by Scott Connor
Lincoln glanced around, counting the fallen, confirming that the only two standing deputies were in the adjoining room. With three of them in this room, for the first time he believed that he’d survive.
‘We’ve got to end this,’ Lincoln shouted, sighting the doorway down the barrel of his gun. ‘Zandana is down.’
‘You’ll swing for that,’ one of deputies shouted, his voice sounding as if he’d pressed himself flat to the wall.
Crane staggered from the dead Zandana and joined Rocco and Lincoln in peering at the door, waiting for one of the deputies to show.
‘Believe him. He’s a lawman,’ Crane shouted. He pointed at Elwood’s body and sighed. ‘And believe this – we’ve had enough of this fight and we can end this without further bloodshed.’
As Rocco snorted, Lincoln patted his back, smiling.
‘Lincoln isn’t no lawman,’ the deputy shouted. ‘And you’ll pay for what you’ve done.’
‘But he is,’ a level voice said from the outside doorway. ‘And he won’t.’
Chapter Fifteen
Lincoln swirled round to face the doorway where Raul stood, the setting sun reddening his bulky outline and glinting off the chains dangling from his wrist.
‘It’s time we gave up,’ Raul said, gesturing at Zandana’s body. ‘Lawmen don’t kill their own kind.’
‘He isn’t no lawman,’ one of the deputies shouted.
Raul paced into the house and stood over Zandana’s body.
‘He is. He didn’t kill me when he could have. If he was the man Zandana reckoned he was, he wouldn’t have done that.’
‘We can’t end this. You know that.’
‘You can,’ Lincoln said, rolling to his feet. ‘Raul’s right. You men have a choice. You aren’t getting the gold without word of this fight getting out. You’ve got no choice but to end this now and convince me that you were always intending to turn the gold in.’
Muttering sounded from the adjoining room.
‘We did intend to turn the gold in.’
Lincoln smiled at the deputy’s less-than-convincing tone, but he firmed his own voice.
‘Then come out and I’ll believe you.’
‘Throw down your guns and we will.’
‘No deals. I’m the lawman in charge here now and you do what I say.’
More muttering sounded, but with another muttered plea from Raul, in single file the two deputies paced out, their guns held high. With a last glance at Raul, who provided an encouraging nod, they opened their hands and let their guns fall at their feet.
‘Now you two,’ Lincoln said, looking at Crane, then Rocco. ‘You’ve already made the right decision. Just end this.’
‘And we can go?’ Crane asked, turning to Lincoln.
‘I guess I did promise that.’ Lincoln glanced around the room at the bodies. ‘I’ll have to distort the truth a mighty lot if I’m to deliver on all my promises, and I guess that’ll be easier if you’ve gone.’
‘No problem,’ Crane said. He shrugged and raised his gun hand, then glanced at Rocco. ‘Come on, Rocco. This is over.’
‘I’m not accepting that,’ Rocco said, his eyes blazing. ‘We must be getting near our gold.’
Crane snorted. ‘I reckon we could dig forever and we wouldn’t reach that gold. Admit defeat.’
Rocco hunched his shoulders, his harsh breath snorting through his nostrils as he hefted his gun in his right hand. Then he swirled round and turned his gun on Lincoln.
‘I’m not,’ he shouted, his eyes wide and blazing. ‘I’m getting my gold.’
‘Don’t do this,’ Lincoln said. ‘You’re not getting the gold, and acting real stupid now will just get you killed.’
‘Brave talk when you’re facing my gun,’ Rocco said. He spat on the ground, then stalked backwards to the door, stopping when he’d ensuring that he had everyone in the room in his view. ‘I came for my gold, and you’ll dig it up for me.’
‘Rocco, don’t,’ Crane said.
‘I’m not listening.’
Crane sighed. ‘Truman always said it’d come to this. I guess he was right.’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘It means Lincoln has given us a way out with none of us returning to jail. I reckon I’ll take it. If you don’t—’
‘I’m not, but I guess you were right.’ Rocco turned his gaze on Crane and sneered. ‘It was always coming to this. So, if you want to take me on, do it, but I’m leaving with my gold, or dying in the attempt.’
Lincoln and Crane glanced at each other. They’d both aimed their guns at the roof, and Lincoln directed a short shake of his head towards Crane.
‘Then it’ll be dying,’ Lincoln said. ‘Because you can’t take on both of us before one of us stops you.’
‘That won’t matter to the one I kill.’
‘Rocco, nobody has to die,’ Crane said.
Rocco snorted, then swirled his gun from Lincoln to aim it at Crane.
Lincoln thrust his gun down, but before he could turn it on Rocco, a gunshot tore out, the noise echoing in the small room.
Lincoln trained his gun on Rocco, but didn’t fire as Rocco staggered forward a pace, then stumbled to his knees and keeled over on to his front, clutching his chest.
He glanced at Crane, but he still had his gun aimed high. Lincoln swung round, searching for the shooter, but the deputies had their hands high, too.
Then he saw him. Standing behind Rocco in the doorway was Decker Calhoun. A flurry of smoke rose from his gun barrel.
‘You returned,’ Lincoln said.
‘Yep,’ Decker said.
‘Where did you get that gun?’
‘There was a body outside.’ Decker flashed a smile.
‘Then I’m obliged.’ Lincoln glanced at Decker’s gun. ‘You haven’t returned to do anything stupid have you?’
‘Nope. I always said you should never kill.’ Decker tipped back his hat and rubbed his eyes. ‘But in Rocco’s case . . .’
Crane turned and appraised Decker.
‘I’m mighty pleased you found the exception,’ he said, a huge grin emerging.
As Crane and Decker patted each other’s backs, Lincoln wended past them to stand in the doorway.
‘If we’re all in agreement that you’re forgetting about the gold,’ Lincoln said. ‘I have to head to Sweetwater and fetch the law.’
‘No need,’ Decker said. ‘The law will be here within minutes. I caught up with Marvin and persuaded him to do the right thing. Seymour headed to Sweetwater on one of his horses.’
‘Then I’m even more obliged.’
‘Boss, what are your orders?’ Crane said, standing back from Decker.
‘We wasted twenty years dreaming about the gold that got away,’ Decker said. ‘Now we start living.’
‘What about us?’ Raul said.
‘The way I see it,’ Lincoln said, ‘you ambushed Elwood and Wallace, thinking they had the stolen gold. Once Zandana got himself killed, you and I resolved the stand-off.’
‘Who killed Zandana?’
‘I did.’ Lincoln folded his arms as he faced Raul. ‘Then again, I didn’t reckon he was a lawman when I killed him.’
Chapter Sixteen
‘So, you’re saying we leave the gold where it is?’ Crane said, mounting one of Zandana’s spare horses.
Decker nodded. He mounted another spare horse and turned it to stand beside Crane.
‘Yep. Freedom is a whole lot better than wasting your life on a past mistake.’
‘I’m not sure you’re right there.’ Crane considered the deputies who were walking away from the summer house, and imagined just how many lawmen would arrive here shortly. ‘I guess we haven’t got much choice – that gold is plain buried too deep.’
‘Either way, you made the right decision.’
‘Then I’m with you. Where are we going?’
‘North.’
‘Sounds good to . . .’ Crane narrowed his eyes as he saw a figu
re emerge from behind a boulder, 200 yards up the ridge. He snorted as he confirmed that the figure was Truman.
Truman peered at him, his hands raised ready to dive for cover, but Crane beckoned him on, as did Lincoln from the house.
‘Come on,’ Decker said. ‘Forget him.’
‘I will, but I just have to ask him something before we leave.’
Crane dismounted. He passed his reins to Decker, then stood with his arms folded, ten yards before the house, watching Truman scamper down the ridge, then pace towards him when he reached flat ground.
‘So, you decided to take my advice,’ Truman said, coming to a halt before him.
‘I guess I did.’ Crane looked to the north. ‘I chose life, not gold.’
‘Then you made the right choice – as I knew you would.’
‘I hope so.’ Crane set his hands on his hips. ‘Before I go, you have to tell me one thing.’
Truman laughed. ‘I know what you want to ask and my answer still stands. The gold is in my summer house.’
Crane shook his head and turned. He walked back to the house, Truman following him. With his head down, he paced into the house to stand two feet in from the doorway.
For the last time, he peered through the doorway at the hole, trying but failing to imagine the gold just inches below the bottom of the hole.
‘How much further would we have had to dig down before we reached it?’
Truman joined him in peering at the hole.
‘Would knowing make you sleep any easier?’
Crane sighed. ‘Probably not. Tell me anyhow.’
Truman turned and leaned back on the doorway.
‘I’ve heard it said that there are gold seams in these hills. Maybe if you’d dug down far enough you might have reached one.’
Crane winced. ‘You saying we were digging in the wrong place?’
‘Yes.’
‘But the gold is still in the summer house?’
Truman ran his gaze along the wall, picking out the numerous bullet holes that peppered the walls.
‘It is.’
Crane followed Truman’s gaze, then shrugged.
‘I wish I could believe you, but after all the disappointment . . .’
‘Believe me.’
Crane tipped back his hat, sighing, then turned and headed outside. He nodded to Lincoln, then mounted his horse and with Decker leading, headed north, the start of one of the golden sundowns Truman had promised glowing to his left.
‘How close were you to the gold?’ Decker said, glancing at Crane with a lively gaze.
‘As far as I ever was.’
‘But it was there?’
‘Yeah, the gold was in the summer house.’ Crane looked over his shoulder. The last rays of sunshine were rippling in deep red arcs across the summerhouse walls and just for a moment the whole building glowed gold. ‘It seems like Truman will be enjoying another golden sundown.’
‘You should stop looking so glum,’ Decker said.
‘You can’t stop me dreaming of what might have been.’
‘Perhaps not.’ Decker leaned towards Crane. ‘That’s the difference between you and me. You’ve spent the last twenty years dreaming about what you could do with the gold when you left jail and dug it up again.’
‘Whereas you just dreamt of being free?’
‘Nope.’ Decker winked. ‘I spent my time working out where I went wrong with the raid in the first place.’
Crane snorted. ‘You’ve figured that out, have you?’
‘Yep.’ Decker lowered his voice. ‘I won’t make the same mistake next time.’
Crane narrowed his eyes. ‘Next time?’
‘There’s no point worrying about reclaiming that gold.’ Decker pointed forward then hurried his horse to a trot. ‘We just have to raid another gold shipment, and this time, we’ll succeed. You with me?’
Crane hurried on to join Decker, a smile tugging at his mouth.
‘I sure am,’ he hollered. ‘We’ll show those young ones how to do it.’
Lincoln watched Decker and Crane ride away.
He had gone against his natural instincts and let known outlaws escape justice, but in this case, he was sure it was the right decision.
‘The law from Sweetwater,’ Truman said, pacing to Lincoln’s side.
Lincoln put a hand to his brow and looked to the sundown, and as the sun disappeared below the low clouds on the horizon, from around the ridge, he saw the trail of riders galloping towards them.
Lincoln turned to Truman. ‘You got your story right in your mind, too?’
Truman walked back to his house and patted the side of the doorway.
‘Yeah. I’ll own up about what I did and hand over the gold. Then I guess I’ll rebuild my summer house.’
Lincoln considered the bullet holes around the door.
‘It isn’t that badly damaged.’
‘Yet.’
Truman glanced in the direction of Lincoln’s gaze, then poked in a bullet hole. He shook his head and walked inside, muttering about the damage to his summer house.
Lincoln nodded and looked at the house.
Then, from behind the clouds hugging the horizon, the dying sun poked through, bathing the summer house in the day’s last rays and for just a moment something glittered, then was gone when the sun slid below the horizon.
Lincoln shook his head, almost dismissing the sight as a fanciful vision.
Then he saw it.
The bullet holes had dug deep into the adobe walls, and deep within one of the holes, a hint of gold gleamed.
Lincoln nodded to himself and turned to face the approaching riders.
‘Like Truman said,’ Lincoln said to himself, ‘the gold was in the summer house.’
The Man They Couldn’t Hang
Marshal Lincoln Hawk rode into Independence hell-bent on finding the man who had gunned down his old friend Sheriff Ben Pringle. But within hours of arriving in town the saloon burns down, a businessman loses everything in a crooked poker game, and Lincoln is fighting to save his own life against an unknown assailant.
Lincoln suspects that one man may be responsible for all these incidents and that an old photograph might just hold the key to uncovering who he is. The trouble is all the evidence points to the culprit being a man who was hanged ten years ago!
As yet more bullet-ridden bodies turn up, can Lincoln uncover the truth before he becomes the next victim?
The Man They Couldn’t Hang
Scott Connor
Lincoln Hawk : Book 3
Chapter One
The skull man was out there somewhere, and Sheriff Ben Pringle was waiting for him.
Ben rocked back and forth on his chair, the steady creak of the wooden runners beating an insistent rhythm on the porch.
Beyond the bluff that stood before his house was the town of Independence and to his side was the wide expanse of the river that flowed around the town, its gentle gurgling coming to him on a light summer breeze.
Ben’s eyes darted from side to side, looking out for the return of his Nemesis.
A half-empty whiskey bottle was at his side. The consumed half had helped to keep his fear at bay, the unconsumed half remained in the bottle to keep his senses just sharp enough to react when he needed to.
On his lap was an old photograph and dangling from his hand was his Peacemaker, loaded and ready for the skull man’s arrival.
Ben had first seen him three months ago. He’d come from the direction of the river shortly after sundown and had stood watching the house from 400 yards away, a silent and enigmatic figure, not moving until Ben had left the house to approach him.
Then he had melted into the gathering darkness.
A week had passed before he’d come again. He had again stood watching the house from the same position until the darkness had shrouded his form.
This time Ben hadn’t reacted, contented to just watch him, and as if in response to Ben’s lack of reaction the figure had be
come bolder. Every time he had subsequently appeared he had come closer to the house.
Ben has resisted the urge to approach him and so give him the satisfaction of gaining the reaction he clearly wanted, but then the man had changed his policy.
Ben had awoken in the middle of the night and the man had been looking at him through the window. In the harsh moonlight he’d seen the man’s face, or lack of one. It appeared to be a skull staring unseeingly at him, pale and deathly beneath his lowered hat.
Half-thinking the vision had been a nightmare, Ben had stumbled to the window. When he had looked out, the figure had gone.
He’d hurried outside and searched around. When he had found footprints for the first time, Ben had known this ghost was real.
More important, when he’d accepted the vision wasn’t a dream he realized where he’d seen a face like that before. For the next hour he’d ransacked his house until at the bottom of a cupboard he’d found the old photograph and he’d known who the skull man was.
But that man was dead.
In a desperate state he’d written a letter to the only person who he’d thought could help him, even if that person was the worst possible person from whom he could seek help. Afterwards he’d regretted his moment of weakness and had vowed to stop this man’s haunting presence alone.
Since then he had rarely slept, rarely eaten, and rarely gone into town, leaving his deputy to deal with routine matters as he’d awaited the skull man.
A week had now passed since the last sighting and something in Ben’s guts, perhaps an old lawman’s instincts, had told him that tonight was the night he would return.
The sun had set behind the bluff and twilight darkness was enveloping the plains when he saw him. He was standing as he had done the first time he’d come, silent and still some 400 yards away and looking at the house.
Ben felt a twinge of disappointment. The man had been getting braver and he’d expected him to come closer to the house, but this appearance had returned to the manner of his first visitation.
Ben slipped the photograph into his pocket and, with his gaze set firmly on the figure, he walked to the front of his porch. It was still light enough to see for miles and the terrain around the figure was flat.
