The Hawkline Monster: A Gothic Western
Richard Brautigan
The time is 1902, the setting eastern Oregon. Magic Child, a fifteen-year-old Indian girl, wanders into the wrong whorehouse looking for the right men to kill the monster that lives in the ice caves under the basement of Miss Hawkline's yellow house. What follows is a series of wild, witty, and bizarre encounters.
Richard Brautigan
The Hawkline Monster: A Gothic Western
This novel is for the Montana Gang.
Book 1
HAWAII
The Riding Lesson
They crouched with their rifles in the pineapple field, watching a man teach his son how to ride a horse. It was the summer of 1902 in Hawaii.
They hadn’t said anything for a long time. They just crouched there watching the man and the boy and the horse.
What they saw did not make them happy.
“I can’t do it,” Greer said.
“It’s a bastard all right,” Cameron said.
“I can’t shoot a man when he’s teaching his kid how to ride a horse.” Greer said. “I’m not made that way.”
Greer and Cameron were not at home in the pineapple field. They looked out of place in Hawaii. They were both dressed in cowboy clothes, clothes that belonged to Eastern Oregon.
Greer had his favorite gun: a 30:40 Krag, and Cameron had a 25:35 Winchester. Greer liked to kid Cameron about his gun. Greer always used to say, “Why do you keep that rabbit rifle around when you can get a real gun like this Krag here?”
They stared intently at the riding lesson.
“Well, there goes 1,000 dollars apiece,” Cameron said. “And that God-damn trip on that God-damn boat was for nothing. I thought I was going to puke forever and now I’m going to have to do it all over again with only the change in my pockets.”
Greer nodded.
The voyage from San Francisco to Hawaii had been the most terrifying experience Greer and Cameron had ever gone through, even more terrible than the time they shot a deputy sheriff in Idaho ten times and he wouldn’t die and Greer finally had to say to the deputy sheriff, “Please die because we don’t want to shoot you again.” And the deputy sheriff had said, “OK, I’ll die, but don’t shoot me again.”
“We won’t shoot you again,” Cameron had said.
“OK, I’m dead,” and he was.
The man and the boy and the horse were in the front yard of a big white house shaded by coconut trees. It was like a shining island in the pineapple fields. There was piano music coming from the house. It drifted lazily across the warm afternoon.
Then a woman came out onto the front porch. She carried herself like a wife and a mother. She was wearing a long white dress with a high starched collar. “Dinner’s ready!” she yelled. “Come and get it, you cowboys!”
“God-damn!” Cameron said. “It’s sure as hell gone now. 1,000 dollars. By all rights, he should be dead and halfway through being laid out in the front parlor, but there he goes into the house to have some lunch.”
“Let’s get off this God-damn Hawaii,” Greer said.
Back to San Francisco
Cameron was a counter. He vomited nineteen times to San Francisco. He liked to count everything that he did. This had made Greer a little nervous when he first met up with Cameron years ago, but he’d gotten used to it by now. He had to or it might have driven him crazy.
People would sometimes wonder what Cameron was doing and Greer would say, “He’s counting something,” and people would ask, “What’s he counting?” and Greer would say, “What difference does it make?” and the people would say, “Oh.”
People usually wouldn’t go into it any further because Greer and Cameron were very self-assured in that big relaxed casual kind of way that makes people nervous.
Greer and Cameron had an aura about them that they could handle any situation that came up with a minimum amount of effort resulting in a maximum amount of effect.
They did not look tough or mean. They looked like a relaxed essence distilled from these two qualities. They acted as if they were very intimate with something going on that nobody else could see.
In other words, they had the goods. You didn’t want to fuck with them, even if Cameron was always counting things and he counted nineteen vomits back to San Francisco. Their living was killing people.
And one time during the voyage, Greer asked, “How many times is that?”
And Cameron said, “12.”
“How many times coming over?”
“20.”
“How’s it working out?” Greer said.
“About even.”
Miss Hawkline
Even now Miss Hawkline waited for them in that huge very cold yellow house… in Eastern Oregon… as they were picking up some travelling money in San Francisco’s Chinatown by killing a Chinaman that a bunch of other Chinamen thought needed killing.
He was a real tough Chinaman and they offered Greer and Cameron seventy-five dollars to kill him.
Miss Hawkline sat naked on the floor of a room filled with musical instruments and kerosene lamps that were burning low. She was sitting next to a harpsichord. There was an unusual light on the keys of the harpsichord and there was a shadow to that light.
Coyotes were howling outside.
The lamp-distorted shadows of musical instruments made exotic patterns on her body and there was a large wood fire burning in the fireplace. The fire seemed almost out of proportion but its size was needed because the house was very cold.
There was a knock at the door of the room.
Miss Hawkline turned her head.
“Yes?” she said.
“Dinner will be served in a few moments,” came the voice of an old man through the door. The man did not attempt to come into the room. He stood outside the door.
“Thank you, Mr. Morgan,” she replied.
Then there was the sound of huge footsteps walking down the hall away from the door and eventually disappearing behind the closing of another door.
The coyotes were close to the house. They sounded as if they were on the front porch.
“We give you seventy-five dollars. You kill,” the head Chinaman said.
There were five or six other Chinaman sitting in the small dark booth with them. The place was filled with the smell of bad Chinese cooking.
When Greer and Cameron heard the price of seventy-five dollars they smiled in that relaxed way they had that usually changed things very rapidly.
“Two hundred dollars,” the head Chinaman said, without changing the expression on his face. He was a smart Chinaman. That’s why he was their leader.
“Two hundred and fifty dollars. Where’s he at?” Greer said.
“Next door,” the head Chinaman said.
Greer and Cameron went next door and killed him. They never did find out how tough the Chinaman was because they didn’t give him a chance. That’s the way they did their work. They didn’t put any lace on their killings.
While they were taking care of the Chinaman, Miss Hawkline continued to wait for them, naked on the floor of a room filled with the shadows of musical instruments. Lamp-aided, the shadows played over her body in that huge house in Eastern Oregon.
There was also something else in that room. It was watching her and took pleasure in her naked body. She did not know that it was there. She also did not know that she was naked. If she had known that she was naked she would have been very shocked. She was a proper young lady except for the colorful language that she had picked up from her father.
Miss Hawkline was thinking about Greer and Cameron, though she had never met them or even heard about t
hem, but she waited eternally for them to come as they were always destined to come, for she was part of their gothic future.
Greer and Cameron caught the train to Portland, Oregon, the next morning. It was a beautiful day. They were happy because they liked riding the train to Portland. “How many times now?” Greer asked.
“8 times straight through and 6 times we got off,” Cameron said.
Magic Child
They had been whoring for two days when the Indian girl found them. They always liked to whore for a week or so in Portland before they settled down to thinking about work.
The Indian girl found them in their favorite whorehouse. She had never seen them before or heard about them either but the moment she saw them, she knew they were the men Miss Hawkline wanted.
She had spent three months in Portland, looking for the right men. Her name was Magic Child. She thought that she was fifteen years old. She had gone into this whorehouse by accident. She was actually looking for a whorehouse on the next block.
“What do you want?” Greer said. There was a pretty blonde girl about fourteen years old, sitting on his lap. She didn’t have any clothes on.
“Is that an Indian?” she said. “How did she get in here?”
“Shut up,” Greer said.
Cameron was starting to fuck a little brunette girl. He stopped what he was doing and looked back over his shoulder at Magic Child.
He didn’t know whether to go on and fuck the girl or find out what the Indian girl was about.
Magic Child stood there without saying anything.
The little whore said, “Stick it in.”
“Wait a minute,” Cameron said. He started to shift out of the love position. He had made up his mind.
The Indian girl reached into her pocket and took out a photograph. It was the photograph of a very beautiful young woman. She wasn’t wearing any clothes in the photograph. She was sitting on the floor in a room filled with musical instruments.
Magic Child showed the photograph to Greer.
“What’s this?” Greer said.
Magic Child walked over and showed the photograph to Cameron.
“Interesting,” Cameron said.
The two little whores didn’t know what was happening. They had never seen anything like this before and they had seen a lot of things. The brunette suddenly covered up her vagina because she was embarrassed.
The blonde stared silently on with disbelieving blue eyes. Whenever a man told her to shut up, she always shut up. She had been a farm girl before she went into whoring.
Then Magic Child reached into the pocket of her Indian dress and took out five thousand dollars in hundred dollar bills. She took the money out as if she’d been doing it all her life.
She gave Greer twenty-five of them and then she walked over and gave Cameron twenty-five of them. After she gave them the money, she stood there looking silently at them. She still hadn’t said a word since she’d come into the room.
Greer sat there with the blonde whore still on his lap. He looked at the Indian girl and nodded OK very slowly. Cameron had a half-smile on his face, lying beside the brunette who was covering up her vagina with her hand.
Indian
Greer and Cameron left Portland the next morning on the train up the Columbia River, travelling toward Central County in Eastern Oregon.
They enjoyed their seats because they liked to travel on trains.
The Indian girl travelled with them. They spent a great deal of time looking at her because she was very pretty. She was tall and slender and had long straight black hair. Her features were delicately voluptuous. They were both interested in her mouth.
She sat there exquisitely, looking at the Columbia River as the train travelled up the river toward Eastern Oregon. She saw things that interested her.
Greer and Cameron started talking with Magic Child after they were three or four hours out of Portland. They were curious as to what it was all about.
The girl hadn’t said more than a hundred words since she had walked into the whorehouse and started to change their lives. None of the words were about what they were supposed to do except go to Central County and meet a Miss Hawkline who would then tell them what she would pay them five thousand dollars to do.
“Why are we going to Central County?” Greer said.
“You kill people, don’t you?” Magic Child said. Her voice was gentle and precise. They were surprised by the sound of her voice. They didn’t expect it to sound that way when she said that.
“Sometimes,” Greer said.
“They got a lot of sheep trouble over that way,” Cameron said. “I heard there was some killings there. 4 men killed last week and 9 during the month. I know 3 Portland gunmen who went up there a few days ago. Good men, too.”
“Real good,” Greer said. “Probably the best three men going I know of except for maybe two more. Take a lot to put those boys away. ‘1`hey went up there to work for the cattlemen. Which side is your bosslady on or does she want some personal work done?”
“Miss Hawkline will tell you what she wants done,” Magic Child said.
“Can’t even get a hint out of you, huh?” Greer said, smiling.
Magic Child looked out the window at the Columbia River. There was a small boat on the river. Two people were sitting in the boat. She couldn’t tell what they were doing. One of the people was holding an umbrella, though it wasn’t raining and the sun wasn’t shining either.
Greer and Cameron gave up trying to find out what they were supposed to do but they were curious about Magic Child. They had been surprised by her voice because she didn’t sound like an Indian. She sounded like an Eastern woman who’d had a lot of booklearning.
They’d also taken a closer look at her and had seen that she wasn`t an Indian.
They didn’t say anything about it. They had the money and that’s what counted for them. They figured if she wanted to be an Indian that was her business.
Gompville
The train only went as far as Gompville, which was the county seat of Morning County and fifty miles away by stagecoach to Billy. It was a cold clear dawn with half-a-dozen sleepy dogs standing there barking at the train engine.
“Gompville,” Cameron said.
Gompville was the headquarters of the Morning County Sheepshooters Association that had a president, a vice-president, a secretary, a sergeant at arms and bylaws that said it was all right to shoot sheep.
The people who owned the sheep didn’t particularly care for that, so both sides had brought in gunmen from Portland and the attitude toward killings had become very casual in those parts.
“We’re running it tight,” Greer said to Magic Child as they walked over to the stagecoach line. The stage to Billy left in just a few moments.
Cameron was carrying a long narrow trunk over his shoulder. The trunk contained a sawed-off twelve-gauge pump shotgun, a 25:35 Winchester rifle, a 30:40 Krag, two.38 caliber revolvers and an automatic.38 caliber pistol that Cameron had bought from a soldier in Hawaii who was just back from the Philippines where he had been fighting the rebels for two years.
“What kind of pistol is that?” Cameron had asked the soldier. They had been in a bar having some drinks in Honolulu.
“This gun is for killing Filipino motherfuckers,” the soldier had said. “It kills one of those bastards so dead that you need two graves to bury him in.”
After a bottle of whiskey and a lot of talk about women, Cameron had bought the gun from the soldier who was very glad to be on his way home to America and not have to use that gun any more.
Central County Ways
Central County was a big rangy county with mountains to the north and mountains to the south and a vast loneliness in between. The mountains were filled with trees and creeks.
The loneliness was called the Dead Hills.
They were thirty miles wide. There were thousands of hills out there: yellow and barren in the summer with lots of juniper brush in the draws
and a few pine trees here and there, acting as if they had wandered away like stray sheep from the mountains and out into the Dead Hills and had gotten lost and had never been able to find their way back.
…poor trees…
The population of Central County was around eleven hundred people: give or take a death here and a birth there or a few strangers deciding to make a new life or old-time residents to move away and never to return or come back soon because they were homesick.
Just like a short history of man, there were two towns in the county.
One of the towns was close to the northern range of mountains. That town was called Brooks. The other town was close to the southern range of mountains. It was called Billy.
The towns were named for Billy and Brooks Paterson: two brothers who had pioneered the county forty years before and had killed each other in a gunfight one September afternoon over the ownership of five chickens.
That fatal chicken argument occurred in 1881 but there was still a lot of strong feeling in the county in 1902 over who those chickens belonged to and who was to fault for the gunfight that killed both brothers and left two widows and nine fatherless children.
Brooks was the county seat but the people who lived in Billy always said, “Fuck Brooks.”
In the Early Winds of Morning
Just outside of Gompville a man was hanging from the bridge across the river. There was a look of disbelief on his face as if he still couldn’t believe that he was dead. He just refused to believe that he was dead. He wouldn’t believe he was dead until they buried him. His body swayed gently in the early winds of morning.
There was a barbed-wire drummer riding in the stagecoach with Greer and Cameron and Magic Child. The drummer looked like a fifty-year-old child with long skinny fingers and cold-white nails. He was going to Billy, then onto Brooks to sell barbed wire.
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