Houston Attack

by Randy Wayne White

  There was a telephone on the desk beside the bed. Hawker studied it for a moment. Thinking suddenly about Cristoba de Abella, the beautiful Indian girl, Hawker looked at the pathetic woman on the bed. “How did you get here?” he asked. “Where are you from?”

  The woman stared at him, incoherent. “Why, you brought me here, Hernando. Don’t you remember? I was on vacation and I trusted you, and you brought me here.”

  The woman settled back on the bed in what she thought was a suggestive pose. She rubbed her hands over the stretch-mark-scarred breasts and licked her lips. “If you make me a fix, I’ll give you something nice in return, eh? Something real nice, okay?”

  Feeling an involuntary nausea, Hawker switched out the light and closed the door behind him. Hernando, still writhing in agony, looked up at him expectantly.

  Hawker picked up the empty Ingram and slung it over his shoulder. “Bad news, Hernando,” Hawker said as he headed toward the bar’s front door. “You’re going to have to make your own phone call—even if it means you’ll never trust me again.”

  seven

  It took Hawker only a few hours to get back across the border.

  He jettisoned all weaponry but the handmade Randall knife. He doubted if news of the mass killings had reached the border guards yet, but he wanted to take no chance of his weapons being found.

  But once he got back into Texas, he could not afford to hurry. He needed more information. He needed specifics.

  Twenty-four hours later, from a phone booth in Weslaco, he called Gasteau Blakely. Blakely was not pleased, to say the least.

  “Jesus Christ, Hawker!” he yelled. “What went on down there in Mexico last night?”

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about, Gas,” Hawker answered calmly. “I spent a couple of days playing tourist. Bought a basket. People down there were real friendly. Quite a welcome I got at one bar in particular—”

  “What about the welcome you gave, for God’s sake! Shit, Hawker, I thought those rumors I’d heard about you had been exaggerated. Hell, you’re a damn war machine—”

  “Hang on, Gas. Like I said, I have no idea what you’re talking about. But if this guy is all he’s supposed to be, then you can bet the guys who got hit down there damn well deserved to get hit. But that’s not why I’m calling. I’m calling because I need information. There’s the name of a man I want you to check on, and the name of a ranch.…”

  Finally Blakely calmed down enough to promise he would check out both for Hawker. But he finished with a warning. “Damn it, Hawker, I don’t want that shit going on in my district. Do you hear me? If you go one step over the line in my district, I’m going to put your ass in jail and feed the key to the hogs.”

  “Nice talking to you, too, Gas,” Hawker said, smiling. “And like I said: I don’t know what in the hell you’re talking about.”

  So Hawker stuck to the back roads, bouncing along in the battered Chevy pickup truck. He stopped at desolate ranches, small towns, and two gas stations.

  He talked with people. He ate and drank with them. He asked questions about the Bar of the Unknown Souls and about rumors of a slavery ring. Always the reaction was the same. These good, friendly people turned inward, uncommunicative. He was welcome as a man, but his questions were not wanted. The impression Hawker had of this organization was now doubly strong: It was a source of terror to all who had heard of it.

  So Hawker would ask his questions and move on. Once again he was the one-armed drifter. Once again he was on the trail.

  But now he had something to go on. The name of a ranch: The Sister Star. And the name of a man: Williams.

  Every night he stopped at a ranch house and traded work for a place to sleep in the barn. And every night he drove to the nearest town and tried to call his second connection: Sancho Rigera. And always there was no answer, or he got a recording saying the phone was out of order.

  Just when Hawker decided he should drive back to Sancho’s ranch and make sure he and his family were all right, the little Mexican finally answered.

  It had been nearly two weeks since they had talked, and Sancho seemed delighted to hear from him. “My friend and partner, it is so good of you to call. I was just telling the esposa that I feared the bad men had taken you.”

  “And I was beginning to think the same about you, Sancho. I couldn’t get you on the phone.”

  “Hah! This telephone. This dirty machine!” Hawker heard him spit in contempt. “There is a devil inside this teléfono sent to vex me. It breaks. I ride twenty miles to contact the telephone company. But when the men arrive two days later to fix it, it is no longer broken. The men look at me as if I am crazy. And then, the moment they leave, it refuses to work once again. A curse on this instrument!”

  Hawker laughed at the little man’s anger. “I called because I need some information, Sancho. There’s a ranch named—”

  “I will help you in any way I can, my friend,” the little man cut in. “But first I have some things to discuss. Some matters of business,” he added importantly. “The documents of our corporation arrived three days ago. My neighbors, the silly men, found it impossible to believe that I was president of a company as important as Chicago Fossil Fuels Limited. Can you imagine their surprise when I showed them these documents? It was a moment of such importance that we toasted it with mescal. Whenever another neighbor arrived, we toasted it again. Soon there was a party.”

  “Did the documents survive?” Hawker asked wryly.

  “But of course. Juan Probisco, the nasty man, stained them with oil from his hands. I was very angry, James, but then Juan suggested that it might be a good thing—the stain of oil on the documents of a company that seeks oil.”

  “Yes, indeed.” Hawker smiled. “A good omen.”

  “It was a good omen for Juan, because I was about to smack him with a hammer.”

  “Sancho,” Hawker pressed, “I need to ask you about a certain ranch—”

  “Yes, but first the news!” the Mexican interrupted. “I was about to tell you: We have selected a spot to dig for oil!”

  “Sancho, you don’t understand. We didn’t form that company to actually look for oil. We formed that company so that you and your neighbors wouldn’t be harassed anymore.”

  The hurt in Sancho’s voice was plain. “But what is the use of being president of such a company if the company does not actually seek oil? At this party of which I spoke, all of my neighbors signed this fine document, James. We are all members now. And while it is true you are vice-president, I am still the president—”

  “Okay, okay, Sancho, we’ll look for oil,” Hawker said, chuckling. “And you’ve already picked the spot?”

  “We have,” Sancho Rigera said with authority. “It was my friend Juan’s idea. It was reasoned this way: If a man seeks gold in a river, what must he first do? He must first put a little gold in that river. Do you see? Gold attracts gold. It is Juan’s understanding that it is the same with all things of value: silver, diamonds … and oil.”

  “It makes sense so far,” Hawker said agreeably. “Sure.”

  “Does it not? That is why we have such high hopes. You see, it is this way. There is a spot near our village where the women dump their bad grease. Since I was a little boy, the women of the village have always used this spot. For a hundred years, maybe more, it has been this way. It is true that this spot is not such a nice place for the nose. But what in reality is old grease?”

  “Oil?” Hawker put in helpfully.

  “Exactly! It is there we will dig our well. There is an old man in our village who once worked in the drilling business. It was long ago, and he learned to drill for water, not oil—but is not all drilling much the same?”

  “It is, yes, indeed,” Hawker said, now trying hard not to laugh. “And I wish you luck, Sancho. But now you must tell me what I wish to know.”

  “Of course, my friend. Anything for a partner in my business.”

  “Good. There is a place called
the Sister Star Ranch. It’s someplace in Texas, but people are reluctant to tell me about it for some reason. Do you know of it?”

  The silence on Sancho’s end was so long that for a moment Hawker thought his phone had gone dead again. But finally he said, “Yes, my friend. I know of it.”

  “Then tell me where it is, Sancho.”

  Hawker could tell that it pained the little Mexican to speak. “The Sister Star Ranch is in the county between LaSalle and Webb, about sixty miles west of our village. The ranch is so large that it is really a county unto itself. Star County. There are several smaller ranches on it, but they are all owned by the same man.”

  Hawker pressed the phone hard against his ear, straining to hear a name he already knew. “And what is this man’s name, Sancho?”

  “My friend,” the man pleaded, “you must not go to this place. For if you do, it is certain death. Please, come live with us. You are a lonely man and homeless—but my prettiest daughter, Juanita, looks upon you favorably even though you have but one arm—”

  “The man’s name, Sancho. What is it?”

  “His name … his name is Skate Williams. It was this same man whose employees tried to force us into selling our oil rights.” He sighed unhappily. “And God forgive me, James, for ever telling you, for now your death is on my hands.…”

  eight

  Sancho was right about the size of the Sister Star Ranch. It was a county unto itself. Almost a country unto itself.

  Hawker rattled along through the rolling range of mesquite and prickly pear cactus, through the one-gas-station towns with their solitary COKE signs and peeling clapboard houses, past the rank longhorn cattle of south Texas.

  At a general store outside Tilden on Highway 72, Hawker stopped for fuel and something to eat.

  He wasn’t really hungry. Back in Houston, he had re-armed, bathed, changed clothes, and eaten enough Rio Bravo Burgers to last him a week. But he wanted to see how people outside Star County felt about Skate Williams and his Sister Star Ranch operation.

  Hawker had decided to stay with the one-armed drifter character. Back in Mexico, the only member of the organization who had survived his assault was the driver of the slave truck. And the driver had not seen him.

  So he smoothed the serape and went inside the little general store. The man behind the wooden counter was a wizened, sour old man with white hair and a gigantic chaw of tobacco in his cheek. Hawker drank a quart of buttermilk and ate pig’s knuckles and crackers while he tried in engage the man in conversation.

  Yes, the old man said, Hawker might be able to find work in Star County. No, he didn’t think it would be at Skate Williams’s ranch. Skate Williams never hired. (This was said with a private smile that told Hawker just what he wanted to know.) Yes, he knew Skate Williams, and he thought he was a self-important son of a bitch.

  It took Hawker nearly a full hour to dig this information out of the old man. But it was worth it. Hawker needed to know if the locals in the adjoining counties were for or against the slave lord. And if the store owner was any indication, Hawker might be able to find some backup help if he needed it.

  The scenery began to change when he entered Star County. The roadside shanties disappeared, as did the dilapidated little towns. In Star County all seemed clean and undeveloped. There were miles of open range on which cattle grazed. The brand on the cattle was plain, even from the road: two overlapping stars.

  Hawker saw the first of Skate Williams’s ranches from about ten miles away. It was in a shallow valley by a river that rolled down out of the hills. There was a large main house and several smaller houses. As Hawker drew nearer, he could see the main house was built of stone. The barn and the outbuildings were clapboard or board and batten, painted white. Miles of five-plank fence, also painted white, rolled along the edge of the ranch.

  The front gate was open, but Hawker stopped, anyway. A sign read:

  SISTER STAR RANCH #4

  SKATE WILLIAMS, OWNER

  ROY DALTON, MGR.

  ABSOLUTELY NO TRESPASSING

  From the sign Hawker made two general deductions: one, Williams owned at least four such ranches, and Cristoba de Abella could be on any of them—if she was still alive; and two, Skate Williams—if his ego matched his wealth—probably didn’t live here. He would live on Ranch #1.

  Ignoring the sign’s warning, Hawker drove through the gate and down the long drive.

  The greeting he received was something less than friendly. As he pulled into the main house’s circular drive, four burly men strode out to confront him. They wore old jeans, stained western shirts, and high-crowned western hats. They looked like prop toughs in some mid-forties cowboy movie.

  As Hawker stepped out of the truck, the four men fanned out around the door, blocking Hawker’s exit.

  “You got business here?” the heaviest of them, a florid-faced man with massive hands, asked.

  “Maybe,” said Hawker. “I’m looking for work.”

  “Then maybe you telephoned ahead and got permission to apply?” the florid-faced man pressed. Hawker noted that his huge silver belt buckle read, “Jeb.” Jeb wore a Ruger Blackhawk .44 in a holster strapped to his hip.

  “Didn’t call,” Hawker said. “Didn’t know I was supposed to.”

  As Hawker turned to slide past the men, Jeb grabbed his shoulder and swung him around. “We’re talking to you, mister. Don’t go trying to sneak off like that.”

  “Shit, Jeb,” one of the other men cut in, “he ain’t got but one arm.”

  Jeb’s lips curled back. Hawker guessed it was his version of a grin. “And just what kind of work do you think a one-armed man can do around here?” He looked at the other man and winked. “We got a vet that does all our artificial insemination.” He winked again. “And that’s about all a one-armed man is good for, isn’t it? Jackin’ off bulls, and whatever other creatures that gets in his way.”

  The others laughed. Hawker could feel the muscles in his face grow tight. “You seem to know all about it, Jeb,” Hawker said softly. “I guess it’s true what Texas women say about you guys with great big belt buckles.”

  The big cowboy’s face grew serious for a moment. “Yeah? And what do they say?”

  “They say you’ve got tiny little dicks, Jeb. And I guess that would make you real handy.”

  The others roared with laughter.

  But Jeb didn’t. He shoved Hawker roughly against the truck and threw a ponderous right fist at Hawker’s face.

  Hawker ducked under the punch and drove his left hand deep into the big man’s solar plexus, then put all his weight behind a backhand that sent the cowboy backpedaling across the drive.

  The punch to the belly had knocked most of the wind out of him, so he wheezed as he said, “You one-armed son of a bitch, I’ll kill you for that.”

  Hawker could do nothing but stand helplessly as Jeb drew the Blackhawk .44—one of the most powerful sidearms ever sold.

  There was the sound of a hammer clicking back—and Hawker was surprised to realize that one of the other ranch hands had also drawn a weapon. He was a tall rugged-looking man with smooth, weathered skin and bright blue eyes. The way he leveled his Colt revolver at Jeb reminded Hawker just a little bit of Gary Cooper.

  “You got no call to shoot this man, Jeb,” the cowboy drawled easily. “Unless you’re afraid to take on a one-armed man in a fair fight.”

  Jeb’s eyes burned as he glared at the man. “You put that sidearm away right now, Quirt Evans, or I’ll shove that son of a bitch up your ass!”

  The tall man he had called Quirt Evans smiled broadly. “One fight at a time, Jeb. One fight at a time.” He nodded at Hawker. “Right now it looks like you got your hands full with this old boy.”

  Jeb glared at him for a moment more, then reluctantly holstered the Blackhawk .44. More cautiously now, he began to stalk Hawker, both fists clenched.

  Hawker nodded at Evans. “Thanks,” he said.

  Quirt Evans winked briefly. “You
can thank me later—if you live.”

  Hawker chuckled as he took two careful steps toward the huge cowboy. “Thanks for the reassurance,” he said.

  Jeb threw a series of roundhouse lefts and rights, and Hawker ducked under them all, backing away. He felt a great temptation to pull his right arm from beneath the serape and beat the hell out of this overweight bully. But if he did so, he knew he would immediately expose himself as a fraud, and all the long weeks of work would be wasted.

  No, he had to fight this man—and he had to beat him using only one arm. That meant he had to stick and move; beat him with speed and skill. And under no circumstances could he allow Jeb to get him on the ground. The man was big and slow, but he looked strong as hell. On the ground Jeb would tear him apart.

  Hawker allowed Jeb to come charging at him once again, still backing away. Then, at the last microsecond, he faked a high overhand left. When Jeb’s hands flew up to protect his face, Hawker spun and kicked him full force in the ribs with the heel of his boot.

  Jeb bowed over, sputtering. Hawker was immediately on him, cracking the florid face open with a series of left uppercuts and hooks. Jeb kept backing away, trying to get his hands up to shield his face. When his hands came up, Hawker went to work on the broad belly, putting all of his two hundred pounds behind the punches.

  The huge cowboy was wobbly now, and once again he reached for his gun. But Hawker beat him to it, drawing it out of the holster and tossing it across the drive.

  “I’ll kill you for this,” Jeb wheezed.

  Hawker slapped him twice in the face, hard. “You’ll what?”

  “I’ll kill you—”

  Hawker hit him flush on the nose. His nose flattened, immediately went pale white, then began to pour blood.

  “That’s the second time you’ve said that, and both times you’ve been on your ass.”

  Hawker knew that one more good shot would put him down, but as he drew back his fist a voice stopped him.

  “What in the hell is going on here?”

  Hawker turned to see a lean, middle-aged man with a black mustache standing on the porch of the big house. He wore a blue western leisure suit, and a cigarette hung from the corner of his mouth.