Gunhawk

by John Long

  ‘Still hankering to be a gun-slapper, eh, kid? Well, believe me, you’re crazy. The life’s hell on earth.’

  Bitter and mournful and oddly far-away was the voice Rand used. He continued to stare through the man before him, and not once did he blink. Smily licked his lips.

  ‘A fella just don’t know what peace is till he loses it,’ muttered Rand. ‘Once you start drawing a gun, you stand alone agin the world. Decent folk fear and despise yuh. Black-hearted folk fear and hate yuh. And fools like Smily Merrick give you a false kind of honour.’

  Another short interlude of grim silence came. The face of Smily had paled slightly; to him, at that moment, Rand had become a different and terribly frightening person, no less than if he confronted him as a killer with a gun.

  ‘Listen, kid. When humanity gets to hating you out-and-out that way, you get real lonesome – you get scared. Sure you act tough, you play rough – mebbe you really are a hard fella. But you’re still scared. You lay awake nights, worrying ways out of the hell-hole you’re in, and thinking of men you killed, and knowing their kinfolk are a-waiting somewheres to get yuh. So you’re forced to stick, it seems, until the derned bitter end, till you’re slugged in the back, by some fool kid seeking gun-glory.’

  Smily writhed, and kept wiping the beads of sweat from his face. Rand’s words seemed to be striking into his very private thoughts; and Rand’s eyes seemed to be turning over his very soul, and sourly studying it like a rotten coin.

  ‘A gunfighter’s life is hell,’ Rand repeated, softly with hidden passion, more awesome than if he bawled the statement. ‘You’ve gotta plan all your moves, little things that have their own peculiar risks; things you do every day. That was where Crocker slipped up; and there was just one fact Crocker didn’t know; that I had checked over all his chances of getting a drop on me. No, Smily Merrick; seek no gunfame, neighbour. It ain’t for decent God-fearing men who wash with both hands.’

  A sombre silence followed this outburst of Rand’s, the longest stretch of talking he had made in years, so he felt. But suddenly, the far-away look vanished, and his eyes began to blaze at the awe-stricken Smily.

  ‘Well, what’s your trouble, Mister? Have your derned feet taken root? I said thanks for the grub. Now beat it!’

  Smily Merrick retreated with interesting quickness. He had a lot of thinking to do. Rand sat alone, his coffee growing colder and colder.

  It was the eve of the raid. The sun glared intensely across the rugged mountains, set the cacti crackling like it were afire, and caused a quivering heat even in the well-like depth of Grapevine Gulch.

  Inside the cabins the tortures of suspense increased. Drinking and gambling and bickering, the men awaited the sundown. Mister Sturdy alone seemed sociable and the only man capable of soothing one’s nerves, as he sat there in the main cabin, dealing out cards, relating humorous anecdotes, and delicately changing the conversation whenever passed raids and misfortunes were mentioned. That man Sturdy was a diplomat through-and-through. Nevertheless, the general mood of the gang grew dark and forbidding; nor were tempers lessened by the uncommon heat, or by a growing suspicion of each other. Less men, more money, bigger shares for Bruce and company – this was the thought fermented by the tortures of waiting. What were they wasting time for anyhow? The money was there, wasn’t it?

  ‘Look yuh here, Bruce. Me and Jim and Tom and Larry, we figure on taking no more chances of agin losing yon shipment. We’ve suffered enough already as it is, and ain’t a-reckoning to hang around this lousy gulch no longer. It’s wuss than jail, and that’s flat. We are riding out, now!’

  So stated Winters, a great hulking fellow with a perfectly bald head: he used to own a sawmill down South. But as Winters rose to leave, Bruce pounced, and proceeded to beat him into an awful bloody state, as if poor Winters had somehow got tangled with the works of his old profession. The scene only lasted five minutes, seeming hardly like one to Big Bruce as he waded in with downright pleasure, yet it had the ability to divert the gang who thirsted for any kind of entertainment. Nonetheless, the scene put an end to ideas of a mutinous nature, and left Winters unfit to support himself far less accompany a raid on one of the best fortified banks in the territory.

  ‘I’m the boss; order-giving is my bizness. We leave at sundown!’ panted Bruce, his restless feelings obviously relieved by the fistwork. ‘Gowl, get this rotten hunk o’ meat out of here; give it to the vultures if yuh fancy. Yeah, then pack your gear, Mister Gowl, and get riding for that new hideout at Sweetwater. Prepare to take in the boys, as we’ll jine yuh in two days.’

  The sun was declining when Gowl pulled out with a string of pack-mules, all well-fattened; in fact those mules had packed away a suicidal amount of dinners since entering Grapevine, and Gowl thought it worse than towing a line of overloaded boilers, so stubborn were those mules. With Gowl went Clay and the badly-mauled Winters. The gang, thoughtful and quiet, had tumbled outside the cabin to watch the boys go; and they wondered in what changed circumstances and fortunes they would join them again. The party of three wound down the gulch and out through Rattlesnake Pass.

  At long last the plan was in operation: the first move had been made.

  Less sullen became the gang’s mood. Wild inventions for the spending of the long anticipated dollars were exchanged between the men. Lounging on goods-boxes, crouching round the table, eyes glowing in swarthy sunburnt faces, they talked of real high living, of unrestrained luxury. Sam was extra keen on beginning a life that seemed to consist of oysters and champagne. Mex said he was a-going to fix up a trading post on the Mexican border, and if Sam happened to ride by anytime, then Mex was going to show him what living was really like, and to blazes with oysters and gut-rot. Tom, on the other hand, said he figured on setting up a gambling-house, after he had married a certain girl he had in mind. The old-timer with the tapering beard sneered at the champagne, and the oysters, and even the girl, but would not reveal just what he was a-going to do. In fact the old man’s attitude roused everybody’s curiosity real bad. Everybody felt the oldster was going one step better than them somehow. Everybody felt they too wanted to do whatever the mysterious something was. As they tormented him with questions and only got sly grins and ‘never you minds’ from the antique fellow, their indignation expanded and finally exploded. They cursed the old man until he was blue in the face, then they ignored him completely, and listened to Smily Merrick. With a wistful look Smily said he was intending to reclaim his pa’s rangeland, specially now the desert was flowing back almost visibly, one inch after another. He would then build him a ranch-house, rescue his sister from that no-good honky-tonk in Fairgo City, and settle down to raising cattle. Yes, the mood of the Bruce gang grew a sight more friendly as the sun dropped exhausted over the mountains, yet underneath their amiable chatter the tension had abated none. In fact the tension was momentarily increasing, and when darkness began to creep up the sides of Grapevine Gulch, it eventually produced an almost insupportable hush.

  ‘Air’s a whole lot cooler,’ commented Mister Sturdy in a strained voice.

  ‘That’s right. Best prepare your company to move out, Symes,’ murmured Bruce, glancing at Mister Sturdy who solemnly nodded.

  Symes and his boys swaggered out to the corral and, with idle curiosity, everybody followed to watch them saddle up.

  Jeff Rand was seated alone in the doorway of one of the empty cabins. On seeing the men file outside, sudden realisation brought him upright. Here, perhaps, was his final opportunity to search yonder main cabin for his gold.

  It was still considerably light, an evasive and deceptive light, a light which distorted objects inside the main cabin. The reek of tobacco, whiskey and sweat met Rand as he stealthily entered. He looked at the walls: they were solid, and one consisted of the mountainside itself, causing uneasy thoughts on the results of an avalanche. The floor was lava rock, and the plank roof offered no place to hide even a bottle. Only the tumbled heap of provisions, most of which Gowl was at pr
esent freighting across the desert, could possibly conceal the sacks of gold he sought. Rapidly and thoroughly Rand made his search, but all to no avail, except for the finding of one familiar leather pouch that had once contained a few nuggets. The letters J.M. were stained upon it. This at least was sound evidence of Jim Miller’s gold once being hidden here. Could that fellow Gowl be trans-shipping the ore even as he searched? Then again, maybe Symes had cached it somewhere right nearby, say up in these very mountains.

  As Jeff stood there pondering, suspecting first one then another, then everybody of that particular theft and murder, his gaze became abstractedly fastened on a broad and ominous gunbelt slung across a chair. Gradually it impressed itself upon his busy mind. Recognition came with a kind of shock: Symes’ guns! He picked them up gently, if not somewhat fearfully, and felt at once their cold strangeness. He chuckled softly. This was interesting; this was very, very interesting.

  First Rand was surprised by the heavy weight of the belt and the Colt Forty-Fives. An instant later his surprise became astonishment as he tested the draw of one gun. It seemed to stick stiffly at first – then, as from an uncoiling spring, the weapon flew back and up in his hand. At this he grunted, frowning, engrossed. A brief inspection revealed that the holster leather, tightly stretched over the cylinder, had uncommon elasticity. The device must give about an extra second’s speed, so Jeff mused: and he continued to wonder how often that second had saved Symes’ life. Letting the weapon slide back, he tried again. How smooth it was! He grinned; he was more deeply intrigued and determined to come by some of this high quality leather. Once more, now with lightning rapidity, Rand drew Symes’ six-shooter.

  ‘Having fun, Jeff?’

  A voice drawled in the open doorway.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Rand spun around as if challenged. His own gun appeared in his hand as though by strange power. Symes’ face changed, and his gaze alternated between his own weapon and the stony-faced gunman.

  Inwardly Rand was cursing himself for his inquisitive behaviour, as well as for his subsequent hastiness. His hostile action had created a grim deadlock.

  ‘Play with fire and you get burnt, Jeff,’ whispered Symes, licking his lips and rubbing his hands along his empty waist. ‘Sling across them guns, Mister Snoop. Give me an even chance. Or are you scared?’

  The muscles contracted and twitched on Rand’s neck. Now the men were gathering around the doorway, and muttering in alarm.

  ‘Rand’s got the drop on Symes,’ he heard Tom say.

  ‘Never did trust Rand, not me. Him dark and gloomy man.’ growled Mex. ‘He ain’t fair with the guns. He murders Crocker boys, and if we don’t …’

  ‘Pack that talk, Mex,’ rapped out Smily Merrick, ‘Jeff is a square fella.’

  ‘Sling me my guns!’ Symes was growing white, striving to suppress his eagerness.

  Jeff lifted and hurled the belt and guns. They struck Symes upon the chest; Symes gasped and staggered at the unexpected impact. First he looked pained, then shocked, next relieved, and finally furious. Glaring malevolently he buckled on his belt.

  ‘Interested in my hardware, are yuh?’ he breathed, his lips a straight line and the cords of his neck standing out and throbbing. ‘All right, if you want a demonstration, just stuff back your gun, mister, and we’ll entertain these boys.’

  Rand holstered his weapon, to Symes’ further amazement, and stood looking mildly at him.

  ‘Well, draw the thing, yuh dirty fool,’ hissed Symes.

  ‘Why?’ Rand inquired without emotion.

  The question at once baffled Symes; the man’s calm self-possession before him was something he had never before experienced. As he thought of it his passion cooled. Their war of looks continued a few seconds longer, until Symes started to chuckle: soon he was roaring in ridiculous mirth. Everybody else looked on with open-mouthed gravity, with the exception of Rand who, leaning idly against the wall, hooked his thumbs in his belt, kept blinking his eyes, and studying Symes as if he suffered from a pitiful mental disorder.

  ‘You’re a joker, Jeff. Yep, a real joker,’ Symes declared. ‘Appears like I grow careless with these irons o’ mine, leaving ’em hanging around.’

  ‘It ain’t a mistake I advise you to repeat,’ Rand reproached him.

  ‘What’s that?’ Symes’ good humour vanished, no less than if he had found himself afire.

  ‘Stick to your guns, fella. They are your arms, legs and everything to yuh,’ Rand murmured softly. ‘You just don’t leave limbs hanging around, I notice, so why leave them guns.’

  ‘Your dead right, Jeff.’ Symes was chuckling again. ‘This is the first time I’ve been so long without these Forty-fives.’

  ‘Let it be the last,’ cautioned Rand. ‘Because I always carry mine.’

  Giving another forced laugh and shrugging his shoulders Symes whirled around to leave. But this action, made with characteristic impetuosity, collided him with Smily Merrick, who was craning his neck to catch a glimpse of Jeff inside.

  ‘Cuss yuh!’ Symes snarled, staggering: his harnessed rage broke loose completely.

  ‘Sorry, pard, sorry!’ sang out Smily, comically prancing aside. ‘Never was a good hand at square dancing, not me, no, sir.’

  ‘I’ll square dance yuh. Your horrible ugly face always did make me sick, now it just turns my dern-blast stomach!’ Then, uttering a filthy oath, Symes felled him with a back-handed slash across the face. ‘Some smart folk round these parts need an example, and so I’m minded to drill yuh, kid. You’re nothing but a wheedling son-of-a-sidewinder!’

  Gasping and shaking, Smily scrambled to his feet. His lips would not stop trembling, no matter how hard he tried to control himself. A red blotch stood out lividly on his whitened face.

  ‘I – I – said sorry, my mistake, Mister Symes. Hey, fellas, didn’t I say sorry my mistake?’

  The men bowed their heads, rubbed their grisly jaw-bones, and looked covertly at each other. No one answered poor Smily’s appeal.

  ‘Hain’t you got ears, you skinny runt?’ Symes goaded him. ‘Didn’t you hear me say you’re a spineless whelp?’ Symes was speaking more softly, confidentially, and with a leer of anticipation. He folded his arms and waited.

  The heart and soul of Smily Merrick was plainly in throes of extreme torture. Sure he carried a gun; sure he could shoot straight – but not against a killer – and certainly not against the devil himself, Mister Symes. Smily still kept glancing round at his hushed and nervously on-looking buddies. He watched them disbelievingly as they shuffled slowly backward before his appealing looks. Why did they turn their heads away? They knew he was in the right, didn’t they? Hadn’t anybody any feeling for him? Surely they didn’t think Symes would really – really…Merrick’s restless gaze settled on Jeff Rand lounging in the cabin doorway. Yes, yes, Jeff could help him? But wait! Would Rand do anything after already backing down before Symes? Good lord, no; not much likelihood of that! He was trapped, helplessly caught in a gunfight – with SYMES!

  ‘Stubborn cuss, ain’t yuh? Surely you won’t show yourself up before all these men, Mister Merrick?’ Symes provoked him again. ‘Say, what do you carry that iron for? Pull it, kid. I know you hate me worse than snake-juice. So come on, kill me. Or are you really a boneless rat?’

  Nothing happened. The whole situation was still incredible to the good-natured Merrick. He stood stupefied, ashake with naked fear, until Symes, speaking in an oddly changed voice, made a terribly foul allusion to Smily’s mother.

  ‘Stop that! Quit it, Mister! Don’t ever say that agin.’ Smily’s tremulous whisper was clearly audible in the deep hush.

  ‘Why, sonny? What’s the penalty?’ Symes was thoroughly enjoying the situation. ‘She was, wasn’t she? Your ma, I mean.’

  ‘Just – just look you here, Mister,’ stammered Smily, his eyes flashing excitedly. ‘Don’t push us fellas too far. We want no trouble with you or nobody. Ain’t that right, boys? No, sir’ee. I’m just kindly asking you
to haul back that right down awful insult.’

  An infuriating burst of mirth came from Symes. It subsided with equally shocking suddenness. With gloating contempt he sneered at Merrick, and said:

  ‘I’m sure a-begging your pardon, sonny. But I still think it is true, see?’ Here again Symes repeated the terrible insult.

  ‘Shut up!’ Smily’s fury was bursting despite himself. ‘Keep your dirty mouth closed! You do it deliberately. There’s a devil in yuh, mister.’

  That was enough; no more was needed. It was more than a man could live down. But maybe – Smily brooded heatedly – maybe he could beat the fellow, drawing his gun first. Right was might, and by heaven he had a load of it on his side! Yeah, maybe he could rid folk of this poison known as Symes. Perhaps he could show these other scared jack-rabbit gang, Rand included, that he was not just a frightened young man. But he was; he admitted it privately – he was scared. Still, hadn’t Jeff said everybody felt that way, even himself? Smily slowly turned sideways, his hand hovering over his gun. After all, he was younger than Symes, and by nature he was quick of movement. Yes, it wasn’t really hard, nor a complex thing at all. You just darted a few inches, about three little inches, then lifted the barrel a fraction, and – well – there you were!

  The leer had spread on the face of Mister Symes. He very slowly repeated his insult.

  ‘You just can’t speak to decent folk with them awful things in mind, Mister,’ Smily mumbled, trying to keep an apologetic tone out of his voice.

  But the sight of the professional killer, firmly standing there with his broad gunbelt and protruding guns, grew momentarily more unbearable, and seemed to loom nearer and fill Smily Merrick’s landscape.

  Closely he watched the killer’s eyes, like Jeff had one-time advised him; and he tried to be relaxed, also like Jeff advised. Though every time Smily managed to believe he was relaxed, a giddy fear rocked him, bracing him back again in redoubled tension. Therefore he tried to think of other things: his mind, however, was like a roped steer, thrown, locked, entranced in dread of slaughter. For what seemed a long time Symes did not move, then suddenly his eyes changed: they narrowed and gleamed fiercely in triumph, and took a sidelong look at Jeff Rand. Thereupon, seeing his chance, Smily did it.