There was no certainty that Randolph Barfield would show up in town looking for him, but Hawk had to conduct himself as if he would.I reckon I should be thankful he left me in peace while I had my supper, he thought, but he was tired of sitting at the table. So he got to his feet. “Well, I thank you again for the fine supper,” he said to Ruthie. “I’d best go see about my horse. Then I’ll maybe come back later for a little drink before I turn in for the night.”
“I won’t be here much later,” she said. “But if I’m not here when you come back, I’ll wish you a good night. Come back to eat with us. I’ll bake fresh biscuits in the morning.”
“I might at that,” he said, and walked by the bar to settle up with Ed. After that, he went to the door and paused there for a few moments, looking up and down the short street before walking outside. There was very little activity on the street, except for the patrons of the saloon. Glancing across the street at the sheriff’s office, he noticed the lamp inside was out and he recalled that Ed had told him that the sheriff often ate supper at his place. But not tonight, evidently, he told himself. Wonder if his little visit with Randolph Barfield had anything to do with that? He didn’t count on Barney Mack for much support, anyway. Being naturally cautious, he walked down to the stable, staying close to the storefronts in case he suddenly had to find cover, his rifle held ready to fire any moment.
Reaching the stable, he paused when he heard the rumble of thunder overhead. He looked up and studied the dark mass of clouds that had threatened ever since he went into the saloon for supper. They were now moving rapidly over the town, pushed by the wind slipping over the mountaintops to the west. In a few minutes, the first drops fell, big, heavy drops that landed on the dry street, raising tiny clouds of dust. He knew it wouldn’t be long, so he hurried through the stable door where he found Rascal munching away contentedly from a feed bag filled with a portion of oats. The big buckskin whinnied a greeting when Hawk walked in. A moment later, a rustle of hay behind him caused him to spin around instantly, his rifle ready to fire, only to find Clell Blanton staring wide-eyed and openmouthed in shock. Hawk immediately dropped the Winchester down by his side. “Sorry, Clell. I reckon I’m a little bit jumpy tonight for some reason. Musta been too much of Ruthie’s coffee.”
“I didn’t mean to sneak up on you like that,” Clell said. “I reckon I thought you saw me in that front stall when you walked in.”
“I guess I wasn’t payin’ much attention,” Hawk said. “I’m sorry I drew down on you—don’t know what I was thinkin’.” I’m damn lucky that wasn’t one of the Barfields, he berated himself.
“You fixin’ to turn in for the night?” Blanton asked.
“Reckon not, at least not for a while yet. I just thought I’d see how Rascal was gettin’ along. Then I think I’ll go back and have a drink before I turn in.”
“I’ll see you in the mornin’, then,” Blanton said. “I’m fixin’ to go to the house, soon as your horse empties that feed bag. I’ll lock the front door, but I’ll not put the lock on the back door, so you can come and go as you please.”
“Much obliged,” Hawk said.
* * *
He spent a little time in the stable with Rascal. Seeing a brush hanging on a hook, he decided to use it to give his horse a little grooming, something Rascal wasn’t accustomed to. While he was at it, he checked the buckskin’s hooves, something else that was overdue. He knew he was just killing time with no idea if Barfield was coming and if he was, how long it would take him to make the trip into town. But he figured if he did come, the saloon was most likely the first place he would look. Giving Rascal a final pat on the neck, he walked to the back door and stood there awhile watching the rain fall. Beautiful night for a killing, he thought. Then another thought struck him. What in hell am I doing here? And he suddenly realized that the role that had been cast upon him was one completely foreign to him. This job he had volunteered to take on was that of a lawman, or a gunman, and it was not in his nature. He was an army scout and a good one and yet here he was, waiting for a showdown with a man and his son, a man whose family he had already torn apart with two killings. That seemed enough punishment for any family, the loss of a son and a daughter. Maybe he should saddle Rascal and ride away and let the rain cover his tracks behind him. “Damn it to hell,” he cursed, knowing he had no choice. If Barfield wasn’t stopped here, he would take his vengeance to the Triple-P. He pulled his hat brim low on his forehead and stepped out into the rain.
The rain had driven the few men standing around in front of the saloon inside, leaving two horses standing at the hitching rail. There was no light from any of the other businesses on the street, giving the town a cold, dead appearance that seemed fitting for the occasion. Because there were two horses out front, he paused just inside the door of the saloon and quickly scanned the room. Satisfied that the horses didn’t belong to Barfield and his son, he walked over to the bar. “Come back for that drink?” Ed Wiggins asked when he walked up.
“I reckon,” Hawk replied. “Looks like the kinda night when you need a little fire in your belly. Pour me a double shot.” He watched Ed pour the whiskey. “I think I’ll take it over to a table,” he said when he paid, “sit down, and drink it real slow.” He picked up the glass and walked to a table in the back corner where he could watch the entire room. He propped his rifle against the wall beside his chair, pulled the .44 Colt from his holster, and placed it in his lap. Then he sat and waited, sipping occasionally from his glass, as he watched every man who came in the front door.
He had long since finished his double shot of whiskey when Ed walked over to the table. “You’ve been settin’ at this table for about two hours. You sure you ain’t ready for another drink?”
“Reckon not,” Hawk said. “Two shots are usually my limit.”
“It’s a good thing all of my customers don’t think that way. I wouldn’t be able to make a livin’.”
Hawk smiled. “I guess you’re right. I was thinkin’ a fellow I know mighta showed up, but it looks like he ain’t gonna make it. Tell you the truth, I didn’t realize I’d been here that long. I guess I’ll go turn in for the night. Maybe I’ll see that fellow tomorrow sometime.” Suddenly feeling very tired, he slipped his .44 back in its holster and pushed his chair back. For whatever reason, Barfield must have decided against retaliation. Maybe he had suffered enough loss of family to risk his one remaining offspring. No matter the reason, Hawk was glad the old man had made the choice to live and he hoped he was already on his way to find a new place somewhere far away from the Bitterroot Valley. When he thought about it, he had no reason to want to kill Barfield. It was enough to just be done with him. “I expect I’ll see you in the mornin’,” he said to Ed on his way out. “Ruthie said she was gonna bake biscuits in the mornin’.”
“She usually does,” Ed replied.
Outside, the rain had slackened to a light drizzle as the sudden thunderstorm moved down the valley. Hawk stood in the doorway for a few moments, breathing in the fresh air to rid his lungs of the heavy atmosphere inside the saloon. Feeling his head was clear then, he stepped off the board stoop. His foot had no sooner touched the muddy street when he was suddenly jolted sideways by a blow to his shoulder. He knew at once that he had been shot, even though he didn’t remember hearing the report of the weapon. Although he was only staggered, he instinctively dropped to the ground as another shot snapped through the air above him. He thought about trying to crawl back to the door of the saloon, but knew he wouldn’t make it without catching another bullet. So he lay still, hoping his assailant would think him dead, or dying, and come forward to finish the job at close range. It was a hell of a gamble, but he couldn’t see that he had any other hope. There was little doubt who had shot him, so he knew he had two to deal with, if he had a chance at all. He was still clutching his rifle, but there was no cartridge in the chamber and the odds of his cranking one in, firing, then cocking it again, were not at all good. At this point, he w
as determined to take at least one of them with him, no matter what.
A heavy sense of silence seemed to descend upon the muddy street after the shock of the two shots. Even the incessant murmuring of voices pressed close against the windows of the saloon seemed distant. After what felt like a long time, he heard the sound of boots in the mud behind him. If he managed to get off a shot, it was going to be even more difficult with his assailant standing behind him. With these thoughts pounding in his brain, he gave very little thought to the bullet in his shoulder. He could feel the man standing over him more than the slug. When should he make his move? He realized then that it was impossible to escape with his life. The best he could hope for was to get a shot off before he was snuffed out.
“Now, by God, Mr. Hawk, it’s time for you to settle up for killin’ my son and my daughter. I hope you can hear what I’m sayin’, ’cause I want you to know who’s sendin’ your murderin’ ass to hell.”
What the hell, he thought when he heard the metallic clicking of a hammer cocking, his signal to go for broke. He hadn’t turned halfway over when he heard the shot that slammed Barfield in the chest. In the space of an instant, he rolled all the way over to see Clint aiming his pistol, but not at him. He reacted immediately, cutting Barfield’s son down before he could pull the trigger. Amazed to still be alive, he looked quickly from one body to the other to be sure they were no longer threats. Then he looked toward the corner of the saloon and saw Sheriff Barney Mack approaching, reloading a double-barrel shotgun.
“How bad are you hurt?” Mack asked when Hawk got up.
“Not as bad as I woulda been if you hadn’t showed up when you did,” Hawk answered. “I reckon I don’t have to tell you how happy I was to see you, ’cause I was in a bad way there. Tell you the truth, I didn’t think you were around.”
“I just didn’t think it was a good idea to let people know I was, so I could see what they were up to. I knew there was gonna be trouble.” The fact of the matter was that Mack had decided to be out of town until morning. But his conscience had begun to work on him until he shamed himself for being cowardly. After the way it turned out, he was especially glad that he had returned. It would surely give the citizens of Stevensville confidence in the man they had hired for sheriff.
“Well, Sheriff, you sure saved my bacon,” Hawk said. “And I thank you.”
“Just doin’ my job,” Mack replied modestly. “But I owe you some thanks, too. If you hadn’t rolled over and fired, the young one woulda got me for sure. When I shot his daddy, I musta got my fingers tangled up, ’cause I pulled both triggers—fired both barrels at the same time—damn near knocked me down. I wouldn’t have had time to reload.”
They stood there, looking at the bodies lying in the muddy street for a while until the saloon emptied out and the spectators gathered around. Jim Mosley made his way through the small crowd to take a look. “Reckon you’da been sendin’ for me,” he said to Sheriff Mack.
“Reckon so. Nothin’ fancy, just a plain box,” Mack said, with cost in mind. Finished with the undertaker, he turned back to Hawk. “Reckon it’s up to me to see about his widow. Far as I know, the old lady is the only one of the family left and I guess I’ll have to be the one to tell her.”
“Reckon so,” Hawk said. “I’d offer to go for you, but I don’t think she’d think too kindly of that. I’ll be gettin’ outta town come mornin’.”
“Good,” Mack said. “Don’t be in too big a hurry to come back to see us.” He fashioned a wide grin to make sure Hawk knew he was joking. “I don’t know if the town can handle another visit from you.”
CHAPTER 14
Well able to walk without help, Hawk went to Dr. Smollet’s house to get his wound taken care of, leaving the business of taking care of the bodies to the sheriff. The good doctor was not at all happy to see him so far past the supper hour. But after Hawk knocked continuously, Smollet finally came to the door. “Sorry to interrupt your evenin’,” Hawk said, “but I’d sure appreciate it if you could take a look at my shoulder.”
“I should have known when I heard the shooting that somebody would come knocking on my door. I was hoping they’d be calling Jim Mosley out instead of me,” Smollet complained, referring to the undertaker.
“Sheriff Mack has already talked to him,” Hawk said.
Smollet held his lantern up to get a better look at his visitor. “Oh, it’s you again. Hawk, is it?” Hawk nodded. “You look all right to me. What’s wrong with your shoulder?”
“It’s got a bulletin it,” Hawk replied, and pointed to the hole in the left shoulder of his buckskin shirt.
“No wonder I couldn’t see it,” Smollet said, still irritated. “You’re covered with mud. What have you been doing, rolling in the street? Oh, well, come on inside so I can get a look at it. Take your boots off and leave them on the porch.”
Hawk followed the doctor into the house, stepping carefully as he tiptoed across the parlor carpet in his stocking feet. Near the door to the examining room, the doctor’s wife stood watching him silently, her arms folded in front of her chest. “Sorry to intrude on you this late, ma’am,” Hawk said as he passed. She said nothing in reply, instead asking her husband if he was going to want some water boiled. He nodded and she spun on her heel to go to the kitchen.
“Can you get out of that shirt, or am I gonna have to cut it off of you?” Smollet asked. Hawk quickly replied that he could get out of it, pain or no pain. It was the best shirt he owned and he didn’t want to part with it. Smollet watched, amused, while Hawk pulled it over his head, grimacing with the movement of his left arm. “What was all the shooting about?” Smollet asked, and Hawk told him of the attempted ambush in front of the saloon. “So Barfield’s dead, is he—and the son, too?”
“That’s a fact,” Hawk answered as Smollet examined his wound.
“What am I going to do for patients?” he joked. “I was making a good living off the Barfields.” He waited for his wife to pour hot water in a basin on the table beside him, then he cleaned the area around the wound before starting to probe for the bullet. “I don’t suppose the other son was with them, the one I had to amputate an arm.”
“Nope,” Hawk replied. “He’s dead.”
Smollet paused to give him a look. “I’m not surprised. They waited way too long to get that infection treated.” He shrugged, obviously not overly concerned. “You got off lucky,” he said after a few minutes of probing. “You’d probably have gotten by if you’d just left it in there, but there it is if you want it for a souvenir.”
“Reckon not,” Hawk said. “How much I owe you?”
* * *
He took his time before starting back to the Triple-P the following morning, a good deal of it trying to clean up his shirt and trousers after his roll in the mud the night before. When they were as good as he could get them, he headed for the saloon, planning to treat himself to breakfast before leaving town. His shoulder, although stiff and sore, didn’t hamper his use of his other arm to attack a plate of eggs, ham, and potatoes, tamped down with three of Ruthie’s biscuits. Ed Wiggins sat with him for most of the time, getting up occasionally to pour whiskey for some of his early-morning drinkers. The conversation naturally had to do with the shooting of the night before. “So ol’ Barney Mack was right there with his shotgun,” Ed marveled. Somehow he hadn’t figured Mack to be inclined to get involved with any altercation as threatening as this one. “I reckon Barney’s got a little more starch in him than a lot of us figured. There’s been some talk about maybe lookin’ for a new sheriff. Lotta folks thinkin’ Barney might not have the backbone to stand up to a tough situation. The only reason he got the job is because we couldn’t get anybody else to take it.”
“Well, all I can say is he was sure as hell there when I needed him. From the way you’re talkin’, I reckon that’s the first tight spot he’s had to face since he got the job. And he was there when it counted. You might have yourself a good man for the job.” Hawk was not sure i
f he was doing Barney Mack a favor or not. His initial opinion of the man was that he would run at the first sign of real trouble, which he did, but he summoned the courage to come back to face it. To Hawk, that was reason enough to give him a chance if that’s what he wanted.
When Hawk had finished the last of his coffee, he paid Ed and stuck his head inside the kitchen door to compliment Ruthie on his breakfast, even though he figured anybody could fry eggs and ham. He had to admit the biscuits were better than passable. She was obviously pleased by his comments, which was his objective. As far as he knew, his business in Stevensville was finished and he didn’t expect to visit the town again. But it never hurt to make yourself welcome in the event you did return one day.
The morning felt fresh and clean after the thunderstorm of the night before as he turned Rascal toward the Triple-P. It would be interesting to find out if Monroe still had his mind set on returning to Helena to try to pick up Roy Nestor’s trail. Maybe that desire for vengeance had faded somewhat after this length of time and the trouble with Barfield. As far as Hawk was concerned, he’d just as soon Monroe would decide what was done was done and get on with the business of running a ranch. He had spent very little of the money Monroe had paid him so far and he had more coming, so he felt he was in good shape with the end of the summer coming on. The job Monroe had originally hired him to do had turned into one that was totally unexpected, but one that had to be done by someone, he allowed. Lieutenant Meade was probably wondering where the hell he was by now. And he had some hunting to do and work to be done at his cabin on the Boulder River. He felt like it was time to move on.
Hell Hath No Fury Page 22