The Gunhawks (Cutler Western #2)

by John Benteen

  The chances were good that Calhoon could take him. And even if he won, Cutler knew, he was going to take some punishment before he did.

  Now he was on his feet again, hands up, sucking in breath, and Calhoon’s face danced before him, grinning mockingly, and Calhoon was jabbing, punching, hands flickering and darting like snake tongues, but when Cutler blocked a blow and tried to hit back, Calhoon had danced away, and Cutler’s fist sliced empty air. Cutler shook his head, hurt, but not despairing, the thrill of battle still high in him. All right, if he had to take some punishment he would. He was big and tough and he had been hurt a lot in his time and it would not kill him to get hurt some more. And the room was only so big. He went after Calhoon.

  Calhoon dodged away, and he hit Cutler twice more; both times hurt, though Cutler’s hand deflected one blow slightly. Cutler kept on coming. Calhoon backed farther, and still Cutler came in, slowly, doggedly, but inexorably. Calhoon laughed. “You don’t know yet what’s gonna happen?” he jeered. Cutler’s face was marked and bleeding, but Calhoon had not a mark, for Cutler hadn’t landed a single solid blow. “Well, now you’ll get the picture.” He danced back, braced himself, and Cutler kept on coming, and Calhoon hit him once more, and then, behind Calhoon, one of the checker players squawked: “Judas Priest, look out!” They dived away, the two of them, as Calhoon backed into their table and knocked it over with his rump. Checkers rolled across the floor and Calhoon broke stride, danced sideways. Now for the first time, Cutler had a chance, and he lunged in, chin covered, guarded, big fists cocked, and he hit once, twice, and took a blow from Calhoon in the process. Calhoon blocked Cutler’s left, but he missed the right and it hit home and Cutler felt the soft flesh of Calhoon’s pursy lips go against the teeth, pulping beneath his fist. Calhoon cursed and tried once more to get in the clear, but now Cutler was coming on and though Calhoon hit and hit again, Cutler would not stop. He felt the shock of Calhoon’s blows, they were like mule kicks, and any lesser man would have been flat on his back by now, but, anesthetized by whiskey, Cutler’s flesh was like oak. He came right on in through the one-two of Calhoon’s blows, and he hit Calhoon once more, hard, in the belly, and this time Calhoon sailed backwards under the tremendous impact, eyes widening, sudden fear glinting in them, breath going in a gasp. And still Cutler came on.

  Calhoon tried to dodge, backpedal again, but now he was slower and worse than that, he was scared. Fear sapped his speed as much as breathlessness, and Cutler saw that and grinned with a bloody mouth. It was no trouble now to get past Calhoon’s guard, and he slammed in a right that hit Calhoon over the heart and spun him around and came over with a left that caught Calhoon’s jaw. The sound it made was like a butcher’s cleaver sinking into thick beef, and Calhoon’s head jerked back and he was flung, arms and legs asprawl, like a thrown doll, back across the room and up against the bar. Cutler came at him fast, still laughing. Calhoon made a strangled sound in his throat and scuttled down the bar, lips drooling blood, and Cutler pursued. Then Iris let out a scream. “Fred!” she shrieked. “That gun!”

  The bartender, watching the fight raptly, had forgotten Calhoon’s Colt on the bar. He whirled, but too late; Calhoon’s hand raked across the rolled cartridge belt and closed on the gun butt, and then the weapon was clear of leather. Cutler halted instantly as Calhoon straightened up, the hammer clicking back, the round black bore centered on Cutler’s belly. The gun trembled slightly in Calhoon’s hand, but not enough to throw off his aim at a range of less than six feet.

  “Goddam you,” Calhoon grated. He wiped the back of his left hand across his bloody mouth and his eyes were blue flames. “Now, you bastard . . .”

  “Here, John!” Iris yelled. Calhoon’s gun roared. Cutler rolled away, falling hard on the floor on his back, and as he landed he reached up, catching his own Colt that Iris had thrown. Calhoon turned, punched another shot at Cutler, but Cutler was rolling again, and then, in one fluid motion he came up, hunched awkwardly, with the six-gun thrust across and under his own body. Calhoon whirled and lined his Colt again, and Cutler had time for only the one desperate snapshot.

  His gun roared and he felt its flame singe his shirt and skin, and he saw Calhoon jerk around as a bullet chugged into his left shoulder. Calhoon fired wildly, yelling something incoherent, and eared back the hammer once again. This time Cutler had a fraction of a second in which to aim instinctively. His second shot caught Calhoon in the chest and drove him back against the bar and seemed to pin him there. Cutler prepared to fire again and then knew at once there was no need. Calhoon’s right hand opened and his pistol dropped. Then Calhoon, staring at Cutler in dreadful dismay with eyes rapidly dulling, sat down, hitting the brass rail and sliding off. For the one last second that he lived, Calhoon looked at Cutler and tried to speak and then his head slumped forward and blood dribbled down his shirt front from nose and mouth and he was dead.

  The room was acrid with powder smoke and very, very silent as Cutler, shaking a little with reaction himself, got slowly to his feet. “You fool,” Cutler husked, staring at the corpse. “I didn’t want to kill you.” Then, without even realizing that he did it, he thumbed fresh cartridges from his belt and crammed them in his gun. He was stone cold sober now, as he turned to Iris. “I didn’t want . . .”

  Her face was bloodless, white as paper. “Cutler,” she whispered. “You’ve got to run. The Calhoons have all the power in northern Wyoming. They’ll see you hang.”

  “No,” Cutler said. “It was self-defense. You saw it. You’ve got to swear to it, you and Fred. I’m not running. I never was an outlaw and I’m not gonna be one now.”

  Iris licked her lips. “I’ll testify. But all the same . . . You’ve killed a Calhoon. They’ll see you dead for that.”

  “Maybe,” Cutler said. “And maybe not. I—” He broke off as the door slammed open. Then, as the leathery man with the star on his coat and the sawed-off shotgun in his hand stopped just inside the threshold, staring at the body sitting against the bar, Cutler reversed his pistol and held it out butt first. “Here you go, Marshal,” he said. “I’m in your custody.”

  Chapter Two

  Through the jail’s barred window, Cutler watched the Calhoons, like an army, ride down into Tensleep.

  At the head of the long procession, six men sat long-legged deep-chested horses which entered the main street at a slow walk. The horses were all of the same strain, bred true to a buckskin coloration; and the men, in their own way, were just as much of a single breed. Without exception, they were tall and thick in the body and wide in the shoulders, hard and solid in their sheepskin jackets and chaps, and they sat their saddles with the same lord-of-creation arrogance that had stamped Cass Calhoon. Each wore a side arm, and across the saddle each carried a Winchester, and their eyes, swiveling from side to side, missed nothing that moved along the street. They ranged in age from middle thirties to late forties, and one of them, Cutler knew, would be Cass’s father, the others his uncles.

  But they were only the advance guard. Behind them on the flanks were strung out younger Calhoons—Cass’s brothers and cousins, a full dozen of them; armed like their fathers and just as arrogant. Hooves plopped in gumbo and bit chains jingled and saddle leather creaked as they filed past Cutler’s vision; in the center of the long vee the riders made were the wagons, big Studebakers, hooped and solid, drawn by fine draft horses with hides steaming in the cold, team bells chiming. Those, Cutler knew, would contain the women and the children—and the old man of whom he’d heard so much in the past four days he’d been in Tensleep.

  As Cutler watched, a big man in the lead raised a gauntleted hand in the halt signal. The riders fanned out, putting their horses to hitch racks on either side of the street; the teamsters swung the wagons to the side and parked them. The Calhoons, eighteen or twenty of them, swung down. The older ones strode to the back of the lead wagon. Somebody inside it dropped the tailgate. Then, effortlessly, with bulging muscles, they lifted out the old man in his wheelcha
ir, carried him over to the board sidewalk. Cutler looked at him narrowly and with curiosity: this was Carson Calhoon, one of the last of the old-time Wyoming cattle barons and the leader of this big and dangerous clan.

  But Carson himself did not look big and dangerous. He was a bent, hunched, withered parody of a man, swathed in blankets to his chin, so that only his face showed. But as he swung his head and spoke, Cutler saw that face, and he knew that this was still the most dangerous of them all: the face had not withered. It was still, despite its wrinkles, clean-cut, hawk-nosed and strong-chinned, a face that should have been stamped on a medallion or a coin, and in it was concentrated all the arrogance that the others showed and more. The old man gestured, and one of the sons nodded and called something; then from the rear of the procession came another Calhoon that Cutler had not seen yet. He was different from the others, and yet somehow more like the old man in the chair than any of them. He put a big black stallion down the street at a lope, its gear shining with silver conchos. He reined it up, swung down, strode to the sidewalk. Cutler had a good look at him then and saw that he was not more than twenty, the youngest of the group. And he was dressed differently from all the rest: they wore the clothes of the northwest ranges, tall, peaked hats and angora or sheepskin chaps, but he was dressed Texas border style, in a flat-crowned sombrero, batwing chaps sparkling with studs and conchos like those on the horse gear, with big Chihuahua spurs on his high-heeled boots. Moreover, he wore two guns, and they were swung low on crisscrossed belts gleaming with cartridges; they had ivory butts and were seated in the new style buscadero holsters, the leather of which was elaborately tooled. This kid was, Cutler saw, a range dandy of the kind often seen along the border; and, young as he was, there was something about him that touched Cutler’s spine with a kind of chill. Maybe it was the way he kept brushing his hands against his gun butts, maybe it was the way he bore himself, but here was a gunman, and one perpetually on the prod. The old man looked up at him with love and pride showing on that hawk like face, and when the boy tipped back his hat, Cutler saw that his features, when age had fully formed them, would be a duplicate of the oldster’s. When the old man had finished speaking, the boy nodded, and then he moved behind the wheelchair and pushed it into a saloon nearby.

  As the door closed behind the pair and the other Calhoons went to help the women from the wagons, Cutler turned away and closed the inside shutter on the window against the chill. He sat down on the cot in his tiny cell and rolled a cigarette thoughtfully. That was one hell of a formidable crowd out there. Maybe Iris Shannon had been right; maybe he should have run. But, he thought, memory flicking back four days to the instant when he had passed his gun to the Marshal, his decision had already been made. The Marshal’s eyes, then, had been like chips of slate as he took the pistol. “Cass Calhoon,” he rasped, the muzzle of the shotgun not wavering. “You killed him?”

  “It was self-defense,” Iris Shannon cut in quickly. “I saw it and so did three others. Cass drew on Cutler twice, and he drew first both times. You can’t hold this man, Debnam. You’ve got no grounds ...”

  “Wait, Iris,” Cutler said quietly. “Debnam. You’d be Wesley Debnam, used to be Union Pacific railroad detective?”

  The Marshal’s brows went up. “That’s me. Who’re you?”

  “Cutler, John Cutler. Marshal under Isaac Parker, Indian Territory.”

  “Well, for God’s sake,” the Marshal said, voice changing. “The Territory was my division. We’ve crossed trails a hundred times, workin’ on the same cases; I’ve always wanted to meet you. Heard a lot about you from Madsen, Heck Thomas, Bill Tilghman.”

  “Likewise,” Cutler said. He put out a hand and the Marshal took it, then lowered the shotgun.

  “Well,” he said, “this changes things a little. Let’s have a drink while you tell me what happened.” And he went to a table. Cutler and Iris joined him, and Cutler told the story. “He’d have had me cold,” he finished, “if Iris hadn’t tossed my own iron to me. As it was, it was close as hell.”

  The Marshal looked down at his hands. “Yeah. Self-defense, clear-cut.”

  “Then maybe I can ride out,” Cutler said.

  Debnam hesitated. Then he said, “No.” And he did not meet Cutler’s eyes.

  Iris’s voice rose. “What do you mean ‘No?’”

  Debnam raised his head. “Miss Shannon, you know good and well what I mean. The Calhoons. Do you think they’ll let Cutler leave this country until they’re satisfied? Do you think they wouldn’t come down on me like a cord of railroad ties if I jest let him up and ride away?” He shoved back his chair. “No, I got to hold Cutler. I got to hold him until the Calhoons can be notified and get here—and until the coroner can come up from Worland and hold an inquest. It’s all got to be done legal with the loose ends tied up. For his protection—and for mine.”

  Her mouth twisted. “His protection? Damn it, man, you know the Calhoons! The only protection he’s got is to be clear of Wyoming before they even find out what happened! Otherwise, inquest or no, they’ll see him dead! He doesn’t dare wait—”

  “Wait a minute,” Cutler said. He turned to Debnam. “The inquest. Will I get a fair shake?”

  “You’ll get one. The Calhoons draw a lot of water in this end of Wyoming. But most of their power’s in Johnson County, not here in Washakie County. And they’ve got enemies, too. We can empanel a fair jury and you’ll get a fair hearing. If the jury decides it was self-defense, you’ll be free to ride. Otherwise, you’ll be held for trial.”

  “Then notify the Calhoons and notify the coroner. Where’s your jail?”

  Debnam grinned slowly. “Did I say I was putting you in jail? My God, Cutler, a man with your reputation, used to be a lawman yourself? You ought to be behind bars on the day of the inquest, when the Calhoons come in, for your own protection. But . . . unless you are particular fond of jailhouse food and the company of drunken Shoshones, two of which I got penned up over yonder, I could release you in the custody of any reliable local citizen . . . Then I’ll let you know when the Calhoons are comin’ and you just report to the jailhouse when I give you notice.”

  “This is crazy!” Iris burst out desperately. “Just plain crazy. For you to stick around and wait to be . . . assassinated by the Calhoons ...”

  Cutler looked at the body against the bar. “You’ve seen,” he said evenly, “what happened to the last Calhoon that tried that.” Then he grinned. “Like the Marshal says, I need a reliable citizen to stand for me. Maybe you’d take the responsibility?”

  “Of course,” she said. “But—”

  Cutler was grave. “The law,” he said. “I’m not a lawman any more. But the law has to run its course. I don’t aim to spend the rest of my life on the dodge.” He looked instinctively toward the Big Horn Mountains where the grizzly was denned. “I’ve got something else to do with the rest of my life.”

  “Then it’s settled,” Debnam said and stood up. “You’re in Miss Shannon’s custody. I figure it’ll be about four days before the inquest. You’re free until I send you word to come to jail.”

  And that, Cutler thought, stubbing out his cigarette on the dirt floor of the cell, was how it had been. And if a man had to be in custody, he could do a lot worse than Iris Shannon . . . She’d had the best room in the Tensleep Hotel, which wasn’t saying much, and she’d been in it long enough for it to smell of her perfume—

  Then, out front, a jail door clanged. Cutler’s train of thought broke as he sprang to his feet. Debnam was there, followed by two other men with badges; and all carried sawed-off shotguns.

  “Cutler,” Debnam said. “It’s time to go. I reckon you saw the Calhoons come in.”

  “Yeah,” Cutler said. “I saw ‘em. And now I know why you wanted me in jail when they got here.” He looked at the riot guns. “You think they’ll try to take me?”

  “They had better not,” Debnam said; and in his voice Cutler recognized a grim resolve. Debnam might have come down in the
world since his days as a railroad detective; older, slowing down, village Marshal of a two-bit town, but he was still a lawman through and through. “The inquest is convened in the town hall. Let’s go over.” Debnam unlocked the cell and Cutler stepped out, shrugging into his mackinaw. As they walked toward the front door, Debnam added, “I deputized Frank and Will Lenox here. They’re good men, and they were against the Calhoons and the other big ranchers in the Johnson County war a few years ago. You’ll be all right.”

  “Yeah,” Cutler said. They went out on the street.

  It was lined with the curious, but more than that, watching the jail, were the Calhoons. All the men of the tribe, lacking only old Carson in his wheelchair, spread out in front of the town hall across the way. They stood tensely, and when Cutler appeared surrounded by the lawmen, a kind of sigh rose up. Cutler looked at them coolly, noticing that the young, two-gunned dandy was not among them. Then Debnam drew in a deep breath. He raised the shotgun slightly. “All right,” he called, voice ringing in the frosty air. “Break it up. Disperse, all of you. Make way for the prisoner.”

  The Calhoons did not move, the older, bigger ones standing like spraddle-legged statues before the door of the clapboard building. They stared at Cutler with cold blue eyes. Debnam raised the gun a little higher. “Will, Frank. Spread out a bit.”

  The men did so. Debnam kept on at a steady pace, Cutler trailing, the other two flanking. Only when they reached the sidewalk, were within a foot of the line of Calhoons, did that rank break. Then the Calhoons drew apart, made passage for Debnam to escort Cutler indoors.