Lincoln Hawk Series 1-3 Omnibus

by Scott Connor

  Crane gestured for everyone else to stop, then swung to a halt and glared at the faint form of the rider with his hands on his hips.

  Two paces on, the rider also halted, closer than before so that his form stood out in stark relief against the white blanket behind. From under a lowered hat, he considered Crane. A kerchief still hid his lower features and his rifle rested on his hip, pointing straight up.

  With slow paces he backed a horse length, letting the fog blur his form again.

  ‘This just isn’t right,’ Crane said. ‘Why doesn’t he do something?’

  Elwood sighed. ‘I reckon we should just be grateful that he hasn’t and head back to the stagecoach.’

  ‘I’m not,’ Rocco muttered, pacing to Crane’s side. ‘I’m getting a reaction if it’s the last thing I do.’

  Rocco dragged his gun from its holster and standing sideways sighted the man down the barrel.

  ‘Don’t,’ Crane said. ‘You’ll get us killed.’

  Rocco snorted and swung round to face the rider, but he let his gun drop to aim downwards and took deep calming breaths.

  The rider kept his rifle pointed high.

  Crane looked at the impassive raider, but then he glanced at Rocco and nodded. With a huge grin, Rocco swung his gun up, staring at the rider as he searched for a hint that he was going to react.

  The rifle stayed high and the rider impassive.

  Rocco swung his gun to the side, aiming at a boulder ten feet away then arced the gun barrel around the rider’s form.

  The rider stayed still.

  With his other hand, Rocco rubbed the sweat from his brow, then inched his gun in towards the man.

  The horse tossed its head, but with a calming hand the rider stilled it.

  ‘Do something, damn you,’ Rocco roared. He swung his gun up and deliberately fired high.

  The gunshot ripped through the silence.

  The man stayed for a moment, then backed away to fade into the fog.

  ‘Hot damn but you got a reaction,’ Crane said. ‘And a good one.’

  ‘It wasn’t,’ Lincoln said. ‘That gunshot just told everyone exactly where we are.’

  ‘And they’re coming,’ Elwood said, his eyes wide.

  Lincoln strained to hear what had scared Elwood. Although he heard only the clop of hoofs as the horse backed from them, Crane nodded and turned, then scurried for the next marking on the ground, encouraging everyone to join him.

  With their hostages herded into the center of the group, the men ran in a ragged circle, but by the time they’d passed another three markings, Lincoln heard the pursuers. He had seen at least six men before, and from the clatter of the cascading hoofs, all of them were closing on them.

  The sounds came from behind, the left, the right, as they converged on them.

  Lincoln darted his gaze around, searching for his first glimpse of the riders, but his vision washed over the blanket of endless whiteness that surrounded him.

  ‘How many more to the stagecoach?’ Elwood asked as they dashed over another marking.

  ‘Eight, maybe less,’ Crane shouted.

  A rider loomed to the left, then a second, then one to the right.

  As Crane fired a speculative shot over his shoulder, Lincoln thrust his head down and scampered headlong into the fog heedless of where his feet landed. The group spread, the youngest, Rocco, gaining the front, and the oldest, Elwood, falling back.

  Lincoln counted four more markings, by which time the men were flanking them.

  Hoofbeats thundered around them. If they wanted to, they could have blasted the group to oblivion, but they rode with calm precision, a horse length apart and possibly shepherding them back to the stagecoach.

  Crane danced round in a circle as he ran, appraising their pursuers, but as all of them had their rifles held high, he thrust his gun back in its holster.

  Then ahead, the outline of the stagecoach appeared. Rocco and Wallace reached it first and immediately knelt, then trained their guns ahead.

  Lincoln reach the stagecoach next, and Wallace pushed him inside, closely followed by the other hostages, then joined Rocco in kneeling.

  Through the stagecoach window Lincoln watched Crane speed, his feet pounding into the earth and his head thrust forward.

  ‘Open fire when I give the order,’ Crane shouted, then threw himself to the ground to slide towards the stagecoach, coming to a halt beside the back wheel.

  ‘Fire at what?’ Rocco said.

  Crane rolled to his side to lie beside Rocco and peer into the fog.

  The riders had gone.

  He rolled out from under the stagecoach and jumped to his feet, then stomped ten paces, but the riders hadn’t followed them.

  Fifteen yards before the stagecoach, Elwood slowed to a halt, his face bright red. He dropped his spade and slammed his hands on his knees as he regained his breath.

  Crane pointed into the fog.

  ‘Can you hear them?’ he shouted.

  ‘Not over . . .’ Elwood wheezed a great gasp of air. ‘Not over my breathing.’

  ‘Then stop breathing and listen.’ Crane aimed his gun at Elwood’s chest for emphasis.

  Elwood took a deep breath and peered into the fog, then raised a hand for quiet.

  ‘They’re close,’ he said, gasping and pointing to the right. ‘Maybe fifty yards that way.’

  Crane swung round to face the direction Elwood was pointing.

  ‘We’re here,’ he shouted. ‘Come and get us.’

  The fog swallowed his voice, giving no hint as to whether it would carry to the riders.

  ‘Who are you?’ Crane blasted a speculative shot into the fog. ‘What do you want?’ Crane stormed forward and kicked at the earth. ‘Why are you after us?’

  Crane stood, waiting for an answer – probably any answer – but the fog just swirled around him. With his head down, he shuffled back to the stagecoach, his gun held low and his jaw set firm enough to grind his teeth to dust.

  ‘I can’t stand much more of this,’ Rocco said, wiping sweat from his brow. ‘Why don’t they just come?’

  ‘I’ve got no idea,’ Crane grunted, and kicked a stone. ‘What sort of men hold their fire for this long?’

  ‘You’ve got a point,’ Lincoln mused.

  Crane swirled round to face him. ‘You reckon you know the answer?’

  ‘Nope.’ Lincoln shrugged, then stepped down from the stagecoach and raised a finger. ‘But if you’re desperate to know the answer, I reckon I can find it out.’

  ‘How?’

  Lincoln strode three slow paces and peered around at the blanket of whiteness, then hunkered down to finger the frozen ground.

  ‘I’m beginning to understand the lie of the land. If those men are playing a waiting game, I reckon I can use that time to scout around. In this fog I can stay hidden and see how many men we’re up against and who they are.’

  Crane snorted. ‘You’re going nowhere.’

  Lincoln held his hands wide. ‘You have to trust me.’

  ‘I’m not ever doing that.’

  Lincoln pointed at the stagecoach. ‘Crane, you’ve got four hostages and four men to guard them, and you’ve got maybe six men waiting to kill you.’

  ‘Trusting you won’t change the odds.’

  ‘It won’t, but . . .’ Lincoln beckoned Crane to walk from the stagecoach and after a steady rub of his chin, Crane paced to his side.

  ‘Let’s hear it.’

  ‘As you’ve said – Seymour’s too scared to try anything. Marvin and Truman are just waiting for this to end. I’m the only one you haven’t figured out yet, so you’re spending as much time watching me as looking out for those raiders. If I join you, that’s one more of you and one more chance of you taking on our opponents.’

  ‘That’s mighty fine reasoning, but why do you want to join us?’

  ‘I want to live.’ Lincoln grinned. ‘And if you want, I can name another fifty thousand reasons.’

  ‘We spe
nt twenty years rotting in Barton jail,’ Rocco shouted, storming from the stagecoach and barging Crane aside in his eagerness to confront Lincoln. ‘We’re not giving up a share to nobody.’

  Lincoln stood his ground. ‘Fifty thousand dollars is an awful lot of money. I reckon you can spare some of it.’

  ‘That’s enough, Rocco,’ Crane snapped, flashing Rocco a harsh glare that made him back up a pace. He lowered his head, then shrugged. ‘Whenever my hot-headed friend thinks something is a bad idea, it usually makes me think it isn’t. You can go. Find out who they are, and you’ll get a nice return.’

  ‘Hey,’ Rocco said, squaring up to Crane. ‘We didn’t agree to that.’

  ‘We didn’t, but it is what I want.’

  Rocco glared at Crane, his fists opening and closing. Then, with an angry slap of a fist against his thigh, he turned and stalked back to the stagecoach, muttering to himself.

  Crane watched him until he joined Wallace and Elwood beside the stagecoach, then turned to Lincoln and pointed into the fog.

  Lincoln tipped his hat, then with long paces, returned to the stagecoach.

  He placed his back against the stagecoach and peered into the sky, selecting the brightest point, then paced towards it.

  On the tenth pace, he gouged out a mark in the ground with his heel, then paced on. When he’d counted another ten paces, he glanced over his shoulder to confirm that the stagecoach had disappeared into the fog.

  Lincoln smiled and made an abrupt left turn.

  Chapter Five

  Crane had asked what sort of men held their fire when ambushing.

  Only at that moment did Lincoln realize, with embarrassment, what ought to have been obvious to him the moment the raiders had first appeared.

  He didn’t know for sure why they were acting the way they were or what they planned to achieve with their delaying tactics, but now he reckoned he knew who they were, and Lincoln backed his hunches.

  So, for twenty paces he walked, then stopped and peered around until he found the markings Elwood had made earlier. He followed these, heading away from the stagecoach.

  As he passed each marking, he reduced the stealth of his walking. He clumped his feet and batted his hands against his legs, trying to attract their tormentors’ attention while falling short of making a noise that was loud enough for Crane to hear back at the stagecoach.

  He expected the men to close on him quickly but to his surprise, he reached Elwood’s final marking without them approaching.

  So there, he stopped.

  The men would have formed a base near to the stagecoach – that’s what Lincoln would have done – but in the fog he had little chance of finding it. So he waited, presuming that the systematic sweeps the men must be carrying out, while keeping each other in sight, would soon find him.

  Sure enough, after ten minutes of waiting, hoof beats clumped nearby. Then a rider emerged from the fog and immediately pulled back on the reins, halting just on the edge of Lincoln’s vision.

  This time, because Lincoln was looking for it, he saw the rider gesture before he halted, presumably signaling to his companions who were too far back in the fog for Lincoln to see them.

  Lincoln raised his hands to shoulder level, then turned on the spot, showing that he wasn’t packing a gun, then patted his jacket.

  The rider merely stared at him.

  Lincoln strode a long pace, then lowered his hands to his side and stood tall.

  ‘I want to talk,’ he said, then strode another pace.

  The rider backed his horse a pace.

  ‘We could play this game all day,’ Lincoln said. ‘Unless you want to back all the way to Sweetwater, I’d stop and listen to me.’

  He paced another stride, but the man backed away again.

  ‘You’ve got no reason to avoid me,’ Lincoln said. He stopped and set his hands on his hips. ‘Deputy.’

  The rider sat impassive, but Lincoln reckoned he detected a slight movement from him, perhaps his shoulders slumping a mite. Then the man advanced his horse a pace.

  Lincoln smiled. ‘Seems I got your attention. I’m not packing a gun, and I’m no threat. I just want to talk to the marshal.’

  The rider advanced another pace so that Lincoln could see his eyes, but they were blank and he still kept his kerchief over his nose and mouth. Then he turned his horse to the side and pointed ahead with his rifle.

  Lincoln nodded and headed in the direction that the rifle was pointing. As he passed the rider, he kept his gaze set forward, but within five paces, he heard the steady clop of hoofs as the horse followed him.

  From the corner of his eye, he glanced to the side to see that two other men were now flanking him and, just as they had shepherded the group back to the stagecoach earlier, they left a clear space ahead.

  Lincoln counted 200 paces. Then, from out of the fog, shapes appeared ahead. Within five more paces, the shapes resolved into four men who were sitting on the ground facing each other.

  The largest of the men jumped to his feet and paced round to face Lincoln. Two men glared up at Lincoln, but remained sitting.

  The other man sat with his knees drawn up to his chin, his head hanging and his bony shoulders slumped. In the murky light, Lincoln couldn’t tell for sure but this man was probably older than the others and might have had chains around his wrists.

  Behind these men were the horses that they’d taken from the stagecoach and a heap of bags, which Lincoln now reckoned they’d stolen to present the illusion of a raid.

  Lincoln tore his gaze away from his appraisal of the encampment and stopped five paces from the large man. He tipped his hat.

  ‘Howdy, Marshal,’ he said.

  The man’s right eye twitched. ‘An interesting guess.’

  Lincoln smiled. ‘I’m mighty relieved to get a response from you people. I was getting to think you were all dumb, but I’m right, aren’t I?’

  ‘We’re lawmen.’ The marshal glanced over Lincoln’s shoulder at the rider who had found him. ‘I told you not to capture them.’

  ‘I didn’t,’ the rider said, his voice distorted through the kerchief. He drew his horse to stand alongside Lincoln. ‘He gave himself up.’

  ‘Still didn’t want no prisoners.’ The marshal shrugged, then stood to the side and gestured at the older man. ‘You like meeting your old friend?’

  The old man unfurled his legs from his chest, an action that confirmed to Lincoln that he was wearing chains, then looked up at Lincoln, his eyes tired and blank.

  ‘Don’t know him,’ he said, then returned to staring at his knees.

  The marshal swirled round to face Lincoln.

  ‘Then who are you?’

  Lincoln folded his arms and set his feet in a firm stance.

  ‘I’m Lincoln Hawk, another US marshal.’

  ‘I haven’t heard of you.’

  ‘But I’ve heard of you. You’re Marshal Zandana, the lawman who rounded up the Calhoun gang.’ Lincoln pointed at the older man. ‘And the man sitting over there is Decker Calhoun.’

  The marshal sneered. ‘You’ve done yourself some thinking.’

  ‘I have. You’re the only man who’d bother to follow Crane. You hoped he’d lead you to the gold, but you didn’t expect him to take hostages. Then you had to stay close enough to take him if he tried anything, while avoiding spooking him too much or he might kill someone.’

  ‘You figured out some of my plans, but not all of them.’ The marshal smiled, but the lips were thin and harsh. ‘Now that you’re here, you can help me fill in the gaps. Has Crane got the gold yet?’

  ‘Nope.’ Lincoln glanced around the arc of deputies. All of them glared back from under lowered hats, their eyes blank, kerchiefs still hiding the bottom halves of their faces. ‘But you already knew that. You’re giving Crane enough leeway to go for it.’

  ‘So where is the gold?’

  Lincoln opened his mouth to reply, but that old cautious instinct that had rumbled earlier seized his guts
and forced him to reply with a shrug.

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Then why has Crane kidnapped those people?’

  ‘Crane’s keeping his plans to himself. Truman Garner is a rich man. So, I reckon he’s given up on finding the gold and has settled for whatever he can shake out of Truman.’

  ‘And you escaped, did you, Marshal Lincoln Hawk?’

  ‘I didn’t. Crane let me go to scout around.’

  ‘Crane let one of his hostages go! And a lawman at that.’ Zandana snorted. ‘Even Crane isn’t that stupid.’

  ‘He doesn’t know I’m a lawman, just like he hasn’t figured out that you are either, but I’ve earned his trust. So, once we’ve agreed on how we can work together, I can return and help you to free the hostages.’

  Zandana sneered. ‘We aren’t agreeing anything, and you are going nowhere.’

  ‘I can help you.’

  Zandana swaggered towards Lincoln until he stood a pace before him. He smirked when he discovered that they shared the same eye-line.

  ‘You’ve got the wrong idea about your role here. There’s only one thing you can do for me.’

  Lincoln set his hands on his hips. ‘What’s that?’

  Zandana grinned and glanced at each of his deputies in turn, then swirled back and thundered a right cross into Lincoln’s cheek that sent him sprawling.

  Lincoln’s head cracked against the hard ground. He shook his head then, with shaking arms, tried to rise, but his vision swirled and he fell back.

  Zandana loomed over him. ‘You can be quiet. That’s what you can do. I’ve run out of patience and I’m not playing waiting games no more.’

  Zandana dragged Lincoln to his feet and pushed him in the general direction of the stagecoach.

  With grogginess still befuddling his mind, Lincoln wheeled to a halt, then staggered round to face Zandana.

  ‘I’m a lawman. I can help you.’

  ‘You’re no lawman and you’re no help.’ Zandana pointed over Lincoln’s shoulder. ‘As I’m not looking for no talking back, one more word from you and I’ll chain you up like Calhoun. Now move.’

  Lincoln raised his hands and retreated, and with that acquiescence, Zandana directed his deputies to remove their kerchiefs and head out.