Lincoln Hawk Series 1-3 Omnibus

by Scott Connor

  ‘Welcome to Cody’s Saloon,’ the bartender said, his voice gruff and throaty. He glanced at the carpetbag. ‘What’ll you be having, big man?’

  Lincoln glanced at Cody’s angry scar. He winced, as a wave of putrid breath drowned the other smells.

  ‘Water.’ Lincoln suppressed a smile when his men didn’t complain. After such a strange order, they’d know for sure that something was wrong and would be on their guard.

  ‘What? Water,’ Cody spluttered, baring a wide expanse of yellow teeth. ‘Come on. This is a saloon, big man.’

  Keeping his gaze firm, Lincoln nodded. ‘Yup. Water, bartender.’

  Cody glanced at the carpetbag, then grabbed a clean towel from the bar and shuffled it over a row of clean glasses.

  ‘Whiskey is a man’s drink. We are drinking whiskey.’

  Lincoln noted that Cody had said ‘we’.

  ‘Yup. Water or beer, whichever is the strongest.’

  Cody winced and glanced over Lincoln’s shoulder. He shrugged.

  ‘I’ll get beers.’

  No bartender should accept that insult. Lincoln yawned, feigning indifference, as Cody rummaged under the bar, clanking bottles.

  Without moving his head, Lincoln studied the back of the bar. A cupboard rested beside a half-door. Beyond the door was a storeroom, dark in the fading light.

  From under the bar, Cody dragged out two beer bottles and clattered them on the bar, unopened.

  ‘Two more,’ Lincoln said.

  Cody opened his mouth, then bit his bottom lip. He glanced over Lincoln’s shoulder, grinned, then ducked to disappear behind the bar.

  Lincoln glanced sideways at the other two cowboys leaning on the bar, then flexed his shoulders. He tapped a foot on the floor until Cody bobbed up behind the bar. Then Lincoln hit him under the chin with a flat hand.

  The crack echoed round the saloon, as Cody dropped his bottles and stumbled back against the wall. Gunfire exploded behind Lincoln as he crashed his rifle on the bar.

  Using one hand he swung over the bar and landed on the other side, with his long legs splayed across the gap. He steadied his stance and swung round to thrust his rifle butt deep into Cody’s guts.

  While Cody spluttered, Lincoln grabbed his collar with his left hand and threw him against the half-door. Cody folded over the door and landed on the other side with a groan.

  From behind Lincoln, more gunfire echoed. He ignored the shooting and grabbed the cupboard, dragging it across the half-door in a single tug.

  Then he swiveled round. By the entrance Frank peered through the batwings while Jed covered the back exit. Sam leaned back against the bar, roving his gun back and forth, daring anyone else to materialize.

  The other saloon folk lay sprawled on the floor. The fog of gun smoke nestled and swirled in the setting sun’s deep, red rays.

  Lincoln vaulted over the bar. He stuck a boot under the first body and rolled it on to its front.

  This man’s chest was a red, pitted wasteland. The second body lay on its back.

  With his rifle barrel, Lincoln pushed the man’s head back and forth. The man’s neck moved with the liquid roll no one could feign.

  Lincoln nodded to the drunkard, who slumped in a heap over the bar.

  ‘Didn’t shoot him,’ Jed said. ‘He’s just a whiskey hound.’

  Lincoln strode to the drunkard and reached out his rifle to prod him. But he remembered the foul reek of urine and decay oozing from the wretch and withdrew his rifle. He turned.

  The well-dressed man lay on his side beside the wall, with his knees drawn up, but he still breathed.

  Lincoln turned to Frank. ‘What do you reckon, Frank? Ambush or something else?’

  ‘Don’t rightly know,’ Frank said, by the door. He glanced outside and winced. ‘But I reckon these men had company.’

  Chapter Five

  Through narrowed eyes, Lincoln looked through the saloon’s only window. He faced the sun, which hung, spectral and red through the dust arcing between the stables and the warehouse. With his right arm, he shielded his eyes.

  Three men were marching across the road. In the middle was Dave. The men kept their heads cocked into the swirling dust, with their hands aloft to keep their Stetsons in place.

  The tinkling of glass sounded as Cody broke a window in the next door storeroom. Doubled up he rushed from the saloon and circled round to join his colleagues.

  Lincoln gritted his teeth, annoyed that he’d not hit Cody harder.

  When Cody joined the other men, they halted forty yards from the saloon and spread out at gaps of two yards. Even in this poor visibility, they were easy targets.

  They braced against the wind, which howled down the road. Their darkened slickers whipped in the dust swirls.

  ‘Marshal Big Man,’ Cody shouted, ‘we have your deputy.’

  ‘What are you offering?’ Lincoln shouted.

  ‘We outnumber you ten to one. Give us the carpetbag and you can walk free.’

  Lincoln shrugged. ‘If you want the carpetbag, come in and take it.’

  ‘We can. Just thought you might like the chance to live.’

  ‘Still no deal.’

  Cody pushed Dave forwards two paces.

  ‘Your deputy can convince you, big man.’

  Lincoln readied his rifle and aimed at Cody, as Dave stumbled from the men.

  ‘They’re serious,’ Dave said with a ragged voice. ‘They’ll kill me if you don’t come out. All thirty—’

  Cody clubbed Dave’s neck, knocking him to the ground.

  ‘Like we said, Marshal Big Man,’ Cody said, standing over Dave. ‘You’re coming out one way or another. Save us the trouble and give us the carpetbag. If you don’t, your deputy will be the first to die.’

  Inside the saloon Jed coughed and pointed at the wounded man.

  ‘You could offer a counter threat about what we’ll do to this man,’ Jed said. ‘Surely he’s their boss.’

  ‘The hell I will,’ Lincoln murmured.

  ‘We’re waiting,’ Cody said. ‘What’s your answer?’

  ‘No deal,’ Lincoln said.

  Cody and the men spun on their heels and dragged Dave into the stable. A near gale of dust speeded their return.

  Lincoln gripped his rifle. The bones of his hand cracked as he steeled himself to stay.

  Through clenched teeth, Sam exhaled.

  ‘They won’t kill Dave,’ he said. ‘They’re bargaining with him until it’s dark. Then they’ll come.’

  Lincoln nodded. While stroking his chin, he watched the last sliver of sun disappear below the low hills.

  Darkness fell quickly this time of year, so they had around one hour. Lincoln leapt past the batwings and swung the shutters on the only window closed.

  As the light in the saloon fell to a pallid dusk, Sam scurried behind the bar. He slammed an oil-lamp on the bar.

  ‘Yes!’ he said. ‘Of all the places in the world for that gang to ambush us, we get a saloon. Yes sir, life is sure looking up.’

  Lincoln smiled, then directed Sam to help the injured man. Sam bent over him and prodded his chest.

  ‘How did they know that we were coming here?’ Sam asked. ‘And they knew about the carpetbag.’

  ‘Word gets around. How is he?’

  ‘Plumb knocked him cold. He must have banged his head on the wall. He got a slug in the chest and busted a rib, but the bullet isn’t in him. He’ll live long enough to swing.’

  Lincoln patted Sam’s shoulder. ‘Good work.’

  With a hand under each armpit, Lincoln dragged the man to lie by the stove. He unwound his gunbelt and passed it to Sam.

  Sam whistled through his teeth and rocked his head from side to side.

  ‘I’ll be. This be one fine gun.’

  Lincoln shrugged. ‘Want it?’

  Sam shook his head. ‘Far too grand for the likes of me.’

  ‘Don’t do yourself down, Sam. You’re worth ten of the dandy.’

  Lin
coln clattered the gun on the bar. He noticed the bloodied pile of dust again. With a shrug of his broad shoulders, he strolled to the stain and rubbed his feet in the pile of congealed filth.

  Further away other spots of blood gleamed, dotted in a line around the side of the bar. As he followed the trail to a low cupboard, flies buzzed, and they weren’t all interested in the drunkard.

  He threw open the cupboard door and, as two bodies tumbled out with a dull thud, he danced back a pace. Lincoln gritted his teeth. With the toe of his boot, he turned over each body.

  The fatter man wore an apron. The other man was younger and smelled of whiskey. Both men were soaked in enough blood to make the effort of calling Sam to help them pointless.

  Lincoln muttered a silent oath and slammed his rifle on a spare table. He dragged the bodies into the corner behind the bar, then stood beside the wounded man and Sam.

  ‘Jed,’ Lincoln said, ‘see what you can get out of the drunkard.’

  Jed nodded. He strode to the bar and shook the man’s shoulders.

  ‘Adam?’ a gravely voice whispered from beneath the mat of hair.

  To avoid the acrid smell Jed breathed through his mouth.

  ‘No, my name’s Jed. What’s your name?’

  ‘Whiskey.’

  ‘All right, forget the name. What happened here?’ Jed patted his shoulder. ‘Tell me what happened and I’ll get you whiskey.’

  As another stranger was offering Whiskey Bob whiskey, he opened a rheumy eye and grinned.

  Although Whiskey Bob’s vision was blurred, he recognized the rows of bottles behind the bar. He licked his lips.

  His raging thirst told him he hadn’t been in the saloon long enough and that he needed to quench that thirst as fast as possible. He winked his eye twice and encouraged his other eye to open.

  Blue eyes framed by sandy hair faced him. He gripped the bar and backtracked over recent events.

  He had climbed from his bed and eaten. He had gone home and wandered around his shack. He had drunk in the saloon. He had come into Dust Creek.

  These were the only events that filled his life, but he didn’t know their order.

  He grabbed Jed’s wrist. With gritted teeth, he smiled at his new friend.

  ‘Adam brings me here. He buys. Patrick gives me whiskey.’

  Whiskey Bob slumped on the bar.

  ‘Who runs the saloon? Is that Patrick? Perhaps someone else? How many men came in here? How long have they been here?’

  Whiskey Bob’s mind fogged. He gulped. His eyes roved in wild circles.

  Jed shook his head. ‘All right. That’s too many questions. Does Patrick run the saloon?’

  Whiskey Bob scratched his chest, then slapped his hand.

  An image of a fat, red face came to Whiskey Bob. He was a kind man who gave him whiskey hundreds of times, every serving blurring into a continuous motion.

  This face cried out. A red mist washed over Whiskey Bob and he clamped his eyes shut.

  ‘Patrick. Whiskey.’

  ‘All right, forget that. When did the men come here?’

  As whiskey must be close, Whiskey Bob giggled. Talking required concentration, but once you started the words came easily.

  ‘No one comes here any more. Dust Creek is dead. Just we don’t know it yet.’

  Whiskey Bob allowed his head to drop until it rested on the soothing, rough bar. He sighed. His mind clouded.

  ‘How many men?’

  Wind and dust filled Whiskey Bob’s mind.

  ‘Whiskey,’ he mumbled.

  Jed shook him again, then looked up at Lincoln and shrugged.

  ‘We’ll assume Patrick was the saloon owner,’ Lincoln said. ‘Adam might have owned the stable. There’s nothing more here for anyone to work on. Keep trying to get information. Anything might help.’

  ‘He’s desperate for whiskey. It might make him talk. Doubt he’ll make much sense even then.’

  Lincoln glanced at the rows of whiskey bottles behind the bar.

  ‘See if you can find coffee. Sobriety never hurt anyone.’

  ‘Yeah, sober him up,’ Frank said. ‘He’s drunker than a barrel of—’

  ‘Frank,’ Lincoln shouted to stop another hopeless witticism. ‘Any suggestions would be welcome. And not we’re in more trouble than a priest with the pox.’

  Sam laughed. ‘We should get in trouble more often. It improves your humor.’

  Lincoln joined Frank by the doors. Through the raging dust, their coach was indistinct. Frank looked at the coach too, tapping his chin.

  ‘If you want a suggestion,’ Frank said, ‘we’re not far from Hopetown. They won’t catch us in that distance.’

  Lincoln considered the time they would need to dash across the road, encourage their horses to move, and gallop across the stable doors – all the time as an open target.

  With a sharp nod, he acknowledged the bravado, if not the sense.

  ‘Nope.’

  Frank hung his head. ‘If their men are in the stable, we could swing the coach around, then circle round outside Dust Creek to Hopetown. It’s only another two miles that way.’

  Lincoln shook his head. At times like this, Frank became inventive, but never with sensible strategies.

  ‘Nope.’

  Frank returned a wide smile, his youthful, clear eyes bright.

  ‘Ah shucks. We’re trapped here like a horde of rats in a—’

  Lincoln winced. ‘We can’t run for it. But you can.’

  ‘I wondered when you’d ask.’ Frank turned. He examined the faded map on the wall, tracing a route with a finger. ‘Nearly dark enough already. It’s about eight miles to Hopetown along the trail, but perhaps less if I head across the plains.’

  Lincoln nodded. ‘You go in ten minutes. We’ll create a diversion.’

  ‘Yeah, I know the routine.’

  Frank trotted to the stove in the corner and fished out two charcoal lumps. He slumped to the floor and applied the blackened wood to his face in long swathes.

  Lincoln tapped Sam’s shoulder and marched to the exit, grabbing his rifle as he went. He pushed back the cupboard with which Jed had covered the exit, ordered Jed to cover the front door, and snaked outside.

  Once Sam slipped through the crack in the door too, Lincoln glanced around while his eyes became accustomed to the twilight darkness.

  Saws and blades lay dotted about the workshop. Lincoln searched for anything useful, but the equipment was too cumbersome. A small knife lay on a bench, its blade bright in the gloom.

  Lincoln tucked it in his boot.

  On the left the workshop opened on to the back of the saloon. They knelt and sprinkled dust on their gun barrels. Then Lincoln counted to three on raised fingers.

  They leapt from the workshop.

  Without waiting to see how many people were outside, Lincoln fired six shots in a steady spray across the bushes, then dropped to his knees. He reloaded while Sam fired.

  From the ground, Lincoln looked through the bushes at the featureless scrubby grass beyond.

  As returning gunfire erupted Sam fell to his knees. They crouched, while splinters from the wall showered down on them.

  To shield his eyes from the dust, Lincoln kept a hand to his brow. Flashes of light from guns twinkled in the twilight, some distance away.

  ‘Two of them to the left,’ Sam said. ‘Maybe three to the right.’

  Lincoln nodded, jumped to his feet, and dashed away from the workshop. As he ran, he peppered gunfire at the rifles on the left, which gleamed in the descending gloom.

  Sam fired too, aiming at the men on the right. At the corner, Lincoln dropped to his knees and waited while the men in the plains returned shots.

  In such poor light, anyone who kept low couldn’t hit another man who stayed low. But this didn’t hold when your aim was good and the opponent hadn’t enough sense to dust his gun.

  Kneeling, Lincoln listened to the gunfire. It had lessened. He ran back to the workshop, while he fired twice f
rom his rifle.

  This time, their assailants only returned two shots. When they reached the saloon, Lincoln patted Sam’s shoulder.

  Sam grinned. ‘You reckon they know what they’re doing, Lincoln?’

  Lincoln shook his head. He would have placed his men closer to the saloon and wider apart. He’d have waited until their assailants had strayed too far from the saloon, then blocked their route back with excessive gunfire.

  ‘Nope.’

  They slipped back into the saloon. With his face coated black, Frank looked up and nodded.

  Having feigned an escape attempt, Lincoln trotted to the shutters and opened them two inches. He peered outside.

  The darkness was growing with every passing minute. He gestured back at Sam, who placed the oil-lamp on a table at the back of the saloon, then waved to Frank.

  Frank replaced his hat, massaged the charcoal across his blackened face, then rubbed his hands on his jacket.

  ‘I’ll get to Hopetown in an hour, I reckon,’ he said. ‘Hour and a half, if the ground’s rough. I’ll return with Sheriff Mallory and reinforcements twenty minutes after that.’

  ‘Be quick,’ Lincoln said. ‘They won’t wait for ever before attacking.’

  Frank smiled a wide, white grin. ‘I’ll be quicker than a eagle swooping on a prairie mouse.’

  Lincoln wagged a long finger at Frank.

  ‘Don’t amuse yourself too much. Your smile can be seen a mile away.’

  Frank frowned. ‘Point taken.’

  ‘Workshop is out back. If you keep low, the men outside are too far away to see you.’

  Frank trotted to the exit. Without a backward glance, he slipped through the door.

  Chapter Six

  Frank shuffled from the saloon’s back exit and counted to twenty, letting his eyes accustom to the gloom.

  He knelt and crawled from the workshop towards a large bush outlined against the darkening sky. Frank sniffed a foul, familiar smell and gulped.

  He turned and crawled around the side of the saloon. At the corner, he rested a moment, then rolled on to his side to judge the distance across the road and round the back of the warehouse.

  Using a fast crawl, he could cover the fifty yards in thirty seconds. He whispered the remaining count to fifty.