That was exactly what Billy Hawkin did, before he shook his head, and offered the paper to Galloway.
Thanks for everything. Here’s an eagle for your kindness. Come see me in Kansas City sometime.
No signature. No date. But Billy Hawkin had read enough of what Harry Henderson had written to know the writing belonged to that double-crossing cowardly bank teller . . . or cashier . . . or clerk . . . or whatever title he held at the Bank of Sierra Vista.
“Well?” Galloway asked.
Billy held the piece of paper out toward the gang member.
“You know I don’t read,” Galloway said.
“Yeah.” Billy crumpled the paper again and pitched it toward the ashtray. It bounced out of the ashtray and rolled over the side of the table and landed on the edge of the rug on the floor. “It doesn’t say a damned thing, doesn’t tell us one thing. All it really says is that he’s going to Kansas City.”
“Maybe we should go to Kansas City” Galloway stated.
“No,” the prostitute said.
“Why not?”
“Because that thief isn’t going to Kansas City.”
“Oh.” Galloway nodded, comprehending the levels at which Harry Henderson, a coward no one had considered as a threat or a thief ever, could operate.
“So you just came upstairs and found him gone,” Billy Hawkin stated, and waited for the chirpy to confirm.
“Yeah. And I read his sweet note and I pocketed the money he give me, and I drank a little brandy to take the taste of laudanum out of my mouth, and I was sleeping real good and having not one bad dream till you boys came barging through my door.” She pointed at the door. “Matilda’s gonna add that to all the money you’ll owe her and me and all the girls you’ve bothered tonight.”
“Yeah,” Billy said. “Shut the hell up. Where do you think he went?”
The girl was silent.
“Answer me,” he demanded.
Galloway shook his head. “Billy, you just told her to shut up.”
The punk growled. “Don’t you get me started, Galloway.”
The man shook his head and asked the girl, “He didn’t give you any clue about where he might be headed?”
“No,” the chirpy snapped. “I done told you all. I went to fetch him some more brandy, and once I came back here, he was gone. He paid me plenty, and I am real tired.”
Billy Hawkin jumped up and down and cursed and kicked at the air.
“Let’s go find Jake, Billy,” Galloway began.
“Absolutely not. We got to find Henderson.”
“Well, we can find his home,” Galloway said.
“He won’t be there, Galloway!” Billy spit on the floor.
“Hey,” the chirpy said. “That’s disgusting.”
“Shut up. We’re trying to think here.”
“Well, think someplace else. I’m going back to sleep.”
Billy swore and shook his head, and finally took time to lower the hammer on his Colt and slide the big weapon into the leather holster. “He could be anywhere.”
Galloway was looking outside. He tapped on one of the panes of glass, then turned away from the window with a wide grin stretching across his face. “Billy. The stagecoach.”
Billy stepped over to the glass, knelt a little bit, and stared through the panes of glass.
“The westbound,” Galloway said. “That’s where he’s bound.”
“Yeah.”
“We gotta tell Jake.”
Suddenly, Billy grinned. “I bet, since the stage will travel along that road, and have to stop at The Crossing, Meade’s Place, and Purgatory City, I could cut across the country and beat it to Culpepper’s.”
“You might run into that posse,” Galloway said.
“They won’t be looking for one rider.”
“You might run into Apaches.”
Billy chuckled. “That’s better than running into Jake.”
Galloway let out a long breath. “You still gotta let Jake know what happened. You gotta tell him.”
“You tell him,” Billy said. “Just give me till daybreak to get out of here.”
“That ain’t smart.”
“Maybe not. But Jake gets real touchy when you wake him up in the middle of the night.” He slapped Galloway’s shoulder. “Tell him I’ll catch that turncoat and gut him like a fish. And I’ll fetch him back the money.”
“He won’t like it.”
“You’ve been riding with Jake long enough to know that he don’t like nothing.”
Galloway shook his head and sighed again.
Billy nodded. “It’ll be fine. Once I get that fifty grand back.”
* * *
Jake Hawkin kicked the prostitute out of his bed, tossed her a robe, and told her to fix herself a morning bracer.
“This is my room, Jake!” the girl yelled.
“Get out.”
“Well, when I tell Matilda what you’re. . . .” The threat died in her throat and fear enveloped her when she saw the deadly look in his eyes. She quickly looked away, grabbed a robe to throw over her unmentionables, and left him with the man called Galloway.
“That pipsqueak of a banker! Where did he find the backbone to take my fifty thousand bucks?” Jake pulled on his pants, grabbed the Colt he had underneath the pillow, and shoved it into the holster. He dressed in a hurry, peppering Galloway with questions all the while.
“Billy left all that money with . . . what the hell was that dude’s name, anyway?”
“Henderson,” Galloway answered. “Harry Henderson.”
“What was Billy thinking?”
Galloway shrugged. “Like you said, Jake, we didn’t think he’d have gumption to try to cross you.”
“Gumption? He don’t know the meaning of the word. He’s just stupid.”
“I guess so.”
Jake stomped the boots onto his feet. “Where’s Billy?”
“He took off after him.”
“When?”
Galloway had to think. He had been testing various answers since Billy had ridden out. “I don’t rightly know, Jake. Sometime during the night.”
The killer froze. Only his eyes looked up as he buckled on his gun rig. “During the night?”
Somehow, Galloway managed to swallow. “Yeah. Billy rode off. He thought he could catch up to the stagecoach at Culpepper’s Station.”
“How late in the night?” Jake shoved his shirttail into his pants.
“Two, I guess. Maybe three.”
Jake swore. “And you let me sleep.”
“Billy said not to trouble you till daybreak.”
The gang leader cursed even more vilely. “How did Billy figure out that yellow-livered snake took the stagecoach?”
“He was downstairs, playing poker. Maybe faro. This dude just off the stage come in. He said as he looked back just before the stagecoach left, that this gent in a black suit came out of the shadows and hopped into the stage. The dude thought it peculiar. Billy stopped gambling and came upstairs. When he found Henderson gone, and the carpetbags gone, he woke me up. Then went back down and found the dude as he was sipping a beer and asked him about the fellow who got on the stagecoach. The dude said he couldn’t tell what the gent looked like, it being dark and all, but the fellow was in black, or brown, or some sort of dark suit and was carrying a couple of god-awful-ugly carpetbags.”
Another blue streak of curses filled the prostitute’s room. By that time, Jake Hawkin was jamming his hat atop his head and storming out the door.
They stopped downstairs at the bar. That early in the morning, no one was there, so Jake found a bottle of bourbon and poured stiff drinks for himself and Galloway. “How much money do you have?” Jake asked.
“I did all right,” Galloway said. “Fifty dollars. Little more, a little less.”
“That’s all?”
Galloway shrugged. “Didn’t want anybody to get suspicious, flashing around a whole lot of money.”
After pulling out
his pouch, Jake dumped a few double eagles onto the bar, pried out some cash money. “All right,” he said, and slid most of it to Galloway. “All right. Get to the livery. Get us good horses that won’t let us down. Saddles and tack, too.”
“We gonna try to catch up with Billy?”
Jake refilled his glass. “First, we need to get to the hideout. That’s where Alfredo’s supposed to meet up with us. He damned well better lose that posse in a hurry.”
“Alfredo’s good,” Galloway said.
“So was MacMurray. They’ll be burying him.”
“Then we ride for Culpepper’s? To catch up with Henderson?”
“We ride after my fifty thousand dollars. And then we kill Henderson, if Billy hasn’t already done it. And if Billy has done it, I might be inclined to kill my stupid brother. Because I wanted to kill Henderson before we left the damned bank. That stupid brother of mine has cost us a fortune. And shot my perfect plan all to hell.”
* * *
The thought Billy Hawkin could not get out of his mind was that his brother was going to kill him. And it would not be a quick, merciful death.
Billy Hawkin had stolen a horse—one he’d thought was a good one—in Sierra Vista, but miles into the West Texas emptiness, the horse had gone lame. Billy was afoot, walking with his rifle and his canteen, stumbling through cactus and over stones, and a long, long way from Culpepper’s Station.
An hour later, Billy Hawkin understood that he did not have to worry about being murdered by his big brother Jake.
Three Mexicans came out of the rocks before Billy knew what was happening. He had started for his revolver, but staring down the barrels of a scattergun and two revolvers stopped him from drawing the pistol. He merely smiled and raised his hands.
The burliest of the three motioned with the shotgun, and Billy unbuckled his belt and let it drop.
“We shall take your dinero,” said the man with the shotgun.
Billy laughed. “There’s not much money, amigos.”
“It had better be enough,” said the big man with the shotgun.
Billy withdrew the billfold from his pocket and tossed it into the dirt. It had become one lousy day. He had helped pull off one of the Hawkin’s Gang’s most successful robberies—a whopping $50,000—and had eluded a vengeful posse. Then a stupid coward of a teller and cashier had made off with almost all the loot they had stolen. And big, arrogant brother Jake would blame Billy for all of it.
Billy had to agree, rightfully so. They should have shot Harry Henderson dead. But Billy had tried to do what he thought was the right thing. Well, right had nothing to do with it. He just wanted to contradict his know-it-all older brother. It turned out, Jake had probably been right, and Billy was in the middle of nowhere, about to be robbed and murdered by a bunch of no-account greasers.
Life was not fair. It was not fair at all.
The Mexican in white cotton shirt and pants, black boots, and a black sugarloaf sombrero looked at Billy Hawkin’s money. Frowning, he turned to the big dude with the shotgun and spoke in rapid Spanish.
“Is that all you have?” asked the shotgun-wielding leader.
Billy shrugged. “Yeah. It’ll take some explaining, but it has been a bad day for me.”
The Mexican in blue denim pants and jacket grinned. “Amigo, you do not know how bad your day is about to become. It has been very nice . . . until now.”
“I can make it a whole lot better for you,” Billy tried.
“And how is that?” asked the one with the shotgun.
“Would you like fifty thousand bucks?”
The burly one with the shotgun squinted.
“He is lying,” said the one wearing denim.
“How could we get such a sum of money?” asked the one with the shotgun.
“I robbed a bank in Sierra Vista,” Billy told them. “And then I got robbed by one of my associates.”
“That is a lot of money,” said the one in denim.
“It is.”
“Too much for one man to spend,” the one in black said with a glittering smile.
“But it would split well four ways.”
The Mexicans laughed. “We came here to get us scalps from the Apaches we planned to kill,” said the leader, still holding the shotgun. “But killing Apaches is dangerous work. How do we get this mucho dinero?”
“Take me to Culpepper’s Station,” Billy Hawkin said. “We have to get there before the stagecoach arrives from Purgatory City. Then we find the man who stole the money from me. We kill this man. Kill him dead. And kill anyone else who gets in our way. We split the money. And we’re all rich.”
Of course, he had no plans to split any money with a bunch of Mexicans. But he would have to figure out how to kill the three men before Jake rode onto the scene.
“I do not believe you,” said the one in denim. “Kill him now.”
Billy started to dive for his gun, even though he knew such an act would result in his death, but the youngest of the trio, the one carrying the pistol, barked out something in his native tongue, and the others turned to look at the dust.
“One rider,” said the man with the shotgun, speaking in Spanish. “He must be a fool to travel this country alone.”
“Good,” Billy Hawkin said. “I will take his horse after we kill him. Then we will go after all that money.”
CHAPTER TEN
Jed Breen didn’t like what he saw at Culpepper’s Station one bit.
The corral was empty when it should have been filled with mules for the changing of teams. What’s more, the poles had been knocked down. Now, it could have been that one stubborn mule had kicked the poles to the ground, and the mules had wandered off. That might explain why the door to the station remained open. The two men who worked there could have hurried off to bring back the wayward animals. But Breen did not think that had happened, and he would not think it—not in a thousand years.
There were tracks . . . a lot of tracks . . . with a mix of shod and unshod ponies. That told Breen that Indians had been through there, and though he saw no arrows sticking into the walls or doors of the station, he knew that Apaches would reuse the arrows that had not killed a human being. They would have plucked the arrows out of the wood and adobe and returned them to their quivers—much the same as he would pick up the empty casings of his brass cartridges to reload them. Bullets were expensive in that part of the country.
And Apaches were practical. Making arrows took a great deal of time.
He looked around. It could be that the Apaches had stolen the mules and killed the employees. It could be that the employees had abandoned the station because the Army had warned them that Indians were on the prod. It could be a lot of things Jed Breen could easily explain.
But there was just one peculiar thing.
Somebody was inside the station, and that somebody likely was owner of the wagon that was parked along the side of the station. The wagon was no coach, but more of an ambulance painted red, black, green and blue, with colorful lettering on the side.
Sir Theodore Cannon’s
~ FAMED ~
SHAKESPEAREAN TROUPE
and Acclaimed Improvisatory Company
“Hailed by Queen Victoria !”
London. New York. Paris. Rome.
San Francisco. Quebec.
And now HERE ! ! !
From inside, a man sang. Had Jed Breen heard that tenor anywhere else, he might have been moved. It had been years since he had heard anything by Gioachino Rossini, and La Donna del lago, The Lady of the Lake, had always been one of Breen’s favorite operas. It was based on a great poem by Sir Walter Scott. It had been a long time since Breen had read Scott, too.
The voice was spectacular. The man was singing the canzoncina “Aurora! ah, sorgerai,” and Breen heard himself whispering the English translation, “Dawn! Ah, will you always arise inauspiciously for me?”
He stopped himself. Culpepper’s Station was a long, long way from the French Opera Hous
e in New Orleans. He squinted and thought of something else. Would the French Opera House have staged an Italian opera based on a Scot’s narrative poem?
Breen smiled at his private joke and then sprinted from his place in the rocks to the wagon. He braced his back against the wagon, expecting arrows or bullets to start raining in his direction. All he felt, though, was the wind. All he heard was the tenor voice.
He sidled against the side of the wagon and peered around the corner, still holding the rifle and shotgun. The station’s door was open, and he could see the splintered wood in the wagon’s side and in the cottonwood posts of the station. An arrowhead remained lodged just above his head. The Apache had managed to jerk out the arrow, but the point had broken off.
That confirmed what Breen had figured. Apaches had run off the livestock. Maybe the station tenders had been killed. Maybe they had survived. But the man singing the opera inside the station had been in the wagon. The arrow point seemed to confirm that. So why wasn’t he dead or gone?
Breen wasn’t going to stay there trying to figure out the answer to that question. Those Indians might still be in the area.
He sucked in a deep breath, let it revive him, and exhaled. Then he was running, leaping over the tongue, ducking underneath the hitching rail, and stepping onto the rough porch. His boots thudded on the planks and then he went through the door. With the stocks braced on his hips, he aimed the shotgun and Sharps toward the voice.
Hamlet stood before him wearing a blond wig and a fake goatee, with a cloak of scarlet trimmed with gold lace. His face was caked white with makeup paste, and he held a heavy staff in his right hand. Hamlet. Singing in Italian.
The man belted out the final notes and then took a bow, pulled off his fake beard, and laughed. “Good God, man. I thought you were another one of those bloody savages!” He filled a stoneware cup with black coffee, passed the cup to Breen, and began scrubbing the makeup off his face.
Breen walked to the open door, the Sharps rifle held in his left hand, and studied the hills that surrounded the station.
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