Nighthawk

by F. M. Parker

  He threw a look upward to check the height of the sun. It rode its zenith, bright and hot. A long scorching day still remained to be ridden.

  Russ never looked back.

  * * *

  The thunderheads had begun to build in mid-afternoon and drifted across the desert. By dusk, lightning lashed down from the towering cloud masses and Caloon heard the thunder rumbling over the stony crest of Dome Mountain.

  The night hunters, the coyote, the bobcat, and the great horned owl did not go out to hunt when it grew dark. They remained in their rocky lairs, nervously watching the giant cloud monsters striding over the land and striking out with their terrible fiery lances.

  Caloon lay in his hole in the ground and listened to the thunder overhead. Each time a lightning bolt struck down to smite the earth, he felt the jolt of the blow surge through the rock and dirt that entombed him.

  Carefully he slid aside the rocks that had lain directly above him throughout the day. The air, cooled and agitated by the approaching storm, dropped down into the hole and fanned his hot body. He felt dampness in the breeze, promising rain.

  The dusk turned to night and Caloon rose up from the trench and looked about. A gigantic thunderhead was close, moving straight upon him and the prison. Deep within the churning cloud, yellow-and-orange lightning flashed back and forth like a witch’s boiling cauldron.

  Wind whipped out in mighty gusts from the base of the cloud. A few scattered drops of rain, tremendously large, began to pepper the ground and Caloon smelled the water on the dust.

  Wicked lightning flashed, blinding him, and the thunder deafened him. His spirits soared with the energy of the storm and he turned his head up and laughed loudly, matching the rising violence.

  He faced the prison and, raising both his fists, shook them savagely and cursed the goddamned guards. And then he began to laugh again, not crazily, but happily, his breast full of freedom.

  * * *

  The guard in the gun tower felt the structure tremble under the onslaught of the storm. He took one last hurried look out over the desert and reached to lift the trapdoor to climb down to safety.

  Lightning seared the land as the giant cloud discharged its electrical load like an erupting sun. The titanic bolt of raw power hammered the mountain, shaking its very roots. The walls of the prison rocked. The world turned bright as day.

  Frightened and shaken, the guard whirled about and looked out from the tower. He could see every brush and rock on the desert etched in sharp relief. And damned to be a whoremonger if he didn’t see Crazy Caloon standing near the “dead wire,” his long hair blowing in the wind. The long golden mane, charged with electricity, glowed like a large halo. The insane prisoner was wildly shaking his raised fist and laughing.

  The light winked out and complete darkness obliterated all sight. The guard hunkered in frozen attention. No! It could not have been Crazy. He was miles away, running before the killer Quechan Indians.

  Tire charge differential between the cloud and the ground built in a few seconds to an unendurable level. Lightning again exploded air, making the night day. The guard swept the land with his harried eyes. It lay empty. Caloon was not there. Quickly the guard scurried down the ladder and dashed for the guardhouse.

  No one would believe him when he told what he had seen. Wait, better yet, say nothing for they would laugh at him and call him a coward afraid of the storm. He nodded in agreement with himself and lunged through the door of the shack as a deluge of cold rain poured down from the heavens.

  * * *

  Caloon ran steadily south. The thunder rumbled on all sides of him and the lightning snapped and cracked, slicing in unpredictable paths between the black clouds and from the clouds to the earth.

  Wind buffeted him. Cold rain fell heavily, washing away his tracks as rapidly as he made them. But his clothes and moccasins were soaked, weighing him down. His pumping lungs burned with the effort to maintain his pace.

  The night wore on as he ran. The tumult of the storm worked its way noisily to the northeast. Two hours later he was clear of the wind and rain. His clothes began to dry and grew lighter. He lengthened his stride and raced through the night.

  * * *

  Two hours before dawn, Caloon crossed the last stretch of Castle Dome Plain and dropped down into the valley of the Gila River. His first goal had been reached and he felt good.

  He slumped onto the sandy bank and rested, catching his wind. His sweat dried as he listened to the sounds of the night. The water of the river, slipping by like oil in the darkness, whispered softly and now and then threw silver winks of light at him as the moonbeams were caught just right by the wet undulating surface.

  Some time later, he roused himself and climbed to his feet. Taking off all his clothes except for his moccasins, he stepped into the water, pleasantly cool now that the sun was gone, and began to wade across. His feet searched the sand-and-mud bottom for deep holes, but the stream in low flow in late summer rose no deeper than his waist.

  He waded through the moderate current of the stream for more than a hundred yards. As he approached the far shore, he spied a dark rocky point of land extending out into the river just upstream from him. Even as he recognized the shadowy obstruction, and wondered what strange effects it might have on the flow and depth of the river, he stepped into a hole of water far over his head.

  He thrust his clothes above his head as he went under and struck out strongly with his feet and free hand. He came up spitting silt laden water and facing back out toward the center of the stream.

  As he treaded water, the dark scenery of the night revolved about him. A deep vortex of spinning water and suspended silt had been birthed in the lee of the point of land and he was being rotated around in it like a piece of driftwood.

  During river flood stage the whirlpool would be deadly, but now it was of little danger to Caloon. Holding his clothing safe and dry above the water, he stroked and kicked free of the clutching fingers of the river and made his way to the shallows.

  When the water was no deeper than his knees, he turned and made his way a mile upstream. He left the stream at a rocky ledge, crossed a game trail that ran along the edge of the river, and climbed up on a tall jutting rock. He put his clothes on, lay down, and relaxed his tired body. Sleep came immediately.

  * * *

  Caloon awoke. He remained perfectly motionless. The sound, a soft scuff of horses’ hooves, had been more felt than heard. Then through the last darkness of the night, he heard an iron horseshoe clunk dully against a rock.

  He rose to an elbow and looked downstream along the shore of the Gila. At first he was not certain he really saw the strange apparition, a cavalcade of horses drifting toward him through the murk.

  A man rode the first horse and led two others. In the faint first glimmer of the dawn, the packs on the two trailing horses looked like dead men tied across the saddles.

  Caloon sighed silently; coming straight toward him were the things he needed most—a horse, gun, and clothing. His for the taking. Silently, like a hungry lion, he crawled out onto the point of rock that overhung the trail and waited for the horse carrying the intended victim to come within reach.

  The man rode with his head slumped forward in sleep and nodding to the step of his plodding mount. The horse tensed as his sharp animal ears heard the slight scrape of Caloon’s moccasins bunching for the attack.

  The mustang’s night eyes darted upward to the top of the rock and saw the crouching menace ready to leap. The horse snorted in fright. The rider jerked awake.

  Caloon sprang off the rock, plunging downward. His prey, alerted by the sudden alarm of the horse, reacted swiftly. He threw up a stiff arm to fend off the attacker and at the same time tried to duck out of the way.

  Caloon’s hurtling body rammed through the defense. His shoulder struck hard and his arm encircled the quarry, ripping him from the saddle.

  They fell heavily into the shallow water of the river with Caloon on top. Caloo
n sprang immediately to his feet and, as the strange rider staggered up, savagely slugged him on the side of the head, knocking him into deeper water.

  Caloon hurled himself upon the man, mostly submerged in water, and clamped his powerful hands on the man’s throat. He shoved the face beneath the water and held it there.

  The man lashed out, striking up out of the water with his fist, and his feet thrashed. But his counterattack was confused and ineffective and Caloon continued to hold him under. Finally the frantic actions stopped as if the man had given up or lost consciousness.

  Suddenly two hands shot up out of water and encircled Caloon’s neck. He strained to break free, but the vising hands held firmly and the thumbs stabbed inward, striving to crush and collapse his windpipe. Then the man pulled mightily and Caloon was yanked under the water with him.

  Locked together, the two men rolled and tumbled down the stream with the current. Their kicking feet churned the water and roiled up the mud from the river bottom. In the rising sun their death battle created a dirty yellow blemish on the pristine water.

  Caloon’s breath had been drawn later than his opponent’s and he knew he could last longer. So he clenched his grip tighter on the man’s throat and fought to hold him under.

  The hands clamped on Caloon’s neck weakened and fell away. Caloon stood up, shoved his head into the life-giving air, and took a great draught. But he continued to hold his victim’s face a few inches below the surface of the water.

  The bright rays of the sun shined down, piercing the silty water and illuminating the long blond hair of the man he held there. The dead eyes stared upward accusingly from the water. For one terrifying second, Caloon thought he recognized the hair, so much like his own, and the face submerged in the mud looked ghostly familiar.

  Frantically he lifted the man up from the river and shook the body like a large limp doll. Then splashing in great strides, Caloon rushed with the body to the bank.

  He laid the man on his stomach, stepped astraddle of him, and, grabbing his wide belt, hoisted him nearly a yard off the ground. Water gushed from the lungs and mouth. Caloon dropped the body only to jerk it up forcefully again and hold it there while the water drained out the open mouth.

  The body lay flat, face turned out of the dirt, and Caloon vigorously and rhythmically pumped the lungs by pressing and then releasing the broad back. One minute dragged into two.

  A mighty spasm convulsed the body, immediately followed by a great belch of water. The lungs began to expand and contract on their own, sucking starvingly at the air.

  Caloon moved hurriedly away from the body, as if now that it was once again alive, he did not want to touch it. He found a spot on the ground and sat watching the man revive.

  Caloon could see the face clearly and for a long time he sat and sadly looked at it. For that one fraction of a second in the water, he had thought the man was his son. But his son was dead, had been for more than two years. Only the striking resemblance between the two young men had saved this one’s life, for Caloon knew he had meant to kill.

  CHAPTER 6

  Russ came to consciousness slowly, floating upward through a completely black and endlessly deep pool of water. His throat and lungs were on fire, yet he was freezing.

  He shivered and a few seconds thereafter, he felt a blanket being draped across him and strong hands rolling him into its wool warmth. Russ let himself slide off into a troubled and jumpy sleep.

  In a period of time that seemed only a short nap, Russ heard a man’s voice speak near him. “Hey, fellow, are you going to sleep the whole morning away?”

  Russ stirred, struggling to drag himself into wakefulness.

  The voice continued. “I have many things to do and I should be many miles from here by now.”

  Haltingly Russ unwrapped himself from the blanket and sat up. Every muscle in his body felt bruised and strained and his hands trembled with weakness. He forced his eyes into focus and looked about. He was on the sandy bank of the river near the water.

  A warm wind blew and the dark green leaves of a cotton- wood rustled close overhead. The smell of the water and mud of the river drifted to him, surprisingly strong.

  Russ’s eyes came to rest on a large man squatting nearby, looking at him. He measured the bony bulk and the weather- beaten face of the man, remembering the great strength and quickness of the large muscular hands that had almost killed him. In the man’s eyes there was a sorrowful expression that Russ did not understand.

  Russ propped himself up with his hands on the ground. “I take it you’re the one that jumped me and tried to drown me in the river.”

  “Yep,” answered Caloon, “and I’m real sorry about that.”

  They sat staring at each other across the few feet that separated them. The seconds dragged past and neither spoke.

  Finally Caloon chucked a thumb over his shoulder at the horses and the grisly burdens they still carried. “I looked at those bodies you got tied to the horses. What are you doing with two dead deputy marshals?”

  Russ did not respond for a moment, holding the man’s look. Then he answered with a question. “Why did you jump a stranger and try to kill him?”

  Caloon grinned ruefully. “Fair enough that I answer your question first. My name is Caloon and a couple of days ago I escaped from a prison the superintendent at Yuma had built up that way some twenty miles.” He gestured with his hand to the north. “I need a gun and horse,” continued Caloon. “Will you loan me those things?”

  “You could have taken them and been long gone by now. Why did you stick around?”

  “I hurt you bad and wanted to be sure you were all right. Now what’s the story about the dead lawmen? If you plan to tell me, that is.”

  Russ examined the escaped convict, noting the dirty prison garb of brown-and-white striped cotton trousers and shirt, and the man’s body slumped, calm and relaxed. But there was a nervous twitch in the faded blue eyes.

  “I made a mistake,” said Russ. “Thought they were outlaws trying to rob and kill my dad. After I shot them, I found out different.”

  “That’s a mighty short answer,” said Caloon. “And that must have been some fancy shooting, for both of them were shot in the front. And now, I suppose you’re looking for a safe place to hide them, eh?”

  “Something like that,” answered Russ. “You can take whatever you want. They don’t have any use for any of their gear. I don’t need any and wouldn’t want it even if I did. You’ll find a couple of hats jammed in one of the saddlebags.”

  Caloon moved to the loaded horses and circled around them, measuring the height and weight of the dead men. “This one looks about my size.”

  He loosened the ropes that held the body to the saddle, letting it tumble to the ground. Quickly he pulled the boots off. Next he removed the vest, pants, and shirt and tossed all into the water. He waded in, caught the garments as they started to float away and began to scrub the blood and sweat from them with sand from the river bottom.

  Russ watched the man, hunkered in the river, the seat of his pants occasionally dipping down into the wetness and then dribbling water when he rose slightly.

  “I could use some soap,” said Caloon, glancing over his shoulder.

  Russ did not respond. He felt overwhelmed. His world had been destroyed, switched from a gentle routine of cutting hay and moving cattle from one grassy ridge to another, to a hell of violence where he had killed two men and ridden all night with their bodies stinking of death. Now this strange man who had beaten him terribly and tried to drown him washed one of the dead men’s clothing in preparation for wearing them.

  Five minutes later, Caloon had the clothing hanging on the limb of a cottonwood and drying in the breeze.

  He turned to Russ. “I don’t think you want to pack those bodies any further. Is that right?”

  Russ nodded in the affirmative.

  “Then let’s bury them over there a couple hundred yards at the base of that rocky hill. That’s f
ar enough off the trail. They’ll never be found and there’s plenty of loose stones to cover them deep.”

  They dug a shallow grave with sharp-pointed lengths of driftwood. After placing the two lawmen in the hole, they scraped back the dirt, stomping it down firmly. Then they piled heavy rocks over the grave, placing slabs so they appeared reasonably like a rock slide that lad fallen from above.

  “A good job,” observed Caloon, backing up and surveying their work. He turned and looked at Russ. “I might not be a gent you would want to ride with, being I tried to kill you. And even more the law and at least two bounty hunters are after me, but you’re welcome to travel with me for a distance if you want.”

  “Which direction you going?”

  “If it really matters, I’m leading to the north, maybe a little northeast.”

  “It doesn’t matter. One way is as good as any other,” said Russ and looked in the direction the man had mentioned. He faced back toward Caloon. “And I’ll go with you a ways. My name is Russ.”

  “All right, Russ. My name is Caloon. Let me get dressed and we’ll be on our way.”

  Caloon walked toward the clothes hanging on the limb of the cottonwood. As he came near the water, he pulled one of the deputy marshal’s badges from his pocket and with a flat, looping swing of his long arm, sent the metal disk skipping a long distance along the surface of the river. The spinning plate lost its momentum, its skimming hops becoming closer and closer together until it stopped and with hardly a ripple sank from sight.

  Caloon pivoted to look at Russ and chuckled. “That’s how much of a splash those two dead lawmen will make, or for that matter, we will make when we go.”

  Caloon put on the damp clothes and struggled into a pair of boots. He fished the hats from the saddlebag Russ had indicated, selected the nearest fit, and shaped it best he could. Silently he strapped on a belt and holstered a six-gun.

  He slowly drew the gun from the holster, cocked it, and pointed at a rock lying on the bank. He repeated the action, holstering, drawing, and aiming the weapon at a target. And Caloon repeated the draw again and again, each time increasing his speed.