Lincoln Hawk Series 1-3 Omnibus

by Scott Connor

  ‘We need to wait this out. Lincoln expects a posse. When they don’t come, he’ll know I failed and he’ll send another man for help, probably Sam. We capture Sam and we’re left with the two of them inside the saloon. Then we’ll be ready to take them.’

  Cody rubbed the edge of his knife on his coat. The sharp edge reflected light into Frank’s eyes.

  ‘All three will come out when I cut the deputy some more, and we’ll be ready for them.’

  ‘And you’ll use your stupid plan of wandering round the coach real slow, waiting for Lincoln to pick off your men, will you?’

  Cody waggled his head from side to side. He chuckled.

  ‘Nearly worked then. Might work later.’

  Frank scuffed his feet in the dirt.

  ‘All right,’ he said. ‘If you’re in a hurry, you can act, but work with me and we’ll win. For a start, move the coach and clear the way.’

  ‘I’m tempting him to go for it,’ Cody snapped.

  ‘He won’t do that.’

  ‘Then it’s still good cover.’

  ‘Cover works both ways. It blocks the view from the warehouse. The way we’re doing this is wrong.’ Frank kneaded his forehead. ‘There’s a proper way to win a siege and you don’t what it is.’

  Cody’s yellow grin returned. ‘Sure do. It’s called torture.’

  Frank shrugged. He knew Cody’s avoidance of his advice was his way of proving who was in charge.

  ‘Lincoln is a man of duty and never abandons it. He won’t respond to torture. You could cut Lincoln into pieces smaller than a cat’s dinner and he wouldn’t talk. He expects the same of his men, and he’ll get it.’

  ‘Maybe. What do you reckon, Deputy?’

  In the flickering light Dave’s eyes were wild. The steady drip of blood from the stump of his handless left arm created a wide pool on the dust-coated floor.

  Frank sighed. Whatever Cody intended to do to Dave wouldn’t cause him much pain. Dave had lost a lot of blood and was barely conscious.

  ‘The deputy agrees with me,’ Cody said. ‘A few more cuts and the big man will run, he says.’

  ‘No, he won’t. You don’t know Lincoln. I do. Lincoln won’t leave the drunkard for you to kill. Lincoln is as predictable as a bull on a fine spring day.’

  Cody winced, contemplating the edge of his knife.

  ‘You may be wrong, funny man, you may be right. But frankly, Frank, I don’t care.’ Cody grinned, waving his knife at him. ‘See, I can be funny too.’

  ‘I wasn’t wrong about the fire and I’m not wrong about this.’

  ‘Maybe, but I’m in charge now that Mason’s gone and died. I say we cut up our prisoner and have fun while we wait.’

  Frank rubbed his chin. The stubble rasp beneath his hand depressed him further. He glanced at the remainder of Mason’s gang.

  Squinting eyes faced him in the flickering light, their sallow yellow slickers set towards him.

  Frank sighed and took a deep breath. ‘You say you’re in charge and here’s me thinking I am. Both can’t be right.’

  Cody ran a finger down his knife blade.

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘So I reckon you’re in charge of Mason’s gang.’ Frank raised his eyebrows. ‘But I’m in charge of this job. Soon as we finish it, you continue being in charge. We never need to see each other again, which is fine by me.’

  Cody chewed his bottom lip, then shook his head.

  ‘Don’t need you now.’

  ‘You do. I’d like to see you negotiate with Sheriff Steadman and lawyers and trust funds to get a return from this job.’

  Cody thumped his fist against his thigh and spat on the ground, then swirled round to turn his back on Frank. With this unexpected victory, Frank walked from Cody to the stable door.

  He judged that Lincoln would wait another five minutes. Then Lincoln would know he wasn’t returning and send someone from the saloon.

  Dave screamed. Frank swirled round as Cody swerved from Dave.

  Blood ran in rivulets down Cody’s arm, Dave’s face a mass of welling blood.

  ‘Job may be yours,’ Cody said, ‘but the prisoner is mine.’

  ‘Move away from him,’ Frank said, slamming his hands on his hips.

  ‘Or what?’

  ‘Or I’ll make you regret the day you were born, like I do.’

  Cody grinned. ‘That’s tough talking, funny man. What you got to back it up?’

  Chapter Ten

  Jed tore himself from Lincoln’s grip and rolled under the batwings.

  Without a choice, Lincoln and Sam rolled under the batwings too and on to the edge of the boardwalk. But Jed was already ten paces into the road.

  The wind whipped his clothes and encouraged his headlong dash to the stable. Lincoln edged back and forth a moment, then with an angry snort leaned his rifle over his arm and steadied his aim.

  A rifle jutted through a gap on the second floor of the stable and swung towards Jed. A rifle shot rang out.

  Lincoln aimed at the man behind the rifle and fired. The rifle fell away and the man cried out, then tumbled to the ground in a cloud of dust.

  Jed reached the stable door and slid to a halt.

  ‘Frank,’ he shouted, ‘you double-crossing varmint.’

  As the terrible truth fogged his mind, Lincoln’s bowels turned to ice. He shook his head and lined his sights again.

  A group of men, their yellow slickers shining in the stable’s light and flattened to their sides, hurried into the stable doorway. Although Lincoln couldn’t see Frank amongst them, he fired without aiming.

  He gritted his teeth to clear his mind of the horror that crept over him. Gunfire ripped from the stable and Jed fell, his body collapsing into a sea of rising dust on the rutted ground.

  Sam fired and a man folded in the stable doors, before the men ran back into the stable. As the men turned, Lincoln glimpsed Frank in their midst.

  ‘Frank, you’re dead,’ Lincoln roared.

  A rifle shot from the warehouse cannoned into the ground by Lincoln’s feet. Lincoln dashed into the saloon, with Sam at his heels, kicking the moldering batwings to the floor as he passed.

  Inside, he patted his forehead against the wooden shutter frames, then ripped them open and slammed them shut.

  ‘No more brave, one-man actions,’ he said.

  Sam shook his head, his eyes downcast.

  Lincoln turned from the window. He lifted his hand to pat Sam’s shoulder, then lowered it and flung his rifle on the bar. He grabbed his coffee mug and gulped the cold contents, then spat out the coffee.

  ‘More hot coffee, Jed,’ he said.

  As the words hung in the air, unanswered, a strangulated chuckle escaped from Mason’s lips.

  Lincoln slouched to the stove and poured a full mug. He poured a second steaming mug. Then, unable to face Sam, he leaned on the bar and pushed it to Whiskey Bob.

  ‘Prefer whiskey,’ Whiskey Bob said, then sipped the coffee.

  ‘Why would Frank double-cross us?’ Sam asked by the door.

  Lincoln slurped a mouthful of murky liquid, then turned to lean back on the bar. He glared down at Mason.

  ‘Mr. Dandy, you’re quiet for someone who has plenty to say. Why would Frank double-cross us?’

  Mason smirked. ‘The name’s Mason, Mason Black.’

  ‘Stop being pleased with yourself, dandy. You’ve nothing to be proud about.’ Lincoln raised his eyebrows. ‘So you met Frank before. What of it?’

  ‘Because he told me about you. He said you’re too stupid to believe he could double-cross you.’

  ‘Wrong! I’m not stupid. I trust my men. I’m not ashamed of that.’

  ‘We both made that mistake.’ Mason glanced at the red stain that shone on his immaculate, black waistcoat. ‘Frank isn’t to be trusted.’

  Lincoln sighed. ‘You need treatment for that?’

  ‘It isn’t too bad. It hurts more to see a good jacket ruined.’

  ‘Good. Don’t want you
dying on me.’ Lincoln sipped his coffee as he glared at Mason. ‘So, you don’t mind my deputy taking over your men, then?’

  ‘Frank isn’t in charge. They’re my men out there.’

  ‘I know they’re your men. They’re incompetent, but Frank will organize them. Just want to know how you feel about him double-crossing you.’

  With a steady eye, Mason stared at Lincoln.

  ‘You get used to being double-crossed when you live on my side of the law. I guess the experience hurts more when you live on your side.’

  Lincoln’s stomach grumbled. He sipped another slug of coffee.

  ‘Why would Frank work for a dandy like you?’

  ‘I’m no dandy. The name’s Mason Black. I keep telling you.’

  Lincoln favored Mason with his favorite icy stare.

  ‘All right, Dandy Mason. Answer the question.’

  ‘Untie me and I’ll answer you.’

  ‘The hell I will.’ Lincoln clenched a fist and grinned. ‘I’ll tell you what, answer my question, or Whiskey Bob will sit in your lap.’

  Whiskey Bob shuffled around, his shoulders stooped, but his eyes were more focussed now.

  ‘Give me more coffee,’ he said, ‘and I’ll do something real disgusting in his lap.’

  ‘You heard the man,’ Lincoln said. ‘What’s it to be?’

  Mason glanced at Whiskey Bob and gulped.

  ‘Keep him away. He turns my stomach.’

  ‘Then answer my question.’

  Mason sighed. ‘All right. Frank organized this ambush. He promised me a good return. So, Cody and me came here to get you.’

  ‘Why?’ Lincoln glanced at the carpetbag, wondering what had encouraged Frank to abandon his life. ‘We only have legal papers, not money.’

  ‘Frank said the contents were worth more than gold. They have something to do with Marshal Curt Polanski.’

  ‘Palsy,’ Whiskey Bob slurred.

  ‘They do.’ Lincoln scowled into his coffee. ‘Polanski died two weeks ago. Bullet in the back, I heard.’

  Whiskey Bob chuckled.

  ‘Frank didn’t give me all the details,’ Mason said, ‘but they never found the money that Curt stole from Dust Creek’s townsfolk. I reckon the carpetbag has the details of where he stashed that money. Why don’t you open it and find out why Frank will kill you?’

  Lincoln shrugged. ‘That isn’t my duty.’

  ‘Dust Creek’s town marshal put a lot of time into his endeavors. Why not look?’

  Lincoln rubbed his chin, then ripped open the carpetbag, wincing as a twinge of shame hit him for ignoring his orders. He discarded the straw padding that filled the carpetbag. Beneath, four bundles of paper lay.

  He riffled through a few sheets, then slammed the bag shut. Mason was looking at him, his eyebrows raised.

  Lincoln licked his lips, savoring his response.

  ‘Frank’s double-crossed you too. The contents aren’t worth a dime.’

  ‘Curt Polanski was a rich man,’ Mason said.

  ‘He was, but more important, Curt Polanski was a yellow-belly.’ Lincoln glanced at Sam. ‘A real yellow-belly.’

  ‘Sure was,’ Whiskey Bob said.

  Mason turned to Whiskey Bob and nodded. He grinned.

  ‘That’s how I know you.’ Mason whistled under his breath and shuffled on the floor. ‘I couldn’t place the face under that grime and hair, but I now know who you are.’

  ‘So who is he?’ Lincoln asked, with just a hint of interest peaking in him.

  Mason laughed. ‘What a group! A double-crossing lawman and a double-crossed gang leader, but this smelly creature makes Frank and me look like saints. He isn’t the sort of company I’d choose to end my days with.’

  ‘Wrong!’ Lincoln spat. ‘You’ll live. I’m taking you in after I’ve dealt with Frank. Then you get to swing.’

  Mason chuckled. ‘Frank was right about you. You do everything in straight lines. You’ll stay here until they pick you off one by one – not that it’ll take much longer.’

  With Mason’s taunt grinding into his thoughts, Lincoln slammed his mug on the bar and stomped from Mason to the door. As he looked through the door, he decided to do the one thing that he’d agreed with Frank would never work.

  ‘Sam,’ he said, ‘we’re leaving here, now.’

  ‘That’s suicide,’ Sam said. ‘Jed proved that.’

  Blood hammered in Lincoln’s ears at the prospect. Frank was right – he hadn’t had an original idea in fifteen years.

  But tonight, he’d had one.

  ‘Sure is. That’s why it’ll be unpredictable.’ Lincoln slapped Sam’s shoulder. ‘There’s only the two of us, but if we’re fast enough, it should be enough.’

  ‘Correction,’ a graveled voice said. ‘There’s three of us.’

  Lincoln spun round, as Whiskey Bob slammed his coffee mug on the bar.

  ‘You?’ Lincoln said.

  ‘Yeah.’ Whiskey Bob gulped. ‘But get me more of Jed’s coffee first.’

  Whiskey Bob leaned on the bar and grabbed his shaking right hand. In the pit of his guts, a pain that only whiskey could fill gnawed. But now he had a way out – sudden death, instead of his daily slow death.

  As Lincoln slopped down a fresh mug of steaming coffee on the bar, Whiskey Bob’s gaze searched the saloon for his brother, but the rows of whiskey bottles behind the bar drew him.

  His hands veered from the mug. With a lunge, he grabbed the mug to stop his thoughts drifting.

  Whiskey Bob gulped half the mug of muddy fluid. It plummeted into his empty stomach and his bowels knotted, complaining without their usual whiskey lining.

  As he didn’t want a burst of diarrhea before fighting and dying, he clenched his knees and willed the insistent urge to pass. The urge drifted away.

  ‘You reckon you can help?’ Lincoln asked.

  ‘Yeah. Just give me the fancy man’s gun.’

  ‘I’ll do that,’ Lincoln said. ‘But who are you when you aren’t Whiskey Bob?’

  Whiskey Bob couldn’t tell Lincoln the story of his life. He didn’t have enough words left in his brain.

  ‘Patrick and Adam call me Whiskey Bob, Whiskey Bob Polanski,’ he said, settling for the shortest truth. ‘My pa was Curt Polanski.’

  As Mason giggled, Whiskey Bob tried to meet Lincoln’s steel gaze, but couldn’t. Neither could he remember Mason, but these days, he had difficulty remembering anything.

  As he drank to forget faces, he noted him as a success. He’d forget his own name, if it didn’t have his only interest attached.

  Although the whiskey had destroyed most of his memory, some images returned. Images that nothing but death could free him from seeing.

  The lumbermen tied to trees until they rotted. The farms looted and burned. The children butchered before their parents.

  How many were real memories? How many were actions Curt told him that others had done?

  Although Whiskey Bob didn’t know, as a minimum he hadn’t stopped the evil perpetrated here. He wasn’t Curt’s right-hand man, but he wasn’t innocent either.

  He’d spent a lot of his adult life away from Dust Creek, trying to expand Curt’s empire, so he guessed that was why Lincoln didn’t recognize him, but Mason did. When Curt left, he’d drunk to forget while he waited for someone to come and make him pay for what they did to Dust Creek.

  But as Dust Creek died, everyone who’d suffered from Curt’s corruption left and forged a new life, leaving him to rot as he and the town disappeared under the dust.

  And his share of the profits did Whiskey Bob no good. He poured them down his throat on a daily basis.

  ‘Don’t remember no sons when I was here,’ Lincoln said.

  ‘As the mothers weren’t willing, Pa hated his kin.’

  Lincoln nodded and grabbed Mason’s gun. With it, he pointed at the carpetbag.

  ‘I believe the evidence in this carpetbag will finally prove that Curt Polanski was corrupt. There aren’t many people left who c
are, but there’ll be someone other than me. Is that what you want?’

  Whiskey Bob glanced at the carpetbag. He knew what was inside.

  Curt was a meticulous recorder. Every atrocity, every beating, every item of property seized all received their reckoning in Curt’s notes.

  Holding his stomach flexed for the rush of warmth, Whiskey Bob gulped more coffee. Then he forced his creaking shoulders back. For the first time in years he stood tall.

  ‘Yup.’ Pain rippled down his neck as he lifted his head. Standing to his full height, he faced Lincoln. ‘My pa was an evil man. Don’t want to go to my grave without the world knowing the truth. I want to make Adam proud of me. He never understands.’

  Lincoln nodded. ‘Good. Can you use this fancy gun?’

  Whiskey Bob nodded. Years of abusing whiskey meant he couldn’t hit anything that he fired at, but that didn’t matter.

  ‘Tell him to turn the gun on himself and do us all a favor,’ Mason said.

  ‘Shut your mouth,’ Lincoln said. He clattered the gun and belt on the bar.

  Mason grunted. ‘Then don’t turn your back on him. Few live who make that mistake.’

  Whiskey Bob was long past caring about insults, but from deep inside, a need for someone to understand him filtered across his befuddled mind.

  ‘What have I done to you, fancy man?’

  Mason swam in and out of view. ‘You know what I mean, Whiskey Bob Polanski.’

  Whiskey Bob’s momentary interest dissipated. He turned from Mason and gulped the rest of his coffee. He waggled his hips from side to side, forcing old muscles into a semblance of life, and strapped the gunbelt over his tattered rags.

  A dangerous surge erupted from his bowels, the dregs of the coffee having their inevitable effect. He glanced at the back door and realized that he couldn’t run outside in time.

  A gush of warm stickiness rippled down his legs. As Lincoln walked to Sam, Whiskey Bob sighed. His bowels relaxed. He should feel shame at what he’d done, but that emotion had long since died in him.

  Whiskey Bob glanced at Sam then Lincoln, wondering why they didn’t react. Then he glanced at his ragged clothes.

  He smelt so bad that they hadn’t noticed. With a gritty swipe, Whiskey Bob brushed a hint of dampness from the corner of his eye.