Before he could get up, Sam blurted, “Who the hell is that?” They all looked toward the front door and the menacing-looking stranger standing just inside. Dressed in black, from the Stetson “Dakota” hat to his stovepipe boots, he wore a double brace of Colt Peacemakers, with the handles forward. With heavy dark brows, he stared out from under the brim of his hat as if searching for someone. “Is that one of those men you’re looking for?”
“Nope, never seen him before,” Hawk replied, unaware that he was just about to get his second proposition of the evening, this one not so much of a romantic nature.
Billy Crocker scanned the back of the room, his gaze stopping at the table in the corner where two men and two women sat. One of the men wore a buckskin shirt. No one else in the busy saloon caught his eye. To be certain he had picked out the two-hundred-dollar man, he walked over to the bar, where Dewey was already eyeing him with interest. “Gimme a shot of whiskey,” Billy ordered. When Dewey poured it, Billy picked up the glass, but didn’t drink it as he continued to stare at the table in the corner. It was then that Hawk put on his hat, picked up his rifle, and stood up. That was confirmation for Billy when he saw the feather in the hatband. To make doubly sure, he asked Dewey, “That’s Hawk, ain’t it?” Dewey said that it was.
When Hawk started toward the front door, Billy, still holding his drink, moved away from the bar, as if to walk toward the back of the room, thereby passing Hawk. Just as they were passing, Billy lurched over and bumped Hawk’s shoulder. The whiskey glass in his hand dropped to the floor and he jerked back as if he had been attacked. “What the hell’s the matter with you?” Billy demanded. “You need the whole damn room to walk in, you damned drunk?”
Startled, Hawk took a step back and replied. “Sorry, friend,” he said. “I must notta been watchin’ where I was walkin’.” The man seemed to be awfully steamed up about it. So, he offered to buy him another drink, even though he was sure the man walked into him and not the other way around. Judging by the scowling face that met his offer, he decided the confrontation was deliberate, although he had no idea why.
“You damn saddle tramps think you own the saloons, don’t you?” Billy blared. “You ran into me on purpose. Everybody in here saw it, and you’re a damn liar if you say you didn’t.” The room suddenly became very quiet as the noisy crowd became aware of an altercation about to happen.
Certain that he was being deliberately baited now, Hawk asked, “Have you got some kinda problem with me? If you do, why don’t you tell me what it is and maybe we can straighten it out.”
“I got a problem with you, all right. You knocked my drink outta my hand, then tried to tell me I bumped into you. You’re a liar, and I hate liars, almost as much as I hate cowards. And I’m callin’ you out to settle it man-to-man, unless you ain’t got the guts to stand up to me. So, I’m givin’ you a choice. Get ready to use that .44 you’re wearin’ or get down on your hands and knees and crawl outta here like the yellow dog you are.”
Overwhelmed by the absurdity of the assault, Hawk decided he had had enough. The only reason he could come up with for this bizarre confrontation had to do with Booth and his partner. “Who put you up to this? Was it a fellow named Booth? How much did he pay you?”
“Ain’t nobody put me up to it,” Billy snarled. “I don’t know nobody named Booth. I just don’t like your looks, and you knocked my drink outta my hand. So you back up and we’ll see how fast you are with that gun you’re wearin’, or get down on your hands and knees and crawl outta here.” He stepped back a couple of steps and took a wide stance, poised to draw his weapons as soon as Hawk backed up. Instead of backing up, Hawk stepped forward, matching Billy step for step, so they were still only a couple of feet apart and standing face-to-face.
“You wanna have a face-off, do ya?” Hawk asked a now-confused Billy Crocker. “Are you real fast with those six-guns?”
“You’re about to find out,” Billy sneered. “So back up and draw when you think you’re ready.”
“All right,” Hawk said. “Or you can walk outta here and we’ll forget the whole thing.” The grin on Billy’s face was answer enough. “No?” Hawk continued, “Well, have it your way ’cause I’m fast with a rifle.” Still holding his rifle in his right hand, he suddenly brought it up from the floor between Billy’s legs as hard as he could manage, rendering the startled gunman helpless. He doubled up in pain and collapsed to the floor. “And I was ready,” Hawk added as he walked past the crumpled-up would-be assassin and went out the door.
Outside, Hawk started walking down the street toward the stable, trying to decide if Billy was telling the truth when he claimed not to know anyone named Booth. He couldn’t think of any other reason for the confrontation. He had never seen the man before. He could be some young gunslinger trying to work up a name for himself. But why would he target him? I sure as hell don’t have a reputation, he thought. No telling how fast Billy was, and Hawk wasn’t interested in finding out, because he didn’t think of himself as being especially fast with a handgun. He had underestimated Billy’s resolve to get his revenge for the humiliating show in front of the patrons in the Last Chance. He found out the extent of Billy’s need for revenge, however, when a bullet ricocheted off the siding of the barbershop Hawk was walking past. The next shot smashed the window of the shop. With no option other than to shoot back, Hawk spun around, dropped to one knee, and pumped two rounds from his Winchester into Billy’s chest.
He waited for a couple of minutes, watching the body sprawled facedown in the middle of the street to make sure Billy was no longer a threat. Hawk got up from his knee when the patrons filed out of the Last Chance to look at the body. He walked back to the saloon just as the sheriff arrived on the scene. Porter Willis looked up at Hawk when he came up to stand before the body. “I heard you were in town, Hawk. I mighta figured there’d be a shootin’ pretty soon.” He bent down and took Billy by the shoulder and pulled him over far enough to see his face. He looked back at Hawk then. “Who is he?”
“I don’t have the slightest idea,” Hawk answered, “and I ain’t got any idea why he came after me.”
“Hawk’s right,” Sam Ingram spoke up. “That fellow tried to pick a fight with Hawk in the saloon, tried to get him into a gunfight, right in my saloon, but Hawk wouldn’t do it and walked out.”
“After Hawk gave him a lick where he was most vulnerable,” Bertie piped up, causing a few snickers among the spectators.
“Well, how did the shooting out here in the street get started?” Porter asked.
“I was on my way to the stable,” Hawk said, “and he threw a couple of shots at me. I reckon he still wasn’t walkin’ too steady, ’cause he missed me and hit the barbershop. I had to stop him before he got his aim straightened out.”
“I reckon you didn’t have much choice,” Porter decided. “There’s been a lot of nameless drifters passin’ through town since summer. Most of ’em don’t cause this kind of trouble.” He looked around the circle of spectators. “Anybody know who he is?” No one did. He looked at Fred Carver, the undertaker, who had happened to be in the saloon when the trouble started. “Reckon you oughta go get your cart and haul him over to your place. When I get back to my office, I’ll look through my notices and see if there’s any paper on somebody that fits his description.”
Another spectator, who unfortunately had an interest in the incident, stepped forward then. “How about checking in his pockets to see if he’s got any money?” Alan Greer suggested. “He oughta have to pay for the window he shot outta my shop.”
“That ain’t a bad idea,” Fred Carver answered before Porter could. “I’ll check him out when I get him ready for burial. Course, I’ll have costs to cover as well.”
Unable to resist, Sam Ingram spoke up. “And he owes the Last Chance for that drink he never paid for.” His comment brought a chorus of chuckles from the people gathered round the body.
“I expect I’d best take charge of searchin’ the decease
d,” the sheriff decided. “If he’s got any money, I’ll see if he can repay what he owes.”
“You need anything else from me, Sheriff?” Hawk asked.
“Nope, not right now, I reckon,” Porter replied. “I’d appreciate it if you’d come by the office and fill me in on those two fellows I heard you followed into town. I need to know when I’ve got wanted men in town and exactly what you’ve got on your mind to do about ’em.” He looked down at Billy’s corpse again. “I’d like to know if this jasper’s got anything to do with them.”
“I’d like to know that, myself,” Hawk replied.
“Well, come see me,” Porter said. “You’re lucky this jasper’s aim wasn’t any better.”
“He warn’t walkin’ very steady when he went out the front door after Hawk,” one of the spectators offered, bringing another round of chuckles, as Hawk turned and headed for the stable.
* * *
The sound of gunshots captured the immediate attention of three particular people of interest in the Capital City Saloon. “Hot damn, he found him!” Jesse Corbin sang out.
“It musta been one helluva shoot-out,” Booth Corbin commented after the night went quiet again. “I counted four shots—sounded like two from a handgun and two from a rifle.”
The third vitally interested party, Mutt Crocker, was concerned about the order of the shots heard. Just like Booth, Mutt could easily tell the difference in the sounds made by a Colt pistol and a Winchester rifle. The pistol shots were the first heard, two of them, which told him that Billy got off the first shots. It bothered him that the two rifle shots came last. It could mean anything, good or bad. “Fred,” he called to the bartender, “run over there to Main Street and find out about them shots.” When Fred untied his apron, Mutt said, “I’ll watch the bar. Find out if Billy’s all right.”
“Since you’re tendin’ bar now, you can pour us a drink,” Booth said to Mutt. “We might have some celebratin’ to do, if your boy did the job he went to do. Ain’t that right, Jesse?”
“That’s a fact,” Jesse answered. “But I’ll wait to kick up my heels when I find out for sure that son of a bitch is layin’ toes-up.”
Thinking it a good time to solicit some business for herself, since everybody seemed to be ready for a celebration, Loretta moved up close to Booth. “If you’re wantin’ to kick up your heels, you might wanna go upstairs with me,” she said in her most seductive tone.
Booth answered her with a sneer. “I’d sooner go upstairs with the itch,” he replied, causing Jesse to laugh at the humiliated woman.
“Pay ’em no mind, Loretta,” Mutt said. “They ain’t ever been with a real woman. They wouldn’t know what to do.” She tried to give him a smile for his effort to console her.
Soon the discussion was back to the question of whether Billy was capable of doing the job he had been hired for. “Ain’t nobody faster with a six-shooter than Billy,” Mutt commented, more to reassure himself than to give the Corbins hope. He still couldn’t lose his concern for the four shots. If the shoot-out had gone the way it should have, there would have been one shot, and that was all—possibly one more if Hawk had managed to clear his holster before Billy shot him down.
Fred was gone for only thirty minutes, but it seemed like hours to Mutt. Concerned as well, though not to the extent Mutt was, Booth and Jesse passed the time in a two-handed poker game. When Fred finally returned, the expression on his face told them the news was not good. He had the immediate attention of all three, but he directed his report to his boss. “It’s bad, Mutt. He killed Billy.”
“Hawk?” Booth asked anxiously.
“Yeah,” Fred answered. “It was the feller called Hawk, two shots to the chest. The undertaker took him to his place.”
“What about Hawk?” Mutt asked. “I know I heard Billy shoot twice.” Fred related the whole story of the confrontation in the saloon as he had been told, and the shooting that followed outside. “I can’t understand how Billy missed him twice,” Mutt insisted.
“Well, what they told me was Billy weren’t too steady on his feet on account that Hawk feller hit him where it counts,” Fred explained, although reluctant to subtract from the dignity in the way Billy died. Seeing the look on Mutt’s face, he quickly said, “Nobody knew who Billy was, and I didn’t tell ’em. You can go to Fred Carver’s shop, if you wanna claim Billy’s body.”
Mutt didn’t have to think about it. “No, I reckon I won’t,” he said at once. “I wouldn’t bury him much different than the undertaker will—just dig a hole and put him in the ground.” He shook his head then in a moment of reflection. “Good thing his mama ain’t here to see how her boy ended up. She cared about things like that.” His moment of compassion passed, he said, “No, don’t tell nobody who he was—it wouldn’t be good for business.”
“You’re doin’ the right thing,” Booth said to him. “It’s best not to have any connection between Billy and your saloon.” He was thinking the same thing that Jesse was thinking. If Hawk knew there was a connection between Billy and this saloon, he might put two and two together and come looking for the two of them. Booth would never admit it to his brother, or to anyone else, but this man called Hawk was beginning to seem invincible. No matter who confronted him, he just kept on coming after them. Booth had little respect for Mutt’s son, Billy, but he was supposedly a fast hand with a gun. And he had met the same fate as everyone else who had attempted to stop Hawk. “Who is that son of a bitch?” He suddenly blurted it, not realizing he was thinking out loud. When Jesse gave him a questioning look, Booth went on with what he was thinking. “How the hell did he find out we had a little money? He got all of Tater’s share of the money. Ain’t that enough for him?”
Jesse gave his brother a look of astonishment, thinking if he continued, he might verify Mutt’s suspicion that they had made a major score. Booth didn’t seem to pick up on his signal, so Jesse said, “There ain’t no tellin’ how he found out about that bank job.” He hoped Booth realized Mutt was already thinking they were carrying a sizable amount of money. If he found out just how sizable it really was, he would be thinking up ways to cut himself in on it. “But he found out somehow,” Jesse went on. “He’s hunted us long enough, it’s time we started huntin’ him.” Even as he said it, he wasn’t sure how best to go about it, so he asked Booth what to do.
“First, we gotta find him before he finds us,” Booth said in response to Jesse’s question. “If we can catch him out in the open, don’t matter where it is, we shoot him down.”
“That sounds like the best thing to do,” Mutt put in. “If he sets foot in here, that’s what he’ll get, both barrels of my shotgun. I ain’t gonna bother sayin’ howdy do. I’ll let my shotgun do the talkin’.” Billy had suddenly become dear to him in death, replacing the indifference he had felt when he was alive.
“Where is Hawk stayin’?” Jesse asked Fred. “Is he at the hotel?”
“I don’t know,” Fred answered. “I didn’t hear anybody say where he was stayin’.”
“I’d say the hotel would be a good place to start lookin’,” Booth suggested. “I know for sure the son of a bitch has got enough money to stay there, and we might be able to catch him when he ain’t expectin’ it.”
That sounded good to Jesse. “When ya think we oughta go after him?”
“Now’s as good a time as any,” Booth said. “Now’s when we want him dead, ain’t it? He ain’t at the saloon no more. Ain’t that what you said, Fred?” He paused to hear Fred confirm it. “Might be we could catch him in his bed, or in the washroom,” Booth continued. The nagging concerns he had begun to experience about Hawk’s seeming to be invincible were fading away, since he and Jesse were now going on the offensive. He looked at his brother and grinned. “Whaddaya say we take a little ride over to the highfalutin part of town and pay our respects to Mr. Hawk?”
Jesse responded at once, happy to see a little fire back in his brother. He was tired of staying cooped up in a trading post o
r saloon and running away from one man. Without further delay, they went upstairs to their room to get their saddlebags. It was not that much of a walk over to Main Street, where the hotel was located, but they could not chance leaving saddlebags filled with money for Mutt to plunder. “Besides,” Booth said, “it ain’t a bad idea to have a saddled horse handy in case you do need one.”
Mutt followed them out to the small barn behind his saloon to encourage their efforts while they saddled their horses. “When you find him, put an extra bullet in him for me,” he said as they rode out of the corral, heading for Main Street and the Davis Hotel.
Actually little more than a rooming house with the added convenience of a dining room built alongside, the Davis Hotel was a favorite stop for travelers passing through town. A large, rambling house, it was owned and operated by Gracie Davis, since her husband’s death some years back. With rifles cradled across their arms, the Corbin brothers rode cautiously up to the picket fence in front of the hotel. With no sign of any outside activity, they replaced their rifles in their saddle slings and stepped down, figuring handguns were better suited for close work. Gracie, who was folding sheets in the linen closet, heard the tiny bell announcing their arrival and hurried to the parlor to find the two men standing near the small table she used as a desk. “Are you looking for rooms?”
“No, ma’am, we ain’t,” Booth answered politely. “We’re lookin’ to find a friend of ours. He said he usually stays here, and I wonder if he’s in his room right now.”
“Well, I can certainly find out for you,” Gracie responded. “What’s your friend’s name?” When Booth replied that his name was Hawk, Gracie shook her head. “John Hawk doesn’t stay with us when he’s in town. Maybe he told you to meet him in the dining room next door. I know he usually eats there when he’s here. My sister, Sophie, operates the dining room. If you don’t see him there, she can tell you if he’s been in.”
Montana Territory Page 22
