Nighthawk

by F. M. Parker

  “You’re right,” answered Caloon. “The rustlers are here and looking at us over the sights of rifle barrels. Get ready to ride.”

  He mounted quickly. Russ equally fast.

  “Hold up half a minute,” said Caloon, “I’m going to make one try to get them to show themselves.”

  He called out in a full-mouthed voice that rolled loudly over the basin. “Hello, whoever you are. I know you’re there and I want to talk. We mean no harm.”

  The cows hastily raised their heads from the grass and looked at the men. But there was no answer to Caloon’s proposal.

  “Hellooo! We want to talk!” Caloon called again.

  There was no answer.

  “Goddamn them. They’re someplace close,” Caloon cursed. “If we could get them to show themselves and talk, we might find out where Raasleer is holed up.”

  Caloon waited a brief moment before a reply. Then he spoke to Russ. “Let’s get out of here before they start shooting. Ride at a normal pace and hope they don’t get excited or think we’re afraid. They may be like dogs that attack anything that runs from them.”

  CHAPTER 8

  The natural barrier of lava rock, and the treacherous slopes of talus precariously balanced against its sides, blocked Russ and Caloon’s route to the north. The obstacle had been encountered shortly after they had left the basin with the stolen cattle. They sat their horses, looking up across the flank of the mountain and evaluating the difficulty of the thousand-foot climb to detour around the massive outcropping of black lava rock.

  “The ponies can never make it up over that,” said Caloon. “They’ll fall at that first rocky face and we’ll lose them. We must go east and try to find a way out of this broken-up country.”

  They turned and laboriously began to work their way down toward the lower land of the Ranegras Desert. It was hellish going. Often they were forced to backtrack because of impassable rim rocks and to dismount and search for passageways the horses could navigate down the broken, rocky slopes. The packhorse fell once and rolled on its load. The tired men did not take time to examine the damage.

  “Nothing we can do about whatever is broken,” said Caloon disgustedly.

  By the time they had reached the desert plain, the daylight had drained from the sky, spilling over the western horizon, leaving a black sky speckled with stars. They made camp where the darkness caught them.

  The parched land grew no grass to feed the horses, so the men did not hobble the animals; instead they stretched a picket rope between two mesquite bushes and tethered the mounts to it.

  “Bad way to treat the horses, keeping them short of water and no feed,” said Russ.

  Caloon merely grunted. He stumbled away carrying his blanket and saddlebags. Russ heard him kicking the humps off the ground and his sigh as he lay down. Russ smiled wearily; Caloon was worn out, maybe more so than he was.

  Russ made his own bed. Exhausted, both men slept, one lonely saguaro cactus standing silent sentry over them.

  * * *

  They found water near noon the following day and continued for two sun-baked days to the north, searching for the outlaw camp.

  “Hell, it may take us all summer to find Raasleer’s hideout,” said Caloon, glancing at Russ, who rode on his right. “We’ve poked into dozens of canyons and haven’t found any sign at all.”

  “You said lawmen couldn’t find him and now we know why,” Russ responded.

  “Raasleer will learn of us soon if he doesn’t already know. It would be safest for us if we find him first. He’s a cagey old fox who doesn’t make mistakes. He may shoot us without asking what we want.”

  They rode the heat of the day, the harsh sunlight hammering their eyes down to a squint. In mid-afternoon they pulled their mounts to a halt as they spotted tracks on the ground. Caloon chuckled as he looked down at the fresh horse sign, two sets of shod hooves cutting across in front of them at a right angle. “Well, look at that now. Fresh, made this morning.”

  Russ scanned back along the backtrail of the strange horsemen. “Coming straight in from the east. Maybe all the way from Tucson. Do you think some of Raasleer’s men might be returning to camp?”

  “This is the first sign of riders we’ve seen, so it could be, or it could be Raasleer himself. Let’s just tag along and find out.”

  Russ and Caloon turned toward the mountain, following the trail easily. Often they surveyed the land ahead, hoping for a sight of the two horsemen.

  They entered a narrow valley and dogged the trail along a dry stream that meandered between low brush-covered hills. The slopes gradually crowded in, changing to steep vertical rock walls thirty feet or so tall and so close together the men could barely ride abreast.

  The mustangs waded the superhot air. The men sweated and drank the last of the water from the canteens. The day grew old, the light faded toward dusk, and long shadows grew.

  “There’s a man in the rocks on the right,” said Russ in a low voice. “About sixty yards away at the base of that tall pinnacle rock. In the shadow. See him?”

  “I see him. We may have found them at last,” muttered Caloon. “Don’t move suddenly or touch your gun. I’ll do the talking.” Caloon reined his horse to face the lookout and held up his hand palm outward in greeting.

  “We’re looking for Raasleer,” he called to the guard standing motionless, ready with his rifle near his shoulder.

  The man remained silent and unmoving.

  “Raasleer?” called Caloon again, raising his voice in a question. “We’re looking for Raasleer. We’re friends. Is he here?”

  In the dark shadows beneath the wide brim of his hat, the face of the man was hidden. He shifted a large cud of tobacco into his cheek, and spat a stream of tobacco juice to clear his mouth, but did not speak. He stabbed up the canyon with the barrel of his rifle without removing his watchful eyes from Caloon or Russ.

  “Talkative son of a bitch,” muttered Caloon. He pulled his mount back to the front and kicked him ahead, iron shoes clattering noisily against the rocks in the bottom of dry wash.

  “Do you think there will be other guards before we find the hideout?” questioned Russ.

  “I would guess one more. The canyon is too narrow here, too dangerous to make a camp. And there’s no water. One man on top of the rocks could trap and hold several men. The camp will be up there where the land is open and the air cooler.” Caloon pointed ahead and up toward the higher elevation.

  “From those high points they can see for miles and hear a signal from the lookouts. If the law or a hunch of ranchers tried to slip up on the rustlers they would simply scatter and ride out to safety. Remember, Raasleer has been stealing cattle here for nearly six years. He knows this land better than any man. Only the eagles might know it better and that’s doubtful.”

  They rode steadily ahead, the canyon becoming deeper, a narrow defile that caught no sun. The tracks of the two horsemen they followed were invisible most of the time, showing only on the small sandbars created by the water where it had eddied.

  Russ saw dead float wood and other flood trash wedged into cracks and crevices of the rocks higher than he could reach from horseback. Pointing at the broken and splintered chunks of wood that showed the flood height of the stream, Russ spoke to Caloon. “Sure wouldn’t want to get caught in here in a cloudburst. There’s no way we could get out alive.”

  “Don’t talk,” commanded Caloon sharply, “just watch and stay alert. If trouble starts, get your gun out fast and help me. If Tanwell ain’t here, we may have to shoot our way out. And that’ll be damn tough to do.”

  Russ almost snapped back in anger at the order, but he caught himself, remembering how off guard he had been when Caloon had killed the Indians.

  The rock, half as big as a man’s head, zoomed down from above, hit with a crash, and bounced with a rattle of gravel across the trail in front of them. Russ and Caloon jerked their horses in and threw their eyes upward.

  A big man with a long bris
tly beard stared down from the overhanging rock wall.

  “I could’ve shot both of you with my eyes shut,” said the man crouched hardly a dozen yards away.

  Caloon nodded in agreement with the statement. “I believe that. The other lookout saw us, too, hut we ride in the open for a reason. We wanted to be seen to show we mean no harm. We’re looking for Raasleer and a man named Tanwell.”

  “So why tell me?” growled the man, stepping back from the lip of the overhanging rock and moving his rifle to point more directly at the two riders below.

  Russ sensed the minute shift of Caloon in preparation to draw his pistol and shoot. He quickly measured his own angle of fire up to the man on the rock. When Russ saw the man intently watching Caloon, he slipped his hand an inch closer to the butt of his six-gun and waited for the fight to begin.

  “Young fellow, don’t play me for a blind fool,” snapped the man in a deadly voice. “If you move your hand a fraction more toward your gun, I’m going to blow your face away.”

  Russ was startled. The man still appeared to have his eyes riveted on Caloon, but he had seen that small movement of Russ’s hand. These men lived by their wits and reflexes and would not be tricked.

  The man swung his full stare upon Russ. In the lessening daylight the eyes bore down emotionless as a snake.

  “You can ride on in and look for this Raasleer,” said the man, “but I doubt if you will be riding out.”

  They heard a shrill whistle behind them as they left. The man was signaling their approach ahead.

  * * *

  They found the camp of the rustlers on the narrow bench where an acre or so of juniper bordered a small stream running down from the high reaches of the Kofas. Five men sat talking in the shade.

  “We’ll go in slow,” said Caloon. “If things go wrong, start shooting and ride your horse straight over them. Kill as many as you can and as fast as you can.”

  The outlaws stood up and watched Russ and Caloon approach. A tall, rail-thin man said something and the other members of the gang fanned out to flank him on each side.

  “Raasleer’s in the middle,” said Caloon from the side of his mouth. ‘Tanwell told me what he looks like. He’s mine if it comes to a fight.”

  Not a word was uttered as the two riders drew rein and sat facing the outlaws. Caloon and Russ made no effort to dismount.

  Raasleer sized up the big blond man and the younger, almost boyish, rider beside him. He detected no fear in either. The older man appeared nonchalant, his head cocked to the side at a cynical angle. But the youth’s hands were nervous.

  “If you’re lost, that’s too bad,” said the outlaw leader.

  Caloon surveyed the opposition and searched for Tanwell. He found all the men strangers. Without Tanwell to back up his word, Russ and he were in a mighty tight fix.

  Caloon swung his eyes back to Raasleer and grinned without mirth. With his left hand he pointed to the east and then to the west. “That’s to Tucson and that’s to California, so you see we ain’t lost. We’re looking for Raasleer and I think we’ve found him.”

  “What makes you think I’m Raasleer?” asked the man.

  “A fellow I knew in Yuma Pen once told me that Raasleer was a tall skinny that if you took his boots off could be used to swab out a shotgun barrel.”

  Raasleer’s face flashed hard and his mouth clamped tightly shut. His eyes squinted nearly shut as if sighting down a gun barrel. One of the outlaws beside him snickered shortly.

  Russ’s pulse jumped at Caloon’s response. It was an insult and the man’s laugh made it much worse. Why badger the bandit leader? What was to be gained?

  Caloon continued to speak. “My name is Caloon and I just broke out of Yuma, that new little palace built on Dome Mountain. Tanwell can vouch for me. I need a job, one that will make me some good money.”

  Raasleer remained silent, his angry eyes studying the convict. Russ could see the man’s rapid assessment of the possible actions to take against Caloon. Russ hoped it would not be to signal the outlaw pack to attack.

  Raasleer finally spoke. “We don’t need any gun hands. But we can always use three good horses. Banty over there, his horse stepped in a crack in the rock and broke its leg, so he’s down to one horse. I want all my men to have two horses apiece. So why don’t you and your sidekick step down and we’ll take the horses off your hands.”

  Caloon laughed, sharp and brittle. “I guess not. What would me and my partner ride?”

  “Dead men don’t need horses,” said Raasleer.

  Russ felt the tension flash like lightning through all the men. The name of the game had been called. His muscles grew taut, ready to jab the spurs into the flank of his horse, drive it straight into the outlaws, ride the sons of bitches down. And he would shoot Banty and the man next to him as he rode through.

  But it was at least ten jumps of his horse to the protection of the juniper. And many guns would be firing at him at close range.

  Rocks rattled on the slope above the camp and a horseman swooped down the steep trail and into camp. He quickly saw and interpreted the face-off, the threatening posture that meant gunplay ready to explode. He drew fast rein on his mount.

  “Crazy Caloon,” called the strident voice of the new arrival, “don’t draw on Raasleer for he’ll surely kill you.”

  Caloon kept his eyes tied to Raasleer’s. “Well, I’m sure as hell not wanting to yet,” he said. He was not certain Raasleer could actually beat him in a showdown, but he wanted to join up with the outlaw, not fight him.

  Tanwell rode up closer.

  “Crazy, I thought you still had time to do before you got turned loose out of Yuma Pen.”

  Caloon slowly and deliberately turned away from Raasleer and faced Tanwell. He never had liked the man, but he looked at the thin ferret face and the small restless eyes and grinned. “I took a walk when no one was watching.”

  “Do tell. That’s not an easy thing to do,” said Tanwell.

  “And where are the Quechans? I hope to hell you haven’t led them here.”

  “They’re dead down on the bank of the Gila. Seems they had a little accident and stopped some .45-caliber lead.” Caloon shoved his hat to the back of his head. “I remembered you talking about Raasleer being one damn good rustler, so I came to join up.”

  Tanwell dismounted. “Well, I guess he is. I’m making money or will be when we drive some cattle into Mexico. Let me introduce you two formal-like.”

  Tanwell walked between the men. “Raasleer, this is Crazy Caloon. Him and me bunked together at Yuma when he was first brought to the pen. He played it wise and stayed out of trouble. I’ll vouch for him as a man who knows how to take orders and will do more than his share of the work. He’ll not back down from a fight either.”

  Raasleer, mollified by Tanwell’s compliments and Caloon’s obvious willingness to back off, replied, “All right, Tanwell, I’ll take your word for him. But what’s this kid doing here?”

  “He’s with me,” said Caloon. “I’ll stand responsible for his actions.”

  “What’s his name?” Raasleer asked Caloon.

  “I can speak for myself. My name is Russ.”

  “Russ what?” asked Raasleer.

  “Just Russ. Last names don’t mean anything.”

  “Not to us anyway,” said Raasleer. “Climb down and eat.” He stalked away.

  The outlaws relaxed and drifted off to gather again around the members who had arrived ahead of Russ and Caloon. Russ heard the mention of Tucson before he and Caloon went to their horses. They unsaddled and turned the animals loose to find the water in the creek.

  “The grass is fresh. Looks like the camp is new,” observed Russ.

  “They probably change camps every few days. It wouldn’t be smart to stay long in one place. After a while there would be so many tracks in and out of camp, a posse could follow them in easy.”

  “Still couldn’t capture them in a hideout this well protected.”

  “Th
e reason Raasleer has survived is not to get trapped where he had to fight a losing battle. Tanwell says he likes money and will take chances to get it, yet he plays it cautious. And I’ve heard in other places that Raasleer is damn quick and accurate with a handgun.”

  Russ turned to look at Caloon.

  “Then why did you insult him and get him riled up?”

  “I’m going to give you a piece of advice on how to act when dealing with a bunch of killers and robbers like every one of these men are. Don’t show any fear or weakness or they’ll take what is yours and kill you. If they think we’re afraid of them, they’ll destroy us even with Tanwell vouching for us. Maybe they won’t do it immediately, but in some raid or fight they’ll put us in the most dangerous position or use us as a decoy while they escape. Now you think about that. When I’m not around, they’ll test you. So get ready for it.”

  “I don’t want to fight any of them.”

  Caloon guffawed deep down in his throat. “We’re complete strangers. Unknown. We’re not worth a plugged nickel to them. Later, after a couple of raids to rustle cattle and we prove ourselves, they may partway accept us. You’re strong. If one of them wants to fight with fists you gouge his eyes out, quick as you can. If it’s to be with guns, shoot to kill. If you don’t give all the signs you won’t take any bullshit and will fight, you won’t last out the summer.”

  “You mean just stand up and shoot at each other without any reason?”

  “Oh, they’ll give you a reason,” said Caloon. “Let’s find a camp away from the others and near the horses. How about that clump of junipers near the picket rope?”

  “All right by me.”

  Caloon picked up his saddle, bedroll, and rifle and walked into the grove of trees to pile the gear on the ground. He continued toward the cooking pot, squatting over a small smokeless fire.

  Russ remained standing near the horses and watched Caloon go up to the fire. The escaped prisoner knelt and, pulling a belt knife taken from the dead marshal, cut a thick steak from a haunch of beef hanging from a low limb of a juniper. He tossed the meat into a skillet and placed it on the fire to cook. While he waited, he took a tin plate from a stack of them on the ground and dipped out a ladle of something from the pot and began to eat.