by Mike Resnick
17.
It was almost two months before the first of them showed up.
They were two idyllic months. It was the first time in his memory that Nighthawk was able to relax completely. He spent his days birding, reading, and working around the house. He built a deck off the kitchen, and a gazebo by the brook that ran behind the property. Then, because he was a realist, he also built a shooting range when he practiced daily with his burner, his Screecher, and his other weapons.
He also got his weight back up to where it had been more than a century ago, and none of it was fat. Sarah remarked that no one could eat as many calories as she was feeding him without turning soft as putty, but he worked them off almost as fast as he took them in.
True, he was the planet's official lawman, but it was such a peaceful little world that all he did was walk up and down the major streets once a day, check with the storeowners to see if they had any complaints, and keep his office neat. About once a week he had to arrest a drunk, and a month into his tenure he broke up a fight, but that was the extent of it. He basically left Kinoshita to watch the office and call him if anything required his attention, and was grateful that almost nothing did.
“How long do you think it can last?” he said one day at breakfast.
“I thought you were happy here,” answered Sarah, visibly upset. “Are you thinking of leaving?”
“I didn't ask how long we could last,” he said reassuringly. “I was just wondering how long it'll be before they start showing up on Tumbleweed.”
“'They?'”
“The gunmen, the kids out to make a reputation, the men who want to be able to brag that they killed the Widowmaker.”
“We're pretty far off the beaten track,” she replied. “Why should anyone come here?”
“Well, I did take out a sizeable portion of the drug cartel's muscle,” responded Nighthawk. “Most kingpins can't let something like that go unchallenged. And I have a feeling your city fathers are bragging about the new cop on the beat, rather than going out of their way to keep his identity a secret.”
“I told them not to.”
“So did I.” He smiled. “That probably held them in check for all of five minutes.”
“So that's why you practice on those targets every day.”
“It's going to happen sooner or later. I might as well be prepared for it.” He looked over at her. “I'm enjoying every minute I spend with you. I plan to die only with the greatest reluctance.”
“Well,” said Sarah, “if Jefferson Nighthawk doesn't want to die, I don't suppose there's anyone in the galaxy who can kill him.”
“That may have been true when I was 25 or 30.”
“I'm tired of you constantly referring to your age!” she said irritably. “You've accomplished things since you came out of the hospital that are beyond almost any man half your age.”
“Half my age is 87,” he said with a smile.
“Maybe I ought to treat you like an old man,” she said. “Maybe I should leave you completely alone on the assumption that any excitement might bring on a stroke or a heart attack.”
“You never know,” he answered. “It might.”
“Oh, shut up.”
“Of course, it might not. Maybe we ought to go into the next room and find out which, just out of curiosity.”
“In a long lifetime of being propositioned,” said Sarah, “I think that may very well be the least romantic invitation I ever had.” Suddenly she smiled. “Let's go and find out.”
Nighthawk got to his feet. “Sounds good to me.”
And then his communicator chimed.
“Ito, you can pick the damnedest times to bother me,” he said in annoyed tones as Kinoshita's holograph appeared in the air in front of him.
“We've got a pair of young toughs who plan to bother you a lot more than I can,” said Kinoshita's.
“Any paper on them?”
“Not that I can find.”
“And they've said they're after me?”
“Not in so many words—but you take one look at them and they're all adrenaline and testosterone and weapons ... and why else could they be here?”
“Where are they now?”
“The Long Bar at the Sand Castle.”
“Okay, they'll keep for an hour.”
“You're not coming right away?”
“Soon. Let me know if they leave.”
“Okay, you got it.”
They broke the communication, and Nighthawk turned back to Sarah, who had paused by the bedroom door, listening to him.
“Now, where were we?” he said.
“You're kidding!” she replied incredulously.
“Do I look like I'm kidding?”
“But there are two men in town who've come to kill you!”
“Then this might be my last time,” he said with a grin. “I hope you'll make it memorable.”
“I can't believe it! How can you think about sex at a time like this?”
“What better time to think about it?”
“Most men would be worried about a pair of young killers who were up to no good.”
“Most men haven't been in this situation a couple of hundred times. I have.”
She stared at him, frowning. “Every time I think I understand you, something like this happens and I realize I don't know you at all.”
He sighed in resignation. “You really want me to go to town right this minute?”
“Hell, no! For all I know, it might be our last time.” She paused. “I just don't know how you can concentrate on it.”
“Well, you know us old guys—we can't think of more than one thing at a time.”
“You say that once more and I will send you to town.”
So he didn't, and she didn't, and later he got dressed again as she watched him from the bed.
“If you don't come back, I want you to know that I love you.”
“I'll be back,” he said. “There are men out there who can kill me, but they're all old enough to shave.”
“Aren't you even a little bit concerned?”
“I didn't get this far by not respecting what any man with a weapon can do,” he said. “But I know what I can do, too.”
He bonded his laser holster to his trousers after checking the burner's battery, then tucked a Screecher into his belt under his tunic, and slid a knife into each boot.
“I'll be back in a little while,” he said, walking to the doorway.
“I'll be here.”
He got into the vehicle and drove to his office, where Kinoshita was waiting for him.
“Are they still in the Sand Castle?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“Good,” he said, sitting down and putting his feet up on his desk. “Let's give them another half hour.”
“They're not going away,” said Kinoshita. “Why not get it over with now?”
“They're in the Long Bar,” replied Nighthawk. “My guess is that they're not drinking milk. As long as they want to fuck up their reaction times, I see no reason to stop them.”
Kinoshita grinned. “I never thought of that.”
“Did you check with Customs at the spaceport and find out who the hell they are?”
“You're not going to believe their names.”
“Try me.”
“Are you ready for this? They call themselves Billy Danger and the Lightning Kid.”
Nighthawk laughed aloud. “You're kidding.”
“I couldn't make up anything that ludicrous on the spur of the moment.”
“I suppose not,” agreed Nighthawk. “They were probably Billy Smith and Freddie Jones six months ago, skipping classes and chasing girls.” He paused. “Too bad they had to come here. They're just begging for someone to kill them, walking around with those names.” He shook his head. “Billy Danger.”
“Watch out for the other one.”
“The Lightning Kid?” asked Nighthawk. He chuckled. “My God, it's hard to say that name with
a straight face.”
“I think he's on something.”
“Oh?”
“Twitches a lot. Wall-to-wall pupils. Billy Danger looks nervous as all hell, like he got talked into this. But the other one, there's something about him: he looks like torturing small animals is his favorite hobby.”
“Okay, when they come out of there, let me know which is which.”
“You'll know,” said Kinoshita with absolute conviction.
And sure enough, when the two young men emerged from the Sand Castle twenty minutes later, Nighthawk had no trouble spotting the Lightning Kid. He seemed almost brighter than the sun, dressed in metallic gold: tunic, pants, even belt, boots and holsters. He wore a silver scarf around his neck, and skin-tight silver gloves. Nighthawk fought back the urge to laugh for a few seconds, then gave in to it.
“What do you think?” said Kinoshita.
“He looks like a fashion designer's worst nightmare.”
“And the other one?”
Nighthawk looked at Billy Danger. He was flamboyantly dressed, though not compared to his companion. His shirt had oversized, puffy sleeves, his polished, shining boots came up almost to his knees, and his weapons would cost an average man a year's pay.
“Typical,” said Nighthawk. “No surprises here.”
“You sound like you've seen them before.”
“A thousand times.”
“You want me to stand with you?”
Nighthawk shook his head. “No paper on ‘em, remember? You kill them, I have to arrest you.”
“Just deputize me.”
“Someday I will. But not for a couple of kids just out of diapers.”
Nighthawk walked out the door and stood in the street, waiting for the two young men to approach him.
“Good morning,” he said when they were about forty feet away. “I'm told that you have some business with me?”
“You can't be him!” said the Lightning Kid, obviously disappointed. “Look at you! You're an old man, and you're dressed just like everyone else.”
“I know this is going to come as a shock to you,” said Nighthawk, “but they don't give out a prize for the flashiest-dressed killer on the Frontier.”
“It's him,” said Billy Danger nervously. “I've seen holos of him. He's older, but it's him.”
“You're sure?” asked the Lightning Kid, swaying slightly and trying to focus his eyes on Nighthawk.
“Believe me, it's the Widowmaker!” answered Billy Danger, and Nighthawk noticed a slight trembling in his hands.
“And now that you've seen me, why don't you go back home while you still can?”
“We're going to be the men who killed the Widowmaker,” said the Lightning Kid.
“Go home now, and someday you may even grow up to become men.”
“I want to see if you're as good as they say.”
“Better,” answered Nighthawk. He concentrated on Billy Danger. “Don't do anything foolish, kid. Have you ever killed anyone before?”
“Sure,” blustered Billy Danger. “Lots of men.”
“Bullshit. You're shaking like a leaf. I want you to consider something, kid: this is old hat to me. I've been facing young guns for more than a century, and I'm still here. I know what I can do. Until you know you can beat the Widowmaker, maybe you'd better go home and think seriously about what you mean to do.”
Billy Danger was silent for a moment, as if he was actually considering Nighthawk's suggestion. Finally he spoke. “I can't. People will laugh.”
“They won't laugh at your funeral. Is that what you want?”
“I've got to think about it.”
“Don't take too long,” said Nighthawk, walking a few steps closer.
“Hold it right there!” bellowed the Lightning Kid.
“Okay,” said Nighthawk, stopping. “What now?”
“You're not going to talk me out of this!”
“I'm not even going to try,” said Nighthawk. “It'll be a pleasure to kill you.”
The young man frowned and blinked his eyes. “You can't kill me. I'm the Lightning Kid!”
“If I can't kill you, then the man in my office who's got his laser rifle trained on you certainly will.”
“Where?” asked the Lightning Kid, turning awkwardly and trying to pinpoint Nighthawk's office window. As he did so, Nighthawk whipped out his burner and melted both of the Kid's weapons in their holsters, then turned his gun on the other young man.
“Billy Danger, you've got to the count of five to pull your weapon or leave. It's your choice.”
“Holster your weapon,” said Billy Danger.
“My planet, my rules. The burner stays out. One, two...”
“All right, all right—I'm leaving,” said Billy Danger.
“And leave your weapons on the ground.”
“But they cost my ... me—”
“Consider it an object lesson.”
Billy Danger seemed to be reconsidering, but before his hand could snake down toward his weapon, he took another look at the burner that was trained on him and quickly unbonded his holsters. They slid to the ground, and he began walking away.
“Spaceport's the other direction,” said Nighthawk.
The young man turned and began walking again.
“I know it's painful, and a little humiliating,” said Nighthawk. “You might remember that the next time you consider killing someone who never did you any harm.”
Billy Danger didn't answer, but simply increased his pace, and Nighthawk turned his attention back to the Lightning Kid.
“What about you?” he said. “Are you willing to walk back to the spaceport?”
“Sure,” said the Kid with a crazed laugh. “But I'll be back.”
“I don't think so,” said Nighthawk.
“You think melting a couple of guns will stop the Lightning Kid?”
“Probably not,” admitted Nighthawk.
“Damned right, Widowmaker. Hell, I can always get more guns.”
“Yeah, I suppose you can—but you'll need to learn how to fire them without a trigger finger.” He burned away the Kid's two forefingers, as the young man screamed in pain. “I know it hurts—but remember, I could have killed you. After all, you came here to kill me.”
“I'll get you for this!” yelled the Lightning Kid.
“Sure you will,” said Nighthawk, unimpressed. “Now get the hell out of here before I get really mad at you.”
The Lightning Kid, trying to clutch the stumps of his blackened, smoking forefingers, staggered past Nighthawk. As he did so, Nighthawk saw a movement out of the corner of his eye, and ducked just as Billy Danger, tears of fright and humiliation mingling on his cheeks, dove for him with a gleaming knife in his hand.
The blade opened a wound on Nighthawk's shoulder, and the shock made him drop his burner.
“I'm sorry!” babbled Billy Danger. “I don't want to do this! But he's my partner—I've got to stand up for him!”
“He's an asshole,” said Nighthawk, turning to face him. “You don't owe him a thing. You can still walk away.”
“I wish I could, but I can't!”
Billy Danger charged again, and Nighthawk sidestepped and delivered a killing blow to the back of his neck. The young man fell to the street without a sound.
At exactly that instant, the Lightning Kid dove for the burner Nighthawk had dropped. Nighthawk kicked him full in the face, and as the Kid sprawled on the ground the gun went flying. Nighthawk pulled his Screecher out of his belt and pointed it at the Kid.
“A very misguided boy is dead because of you,” he grated. “I wouldn't mind blowing you away as well, so get up very slowly and don't make any sudden moves.” The Kid looked at the burner, which lay on the ground a few feet away. “Don't even think about it,” continued Nighthawk. “Even if you reached it before I shot you, how are you going to fire the damned thing?”
And then, suddenly, with no warning, the Lightning Kid went berserk. He uttered an animal screa
m of rage and hurled himself at Nighthawk, who brought him up short with a stiff blow to the breastbone. The Kid shrieked, but never backed away, and began clawing maniacally at Nighthawk's face. The older man tried to sidestep, but found that he wasn't as quick as he'd thought he was, and an instant later the Kid's fingernails were raking the skin off his face. Nighthawk ducked, delivered two blows that would have stopped anyone who wasn't out of his mind on drugs and adrenaline, and the Kid dropped to his knees. But he was up a second later, this time with Billy Danger's wicked-looking knife in his hand, and he brought it down with all his strength, aiming at Nighthawk's chest.
What happened next was sheer instinct. Nighthawk's hand shot out, and the heel of it caught the Kid's nose, driving the bone and cartilage into the brain. The Kid screamed one last time, the knife dropped from his bloody hand, and he collapsed at Nighthawk's feet.
Kinoshita raced up to Nighthawk a moment later. “Nice job,” he said.
“It was a fucking clumsy job,” said Nighthawk disgustedly. “I shouldn't have had to kill the first one. I didn't even mean to kill this one, but I wasn't quick enough to take him out without killing him.
“It's over, and you're alive,” said Kinoshita. “That's all that matters.”
“It's just beginning,” muttered Nighthawk. He looked at the two corpses and grimaced. “Shit!” he said unhappily. “This isn't the way it was supposed to be.”
18.
He was a hero to all the planetary officials, who didn't hesitate to spread the word that Tumbleweed was now under the protection of the notorious Widowmaker. He tried to explain to them that this was hardly the way to keep reputation-seeking young guns away from the planet, but in their eyes he was everything legend had made him out to be: after all, he'd killed fourteen men single-handedly at the spaceport, and in case anyone doubted his abilities, he killed a pair of young toughs right out on Main Street in front of everyone.
Let them come with their best, was the officials’ attitude; we've got the Widowmaker.
“They're fools,” he muttered, for perhaps the thousandth time, while he was having breakfast with Sarah.
“Probably,” she agreed. “But it's too late to do anything about it.”
“We can leave.”
“Tumbleweed is my home,” she responded. “I don't want to leave.”
