Apache Gunhawk

by Monogram Press

They could hear the gurgle of the mountain stream in the basin up ahead as their horses carried them along the winding trail that hugged the side of the mountain slope. To the left of the trail, the upper side of the slope was dense with trees and brush. Low hanging tree limbs made the trail even more dark with shadow and provided added obstacles for the riders as they ducked beneath them and tried to keep their mounts under control, maintaining footing on the narrow trail, lest they slip off the steep embankment.

  Up ahead they could see moonlight bathing the open area before them where the trail twisted to the right and spilled out into the basin. It was just at this point in the trail that all hell broke loose. The riders rode single file with Little Bill Noonan, Julie Hadley, and Tom strung out before Hawk, who brought up the rear. The first three riders had just emerged into the open area and were drawing up abreast of each other as the bounty hunter passed under the overhanging branches of a large tree.

  Feet, suddenly dropped from above Hawk. He twisted in reflex at the movement, but was too late. As his head raised, to look up, a foot clipped him under the chin. The blow half lifted him from the saddle as his head stretched upward and backward. Blinding pain shot through him, masking the identity of his assailant. The other foot had crashed into his back and shoulder with tremendous force and he toppled the rest of the way out of the saddle and fell over the embankment next to the trail.

  The grayish black mora reared in surprise and almost slipped off the trail at the same time, but the attacker who had swung out of the tree above, managed to land in the saddle, grasping the reins and pulling the horse under control. With a sudden lunge, he kicked the horse forward into the trio in front, shoving them apart.

  Little Bill, to the left of Julie, almost fell from his saddle under the impact, and his horse veered away, leaving just enough room for the interloper to crowd through.

  Julie Hadley screamed in terror as she saw the Apache warrior beside her, taking a grasp on her horse’s bridle. He shot forward, taking her with him and racing off across the basin.

  Taken by surprise, it took a moment for Tom Noonan to realize what was happening. Without thinking of Hawk behind him and his captivity, he instinctively sent his mount after Julie and her abductor. He didn’t even think about the fact that he was unarmed. All he could think of was Julie.

  Little Bill, however, was not that sentimental. He had swung his horse around and saw that Hawk was rolling down the embankment into the darkness below. Thinking fast, he now realized that the Apache had attacked the bounty hunter from above and had taken Hawk’s horse with the bank money still in the saddle bags behind the saddle. Julie be damned, he thought. And Tom could be a fool if he wanted to, but all he cared about was escape and the money. He sent his horse forward in pursuit.

  Julie, still screaming, looked back over her shoulder and saw the two Noonans racing after them. She had no time to think about what had happened to Hawk. Fearing that her companions could not overtake them, she took a desperate chance and flung herself to the side, sliding out of the saddle and landing violently against the hard rock strewn ground. Her breath was taken away as she landed and she lay stunned from the impact.

  The Apache, feeling the weight lifting from Julie’s horse, realized what she had done. He released his grip on her horse and slid his own mount around to ride back for her. As he came around, Tom Noonan was straight in front of him; barreling full speed into him. The two horses collided, and panicked, rearing and struggling in place. Tom Noonan leaped from his saddle into the warrior, pushing him sideways and they both fell to the ground in a tangle, with the horses still stomping and churning about them. They rolled over and over. First the Indian on top; then Tom Noonan. They pounded at each other with balled fists. Tom fell backward off the warrior and as he landed on the ground the lithe red skinned body launched after him, landing astride him and pinning Tom’s shoulders beneath him; at the same time drawing his knife from its scabbard and arcing it high to chop down into the outlaw’s chest. Tom managed to claw one arm free, reach out and grasp the Indiana’s wrist. With all his might, he pushed the hand and blade back, but only an inch or two, for the warrior’s strength more than matched his and the blade came closer and closer, as he felt his own strength waning.

  Little Bill Noonan had ignored his brother’s plight. As Tom and the Apache fell from their horses, Little Bill rode passed them after Hawk’s horse that was now milling about loose. Riding along beside the steed, Little Bill reached out and grasped the mora’s saddle horn and pulled himself free from his own saddle and transferred to the saddle of the bounty hunter’s mount.

  The horse wheeled about, frantically, until the outlaw was able to bring him under control. As he settled the horse down, he could see Hawk climbing back up the embankment to the trail. Little Bill whipped Hawk’s rifle from the saddle boot, levered a shell home, and fired. Dirt kicked up in the trail, just in front of Hawk’s boots. He danced backward a step or two, bringing his Army colt up and firing back at the outlaw. Flame spat from the muzzle, followed by its raucous boom.

  Little Bill felt hot lead, tear into the flesh, just below his right ribs. He jolted with the impact, but managed to retain his perch in the saddle. The pain was like a searing hot iron and it blinded his vision as he slumped forward in the saddle. Still clutching the rifle in one hand, he managed to wheel the grayish black horse around and gigged him into a gallop on down the trail.

  Hawk had not known what had happened during that instant that he was thrown from his horse. It had all happened so fast and he had not seen the Apache that swung from the tree branch overhead and spilled him over the edge of the embankment. He had been sliding and rolling down the steep incline, scraping across stone and loose shale, with scrub brush scraping against his body as he plummeted. If it hadn’t been for the trunk of an aspen tree breaking his fall as his body slammed into it, driving wind from his lungs, he might have continued to tumble to the bottom of the ravine. As he regained his senses, he had scrambled up the bank and had just gotten to his feet in the middle of the trail, when he saw the action before him.

  Before he could get his bearings and fully see what was going on, Little Bill had fired at him. Without recognizing who it was, he had fired back, sending the rider off into the darkness. It was at this point, he finally realized that it was Little Bill escaping on his horse while Tom Noonan struggled for his life against an Apache warrior.

  Tom Noonan was still on his back, straining to fend off the menacing blade that was now an inch from his throat.

  Hawk ran forward, attacking the Indian from behind. With a powerful pull, he clasped his fingers over the warriors face, gouging into his eyes, and thrusting him backwards and sideways off Tom’s body.

  The Apache fell into the dust, landing on his back. He immediately cocked his knees beneath him and sprang catlike upward, landing on his feet in a crouched position with his arms spread wide apart; hands empty, as his knife had flown free from his grasp and landed several feet in front of where he now stood. His eyes burned with anger and hate and his chest was heaving, gasping for air, as he waited for this new attacker to come closer.

  For the first time, Hawk could see the Apache clearly. His eyes were stone cold and menacing as he gazed into Torrio’s face. Without a word, Hawk, holstered his Colt. He reached across his belly and whipped the eleven inch bowie knife from the scabbard. Moonlight glinted off the shiny blade and Hawk stepped forward; his face impassive and void of any sign of emotion or feeling.

  He reached down with his free hand and retrieved, Torrio’s knife. With a flick of the wrist, he sent it spinning through the air and striking point first, up to the hilt, into the dirt, in front of Torrio’s feet. “This is what you’ve wanted, all along, brother,” Hawk said. “Now you’ve got it. Just you and me.”

  Torrio forced a smile, trying to hide any apprehension, and reached for the handle of his knife. He plucked it out of the ground and wiped the blade off on his buckskin leggings. Pushing himself higher, b
ut still crouching, and holding the knife high, ready to thrust. Torrio started to maneuver toward Hawk. He circled forward to the right, then back toward the left.

  Hawk mirrored his every move and they both moved in tandem. Closer and closer, they came toward each other; each trying to get close enough to attack while still staying back far enough to keep out of the other’s reach. Torrio telegraphed every move with the expression on his face and in his eyes, but Hawk offered no warnings as he remained cold and dispassionate.

  Torrio swung a wide roundhouse arc, slicing upward at Hawk’s chin, but Hawk merely back stepped, and the knife sliced through empty air. The attack had pulled Torrio off balance, momentarily, and Hawk took advantage by thrusting upward toward the Indian’s midsection. Torrio, reacting instantly, sucked in his stomach and arched backward as Hawk’s blade ripped through his loose shirt and barely missed his flesh.

  Torrio kicked upward with his left foot, slamming it into Hawk’s wrist, forcing the bounty hunter’s hand and blade upward. Then with an attacking parry, Torrio stepped forward. Slamming his left arm into Hawk’s right elbow, blocking another thrust. At the same time, he lunged forward with his right and thrust his own blade toward Hawk’s throat. Hawk caught Torrio’s wrist just in time and thwarted the attack. For several moments, the two of them stood toe to toe, each one holding the other at bay with straining muscles. First Torrio’s blade came closer, then Hawk pushed it further back away from his and his blade came closer to Torrio.

  It seemed a stalemate. The two fighters were evenly matched with equal strength and endurance. They continued to rock back and forth at each other, each one waiting for the other to tire just enough to give the other an advantage. Then as Torrio rocked back, his foot slipped just a little in the loose dirt. Hawk took advantage and lashed out with his right foot, bringing it up and a little behind Torrio’s knee, tripping him off balance. Torrio staggered back and Hawk followed forward with his attack, pushing his entire weight forward. Torrio fell to the ground and Hawk landed on top of him, both men maintaining the grasp on the other’s knife hand. Torrio doubled his knees and kicked both feet solidly against Hawk’s chest. Hawk fell backward, releasing his grip on Torrio.

  Torrio dove after Hawk’s falling body, his knife arm raised high and arcing the blade downward as he lunged. Hawk rolled suddenly to the right as Torrio landed face first on the ground left bare from Hawk’s sudden movement. His knife blade plunged deep into the dirt. Hawk whirled to his feet, spun around to stand over the fallen Torrio, with one foot stomping into his back between the shoulder blades, and the other foot slamming down on Torrio’s wrist. Bones cracked as he viciously ground the heel of his boot deep.

  Torrio’s fingers released their grasp on the knife handle. Hawk reached down, plucked the knife from the ground, and tossed it away. Then he released his foot from Torrio’s back. The Apache began to writhe in pain, trying to turn over and only managed to roll to his side, with the booted foot still pinning his arm down. Hawk watched his brother roll back and forth for a moment, relishing the pain and torment the Apache was having to endure. Then when he decided he had tortured Torrio enough, he gradually released the pressure on his wrist and finally removed the foot completely. Torrio rolled to his back, his left hand grasping for his injured right, his eyes screwed shut with pain. Hawk straddled Torrio’s body and fell to his knees on the warriors chest, holding him firmly against the ground.

  When Torrio finally opened his eyes, he was looking up into the cold, dark face of an executioner. He could feel the cold steel of Hawk’s blade against his throat; the warmth of trickling blood on his neck. His eyes widened in expectation; fear giving in to resolve, and waited for the increased pressure that would end his life.

  Without a change of expression, Hawk released the pressure of the blade against Torrio’s throat. He stood up, gazing down at his defeated brother. There was no hint of mercy in Hawk’s impassive face. No hint of compassion nor forgiveness. Just a cold blankness, devoid of any feeling or emotion. “Go,” Hawk ordered. “Go back to your people to be hunted by the whites until you are killed or put back on the reservation to rot. Tell my father, I would not kill my brother.”

  He stepped back to allow Torrio room to get up. The Indian quickly scrambled to his feet and ran off into the woods, half staggering and holding his injured hand. Hawk didn’t bother to watch him go.

  The bounty hunter sheathed he knife and looked off down the trail where Little Bill had ridden off. He could see two riders disappearing in the distance. He was not surprised that Tom Noonan and Julie Hadley had taken advantage of his distraction and had ridden off after Little Bill.

  Hawk gazed about searching for the one remaining horse that should still be left behind. It was nowhere to be seen.

  CHAPTER TWENTY