“I knowed you’d left it down to the depot, so I went down and got it. Do you like the horse?” Joey asked.
“Yes, he’s a magnificent animal.”
“I picked ’im out my ownself,” Joey said proudly. “I figured I pick ’im out as iffen I was pickin’ ’im out for me.”
Hawke pulled out a silver dollar and gave it to the boy. “Well, you did a good job, Joey,” he said. “Yes, sir, a find job.”
“Gee, thanks, Mr. Hawke!” the boy said, excited over the dollar.
Dorchester’s ranch, Northumbria, was about five miles north of Green River. Once out of town, Hawke urged the horse, and it responded instantly, going from a walk to a full gallop in a heartbeat. Hawke leaned forward, encouraging the horse to give him all it had. The ground flashed by in a blur, and he had the irrational sensation that if he went any faster, he would fly.
Hawke held the gallop for about two minutes, then eased back and let the horse cool down with a trot, then a brisk walk. Almost before he knew it, he was at the southern boundary of Dorchester’s ranch, indicated by an arched gate with the word NORTHUMBRIA worked in metal across the top.
It was another mile up the road from the entry gate before the house came into view. When Hawke saw the house for the first time, he stopped just to take it in. It was huge, with cupolas and dormers and so many windows that the setting sun flashed back in such brilliance that it looked almost as if the house were on fire.
The edifice reminded him of a wedding cake, white and tiered. But the tiers did not end with the house. Even the surrounding lawn was built up in a series of beautifully landscaped terraces that worked up from the road to the base of the house itself.
A large white-graveled driveway made a U in front of the house where a coach and four sat at the ready, its highly polished paint job glistening in the setting sun. A crest of some sort was on the door of the coach.
Hawke had started toward the broad steps leading up to the front porch when Pamela and her father came out to meet him. Seeing Pamela, Hawke couldn’t hold back a gasp of surprise. He would have been hard pressed to identify her as the same bedraggled-looking young woman he last saw wearing his rolled-up jeans and flannel shirt.
The woman who greeted him now looked as if she had just stepped down from a fine oil painting. She was wearing an off-the-shoulder dress with a neckline that plunged low enough to show the top of her breasts, though a red silk rose strategically placed at the cleavage helped preserve some modesty. The dress itself was clinging yellow silk, overlaid with lace. Her coiffure featured a pile of curls on top and a French roll that hung down her neck.
The intensity of Hawke’s gaze made Pamela uneasy. With a nervous laugh she touched her hair.
“Have I gone green?” she asked.
“What?”
“You are staring with such concentration,” she said.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” Hawke apologized. “It’s just that…well, you must admit, this is quite a change from the way I last saw you.
“Well, I would hope so,” Pamela said. “And speaking of changes, I must say that you do look more like a knight now than when you rode to my rescue. Oh, wait, you didn’t exactly ride to my rescue, did you? As I recall, you had clumsily killed all the horses.”
Hawke laughed as well. “I had indeed,” he agreed. “And speaking of horses, I want to thank you, Mr. Dorchester, for the loan of the horse tonight. He is certainly a fine animal.”
“It isn’t a loan,” Dorchester said.
“I beg your pardon?”
“It isn’t a loan,” Dorchester repeated. “It is a gift. I have the bill of sale inside.”
Hawke held out his hand in protest. “Oh, no, Mr. Dorchester, I could never accept such a gift.”
“Why not? Do you think Pamela isn’t worth a horse?”
“What? No, no, I didn’t mean to imply anything like that.”
“Then prove it by accepting this gift.”
Hawke was about to protest again but stopped, sighed, then chuckled. “All right, Mr. Dorchester. I’ll be glad to accept the horse, and I offer you my sincerest thanks for it.”
“You are welcome,” Dorchester replied.
“Good,” Pamela said. “Now that that is all settled, shall we go inside?”
“Show him around a bit, would you, Pamela?” her father said. “I’ll check on our dinner.”
“Your arm, sir?” Pamela said, reaching for Hawke.
He held his arm out and she took it, then led him inside. She was so close to him, her body pressed against his, that he could feel the warmth of her curves. There was a suggestion of perfume—heady, but not overpowering.
They walked down a long, wide hall, on a floor so highly polished that it reflected the items of furniture standing on it as clearly as if it were a mirror. Along the way, as if standing guard, were several polished suits of armor and painted shields. All the shields were decorated with the same crest: Against a white background, a blue mailed fist clutched a golden sword, placed at the intersection of a red St. Andrew’s Cross.
“Your father’s coat of arms?” Hawke asked, nodding toward one of the shields.
“That’s the coat of arms of the Earldom of Preston. I am told, by the way, that a distant ancestor of mine, the first Earl of Preston, wore this very suit of armor in the Battle of Agincourt,” she added, pointing to one of the iron suits.
Hawke stepped up to the suit of armor, his larger size notable.
“Hmm,” Pamela said. “I don’t think you would fit.”
He laughed. “No, I don’t think I would. You’re sure your ancestor was a full-grown man?”
Pamela laughed. “Oh, yes. But the Battle of Agincourt happened over four hundred years ago, and I believe people were smaller then.”
“Four hundred years?” Hawke said, shaking his head. “I find it amazing that people can keep track of their ancestors for so long.”
“That is an important date in our family, for that was when Geoffery Dorchester was invested with the Earldom of Preston,” Pamela explained.
After a tour of the rest of the house, Pamela escorted Hawke to the dining room, where Dorchester met them at the door. He had changed clothes since Hawke arrived, and was now wearing a white uniform of some sort, with a red sash running diagonally across his chest, gold-fringed epaulets on his shoulders, and a splash of medals on his breast.
“Well, are you ready to eat?” Dorchester asked.
“If you knew me well enough, you’d know that is a question you never have to ask,” Hawke replied. “I’m always ready to eat.”
Dorchester led them into the large room with polished oak wainscoting running halfway up the walls, flocked cream and green wallpaper finishing it off. At strategic spots, large portraits hung by wires from the picture rail. One of them was of James Spencer Dorchester astride a horse, wearing the same uniform he wore now. Another was of a beautiful woman. For a moment Hawke thought it was a portrait of Pamela. Upon a closer examination, however, he realized that the young girl standing beside the woman was Pamela.
“That was my mother,” Pamela said, seeing his interest. “She died the year before we left England.”
“She was very beautiful.”
“Yes, she was,” Dorchester agreed.
“I see that you are wearing the same uniform now that you wore for that painting,” Hawke remarked.
“Yes,” Dorchester said. “I still hold a brigadier’s commission in the Royal Reserves, though I seriously doubt that the Queen will ever call me to active service.”
“My father fought in the Crimean War,” Pamela said. “He was at Balaklava as a leftenant in the Light Brigade. You may have heard of the famous poem written by Tennyson, ‘Theirs not to make reply/Theirs not to reason why…’”
“‘Theirs but to do and die,’” Hawke continued, taking over the poem. “‘Into the Valley of Death rode the six hundred….’ yes, I have heard of it.”
“You never cease to impress me, Mr. Hawke,
” Pamela said.
“I was always impressed by the bravery of those soldiers,” he replied. “It’s an honor to actually meet one of them.”
“I was young and imprudent,” Dorchester said. “It was a foolish battle in a war fought with honor but no sense. Of the six hundred troops we committed to the charge, four hundred were killed. But then, I needn’t tell you about such things. Your country has recently come through its own war, with battles just as foolish, just as deadly, and just as honorable. And, unless I miss my guess, you were there.”
“I was there,” Hawke said without elaboration.
“Let’s change the subject, shall we?” Pamela said. “War is so distressing.”
“Of course, my dear,” Dorchester replied. He pointed to the center of the dining room, at a long table covered with a damask tablecloth and set with crystal candelabra, silver chargers, and glistening china. “Won’t you be seated?” he invited.
The meal was brought to the table in various courses. The main course was a pastry-wrapped beef.
“Beef Wellington,” Dorchester explained. “It is said that distant cousin, Arthur Wellesley, Duke of Wellington, came up with the recipe. I doubt that is true, but this magnificent dish does bear his name.”
After the meal, Dorchester invited Hawke into his library. Here, twenty-foot-tall bookshelves lined the walls, and books of various sizes and colors filled the shelves. Dorchester gestured toward the leather chairs. Brandy was served and Pamela offered them cigars. When the offer was accepted, she trimmed the ends, ran her tongue down the length of each side, lit each of them, then sat down as well.
“I hope you find them satisfactory,” Dorchester said. “They are from Cuba.”
Hawke took the cigar out of his mouth and examined the burning tip. “It is an excellent cigar.”
“I suppose you heard about the gold strike up in the Sweetwater Range?” Dorchester said.
“Yes, it’s all anyone has been talking about, almost ever since I arrived in town.”
“By now it’s gone out by telegraph and the whole country knows about it. No doubt we are about to have a rush.”
“I imagine so,” Hawke said.
“Will you be going up there?”
“What, to hunt for gold?”
“Yes.”
Hawke shook his head and squinted through the wreath of cigar smoke. “No, sir. I’m not one for chasing rainbows. Even if there is gold up there, there won’t be one in a hundred who will benefit from it.”
“You have a wise head on your shoulders,” Dorchester said. “I just hope I don’t lose all my cowboys.”
“Lose your cowboys?”
“Three have already left, and I hear talk that more soon will.”
“The cowboys who are leaving aren’t our biggest problem, Father, and you know it,” Pamela said.
“I think you may be making a mountain out of a molehill,” Dorchester told her, then explained the situation to Hawke: “The most logical access to the Sweetwater Range is through Northumbria.”
“Can you imagine all those people tramping out across our rangeland?” Pamela asked. “At best, they are going to be in the way. And at worst, they are going to get hungry and start stealing our cattle.”
“Oh, surely it won’t be all that bad,” Dorchester said. “And we have twenty thousand head. We could afford to lose one every now and then if that is all that stands between a man living and a man starving to death.”
“If that’s all there is to it, we’ll be lucky,” Pamela said. “And you know who is probably chortling with glee over our situation? Bailey McPherson. Bailey and that scar-faced ogre of hers.”
Hawke squinted at Pamela through the aromatic cloud of cigar smoke. “Scar-faced ogre? Are you talking about Ethan Dancer?”
“That’s exactly who I’m talking about,” Pamela said. She frowned. “Good heavens, Hawke, don’t tell me you know that loathsome creature?”
Hawke shook his head. “No, although I did see him in the saloon the other day. What does he have to do with Bailey McPherson?”
“He is her bodyguard. She probably needs one. Nobody can be as conniving and as manipulative as she is without making enemies. But why she chose a cold-blooded killer like Dancer, I’ll never understand.”
“Yes, well, enough discussion about that unpleasant fellow,” Dorchester said. “Mr. Hawke—”
Hawke held up his finger. “Couldn’t you just call me Hawke?”
“You prefer to be addressed by your surname, as opposed to your Christian name?”
“I’m used to it,” Hawke said.
“Very well, Hawke. You said you wanted to play the piano. I have something that may interest you.”
“I’m listening.”
“How would you like to go to Chicago?”
“Chicago?”
“To play the piano.”
“Mr. Dorchester, for reasons I’d rather not go into, I have no desire to go back on the concert tour.”
Dorchester laughed. “If you accept this job, you’ll be touring, all right. But not at all the way you think.”
“I must confess that you do have me curious,” Hawke said.
“Hawke,” Pamela interjected. “Before you and father get into all that, would you play the piano for us?”
Dorchester reached out to touch his daughter on the arm. “Now dear, I promised Hawke that he would not be expected to play for his supper like a performing monkey.”
Hawke chuckled. “That’s all right,” he said. “I would like to play your new piano for you. You should see some of the things that pass for a piano that I’ve had to play over the last few years.”
“I can imagine,” Dorchester said. “You’re sure it would be no imposition to have you play?”
“None at all,” Hawke replied.
The piano was in the corner of the parlor, and Hawke walked over to it. He stared down and ran his hand over it. “Do you play, Mr. Dorchester?” he asked.
“Heavens no,” Dorchester said. “I leave that up to Pamela.”
“You play, Pamela?”
“No. Not very well.”
“Nonsense, my dear. You are an excellent pianist,” Dorchester insisted. “Of course, you aren’t as good as Hawke, but few are.” Then, to Hawke, he added, “She is just intimidated by you, that’s all.”
Hawke saw a piece of music on the music fret: Mozart’s Piano Concerto Number 21.
“You’ve been playing this?”
“Yes.”
Hawke sat on the piano bench, then moved to the left and patted the bench beside him. “Let’s play it together,” he suggested.
Pamela smiled, nodded, and joined him. “What part will I play?” she asked.
“Just play the music as it is written,” Hawke said. “I’ll fill in around the edges.”
“All right,” she replied hesitantly. She put her hands on the keyboard, paused for a second, then began to play. Hawke began playing as well, providing counter melodies and trills, filling the parlor with such music that it almost seemed that an orchestra was playing.
Terry Wilson, Dorchester’s valet, came to the door of the parlor and stood in the hallway to listen to the music. Then one by one others came as well. Seeing this, Dorchester motioned for them to come on so they could better hear the music. Hesitantly, quietly, they did so.
Hawke was pleased to learn that Pamela was actually quite skilled. She was so good, in fact, that he was pressed to match her with his improvised chording. But he did so, and at the conclusion of the piece, Dorchester and the servants who had come into the room applauded. So did several cowboys, who had gathered on the porch outside.
“Bravisimo,” Dorchester said with a broad smile. “The two of you were magnificent!”
“You played very well,” Hawke said to Pamela.
“Oh, I’ve never enjoyed playing as much,” she replied. Spontaneously, she kissed him, quickly, on the lips.
“You’d better watch that, young man, or I shall sta
rt inquiring as to your intentions,” Dorchester teased. He laughed, and, because Hawke didn’t know what to say in response, he laughed with him.
“Now,” Dorchester said, “let me tell you about Chicago.”
Chapter 9
HAWKE HAD BEEN IN CHICAGO FOR THREE DAYS, and though he had neither the desire or intention to remain much longer, he’d found his time there enjoyable. He had attended a play and a concert, visited a couple of art museums, and enjoyed the cuisine of some of the city’s finer restaurants.
It was just after sunset, and he was walking down State Street when he heard a woman cry out.
“No! Please, don’t hit me again! Please, don’t hit me again!”
Looking up an alley, he saw a man shove a woman, hard, into a brick wall.
“You’re holdin’ back on me, whore,” the man growled.
“No, I’m not. I swear I’m not.”
Hawke hurried up the alley toward the two. “What’s going on here?” he called.
The man who had pushed the woman against the wall turned toward him. He was tall and broad-shouldered. He wore a low-crown, wide-brimmed hat, and his waxed moustache curled up at each end like the horns of a steer.
“Get the hell out of here, mister, this is none of your business,” the man warned.
Hawke saw that one of the woman’s eyes was black and puffed shut. Her lip was swollen and bleeding.
“Get away from her,” Hawke said.
The man laughed. “What did you say to me, you dandified little piece of shit?”
Hawke, who was wearing a suit with a vest, flipped his jacket to one side, showing his pistol.
The big man just laughed and, reaching around behind him, pulled out a knife. “Mister, you think you can scare me by showing me a pistol? Why, if you actually shot it, you would be so afraid that you would probably piss in your pants.” He bent forward at the waist and held his knife hand in front of him, palm up. He moved the knife around in little circles. “Now I aim to carve off your ears, just for the fun of it.”
“Wrong,” Hawke said. In a lightning fast move, he drew his pistol and fired, the bullet clipping the big man’s right elbow. The man dropped his knife and grabbed his elbow. Hawke put his pistol back in his holster. “Now, like I said, get away from the woman.”
Showdown at Dead End Canyon Page 9