The sign said ‘Sarah’s Café.’ The sun was shining against the windows, so Hawk couldn’t see in too well, but he was hungry and the thought of a meal that he wouldn’t have to catch or shoot and cook over a trail camp flame appealed to him.
After dumping the bodies of the Stoker brothers off at the undertakers, he had accompanied Brace Coburn to the local Sheriff’s office where Coburn made out the necessary papers for collecting the rewards on the Stokers. Coburn would send a wire asking for the funds to be sent; six hundred dollars, total. There was $250 on Ephram and $350 for Zeke. It would take a few days for the authorization of funds to be wired to the local bank, so Hawk was going to have to stick around for a while and wait for the money. He had rummaged through Sheriff Meade’s wanted posters and had picked out a couple that he thought might be profitable, tossed a few jeering remarks at Buzz Shannan, and left both lawmen equally perturbed at him as he went out.
It had been awhile since his grayish black mora had had anything but sparse grass to eat and Hawk had decided to treat him to a stay at the livery. He gave the hostler an extra dollar to rub the horse down and see to it that he had all the grain he needed.
Then as he walked down the street, the café’s sign caught his attention and he suddenly realized how hungry he, himself was. With the reward money on its way, he decided he could splurge a little on himself. He stepped to the door, turned the knob and stepped inside.
His eyes squinted as he stepped inside and was met by the darkness of the room, contrasted from the bright light outside, but after a moment his dark eyes seemed to adjust. As he gazed around the room, which was long lengthwise compared to its width. A lunch counter ran along the lengthwise portion and the kitchen could be seen through swinging doors behind it.
There were several tables along the window side facing the street. Only a few tables were occupied at this time of day and a couple of patrons were sitting at the counter.
Almost simultaneous, the customers at the counter, turned on their stools and the patrons at the tables, turned their heads to stare at the tall Apache. A hush came over the room. This reaction was nothing new to Hawk, but he hated it every time, nevertheless.
He pretended he didn’t notice or care as he strode along the counter, found an empty stool and sat down. The other customers at the counter, quickly got up, tossed their money on the counter top, and hurriedly left the café.
An elderly couple at one of the tables, arose, gathered their belongings, and hurried out the door.
Hawk leaned his elbows on the counter and folded his arms, watching the mass exodus.
“Looks like I’m bad for business, Ma’am,” he said apologetically as a young dark haired waitress approached him with a coffee pot in her right hand and a cup and saucer in the other.
She didn’t comment, just said, “Coffee, mister.” She automatically placed the cup and saucer in front of him and started pouring without waiting for an answer. The coffee was steaming and the aroma was rich and inviting. The girl kept her eyes on the task at hand, not bothering to look up at him and seemingly ignoring the fact that her clientele had suddenly emptied out of the place.
As he watched her pour, he liked what he saw. She was fairly petite as most women go, but there seemed to be substance to her small frame and when she moved he could see there was a strength about her and although she tried to hide it, there was a certain toughness that could be sensed. She had black, raven hair that hung straight and fell about her shoulders, framing a clear-complected, oval face that although, appeared light compared to the black hair, was almost a shaded tan. When she looked up from pouring the coffee, her long lashes lifted, revealing large black eyes.
“What’ll it be, mister?” She said mechanically and business like.
“Well, seeing as how I’ve driven away most of your business, let me make it up to you. Bring me the most expensive meal you’ve got.”
“Don’t need to do me no favors, mister,” she said flatly. “Business comes, business goes.” She didn’t bother to even look at him. She just whirled and disappeared through the swinging doors into the kitchen.
As he waited, he sipped on the coffee a while, then turned halfway around on the stool. Another couple at a table was busy getting ready to leave. Only one table was left occupied. The rotund couple was relishing their food and apparently weren’t about to let the presence of an Apache bounty hunter spoil their appetite.
A commotion seemed to be filling the street outside and it drew Hawk’s attention. He had heard the clatter of horses’ hooves and the clank of sabres before he finally saw the detail of cavalry riders pass by the big plate window of the café. There were about a dozen riders and they had ridden into town much too recklessly, he thought. Their mounts, kicking up a cloud of dust, as they continued on down the street.
Although their appearance was fleeting as they passed by, Hawk recognized some of them, for up until a year ago, he had ridden as scout for the cavalry out of Fort Huachuka. His parting with the army had been very bitter and he had given up his Corporal rank and ridden off and drifted into bounty hunting as way to make a living. He found it would give him good excuses to vent his anger. He had never brought a prisoner in alive.
Although, his own people, the Apaches, had shunned him and driven him away as a coward, for failing to kill a white man in battle and leaving the scene of attack, some three years earlier, he could not condone the Army’s most recent inhumane treatment of the Apache.
When Hawk left the tribe, he was very bitter against his own people. That is, who he considered was his own people for only the Apaches and himself knew that he was only half Apache. His mother had been a white woman, taken by the Indians years ago. His father was Natchez who was now well known and terrorizing the country alongside Geronimo.
Natchez had had two other wives who were Apache and he had other children with them; three daughters and one son named Torrio. Torrio had been his father’s favorite and he never had any use for Hawk nor for his daughters, other than selling them for horses when marrying time came.
Torrio had always hated Hawk, even as children. While in his teens, he had even tried to kill Hawk by rolling a large boulder down on top of him. It was several years before Hawk had discovered the truth, but he had always suspected it.
Torrio had always wanted whatever Hawk had or wanted and was always quick to cheat him out it. There was a young Indian maiden that Hawk was infatuated with, ever since he was a little boy. Her name was Dulsiree and they had been very close growing up. As they reached adulthood, Hawk and Dulsiree had wanted to marry, but Torrio had to have her himself, if only to spite Hawk.
Torrio had paid more horses for Dulsiree than Hawk could ever hope to acquire. And, even if he could have obtained them, Natchez and Torrio would have seen to it that Hawk under no circumstances could marry Dulsiree.
Life in the tribe became unbearable for Hawk as he saw Dulsiree being given over to Torrio. He could no longer even speak to the girl or even be seen glancing her way. When Dulsiree bore Torrio’s first child, Hawk could no longer stand to be in camp. He began to ride with Geronimo and his other war-chiefs. He didn’t mind the border raids, but attacking white settlements and wagon trains, killing women and children was not to his liking. His failure to kill on the battlefield led to his final expulsion from the Apache camps.
With bitterness toward those he believed to be his people, he joined the United States Cavalry as an Indian scout. For two years, he helped the Army fight against Geronimo and helped them keep the Apaches in line.
It was the placement of the Apache on the San Carlos Reservation, that brought an end to his service with the army. At first, he agreed with it, for he relished the thought of Nachez, Torrio and Geronimo confined to a reservation. All did not go as he planned. Geronimo and his followers were constantly escaping from the reservation and usually still on the loose, while the rest of the tribes were left to survive or die on a crowded piece of government land.
Conditions were
intolerable on the reservation. Sickness and pestilence prevailed. An epidemic of cholera spread throughout the tribe and many died. Among those who didn’t survive, was his own mother and Dulsiree. Hawk could no longer be part of this atrocity. It was time to leave the Army.
Hawk had told himself that he never thought about either of the two women in his life anymore, but as he heard the plates being set on the counter before him, he swung back around and noticed how much this dark eyed girl reminded him of both of them.
“That’s the most expensive meal?” He eyed the bowl of beef stew suspiciously.
“When you pay for it, you’ll think so.” She answered with indifference and moved away curtly.
He sat in silence, spooning away the stew and munching on the accompanying biscuits. He was almost finished when the waitress returned. “Anything else, Mister?” She asked.
“No ma’am,” he answered. Then added, “Are you Sarah? I mean, like the sign says out front?”
“No. That was the name of the place, when I bought it. Didn’t bother to change it,” she said. “That’ll be five dollars,” she added.
“Five dollars? For a bowl of stew and a couple of biscuits.?”
“You said you wanted expensive.”
Hawk smiled pleasantly, “That I did. And I do owe you for driving away your customers.” He grinned, reached into his shirt pocket and tossed two five dollar gold pieces on the counter top.
The girl’s hard exterior started a fade a bit and her voice lost its edge. She said, “You don’t need to do that.”
“Yes I do,” he rebutted. “I tend to drive people away. I’m sorry.”
“You’re that bounty hunter, aren’t you?” She said with interest for the first time. “The Apache one, I mean. The one they call the Apache Gunhawk.”
“Yes,” he said. “And sometimes they call me gun hawk, but my name is Hawk. And, I’m only half Apache.” He didn’t know why he had said that. He had never told another living person that.
She started to say something, caught herself, changed the tact and said, “Collette. My name is Collette Batiste.”
“French?” Hawk’s brow raised.
“Yes.”
“My mother was French,” he said. Something else he had never told anyone. “She was taken by the Apaches many years ago. My father is the war chief Nachez.”
The door to the café jingled open and the start of conversation died as quickly as it seemed to start. “I’m back sweetie,” a lighthearted voice shouted from across the lunchroom. Collette swung her head toward the door, smiled broadly and stepped around the counter to hug the young man in a cavalry uniform bearing the three stripes of a sergeant.
He was a slender man of average height, in his early thirties, and when he swept off his campaign hat, it revealed a head of closely cropped red hair. Hawk recognized him right off. His name was Cory Dillon and he had outranked Hawk during the scout’s tour of duty.
Dillon and Hawk had never gotten along. The sergeant was full of himself and usurped his rank to brow beat subservient soldiers. He was the number one thing about the military that Hawk didn’t miss in the least. How this arrogant s.o.b. could land a girl like Collette was beyond his comprehension. Watching the two of them was like being in the tribe after Torrio had taken Dulsiree. It was time to go. He picked up his hat from the counter and slid off the stool and made his way passed the couple toward the door.
As he stepped around them, Dillon spotted him. He broke the embrace and stepped back a step and blocked Hawk’s exit. “Well, well, well,” he said mockingly. “If it isn’t my old pal, Chicken Hawk.”
“And if it isn’t my old Sergeant Chicken Shit,” Hawk countered, trying to step around him. Dillon stepped again, blocking the Apache’s path and grabbing Hawk’s arm. Hawk glared at him, glanced down at the hand on his arm, and then glared once more into the sergeant’s face, shook the soldier off and stepped past him, closing the door quietly behind him.
“He can’t get away with that,” Dillon said, turning for the door to follow.
“Corey, no!” Collette called, pleadingly. “Let him alone!”
Corey hesitated at the door, his hand still on the knob and the door open a crack. He glared back at her, not liking the concern he saw in her face, then stepped angrily through the doorway onto the board sidewalk outside.
Hawk was almost across the street, nearing the water trough in front of the blacksmith’s shop, when Dillon stepped off the walk and hurried after him. “Chicken Hawk!” he yelled angrily. “I’m not through with you!”
He stopped suddenly, freezing in mid stride as Hawk halted a beat, then turned slowly and deliberately; eyes cold and dangerous. Without a word, the Apache Gunhawk strode forward, placing each step carefully and deliberately in front of the other.
The Sergeant swallowed hard. All of a sudden, he felt the threat of impending danger. Oh, God! Had he pushed his luck too far? His knees felt weak and his mouth was dry.
As Hawk walked up to him, he said flatly, “You know what Chicken Hawks do, Dillon?” Without waiting for an answer and not expecting or even inviting one, he added. “They swoop down on their prey and grab them by the neck.” Without a break in stride or inflection of tone, the big Indian pivoted on his heel, caught Corey by his collar at the knap of his neck and lifted the cowering soldier off his feet. His other hand grasped the sergeant by the seat of his britches, pulled him horizontal, took a giant step back toward the other side of the street, and with a mighty swing, he tossed Dillon into the water trough.
The irate soldier, screamed as he fell, backside first into the cold water. He splashed around violently, blubbering as the liquid filled his open mouth and nostrils. His legs flailed over the top edge of the trough, slipped off and his body dipped back under the surface.
Hawk stood there a moment, half grinned, without another word, and swaggered off down the street.
Collette, standing in front of the plate glass window, giggled at the sight of her beau in the water. The giggle ceased and she smiled with a light in her eyes as she watched the tall bounty hunter walk away.
Townspeople were laughing and hooting at the floundering cavalry man in the trough. Some of his troopers seeing and hearing the commotion gathered around, trying not to laugh, for if Dillon saw them, he would take it out on them later. They shuffled off and bellowed with laughter when they were sure, they were out of sight.
Corey Dillon was spitting water and trying to right himself when a pair of burly arms reached in, grasping him from behind and under the armpits. “Corey! Corey!” A deep raspy voice sounded. “What in the world did you think you were doing?”
Dillon gained his balance, standing upright, shaking his head and letting water fly out from it, as a wet dog would. Water dripped down his face and his uniform felt heavy. He pulled his shirttail free and wrung a corner of it. “Here. Let me help you out of there, son,” Brace Coburn said as he released his hold, once Corey was steady on his feet.
The young sergeant shook him off angrily. “I don’t need no help,” he said as he climbed out of the trough. The townspeople were still laughing, but as Dillon clenched his fists and bared his teeth in anger, the crowd suddenly silenced and dispersed.
“Settle down Corey,” Brace said calmly. “It’s over.”
“Easy for you to say, Brace,” Corey retorted, still breathing hard. “He didn’t make a fool out you in front of the whole town.”
“He didn’t make a fool out of you,” Coburn assured him.
“You sayin’ I was already a fool? I thought you were my friend. I never thought you’d turn against me.”
“Haven’t I always been there for you Corey,” the marshal said. “Ever since your Pa died.”
“Well…yeah,” he admitted reluctantly.
Brace Coburn had always felt responsible for young Corey. Corey’s dad had also been a soldier and many years ago he had been killed fighting off bandits during a bank robbery. It had always been assumed that the fleeing
outlaws had killed the young soldier, but in reality, it had been Brace Coburn’s own bullet that had accidentally brought him down as he ran into the line of fire.
It was about that time that young Brace Coburn had lost his own family to an Apache raid. The grief over his own family, and the guilt of taking the young soldier’s life was almost too much to bear. To deal with his grief, he had given up his position as a part time town sheriff and taken a job as a Deputy U.S. Marshal. Tracking down wanted outlaws proved a venue for releasing his anger. For a while, he seldom brought a prisoner in alive.
As penance for the soldier’s death, he took it upon himself to look out for the Dillon family. At first, he merely dropped by the fort, occasionally, bringing food and whatever else he thought they might need. Then as time went on, he became very fond of Esther Dillon and her boy Corey.
Whenever, he was in the area, he would stop off at the fort to see them. He spent a lot of time with them. He began to mellow and he started bringing prisoners in alive and his devotion to duty and adherence to the law became his calling.
“Then, listen to me now, son. Shake it off and forget about it. Stay away from Hawk.” He said it more as a command, then he voice turned grim and he added, “He’s a dangerous man. Don’t ever forget that. Now go get yourself dried out.”
Corey nodded his head in acquiescence and wanting to get out of public sight, he shuffled off. Out of the corner of his eye, he thought he saw Collette turn away from the window, but all that was left now was just the reflection of the afternoon sun on the glass. No matter what Brace Coburn had said, he was not going to let any dirty redskin make a fool of him, especially in front of his girl. He vowed silently to himself, “I’ll get even with that sumbitch. I’ll get even.”
CHAPTER NINE
Apache Gunhawk Page 8