Nighthawk

by F. M. Parker

  Russ was ravenous for food, but instead of joining Caloon he tore off a handful of coarse grass and walked to his horse, which was drinking from the stream. The animal turned his head to identify the approaching man. Russ gently stroked the long head, rubbing the bony jaw, glad of the familiarity of the horse. He began to work at the rubdown, beginning the cleaning massage at the muscular shoulder.

  He needed time to think, to get his mind in order as to what was right and what was wrong in an outlaw camp. What response should he make to what action or event? Caloon had told him to maim or kill quickly any man who threatened him. Could he do that? He had shot the two lawmen to save his father, but he did not want to kill again.

  Russ finished the rubdown of his horse and did the same for Caloon’s and the spare. Soothed by the accustomed work and satisfied he had a reasonable grasp of the true danger in the new situation, he joined Caloon and began to prepare his own supper.

  The discussion between the members of the gang and those who had come in from Tucson came to an end. The men spread a blanket, a deck of cards was dug from someone’s gear, and a game of poker began.

  Tanwell strode up to where Caloon and Russ sat under a juniper. He dropped down on the mat of needles covering the ground and stretched out his legs.

  “What’s the setup here, Tanwell? How many men does Raasleer have?”

  “Ten at the moment.”

  “I only see five, six counting you. And we saw two on lookout. Where are the others?”

  “One is out riding the circuit, keeping the cattle bunched and the springs dug out to water the cows. One is off scouting an Englishman who is starting a big cattle operation over at Gila Bend.”

  “Seems like an Englishman would be lost in the Arizona Territory.”

  “Not this one. He’s partner of an old wolf of a rancher named Blackaby. Also, he’s hired some of the best cowboys in the Territory to ride for him. It appears he has plenty of money. Anyway, this fellow and Blackaby have bought out four or five small ranchers along the Gila to get their irrigated meadows. Just recently they’ve brought in a couple thousand head of cattle. The word is the Englishman’s going to build himself a mansion on the south end of the Gila Bend Mountains. When he calls in his hands to help build the house, Raasleer plans to hit his herd, take two hundred head or so, and push them to Mexico for some quick money.”

  “I remember you telling me he always made one big drive in the fall. How come he’s doing this different?”

  “Yeah. You remember right. He steals a few cows from several ranches, takes them from the range farthest from the headquarters and where no one will miss them until fall roundup. Even then the cattlemen most often don’t know if they’ve been stolen or just lost, or maybe killed by wolves. A natural loss is normal. Raasleer bunches the stock, then drives south and has them sold in Mexico before anyone knows.

  “But some of us are broke. Those men over there are playing for pennies. We’ve talked Raasleer into making a quick trip south. We need supplies”—Tanwell grinned crookedly— “but most of all we need to get some whiskey and some women.”

  “He might be making a mistake to change a winning plan,” said Caloon. “Who are the best gunhands?”

  “Raasleer is the best, but a close second is Kanttner. You must have seen him; he’s one of the lookouts today. Big man with a heard.”

  “Yeah. We saw him. What is the name of the second lookout?”

  “That would he Pratt. Smart aleck type of bastard. Always pulling tricks on somebody. Now, probably the next best gun is Berdugo, that little Mex sitting over there playing poker. Also, without a doubt, he is the best man with a knife. Keeps a throwing blade strapped between his shoulders. The other men are all good, just a notch below the three I mentioned. Raasleer won’t keep a man who’s a coward or can’t use a gun good. But Raasleer’s mean and got the bluff on everybody.”

  “Anything special about the others?”

  “No,” said Tanwell, looking at the card players. “Banty’s the little man sitting with his back to us. Gredler is the square-built man on the right. Jones is opposite him. A man named Lewett is out riding the herds.”

  “Who’s the next boss after Raasleer?”

  “That’d be Corddry, the one that is at Gila Bend. He’s a back shooter, so watch him.”

  “What’s the news from Tucson?” asked Caloon.

  “The word of your escape hasn’t reached town yet. If it had, it might’ve gone easier for you. It’s lucky I happened to ride in when I did.”

  Caloon nodded in agreement. “What else?”

  “Tucson is paying the salaries of two deputy marshals. Tough men, the story is, and fast with their guns. The town council is fed up with the robbery, rustling, and killing going on. The fellows that just came in did not get a chance to see the deputies. Seems they’re out chasing some jayhawk that has been pulling off robberies round about for several years.”

  Raasleer stalked up and looked down at the three men sitting on the ground.

  Caloon ignored the presence of the outlaw leader and spoke to Tanwell. “Lot of those types of fellows in the Territory.”

  Raasleer spoke. “I see Tanwell has told you of the marshals.

  They’re trailing someone out this way someplace. Did you see sign of them?”

  Caloon glanced at Russ for a few seconds, and then stood up, arched his chest, and pointed to his shirt. On the cloth over his heart was a less faded spot, darker than the surrounding material. “Look at this. What shape can you make out?”

  Tanwell, a puzzled expression on his face, arose and moved in close to examine the blurred outline indicated by Caloon.

  “Goddamn!” exclaimed Tanwell. “Looks like the outline of a lawman’s badge.”

  “And here’s the badge,” said Caloon, pulling the shiny metal object from his pocket. “I happened to run into the two marshals on the Gila four days ago.” He chuckled coldly. “I buried thorn there.” He laughed again, staring straight into Raasleer’s eyes.

  Raasleer’s eyes locked with Caloon’s. Russ felt the challenge spark between the two men.

  “Goddamn, Crazy, you killed…” Tanwell started to speak.

  Caloon reached out swiftly with his big hands and grabbed Tanwell by the shirt front and jerked him up close.

  “Tanwell, you call me Crazy one more time and I’ll shoot you,” hissed Caloon, his angry eyes stabbing into Tanwell’s startled face.

  Tanwell tried to pull free, but Caloon tightened his grip, the cloth of the shirt tearing. And Caloon shook the smaller man, snapping his head back and forth on his spindly neck.

  “Do you understand? My name is Caloon. Now say it.”

  “Caloon. Caloon is your name,” said the frightened Tanwell in a hoarse whisper.

  “Say it out real loud so the rest of the men can hear,” ordered Caloon.

  “Caloon! Caloon! Caloon!” shouted Tanwell.

  “That’s good,” said Caloon, releasing Tanwell and spinning about to stare at the other gang members. He let his challenging eyes dwell on each man, warning them to beware. They glared back, their hostility not masked.

  Caloon stopped his eyes on Raasleer. “I’ll do more work than any man you got. And Russ will do his share. We want a full share, same as the others.”

  “Like hell a full share,” snorted Raasleer. “The summer and the work: for this year is half over. We already have six hundred cows stashed away. But there are more cows to rustle and a drive to make to Mexico. I’ll give each of you one half share.”

  “How many shares do you take?” questioned Caloon.

  “Three shares, and Corddry takes two.”

  Caloon turned to face Russ. “What say, partner, to the offer?”

  “I’d say that is a fair offer,” answered Russ, hoping the violence would go no further.

  “We’ll take the half share,” said Caloon.

  With one terse nod of his head, Raasleer turned and stalked away. I will give you payment for your work, he
thought, if you live long enough to collect it.

  CHAPTER 9

  Raasleer called Caloon from his blankets at daybreak. Russ had heard the gang leader’s approach, and lay listening to the man’s orders to Caloon.

  “Go up the mountainside a mile or so to that big spur of rock facing east. That’s about two thousand feet above us here and you can see for miles. Out to the southeast and setting off by itself fifteen miles or so is one single-peaked mountain. It’s called Turtleback, if you are familiar with it.

  “Now the Englishman, sooner or later, is going to call his range riders in to help build the new house. Corddry is to let us know when that happens. Instead of him riding all the way back here, he’ll signal from the top of Turtleback with a big smoky fire. Watch for it. Soon as we see the smoke we leave to join up with him. That way we can save several hours riding time. Take a telescope. You got one?”

  “Russ has one I can borrow,” said Caloon. He saddled and left immediately, following the exact trail Tanwell had used the day before.

  Russ arose leisurely and bathed in the stream. As he dried himself, one of the outlaws, identified by Tanwell as Jones, passed close by on horseback. The man did not speak. He touched spurs to his mount and left at a fast gallop to the west.

  Shortly thereafter, Gredler and Banty rode off down the canyon. Half an hour later Kanttner and Pratt, having been relieved from lookout, came in, had a bite to eat, and flopped down on their blankets under a juniper.

  When the sun was high enough not to bother his view to the east, Russ climbed the flank of the mountain to a location from where he could see a great distance. For more than two hours he minutely surveyed the mountains, valleys, and streams, imbedding their location and distances in his memory.

  Russ saw a horseman come into camp from the north at mid-morning, and judged the man would be Lewett, the one making the inspection trip to check the condition of the rustled cattle in their hidden valleys. Well-run, orderly outfit, thought Russ.

  The sun climbed, and burned down from a cloudless sky, baking the mountainside. Yet Russ felt reluctant to go down to the camp. And he realized why he was hesitant. Caloon would not be there. He silently cursed himself and got hastily to his feet to stomp down the slope in the direction of Raasleer and the other bandits. He must not become dependent on Caloon.

  Caloon returned late in the day and rode up to dismount near Raasleer. The leader sat under a large juniper on a knob of ground a hundred feet or so distant from where the gang ate and part of them slept.

  “No sign of smoke,” said Caloon. “I stayed until the shadows of the Kofas covered Turtleback Mountain.”

  “All right. We’ll watch for Corddry’s signal again tomorrow. Tell your pard to go up at daylight.”

  “He’ll be there at first light,” Caloon answered and walked away, leading his horse toward the stream.

  It had been a long dry day and Caloon knelt to drink deeply of the stream. The horse plunged its nose into the cool water and man and animal slaked their thirst.

  Feeling refreshed, Caloon led his mount to the picket rope, a lariat stretched tautly between two junipers near a rock outcrop where the base of the mountain met the bench. He slipped the bit from the animal’s mouth and stepped up to the rope to tie the reins.

  Without warning, the animal lunged upon Caloon, striking him with its head and chest. The man was rammed forward, tripped over the low-hung rope, and fell heavily upon a jumble of rocks. He scrambled up hurt and angry, and whirled about, ready to clout the horse in retaliation for the unprovoked attack. But the horse, its eyes rolling wildly and the whites showing, pranced and tugged at the full length of the reins Caloon held firmly.

  Caloon recognized the animal’s fright and rapidly looked around to see what had caused it. For a brief moment, among the trees, he spied a man hurrying straight away toward the main camp. He could not identify the figure.

  Caloon coaxed the horse up to the picket rope and tied it. He rubbed the neck of the tense animal, calming it down.

  Russ saw Caloon approaching, his face hard in anger.

  “Somebody goosed my horse while I was about to tie him,” exploded Caloon. “Damn animal like to stomp me. Did knock me down on the rocks.”

  Caloon examined Russ’s face; there was no surprise there. He turned and looked toward the picket line and the horses, and then in the direction of the camp. “Goddamn! You saw who did it?”

  “Yes, I could see him from here. But let it go. We don’t want any trouble.”

  “Let it go. Hell! The man could have caused the horse to cripple me. And more important, if I don’t do something about this, the next trick they play will be worse. Like not giving us our share when the cattle are sold. Now who did it?”

  “Caloon, don’t start a fight. There’s no way it can end without a killing. There’s six of them in camp right now. Maybe you’ll be the one that gets shot.”

  “I’ll worry about that. Now, for the last time, who was it?”

  Russ shook his head in the negative.

  “If you don’t tell me, I’ll call the whole damn bunch of them out for a showdown one at a time.”

  “It was Pratt,” said Russ. “But at least catch him out away from the rest of the gang when you face him.”

  “No! I’m going to do it now! I want every one of the bastards to know I’ll not take rawhiding from any man.” Caloon stomped off toward the main camp.

  Russ hesitated for a moment, then, hitching his six-gun to a ready position, followed after Caloon. They had accepted each other as partners and he must back Caloon all the way, even to a killing. He felt his determination, hard and cold, blunt his fear at the violence soon to come.

  Caloon went directly to the pot hanging over the evening cook fire and slopped a dipper of beans onto a plate. Russ stopped about twenty feet to Caloon’s left and hurriedly checked the position of all the gang members present.

  Pratt sat near Tanwell and Berdugo, talking to them in a low voice. Raasleer rested on some high ground under a juniper ten yards or so behind Caloon. He appeared to be dozing. Kanttner was not in sight. As Russ shifted back to Caloon, Pratt finished talking and Berdugo and Tanwell laughed.

  A red flush crept across Caloon’s face at the laughter, believing they were enjoying the joke played on him. He stalked up to Pratt and held out the plate of food to him. In a hard voice he spoke. “Here, Pratt, take my supper.”

  Pratt squinted up at Caloon in cautious surprise. “I’ve got enough to eat. You keep it.”

  “No, I want you to have it.”

  “Why me?”

  “I want you to have a full stomach, for I’m going to shoot you right in the gut for goosing my horse into me.” Caloon chuckled wickedly and his hostile eyes glistened. “Men in the worst way when shot in a full gut. They hang on for days hurting to high heaven before they go.”

  Pratt climbed to his feet, alert, calculating the odds. The challenge was blunt and could not be avoided. But he felt confident; he was many years younger than Caloon and his hand was quick.

  Berdugo and Tanwell hastily stood up and went off to Caloon’s right. Out of the corner of his eye, Russ saw Raasleer stand up. Where was Kanttner? Russ hoped to hell the man did not suddenly appear.

  Tanwell dropped behind Berdugo as they moved out of the line of fire. He turned to face Caloon from the right side and let his hand fall near his tied down pistol. Tanwell’s thin mouth twitched as he worked his courage up; maybe Caloon’s attention would be so much on Pratt that he could gun him down and get his revenge for the insult that first day.

  Russ saw Tanwell stop, hut could only see half of the man for Caloon stood partially in the way, blocking his view.

  “Pratt, you goosed my horse in the ass.” Caloon’s voice was sharp, stinging, showing his eagerness to kill. “For that little trick, here’s something for you.” Caloon hurled the plate of food at Pratt’s face.

  Pratt dodged with razor-sharp reflexes. His hand dove for the six-gun strapped
to his hip.

  Caloon drew and fired. And fired a second time, driving Pratt to the ground.

  Russ saw Tanwell’s hand flash for his six-gun. Without conscious thought, Russ’s fingers flipped his pistol from its holster. In that split second it took his hand to bring the gun up into alignment on Tanwell, Russ’s thumb cocked the hammer and the index finger began to squeeze the trigger.

  Russ felt the gun buck in his hand, saw Caloon’s vest jump with the close passage of the bullet. Saw Tanwell’s eyes snap open wide in surprise and pain at the punch of the bullet.

  Tanwell slumped, slack and lifeless, to the ground.

  Caloon heard the roar of the gun on his left, felt the sting of a bullet across the front of his chest. He pivoted around just in time to see Russ swing his gun to point at the ground in front of Raasleer.

  Berdugo shifted his look from the dead Tanwell to Raasleer, watching for the gang leader’s signal as to how the fight was to go.

  Caloon continued his turn to the left without stopping and brought his six-gun to bear on Berdugo. He would have preferred to be the one covering Raasleer.

  The gang leader stared at Russ with measuring eyes and did not move. The young man’s draw had been swift, very swift, and the shot had gone straight through Tanwell’s heart. That draw had been faster than Caloon’s. Raasleer cursed himself silently for misjudging who was the more dangerous man. It was the kid.

  Some instinct told Raasleer he had made a major error in not having gunned Caloon and Russ down while they had been fighting Tanwell and Pratt. But the instant that he could have done that was gone.

  “Would you draw on me?” asked Raasleer.

  “Only if you tried to shoot Caloon or me,” responded Russ, carefully controlling a voice that was on the verge of cracking under the strain.

  Raasleer held the young man’s look, waiting for it to waver. The seconds passed and the opposing eyes did not blink once.