The Gunhawks (Cutler Western #2)

by John Benteen

  “Damn,” Calhoon said.

  Cutler looked at him gravely. “Boy, you set yourself up to be a killer when you came after me. Well, when I get finished with you, you’ll be an expert. There’s a lot of difference between taking a man with a gun at a good distance and feelin’ him die under your hands. Maybe when you’ve felt that, you won’t be so enthusiastic about drawin’ blood ...”

  Calhoon stared at him a moment. Then he said, “Nothing’s gonna change the promise I made my Daddy.”

  Cutler nodded. “That we’ll worry about after we attend to Gorman, if either one of us is still alive. Now, let’s get started with the lessons . . .”

  He spent most of the day drilling them like that, Calhoon and Hitchcock, for Hitchcock insisted on learning to use the garrote as well, and Cutler made another. The two of them worked hard, with either Cutler or Hernando supervising, and by the time the sun had swung well southward, Cutler was impressed. Billy Calhoon, he told himself, was a natural. The boy was light on his feet as a panther, and once he had been caught at that deadly game a few times, he had learned patience, too, the one indispensable quality for the hunter either of animals or men. Hitchcock, in his turn, proved himself already the master of a knife in a mock battle with Cutler, and though he was neither Cutler’s nor Hernando’s equal at stalking, he had nevertheless spent enough time hunting in the wilderness to be as good as an Anglo usually got. He would, Cutler thought, make up in savvy what he lacked in agility, and between the two of them, they might just bring it off.

  Then Cutler called a halt, and they gathered for another council. “Well,” Cutler said, “it’s almost time. Now, let’s go over it all again.” And he spread out the deerskin map.

  “We’ve got to gamble that Gorman’s men have given up the hunt for us. Likely they figure we’ve fogged it out of the country.” He grinned wryly. “After all, looking at it their way, only a couple of idiots would go up against maybe two dozen of the toughest gunmen on the border alone. So we’ve got to hope the country between here and Villa Hermosa and the mine is clear, because we’ve got to travel in daylight to get into position. This we’ve got going for us anyhow: Hernando knows this country like the back of his hand, and even if they’re out, maybe he can get us where we want to be without being seen. Anyhow, we can be sure of this; come nightfall, they’ll all be holed up in Villa Hermosa except for the guards at the mine.”

  “That sounds right,” Hitchcock said.

  Cutler indicated a point on the map. “Once we’re here, we split up. You two head for the mine, taking the mule with you; and you lead her, don’t ride. We’ll leave all the other mounts at this spot. Hernando and I go on foot toward Villa Hermosa . . . This spot here is the one we’ve picked. It’s within gun-sound of the mine. You listen for my shot—or shots—and if you hear it, you go ahead and do what I told you, right away. If, by an hour before daylight, you haven’t heard any shot, then you hightail it back here with the mule and her load. It’ll mean we’ve failed and have to try again. If that happens, we’ll meet you back here and work out a plan for tomorrow night. Got it?”

  “Got it,” Hitchcock said. “But it’s a goddam long gamble for you and Hernando, Cutler. First the jaguar . . . and then you’re gonna be within spittin’ distance of Villa Hermosa, so when that shot is fired—if it is—you’re liable to have those people down on you before we can get in action.”

  “You’d better get in action damned quick, then,” Cutler said. “If you do, we’ll be all right. Nothing’s more important to Preacher Gorman than this mine. That’s what the whole thing’s all about. You do your part, we’ll make out . . .”

  “And the jaguar,” Calhoon asked. “Suppose it doesn’t come?”

  Hernando stood up stiffly. “I think it will come. I know its habits. It moves in a circle of five miles around the town, and every night, from twilight on, it comes in close and circles, looking for its prey. Cutler heard it there last night, and unless it managed to kill after you two were driven out, it will be back again tonight. And it must be very hungry. It tried to get Cutler yesterday, it tried the village last night; it will try again tonight. Our chance is good; better than fifty-fifty.”

  Hitchcock looked at him with a kind of awe. ‘Maybe so. All I know is that I’d hate to be in your shoes tonight.”

  Fernandez shrugged. “One does what one must for one’s people—including laying down his life. Besides, I have every faith in Juan.” He smiled faintly. “The sun moves swiftly. Shall we go?”

  Cutler yearned to take the dog with him, but it was simply too risky; its barking, if it were suddenly aroused, would ruin everything. So he gave it the order that would pin it here on the escarpment’s rim until he returned—if he returned. “Guard,” he told Big Red, and though the Airedale whimpered in protest, it took its stand before the brush shelter in the ravine, with Kate.

  Going down the escarpment was very different and even more risky than coming up it. Hernando went down first on foot, agile as a monkey despite his age, and scouted the forest thoroughly. Then, when he gave the signal that all was clear, the others followed, Hitchcock, who knew every foothold, in the forefront, Cutler and Calhoon behind, leading the animals. They went down on foot, save for one hair-raising place where they had to jump the horses and the single mule, Emma, across a gap. The mule, surefooted, went across readily, riderless, but the stallion and the gelding would not go without men in the saddle to urge them on. Cutler lived a thousand years, it seemed, in a single second, during Apache’s downward leap from ledge to ledge, the scrabbling interval when his iron shod hooves finally caught hold. Calhoon, in the rear, on the stallion, vomited slightly in reaction when his big horse had finally caught its purchase again.

  But at last they reached the bottom, and then things were easier. Hernando or Cutler scouted ahead on foot at first; presently, when they were convinced that the broken country was empty of pursuers, that the Gunhawks had given up, Fernandez swung up on the mule and led the way.

  He knew these hills and forests as well as any animal, and he took them through them swiftly; along narrow stream beds, down gulches, arroyos, along trails in brush where it seemed nothing bigger than a rabbit could travel. Except for the sound of hooves and the occasional snort of a horse, they rode in total silence. Meanwhile, the sun heeled down westward and in the woods the light grew dim.

  Presently Hernando reined in the mule, swung down. “Here,” he said. “This is the place. Now, we must wait.”

  Wordlessly, they sat there in dimness. Billy Calhoon rolled and smoked one cigarette after another; Hitchcock squatted, running his thumb over the blade of his knife, flexing the garrote Cutler had made for him. Cutler checked his Krag, making sure the action was absolutely clean and smooth, running his thumb over every cartridge that went into the swing down magazine, seeking any imperfections. On that gun and those bullets Hernando Fernandez’s life hung, absolutely.

  Hernando himself was busy with a task of his own. On the rim that morning he had searched until he had found a dead pine in exactly the condition that he wanted, and he had worked hard and deftly with his machete—the only weapon he possessed—to cut from its heart sliver after sliver of waxy wood. These he now bound together with the dry inner bark of a dead cottonwood, weaving the soft fiber in ropelike strings in and out of the pine slivers, which were three feet long. Finally, that done, he packed the spaces between the slivers with more cottonwood fiber. Then he turned to Cutler. “The matches.”

  Cutler dug in his pocket, passed Hernando a metal cylinder. The old Mexican opened it, took out the dozen matches it contained, carefully rubbed the heads of each in dry cottonwood bark, then restored them to the waterproof container, which he wrapped in his cotton sash. After that, there was not much more to be done, except check the pack saddle on the mule, and its attached lash ropes and panniers and manta, all empty now.

  Then, with astonishing swiftness, it was full dark, as if someone had pinched out the sun. Hernando let out a long br
eath. “It is time.”

  Hitchcock arose, went to the mule, took its lead-rope. The other animals were tied in the little hollow where they had waited. “Calhoon, come on,” he said.

  Billy Calhoon arose, minus chaps now, minus spurs, wearing only one gun, its ivory handle smeared with charcoal, the other Colt inside his shirt, along with the garrote. “I’m ready.” He turned to Cutler. They looked at one another for a long moment. Then Calhoon said, “Don’t get yourself killed. Remember, you’re my meat.” And he turned away.

  Cutler and Hernando watched as Hitchcock and the younger man disappeared into the jungle. Then Cutler said, “Well, Hernando.”

  The old man sighed. “Aye. For us, it is also time. Come, Juan.” And he melted into the brush like a shadow.

  Cutler came after him with equal speed and stealth. He thought of yesterday, how the weary villagers had been brought in at twilight, had made straight for the huts, where they were locked in. And how Gorman’s Gunhawks had congregated in the cantina. But that had been last night. A lot had happened since then. Gorman’s men would be jumpy, nervous; and there might be guards out. He had, however, to depend on Hernando’s night-vision, which was like an owl’s, and the old man’s acute sense of hearing to give him warning as they neared the town.

  They encountered no one, and presently they lay on the rim of the bowl which held Villa Hermosa. Down there only the lights in the cantinas and Perez’s store were visible; the houses of the villagers were tightly locked and shuttered, as they had been before. Hernando let out a breath of satisfaction. “I think we will have a clear way. They think you and Calhoon have left the country; and what can old men like myself and Hitchcock do against them? Come. Now, it is the dangerous part. We must go down to the very edge of the village itself. You see that grove of cottonwoods yonder just behind the burro pens at the end of the street? I think that is the place.”

  Cutler stared. “Hell, Hernando, that’s not five hundred yards from the cantina.”

  “Which is why we must be very quiet and clever. There is no other way to be sure of getting the jaguar. It will be haunting the edge of the village, looking for the unlocked door, the careless man or woman attending to nature outside the house, any unwary human it can take in stealth and darkness. Let us only hope it is not there now, but will come later, when we are in place.”

  “All right,” Cutler said. “Lead the way.”

  Hernando did, moving down into the bowl like a wraith, a wisp of fog, Cutler close behind, the Krag ready in his hand. Then, ahead, the warped and rickety poles of the ramshackle burro pens made a pattern against the sky; beyond were the houses of the village. Cutler could hear laughter and the music of a guitar coming from inside the cantina. Once he heard a woman cry out, shrilly, in pain. His lips thinned.

  Hernando’s white clothing was barely visible in the shadows of the grove of cottonwoods. There were a dozen of the trees, some huge and towering, others low and warped. “Now, Juan,” Hernando said. “Choose your stand.”

  Cutler tested the prevailing winds, though in this case that would not be much of an issue since the jaguar had no fear of man scent, indeed, would be attracted by it. He selected a cottonwood of medium size, with two lower branches close enough together to make a stable seat. Then he slung the Krag and, nimbly as a squirrel, went up the trunk. He tested the branches, eased out on them, found a secure place with his back against the bole, broke off several twigs that interfered, and surveyed his field of fire. His only reference point was the whiteness of Hernando’s clothing; in this deep shadow, he could see nothing else.

  But Hernando, looking up, could see him. Cutler gave him hand signals. Hernando moved around the grove. When he was in the proper spot, Cutler’s upraised hand halted him. Hernando immediately sank to the ground, sitting cross-legged, a lighter blur in total darkness. He had better have those damned matches ready, Cutler thought.

  He checked the Krag, then re-surveyed his field of fire. The grove was big enough and dark enough to give the jaguar the concealment it would favor, and the foliage of the cottonwoods blocked off Cutler’s view so there would be no way to see it until it was directly beneath the trees. It was, he thought, going to be a close thing, very damned close, especially with that noise coming from the cantina. He gave one last thought to Calhoon and Hitchcock, who should be at the mine by now, and then he put them out of his thoughts completely. From now on, his concentration must be totally on the hunt. He shifted weight silently on the limbs, eased himself into a position he could and must hold for hours without being too stiff to shoot.

  Once more in the cantina, the girl cried out. Then Gorman’s deep voice boomed: “Whore of Babylon— !” She cried out again, was silent. Men laughed. Cutler rubbed the rifle stock.

  Below, Hernando shifted weight slightly. There was no need for him to remain motionless; indeed, it was better if he were a little active. Inside the cantina, the guitar was finally stilled, some of the noise died away.

  Fifteen minutes passed, twenty. Mosquitoes and other insects buzzed around Cutler’s head, dug into his flesh. He neither slapped nor brushed at them; let them have their way, torture though it was. Below, Hernando scraped around in the shadows, but never leaving the spot Cutler had assigned to him. With the Krag aimed generally in his direction, Cutler let his eyes sweep the darkness of the grove continually, seeking to penetrate it with such intensity that they soon began to ache.

  Another half hour passed, and now the level of noise from the cantina was even lower. Presently the Gunhawks would disperse; some of them, Hernando said, had taken over women of the village and would go to their huts; others, the majority, made Perez’s store their bunkhouse.

  Cutler’s eyes were not the only thing that ached now. He had sat motionless for an hour, and his muscles, locked in position, began to hurt. But he did not move.

  The moon came up, but that did not help visibility in the grove; there it was still black as the deepest pit of hell. Gorman’s men were carousing late tonight, Cutler thought, as another hour passed and the noise in the cantina went on, though still muted. Well, he thought, by now, if Hitchcock and Calhoon had carried out their task, there would be four of them who would never drink again or rape another man’s woman . . . His face was a mass of insect bites, now; every muscle in his body ached; still he did not move nor stop for one moment his ceaseless scanning of the darkness. His hearing, now, was concentrated, too, as strongly as his vision.

  Almost ironically, Hernando, still in place below, hummed a faint love song, sounding as carefree as if at a fiesta. Then he broke off for a while and the silence was total in the cottonwood clump, if not down the street.

  Thirty minutes more; well past midnight now. Cutler knew that in another quarter hour he would have to shift position. Otherwise, he would be too stiff to shoot at all.

  Then the jaguar coughed.

  It was a low, grunting sound, and it came from far beyond the grove, from somewhere out there in the high grass of the plateau. The white form that was Hernando stiffened, and Cutler knew now that he had time to move position, and he did so, very quietly, and felt fresh blood course into cramped muscles. Then the jaguar made that sound again, a full quarter of a mile away, nearer the other end of town. This time, it was deeper, louder, and they heard it in the cantina. “Hey, Preach!” somebody yelled. “That cat’s out there again!”

  “Good!” Gorman’s deep voice answered. He sounded a little drunk. “I hope he raises hell tonight. So everybody’ll know that old witch Fernandez still lives and is on the prowl, eh, Perez?”

  If Perez answered, Cutler did not hear it. Once again, he was absolutely motionless. Below, Hernando hummed the little song again. The jaguar made no further sound. Hernando stopped humming.

  Mosquitoes whined around Cutler’s face, got into his eyes. He held his breath, strained his ears. Except for their sound and that God damned guitar, beginning once again in the cantina, there was nothing but the rustle of a faint breeze in the cottonwo
od leaves. A breeze, Cutler thought, that blew from Hernando toward the prowling cat.