by Scott Connor
Lincoln Hawk
Scott Connor
Books 1 - 3
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
First Published by Robert Hale Ltd.
Ambush in Dust Creek. Copyright © by Scott Connor 2004
Golden Sundown. Copyright © by Scott Connor 2005
The Man They Couldn’t Hang. Copyright © by Scott Connor 2007
First Kindle Edition 2015
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the author.
Published by Culbin Press.
Contents
Ambush in Dust Creek
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Golden Sundown
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
The Man They Couldn’t Hang
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Ambush in Dust Creek
When Marshal Lincoln Hawk rode into the lawless town of Dust Creek, his mission was to clean out its trigger-happy outlaws. In a wave of rightful vengeance, Lincoln’s deadly Peacemaker did just that. But some of the outlaws escaped the marshal’s justice.
Years later, when Lincoln rides into Dust Creek again, the town seems to have been abandoned. But it hasn’t. Mason Black and his ruthless outlaw band are waiting for him. From behind every broken window of the tumbledown ghost town, Mason’s guns are aimed at Lincoln’s head.
To see another dawn, Lincoln must face a desperate battle for survival in a world where he can trust nobody and the only law that matters is the law of the gun.
Ambush in Dust Creek
Scott Connor
Lincoln Hawk : Book 1
Chapter One
With his carpetbag slung over his right shoulder, US Marshal Lincoln Hawk stood on the boardwalk outside the Lucky Chance saloon and looked over the batwings.
Sat around the dozen or so circular tables were Purgatory’s dregs, but in the corner of the saloon one of his deputies, Sam Williams, was hunched over a poker hand.
Lincoln pushed the batwings back and headed to the bar. He dropped the bag at his feet and flicked a dollar in the air. The coin chinked against an empty whiskey bottle and rattled to a halt.
The bartender, Rick, sidled towards him, smiling.
‘Whiskey, Rick,’ Lincoln said.
Rick brushed a hand through his wispy hair and filled a glass.
‘Put your money away, Marshal.’
While leaning on the bar, Lincoln glanced sideways along the row of incurious cowboys slumped over their whiskeys. His stomach lurched.
‘No thanks. I’ll pay my way.’
Lincoln pushed his dollar to Rick and widened his eyes.
Rick shook his head. ‘The whiskey is for services rendered. We’ll have no trouble when you’re here. Savings on broken furniture are worth a few drinks.’
Lincoln pocketed his coin. He turned, leaned back on the bar, and sipped his whiskey.
In a momentary lull in the conversation filling the saloon, Sam thumped the table.
‘Got you!’ he shouted.
Lincoln downed his first whiskey. The warmth slid into his empty belly. He turned to the bar to order another whiskey.
Rick had left a full bottle for him.
Lincoln bit back his flash of irritation and filled his glass. As the bottle glugged, he smiled for the first time.
‘I say you cheated,’ a man said, his voice loud enough to force the saloon into instant quiet.
Lincoln hunched over the bar.
‘I won fair and square,’ Sam said.
The hairs on the back of Lincoln’s right hand lifted. He sipped his whiskey and stayed hunched.
‘You cheated and we all saw you,’ another man said.
Lincoln surveyed his whiskey. He placed the glass on the bar.
He turned. Behind the corner table, Sam had his hands on his hips and was glaring at the four other poker-players. All the men were standing.
‘The pot’s only two dollars,’ Sam said. He raised his hat to smooth his graying hair. ‘I wouldn’t cheat for that.’
Lincoln snaked through the tables towards Sam, slamming each pace to the floor with an insistent thud. He clumped to a standstill and set his feet wide.
‘Settle down,’ Lincoln muttered. ‘Sam doesn’t want trouble.’
‘He cheated,’ a moth-eaten individual whined, his swarthy face topped by tousled hair.
‘Maybe, but it’s hard to prove either way. What do you suggest?’
The moth-eaten man rubbed a gnarled hand over his bristles.
‘Might beat the truth out of him.’
Lincoln winced at the man’s inevitable logic.
‘Might work, but strength doesn’t prove innocence and you might beat an innocent man.’
The moth-eaten man shrugged. ‘Yeah, but how else can we prove what he did?’
Lincoln smiled. ‘Why not let the pot ride and settle this dispute at the table?’
‘So he can cheat again?’ the moth-eaten man whined.
Lincoln glared at each poker-player in turn.
‘I’ll watch and ensure the game’s fair.’
Sam’s shoulders twitched, but he stayed quiet.
The moth-eaten poker-player scratched his bristles some more. He opened his mouth, then closed it.
‘Seems fine to me, I suppose.’
Two other poker-players nodded.
The smartest dressed player, who stood opposite Sam, sneered.
‘Don’t seem fine to me,’ he announced in a broad, southern drawl.
While appraising this man, Lincoln licked his lips. Although he was sure he hadn’t met him before, this man was a familiar type. He was a professional gambler and possibly a professional cheater.
‘What’s the problem?’ Lincoln blew on his fingers. ‘Friend.’
The gambler slammed his fist on the table.
‘Might accept your suggestion, but only if Sam sits out the next hand.’
‘You just insulted Sam.’ Lincoln glared at the gambler. ‘And Sam is my deputy. When you insult him, you insult all lawmen.’
The gambler
moved his cards in a circle on the table.
‘I only accused your deputy of cheating. I wasn’t insulting him or all lawmen.’ The gambler grinned at the surrounding players. ‘But I was insulting you.’
With a sharp intake of breath, the saloon folk shuffled back.
Using two long fingers, Lincoln rubbed the bridge of his nose and reviewed everyone around the table. Aside from the gambler, they were normal cowhands, but in all their eyes a cold arrogance festered.
‘I’ll take you in, then. You can have a night in the cells for insulting a legally sworn-in lawman.’
‘I’m not going anywhere.’
Lincoln ran his hand towards the cards on the table. He turned over two face down cards. Then, with lightning speed, he grabbed the table and swung it over. The table landed on its back six feet away, clearing a space between him and the gambler.
‘If you don’t want arrested,’ Lincoln whispered, ‘do you want to be wounded or killed?’
The gambler glanced at the fallen table and shrugged. With a gentle rotation of his shoulders, he settled into a comfortable stance.
‘I only want an apology.’
‘Don’t see anyone who has to apologize to you, unless you’ve suffered a wrong I haven’t seen.’
‘I want the apology from you,’ the gambler snapped. He slid his hand to his gunbelt, then hitched his holster and double-action Adams round to the front of his hip.
The man to the gambler’s left rested his hand on his gunbelt. The man to the right shuffled down, a lively grin on his face. The moth-eaten man slouched.
‘Sam,’ Lincoln said, ‘note this man’s name.’
Sam stepped back from the poker-players.
‘Don’t know his name.’
‘Can’t kill a man without knowing his name, even this type.’ Lincoln narrowed his eyes. ‘Ask him!’
The gambler whirled his hand to his hip.
In a continuous movement Lincoln drew his gun and fired a shot that ripped through the gambler’s stomach. As the second man reached for his gun, Lincoln’s second shot took him through the neck. A third shot rang out, as Sam shot the third man through the chest.
As the men collapsed, Lincoln leapt to his left and knocked the fourth poker-player to the floor. He knelt on his chest and aimed his gun in an arc around the saloon, searching for other accomplices.
‘Don’t shoot me,’ the moth-eaten man said.
‘I never shoot anyone who’s under arrest,’ Lincoln said.
‘I was only mouthing off. I’m not armed.’
Lincoln winced. He hadn’t noticed that. He expected everyone to pack a gun these days. He lifted his knee from the man’s chest.
‘Everyone note,’ Lincoln said. ‘I only intended to arrest this man. When his colleagues turned on us, I had no choice but to kill them. No need for this to happen. Does everyone agree?’
For a few moments Lincoln glared at the saloon folk, who hung their heads.
Lincoln straightened his jacket. ‘I’ll take that for a yes.’
Sam strode to the fallen men, who all lay on their backs. Red blooms were already coating each man’s chest as wisps of smoke swirled to the ceiling. He rolled each man’s head back and forth with the toe of his boot.
‘All dead,’ Sam said.
Lincoln nodded. He already knew.
‘Find Jed and Frank. Get them to help with the paperwork. It’s three days to Abilene and we have to be in Dust Creek by nightfall. I don’t want delays.’
Sam nodded and dashed outside.
Lincoln swirled his Peacemaker back in its holster and strode to the bar through the throng of bemused saloon folk. At the bar he hoisted his carpetbag on his shoulder. He fished in his pocket and tossed a dollar to Rick.
‘Sorry,’ he said from the corner of his mouth. ‘Failed to keep away trouble.’
Whiskey Bob forced an eye to open. His blurred view of his shack swam and he closed it.
For three beats he listened to his heart thud, then opened both eyes. His vision merged, to focus as close to sharpness as he could manage these days.
Adam was outside, sawing wood. The insistent scraping clawed deep into Whiskey Bob’s mind and dragged him fully awake.
As he clapped his mouth, he wondered how late it was. The circle of light cast through the hole in the wall or the gnawing in his stomach helped him deduce the time. The latter was the most accurate and it said that he needed whiskey.
Whiskey Bob rolled from his damp straw bundle and shrugged into his clothes. He remembered a place where he’d stored whiskey and rummaged under his straw bedding.
While he burrowed the straw, covered with thick furry mould, stuck to his hands. A sprawling pile of beetles scurried over his hands.
Whiskey Bob hated insects, but nothing could slow him. He reached the back wall and slipped his hands around a bottle. He dragged it out.
While lying across his bedding, Whiskey Bob shook the bottle. A puddle of green, chunky liquid festered at the bottom.
Whiskey Bob drank the liquid anyway.
He licked his lips at the sharp flavor and chewed. But as his ability to taste wasn’t what it used to be, it didn’t taste much worse than the swill Patrick served him.
He levered his body to a standing stoop and looked around the shack, searching for other places that he might have stored his life’s blood.
Disjointed memories flashed of hundreds of fumbled storings of whiskey, under broken furniture, in the gaps in the wall, outside under the dust. Other images flashed of him finding the bottles.
Whiskey Bob couldn’t tell which was the most recent.
A rough table faced him on which Adam had left food. Whiskey Bob’s stomach lurched. He ought to eat, but food would slow his search for whiskey.
Then he saw the bottle on the table and the slosh of muddy brown liquid inside.
As Whiskey Bob remembered Adam’s recent trick, he smiled. If he ate the food, he’d earn a reward.
While tottering, he reached for the bottle, then thought better of the attempt and slumped to the floor. He rested his elbows on the table and grabbed the bottle.
‘Got you, you little varmint,’ he muttered.
Whiskey Bob upended the bottle. The fire slid down his parched throat and hit his stomach with an explosion of pure delight.
‘That’s what I call whiskey.’
He licked the bottle rim and sucked the last drips, then batted the flies off his food.
For a few seconds the flies buzzed away, then settled on the cold lumps on his plate.
He ignored the flies and shoveled the congealed beans and barley mix into his mouth with his crusty fingers. With fevered darting glances, he searched his shack for more whiskey.
Aside from the broken furniture and the pile of straw he saw no whiskey.
With his stomach filled, Whiskey Bob lurched to his feet and scratched. He had a pragmatic pact with his insects. He only disturbed them once each day when he awoke.
One good scratch would do.
Afterwards, he didn’t scratch for the rest of the day, because if Adam saw him scratch, he became agitated and Whiskey Bob didn’t like the resulting disturbance.
With scratching complete, he considered sorting out the other piece of personal grooming that Adam insisted he did before going to Dust Creek. He wiggled his hips, but he was no damper than he usually was when he awoke.
Whiskey Bob sniffed, then staggered closer to his bedding. He bunched the straw and smelled a familiar acrid smell.
Where the smell was strongest, he heaped the straw. This had happened with increasing frequency over the last few weeks while he slept.
Frowning, he lurched across his shack to the hole in the wall and stumbled outside.
On his first visit to the outside world today, he shielded his eyes from the late summer sun, which beat down from the endless sky.
He stretched. A warm wind wafted over him and he stretched some more.
Adam straightened and nodded to Whis
key Bob.
‘Evening, Bob,’ he said.
‘Whiskey.’
Adam bent over a broken coach wheel, his strong hands, used to working on wood, patted the rim.
‘We’ll go soon. Hang on.’
Whiskey Bob didn’t understand Adam’s interest in mending things. Few people came to Dust Creek when they could go to Hopetown. The few that did pass by had usually missed the turning on the trail and only stopped to ask how far it was to Hopetown.
But he knew the rules to this battle. If he pressed Adam, he’d work slower and they’d get to Dust Creek slower.
Whiskey Bob put a finger to his lips and shushed. He swayed and resisted the growing urge to scratch. For distraction, he watched his fly collection, as they dived in and out of vision.
Presently Adam straightened and rubbed his forehead, the long hours of outdoor working etched on his lined face.
‘Ready, Bob?’
Whiskey Bob nodded. ‘Whiskey.’
‘Come on then. Dust Creek here we come.’
Adam dropped his tools to the ground and they slouched round their shack and on to the trail. Out from their shack, the gritty wind blew unabated.
Whiskey Bob glanced at the reddening sun dipping closer to the horizon. He wheezed a shallow breath into his fragile lungs.
With a sigh, he set his shoulders high for protection from the dust that blew across the plains and they headed to Dust Creek.
Hugh Fleming brushed the last horse in his row of stalls, a solid and quiet bay which reveled in his attention, shaking its newly cleaned mane.
To admire his work, Hugh stepped back. The tail gleamed with the purest black, now he had teased away the filth.
He trotted to the outside trough for a fresh supply of water, ensuring Hopetown’s Quality Stables deserved their name. The horses in his overnight care always received the cleanest water and the freshest grain.
As he gave his horses a final check, the stable doors rattled. He swiveled round as the doors flew open.
In the doorway a man stood with his legs splayed wide and his yellow slicker swaying in Hopetown’s continuous breeze. The twilight reddened his outline, accentuating the man’s bulk.
‘What town be this, horse man?’ the man asked.