The Gunhawks (Cutler Western #2)

by John Benteen

  Its windows were not shuttered; whatever the rest of the town feared, the Anglos in there did not. Cutler hunkered behind a clump of prickly pear, made sure the coast was clear. Then he scuttled toward the building, brought up silently against the wall, edged toward the window, stood back out of the ray of light it cast, and looked in.

  They were gunslingers, all right, hard professionals, and there were two dozen of them at the bar and at the tables. Some played cards, others merely drank and smoked and talked. One practiced throwing a knife at the closed front door; he was an expert, hitting his mark every time. Cartridges gleamed in pistol belts, and Cutler saw more than one notched Colt handle. He stepped back a little. It was a damned good thing he had not gone straight in. That would have been a deadly crowd to brace.

  Then he drew in his breath, moved closer to the window. Two figures had just moved into his range of vision, and he stared at them—the black-hatted, frock-coated man and the girl.

  The man was tall, in his mid-thirties, dressed like a preacher or a gambler, and, as he turned, Cutler could see that his face was narrow, bladelike, inset with the strangest eyes Cutler had ever seen: a murky green, yet lambent with a kind of insanity. His mouth was a thin line, his chin jutting. He wore two Colts on a single belt cinched around his lean waist beneath the long-tailed black coat. And as Cutler watched, he seized the girl by her arm and jerked her roughly, brutally, to him.

  She was Anglo, too, young, not over twenty, and she would have been pretty if her hair, copper-colored, had not been tousled and if there had not been a huge blue bruise on one cheekbone. She wore the low-cut, short-skirted dress of a dance hall floozy, and it outlined full breasts and rounded hips, but Cutler did not think she was any ordinary cantina trollop. She fought the man, struggling in his grasp, but he was too strong for her. Holding her against him, he brought his head down, kissed her long and hard. Her body was rigid, unmoving, in his embrace. Then suddenly he jerked back, swung his open hand hard. Cutler heard the sodden sound it made as it hit her face. She fell back in a chair, dazed. The black-clad man touched his mouth. Blood trickled from one corner of it; savagely she had bitten his lip. He reached for a bottle of whiskey on the table, rinsed the wound with it, took a long drink. He turned to face the girl again, and recovered, she looked at him defiantly.

  Cutler edged away from the window. Dead end: even though the two of them were speaking, the tall man angry, the redheaded girl frightened but unyielding, the babble of noise made it impossible to catch their voices. Maybe tomorrow, he thought, if the men are moved out again, if those gunslingers leave, I can find out something then. He was about to melt into the darkness when the deep coughing roar of a jaguar split the night, coming from almost directly behind him and not more than a hundred yards away.

  For an instant, he was frozen with astonishment. Then the roar came again, and that was when everybody in the cantina rushed to the window. Cutler dived for the shelter of darkness and of brush, but he was too late; he had been seen. The jaguar coughed once more, farther away now, as if it were circling the village. Cutler heard a voice yell: “Gorman! There’s somebody out back, and it ain’t that cat, either!”

  “Well, then, git the bastard!” a deep voice roared. As Cutler rolled behind the clump of prickly pear, the back door of the place flew open and men poured out, guns in hand; in that instant, he could have knocked off five with as many rounds from the Krag. But he held his fire, hunkered close to the ground instead, lying perfectly still, as at least fifteen men fanned out behind the cantina.

  What must have been the voice of Gorman came again. “Rest of you out front, watch the horses, make sure that tigre don’t git ‘em. But whatever you do, don’t kill that cat!” Then the black-clad man, Colt in either hand, emerged from the back door.

  “All right!” he snapped. “Spread out, brothers! Check every scrap of cover. If one of those Mexicans is out after curfew, I’ll skin the sinner alive! Find him!”

  Cutler held his breath. They were tramping all around him now. God damn that jaguar! He wondered if it were the same one he’d run into earlier. Should have killed the son of a bitch, he thought bitterly, and then he had no time to think anything else, because they spotted him. “Gorman!” somebody yelled. “Over behind that prickly pear!” Then a gun flame split the night, and with its roar a bullet chugged through the cactus and slashed dirt into Cutler’s face.

  He rolled. All right, nothing for it now but to shoot his way out. He came up, and as somebody fired again shot back at the gun flash and heard a hoarse bellow of pain. Then he dodged aside as they returned fire at his own gun flash, and he worked the bolt of the Krag furiously, spraying lead until its magazine was empty, running backwards as he did so, weaving from side to side. Slugs, answering fire, whined all around him and he felt one touch his sleeve, but at least one of his own bullets hit the mark, for there was another cry of pain. Then the Krag was empty and with no time to reload, Cutler jerked out his Colt. Bending low, he ran for the shelter of a house ten yards away. He almost made it. Would have, if somebody inside the house had not suddenly slung its shutter open. Light spilled out and caught him, making him a perfect target. The fusillade of gunfire was thunderous. Cutler whirled to shoot back, but he never got off a round. It was as if somebody slammed an ax against his head. The world exploded in a dazzling flash, and then all light and consciousness flickered out.

  His head hurt; that was the first thing of which he became aware. It was as if a little man with a sledgehammer were inside his skull, trying to beat his way out. Cutler lay motionless with eyes closed; presently some of that pulsing agony subsided. Still, however, he did not move. He waited for consciousness to seep back wholly.

  After a while, he understood that he was in the cantina; he lay on hard-packed dirt and he could smell spilled beer and tequila and he could hear voices. Above him, somebody said, “Gorman, I think he’s waking up.”

  “We’ll see,” those deep, resonant tones said near at hand. Then Cutler was kicked hard, brutally, in the flank. The sudden, unexpected pain made him jerk up, open his eyes. He stared into the bleak, narrow face of the black-clad man.

  “Well, brother,” the man said sonorously, “you have fallen among sinners. You should have been more discrete.” Then his voice went hard and icy. “All right, stranger. Who the hell are you and what are you doin’ sneakin’ around Villa Hermosa?”

  Cutler, side flaring with pain, was unable to speak.

  The man in black kicked him again. “Damn your soul, talk!”

  “Gorman!” the girl’s voice cried out. “Stop it!”

  “Shut up, Sharon,” Gorman rasped. “Or you want me to work you over, too?” Those lambent eyes stared into Cutler’s. “Well? I’ll have your answer.”

  Then another voice said, one faintly familiar, heavily accented, “I’ll tell you who he is, Senor Gorman. I remember him from two years ago. This is John Cutler, a hunter and trapper of animals—and a friend of Fernandez.”

  Gorman’s thin mouth quirked. “Well, is that a fact? A friend of Fernandez, eh, Perez? And a trapper?”

  Cutler’s eyes shuttled to the fat Mexican in the white linen suit. Ramon Perez, who had been the richest man in Villa Hermosa, owner of its store and cantinas, nodded. “Si. Maybe he knows where Hernando is.”

  “Maybe he does.” Gorman drew his right hand gun, jerked its barrel. “All right, Cutler, on your feet.”

  Slowly, painfully, Cutler arose, panting as he leaned against the cantina wall for support. His eyes ranged over the hard-bitten crew surrounding him, went to the girl, face pale beneath the bruise, hands clasped to her breast. “Don’t,” she whispered. “Please. If you know where Hernando and my father are, please don’t tell.”

  Gorman ignored that. “Well, Cutler?”

  Cutler shook his head, and that sent another wave of pain through it. “I don’t know where Fernandez is . . . Who are you?”

  Gorman grinned thinly. His deep voice was suddenly rich with the parody
of a minister delivering a sermon. “Verily, brother, you are in the hands of Allen Gorman, better known in these parts as Preacher Gorman. And this motley crew around you, brother, is my congregation, Gorman’s Gunhawks, I like to call them, All doomed and damned to hellfire on the day of reckoning, but in the meantime, the toughest bunch of sinners I could recruit from Piedras Negras to Mexicali. Like myself, they found the climate of the United States too hot for them and so have come to Mexico, where now we all prosper . . .” His voice changed again. “Fernandez . . . damn you, where is he?”

  “I told you, I don’t know.”

  “Then why were you skulking in Villa Hermosa?”

  Cutler licked his lips. “I had a letter from Hernando. Said he was in trouble, needed help . . .”

  “Aye, verily, help. He’ll need help when we find him. We’ll burn him, the brujo. You know the gospel, brother: ‘Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live.’”

  “Senor Gorman,” Perez put in, “I think it is obvious. Fernandez must have sent for Cutler to trap the tigre, the jaguar. I tell you, the man is very famous as a catcher of animals.”

  “Well, he’ll catch no more. That jaguar’s too valuable to us . . . Anyhow, before the cock crows in the morning, he’ll have gone to meet his maker. But first I want to be sure that he’s not lying about where Fernandez is. Finnegan!”

  “Yeah.” A bulky, bearded man in a red flannel shirt stepped out of the crowd. Cutler saw the long Bowie sheathed at his belt, remembered how expertly he had thrown it.

  “Finnegan, take that toad sticker of yours and do a little persuasive work on our friend Cutler. Bit by bit and piece by piece and make it hurt. Or would you rather talk now, Cutler, and save yourself some inconvenience? Finnegan can do marvelous things with that knife of his . . .”

  Cutler stared at Gorman. “I tell you, I don’t know . . .”

  “Well, we’ll see. Okay, Finnegan . . .”

  Yellow teeth showed in Finnegan’s brindle beard as he drew the Bowie. Its blade gleamed in lantern light. He stepped forward, thrusting out the knife until its point touched Cutler’s belly. “You know what I figure I might do? I figure I might gut you, bit by bit. Just a little at a time, until by the time I’m through you’ll be standing there holding your own innards in your hands—and still alive. I know how to do it. You want to talk?”

  Cutler licked his lips again, stared at the men encircling him. He could make a break, maybe then they’d have to shoot him, a quick, clean death . . . But otherwise, there was no escape. He sucked in his belly, braced himself. Then he spat straight into Finnegan’s face. “Go to hell,” he rasped.

  “Why . . .” Finnegan began, grin broadening. “Why, I’ll—” And at that instant, a strange thing happened. From outside the cantina, a gun roared. Finnegan’s face dissolved in red as a bullet smashed through it. He simply fell over backward, the knife dropping from his hand.

  Cutler caught it before it hit the floor. He came up with it, and as Gorman jumped back, leveling the Colt, threw it, underhanded. Gorman howled as it caught him in the shoulder, and he dropped the gun. All that in a clock-tick, and then the unseen marksman outside the cantina fired again; another man fell as he tried to raise a Colt, and then a voice, hard as iron, rang through the silence. “Don’t anybody else move. I’ve got eight rounds left, and the first one that tries to shoot is a dead man. Cutler, get yourself a gun and back out the door slow and easy. This is Billy Calhoon talking.”

  Chapter Five

  “Calhoon.” Cutler mouthed the single word in amazement. Then, in a quick motion, he scooped up the pistol Preacher Gorman had dropped, eared back its hammer. He had to move fast and knew it; the room full of gunmen stood frozen under the threat of Calhoon’s unseen weapon, but they would not stay like that forever. In seconds, now, the cantina was going to blow up in gunfire unless he got out of it. He dodged toward the door, backed through it.

  Calhoon’s voice said, “Get a horse from the rack.”

  Cutler cast a sidelong glance. Calhoon stood at the front window of the saloon, both Colts pointed through. Beside him, the black stallion Cutler had left in Sonoita stood ground-hitched. Cutler went to the rack, chose a tall dun, swung up. There was a Winchester in its saddle scabbard, and he pulled it, levered in a cartridge. “Okay, Calhoon, you’re covered. Mount and ride.”

  “Right.” Calhoon backed away, holstered one gun, kept the other ready as he swung up into the stallion’s saddle. “Now,” he said, “let’s rake that room and make ‘em keep their heads down.”

  “No,” Cutler snapped. “There’s a girl in there. You might hit her. Come on! Ride, damn it!” And he spun the horse, slammed home spurs. The dun went rocketing down the street. Cutler twisted in the saddle, saw Calhoon jerk the black stud around, come pounding after him. Then, their paralysis broken, the men in the cantina poured out. They filled the street and suddenly the night was thunderous with the sound of guns.

  Cutler bent low in the saddle, turned, fired the Winchester as he rode, hosing lead down the street. Calhoon was twisted like that, too, thumbing shots from his Colt. The clump of men scattered, broke. Then Gorman’s voice rose in what was almost a scream. “After ‘em, damn your eyes! After ‘em and bring back their hides!”

  Calhoon pounded up alongside Cutler, the big stud running easily. “You all right?”

  “I’ll do,” Cutler yelled. “Too dark for them to hit anything. Where the hell you come from?”

  “Tell you later. Lead the way. You know this country?”

  “I know it!” Cutler lashed the dun. They were out of the street, now, pounding up the rim of the bowl in which the town lay. Calhoon was thumbing fresh rounds into his Colt as they rode.

  “Where we bound for?” he yelled.

  “My wagon!”

  “God damn your wagon! We got no time to mess with that!”

  “Shut up and follow me!” Cutler yelled back and plunged into the brush. He could hear, behind, the drum roll of hooves as Gorman’s Gunhawks’ pursuit got under way. And he was under no illusions; even though they had a slight lead, there were enough gunmen back there to run them down easily, in relays, the way coyotes ran down antelopes. Nor could he and Calhoon fight them all . . . Then he caught a gleam of white, the tarp of the wagon, where he had left it hidden in the brush. Big Red let out a thunderous barking, and Apache nickered welcome.

  Cutler sprang from the dun’s saddle to the wagon. He knew exactly where everything was, and his hands closed on the pliers and the roll of thin copper wire he used for snares immediately. He slid the roll of wire over his arm, stuck the pliers in his hip pocket, snatched up the twelve-gauge double-barreled shotgun from the rack behind the seat, and a musette bag that held rounds for it. All that in a pair of seconds; then he slashed the mules free of harness and sprang into Apache’s saddle. “Come on!” he yelled at Calhoon and gigged Apache with the spurs. The big bay lined out, and the freed mules followed. The Airedale, despite its wounds, raced ahead.

  Calhoon jerked his saddle gun, sent a round or two down the rim at the riders coming hard through the darkness, then spun the stallion and followed Cutler. Leaving the wagon behind, Cutler raced the bay across the plateau, headed west, toward the shelter of the tree-shagged foothills. By now, the moon had risen, and he cursed the silver light that flooded the open ground they had to cross.

  That light made it easy, all too easy, for Gorman’s men, more than a dozen of them, strung out behind, to follow them. But Apache was faster than the dun had been and Calhoon’s stallion was magnificent. Slowly but surely, mules and dog keeping pace, Cutler and Calhoon gained ground.

  Now, ahead of them, the edge of the forest loomed, rising like a wall. Cutler’s eyes swept it, searching for the single narrow opening he sought. But it was Red who found it, the cart track winding uphill through the woods. The Airedale disappeared into the trees and Cutler followed, then let out a sigh of relief. “This is the road to the monteria up the mountain where the people cut their wood!” he yel
led. “Get out ahead of me—I’m gonna buy some time!”

  Calhoon’s stallion forged out front, the mules between it and the bay as Cutler dropped back. The track was barely wide enough for two riders abreast; on either side, trees and cane, semitropical foliage, made a solid barrier. In here it was as black as the inside of a pocket. Within a quarter of a mile, Cutler found the place he sought. And even as he had ridden, he had been using the pliers on the wire.

  Suddenly he pulled Apache to a halt. Ahead, Calhoon reined in, turned. “What the hell?” he blurted, as Cutler jumped off the horse. “You gone crazy?”

  Cutler did not answer. He was too busy clove-hitching one end of the wire around a tree high above his head. Then he ran across the trail, latched the other end to another trunk the same way. That took maybe a minute, then he was in the saddle again, riding hard.

  Calhoon dropped back. There was admiration in his voice. “Damn! When they hit that at full speed . . . Hell, that wire’ll take a man’s head clean off.”

  “That’s the idea,” Cutler yelled. “After they hit that, they’ll have to slow down and feel their way . . .”

  Now the ground rose steeply; the horses labored up the muddy track. Instinctively, Cutler and Calhoon reined up a moment to let them breathe. As they halted, from far down the trail came a strange, thin scream, suddenly choked off.

  Calhoon laughed. “It worked.”

  “Yeah,” said Cutler. He swung down, another piece of wire in hand. This time, he stretched it only two feet above the ground. It was done quickly, deftly, and he was in the saddle after no more than sixty seconds. “They’ll be watchin’ neck-high from now on,” Cutler said. “They won’t see that until their horses go down. A pile up on this narrow trail’ll buy us another quarter of an hour.” He waited a minute more, then rode on, more slowly now so as not to break Apache’s wind.

  “If we can get far enough ahead,” he said, “maybe we can lose ‘em, find a place to hide. Where the hell did you come from, anyhow?”