The Gunhawks (Cutler Western #2)

by John Benteen

  So he had wasted no time in Tensleep after the trial, but had headed out the next day. Carefully, he’d watched his back trail, remembering the Calhoon threat, but that, apparently, had been just talk. He’d had no trouble anywhere along the line.

  Tomorrow, he figured, he’d reach the twin border settlements named Sonoita. Turning south, in a week he’d be at Villa Hermosa. Then—if Hernando were still alive—he had a whole winter, if it took that, in which to bail him out of trouble.

  He raised the bottle for one more drink. Before it touched his lips, Big Red sprang up, a growl like thunder rumbling in his chest, hackles raised as he faced down the draw. Cutler capped the bottle instantly, was on his feet, hand dropping to his gun, as the dog’s growl broke into a thunderous barking.

  Then, from around a bend in the arroyo, a call rang out. “Hello, the camp! Can I ride in?”

  Cutler stood tensely, hand on gun. This was wild country, and anybody riding through it was likely to be just as wild. He spoke to the dog; its barking ceased. Then Cutler moved well away from the fire, into the shadows.

  “Come ahead,” he yelled back.

  He heard the sound of a trotting horse. In the twilight, a rider came around the arroyo’s bend, and Cutler sucked in breath as the last light of the dying sun struck gleaming rays from silver conchos on his horse gear, his chaps, and from the ivory butts of the two Colts he wore on crisscrossed buscadero belts. Cutler pulled the Colt, eared back the hammer. So, he thought bitterly, it had not been an empty threat after all. The man had somehow followed him. all the way from Wyoming. And had the double-riveted brass to ride straight into his camp.

  “Calhoon!” he bellowed. “You’re covered. This is John Cutler! Stop right there!”

  Billy Calhoon checked the tall, black stallion. “Ease off, Cutler!” He raised his hands high, level with his shoulders. “You’re safe for the time being.”

  His teeth shone as white in the dying light of the sun as the butts of his Colts as he grinned. “I’m not ready to kill you—yet.”

  For a long moment, Cutler stood there, gun leveled, head buzzing slightly with whiskey, trying to sort this out. Then he said harshly. “You’re not gonna kill me any time. Ride on, or I’ll blast you.”

  Calhoon did not move. “What’s the matter, Cutler? Here, I’ve followed you damned near a thousand miles, I’ve rode in straight up, like a man, and my hands are high. What you scared of? Afraid you can’t take me in a fair fight?”

  Cutler roared, “You goddam young fool. I don’t want to fight you! Are you crazy?”

  “No. But I’m a Calhoon. And sooner or later you’re gonna have to deal with me. Or some Calhoon. You shoot me, it’ll be my brother Jeff or maybe Hosea. Right now, though, I’ll keep my hands up. The main thing is, I want to talk to you.”

  “We’ve got nothing . . .”

  “Yeah, we have. And either we talk about it now or . . . You aim to force me to take you in the dark, belly-crawling and bushwhacking like a coyote? Or are you man enough to let me speak my piece?”

  That damned Calhoon arrogance, Cutler thought savagely. He hesitated. Then he let out a long, sighing breath. All right, he thought, I’ll talk to him. Sooner or later I’m going to have to do something about him. It might as well be now.

  “You keep your hands high!” he yelled. “That way you can ride in. But I’m watching you and so’s the dog. You go for iron, you can’t handle both of us, and he’s killed men in his time when they made tries at me!”

  “Fair enough!” Calhoon called back. “I’m comin’ in. hands up. Call off your wolf, or whatever he is.” Then, with total boldness, he spoke to the horse and, unreined, it walked on up the draw.

  Cutler watched it come, its rider keeping both palms at shoulder level. He saw it stop across the fire, saw Calhoon step down without touching saddle, hands still uplifted. Then Cutler stepped out of the shadow, Big Red tense beside him, the gun trained on Billy Calhoon’s belly.

  Calhoon’s face, not yet formed wholly into the hawk like toughness of his tribe, was still twisted in a grin. “I’ll swear,” he said, quite easily, “‘you’re a hard man to follow. Thought I’d lost you two or three times.”

  “What do you want with me?” Cutler rasped.

  “I said, first of all, to talk. You believe me if I give my word I won’t try to draw on you without warnin’? That there’ll be no tricks?”

  Cutler spat into the fire. “That wasn’t Cass’s style. He tried to shoot me when I was unarmed. What makes you think I figure you’re any different?”

  “Because I ain’t Cass.” Calhoon’s grin went away. “Let me tell you about Cass, Cutler. He was a lousy, lying, untrustworthy, lazy, and generally no-good bum. He was long overdue for killin’. But all the same, he was a Calhoon, and in the long run, that’s what counts. Everything fades out beside that. Which is why Daddy insists you got to be killed. Because nobody kills a Calhoon and gets away with it. That’s how it is.” He paused. “Now. Will you take my given word that I won’t draw on you without warnin’ or try to back shoot you or harm you in any way until we’ve palavered. We got some things to settle before I do what I come to do.”

  Cutler only stared. “Calhoon. you got more brass than a rifle cartridge.” Suddenly, with decision, he eased down the hammer on the pistol. Then, in a motion so quick it was faster than a blur, he holstered the gun. Calhoon’s eyes narrowed at his speed.

  “All right,” Cutler rasped. “You can drop your hands. But I’m watching you and so’s the dog.”

  “Fair enough.” Calhoon lowered his hands, then looked at the coffee pot on the fire. “Enough there for an extra cup?”

  “Help yourself,” Cutler said, and watched him carefully as he went to the fire, used Cutler’s cup, and poured it full, careful always not to make any sudden motion or let his hands go near his guns.

  Then, blowing on the coffee, Billy Calhoon squatted across the fire from Cutler. “You see,” he said, “us Calhoons believe there’s a right way and a wrong way to do things. The wrong way was what Cass tried, gunnin’ you down when you were without an iron. The right way is to come up to a man head-on and have it out with him face to face. That’s what Daddy told me when he sent me after you. ‘Billy,’ he said, ‘you bring me back his ears. But don’t you let me find out that you got ‘em by backshootin’ or bushwhackin’.’” He took a sip of coffee. “Us Calhoons are brought up to obey when the Old Man talks.”

  Cutler’s eyes shuttled to Big Red. The dog still stood tensely, watching Calhoon. Cutler said, “Red,” and pointed toward the boy. “Guard.” Then he squatted on his blankets, reached for the bottle again. “Now,” he said. “You make one bad move toward me, the Airedale will take your throat out.” He jerked the cork, took a drink, shook his head. “This don’t make sense. It just don’t make sense.”

  “It does if you’re a Calhoon,” Billy said. “It’s the way it’s always been with the Calhoons, way it always will be. You’re lucky. Daddy coulda sent Jeff or Hosea. They both killed a lot of men, and they don’t give nobody an edge if they can help it. Tell the truth, I never really expected him to pick me to come after you.”

  He drank some more coffee. “But after that inquest, we all pulled out. Then he called us together when we got back to Johnson County. ‘Boys,’ he said, ‘you all know that if I could ride, I’d have to go after him myself. But I cain’t, so it’s got to be one of you.’ We was all there, Jeff and Hosea and all the others, and ever’body was waitin’ for him to name the one. I wanted it to be me so bad I could taste it, but I never really figured it would be.”

  He drained the cup and set it aside, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “But then, by God, he said, ‘Billy, you step out here.’ And I did. And he looked me up and down. It was like he had never seen me before. Of course, I been runnin’ the ranch down on the Brazos for the last two years; jest happened to be home on a visit. Maybe that was why he sized me up so careful. But then he said, ‘Yeah. You’re the one.’” C
alhoon grinned. “The next part’s real flatterin’ to you, Cutler. Because he said, ‘You know, this is the most dangerous man I have seen since we come up to Wyoming.’ He said, ‘Cutler is a professional fightin’ man. There aren’t many left. But he’s the pure quill.’ And then he said, ‘That’s why I want you to take him, Billy.’

  “Me, I said, ‘Daddy, you know I never killed nobody.’ And he said, I know that, but it don’t matter. You’re fast with those guns, the fastest of the whole tribe. And it’s gonna take speed to go up against Cutler.’ You see, Cutler, he thinks highly of you . . . And then just to make sure, he had me draw and dry-fire against Jeff and Hosea. I beat ‘em both hands down, fast as they are. And Daddy, he just nodded, and he said, ‘I thought so. What you’ve got is what I used to have myself. A natural talent for the gun.’ He also said, ‘I’ve watched you grow up, and you’re more like me than any other member of the clan. You look like me when I was that age and you act like me and you draw an iron like me.’ He said that, Cutler, and it was the sweetest words I ever heard, because Daddy don’t often pay out compliments. So he went on, ‘You forget about the ranch down on the Brazos. I’ll send Hosea down to see about that. From now on, your job is to find that man Cutler and when you do, you’re to kill him. Kill him straight up and head-on, and then cut off his ears and bring ‘em to me. Do that for your Daddy, son. Do that for the Calhoons.’”

  Cutler grinned, and in the firelight his mouth made an evil slice across his face. “That’s all very interestin’, Billy. It’s nice to know your daddy thinks so highly of me. But he would have done better to send a real gunfighter.”

  Calhoon’s eyes changed, going hard, so that they looked like chips of ice. “I’m a real gunfighter, Cutler, and don’t you think any different.”

  “You haven’t killed your man,” Cutler said, with an edge of contempt.

  “But I will.” Calhoon picked up the cup, reached for the pot again. “I’ll start at the top, with you.” He poured coffee. “What you don’t know about me is this, Cutler. I was born late, when my Daddy was an old, old man. My brothers, so much older, they had a chance to prove themselves. Jeff, he drove up the trail with Daddy more than once, Hosea, all the rest, the ones that got ten years’ edge on me, they’ve proved themselves. Me, when I reached age to handle a hogleg, things were so quiet, I didn’t have their opportunities. Being the baby brother, I was always looked down on, so to speak. So a long time ago, I made up my mind that I was gonna be a better man than any of ‘em. While I was ramroddin’ the spread in Texas, out from under ‘em, I worked like hell. To be a better cowman, and to be better with irons, so that if the time ever came to use ‘em, I could put ‘em in the shade. I hunted all over Texas for a pair of sixes with just the right balance and finally had ‘em custom-made. I practiced two hours every day, double that on Sundays. I made myself a better man than my brothers. And now all I got to do to prove that is bring your ears back to Daddy.”

  “‘Just like that,” Cutler said.

  “Just like that. Way I’ve got it figured, come daylight, you and me, we’ll have it out together. That’s fair enough, ain’t it?”

  “No,” Cutler said.

  “No? Why not?” Calhoon blinked. “What’s the matter, you afraid to go against me?”

  “Not hardly,” Cutler said, and he drank again, feeling wryly amused now about all this and knowing what he was going to do. “Look at it my way. First of all, I don’t want to die. Not until I’ve done something I’ve got to do . . .”

  “That bear?”

  “That bear,” Cutler said and nodded. “Secondly, suppose I win, what does that get me? There’s a blue million Calhoons, it looks like, up in Wyoming. Your daddy would only send another one, and then another one after that. So I couldn’t win anyhow. I’d just have to keep going up against Calhoons. I don’t want to spend the rest of my life havin’ to kill off your whole clan.”

  “You won’t. Daddy knows I’m the best there is. You kill me, you won’t have any others to worry about.”

  “But the hell of it is,” Cutler said, “I don’t want to have to kill you. I got nothing against you, except all that kid brass and Calhoon arrogance. Your daddy said I was a professional. Well, he’s right. A professional don’t kill a man lightly. He’s got to have something to gain. And . . .”

  “You won’t kill me,” Calhoon said with cool assurance.

  “That’s the worst of it, you might be right. Maybe you’re faster. I don’t know. Somebody always is. Anyhow,” Cutler said, and he started to raise the bottle and drink again, “anyhow . . .” And then his voice changed. “Red!” he snapped. “Take him!”

  Calhoon caught the change in Cutler’s voice and his hand swooped down in the immediate reflexive action that was the sure sign of the natural gunfighter, but he was not as fast as the Airedale dog. Big Red launched himself across the fire like a rocket, and at the same instant Cutler came up and leaped the fire himself. The Airedale slammed into Calhoon and sent him falling backwards, and Cutler’s booted left foot came down on Calhoon’s right wrist as the gun came free of leather. He pinned it, yelled, “Red—off!” Just before the dog’s jaws chopped shut on Calhoon’s throat the Airedale moved its head, then dodged away. Cutler kicked up with his right foot and it caught Calhoon under the chin. Billy’s head snapped back and his body went limp, stretching out full length. The dog growled savagely, horribly, and wanted to go in again for a finishing slash, but Cutler’s stern voice warned him off. “Red, down. Over there. Down.” Reluctantly, the Airedale dropped flat on his belly, teeth still bared. Cutler bent quickly, scooped the ivory-handled Colts from the unconscious boy’s holsters. Then he went back to the blankets, jacked the shells from them, put them in his pocket. He laid the guns on the blanket between his feet and had another drink and waited, his own gun drawn and loosely held.

  In about five minutes, Billy Calhoon woke up. He hoisted himself groggily, and his hands went to his empty holsters. Then Cutler said, harshly, “Don’t bother.” And Calhoon’s eyes focused, staring at the gun Cutler held trained on him.

  Those eyes flared with hatred. “You damned sneaky son of a bitch,” Calhoon whispered. “You didn’t have the guts to face me like a man. After I promised . . .”

  Cutler grinned coldly. “Promises,” he said contemptuously. “Billy, you should have listened to your daddy. He said I was a professional. One thing you got to learn about professionals. Somebody’s out to git ‘em, they never give him an edge. You think I brought in the Boone gang and the Thomas boys by playing showdown with ‘em? Boy, you got a lot to learn.”

  Calhoon only stared at him.

  Cutler arose. “Stand up,” he said and jerked the gun to emphasize the order.

  Calhoon’s eyes widened. “You’re aimin’ to kill me,” he husked. “In cold blood.”

  “I said, stand up!” Cutler rasped.

  Slowly, shakily, Calhoon got to his feet.

  Cutler’s grin was like a wolf’s snarl. “Now. All those pretty brass cartridges you got in those two pretty gun belts. You take ‘em out and throw ‘em on the blanket. One by one, easy. And if you got a hideout on you, don’t reach. Because I’ll blast you down.”

  Calhoon licked his lips, but there was no fear in his eyes. “You go to hell.”

  “Boy,” Cutler said, “all that Calhoon high-ridin’ won’t git you nowhere now. You do what I say or I’ll shoot you into little pieces bit by bit. Shuck those cartridges.”

  What Calhoon read in Cutler’s gaze made him obey. Slowly he thumbed the fat shells from their loops and tossed them one by one to land between Cutler’s boots. When the last loop was empty, Cutler said, “Now,” and he bent and picked up the ivory-butted Colts and threw them across the fire to land by Calhoon. “There’re your guns,” he said. “They’re all I’m leavin’ you. The dog is gonna watch you all night so you don’t dare move. Come mornin’, I’m pullin’ out, and your stallion is goin’ with me. I’ll leave the stud at the livery stable in Sonoita�
�twenty-five miles for you to walk across the desert. If it was me, I’d head for Tucson instead. It ain’t any closer, except it’s nearer to Wyoming. If I was a Calhoon, I’d buy me a horse there and head back north and tell my daddy it will cost the Calhoons more than it’s worth to keep coming after John Cutler. But the decision’s yours, come daybreak.

  You can head north or keep on after me. But I’ll tell you this. Next time you brace me, you won’t git off so easy!”

  Calhoon’s mouth opened and closed, but he said nothing.

  “You got a cheap lesson this time, boy,” Cutler went on. He drank again from the bottle. “Anybody sends you after a pro again, you’ll know how to take him, not any of this dime novel stuff. No way you could buy it without paying with your life except from Cutler. Now—I’ll watch you close while you unroll your bed. Then I’m going to sleep. And if you try to come at me in the night, Big Red’ll take your throat out.”

  Calhoon’s mouth worked again, and this time he found words. “You bastard,” he husked, “you’d better kill me now. I warn you, you’d better kill me now. Because I don’t care where you go, right down into hell itself, there ain’t no way you can stop me from coming after you.”

  “That I’ll worry about later on,” Cutler said. “Now, shut up and spread your bed. And don’t let your hand stray near that saddle gun.”

  Calhoon stared at him a moment longer with glittering eyes. Then he went to the stud, unlatched his bedroll, spread it out by the fire. Cutler said, “Roll in, sleep tight. Big Red, guard.” He threw away the empty bottle, lay down in his own soogans, pillowed his head on the saddle, and with the six-gun still in his hand dropped instantly off to sleep.