a pencil stroke. ‘Hold on to ’em till Jack Shade comes after ’em.’
Beckstein beamed; he opened the pencil line of a mouth wide enough for the end of his tongue to dampen his bottom lip. There was a trace of excitement in his eyes now.
