The Widowmaker Unleashed: Volume 3 of the Widowmaker Trilogy

by Mike Resnick

  “Neither do I. But they don't realize what's going to happen. I'm not sure even you do.”

  “A few guns will show up.”

  He shook his head. “Every ambitious killer on the Frontier will show up,” he corrected her. “It used to happen every time I stayed in one place too long more than a century ago, and thanks to a bunch of hack writers and phony documentaries I'm more famous today than I was back then.”

  “It's been three weeks since you killed Johnny Danger and the Lightning Kid,” she said. “No one's showed up.”

  “It takes time for word to get around. They'll show up, all right. And they won't all be kids. Some of them will be men I can't take.”

  “You can take anyone.”

  “You too?” he said irritably. “Trust me, I know my limitations.”

  “You're being too modest,” she said. “But I'll make this concession: the day you feel someone has come to Tumbleweed to kill you, someone you think might succeed, I'll leave with you. Fair enough?”

  “Fair enough.”

  “You know, you do have an advantage here that you never had before.”

  “You?”

  “Me?” She chuckled and shook her head. “I was referring to Kinoshita. No one knows him, which means no one knows he's working for you.”

  “He puzzles me,” said Nighthawk.

  “Why?”

  “Because I don't know who the hell he's working for, but it's not me. He was there at the hospital when I woke up, and he's been at my side ever since, but I'll be damned if I know why, and it bothers me.”

  “Maybe he just likes you.”

  Nighthawk smiled wryly. “I'm not that likeable.”

  “I think you are.”

  He shook his head. “I give him orders. I don't listen to his advice. I get him into the damnedest scrapes. There's no reason why he should stick around.”

  “Why don't you ask him?”

  “I have.”

  “And he hasn't answered?”

  “Not exactly. He admits he's got a reason for being with me, but he hasn't told me what it is.” Nighthawk paused. “When the time comes, I'll demand it.”

  “When will that be?”

  He shrugged. “I can't tell you. But I'll know it when it's here.”

  They finished breakfast, then drove out to the countryside where they took their daily walk through the woods. They spent a few hours looking at birds and identifying flowers—another new hobby—and then went back to town. After dropping her at the restaurant, Nighthawk parked the vehicle and began making his rounds.

  All went routinely until he stopped at one of the smaller hotels.

  “Good morning,” he greeted the desk clerk.

  “Good morning, Jefferson,” came the reply. “Did those men find you?”

  “What men?”

  “Three men. They checked in, then asked where they could find you.”

  “Did they ask for Jefferson Nighthawk, or for the Widowmaker?”

  “I can't really remember,” admitted the clerk. “Is it important?”

  “Probably not. Thanks.”

  Nighthawk walked back to his office, where he found Kinoshita doing some paperwork.

  “Hi. What's up?”

  “Three men are looking for me. Do you know who they are, or why they want to find me?”

  “I can't know every enemy the two clones made,” answered Kinoshita. “The first one went off on his own the second he hit the Frontier, and the second one got a few million people mad at him.”

  “Well, just the same, I want you to wander around town until you run into them and then tell me if you recognize them,” said Nighthawk.

  “What difference does it make?” asked Kinoshita. “If they're looking for you, there's just one reason.”

  “Because before I kill a man, or get killed by him, I'd like to know why.”

  “You know why—right now you're the biggest trophy on the Frontier.”

  “Maybe I can convince them that the bad guys are supposed to be the trophies.”

  “If they're here to kill you, they are the bad guys,” answered Kinoshita.

  “Just do what I say.”

  “You're the boss,” said Kinoshita, getting up and walking to the door. “Have you got any idea where they're supposed to be right now?”

  “Looking for me.”

  “They can't be too bright, or they'd have come right to the office.” Kinoshita walked out the door and down the street while Nighthawk sat at his desk.

  He had his computer pull the guest registrations from the hotel, after which he scanned their faces and names. There were five or six possibilities, but he couldn't recognize any of them, and he didn't have the budget or the patience to tie into the Master Computer on Deluros VIII and try to learn more about them.

  Kinoshita returned about half an hour later.

  “Well?”

  “I found them. They're eating at your ladyfriend's place.”

  “Do they know she's my ladyfriend, as you so delicately put it?”

  “I don't think so,” answered Kinoshita. “I think they're just hungry.”

  “Do you know them?”

  Kinoshita shook his head. “I never saw any of them before—which doesn't mean that they aren't from Tundra or Pericles. I mean, after all, there's no paper on you, and I can't imagine anyone's put out a hit on you.”

  “Paper's got nothing to do with it,” answered Nighthawk. “If you want to get famous fast, you kill the Widowmaker.”

  “Well, what do you want to do about them?”

  “They're not breaking any laws. Let's leave them alone for awhile.”

  “These aren't like those kids you killed last month,” said Kinoshita. “They're not going to get so drunk they're useless in a fight.”

  “Can you tell me anything about them?” asked Nighthawk. “Anything at all?”

  “Just that they're tough-looking men, Jefferson. You may make their reputations, but I've got a feeling you're not the first man they've gone up against.”

  Nighthawk stood up. “Okay, then, I suppose I'd better go do something about them.”

  “I'll come with you.”

  “As you wish.”

  “You never let me join you before,” noted Kinoshita.

  “I always knew who my enemies were before. I don't want to confront the wrong men.”

  “Oh,” said Kinoshita, visibly disappointed.

  “You're a good man,” said Nighthawk. “I don't want you getting killed on my account. I just want you to identify them.”

  “It would be an honor to die with the Widowmaker.”

  “First, I'm not the Widowmaker, and second, dying is never an honor. The object of the exercise is to kill the other guy.”

  They began walking toward the restaurant. Then, when they were half a block away, Nighthawk came to a dead stop.

  “What is it?” asked Kinoshita.

  “I just had a thought,” he said.

  “Oh?”

  “Yeah. Let's go in through the kitchen.”

  “Whatever you say.”

  They walked around to the back of the restaurant and entered through the service door.

  “Hi,” said Sarah, walking over to him. “I didn't expect to see you again til dinner.”

  Nighthawk signaled for silence, then walked to the doorway to the restaurant. There were three lean, dark-clad men sitting at a table by the front door.

  “Are those the men?” he whispered.

  Kinoshita nodded.

  “Wait here,” he said, and walked out the service door. He was back in less than a minute.

  “What are they drinking?”

  “Coffee,” answered Sarah.

  “Bring me a fresh pot.”

  She did as he asked. He lifted the top and dropped five small pills into it.

  “What was that?” she asked.

  “That was a gunfight-avoider I borrowed from the pharmacy,” said Nighthawk. “There's enough in those pills to
put a platoon to sleep, let alone three men. Take it out and leave it on the table. Don't offer to pour. I don't want them thinking anyone's anxious for them to drink.”

  Sarah took the container, walked out into the restaurant and over to the three men before anyone could ask for a refill, and left the pot in the middle of their table.

  “Now what?” whispered Kinoshita.

  “Now you go to the doctor's office. Get three airsleds and bring them back here. We'll need them to cart these guys off to jail.”

  “They haven't broken any laws, you know.”

  “Then I probably can't hold them more than a year or two, can I?” replied Nighthawk.

  Kinoshita shrugged, walked out the back, and began hunting up the airsleds. Nighthawk poured himself a cup of coffee, sat down on a stool, and sipped it, as Sarah kept watch on the three men. For the longest time it seemed to her that they were never going to refill their cups, but finally they did, and within a minute all three seemed to be talking and gesticulating in slow motion.

  She reported their behavior to Nighthawk, who walked into the restaurant just as they were losing consciousness, assured the other patrons that there was nothing to worry about, and laid the three men gently on the floor.

  Kinoshita showed up a few minutes later with the airsleds. He and Nighthawk lifted each man onto a sled, then ushered them out the front door and over to the jail, where Nighthawk disarmed them and locked all three of them in a single cell.

  “How long are they out for?” asked Kinoshita, staring at the three motionless men.

  “Maybe three hours, maybe four. I'll be back in late afternoon to have a little chat with them. Give them water if they ask for it; nothing else.”

  “No food?”

  “I wouldn't want them to be too comfortable when I speak to them,” said Nighthawk.

  “Where will you be if I need you?”

  “You won't.”

  “But if I do?”

  “I'll be taking a nap at Sarah's place.”

  “You can sleep at a time like this?” asked Kinoshita incredulously.

  “I've just had a strenuous morning of bird-watching and not killing three men,” said Nighthawk with just the trace of a smile. “That's about all a man of my advanced years can handle before lunch.”

  19.

  “Good afternoon,” said Nighthawk, sitting comfortably on a chair just outside the cell. “How are we feeling?”

  “Like shit warmed over,” groaned one of the three men, holding his head. “What the hell was in that coffee?”

  “A little something that any doctor could lose his license for prescribing,” answered Nighthawk with a smile.

  “Why are we here?” asked another of the men.

  “I thought we should have a little chat.”

  “What about?”

  “Life. Death. Things like that.”

  “If you're going to kill us, get it over with,” said the man. “But don't talk us to death.”

  “If I wanted to kill you,” said Nighthawk, “I could have done it this morning.”

  “Why didn't you?”

  “It would just attract more scum to Tumbleweed. We want to be left alone here.” He paused. “More to the point, I want to be left alone.” He stared at the three men. “You came here to kill me. Was it your own idea, or did someone hire you?”

  The three men looked at each other. Finally the first of them shrugged and turned back to Nighthawk.

  “It was our idea.”

  “Why?”

  Silence.

  Nighthawk pointed a pistol at them. “You're in a lousy bargaining position. I want an answer.”

  “All right,” said the nearest man. “We're for hire, and the men who killed the Widowmaker can charge top prices.”

  “Do you know why?”

  The man stared at him, but offered no reply.

  “You'd command a higher price because men have been trying to kill me for a century and a half, and I'm still here.” Nighthawk's contempt for their abilities was reflected in his expression. “Did you ever stop to ask yourself why that should be, why so many men have tried to kill me and none have succeeded?”

  “We know you're good. That's why there are three of us.”

  “Maybe you'd better take up a different profession,” suggested Nighthawk. “You're not the brightest gunfighters I ever met. In fact, the only reason you're still alive is because you were dumb enough to come to my world and eat and drink everything that was put in front of you without testing it—not exactly a survival trait out here.”

  “The only reason you're alive is because you drugged us instead of facing us,” said the largest of the men, speaking for the first time.

  Nighthawk tossed a small, octagonal coin from the Hesperite system to the man. “Throw it at the wall over there.”

  The man caught the coin, stared curiously at Nighthawk for a moment, then shrugged and hurled the coin at the far wall of the cell. Nighthawk, without ever getting out of his chair, drew his burner and melted the coin in mid-air.

  “I'm just as good with my other hand,” he said. “Maybe even better. Now, do you really want to face me?”

  There were no answers, but they were unable to hide their sudden reluctance.

  “I'll interpret that as a negative answer,” continued Nighthawk. “Now, if I let you out of your cell and point you toward the spaceport, can I reasonably expect you to get the hell off the planet and never return?”

  More silence. Finally the largest man nodded his head.

  “What about our weapons?”

  “They're on your ship. The power packs stay here.”

  “Power packs cost money.”

  “So do triple funerals,” replied Nighthawk. “Do you want to pay for new packs, or have Tumbleweed pay for the funerals?”

  The men glared at him, but offered no response.

  Nighthawk uttered the code that opened the cell.

  The three men walked to the door. Two of them walked out into the street. The third, who hadn't spoken at all, turned to Nighthawk, his body tense.

  “Don't even think of it,” said Nighthawk.

  “You're an old man. Get rid of those weapons and I can take you.”

  “I doubt it—but I didn't get to be an old man by accepting stupid challenges.”

  “The Widowmaker's backing down?” said the man contemptuously.

  “The Widowmaker's offering you your life,” replied Nighthawk. “A smart man would take it and leave.”

  The man didn't move. “I could have taken you with a gun, too.”

  “Sure you could.”

  “Anyone can melt a coin with a burner. You just spray the whole area.”

  “If you say so. Now get the hell out of here before I lock you up again.”

  “I'll be back, you know.”

  “That's fine by me. The cemetery won't be full for years yet.”

  The man glared at him for a long moment, then finally turned and walked out after his companions.

  Nighthawk stood by his window, watching them until they caught the shuttle to the spaceport.

  The man probably would be back. Nighthawk wondered if he'd have let him walk away a century ago, and concluded, to his surprise, that he probably wouldn't have.

  The Widowmaker didn't believe in letting enemies live. He killed calmly and efficiently, without emotion, without regret. If a man came to a world to kill him, that man was, by definition, a mortal enemy, and the Widowmaker didn't allow mortal enemies to live.

  The Widowmaker also didn't second-guess himself—which he viewed as further proof that he was no longer the Widowmaker.

  20.

  Finally the men that Nighthawk had been expecting, generically at least, arrived on Tumbleweed.

  He was sitting on Sarah's porch, reading a book, when she came out from town to speak to him.

  “What's the problem?” he asked. “You look troubled.”

  “It's time to leave.”

  “Y
ou're throwing me out?”

  “I'm coming with you,” she replied. “We're both leaving this world.”

  “What the hell's going on?”

  “We always knew the time would come,” said Sarah. “Well, it's here. Let's pack up and go.”

  Nighthawk put the book down on a small table and got to his feet. “I'll go when I'm ready,” he said. “And I don't feel ready yet. I want to know what put this scare into you.”

  “All right,” she said, looking into his eyes. “Two men came to Tumbleweed. They haven't said that they're here for you, but that has to be the reason.”

  “Men have come here for me before.”

  “Not like these two,” she said.

  “Tell me about them.”

  “There's nothing to tell,” answered Sarah. “There's just something about them. You take one look and you know they're born killers.”

  “They're probably a couple of businessmen who dressed up to impress the locals,” said Nighthawk.

  “Don't humor me, Jefferson,” said Sarah. “I've seen them come and go, and I've never seen anyone like these two. Maybe you could have taken one of them in your prime, but...”

  “This isn't like you,” said Nighthawk. “Usually you're the one who wants me to go slay dragons for you, and I'm the reluctant knight.”

  “These dragons are different.”

  “You don't mind if I go see for myself?”

  “The hell I don't!” she snapped. “If you go into town, you'll never come back!”

  “I appreciate your confidence,” he replied ironically.

  “I spent a long time waiting for someone like you,” she said. “I don't want to lose you this soon.”

  “I've got to at least see them, you know.”

  “I'm begging you not to.”

  “Tell you what,” he said, removing his holster and laying his various pistols down next to the book. “I'll leave all my weapons here. They won't enhance their reputations by shooting down an unarmed man.”

  “I have a feeling their reputations don't need enhancing,” she replied.

  He walked over to the vehicle. “I'll be back soon.”

  “I hope so.”

  “But you doubt it?”

  “You're the best I've ever seen ... but they're what you were thirty years ago.”

  “Thirty years ago I was a skeleton in a cryonics chamber,” he responded. “I didn't go through all that so I could be shot down on the streets of Tumbleweed.”