Shadow Shooters

by George Arthur

  The marshal said, ‘You’ll have to kill him for it.’

  ‘That ain’t no problem for me.’

  Marshal Yates leaned forwards with his elbows on the table. ‘Wherever and whenever this hold-up happens, get this firm in your thinking: Hawkstone don’t get no share ’cause he ain’t to survive. I’m counting on you boys. You gun him down at the site and leave him for federal marshals to find. You shoot him dead.’

  One-Eye leaned back in his chair. ‘What if he won’t come in with us on this?’

  ‘The convict gal thinks she might convince him.’

  ‘And what if she can’t?’

  ‘We go another way.’

  ‘What other way?’

  ‘We take something he cares about,’ Marshal Leather Yates said. ‘We go after that Apache princess, or the old woman.’

  Chapter Twelve

  In growing darkness, Anson Hawkstone rode his chestnut mare the back way into Tucson, from the Tombstone side. Since greed and happiness never see each other, how should they ever become acquainted? Maybe he wasn’t dealing with much happiness, but there was sure enough greed to go around.

  His arm still bothered him, but not so much any more. He rode along Main Street, past the Pennington Hotel at the corner of Pennington, and by the Hodge Hotel. Most stores and shops had closed. Houses put out frying meat cooking smells and sounds of subdued movement casting shadows against window lamp glow. The sounds of shouts and clinking glasses erupted from saloons south of the presidio. Close to Meyer Street he saw a light through the window of the Pima County Bank office. He walked the chestnut around to the back. A saddled bay mare stood tethered. The building sat isolated, the nearest structure fifty feet away – the Longfellow Copper Mining Company office. A hill of smooth boulders rose a hundred feet behind the buildings.

  The back window of the bank showed a young man bent to a safe. He was dressed like a banker, with a brown suit and string tie. He wore no hat and his honey-brown hair shone in the light. Hawkstone aimed the chestnut to the edge of the hill and waited, blending into the dark cracks between rocks, and dismounted. He hadn’t noticed a light on inside the mining office. When it blew out, the darkness drew his attention. A man shoved the back door of the office closed and locked it. He wore a bowler hat and had pork-chop whiskers on a cherub face; he was about fifty. Rubbing his hands together he walked straight for the back door of the bank. He knocked lightly. The inside of the bank went dark.

  ‘Barron, you about ready?’ the older man with the pork chops said. ‘I’m headed for the hotel.’

  The young man opened the door, and once out, he nodded, ‘Jed.’ He turned and locked the door.

  ‘We set for dawn?’ Jed asked.

  The young man patted his suit jacket pockets, an aimless gesture. ‘I think so.’

  ‘Have time for a beer?’

  ‘Ah, no, we have a poker game going at the Owl’s Club.’

  Jed chuckled. ‘You and your Owl’s Club for well-off bachelors – wish I was young and rich enough for all that poker and dancing and parties, and those gorgeous young women.’

  ‘It isn’t like that all the time.’ He took the reins of the bay and walked beside Jed towards Main Street.

  Hawkstone tied his chestnut’s reins behind the bank where the bay had been, and followed twenty feet behind the two men. At the Hodge Hotel, Jed waved and the men parted. Barron Jacobs walked five feet more while Hawkstone closed the distance, then moved to mount the bay. Hawkstone stepped up behind him.

  ‘Ease it right there, Barron.’

  Barron stiffened and started to turn. ‘Do I know you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Are you robbing me?’

  ‘No. Don’t turn around just yet. What kind of artillery you carrying?’ He reached around and patted the suit coat. ‘Slip the pistol out with your thumb and finger. Reach it behind you.’

  Barron did what he was told. Hawkstone tucked the short barrel pistol under his cartridge belt.

  They started walking. Jacobs in front leading the bay, said, ‘Where are you taking me?’

  ‘Right now, we’re headed to where I tied my horse.’

  When they reached the back of the bank, Hawkstone dragged out a bottle from his saddle-bag. With the bay tied next to the chestnut, he pointed Jacobs around to the backside of the rocks.

  ‘What do you want?’ the banker asked.

  ‘Got some questions. Let’s sit and get comfortable.’ When they climbed five easy feet and sat on a pair of smooth, fairly flat boulders, Hawkstone said, ‘Care for a snort?’

  Barron Jacobs stared at Hawkstone. His face looked smooth, just over twenty showing shadows and lights, as slick and featureless as the boulders in little light. He looked at the bottle and shrugged, ‘Sure, why not?’ He took a good pull and swallowed with a sour face.

  Hawkstone took his turn. ‘Got the makings, Bull Durham and corn-skin paper.’

  ‘Don’t use it. I prefer a good cigar.’

  ‘Ain’t got none of them.’

  They sat in silence while Hawkstone rolled his own. ‘Tell me what happens at dawn.’

  ‘No, I won’t tell you about that.’

  Hawkstone stuck the rolled cigarette between his lips and pulled his Colt .45 from the holster. ‘Too much noise to shoot your ankle or elbow or knee cap – make you a cripple the rest of your life.’ He tapped the barrel of the weapon on the banker’s leg. ‘But I can pistol whip you some. Now, you see the aiming sight there at the end of the barrel of this here six-gun? I ain’t as mean as some fellas. Some fellas sharpen that sight to a knife edge so’s when they pistol whip another fella the cuts go deep and long. Still, this sight of mine can chew you up good enough. Be a long time ’fore you’re handsome again.’ He offered the bottle. ‘Here, have another snort.’ He struck a match and inhaled.

  Barron Jacobs took the bottle with shaky fingers. ‘We’re loading the payroll,’ he took another slug of whiskey, ‘sending it to the mines on Tuesday, instead of the Wednesday stagecoach run.’

  ‘All the way into New Mexico Territory? I was just up that way. It’s a two-day trip.’

  Jacobs nodded. ‘Usually get to the horse change stage stop about midnight. Go on to the Longfellow mines by a different coach.’

  ‘How many different drivers and coaches?’

  Jacobs took another pull from the bottle. His tongue had loosened some. He acted proud of how smart he was. ‘We have a contract with Longfellow Mining to deliver the payroll safely. The bank is weary of robberies so we need to take these measures.’

  ‘How many taking it, Barron?’

  ‘Four drivers, three coaches. Twice a month on the weeks between stagecoach runs. Leaving Tuesday at dawn, arrive at the mines late Wednesday or early Thursday.’

  ‘And the stagecoach carries no money?’

  ‘Just what passengers have on them.’

  Hawkstone inhaled and blew smoke. He took a swallow from the bottle. He peered sideways at Jacobs: ‘Now, you go to all this trouble, how do you fool stage robbers?’

  ‘We used to put the payroll on the same stagecoach with executives headed back from a relaxing break – had four guards riding along with it. It even took a different route. But the route made no difference, and hold-up men found the way in New Mexico Territory and held it up anyway. A man in the mining office was telling them, for a share of the money. He’s in prison now.’

  Hawkstone took another pull on the bottle. ‘What’s his name, this man in prison?’

  Jacobs shrugged. ‘Roscoe something-or-other.’

  ‘That’s fascinatin’, Barron, but I got another situation I want to toss at you. Suppose a fella was to come up to a stagecoach hold-up and all the polecats was dead? And suppose the bank money was just lying there with nobody around it? Now, this fella what come up on the others wants to do the right thing. He wants to turn the money over to the bank, but he figures he ought to get something for doing that, for doing the right thing.’

  ‘Ten per ce
nt,’ Barron Jacobs said. ‘The bank will give a ten per cent recovery reward.’ He took the bottle and drank a swallow. He looked off towards the direction of the bank. ‘You have bank money with you now?’

  Hawkstone dropped the spent smoke and stomped his boot heel on it against the boulder. ‘Nope, jest speculatin’. So, you can promise a fella would get ten per cent cash if he turned money back in that somebody else took from the bank?’

  ‘Yes. But all of it returned, then we’d pay the reward.’

  ‘You look young, Barron. You got enough clout to keep that promise? A lot of fellas make promises they just can’t keep. They like to end a sentence with “I promise”, only they ain’t got the authority or sand to come through.’

  ‘My family owns the bank. I’d have to run it past the board members, but I’m confident the bank would be happy to get any amount back.’

  Hawkstone slid the Colt back in its holster. ‘Confident, that’s a nice civilized word. Now, all I got to figure is, are you and that board, men of honour.’

  ‘Likely, as honorable as you.’

  ‘Mebbe I ain’t so honorable, but I keep my promises, and I finish what I set out to do, and I always ride for the brand. I don’t want you running to the federal marshal about our little talk.’

  ‘That was my next step, unless you kill me.’

  ‘I will. You go right on with what happens at dawn, with no jabber to nobody else. From now until then, either one of my pards or me will have a bead on you. Any smell of the law or change in plan, you catch the first bullet.’ Hawkstone stared at the banker. ‘You got any doubt on my meaning?’

  ‘No. The money is insured, but because of the robberies, the premiums have gotten out of control.’ He rubbed his hands along his pant legs and squinted sideways. ‘You’re going after the payroll, aren’t you?’

  ‘I ain’t no bank robber.’

  ‘You could be lying.’

  ‘Indeed, I could.’

  ‘I can’t see you clear and I don’t even know your name.’

  ‘We’ll just keep it that way for now.’

  Chapter Thirteen

  Tuesday, a while before sunrise, Anson Hawkstone met Black Feather, Burning Buffalo and Tommy Wolfinger in Tucson at the back of the boulder formation behind the bank and the mining office. They wore clothes taken during many Apache raids – farm clothes mostly, overalls, plain cotton shirts, high shoes, flat-top wide-brimmed hats, with large kerchiefs for their faces. Using cover from the rocks, they watched two men carry a strongbox to an open carriage parked between the bank and the mining office. The box was loaded on the back of the carriage and covered with a pink quilt and tied down. Jed, the pork-chop whiskered mining man, stood in front of the one-horse rig holding the reins to the hitched bay. A mature woman wearing a grey dress, her shoulders covered by a knitted black shawl, walked slowly from the mining office and climbed on to the small four-place carriage seat. She picked up the reins.

  Barron Jacobs, in a blue banker suit, came from the bank and spoke to her. He looked around, directly at the boulders, and wrung his hands together. He put his hand on the woman’s shoulder and moved his head back and forth for emphasis as he spoke – but he was too far away for Hawkstone to hear. The woman stared at the back of the bay, her pewter hair in a tight bun. She put on a short-brim plains hat and looked at Jacobs and nodded. Jed stepped aside, away from the horse. Two mounted men rode in with Winchesters, the rifle stock on their legs, pointed to the sky. With a rein slap on the bay the carriage moved on to Main and outside the Tucson city limits, the two armed men following.

  Hawkstone and the three braves mounted and walked their horses until they were two blocks away, then set to a fast gallop. Hawkstone led because the banker had told him the way. With just one horse pulling the carriage at a walk and trot the going would be slow, along a little known trail from Tucson to the San Pedro river, then beside the river until north of Wharton City and the General Keambevs road, where the strongbox would be transferred to a faster buggy for the run towards New Mexico.

  Hawkstone and the three braves rode hard, none looking like Apache, hoofbeats pounding over desert scrub, galloping by arroyos and mesas, the kerchiefs still tied around their necks. With the carriage plodding along behind, they widened the distance, and rode straight for the San Pedro, figuring to hit the wagon close to the river bank. The sun rose slowly, burning off the misty dew. When he reckoned to be four or five miles ahead of the carriage, Hawkstone reined up to rest the horses – the pintos and the chestnut mare heaved from the effort as the men dismounted. They walked along slowly, holding the reins. Hawkstone took a pull from his canteen, while the others drew theirs. They poured water into their hats and stopped to let the horses drink. The three braves squatted and looked towards the river still out of sight. Hawkstone thought they appeared a little like farmers, but not by much, maybe immigrants.

  Burning Buffalo had his long single braid tucked under the farmer hat. ‘Do we kill?’ he asked looking directly at Hawkstone. ‘Do we take scalps?’

  ‘No. We got to take out the two guards. I want you and Tommy upstream with your Winchesters. Use willows or cottonwoods or rocks for cover. Each of you hit one in the leg. Me and Black Feather will ride up and I’ll try to outdraw the woman so she rests easy. I’m hoping the guards is just drovers looking for a little in-between eatin’ money so they won’t be looking on the job as a religion. Me and Black Feather will invite them to toss their hardware. They resist we’ll have to wing ’em again.’ He nodded to Burning Buffalo. ‘You brought the big steel bar. We’ll bust open the box right there on the wagon, move the cash to extra saddle bags I brought. The woman won’t be able to load the guards in the wagon by herself so we’ll have to help – with them trussed like rodeo doggies using our extra lariats. She can take the wagon on back to Tucson.’

  Tommy Wolfinger stood tall and lithe and stretched. ‘What you do with money?’

  Hawkstone patted the chestnut’s neck. The horses were no longer heaving for breath. He said, ‘I don’t trust the baby-faced banker or his board of directors. I figure to pull the reward right off the top. I’ll bury the rest over Big Ears Kate and Billy Bob Crutch. Let Federal Marshal Casey Steel find it all. I might drop in the boots we took from Marshal Leather Yates, give Steel something to ponder.’

  Black Feather chuckled. ‘How we got boots was funny. I liked that.’

  Hawkstone smiled with his blood brother.

  But Tommy looked sceptical. He continued to stare at Hawkstone. ‘What you do with reward money?’

  Hawkstone checked the cinch on the chestnut. ‘If the amount is close to fifty thousand, you each get a thousand. I’ll take a thousand. The extra goes to the old woman, Saguaro Claw. She takes care of us and can use it.’ He dropped the stirrup from the saddle horn and mounted. The three braves threw their legs over to sit in their saddles.

  Black Feather squinted at Hawkstone. ‘You will hold up the stagecoach with the outlaws anyway?’

  ‘I may have to. We got to protect the band from harm, especially Hattie and the old woman.’

  When the carriage approached the San Pedro River and was about to turn left upstream along the bank, Burning Buffalo and Tommy shot the two guards riding behind. Both bullets hit a calf. One guard fell from the saddle. The other jerked and bent enough to drop his Winchester. He immediately drew his pistol.

  ‘Drop them or you’re dead!’ Hawkstone shouted from downstream willows.

  The guard’s pistol aimed at the willows, the rider still in the saddle. The two braves emerged upstream from the wagon. Next to Hawkstone downstream, Black Feather shot the rider through his left shoulder. The force knocked him off his horse. He bounced against the strongbox and flipped to the river bank with grunts. The three braves closed in with drawn pistols. The standing guard dropped his Winchester. Hawkstone kept his Peacemaker on the woman and stepped to the carriage. She sat still as stone, staring at him without expression. The braves gathered pistols and rifles, removed
cartridges and tossed them behind riverside rocks.

  Hawkstone said, ‘We ain’t taking your weapons. You’ll need them on down the trail.’

  Black Feather already had his bowie knife. He made short work of the rope ties around the strong box. Burning Buffalo moved to the box with the steel bar.

  The guard lying next to the carriage groaned. ‘I’m bleedin’ hard.’

  ‘We’ll get to you shortly,’ Hawkstone said. He kept his aim at the woman, expecting her to make some kind of move.

  The old brass lock stubbornly resisted, but in a few seconds of squeaks and grunts of effort the bar conquered it, and the lock snapped open with the sound of broken parts. Burning Buffalo studied the broken padlock while the others watched and waited. He tossed the brass into the river and pushed open the lid.

  The strongbox was empty.

  For a few seconds nobody moved. Hawkstone felt a tingle across his forehead, then the heat of anger. His eyes burned. He gritted his teeth, and his first thought was, somebody would die for this.

  Burning Buffalo was the first to move. He dropped the steel bar, pulled his Remington from the cartridge belt and aimed it at the guard wounded in the shoulder lying by the carriage. ‘We kill them all.’

  ‘Wait.’ It was the standing guard, shot in the leg.

  With his left hand, Hawkstone grabbed a handful of the woman’s dress close to her throat and dragged her from the seat. Her legs got tangled and she fell forward as he twisted her round and threw her to the ground on her back. He pushed his Colt against her forehead. ‘In your last living seconds, where has the money gone?’

  She looked like everybody’s grandma, plump, thin vertical wrinkle lines above her upper lip, at the corners of her mouth, around her eyes – her pale blue eyes showed only a little fear, as if she had been there before and would accept what happened.