by Scott Connor
Lincoln swung into the stable and pondered which horses he’d sequester from the little man who trotted towards them. He shrugged.
‘Honest?’
‘About the whiskey?’
‘Yup.’
‘For now, I don’t.’ Whiskey Bob smiled a near toothless grin. ‘Give me an hour and ask me again, but I do need a change of clothes.’
The stable owner rubbed his hands.
‘What can I do for you, sirs?’ he asked. ‘Now the trouble appears to be resolved.’
Lincoln bit back his annoyance at this dismissal of so much death, and flashed his badge. Without offering more hints, he chose two calm bays and turned to Whiskey Bob.
‘Get on your horse, Whiskey Bob. New clothes will have to wait.’
‘At least wait for me to get a bath,’ Whiskey Bob said, with a wrinkle of his nose. ‘That’s been a while too.’
‘Nope,’ Lincoln said, remembering Frank’s obsession with cleanliness. ‘You smell fine. In an hour, we’ll be miles from anywhere. There’ll be no towns, people or whiskey, and no one but me to stink up.’
‘Sounds good to me,’ Whiskey Bob mumbled with a gulp.
They mounted the horses, Whiskey Bob only falling off once, and with Lincoln leading, they rode from Hopetown, heading to Abilene.
Once they’d cleared the last building and faced the open plains, the first red hints of daybreak nestled on the eastern horizon, but better still, no dust was in the wind.
Lincoln stopped his horse on the trail and hunched forward. When the dawdling Whiskey Bob drew alongside, he underhanded the carpetbag to him.
Whiskey Bob caught it one-handed and clutched it to his chest. He raised his eyebrows.
‘Look after that, Bob, and hurry up,’ Lincoln said. A smile broke his impassive face. ‘We have a job to finish.’
Golden Sundown
When Marshal Lincoln Hawk headed to the quiet town of Sweetwater with wealthy rancher Truman Garner, he wasn’t expecting trouble. But he didn’t know that the Calhoun gang were on Truman’s trail, believing he knew the location of a stolen stash of gold.
When the Calhoun gang capture Truman and deliver their ultimatum – hand over the gold by sundown or die – Lincoln must face a desperate life-or-death struggle to ensure they don’t deliver on their threat. And then there’s a mysterious band of raiders who plan to wrest the gold from the Calhoun gang the first chance they get.
Lincoln knows there’ll be one hell of a showdown come that golden sundown.
Golden Sundown
Scott Connor
Lincoln Hawk : Book 2
Chapter One
‘Is that it?’ Crane Powell asked.
‘They say Truman Garner now owns the ridge outside Sweetwater,’ Elwood said. He peered up at the ridge, then shrugged. ‘That might be it.’
Crane hurled his spade to the ground. ‘Decide, damn you.’
‘Yeah,’ Rocco said, cracking his knuckles. He brushed past Crane and the last member of their group, Wallace, and slammed a hand on Elwood’s shoulder. ‘But if you get it wrong, I’ll bury you so deep, your body will never see daylight again.’
Elwood glanced at Rocco’s hand, then shrugged from under it and ran his gaze along the ridge, then back to the smaller promontory to his side.
‘Decker said he headed to Sweetwater, then rode west for twelve miles until he reached a ridge. On the other side was a forest, and—’
‘We know the story,’ Rocco roared. He grabbed Elwood’s collar and pulled him up to his chest so that he could stare straight into his eyes. ‘We’ve had twenty long years dreaming about it and we don’t need to hear it again. So for the last time – is that the ridge Decker told you about?’
Elwood squirmed in Rocco’s grip, but finding no give, he slumped.
‘Yeah,’ he said, his voice shaking. Then he coughed and firmed his voice. ‘Yeah, that’s the ridge all right. No doubt about it.’
‘Good,’ Rocco said and threw Elwood back a pace.
‘Probably.’
Rocco whirled round, his eyes blazing.
‘You what?’
Elwood raised his hands, smiling. ‘Only joking. That’s the ridge all right.’
Rocco pointed at his thin-lipped scowl. ‘Do I look amused?’
‘Quit arguing, you two,’ Crane said. He raised his hands and took a long pace to stand between Rocco and Elwood. When he received a reluctant nod from Rocco, he swung his spade on to his shoulder. ‘Come on. We’ve got ourselves some digging to do.’
Crane turned and scampered up the slope leading to the ridge, closely followed by Elwood, who, with a last glance at the scowling Rocco, hurried on to draw alongside.
Rocco exchanged a pained glare with Wallace then both men turned and headed up the slope after them, their spades slung over their shoulders.
The ridge was angular, monolithic outcroppings of rock thrusting up into the clear blue sky, but the stark beauty was lost on Crane and his men.
As they trudged over the slippery scree at the slope bottom, the four men adopted the same downbeat postures that their twenty-year stint in Barton jail had thrust upon them.
As they neared the top of the ridge, their stooped backs straightened and they hurried.
By the time they were within a stone’s throw of the top, they were running, a combination of excitement and anticipation making them stamp their feet to the ground and create a huge trailing plume of dust.
Crane and Elwood whooped their delight, Wallace joined in, and then finally even Rocco uttered a long whoop and barged past Crane to crest the ridge in the lead.
All four men shared a breathless race across the craggy ridge top, rounding boulders and vaulting smaller rocks in their haste to be the first to reach the other side.
They hurled up yet more dust as they kicked and hollered their way across the top, even their craggy faces smoothing as they seemed to become younger in a matter of moments.
Rocco gained a ten-yard advantage, but at the end of the ridge he slid to a halt when a near 200 foot sheer drop confronted him.
His arms wheeled as he fought for balance. Then he edged back three paces to a safer position and waved at the other men to join him.
As the others flanked him, he peered down at the land below, his face wreathed in a huge smile.
The smile froze, then died. The spade fell from his slack fingers.
He staggered back two paces, barging into Wallace and Elwood. His mouth opened and closed but no words emerged.
With a sickness descending into his guts, Crane paced past him to peer down the side of the ridge.
The plains stretched ahead until they merged into mist-shrouded mountains on the horizon, but wherever he looked there were no trees.
Elwood and Wallace pushed Rocco aside and followed the direction of Crane’s gaze. As one, they winced.
‘You got it wrong, Elwood,’ Rocco said. ‘There’s no forest.’
‘I didn’t,’ Elwood murmured, tipping back his hat. ‘I surely didn’t.’
‘Then where’s the trees?’ Rocco advanced on Elwood with his fist raised.
In a reflex action, Elwood raised his forearm, but Rocco batted it aside and slammed a round-armed slug to Elwood’s cheek that sent him sprawling.
For once, Crane didn’t stop the impetuous Rocco from acting on his festering anger. Instead, he folded his arms as Rocco dragged Elwood to his feet then held him upright and slugged his jaw, knocking him on his back.
Only when Rocco rocked back his foot ready to kick his frustration out of Elwood did Crane raise a hand.
‘Enough,’ he said. ‘This isn’t helping us.’
‘Helping us!’ Rocco snorted. ‘Who says it’s helping us? I’m just enjoying myself.’
Rocco thundered his boot into Elwood’s guts, Elwood folding over the blow, then grabbed his collar and tugged him to his knees.
He gathered a firmer grip of his collar, then dragged him on hands and feet to the ridge edge. There, he
pulled him upright and pushed him forward so he dangled over the side of the ridge.
‘It’s there. It has to be,’ Elwood babbled, his feet scrambling for purchase on the rock-strewn surface.
The displaced rocks cascaded from under his feet and with slow, inevitable momentum, clattered down the sheer side of the ridge and disappeared below, their clattering echoes not sounding for another few seconds.
‘Put him down,’ Crane snapped, pacing to Rocco’s side.
‘If you insist.’ Rocco chuckled and thrust Elwood out a foot further. ‘I reckon he can look for the forest on his way down.’
‘You’re not doing that. Elwood is the only one who knows the directions.’
‘And I followed them,’ Elwood screeched.
Rocco pointed down. ‘Then why is there no forest down there?’
Elwood’s gaze followed the direction of Rocco’s pointing. He shook his head, but then his eyes narrowed and he leaned down.
‘Let me go,’ he said. ‘I didn’t get it wrong.’
Rocco pulled him back from the edge and peered in the same direction.
‘What are you looking at?’
Elwood hunkered down, then hefted a stone and hurled it, aiming for a grouping of boulders some hundred yards away. The stone fell far short, but he watched it and the stones it displaced, until the terrain’s former stillness prevailed over the sudden ripple of activity.
Then he pointed at a small building, the only visible man-made object.
‘Because this is the right place. I guess Truman Garner has made some changes in the last twenty years.’
Crane knelt beside him. ‘Then we can go down and get it?’
‘Nope,’ Elwood said with a pronounced gulp. ‘Trouble is, I reckon it’s long gone.’
Seymour Fry’s right eye was twitching.
US Marshal Lincoln Hawk still ordered a whiskey from him, then leaned back on the counter and glanced around the trading post.
The post was only fifteen miles out of Sweetwater, but with dense fog enveloping the plains and with progress becoming increasingly slow over the last two hours, the stagecoach driver had insisted that they stop here.
Aside from Lincoln’s fellow traveler – a rancher, who was wandering around the post’s wares – the only other customers were four gray-haired men who were sharing a low conversation by the back wall. These men had dirt-encrusted spades slung over their shoulders and from their ragged clothing and sour expressions, Lincoln judged them to be unsuccessful prospectors.
Seymour slammed a glass on the counter, and with slow movements, Lincoln threw a coin to him and took the whiskey. As Lincoln tipped back his hat, he exchanged a glance with him.
With a nonchalant swipe of his towel along the counter, Seymour flicked his gaze over Lincoln’s shoulder at the prospectors by the back wall, then back to Lincoln.
Lincoln nodded, then turned and leaned back on the counter. He took a long sip of his drink and bared his teeth, relishing his first whiskey in two days of slow traveling.
From the corner of his eye, he noted that the tallest of the prospectors was watching him, but when he let his gaze wander past him, the man looked away.
He expected this man to confront him immediately, but it was a full minute before, with a last low muttered order to his fellow prospectors, the man walked across the clear area to Lincoln’s side. He leaned on the counter, matching Lincoln’s casual stance.
Lincoln tipped his hat as he turned to him.
‘Howdy,’ he said.
‘Howdy. Name’s Crane Powell.’ He shuffled a pace closer to Lincoln and rubbed his chin as he glanced around the trading post. ‘You just passing through?’
‘Yep. Stagecoach is heading for Sweetwater.’
Crane smiled with just his mouth. ‘I’m waiting for a man who’s heading to Sweetwater.’
Lincoln shrugged. ‘Plenty of people head to Sweetwater.’
Crane glanced at the door, then swung round to stand before Lincoln so that if Lincoln were to walk in any direction he’d have to barge past him.
‘They do, but you have the look of the man I’m waiting for.’ Crane licked his lips and stood tall. ‘I reckon you’re Truman Garner.’
‘Sorry, friend.’ Lincoln took a sip of his drink as, from the corner of his eye, he watched the rancher back away so that he leaned against a heap of provisions bags. ‘You’ve got the wrong man.’
Crane grunted his disbelief, then glanced over his shoulder and nodded.
As he turned back, the other three prospectors walked across the room to flank him.
‘I reckon I’m right.’ Crane rolled his shoulders.
Lincoln glanced along the arc of men.
Despite their age, the men all stared at him with eager grins and bright eyes shining from their grimed faces. Although Lincoln judged that the youngest of them was more than ten years older than himself, they had the lean builds of men who had worked hard and survived tough times.
Lincoln shrugged and transferred the glass to his left hand. He smiled, but the man to his right, Rocco, cracked his knuckles.
Lincoln still raised the glass to his mouth, then stopped with it brushing his lips and hurled the whiskey in Crane’s face.
As Crane spluttered and staggered forward, Lincoln dropped the glass and swung his fist backhanded into Crane’s guts knocking him to the side, then charged the nearest two men, Elwood and Wallace. With his arms raised high, he grabbed each man in a neck hold, bent them double, and hammered their heads together.
Even before they’d hit the floor, Lincoln had swung round, but it was to face a drawn gun from Rocco. Lincoln glared hard at him, then raised his hands to chest level with the palms facing down.
‘There’s no need for that,’ he said. ‘We just have ourselves a minor misunderstanding.’
Crane rolled to his feet, wiping the whiskey from his face and freeing a clear area of wrinkled skin, then drew his gun too and aimed it at Lincoln’s chest. With a short twirl of his hand, Crane gestured for Lincoln to remove his gunbelt.
Lincoln glared at Crane, then with deliberately slow movements, unhooked his belt and let it fall at his feet. He kicked it along the floor, but with just enough force to ensure it stopped midway between Crane and himself.
Lincoln transferred his weight to his left leg, ready to kick Crane when he bent for the belt, but Crane gestured for Lincoln to back two paces, then ordered Elwood to pick it up.
‘There’s no minor misunderstanding here, Truman,’ Crane said. ‘Unless you tell me the truth, you’ll get a bullet in the guts.’
Lincoln glanced to the corner of the trading post where the rancher had now huddled with the stagecoach driver. He directed a short shake of his head towards them, then let his shoulders slump.
‘All right. You’ve found me. I’m Truman Garner. Just tell what you want and we can sort this out.’
‘Wait!’ the rancher shouted.
Crane glanced to the side. ‘For what?’
Lincoln flashed the rancher a harsh glare, but the rancher shook his head, then shrugged his jacket straight and stood tall.
‘Because you have the wrong man,’ he said, taking a long pace forwards. ‘That man is Lincoln Hawk.’
Crane nodded. ‘And who are you?’
The rancher strode across the trading post to stand before Crane. He smiled.
‘I’m Truman Garner.’
Chapter Two
Crane spat on the floor, then swirled round to glare at Lincoln.
‘Now why did you go and say that you were Truman if you aren’t?’ he said.
Lincoln shrugged. ‘Kind of reckoned you wouldn’t listen to what I said no matter what I claimed.’
Crane chuckled. ‘You probably reckoned right, but I still—’
‘Your quarrel with Lincoln is irrelevant,’ Truman said, striding two long paces to stand between Crane and Lincoln. He held his back straight and his chin aloft. ‘If you have a problem with me, just state your business.’
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Crane glared over Truman’s shoulder at Lincoln, then turned his gaze on Truman.
‘I reckon you know what that is.’ Crane raised his eyebrows. ‘From what I’ve heard, you’re the richest man in Sweetwater.’
Truman raised on his heels. His shining boots creaked as he nodded.
‘I am at that.’ Truman stood firm, but a long sigh escaped his lips as he appraised Crane and the other men. ‘I suppose I understand your business, but I’ll be a disappointment to you: I have nothing of value on me.’
‘I don’t believe that.’ Crane roved his gaze to the silver-plated watch dangling from Truman’s waistcoat pocket.
Truman lowered his gaze to consider the watch, then with a shrug, unhooked it from his waistcoat.
‘I do have this.’ Truman leaned back to place it on the counter beside Rocco. ‘If you gentlemen will just leave, you can have it.’
‘Obliged.’ Crane glanced at the watch. ‘But that still isn’t enough.’
Truman patted his jacket from top to bottom, then raised his hands.
‘I have nothing else.’
To a flicked gesture from Crane, Rocco strode to Truman’s side and looked him up and down, then opened his jacket. He rummaged in the pockets, then patted the lining.
Throughout Rocco’s searching, Truman kept his jaw firm, flaring his eyes only when Rocco’s over-eager poking ripped through the lining.
Within a minute, Rocco stood back, muttering his failure to find anything of value. Then he snorted and roved his gaze to the side until it rested on Lincoln.
‘I reckon he just needs some persuading,’ he said. He holstered his gun, then swaggered along the counter.
Lincoln stood his ground with his jaw clenched tight. Rocco still lunged for his arm. Lincoln struggled, but Rocco wrapped a dirty hand around his forearm and dragged him a pace along the counter.
‘I’ve got nothing of value either,’ Lincoln grunted, digging his heels in and resisting Rocco’s tugging.
Rocco chuckled. ‘I don’t care what you’ve got. You can show Truman what he’ll get if he doesn’t start being right co-operative.’
