Lincoln Hawk Series 1-3 Omnibus

by Scott Connor

  As the deputies collected the stagecoach horses, Zandana grabbed Decker’s chain and yanked him to his feet, then mounted his horse and with Decker running along beside him, led him from the camp.

  As he scurried past, Decker glanced at Lincoln and shook his head, a mixture of amusement and sorrow in his eyes.

  Lincoln rubbed the back of his head, feeling for a bruise, but one of the trailing deputies chivvied him along. So, at a trot, he hurried after Decker and Zandana.

  He counted his paces and, although he didn’t pass the markings Crane had made, he was able to judge the distance back.

  At around a hundred yards away from the stagecoach, Zandana called everyone to a halt and placed a finger to his lips. He saved a harsh glare and finger drawn across his throat for Lincoln.

  As Lincoln raised his hands and edged to his side to join Decker, two deputies paced ahead, twenty yards apart, and within moments, disappeared into the fog.

  Lincoln braced himself for Crane’s panicked gunfire, but when the deputies emerged from the fog, they gestured frantically for Zandana and the others to join them.

  In a bunch, the deputies broke into a trot and, suspecting what he’d see, Lincoln hurried to keep up.

  Sure enough, when the stagecoach appeared, Crane had deserted it.

  Zandana leapt down from his horse and stormed around the stagecoach. He even leapt inside and hurled two spades through the windows, then stalked down to confront Lincoln.

  ‘Now, there was me all ready to believe you really were a lawman.’ Zandana gestured at the stagecoach. ‘Then you go and do this.’

  Lincoln shrugged. ‘I did nothing. Crane’s just left.’

  ‘So you’re not a decoy to distract us while he escaped?’

  ‘From the look of things, that’s what he did, but I didn’t know he planned to do that.’

  ‘I reckon you did.’ Zandana raised his fist and advanced a long pace on Lincoln. ‘Now, I’ll beat the rest of the story out of you.’

  Chapter Six

  ‘The fog’s lifting,’ Elwood shouted. He halted his progress along the ridge and put a hand to his brow, then nodded. ‘Yep. I can see further.’

  ‘Be quiet,’ Crane said, as he drew alongside. When Elwood continued to peer down the slope, he glanced around. ‘I guess you’re right. The fog is going.’

  Although Crane had originally decided that the raiders wanted the valuables on the stagecoach, he’d changed his opinion and accepted that they wanted them. Or more specifically, that they wanted the gold.

  So, when Lincoln had left to scout around for the raiders, Crane guessed that they’d find him a lot faster than he’d find them. As the raiders couldn’t be in two places at once, that meant Lincoln had earned him a distraction.

  The ridge to which they had headed earlier in the week to find their gold had stretched for miles in either direction. They’d followed it to find the trading post, becoming mired in the fog only when they’d dropped to a lower level to await Truman’s arrival.

  To start making significant progress, Crane reckoned they had to reach that ridge instead of the trail and free themselves of the fog that was so hamstringing their progress.

  So, with Marvin’s help, Elwood had orientated himself, then headed straight for the ridge.

  This time, they’d steered a straight enough course, not even needing to backtrack and use the markings Elwood and Wallace had gouged into the earth, and they’d reached higher ground within five minutes.

  With that encouragement, they’d headed uphill.

  Within ten minutes of leaving the trail, the incline had grown and as Elwood had just confirmed, their visibility range had grown, too. This meant that the raiders would also be able to see them from further away, but Crane fancied his chances in the open when they couldn’t torment him from behind the veil of fog.

  Crane encouraged everyone to hurry and, within another ten minutes, they were high enough to increase their range of visibility to almost a quarter-mile.

  Confident now that this strategy was the right one, they headed south, following the contours of the ridge.

  Crane took the lead, Rocco stayed at the back and Elwood and Wallace flanked their hostages.

  With every passing minute, Marvin gained a more cheerful mood, repeatedly stating that a return to his previous driving work was imminent – provided he could find his horses.

  Seymour continued to grumble about the inappropriateness of having to walk so far.

  Only Truman was sullen and quiet, but whether that was from fear of what they would find when they reached the summer house, Crane didn’t like to ponder too much.

  Every hundred yards or so, Crane looked down the side of the ridge at the blanket of fog below, expecting that at any moment the raiders would emerge, but the white envelope remained unbroken.

  The ground was slick and pebble-strewn, slowing their speed and Rocco became increasingly twitchy, his frequent stopping to aim down at imaginary foes emerging from the fog slowing them even more.

  Even with these distractions, they made reasonable time.

  After less than an hour’s walking, Elwood judged that they had reached the spot where only four days ago they had first discovered the cleared forest.

  So there, they crested the ridge and peered down the other side.

  The late winter sun hadn’t burnt off enough of the fog for the summer house to be clear of its embrace yet. So, it was with a combination of excitement and trepidation that Crane directed everyone to head to a lower level.

  Ten minutes of sliding and gingerly finding a route down the slope later, the fog closed in again, although to Crane’s relief it wasn’t as thick as it had been around the trading post.

  Strangely, his first sight of the summer house emerging from the fog ahead only helped to darken his mood.

  Elwood though whooped and his good humor dragged a low cheer from Rocco and Wallace.

  Crane firmed his jaw and didn’t join in the celebrations. Instead, he slapped Truman’s shoulder with the back of his hand, halting him.

  ‘I’ve waited a long time to claim our gold,’ he said, keeping his voice as level as he could. ‘All the distractions today haven’t helped my patience. So, I ask you for the last time – where is the gold?’

  Truman faced him and with a firm arm, pointed down the slope.

  ‘The gold is in my summer house.’

  For long moments Crane stared at Truman, searching his unmoving eyes, then nodded and set off down the slope to the house.

  ‘I hope for your sake that it is,’ he said.

  Crane broke into a run and was the first to reach the house, but he stopped on the porch to appraise the building.

  The squat adobe-walled summer house was about twenty feet by thirty feet.

  A twin set of doors faced west, presumably so that Truman and his wife could enjoy watching their golden sundowns. Through these large, open doors he saw that two rooms were within, an open doorway connecting them.

  At the back, small windows in each room faced east.

  Crane paced through the doors and once inside, he was still as cold as he had been outside. He could even see his own breath pluming out from his mouth and it was as thick as the fog that had plagued them all day.

  Propped against the back wall were random items of furniture – four chairs, a table, a chest.

  Aside from these stark offerings, the room was bare, the floor just dirt, the walls unadorned.

  Crane beckoned the others to follow him in and, in a line, the hostages entered the building, followed by his men. To Crane’s directions the hostages stood along the back wall beside the window.

  Crane ran his gaze along the furniture, then turned to Truman and raised his eyebrows.

  ‘Our gold, now,’ he said, trying to keep his voice calm, but hearing it emerge gruff and harsh.

  ‘I can’t give it you now.’ Truman pointed through the doorway into the second room. ‘I reburied it.’

  ‘You reburied
it,’ Crane intoned, his guts rumbling as the moment he reclaimed his gold receded again.

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Why didn’t you mention that?’ Rocco snapped. ‘We only brought the spades with us to mark our progress.’

  ‘I just didn’t think that . . .’ Truman lowered his head as Rocco grunted a sharp oath, then shrugged his jacket straight and looked around the room. Then he paced to the corner.

  With deliberately slow and long paces, he walked beside the side wall, counting to three, then scuffed that position with his heel. He continued to the other corner, counting four paces, then returned to his mark.

  He adjusted the mark a half-pace to signify the exact center of the wall, then placed his back to the wall so that he faced the doorway to the second room.

  Crane backed Elwood and Rocco out of his way and Truman walked from the wall with slow paces.

  On the count of five paces, Truman reached the doorway to the second room and stopped, nodded, then set off again, counting three paces. He dug his heel in the ground, marking a small circle, then continued to the end wall, counting a further three paces.

  Then, with his hands held out, he turned and faced Crane through the doorway.

  ‘That’s it,’ he said, pointing at his heel mark. ‘Eight paces from the side wall, right in the center of the side room.’

  Crane nodded as he strode into the doorway.

  ‘That’s where you reburied our gold, no tricks?’

  Truman flashed a smile. ‘Yeah, no tricks. You’ll find it in the exact same place Decker Calhoun buried it.’

  ‘That just isn’t fair,’ Elwood whined. ‘He even used the same hole.’

  Truman shrugged. ‘I had no intention of using the gold and it was just too much trouble to dig another one.’

  Crane glanced over his shoulder at Elwood.

  ‘You reckon that sounds right?’

  Elwood walked to the window, shaking his head, and peered outside then returned, shrugging.

  ‘When he cleared the trees, he removed most of the landmarks Decker mentioned. I’ve got no way of knowing for sure whether this is the right place or not.’

  Crane nodded and turned back to Truman.

  ‘Then I have to trust you.’ Crane pointed a firm finger at Truman. ‘But if you’re lying . . .’

  ‘I’m not.’

  Crane continued to point at Truman, giving him one last chance to change his story if he’d been lying. When Truman just returned his glare and even set his hands on his hips, Crane exchanged a pained glance with Rocco, then lowered his hand and forced a grim smile.

  ‘How deep, then?’

  ‘Slightly deeper than I found it. Four foot, maybe five.’

  Crane stood aside and set Rocco and Wallace to digging, then directed his hostages into the adjoining room.

  With his heel Rocco scraped a larger circle, about four feet across, then flat-shoveled the topmost dirt away. Then he and Wallace started digging, slamming their spades down from chest height, then scraping away the earth they’d prized out.

  For two minutes they worked, the cussing from Rocco and Wallace worsening with each slam of their spades. Then Wallace screeched and hurled his spade to the ground.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ Crane shouted, peering through the doorway.

  ‘The ground’s frozen,’ Wallace whined, wringing his hand. ‘It’s as hard as rock.’

  ‘Yeah,’ Rocco said, crashing his spade down. The spade bounced from the ground with a dull clang. He watched it rattle to a halt, then stormed into the doorway to confront Crane. ‘If our gold’s down there, we aren’t ever getting to it.’

  Chapter Seven

  ‘Had enough?’ Zandana said, lowering his fist.

  Flat on his back, Lincoln clutched his jaw, but he still stared defiantly up at Zandana.

  ‘You’re a lawman,’ he said, keeping his voice low despite the anger that was rumbling through his guts. ‘You can’t mistreat your prisoners.’

  ‘That’s where you’re wrong. You haven’t even earned the right to be a prisoner yet.’ Zandana flexed his fist and advanced a long pace to loom over Lincoln. ‘And I reckon you’ve still got too much fight left in you.’

  With a large hand, Zandana hauled Lincoln to his feet and thundered a blow into his stomach that sent him stumbling back and to his knees.

  Lincoln flexed his chest, fighting down the burst of nausea that’d hit him, then rolled on his side and to his haunches. He stared at the ground, taking deep breaths as he forced down the anger that had grabbed him the moment Zandana had denied his story.

  When his efforts failed, he leapt to his feet and with a huge roar, charged Zandana.

  He hit him full in the chest with his shoulder and knocked him back three paces before Zandana tumbled on his back. Zandana hit the ground heavily, Lincoln landing on top of him, but he still bucked Lincoln from him.

  Lincoln had a firm grip of Zandana’s shoulders and the two men rolled to the side, each trying to wrestle the other man down.

  Lincoln flexed his shoulders, straining to force Zandana on to his back. Zandana matched his actions, resisting him, so with a snap of his wrists, Lincoln broke his hold and hurled a flailing blow at Zandana’s face.

  At the last moment, Zandana jerked his head back and the blow merely skimmed off his forehead. Lincoln followed through with a firmer slug to his exposed cheek.

  Zandana shrugged it off, his eyes blazing as he hurled up a forearm and deflected Lincoln’s next blow. Then he thrust out the forearm, trying to bundle Lincoln away, but Lincoln let the blow hit him and rolled away.

  Lincoln continued the roll until he was well out of Zandana’s reach, then leapt to his feet and stood hunched with his hands open and spread, and his feet planted in a firm stance.

  ‘If I have to knock sense into you, I will,’ he said. ‘But one way or another, Zandana, you’ll listen to me.’

  Zandana rolled to his haunches and appraised Lincoln’s stance with an arrogant gleam in his eyes.

  ‘The only one getting sense knocked into them is you,’ he grunted.

  Zandana matched Lincoln’s stance, then stalked towards him, his gait light for such a huge man. Just out of Lincoln’s reach, he edged to the side, forcing Lincoln to wheel to keep facing him.

  Zandana completed a half-circle. Then, just as he raised his foot for another step, he stormed in and hurled his arms around Lincoln in a huge bear-hug.

  Lincoln’s ribs creaked and protested, but he stood his ground and wrapped his arms around his adversary, then locked them behind Zandana’s back and with his back flexed, attempted to close his arms.

  In his grip, Zandana squirmed and with a long exhalation of air, the pressure around Lincoln’s chest lessened. With renewed vigor, Lincoln thrust his elbows in, trying to squeeze Zandana into submission.

  Zandana flexed his chest, but failed to halt Lincoln’s rib-crunching progress. He kicked out, trying to knock Lincoln’s legs from under him, but Lincoln had a wide and solid grip on the ground.

  Zandana pulled his head back so that Lincoln could see the veins popping out on his forehead, his eyes wide and blazing.

  Then Zandana jerked his head forward, his mouth open and his teeth bared. Seeing what he intended to do, Lincoln darted his own head back and released his grip.

  Zandana’s attempted ear-biting failed as his teeth clattered together on air.

  Free now, Zandana staggered forward, momentarily off-balance and, using this advantage, Lincoln hurled a long round-armed blow that crunched into the point of his chin and snapped his head back.

  Then he followed through with a flurry of blows to the chest and stomach that knocked Zandana on his back, ploughing him through four feet of dirt before he came to a halt.

  ‘You ready to listen?’ Lincoln said, standing over Zandana with his fists raised.

  Zandana snorted. With the back of his left hand, he wiped a dribble of blood from his bottom lip, then hurled his right hand to his holster.

 
Lincoln kicked out, his flailing boot catching Zandana’s arm and knocking it from his gun. Zandana shuffled back along the ground and, as he reached for his gun again, Lincoln hurled himself on top of him.

  With his right arm strained and taut, he pressed Zandana into the dirt and with his left hand, batted Zandana’s hand away from his holster. As Zandana floundered, Lincoln released his grip and swung down to rip the gun from its holster himself.

  In a lithe action, he fell away, rolling over a shoulder to come to a halt on one knee with the gun cocked and aimed at Zandana’s head.

  Zandana glared down the barrel of the gun.

  ‘You’re no lawman,’ he said. ‘You’ve just proved everything I reckoned I knew about you.’

  ‘I haven’t.’ Lincoln firmed his gun hand. ‘As this is the only way I could make you listen, you gave me no choice. Now listen, damn you!’

  ‘Do I look like I want to listen?’ Zandana looked at the surrounding deputies. ‘Do any of us look like we’ll listen to a man who has a gun on a marshal?’

  Lincoln glanced around the arc of uncompromising deputies facing him. Every man glared at him with cold eyes. Every man’s gun hand dangled close to his holster.

  Lincoln sighed, and with the calmest of expressions on his face, he opened his hand and let the gun swing down on his trigger finger.

  ‘Then I’ll show you I’m a lawman.’ He rolled back on his haunches and threw the gun to Zandana’s feet. ‘Now, I haven’t got a gun on you, and I reckon you can listen.’

  Zandana snorted as he stood. ‘Yeah, you’ve convinced me: you aren’t a lawman, and you are stupid.’

  Zandana gestured to one of his deputies, Raul, who threw him a pair of handcuffs. Zandana caught them one-handed, then directed Lincoln to hold out his hands.

  Lincoln shook his head. ‘You’re not, surely?’

  ‘Not only did you attack me, then pull a gun on me, but you’re now resisting arrest. You want to go for some more charges?’

  Lincoln winced, then held out his hands for Zandana to grab them and manacle them together.