Shadow Shooters

by George Arthur

  ‘Wait,’ the guard said again. ‘No need for killin’.’

  With his Colt still pushed against the old woman’s forehead, Hawkstone said to the guard, ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘Perry Russell. You patch us up, and I’ll tell you where the payroll went.’

  ‘Other way around, Perry, where?’ He pulled his Colt from the old woman.

  Burning Buffalo and Tommy Wolfinger had their Remingtons aimed at the two guards, hammers cocked. They held their Winchesters loose in their left hand.

  The San Pedro river splashed by them. Insects hovered above the smooth surface, some snatched by trout; patchy tree shade shielded the sun.

  Perry Russell limped to the back of the wagon and grabbed it for support. He wore a Montana peak hat and was dressed in drover clothes. His thin, weathered face carried the texture and tone of well-worn rawhide. He belonged with a trail herd pushing along the Chisolm. He looked directly at Hawkstone’s kerchief-wrapped face.

  ‘They runnin’ the cash pony-express style – a rider lit out after us headed north at full gallop for Fort Grant, with crammed extra saddle-bags. He changes horses and rides by Wharton City to the General’s route – another horse change and a new rider where Bonito Creek joins the Rio Gila – that rider heads east towards New Mexico Territory. Another new rider changes mounts close to Steeple Rock and rides full on to Fort Webster. Then another new fella takes the saddle-bags up to the mines.’ Perry slumped against the wagon out of breath.

  Hawkstone spun to Black Feather who had already holstered his weapon and was walking to his pinto. ‘Your mount is fastest.’ He turned back to Perry Russell. ‘How come you know this?’

  Russell coughed, and looked hard at his bleeding leg. ‘I was hired to be that new rider waitin’ with two fellas bringing a fresh horse at Bonito Creek, us waitin’ by the connection with the Rio Gila for them saddle-bags. When I was a young’un I used to ride the Express, reason the Longfellow hired me. But they decided I was too old for such bouncin’ around energy, and told me to ride guard on this here carriage.’ He grimaced in pain. ‘I got to get somethin’ wrapped around this leg.’ He looked towards the river. ‘Life drivin’ cattle is sure easier than this.’

  Hawkstone ignored him and the grandma and turned back to Black Feather, who had hold of his pinto’s reins. ‘Bonito Creek – two riders, three horses, another comin’.’

  The words were unnecessary. Black Feather, the best tracker in the territories, had already swung into the saddle and was racing off at a full gallop even before his farmer shoes slipped into the stirrups.

  Chapter Fourteen

  In the darkness of the second night Hawkstone saw Black Feather waiting by the fork where Bonito Creek joined the Rio Gila river. Black Feather crouched the Apache way, a bottle in his hand, dressed again in his buckskin, no kerchief.

  First off, Hawkstone said, ‘You kill them?’

  Black Feather handed Hawkstone the bottle to share. ‘No need. They expected a friendly rider. Now they are tied and blindfolded, back in that strand of cottonwoods. I never would have caught him, but the rider had supper at Fort Grant, and three drinks. He rode a fresh horse, but the delay was enough. What about the carriage?’

  Hawkstone, Burning Buffalo and Tommy Wolfinger stepped wearily down and crouched with Black Feather to share the whiskey. The braves looked as worn and beaten as Hawkstone felt. He passed around Bull Durham and corn-skin paper, except for Tommy, and blinked his tired, burning eyes. ‘We patched the boys and got them in the carriage. Perry Russell was well enough to drive. The woman rode shotgun. When they get back to Tucson the word will go out, by rider or wire, or both. They’ll come looking now.’

  ‘If they can find us.’ Black Feather took his pull from the bottle and lit the cigarette. ‘The saddle-bags come up short.’

  Hawkstone took the bottle. ‘How short?’

  ‘They got forty-eight thousand, not fifty.’

  ‘So ten per cent reward money is forty-eight hundred. I’ll take the short straw on account of I got my ten thousand from the Mineral City square dance. What you want to do with the four men?’

  Burning Buffalo removed his hat so the long single braid dropped free. He took a match light from Hawkstone and said, ‘Take their horses – and the remount.’

  Black Feather nodded. ‘They’re trussed good. Might work off the blindfolds; if they crawl their way out somebody will find them. They will not need horses. There is a fine-looking appaloosa I want. My pinto is worn ragged.’

  Tommy Wolfinger took his pull from the bottle and turned to Hawkstone. ‘Who gets the extra horse? We take one each, who gets the fifth?’

  ‘I’ll give mine and the extra to Hattie. She can look after them for a spell.’

  Tommy’s lips tightened. ‘You give her them for payment to her bed?’

  Hawkstone stood and inhaled and blew his smoke. ‘This ain’t the time or place. You and Burning Buffalo can tangle belt buckles over her later when we got this money thing cleared up. The copper mine people are already coming. The payroll was supposed to be there, and it ain’t. Them or the bank will send regulators to gun us down. They’ll be backtracking the stops and will find those four jaspers soon enough. We ain’t even got time to rest ’til we’re well clear of this place and Black Feather has made our trail disappear. We’ll water and feed the animals and take our little remuda west, home. We got to alter the brands on the new mounts in case copper men get that far. We got to leave, now.’

  Tommy drained the last of the whiskey and squinted. ‘Go back to do what?’

  Hawkstone smiled. ‘Go back to being cowboys and Indians.’ He winked at them. ‘If a man could have half his wishes, he’d double his troubles.’

  Black Feather chuckled. ‘Another Franklin.’

  The braves nodded with smiles, then mounted.

  Though the old woman did not smile, her gnarled, seasoned mahogany face showed her satisfaction having the men of her small tribe safely returned. She had rock goat jerky and cactus berries and real coffee for them.

  In the wickiup, after Hawkstone returned from the burned house, having used the shovel again, he slept most of the evening and through the night. He woke in the stir of daylight with slight pain along his arm, but felt refreshed. He smelled mesquite and juniper, and cottonwood fire smoke that in the still morning wafted grey and straight up, and mushroomed, spreading and extending in shrouds around tepees and wickiups, and hung still, only shifting when broken by village life moving around. He caught the scent of brewing coffee. He rubbed sleep from his eyes, watching through the open doorway.

  Mongrel dogs stretched, front paws straight out, rump in the air, then trotted about sniffing the ground as they went. Pigs snorted as they hunted for scraps of food. Chickens pecked at old eating sites. A horse whinnied for company. Crows that perched in cottonwood and willow branches cawed to announce life shifting on the village ground below. Waking humans stirred inside tepees and wickiups, coughing and clearing their throats. Little children stayed inside, it being too early and the chill too penetrating for them to run outside in play just yet. Groups of boys just past ten took bows and arrows for a morning hunt. Girls helped begin the first meal next to their mothers.

  He saw the old woman bent outside at the campfire with Hattie Deep Water. Apache ate roasted prairie dog or venison or other available game for breakfast, but the old woman knew Hawkstone was partial to fried eggs. She scrambled four of them in melted bacon grease using the old stolen white man frying pan and silver spoon.

  Outside the wickiup, Hawkstone strapped on his cartridge belt and stretched. The village exhaled the stir of life and comfort. It was his village, his home. And these were his people. He was aware of Hattie watching him, her almond eyes dancing. Volcano, the vicious part-dog, lay just beyond the village along the first row of cottonwood trees, watching her. He growled when he saw Hawkstone. Hattie stood and hugged Hawkstone, her young body tight against him, arms around his neck, her cheek against his. Silen
tly, she moved back to the fire. She handed him a cup of coffee. When she bent again she yanked the frying pan from the old woman.

  ‘Let me.’ She said. ‘I must grow used to this.’ Her buckskin skirt barely reached her calf moccasins and showed a flash of slim bare leg.

  The old woman allowed her to take the pan, and basted the rabbit that sizzled on a limb spit over the flame.

  ‘Behave yourself, girl,’ Hawkstone said. She reminded him of a young deer, lithe, lean, graceful and quick. Her long, shiny black hair framed her flawless face, and those dark, almond eyes melted any man they aimed at. And didn’t she know it.

  She held the pan close to the fire, and slid the spoon back and forth through the eggs. ‘You have already given me two of the horses you need.’

  The old woman hissed at her. ‘Foolish, silly girl.’

  Hawkstone took the pan and spoon and sat on a log. The old woman handed him a wooden plate. He slid the eggs to the plate and began to eat with the silver spoon. He and the old woman locked eyes.

  ‘Keep her close,’ he said. ‘Men may come looking.’

  The old woman nodded. ‘You were later than the others.’

  Hawkstone spooned in the eggs and they tasted good. He sipped coffee. ‘I had something to bury at the burned shack.’

  ‘I ride out there,’ Hattie said. ‘Today, I will ride one of the marriage horses you brought, out to the burned shack then to the Rio Gila where I swim and bathe. Come with me, Anson.’

  ‘I have to meet some fellas in Wharton City.’ He pointed a finger at Hattie. ‘I don’t want you riding too far from the village. Stay close a few days, help out.’

  She wrinkled her nose. ‘Why? I do what I please. I ride where I want. Volcano always protects me. He will until I am yours. Then you will protect me.’

  He ate the last of the eggs. ‘Think about Burning Buffalo and Tommy Wolfinger, and which you will choose. They are the men for you. Choose one.’

  ‘I have already chosen. You need a young woman to look after you in your ancient creaky days and nights.’

  The old woman hissed at her again. ‘Stop this foolish little girl talk. Hawkstone will leave again soon.’

  Hattie shivered. Her brow wrinkled. She turned to stare at Hawkstone. Then she relaxed and shrugged. ‘When he leaves, I will go with him.’

  Black Feather joined them and crouched by the campfire. ‘White man’s ways make me crave coffee,’ he said.

  The old woman had just taken a bite of rabbit. She poured and handed him a full cup. ‘No sugar.’

  Black Feather shrugged and sipped coffee. ‘With your new wealth, old woman, you can afford sugar.’ He looked at Hawkstone. ‘You have meeting with the gang today.’

  Hawkstone sucked his tongue against his teeth and set the plate aside and pulled his Bull Durham pouch to start the makings for a smoke. He handed the pouch and paper to Black Feather. The old woman and Hattie ate hot cooked rabbit.

  ‘I got to decide,’ Hawkstone said.

  Black Feather lit his cigarette. ‘I will ride with you.’

  The old woman glared at Black Feather. ‘You eat rabbit.’

  Black Feather grimaced, his face still wrinkled with sleep. ‘I am not hungry.’

  ‘You eat rabbit,’ the old woman snapped. ‘No backtalk, pup. You eat rabbit, then you smoke and drink coffee and talk with Hawkstone.’

  Black Feather chuckled. He grinned at Hawkstone while he pulled a strip of rabbit. ‘No Franklin this morning about grouchy old women?’

  ‘Ah,’ Hawkstone said. ‘You can’t pluck roses without thorns, and you can’t enjoy a woman without the danger of horns.’ He pointed at Black Feather. ‘Eat your rabbit.’

  Chapter Fifteen

  Many foxes grow grey, not many grow good.

  Hawkstone met them in a private room that Vicki Verona had arranged on the ground floor towards the back of the Gentlemen Kingdom, house of pleasure. The room was hung with red and green velvet for curtains, there was a dresser with bottles of liquor and glasses, and it was dominated by a long table surrounded by seven fancy, swirl-purple, velvet armchairs. Hawkstone reckoned the room looked classier than its occupants. He entered ready, his Colt Peacemaker .45 well oiled, with every cylinder filled – no empty for the hammer. The rawhide thong was off.

  As soon as he was inside, Pearl Harp pushed into his arms. On tip-toe she gave him a long, wet kiss. ‘Parts of you I miss something terrible, Anson,’ she whispered. Her tiny body felt firm and well shaped against him. She wore a bright green, scoop neck dress – brown eyes soft, her small face painted just enough to look somewhat attractive.

  Marshal Leather Yates said, ‘Nobody will listen in and we won’t be disturbed.’ He avoided looking directly at Hawkstone.

  Wild Fletch Badger added tobacco spit to the pepper-stained, bare wooden floor.

  With Pearl still clinging on his arm, Hawkstone took in those around him. One-Eye Tim Brace had put on a clean shirt. His hat still hung low in front to shadow the empty eye socket. Wild Fletch Badger hadn’t bothered to clean up. His pinched buzzard face worked around the plug of tobacco while he stared at Hawkstone through beady eyes full of hate. Marshal Yates still had a sunburn flush to his face. He stood behind the chair at the head of the table, his chubby hands on the back taking possession of it. Pearl Harp led Hawkstone around the table to a chair next to her along the side. After they sat, she placed his left hand on her lap. Across from them was a man he didn’t know.

  Pearl bowed to the man. ‘Anson Hawkstone, meet Roscoe Dees. He is our information man.’

  ‘And outlaw informer, I hear,’ Hawkstone said.

  One Eye Tim Brace and Wild Fletch Badger flanked Dees at the table. Badger looked around for a place to spit, turned his head and let fly to the floor.

  Pearl slapped the table. ‘Find a container, you pig, or sit outside. Even better, swallow!’

  Badger blinked at her, then narrowed his eyes and tightened his lips. ‘You don’t talk to me like that, prison whore.’ The words were mumbled because his mouth was full.

  Marshal Leather Yates slid a whiskey glass down the table to him. ‘Use that.’

  Hawkstone rested his right hand on the Colt walnut grip. He lined them up in order as to who he would shoot first if he had to. Across the table was a good pair to start with, then Marshal Yates for sure.

  Roscoe Dees still glared at Hawkstone. ‘Mister, I do not inform outlaws.’

  ‘Not lately,’ Hawkstone said. ‘You been locked up.’

  Marshal Yates cleared his throat as if to demand attention. ‘Why don’t we have Roscoe there tell us what he knows about the Pima County Branch bank and their payroll for Longfellow Copper Mining? Go ahead, Roscoe.’

  Dees looked mousy and devious at the same time. He wore a grey wool suit and no hat, his spider-web, mud-hole-tainted hair parted just above his left ear. His brown eyes stared through magnified spectacles looking like dirty quarters. His teeth were brown-yellow bad, with a gap instead of one eyetooth. He had a long, pointed nose and a worm mouth, with more spider web across his upper lip. His appearance might have conjured up many impressions, but not one of them was trust. He shifted uncomfortably, receiving stares from everyone else in the room, who waited to listen.

  He stared at the table top in front of him, shot a glance at Hawkstone, and said, ‘I wonder if I might have a glass of water.’

  Yates said, ‘Later, clerk. Start talking.’

  Roscoe Dees cleared his throat. ‘I still have a friend at the bank. But you must understand they keep their activity guarded in secrecy these days. Something happened in the last day or two, but nobody is talking. It is one secret among many, but it is big. They used to send the payroll with the executives – the company officers, along another route to the way station outside Fort Webster. Guards rode out of sight, flanking the coach. When I went to prison they stopped that, and began sending other wagons – prairie schooners, buckboards, carriages – and they sent them on the day before, Tuesday instead of Wed
nesday. Today is Thursday, so it would have been next week.’

  Marshal Yates said, ‘We don’t give a hoot in hell how they used to do it, we want to know how they do it next week. How are they moving the payroll?’

  ‘That’s what I’m trying to tell you. It will be on the stagecoach with the copper company vice-president, Mr Brennan, and three bank officers next Wednesday, their usual schedule. Mr Jacobs thinks nobody will expect that. Four guards will be riding out of sight. I don’t know where they will make their first horse change, likely somewhere along the General Keambevs route. They may have a way station there. I only know about the station ten miles before Fort Webster in New Mexico Territory.’

  Marshal Yates took a slug from his whiskey glass. Wild Fletch Badger spat brown into his glass. One-Eye Tim Brace pulled his hat brim lower. Pearl Harp looked to her right. Hawkstone sat with his hand on Pearl’s lap. His palm gripped the outline of her leg. He liked the slim, firm feel of the dress.

  After a silence, Yates said, ‘We hit the stagecoach at Steeple Rock.’ He nodded to Fletch. ‘You and One-Eye Tim backshoot the guards soon as they get on the General’s route. Pearl, Hawkstone and Roscoe will dog the stagecoach ’til you boys catch up, then you take it together. You’ll have to kill the shotgun and mebbe the driver. The important men inside I leave to you. If they got to go, they got to go.’

  Roscoe Dees shook his head, ‘Oh, no, no, no. I cannot take part. I am not a man for hold-ups – no, sir, not me.’

  Yates leaned forward over his glass. ‘You mean, not until now.’

  Pearl put her elbows on the table. ‘That’s quite a blood bath, Marshal. It ain’t needed.’

  ‘I say what’s needed,’ the marshal said.

  Roscoe gaped across the table at Pearl. ‘I did what you wanted. I found the information.’ He glanced at Hawkstone. ‘My dear, I see your affection has moved off in another direction. I am on my way to Santa Fe.’

  ‘Like hell,’ the marshal said.