by Dirk Hawkman
Vulture Wings
Infamous low-lives, the Strong brothers will do anything for a quick buck, but this was going to be no ordinary kidnap. They are paid to abduct two young men, and don’t ask too many questions when their paymaster gives them some unusual instructions. Then as the boys’ father races to rescue his sons, he realizes that their snatching is linked to dark secrets from his old life as a bounty hunter.
By the same author
Texan Secrets
Vulture Wings
Dirk Hawkman
ROBERT HALE
© Dirk Hawkman 2018
First published in Great Britain 2018
ISBN 978-0-7198-2752-5
The Crowood Press
The Stable Block
Crowood Lane
Ramsbury
Marlborough
Wiltshire SN8 2HR
www.bhwesterns.com
Robert Hale is an imprint of The Crowood Press
The right of Dirk Hawkman to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by him
in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988
All rights reserved. This e-book is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights, and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.
PROLOGUE
Enrique was a professional killer – not a babysitter. It seemed like an earlier incarnation when Enrique was a lowly rifleman in the Mexican army. Though he had learned how to handle a weapon, he had not learned how to obey the rules. Enrique had loathed the army’s petty discipline, and deserted. Wyoming territory was as far away as he could get. There, Enrique found that there was much demand for his heartless ability to get a dirty job done.
He had arranged the disappearances of countless witnesses, and their later reappearances with torn throats. Enrique had a reputation for ruthless results. Perhaps he was too good at his job, for his boss had noted the assassin’s ability as a fixer. Enrique never shied from dirty or difficult challenges. He was being asked to carry out more and more for his patron.
That was why he was riding into Crow Valley. Enrique never shirked, nor moaned. His boss paid him extremely well for his toxic talents. Inwardly, though, Enrique resented this particular errand. He had been instructed to get the Strong brothers out of jail. Again.
He had waited until nightfall. While he did not plan on any shooting, Enrique would pull the trigger if necessary. Murder, to Enrique, was like a painful extraction to a dentist. It was bloody and nasty for the casualty, but afterwards he would wash his hands and start the next job on his list. In any case, the sheriff of Crow Valley was a stooge of Enrique’s. All Enrique had to do was hand over the bribe.
Crow Valley was sleepy that evening. It was almost midnight, and even the saloon was shut. Enrique spotted a few lights on, but otherwise the dull farming settlement was dormant. The Wyoming summer could be punishing, but the evenings were chilly. Enrique pulled his jacket tight to his skinny frame, but it did little to fight the cold air’s touch. Except for the odd draught of wind, the town was silent.
He was not rushing. Enrique dismounted, and noticed a mirror attached to the wooden wall outside a store. He could not resist. Gloomy though it was, the moonlight was illumination enough for him to inspect his reflection. Enrique was not a vain man. Empty arrogance caused fatal slips of judgment. Rather, he was meticulous and highly disciplined. He took fastidious pride in his immaculate appearance. Though his reflection was shadowy in the gloom, Enrique grinned as he gave his neat moustache a little tweak.
It was time to press on with his tiresome chore, though. He crossed the dirt road to the sheriff’s office. Politely, Enrique knocked on the door. The lawman inside well knew that he was in Enrique’s thrall, but the killer rapped the door anyway. It would do no harm to keep up appearances.
The sheriff answered. He had been informed that Enrique would be calling on him, and had waited up accordingly. The lawman was hardly a dedicated enforcer of justice. Sheriff Green was perhaps forty years old, but looked much older. His hair was whitening prematurely, and his leather waistcoat strained to cover his prominent gut. Green was a weary man. Heavy drinking and too many late nights at the poker table were exhausting him. There were whispers in Crow Valley that the councilmen were going to dismiss their lazy lawman. Green’s fears about his future employment, and his gambling debts, meant that he needed Enrique’s money.
‘Enrique,’ Green greeted his visitor with a sigh. ‘Come in.’
Enrique entered the bureau, and got straight down to business.
‘Take me to the Strong brothers.’
‘Money first.’ Enrique fished the wedge of dollars from inside his jacket, and handed the cash over. Green glowered at Enrique with contempt, but took the money nonetheless. He counted the cash frantically. Enrique had spies in Crow Valley, and knew that within days, the sheriff would have squandered every last dollar.
‘OK. Follow me.’ Green resentfully led Enrique back to the cells.
In the jail behind the office, Enrique found the Strong brothers in two neighbouring cells. Enrique loathed the Strongs. This species of criminal was beneath him. They were dangerous idiots, but – he supposed – they had their uses.
The Strongs had drifted into Crow Valley. They had, rather stupidly, botched an ill-conceived stagecoach robbery. The Strongs were wanted for one thing or another all over Wyoming. They were looking at a long prison sentence, or even the noose. Despite their potentially miserable future, they were in high spirits when Enrique walked up to the iron bars.
‘Looky here, Charlie! Enrique come to break us out!’ Dwight Strong screeched.
The younger of the Strongs, Dwight was almost skeletally meagre. His greed for candy and cake had ruined his remaining teeth. Dwight’s blackened smile, and shock of blond hair so thin it was nearly transparent, gave him a ghostly appearance. His almost perpetual shrieks of laughter only added to his banshee countenance.
Dwight was childishly mercurial. The slightest provocation could rouse his psychotic rage, or even his ecstatic delight. Were it not for the loyalty and guidance of his equally evil brother, Dwight would have been murdered or hung by now.
Physically and temperamentally, Charlie was a contrast to his brother Dwight. During his middle years, Charlie’s own middle had swelled. His breeches struggled to contain his growing gut. Charlie’s ruddy face had fattened, too. Age had yet to grey his black hair and moustache, and his dark eyes were bottomless wells of calculating ruthlessness.
‘OK, Sheriff. Let them out.’
Green played along. He was hating every second of this – but he was desperate for the money. Enrique did not know nor care how Green would explain the Strongs’ disappearance from his custody. The killer forced himself to feign gregariousness, shaking the Strongs’ hands and trying not to grimace when they slapped his back.
Enrique led the Strongs to the town’s livery, where he had arranged for horses to be waiting for the jailbreakers.
The assassin explained, ‘There’s plenty of cash in the saddlebags, boys. Weapons, too. You’ve been good to the boss, and he’s rewarding you. But he needs you to do one more job.’
Charlie’s ears pricked up like a wolf’s. ‘Anything, Enrique.’
Enrique paused. He had had to rescue the Strongs several times over the years. Enrique wondered if they were worthy of this strange assignment.
‘I need you
to set up a kidnapping.’
CHAPTER 1
From their crow’s nest on the gentle hill overlooking Morriston, the Strong brothers spied their prey in the corral below. Charlie and Dwight Strong were accomplished criminals, but kidnap was a new challenge for them. Like circling hawks, they studied their quarry.
They had been instructed to spirit away Adam and Bob Connor. Adam and Bob, respectively eighteen and nineteen years old, were presently tending to their horses in the enclosure behind their father’s house. The pastel colours of Monday’s purple dusk were gradually darkening the grasslands, and the corral was a perfect picture of serenity. The Strongs could not decipher what the Connors were saying from this distance. Though the sounds which swam through the still, cool, sunset air were unintelligible, the Strongs could sense that the young men’s voices were full of joy and playfulness.
‘Looks like they’re havin’ a real nice time down there,’ Dwight giggled.
‘Sure does,’ Charlie agreed, grinning callously. ‘Let’s put a stop to it.’ Charlie felt a flicker of bitter resentment on seeing the Connors contentedly tending to their rides. The Strongs’ own childhood had not been quite as charmed.
They cantered down the hill towards the Connor house. Their residence was rather remote from Morriston, and Charlie was glad that there were no witnesses. During their crimes, the Strongs had never entertained the sentiments of compassion nor humanity. Charlie hoped that the Connors would not resist. He had been commanded not to harm them. Not much.
Adam and Bob were atop their mounts. They were not riding, exactly. Rather, they spiritedly walked the horses around the enclosure as they chatted. Adam and Bob worked with their father Eli in his general store. Pa was currently inside, dozing in his chair. The brothers enjoyed seeing to their rides, grooming them and mucking them out before they fixed their supper. They had lost Ma many years ago, so cooking and cleaning had become their chores.
‘Who do you reckon that is?’ Adam chirped. Morriston was a rural community dominated by farmers and ranchers. Strangers were not common, and the townsfolk welcomed travellers with polite caution. Nevertheless, the Connors were curious about the approaching riders. The two black dots on the hillside soon magnified into shadows. The strangers rode nearer and nearer.
‘Don’t say too much, Adam,’ Bob warned. ‘Let’s just say Hi and leave them to it. They could be anyone.’ Bob was the older and more cautious of the Connors. He was less boisterous and mischievous than Adam, yet fiercely protective of him.
As soon as the Strongs reached the corral fence, Adam rode over to greet them. With his light-brown hair and slight frame, Adam was cherubic, or girlish even. It belied his brash, bold nature.
‘Howdy,’ he piped. Bob, though, was instantly suspicious. The porcine interloper and his spectral companion did not strike him as men of character.
‘Howdy, boys,’ Charlie responded. ‘It’s a grand evening. Come and have a ride with us.’
Eli had long warned his sons about invitations from strange men. ‘No thanks, partner. We’re just heading inside for some grub,’ Adam responded, perturbed by the fat man’s weird bidding.
The Strongs drew their Colts and cocked them.
‘I’m not making a request,’ snarled Charlie, to the music of Dwight’s shrill snigger.
Within, Eli was startled from the comfort of his snooze by the report of a handgun blast. It was not unusual for weapons to be fired in the distance in this area, yet Eli immediately knew there was danger in the air. The feeling of peril magnified his senses. That gunshot originated from right outside, and in the cool, evening air he could smell the faint scent of gunpowder.
Springing from his chair, he ran to the window. Outside, the corral was empty. His sons and their mounts were absent, and he could hear the insistent gallop of fleeing horses. Acting with instinct and not calculation, he unlocked his gun cabinet. Eli seized his shotgun, which he rapidly loaded.
Eli darted outside. The sound of escaping hoofs had faded away into an eerie – yet electric – silence. He strolled over to the perimeter of the corral, the gravity of the situation slowly pressing on him. His sons had vanished.
Pacing the fence, his mind was a dizzy nest of scorpions. His sons were grown men, and they could come and go as they pleased, he told himself. There were no drops of blood and there was no damage. Though there were no physical signs of a fight, this did not relieve the rock of fear in Eli’s breast.
Something winked at him from the grassy ground. He bent down to inspect the object: a bullet shell. The round was still warm when he fingered it. His sons had been unarmed, for Eli forbade them from carrying guns. The discarded bullet was the sign of an intruder.
Within the corral, something writhed in the grass, a cloth object animated by the gentle breeze. Eli ducked through the wires in the fence and walked over to the tiny garment. Picking it up, Eli found that it was a string tie – and an expensive one at that. Its black silk was smooth against his fingertips.
This odd discovery unnerved him, adding to his desperate fear. Where the heck were his sons? For a moment, Eli thought he heard something. It was not laughter exactly: rather, it sounded like a faraway, piercing howl. As Eli rode into town to the sheriff’s office, he wondered if his own imagination was mocking him.
CHAPTER 2
It was typically a brief ride from his home to town – only a few miles. Galloping as the shadows began to magnify, Eli’s troubled mind made the short journey seem almost endless. The sun had shrunk to but a thin, pink cinder on the horizon. Eli usually savoured the calm, refreshing, sundown air. Tonight, though, his nostrils were filled with the salty odour of his mount’s perspiration, for he spurred his steed with punishing insistence. Eli gripped the reins with such intensity that his fingers reddened. The cruel tattoo of the hoofs on the spartan, dirt track was deafening.
At last, he reached town. Eli was relieved to see a light on in the sheriff’s office.
Morriston had a sheriff of sorts: Frank Lee. Frank’s main occupation was farming his homestead. With two grown-up sons, Frank had more time on his hands these days. He put his name forward to be the township’s lawman, largely because nobody else wanted the job. There were punch-ups in the saloon, cattle thefts and other petty crimes. The townsfolk, though, were very private families. Serious crime was almost unknown.
The peacefulness of Morriston – at least compared to other lawless parts of Wyoming territory – was in part due to its benefactor, John Morris. Morris was a mysterious blend of political leader, business investor and philanthropist. He owned his own ranch, and shares in many of the farms around Morriston – including Frank’s. Morris’ ancestors, some of the earliest settlers in Wyoming, founded the settlement. Morris paid for the school, the church, and even Frank’s own wages. A recluse, Morris would appear at Christmas and the Summer carnival. Something of a benign dictator, Morris ran his town from afar. Individual townsfolk – Frank included – seldom met him in person.
Early on Monday evening, Frank had been busying himself in the sheriff’s office. The building was a simple construction with a single jail cell that Frank had never used. He was a snowy-haired, bespectacled man who had the manner of a gentle grandfather (which he was). Going through the sheriff’s thin correspondence was something of a hobby for him, an escape from the brood of screaming babies back home. Frank adored his grandchildren, but enjoyed his brief respites in the lawman’s bureau.
Eli knocked on his door, then burst in before Frank could open it.
‘Sheriff,’ Eli blurted with breathless insistence. ‘May I come in? Something’s happened to my boys.’
Eli, while his sons had grown into men, had retained his lean frame. His thin, black hair and moustache were lightly dusted with the grey of his years. Tonight though, Frank noted, Eli’s customarily keen, brown eyes were sunken. His shirt was glued to his flesh by patches of dripping sweat. Eli was wheezing desperately.
‘Step inside,’ Frank answered. Frank was conc
erned for Eli, but had to restrain his sigh. Eli’s agitation suggested that his problem was not going to be easy to resolve. ‘How can I help?’
‘My boys,’ panted Eli. ‘They were in the corral out back. I was inside, sleeping. There was a gunshot and I ran out back. My boys were gone, along with their rides. Far off, I heard some horses riding away mighty fast. I found this bullet shell on the ground, and this string tie.’
Eli retrieved the clues from his pocket, and showed them to the sheriff. ‘What the heck is going on, Frank? My boys have vanished.’
Frank needed to think quickly. He had no idea how he would deal with a kidnap.
‘Did they say anything about going for a ride, or venturing off some place?’
Eli shuddered with frustration. He was fearful that the sheriff would not know what to do. The brow of Frank’s kind face was furrowed. He was speaking hesitantly, as if improvising his responses.
‘No, Frank. Nothing. It’s not like my boys to just disappear. Something’s happened, Frank. I’ve just got this real bad feeling in my guts.’
The repellent, grey gloom of night was now filling the air outside. Frank knew that Eli was looking to him for leadership. With the skies darkening, Frank had to decide fast. Frank hoped that his meek decision-making did not show in his voice.
He fixed Eli with what Frank hoped was an authoritative stare. The storekeeper had a haunted aspect to him. His skin seemed to have greyed and the man appeared to have aged considerably in only a few hours.
‘Mr Connor – I know you have raised two good boys. There’s a story behind all this, and we’ll find it out soon enough. But I’m sending you home. There ain’t no sense in sending a posse out on the plains after nightfall. Hang onto those items. Call on me again on the morrow.’ Frank hoped that he sounded masterful.
