Grayfox (10 page)

Hawk and I didn't have any time alone together the rest of that day. The man named Demming went back with us to the cave we were using, about an hour's ride away on our mules, and bunked down for the night with us. I knew Hawk well enough by then, however, to see that he wasn't altogether comfortable with the other man around, though he continued to be hospitable enough.

Demming spent a lot of time questioning Hawk about the Indians, the area, the trails and the water holes, trying to figure how to get back on the scent of the outlaw he was chasing. I think he could tell how much Hawk knew of the Utah-Nevada territory, and from the glint in his eye as he listened I think he realized that Hawk knew more than he was telling.

Whether he suspected Hawk of being friendly with the Paiutes I don't know. The more we found out about him as the evening wore on, the more I could see why Hawk wouldn't have wanted him to find out.

“This ain't bad, Trumbull,” Demming said, taking a second helping of the stew Hawk had made. “Better'n that stuff looked you was eating out on the plain. What's in here, anyway?”

“Sage hen, little quail I had left over.”

“It's the first fresh meat I've had since leaving Carson.”

“I didn't say it was fresh,” said Hawk. “The sage hen's been frozen down in our snow cellar. The quail was smoked and dried.”

“I ain't particular,” Demming snorted.

As he ate, every once in a while he'd throw me a look that seemed inquisitive, like he'd seen me before or something.

“What'd you say your name was, kid?” he asked between bites.

“Hollister,” I answered him, squirming a little.

“Where you from?”

“California.”

The answer seemed to puzzle him. He thought about it a minute.

“Where in California?”

“North of Sacramento.”

“Place got a name?”

“Yeah—Miracle Springs,” I answered.

Again the puzzled look came over his face. “Hmm . . . I might have heard of it,” he said after a pause. “What's your pa do?” he added.

I bristled slightly. “He's a miner.”

“Yeah. What else would he be?”

He paused and sent his eyes scanning all over me again, again with that look that I didn't like.

“Where's your kin from, kid?” he asked.

“East.”

“Where?”

“New York.”

He seemed to take the information in with interest, though he hid his reaction well.

“What's your pa's name?” he asked.

At this point I was getting a little irritated by all his questions, and I suppose his bringing up Pa agitated me some.

“I don't see that my pa's name is any affair of yours,” I answered, a little rudely, I'm afraid.

He said nothing, just eyed me carefully once more, then turned toward Hawk, who had been listening intently to every word but hadn't said anything.

“Where'd you learn to live out here like this? From the Indians?” Demming asked, now halfway glaring at Hawk with a look that wasn't any more friendly than the ones he had given me. Being around this man wasn't making me like him any more than I had when he'd first ridden up earlier.

“I've been out here a long time,” Hawk replied evasively.

“Around the Indians much?”

“Some.”

“Get along with them, do you?”

“Don't have occasion to spend much time with them,” said Hawk. “The Paiutes don't exactly welcome strangers, and the Shoshone aren't much better. But I've learned to live with them and keep myself alive, if that's what you mean.”

“Ain't exactly what I meant, Mister,” said Demming. “What I want to know is if you're one of the kind who thinks the Indians is as good as we are?”

“I don't know if I'm what you call one of those kind or not,” Hawk said back to him. “The Indians are different than we are, that's for sure. And with the Paiutes you've got to be careful—they're a tough lot, and they don't look too kindly to white folks these days. But I figure they're human beings just like the rest of us.”

“That's where you're wrong, Mister!” Demming shot back, and all of a sudden the fury in his voice was more than evident. “They ain't human! They're animals, and the sooner we're rid of 'em off our land, the safer it'll be for everyone.”

“Ain't rightly our land,” said Hawk, keeping his voice calm. “They were all here before I came, and they were here a while before that, I reckon.”

“Don't matter. Their kind can't claim a right to nothing. They're animals, I tell you—don't even deserve to live.”

The fierceness in Mr. Demming's voice by now was making me nervous. I was afraid he might jump up any second and clobber one of us, or pull out his gun if we said something he didn't like.

There was more than just anger in his tone. And more than that, a real mean streak too.

I don't figure I got a right to call any man ugly, so I won't use the word about Jack Demming. But if ever there was a man whose outside expression on his face matched the meanness and anger coming out of him, I figure he was the man. His face was dark from the sun, weathered and rough like the inside of a piece of leather, with a big scar from the lower part of one cheek down over his jawbone and onto the top of his neck. It didn't look like the kind of scar a decent man would get by minding his own business. A couple of his teeth were missing, and the rest were yellow, though he didn't show them much, 'cause he never smiled. His eyes were the worst of it, I suppose. They looked full of hate, that's all I can say about them.

He smelled too, real bad. I don't think he'd had a bath in months! Out there in the desert, I don't reckon a man can altogether help it sometimes. But even Hawk and me put together wouldn't have made a coyote stop and take a second sniff. Demming would have turned a whole herd of buffalo around!

As much as I couldn't keep from noticing his fearsome looks, Hawk kept calmly talking to him. And Hawk wasn't afraid to go straight into those deeper places inside the man's skin.

“You really hate the Indians, don't you, Demming?” Hawk said.

“Dad-blamed right I do—hate every one of the redskinned varmints!”

“Why do you hate them?”

“'Cause they're filthy, ignorant savage animals, and this country'll be a heap better off when they're gone.”

“What's filled you with that kind of hate?”

“They killed my brother, for one thing.”

“He do something to them to rile them?”

“How dare you, Mister!” spat Demming, half rising in a threatening movement. Hawk just sat there, watching him calmly. I don't know what Hawk would have done if Demming had drawn his gun. As gentle and as God-fearing a man as Hawk seemed at some times, he could also take care of himself. He'd never have survived out here otherwise. But Hawk just sat there, and gradually Demming eased back down onto the ground beside the fire.

“It's been my experience,” Hawk said after a minute, “that the Indians don't generally go after someone for no reason.”

“You're a fool, Trumbull,” rejoined Demming. “You don't know the Paiutes!”

Hawk probably knew the Paiutes better than any white man alive, but he didn't argue back. After another minute or so, Demming started telling what had happened with his brother. Hawk let him talk freely, and the story emerged.

Apparently Demming had come west in '58 and had settled up even further north than us in California, near Honey Lake Valley near Susanville.

“I built me a log cabin with my own hands, started me a herd of cattle, and sent off for my brother Dexter to join me.”

It wasn't too hard to see that he figured on making himself a rich, landowning rancher.

Trouble was, Jack Demming was so full of hatred toward any and all kinds of Indians that he didn't care who knew it. He openly bragged about killing them whenever he happened to find one alone.

Early in 1860, Jack had walked through the snow from the ranch into Susanville for supplies. He spent the night in town, and when he
arrived back home late the next afternoon, it was to find the ranch house plundered.

“Dexter was dead—murdered by the Paiutes,” he said.

He told the story without any pain or grief or heartache in his voice, only hatred.

From that moment on Jack Demming had been bent on a vengeful vendetta against any and all Indians, wherever it led him, first with the army, and now on his own.

“You and your brother from around here, Demming?” Hawk asked at length.

“No, we come from back East.”

“What kind of man was your pa?”

“What business is it of yours?” shot back Demming.

“None,” replied Hawk. “Just interested.”

“What's there to be interested in about Pa?”

“I just wondered if you got your hatred of Indians from him.”

“Well, I didn't,” said Demming in a surly voice. “My pa weren't never around. Dexter and me hardly knew him.”

“Left your ma, did he?”

“No, I never said he left. He just didn't pay us no mind, except when he had a grudge to settle with someone else and we got in the way. As far as he was concerned, me and Dexter might as well not even have been there. Whenever he did come around, he was drunk and beat us to a pulp. We learned to take care of ourselves.”

“That's why you gotta avenge Dexter's death, that it?”

“What's it to you, Trumbull? But yeah, maybe you're right.”

“Your pa wouldn't care, even if he knew.”

“You got it right there!”

“You ever write home?”

“Wrote my ma a few years back.”

“They know Dexter's dead?”

“They might have heard.”

“You didn't let them know?”

“My pa never gave us no never mind. Why should he care? What's it to you anyway, Trumbull? Mind your own affairs!”

I awoke the next morning with a sharp pain in my back.

“Don't say a word, kid, or you're dead,” growled an evil voice in my ear.

Demming had a knife at my back and was tying my hands as best he could with his free hand. It was early and cold, dew still in the air, light enough to see, but not yet sunup.

Still groggy from being awakened so rudely, I tried to say something.

“What do you want—?”

“Shut up!” retorted Demming angrily. His face was near mine, and his breath was foul.

He spun me over, throwing me on my belly, then jammed a knee in the small of my back instead of the knife. Then with both hands he tied my hands behind me so tight I could feel the leather thongs digging into my skin.

“What do you want with me?” I said, my face in the dirt. “I ain't done nothing—”

“I told you to shut up!” he repeated. He grabbed me and flipped me over onto my back. His arms were as strong as his breath, and he handled me like I was no more than a twig.

Demming glared down at me, then picked his knife back up and brought its sharp tip up to me and poked my neck with it.

“I asked you a question last night,” he whispered. “Now I want an answer—that's what I want from you! Now, you tell me your pa's name here and now, or I'll slit that cowardly little white throat of yours so fast—”

“Drop the knife, Demming!” sounded Hawk's voice from ten feet away. I glanced over out of the corner of my eye. Hawk was standing with his rifle aimed straight at Demming's head. I'd never heard his voice sound so loud and commanding.

“Mind your own business, Trumbull,” said Demming. “This is between me and the kid.”

“The kid's business
is
my business. Now stand away.”

“You won't shoot, Trumbull,” said Demming, turning an evil glare toward Hawk. “I know your kind—yellow through and through.”

The instant the words left his mouth, suddenly Demming lurched to his feet, yanking me up in the same motion. A second later he was standing behind me with one arm clutching me tight against his chest, the other stretched around my shoulders, his right hand still holding the knife against my throat.

“There, you see, Trumbull—you ain't gonna do nothing to me without shooting him first! Now, boy,” he said, again to me, “I asked you a question. What's your pa's name!”

“Drummond,” I said. “Drummond Hollister.”

My voice sounded so small, like the croak of a tiny frog. I'm not ashamed to admit it—I was downright scared for my life! This man was mean, and I knew he
would
stick the knife into my throat if he got riled enough.

“Ha! I knew it,” shouted Demming. “I saw it in your eyes and face. I knew you had to be Hollister's kid! Come on, now—you and me's gonna pay a little visit to your pa.”

He began backing up, dragging me along and still shielding his own body from Hawk's gun, toward where his horse was tied.

“You're not taking him anywhere, Demming,” said Hawk, still peering down the barrel of his rifle and following us slowly with his eyes. It looked like he was aiming straight for me.

“You might be able to take me out with a shot to the head, Trumbull,” said Demming, still pulling me toward the horse. “But you won't pull that trigger, not in cold blood. You ain't got the guts for it!”

Hawk said nothing, just kept watching down the sight of his carbine.

“What'd my pa ever do to you?” I asked.

“Me and your pa rode together. Long time ago, kid, but I ain't forgotten. He and that brother-in-law of his made off with all the loot.”

“He never took a penny,” I said.

“Ha! That what he told you?—then he's a liar as well as a thief. He and Nick took it all right, stashed it, then busted out of jail and headed west with it. Me and Dexter vowed we'd find 'em someday,
and that day's now. I knew following Krebbs' trail would pay off someday.”

“Buck Krebbs!” I exclaimed.

“Yeah, you know Krebbs?”

“Yeah, and my pa killed him.”

“Krebbs was an idiot.”

“You'll get the same if you tangle with my pa!” I shouted, hardly realizing I was defending him.

“Don't count on it, boy. I got more brains in my little finger than Krebbs had in his whole head. You and me's gonna go have a talk with your pa! I figure he's worth a whole lot more'n some half-Paiute renegade.”

“I won't take you to him.”

“You won't have to. I know the place, remember? Miracle Springs! I'll tie you up somewhere, then ride in alone. That's gonna be one reunion I'm gonna enjoy—seeing the look on ol' Drum's face when I tell him I got his boy, and it's gonna cost him fifty thousand to ever see him alive again. Ha, ha, ha!”

Demming's laugh sounded more wicked than his voice. I didn't have any doubts that he meant what he said.”

We'd gotten to the horse by now.

Demming stopped.

“Get up there, Hollister,” he said, steadying me with his left hand.

I hesitated. The next moment I felt the knife blade scratch the skin on the back of my neck.

“Get up there!” he shouted.

This time I did my best to get my foot into the stirrup and struggle up onto the horse's back. It was hard to do it with my hands tied.

Suddenly a shot rang out from Hawk's gun.

The horse jumped, and I fell off backward onto the ground. Another shot echoed, this time accompanied by the metallic sound of the bullet against Demming's knife, which flew from his hand and hit some rocks several yards away.

It only took the second or two for Hawk to be on top of Demming.

Even as I hit the ground with a thud, I heard the two men's bodies crash down beside me.

Neither was using a weapon now, other than their fists. Grunting and struggling for position, they rolled over each other several times.

Suddenly they were apart.

Hawk climbed to one knee, but almost the same instant Demming's boot crashed into his chest and he fell over backward. The bounty hunter threw himself on top of Hawk, pelting him with blows to his face and stomach.

I struggled out of the way, managed to get myself to a sitting position, and worked at my hands furiously to loosen the knots. But it was no use. If only I could find Demming's knife! I glanced all about while working to get my feet back under me.

Meanwhile, Hawk had thrown Demming off him and was again struggling to his feet. This time Demming came at him with his whole body, trying to knock into him with hands and head and shoulders all at once. But Hawk had regained his footing enough to sidestep the attack, throwing Demming to the ground as he passed.

Demming fell, but instantly spun around, cursing violently.

As the two men fought, I got back onto my feet and managed to locate Demming's knife where Hawk had shot it out of his hand. I sat down, hands still behind me, and fished about with my fingers as best I could to slit the dried pieces of leather. I gradually felt the cords beginning to loosen, but from the wetness and sharp stinging I knew I had drawn some of my own blood in the process.

Hawk and Demming were both on their feet by now, exchanging blows. Dust was flying all about their feet, and both their faces were pouring sweat and covered with red, bloody gashes. Hawk was cool, though his eyes contained an intensity I had never seen. Demming was seething, hatred evident in every fiber of his frame.

Frantically I kept working at the leather around my wrists!

A sharp fist landed on the side of Hawk's ear, sending him reeling sideways. Demming followed it with a flurry of jabs to his stomach and midsection.

Grunts and blows and the scuffling of boots filled the air. I was afraid Hawk was getting the worst of it!

But then all at once, as Demming rushed at him to deliver a huge punch with his fist, Hawk ducked and lurched to one side. Demming's momentum threw him off balance, and he stumbled. Hawk grabbed him by the scruff of the neck and spun him back around to face him.

“Why, you good for nothing, filthy—” Demming swore viciously between pants for breath.

But the rest of the words never left his lips.

Hawk's fist smashed directly into Demming's nose and lips. He staggered back stunned, eyes watering and blood flowing from his nostrils.

The blow had been the hardest Demming had received. I thought he was going to wobble back and fall to the ground.

But he was a strong man. Getting separated from Hawk gave him the chance he needed. He continued to back up, wiping at his nose with his left sleeve and drawing his pistol from his holster with his right.

“You'll regret that, Trumbull!” he growled. “Now I'll have to kill you, and I'm going to take the boy all the same.”

“I'm not going anywhere,” I said. “Drop the gun.”

Demming turned and saw me holding Hawk's rifle on him, my wrists red and bloody, still with a few leather strands hanging loose but at least untied and free.

“Ha, ha!” laughed Demming. “Don't make me laugh, boy!” he said. “You ain't got the guts, either. Even if you did shoot me, your fool friend here would be dead before—”

Crack!

The morning air exploded with another shot from the rifle. But I hadn't been trying to miss like Hawk had on his first shot. I was sure glad right then for all the times Little Wolf and I had gone up in the mountains after rabbits and wood rats, seeing who could shoot the most in an hour. It had made dead shots of us both.

The pistol flew from Demming's hand as he cried out in pain.

The next second, Hawk was picking up the pistol off the ground. He looked it over to see if it could still be used, then turned it upside down and emptied the chamber of its bullets.

He walked over to Demming's horse and took the rifle from its holster.

“I'll just be keeping this,” he said, then threw the empty pistol back at the bounty hunter.

“I can't leave a man out here in the desert without some kind of a gun,” he said. “Now, get out of here, Demming,” he added. “Don't let either of us see you again.”

“You'll regret this, Trumbull!” Demming seethed.

“I already do.”

“I'll kill you for this! And Jack Demming pays his debts.”

“Revenge only kills those who seek it, Demming.”

“Aw, don't preach to me, you blathering old fool!” spat Demming. “I'll get even with you both.”

“Get out of here, Demming.”

Demming mounted his horse. I still had the carbine pointed at him. He looked over at me, his furious eyes staring out of a bloody and dirty face.

“I won't forget you, Hollister,” he said, glaring at me. “And you can tell that pa of yours that I haven't forgotten him neither.”

I didn't say anything, but just kept staring at him from behind the rifle.

“Now it looks like I got a score to settle with the both of you,” he added, then dug his heels into his horse's flanks and galloped away.