Shadow Shooters

by George Arthur

  ‘You might not want to haul me to jail just yet, Marshal,’ Boot Hobson said. ‘Let’s have us a talk about what Pearl is bringing with her.’

  Chapter Five

  Hawkstone saw the smoke as he rode towards the house. There were no more flames, only a charred black frame wiggling in the afternoon wind. High up, smoke wafted away as if it was tired.

  He was concentrating so much on the house he didn’t notice the man behind the first row of pines.

  ‘Halt the pony, Hawkstone, or I’ll blow you outta the saddle with this here scattergun.’

  Hawkstone reined up and slowly turned to look at the pines. ‘Who fired my house?’

  ‘That’d be Marshal Leather Yates.’

  ‘You the one called Pine Oliver?’

  The man took a step out a little from the pines with the double-barrel twelve. ‘First off, you ease that hogleg out of the holster. Use your thumb and finger. That’s it, slow and easy. Drop it to the ground. To answer your question – I used to be Pine Oliver when I was with Kate. But I’m Boot Hobson, waitin’ for Pearl Harp. You remember Pearl Harp? She sure remembers you.’

  ‘So where is Big Ears Kate?’

  ‘Dead and crispy – the marshal shot her down along with Billy Bob Crutch, then torched your house. We buried them behind me along the edge of the pines.’

  ‘But he didn’t shoot you.’

  ‘I think he got plans for me – but enough about him and them others. Let’s talk about how come your saddle-bags is so bulky.’

  Hawkstone couldn’t really see him clearly, just the business end of the double-barrel. It didn’t matter. His Colt was down there on the ground. ‘I got a tin box,’ he said.

  ‘Untie the bags and drop them to the ground. I’ll have a look at the tin box and whatever is in the other one.’

  ‘I can’t do that,’ Hawkstone said.

  ‘Not a problem. I can do it myself after you’re blown outta the saddle and on the ground yourself.’

  Hawkstone said nothing. He sat in the saddle and stared at the shotgun barrels. He cursed himself for getting surprised by this weasel, who had probably killed Kate and burned down his house – and was now going to get the money. He twisted in the saddle and untied the saddle-bags and dropped them to the ground; the one with the tin box made a clang sound, the wood box in the other bag made no noise.

  He said, ‘You got one last chance, Boot Hobson. I’ll have to hunt you down and kill you.’

  ‘Then I should drop you right here. Only I can’t. Pearl took a liking to you. She come up with this plan and she wants you in it. I was never nothin’ important to her – that’s how come I rode off when it looked like the law was hot on us. She got a thing for you, though, Hawkstone. That’s why I got to tell you to ride on out. Forget about comin’ after me. Go on, now git.’ He took a step forwards. ‘Ah, hell, I can’t let you out there on a horse. You really will come after me. I got to slow you down some.’

  Hawkstone had turned away to ride off. The shot came from a derringer – small calibre, but with enough hitting power to slam his shoulder and knock him out of the saddle. He went forwards and down, and hit desert sand with his elbows first. His Stetson twirled away off his head. The chestnut reared and immediately took off at a run.

  Hawkstone’s first thought was to get back to his Colt, but stars swam through his head, a combination of the bullet and dropping from the saddle. He had a moment when he had to gather himself, get turned around and back to clear thinking. But it wasn’t going to come fast enough. Hobson had quickly run from the pines and scooped up the saddle-bags, and run back again. He took a step to pick up Hawkstone’s Colt, but apparently decided not to waste the time. His footsteps went back to the pines, and he rode away around the backside of the charred house skeleton.

  And then he was gone.

  Hawkstone crawled to his Peacemaker and got it in his grip. His shoulder burned with searing flame, bleeding badly. He looked beyond the smoking remains that had once been his house towards the pines. The galloping hoofs faded fast.

  For Anson Hawkstone lying on desert scrub, normal thinking eased back slowly. The bullet had hit a little lower than his left shoulder, more a crease inside the upper arm. A patch of blood covered the spot and soaked down his shirt sleeve past his elbow. Afternoon sun baked down on him. His canteen was on his saddle, which was on the chestnut, which had probably run back to the Apache village corral. Somebody in the village would see and make a noise about it.

  He rose up on his right elbow and looked at what was left of the black house skeleton. The sight didn’t work him up enough to boil his blood. He had built the structure quick and dirty, as a place that offered more strength than a tepee or wickiup. It held no sentimental value for him, any more than Big Ears Kate had. She and it had been part of his outlaw life that he now wanted to ride away from. He’d served his time. He figured to be starting over – but that would have to be after the Boot Hobson fella was dealt with – and maybe Marshal Leather Yates, too. Hobson had to give up the money and die – Hawkstone’s fresh start began with that money.

  With no support to grab except sagebrush wiggling in the wind, he waited a bit before getting his boots under him and pushing to stand. A wave of dizziness washed over him, and he weaved like a straw scarecrow in a windy cornfield. He took a deep breath and his head cleared. With his right hand gripped on the wounded arm he stepped off in the direction of the Apache village.

  It didn’t take many steps to remind him that boot stirrup heels were never made for walking – they were made for riding, and that was what he should be doing. He fell into a stagger that had his head bobbing like a walking horse, his Stetson brim pulled low over his hazel eyes.

  Hawkstone conjured up thoughts of Pearl Harp, the tiny, sometimes cute fellow prisoner at Yuma Territorial. The warden must have delivered on his promise if she was about to be released. She had a job planned. Since she held up stagecoaches it might be reckoned that that was what she had in mind. He tried to remember other prisoners who might be connected to stagecoaches, but couldn’t. There was one mousy book-keeper type arrested for embezzling. He had worked for Longfellow Copper, the biggest copper-mining company in the territory. They were so big they had their own stagecoaches to run important men back and forth to the mines from Tucson.

  But if Pearl thought Hawkstone was jumping into stagecoach holdups, she’d better pause and think again. Important men likely didn’t carry much cash with them, so there had to be another reason.

  The sun at his back cast long shadows. All he saw in front was more mesquite and plains – no creeks or rivers. The Rio Gila was to his right, but the hills were too rough to make it before dark. He stopped and sat with his legs crossed and breathed deep with his eyes closed.

  The bank three years ago had been in Mineral City, two days’ hard ride up the Colorado from Yuma. Hawkstone suspected Marshal Leather Yates had something to do with the planning, but the lawman wasn’t with them. There were Billy Bob Crutch, One Eye Tim Brace, Wild Fletch Badger and Hawkstone. First off, inside the bank, Wild Fletch had shot and killed the girl teller, Gertie Sump. That changed the attitude of the town. The boys got the cash, but had a spray of bullets zinging about as they tried to get out of town. Hawkstone took one in the calf. Billy Bob caught a head shot that took off half his left ear. One Eye Tim was hit along the neck and in the butt. Wild Fletch who killed the girl got off without a skin break.

  They rode hard due east away from the Colorado, no idea how much cash they got. One Eye Tim and Billy Bob were bleeding bad and demanded attention. Before dark, Federal Marshal Casey Steel and fifteen deputies were on their tails. Hawkstone kept the calf wrapped tight and his horse was faster. The other boys headed northeast towards Deep Well, while Hawkstone, once he saw the posse had a bead on the others, veered southeast for North Bend. From there he worked his way down to the Rio Gila and the Apache village and his house where Big Ears Kate waited. He counted his grab at ten thousand dollars, and buried it
out back beyond the string of pines. Two days later Federal Marshal Casey Steel came with twin pearl-handled Colts drawn, and arrested him. The other three fellas never went to jail.

  Hawkstone sat in the sand with his legs crossed, shaking his head. They had turned on him and had given him up to get their own freedom – had even said he killed the teller, though nobody could prove that. He didn’t know if Leather Yates had been part of the robbery and decided who went free and who went to prison. He also didn’t know if Big Ears Kate had been part of his capture.

  False friends and shadows show only when the sun shines.

  Remembering Ben Franklin, Hawkstone thought he sure could use a drink of water.

  He looked up to see shimmering forms off in the distance. The shadows came towards him. He stared from under the brim of his Stetson.

  It was Black Feather riding his pinto with the chestnut mare in tow.

  Chapter Six

  The old woman and Hattie fussed over him in the wickiup. Hawkstone had a yellow cotton shirt as backup: he owned three shirts – one on, one clean, one ready for washing – in three colours, blue, brown and yellow. Hattie would wash and sew the bullet tear in the blue shirt while he wore the yellow. His main thought was that they had lost the daylight.

  After supper, down by Disappointment Creek, Hawkstone and Black Feather sat on boulders beside the bubbling stream. They rolled Bull Durham tobacco in cornskin paper, and fired up smokes while passing a whiskey bottle back and forth. Tommy Wolfinger stopped for a sip of fire water and a short talk to welcome Hawkstone back to the tribe. He was Black Feather’s age, tall and lithe, thin as a pine, and had no use for the tobacco habit. He and Black Feather often hunted together, and with Burning Buffalo he competed for Hattie’s charms – neither considered Hawkstone as competition, believing that the former outlaw was far too old and creaky for a frisky, willowy princess. Tommy left them alone after one drink.

  ‘We leave at first light,’ Black Feather said.

  ‘Can you track him after half a day?’

  ‘From what I see at the pines he is clumsy. He walks through life sloppy, with much noise. Yes, we will find him.’

  ‘I’ll have to kill him.’

  Black Feather drank a swallow. ‘You must do what you must do.’

  Hawkstone took the bottle. He flipped his spent smoke into the creek. ‘He might lead us around – maybe even as far as Tucson.’

  ‘We will find him. The arm is painful and you are getting old. You better rest,’ Black Feather said.

  Hawkstone followed Black Feather up along the shore of Disappointment Creek. They veered west across the plain until they reached the charred lumps that were once his house. Black Feather studied the ground at the pines. He eased his pony around the perimeter of the tree trunks until he reached where Hobson had mounted and had immediately spurred his horse to a gallop.

  He looked up slightly, then stared off into the Pinon Llano mountains angled to the right. ‘He rode around the pines and the house on the side away from you. He headed for the Rio Gila river. That is the way we go.’

  When they reached the Rio Gila, the sun had arched almost to a peak. Black Feather searched along the cottonwoods until he found the crossing, and they splashed across to where Hobson had scrambled up the opposite bank. They followed the trail along the river bank.

  ‘He makes it easy,’ Hawkstone said.

  Black Feather let his sight move ahead along the bank. ‘He is stupid, or he doesn’t care who follows. Perhaps he thought you were dead.’

  ‘I prefer that he’s stupid. Stupid hates smart – in others.’

  ‘Is that a Ben Franklin?’

  ‘Don’t rightly remember – mebbe.’ Hawkstone jerked as he felt a prick of pain through his upper arm, and he grimaced, a gesture not unnoticed by Black Feather. Nothing went unnoticed by Black Feather.

  ‘We will rest.’

  ‘Why? You don’t need rest.’

  ‘The old man in you does,’ Black Feather said. ‘Three years is too long to be away for a man past forty.’

  They swung down from their ponies among cottonwoods, and sat next to the flowing water with their backs against the trees. The shade felt good. They ate some jerky. They each had a swallow of whiskey from Hawkstone’s bundle, and followed it with water. They each rolled a cigarette.

  Hawkstone said, ‘You figure where he’s headed?’

  ‘Not yet. We are close to the main trail – the old General Keambevs route that joins the Santa Fe trail.’

  ‘Maybe he’ll just swing back to Wharton.’

  ‘Maybe – but you cannot kill him in Wharton City.’

  ‘I can if I take out Marshal Leather Yates with him.’

  ‘I think this hombre has other plans. If he crosses the Rio Gila again, I will know better.’

  Late afternoon shadows spread long when the trail once again crossed the Rio Gila river. It was close to Williams Fork that flowed from the northeast.

  When they lost the light, Hawkstone and his blood brother made camp. They built up their wool blankets next to a campfire, but actually slept apart on opposite sides of the creek. Hawkstone did not sleep well – he was too alert for any sound. Maybe Hobson knew they were dogging him. Doubtful, but the polecat might still double back and dry-gulch them.

  Though tired, Hawkstone was grateful for the first sights and sounds of dawn, everything living wet with dew. He and Black Feather did not speak as they broke camp and saddled their mounts, and took up the trail once again. The trail continued leading north, up beyond Williams Fork towards Rio Salinas. They passed craggy mesas and rolling grass and mesquite, and rain-carved arroyos. Clouds kept the sun from glaring. After noon, once along Salt Creek, Black Feather spoke for the first time that day.

  ‘He rides towards New Mexico Territory – down to Rio San Carlos.’

  Hawkstone said, ‘There’s a stage station outside Fort Webster.’

  ‘He might head there. There are copper mines above Fort Webster in New Mexico.’

  They sat their mounts on a bluff looking down into New Mexico Territory.

  Hawkstone rubbed his jowls. ‘Why would he care about copper mines? Let’s find out if he stopped at the stagecoach station.’

  Black Feather gave Hawkstone a quizzical look.

  Hawkstone stared down from the bluff. ‘Boot Hobson used to run with the woman now in prison, Pearl Harp. She’s about to get herself released. They held up stagecoaches.’

  About ten miles before they reached Fort Webster, they came on the stage stop during a change of horses. A boy around sixteen had his hands full switching teams.

  Hawkstone said, ‘Need help with hitching?’

  ‘My pa is supposed to be helpin’.’

  ‘He ain’t around. You want to wait or get it done?’

  ‘Let’s get it done.’

  Hawkstone tagged the lad as a decision maker with a decent head on his shoulders.

  With the three of them working, the horses snorting and stomping and kicking up dirt, they got the team hitched, and while the boy grinned his thanks, Hawkstone and Black Feather washed their hands, face and necks in the horse trough. Passengers standing on the porch watching had gone inside once the entertainment ended.

  ‘What’s your name, son?’ Hawkstone asked.

  ‘Sled.’ He had tousled brown hair and wore no shoes. ‘Wanna thank you fellas for the help.’

  Hawkstone put his hand on the lad’s shoulder. ‘Who are your people inside?’

  ‘Cauley, my pa, runs the station. My ma, Rose-Marie, does cookin’ and cleanin’; she’s helped by my sister, Char – short for Charlotte. She’s fourteen.’

  They were on the porch, stepping inside. Three men sat around a table with a clay bottle labelled ‘corn-liquor’ in the middle. They each had a glass. They were a dressy trio, in beige and tan suits with blue ties and short-brimmed east coast hats. A squatty hombre with a Montana Peak Stetson stood at a counter reaching up past his waist, settling money with the worried
man on the other side. The worried man wore no hat, and Hawkstone took him to be Cauley. A slim, worn-looking woman with little colour to her face came from the back wiping her hands on an apron: Rose-Marie, and she looked worried, too.

  Sled went out of the room.

  ‘Stop that, Sled!’ A girl cried from behind the wall.

  Sled came back with a grin and an oatmeal cookie.

  ‘Cauley, send Char out with some of them cookies,’ a man from the table said. He had a fleshy face and sat straight and tall, looking around as if he was in charge.

  The squat Montana Peak Stetson at the counter said, ‘Time to roll out, gents.’ He nodded to the man who had spoken. ‘Mr Brennen?’

  ‘After an oatmeal cookie,’ Brennen said. ‘Get on out here, little darlin’. I bet you made them cookies with your own sweet hands.’

  Char came out carrying a tray piled with the cookies. She looked older than her fourteen years, with charcoal hair in ringlets to her waist, and a short pink calico dress clinging over her filled frame, ending at her knees.

  Hawkstone and Black Feather dragged chairs to a table the opposite side of the room. Besides the counter, the room only held tables and chairs. A painting of a clipper ship at sea hung on the wall across from the open door. The three men weren’t interested in what hung on the wall – their attention was drawn to Char and that calico dress and her oatmeal cookies.

  Outside the open door the four-horse team stomped and snorted against billowing dirt. One whinnied with impatience.

  The squat Montana Peak Stetson said, ‘We’re rollin’, gents!’

  Brennen said, ‘I say when we roll.’ He forced his gaze from Char, who set the tray on the table and skittered away, to the table where Hawkstone and Black Feather sat. ‘What the hell is an Injun doing in your place, Cauley? He ought to be out in the dirt with the horses. You don’t allow no redskins in here.’