Nighthawk

by F. M. Parker

  To Russ it was a whirligig of violent spins, of ups and downs. He thought his arm would break with the pressure he kept on the reins to pull the animal’s head up and lessen his ability to buck.

  He rode the mustang to a trembling, spraddle-legged stop. Then he spurred him into a slow walk around the enclosure. He pulled the animal to a stop, only to make him move again. Finally Russ swung down.

  “Magnifico, magnifico!” called the man. “Do not unsaddle him. I will ride him every hour while he is still tired. I will ride him until he knows who is the master. Come inside and wash up. We will have something to drink.”

  The adobe house was cool, with shadows in the corners. The furnishings were simple, yet neat and clean. The two men found seats in a large, sunken living room and the woman promptly served them wine in silver goblets. Russ was surprised at the presence of the precious metal. The overall appearance of prosperity of the house did not indicate such wealth.

  “He truly was a bandit,” said the woman, seeing Russ evaluating the silver articles. “But then one day he came into this valley and did not leave again.”

  The man smiled and nodded. “The only thing of value I possessed were six silver goblets I had stolen from”—he paused, looking a little embarrassed—”an American. Then I stole her and had two things of worth. I borrowed against the silver to buy this land—sixty acres, forty irrigated and twenty above the canal. Over the next thirty years I repaid the loan. Now my wife lets only her true friends drink from her silver treasures.”

  “I am honored,” said Russ, much impressed with their kindness.

  They talked of many things during the remainder of the day. Russ learned the town was more than eighty years old. That the river flooded, on average, one in six years. And, on average again, there was one killing each five days. Almost all the dead were gringos.

  He also learned that a bandit could become an honest man if he sincerely wanted to. At dusk the woman served a bountiful meal.

  Russ spent the night there, resting under a thin mosquito netting for the insects were plentiful along the irrigation canals. A pleasant breeze wafted through an open window to keep him cool all night.

  At first light of dawn, he arose and returned directly to Zapata. He must always watch Raasleer so he could not send violent men to the Growler Mountains without his knowing.

  CHAPTER 16

  Caloon and Russ were at the smithy having the old shoes removed from the hooves of their four horses and new iron tacked into place. Caloon had kept the horse taken from the bandits, finding it a sound animal. Russ had sold the one he had acquired.

  They stood outside the big open door, watching the people on the street. Caloon said, “Raasleer has taken four new men into the gang. Those that came into the cantina yesterday while we were splitting up the money.”

  “I suppose he figures he needs some new hands. He’s lost several in the past week or so,” said Russ. “Those fellows looked plenty tough.”

  “We’ll see how rough they are later on. Several of us are going to have a poker game this evening. Do you want to join in?”

  “Yes, I think so. As long as the stakes aren’t too high.”

  Caloon jingled the coins in his pocket. “I want them high. I plan to win. Don’t forget what I said about getting a ranch. With luck, two years from now I’ll have enough money to buy a small one.”

  “I’ve heard big stakes make men ornery,” said Russ.

  “The betting always gets larger as the game wears on, but you can drop out whenever you want.”

  Caloon stuck his head inside the blacksmith shop and called out,

  “I’m finished now,” answered the smith. “You can take your horses.”

  They paid the man and, after returning the horses to the livery, walked to the cantina. The card game, five-card stud, was already in progress. Raasleer, Corddry, and the new men were playing.

  Russ and Caloon took seats on opposite sides of the table. The cantina owner, acting as the banker, gave them chips for gold coins. He took a cut of a dollar from each man for the house.

  Introductions were made. Speegle was a large man, slow of speech. Steen was tall, with a large domed head, mostly bald. A third man, called Walt, was a nondescript individual that no one would remember tomorrow. Dazell was slim and nervous. He had been the leader of the band before they joined Raasleer. During the game, as Russ watched Dazell’s quick hands deal the cards with great skill, he wondered how good the man would be with a gun.

  By ten o’clock the cantina was full of patrons and stuffy with smoke and voices at a low roar. Seven or eight dark skinned young women mixed with the customers, talking them into buying drinks, now and then enticing one of the men into a back room.

  Russ was more than a hundred dollars winner. He remembered his father’s advice with cards and was playing conservatively, folding on weak hands and betting hard on good ones. He knew the other players were waiting for him to try a bluff. Maybe he would soon.

  Caloon was ahead slightly. Raasleer was also winning by several dollars. Speegle and Dazell were losers. Walt and Steen, heavy losers, had quit the game earlier.

  Russ had observed the increasing tenseness of the two new men. From the look they exchanged, Russ judged they suspected their recently acquired comrades of cheating. Russ thought it time to quit. He tossed his cards onto the table and began to count his chips.

  Berdugo sidled up through the crowd and said something to Raasleer in a low voice. Raasleer asked a question and Berdugo nodded at the two small Mexicans at the bar. The rustler leader’s eyes swept around to lock onto the men. “Are you sure?” he questioned.

  Berdugo answered in a voice loud enough for Russ to hear. “They’ve been asking questions about us and where we sold the heifers. I asked some questions myself and found out they used to ride for Blackaby. I believe they work for the Englishman now.”

  Raasleer studied the men, his face hard. “Do you know what kind of horses they own?”

  “Good horses. A dun and a sorrel.”

  “Any brands?”

  Berdugo thought for a moment. “No, I didn’t see any.”

  Raasleer grinned wolfishly. “All right. They know what we look like. So we must make sure they don’t return to the Territory. Back my play if I need it.” He loosened his six-gun in its holster and rose up from the table.

  The Mexicans had been watching the reflection in the long bar mirror and had seen the exchange of words and the hostile looks cast in their direction. Unhurriedly they turned and began to make their way through the crowd toward the door into the restaurant.

  “Wait, you two!” cried Raasleer in a harsh, challenging voice. “You’re the ones that stole my horses.”

  The men flinched at the sharp command, but continued to move away.

  “Goddamn you, halta usted” (stop, I say) “or I will shoot you in the back.”

  Russ saw the spines of the two men stiffen, but their leisurely amble in the direction of the exit did not waver.

  Raasleer snatched up a beer mug from the table and hurled it at the cowboys. It passed between them and smashed with a shower of glass against the wall of the restaurant.

  The small dark men pivoted, stepping away from each other and facing Raasleer.

  “You are speaking to us?” asked Xavier in a level voice.

  “You know I am, you damn horse thief.”

  “We are not thieves. We steal nothing,” said Prim. The faces of the men were tense, but showed no fear.

  Other customers of the cantina standing near, heard the fighting words and saw the preparation for gun play. They hastily moved bade, leaving the two cowboys standing by themselves and facing the big man at the table.

  Russ watched the Englishman’s cowhands. The large mustaches looked oversized on their thin, tight faces. They had courage. Yet they were dead men and must know it. Russ felt pity for them. No way could they beat the guns of six rustlers.

  No, not six pistols, decided Russ. He would not
help Raasleer.

  “I say that dun and sorrel you ride are mine. For stealing them you are going to die.” Raasleer’s voice was merciless.

  The two cowboys drew their six-guns very swiftly. Yet Raasleer’s hand was faster. He shot the man on the left first, staggering him backward, his falling body crashing into the wall of the cantina. The man fired his gun into the floor at his feet as his hand convulsed in death on the trigger.

  The second cowboy lunged to his left and tried to bring his gun in alignment on Raasleer. He was too slow. The rustler chief’s bullet tore a hole in his shoulder, spinning him half around to face the front wall of the cantina.

  In a desperate effort to escape certain death, the man hurled himself through the nearest window in the wall. In a crash of sash and glass, he disappeared into the darkness outside. His pistol clattered to the floor of the cantina.

  “Catch him!” yelled Raasleer, whipping his hand past his men and pointing to the broken window. “Outside. Kill him. He mustn’t escape.”

  Russ rushed to the street with the other gang members. All, except Russ, carried their six-guns in their hands, even Caloon.

  There was no sign of the man in the dim lamplight spilling from the windows onto the wooden sidewalk.

  “Check the alley,” commanded Raasleer, motioning to Speegle and Russ, who stood nearest.

  Speegle immediately dashed to the opening of the alley. He stopped and peered cautiously into the blackness. Russ came up behind him.

  “He doesn’t have a gun, get him,” ordered Raasleer.

  Russ and Speegle entered the alley with guns drawn. Russ hoped he would not be forced into a situation where he would have to shoot the Mexican. Behind them he heard Raasleer sending men off in other directions.

  Light from a window at the far end of the alley allowed Russ to see a little. He counted seven or eight back doors. All were closed. A large number of beer kegs were piled close to the rear entrance of the cantina.

  “I’ll look behind the kegs,” said Russ.

  In the soft dust his footfalls were noiseless. He stretched up to peer over the kegs. Russ heard the cowboy catch his breath as they came face to face.

  “Por favour” (Please), whispered the man in a desperate voice.

  Russ glanced to see where Speegle was. Found him trying doors along the alley.

  “Nothing here,” called Russ. He turned to follow after Speegle.

  * * *

  Half an hour later all of the rustler gang had gathered in the cantina. The cowboy had not been found.

  Raasleer said, “No chance for a bunch of Americans to find a Mex in a Mex town. Nobody is going to help us. Berdugo will take some of his friends and see what he can find. The rest of you can go do what you want. Corddry, you stay with me. If Berdugo needs help, you and I will give him some.”

  Russ went to his room. He propped a chair under the doorknob and sat on the bed to pull off his boots. If Raasleer found out he had seen the cowboy and then let him escape, there would be hell to pay.

  Without taking off his clothes, Russ lay down and tried to rest. Twice during the night he heard pistol shots. Each time he wondered if the cowboy had been killed. He did not go to investigate; there was nothing more he could do.

  Russ did not sleep well and he went down to the restaurant for an early breakfast. Raasleer, Corddry, and two of the new men, Dazell and Steen, sat eating together.

  Raasleer noticed Russ and motioned for him to join them. “Just the fellow I wanted to see. I’m sending these men up north to the Growler Mountains to find out if there really is a new ranch there. If the rumors are true, I want you men to make sure they leave. One way or the other. Just leave the cattle there and we’ll gather them later.

  “I want you to go with them. You know where the water is. The ranch will be at one of the springs. Try that big spring on the northeast side first.”

  “Suits me to go,” said Russ. “I’m ready to leave right now. Do we come back down here?”

  “No,” said Raasleer. “We’ll all be leaving sometime today, too. We’re cutting this visit short. You men go on to the Kofas after you finish on the Growlers.” He looked at Corddry. “I’ll move the hideout to Black Canyon soon as I get back. Don’t let the Englishman see you or trail you there. Since he had his men here in Zapata, that means he’s out there waiting for us.”

  “Don’t worry about the Englishman,” said Corddry. “He won’t see hide nor hair of us.”

  “Did you catch his cowboy?” asked Russ.

  “Nope, just plumb vanished,” said Raasleer.

  A pretty girl came and took Russ’s order for breakfast. She examined the fair young man with interest. This particular group of men had many gold pieces from the sale of stolen cattle. She wondered if she could interest this young one. Her thigh touched his arm as she placed his food before him.

  Russ ignored the girl and ate quickly. He left the restaurant with the other men. Twenty minutes later the four had their bedrolls tied behind their saddles and, leading a spare horse apiece, rode from the town.

  * * *

  The men and horses were fresh and they traveled swiftly. By dusk they had passed the south end of the Growlers and were a substantial distance along their east flank. Ajo Mountain was on the far horizon to the northeast. The wide flat valley of Ajo lay to their right. They had seen no sign of the Englishman.

  They found no water, so made a dry camp. With little talk, beds were unrolled and the men flopped down. Russ rested off by himself, his horse near and his guns close to his hand. Tomorrow he would find water for the animals.

  Russ was anxious to see the girl again. But not under these circumstances. Yet he had to go with the men to try to prevent them from harming her. He had made himself her protector and did not even know her name. He laughed at himself. Still, he knew the self-imposed task was very important to him.

  The moon came up and spilled light down through a hole in a high thin layer of clouds. Wind rattled the brittle brush nearby. On the mountain above the camp, a gray desert wolf howled, wild and lonely, a weird and lovely sound. For a moment Russ savored the call of the savage brute. Then he pictured the beautiful face of the girl of the mountain and drifted off into a light sleep.

  * * *

  Lafe and Samantha dug postholes for the fence that would soon be completed to surround the irrigated meadow along the creek. A few head of cows had strayed down from where they had been driven on the upper pastures of the Growler. Once the animals tasted the sweet meadow grass, they did not want to return to the steep slopes of the mountain. More would follow; the fence was needed to protect the hayfield for cutting as a feed supply when winter snow covered the land.

  Sam heard the drum of hoofbeats when the four riders came out from behind the point of the hill to the south. They came at a steady trot, miniature men on miniature horses, riding abreast, weaving through the desert brush. As she examined them, they grew rapidly in size.

  “Grandfather, men are coming,” called Sam, and dropped her shovel to come and stand close to him.

  Lafe, cursing his failing hearing, shaded his eyes and scrutinized the horsemen. Each led a spare mount, meaning they must always be able to travel long distances with certainty. They came from the direction of Mexico, and thus were not at all likely to be some of Blackaby’s cowhands. A prickle of alarm touched his spine.

  “Go get your rifle and come back here. Hurry!” Lafe ordered Samantha.

  “I’ve got my pistol,” said Samantha.

  “This is no damn time for toys,” said Lafe, thinking of the .32-caliber gun. “Get the rifle.” He touched the butt of his six-gun and watched the approaching men.

  “I have it,” said Sam, coining up by his side.

  Lafe turned and took hold of her shoulders and gripped her firmly, hurting her a little. “I don’t like the looks of this. I think they mean trouble. You go over behind that boulder and stay out of sight. If I touch my nose or start shooting, I want you to shoot the man clos
est to you. And keep on shooting ‘til they’re all dead.”

  Sam tried to draw back from the cold blue eyes of the man. Never in her life had she seen such a fierce expression.

  He held her and shook her twice, not gently. “Hear me, daughter. These men may try to kill me and do worse to you. You must help me. Don’t fail me now. Aim for the center of their chest. You must do it. You must!”

  Sam’s heart felt constricted. The rifle in her hand was a heavy lead weight. This was not to be target practice. She tore her eyes from her grandfather’s strained face.

  “Now get over back of that rock. Lever a cartridge in and get ready to shoot.” He shoved her away toward the black lava boulder.

  The horsemen came in fast, seeming intent on riding Lafe down. He knew they were trying to scare him. He squared his shoulders and put his hand on his pistol. He would shoot the first man that came within easy range.

  Corddry saw the surefire intention of the old man to stand his ground. He stopped his horse with a hard pull and stared with hostile eyes.

  Russ rode in more slowly and took up position on Corddry’s left. He looked at the boulder where the second person had run as they rode in. The girl watched them, just her head showing. Buss had expected to see her, yet her sudden presence caused his heart to pound. He hoped fervently she would not recognize him. He tipped his head to the side so the wide brim of his hat hid part of his face.

  Lafe stood with his head thrust forward defiantly, his mouth clamped tight. His alert eyes saw all the men, but his attention was centered on Corddry.

  “Looks like you’re building a nice spread here,” said Corddry.

  “Yep,” said Lafe.

  “What’s your name?”

  “Tamblin.”

  “Well, Tamblin, too bad this land is already taken. Lot of work gone for nothing.”

  “Wasn’t claimed until we took it up,” said Lafe belligerently.

  “Yes it was. Been used for years now by me and my friends. So I got to ask you to leave.”