Wings of the Hawk

by Charles G. West

  CHAPTER 16

  Julia Blunt sucked her breath in sharply in reflex to the pain that stabbed at her insides when she got up from her chair. Something was eating away at her. She had gradually been getting sicker day after day, and she feared that she might never recover from the illness—whatever it was. Each day drained her of a little more energy until she felt it was all she could do to make it out to the wide porch that wrapped around three sides of Hamilton Blunt’s huge mansion. As ill as she felt, she disdained lying in her bed, especially during the day. Daytime was her best time, because her husband was at work and she was free of his abuse.

  Thoughts of her husband caused her to unconsciously reach up to feel the bruise on her cheek. Word had come from the frontier yesterday of Morgan’s death, and more than grief, Hamilton’s reaction seemed to be anger—anger directed at her, for some reason. He was certain that her son had something to do with Morgan’s death. And he had struck her across the face. This was not the first time Hamilton had hit her. He had changed dramatically in the last two years of their marriage. No longer enamored of her body, seeing her beauty fading with age, he constantly berated her for growing older. For the last six months, he had forbade her to leave the house, not even to go to Trotter’s Store. Several weeks ago, he brought home a bottle of elixir. He told her he had gotten it from Dr. Wagner, and that it was a health potion the doctor said would restore her youth. Afraid to provoke his displeasure, she took the bitter liquid while he stood over her, watching to make sure she took the full dose. After a few days, she complained that the potion was making her ill and that she wanted to see the doctor herself. Hamilton refused to permit it. Instead he went to the doctor again and got another bottle of medicine that he said Dr. Wagner assured him would make her feel much better. The medicine was equally as bitter as the original potion and offered her no relief. In fact, her health steadily declined. She began to fear she might be suffering from the same mysterious illness that had taken the life of Hamilton’s first wife.

  Her steps labored—each footfall causing a recurrence of the searing pain in her insides—she walked to the corner of the porch and looked down at the freight office below. It was past Hamilton’s usual office hours, but there was still a light on in the back office. She thought nothing of it, for Hamilton often stayed late. In fact, she was grateful for the nights when he didn’t arrive until far into the evening. As she looked down, the lamp went out in the back office, and moments later the familiar figure of Madge Pauley came out the front door. There was a time when that might have troubled her, but not anymore. Maybe he would be in a better mood when he came home, and maybe he would feel no need to abuse her.

  Julia made her way down the front hallway, holding on to the chair rail to steady her wobbly legs. She could not understand why this recent illness had weakened her so. She had always had a strong constitution, but now she felt as weak as a kitten. As she reached the end of the hall, she found herself suddenly confronted by the solid figure of Frances, holding a bottle and a glass of water.

  “I’m not taking any more of that medicine,” Julia said defiantly. “It’s making me worse than I was.”

  The stoic expression on Frances’s face remained unchanged as she produced a large tablespoon from her apron pocket. “Mr. Hamilton said to make sure you took your medicine,” she said without compassion. “He’s gonna be mighty angry if you don’t take it.”

  “I don’t give a damn if he is,” Julia fired back, her eyes flashing, “I’m not taking any more of that vile medicine.”

  Frances did not move for a long moment, and just studied Julia with cold eyes. Finally she shrugged her shoulders. “Well, I certainly don’t give a damn. It’ll be your little fanny when Mr. Hamilton finds out.”

  The thought caused Julia to regret her defiant response. “You don’t have to tell him I didn’t take it, Frances.” The thought of another beating made her shiver.

  Frances’s chilling glance revealed her complete lack of compassion for the unfortunate woman. “It’s my place to tell Mr. Hamilton what he needs to know. I was here long before you came, missy, and I’ll be here long after you’re gone.” She turned and disappeared into the kitchen.

  Julia shuddered, partly from her weakened state, partly as a reaction to Frances’s sinister warning. From the beginning she had felt the intense hostility and resentment of her husband’s housekeeper toward her. She had soon given up any notion of a truce with the belligerent older woman, choosing instead to avoid her altogether. Now she began to think that she actually had cause to fear the woman—that Frances was fully capable of doing her bodily harm in an effort to get rid of her. For her own safety, she went into Hamilton’s room, a room they used to share, and took out one of the small pistols from his chest. Checking to make sure it was loaded, she placed it in the deep pocket of her dress and returned to her own bedroom. Perhaps she was overreacting to the dour housekeeper’s gruff treatment—possibly it was because of her weakened and vulnerable state—but she felt better with some protection at hand. She would replace the weapon only after Frances had served Hamilton’s supper and gone to her own small cottage at the foot of the hill.

  Her fear of Frances proved to be unfounded, at least on this night, for she saw the stoic old woman leave the house soon after Hamilton arrived. Standing at her bedroom window upstairs, Julia watched Frances until she disappeared from view. Still unsteady, she sat down on the side of her bed for a moment to calm her racing pulse. Hamilton would be eating his supper, so she had a little time to return the pistol to his room before he came upstairs. It had been more than a year since he had looked for her as soon as he came in from work. He now seemed to prefer his own company, especially on those occasions when Madge Pauley came to his office to “work on the books.” For this reason, Julia was stunned to find him standing in her bedroom doorway when she struggled to her feet.

  “Oh!” she gasped, almost losing her balance. “Hamilton . . . I didn’t hear your footsteps.”

  He didn’t answer right away. Instead he eyed her in the same critical manner a man might examine livestock. When he spoke, his voice was cold, even though he attempted to sound casual. “Come, Julia. I want you to sit downstairs with me while I have my supper.”

  “All right,” she replied, her voice soft and cautious. His invitation surprised her, and she wondered at his mood. He was usually contemptuous at best after a rendezvous with his buxom Miss Pauley.

  His critical gaze never wavered as he watched her slowly walk toward him. Julia guessed that he was evaluating the progress of her illness. When she got to the door, he reached out and took her arm to steady her—another surprise, he had not touched her in months. “Let me help you,” he said and led her down the hallway toward the stairs. She could smell the sticky-sweet aroma of Madge Pauley’s cheap perfume lingering on his shirt, as he walked her to the top of the stairs. Had she not been so ill, she would have been furious. Now she didn’t care.

  At the top of the long stairway, he paused to let her grasp the railing to steady herself. Still puzzled over his unexpected desire for her company, she permitted herself to suspect that Hamilton might have a conscience after all. Perhaps he was at last showing some compassion for her recent illness, or maybe a portion of guilt for his blatant affair with Miss Pauley. It was while thinking these thoughts that she suddenly felt his foot in the middle of her back a split second before her frail body went crashing down the steps. Her scream was stifled by the impact of each tumbling blow as the breath was crushed from her chest. The sound of her own bones breaking was all that registered in her mind. She came to rest at the foot of the stairs, her body broken and bleeding, unmoving.

  Hamilton remained at the top of the stairs, watching her tumble down the stairway until she lay still in a crumpled heap at the bottom. His expression detached and calm, he then took his time descending the stairs. At the bottom, he stood over his wife’s body, staring down at her lifeless form. “Die, damn you,” he uttered through clen
ched teeth. “You’ve been fed enough rat poison to kill a horse.” His patience had long since run out. The woman had a constitution like iron, and he had tired of waiting for her body to bend to the deadly potion.

  * * *

  He stood motionless, hidden in the deep shadows of the dark night, waiting until the woman made her way down the long, narrow road that led to Hamilton Blunt’s mansion. The woman did not look familiar to him, but she had come from the house, so he assumed she was Blunt’s housekeeper. When she had passed, he came back to the road and continued on toward the huge estate overlooking the very freight yard where his father and brother had worked.

  It had been years since Trace had last set foot on Hamilton Blunt’s front step, and in that time, he had shrugged off his youthful naivete to take on the mantle of a man. There was no uncertainty about the purpose of his mission. He had traveled all the way from the Wasatch with one crystalline purpose—to avenge the slaughter of his father and brother. As he approached the end of his journey, other troubling thoughts pecked away at his resolve. What if his mother truly loved this cold-blooded monster? But if she did, he assured himself, she could not continue to love him when she found out what he was guilty of. Hamilton Blunt simply must be executed. His father’s soul cried out for it. Trace was not a shifty murderer. He would not lie in wait for Blunt and shoot him in the back. That would not give him the satisfaction his fury demanded. No, he intended to call Blunt out—settle it face to face. He wanted to make sure Hamilton Blunt fully understood why he was being killed.

  He suddenly heard a sharp scream from within the house. Shrill, like a rifle shot. It startled Trace and he paused to listen. But there was nothing beyond that one short scream. It was a woman’s voice, and it could only have been that of his mother. Throwing caution to the winds, he ran the rest of the way, bolting up the porch steps in several bounds. Finding the front door unlocked, he burst inside. Before him, at the foot of the stairs, lay the crumpled body of his mother. Beside her stood the man he had come to kill. The sight of his mother’s battered and broken body slammed into his brain with a force that stunned him for a few seconds.

  Blunt, dazed by the sudden appearance of this tall, buckskin-clad apparition in his entrance hall, was unable to move. Raw fear was a malady that had never struck him before. But recognizing Trace immediately, he now felt fear’s icy fingers tightening around his spine. He made an attempt to talk his way out of the sure death that faced him. “Jim,” he stumbled over the name, “I’m glad you’re here. Your mother’s fallen down the stairs. I was in the kitchen when I heard her fall.”

  Trace made no reply at first, staring steadily at the man he hated so vehemently. His memory of Hamilton Blunt was of a large, dangerous man. The years had changed the perspective. Standing before him now he saw a craven, pathetic coward, unaware that he had soiled his trousers with his own urine. When Trace finally spoke, it was to pronounce a death sentence for Hamilton Blunt. “Your time has come, Blunt. I’m going to kill you for the murders of my father and my brother—and now my mother.”

  “Wait . . . please, Jim!” Blunt begged. “This was an accident. I swear. Don’t shoot me! I had nothing to do with those murders.”

  “I’m not gonna shoot you—shooting’s too good for the likes of you.” He laid his rifle aside and pulled his knife from his belt. “I’m gonna carve you up and watch you die slowly.”

  Blunt dashed for the door of his study. Trace leaped after him but was too late to get through the door before Blunt slammed and locked it. Filled now with a fury that burned through every sinew of his body, Trace hurled his shoulder against the door, oblivious to the pistol ball that he knew would be coming from inside the study. The door, though solid ash, offered scant resistance to the broad-shouldered mountain man, and it gave way in a splintered explosion. Blunt’s pistol ball sailed harmlessly by Trace’s ear. Throwing the empty pistol at him, Blunt dashed through the other door, which led to the parlor. Trace easily dodged the pistol and was immediately after him.

  For the first time in his life, Hamilton Blunt was terrified. He had always felt that he feared no man. But the sight of this tall warrior, his face reflecting the rage that transformed him into a veritable harbinger of death, completely unnerved him. Trace was a killing machine, as lethal as a rattler. Hamilton’s only thought at that moment was to run for his life. He tore through the parlor and into the kitchen. Behind him, he heard the sound of toppled chairs and crashing glass as Trace raced after him. Panic-stricken, Hamilton ran through the dining room, straining to reach the front door and escape into the night. When he ran back through the front hall, he spied Trace’s rifle. His heart had almost burst with the terror of the moment, but now he saw his salvation in the form of the discarded Hawken. He snatched up the weapon and whirled around in time to halt his pursuer in his tracks.

  “Now, damn you!” Blunt fairly shouted in newfound triumph. “We’ll see who walks away from this mess, won’t we?” His confidence growing by the second, he cocked the hammer and gloated. “Yes, you son of a bitch, I had your pa and your brother killed—and I damn sure pushed that bitch down the stairs. Now I’m going to get rid of the last of that rat’s nest you came from.” He smiled as he leveled the rifle at Trace’s head and pulled the trigger.

  A flash of fire leapt from the muzzle of the Hawken, the boom of the powder igniting, filling the confines of the room. But Trace remained standing. Although he had charged the rifle and placed a percussion cap on it, he was not careless enough to insert a rifle ball in a rifle that he was not ready to shoot. Blunt shrieked in terror as Trace, in a half crouch, and ready to spring, slowly closed in. A rustle of cloth and a scraping on the floor behind them caused both men to pause. Blunt turned to see the outstretched hand of Julia Tracey Blunt, wobbling in one last dying effort as she pointed the pistol. In an instant the pistol flashed, sending the ball into Hamilton Blunt’s forehead.

  Blunt stood there for several seconds before he sagged to the floor. His eyes were open wide in disbelief, the ugly black hole centered neatly above the bridge of his nose, a thin trickle of blood escaping from it. As he fell, he uttered a low plaintive sigh—nothing more—and then lay still, the bullet lodged in his brain.

  Trace was just as startled by the pistol shot behind him. He whirled in time to see his mother’s final act of revenge, seconds before her arm fell back by her side, lifeless. One quick glance at Blunt told him that there was no longer any danger from that source, then he was quickly at his mother’s side. But it was too late. She was gone. “Ma,” he said softly, knowing there would be no response as he gazed into the face that he had known so well. It was almost unrecognizable now, with her dark, hollow eyes and cheeks sunken and gaunt from her long illness. It was more than he could bear to find her like this. He bowed his head and sobbed uncontrollably. After a few minutes, he raised his head and looked toward the ceiling. “God, how can you let something like this happen? She prayed to you every day of her life. How could you let something like this happen?”

  He gently gathered her frail body up in his arms, lest he disturb her broken bones. Her fractured arm hung limply at an unnatural angle as he carried her upstairs to a bedroom. Laying her carefully on the bed, he wrapped the heavy quilt around her then picked her up once more. Standing there in the middle of the large bedroom, his mother cold in his arms, he paused to think about what he should do. Once his mind was made up, he moved quickly. He carried his mother back downstairs and laid her on a sofa while he searched the house for a can of kerosene.

  Descending the front steps of Hamilton Blunt’s great mansion, he started down the narrow lane with his mother’s body over his shoulder. Once a healthy and robust woman, Julia was no heavier in death than a light marching pack on the broad shoulders of her son. Before he had gone fifty paces, flames blossomed from the windows behind him and started licking at the wooden siding of the house. Soon there was enough light from the flames to illuminate the lane before him and cast a long eerie shadow a
s he continued walking, never looking back. It was the end of a long nightmare for Trace. There were no more Blunt brothers to plague him. It had been a terrible price to pay, for they had slaughtered his entire family. He was the last of his father’s bloodline.

  As he came to the gate at the bottom of the lane, he was met by a squarely built woman hurrying toward the burning house. Frances had seen the flames from her cottage on the road below. Suspecting foul play, she primed her deceased husband’s pistol and set out for her master’s house as fast as her stout legs could carry her. Upon encountering the tall man in buckskins carrying a large quilt-wrapped bundle over his shoulder, she knew her suspicions had been correct. She became enraged. Her hopes and dreams of anticipated inheritance when the Tracey bitch finally died were going up in smoke and flames. The long years she had served Hamilton Blunt so faithfully were lost in the fire she could now see lighting up the nighttime sky. And this man, obviously coming from the house, had to be to blame—he carried a bundle, no doubt stolen from her house! Well, I’ll be damned if you’re going to get away with it! she thought.

  Trace did not veer from his path when he saw her, but continued upon his intended course. “You! You thieving bastard!” she shrieked. “Stand in your tracks!” She thrust the pistol into his face, glaring at him through eyes narrowed with fury. Suddenly it penetrated her angry mind who this man was—the buckskins, the rifle in one hand, a mountain man—it had to be Julia’s murdering son. “I know who you are!” she shouted. He made a move to step around her, ignoring the pistol in his face. “Stand, I say!” she demanded, keeping the pistol on him. Trace slowly shifted his rifle to his other hand. She started to shout something else, but before she could form the words, he suddenly backhanded her with his free hand. She dropped to the ground, out cold. As she crumpled, the pistol went off, sending a lead ball up through a large poplar tree beside the lane. Trace gazed down dispassionately at the unconscious woman, then went on his way to take care of his mother. The small gathering of curious spectators who had hurried to find the source of the flames paid little attention to the tall man with the bundle on his shoulder as he made his way silently through them and disappeared into the night.