Houston Attack (7 page)

“Oil?” Hawker put in helpfully.

“Exactly! It is there we will dig our well. There is an old man in our village who once worked in the drilling business. It was long ago, and he learned to drill for water, not oil—but is not all drilling much the same?”

“It is, yes, indeed,” Hawker said, now trying hard not to laugh. “And I wish you luck, Sancho. But now you must tell me what I wish to know.”

“Of course, my friend. Anything for a partner in my business.”

“Good. There is a place called the Sister Star Ranch. It's someplace in Texas, but people are reluctant to tell me about it for some reason. Do you know of it?”

The silence on Sancho's end was so long that for a moment Hawker thought his phone had gone dead again. But finally he said, “Yes, my friend. I know of it.”

“Then tell me where it is, Sancho.”

Hawker could tell that it pained the little Mexican to speak. “The Sister Star Ranch is in the county between LaSalle and Webb, about sixty miles west of our village. The ranch is so large that it is really a county unto itself. Star County. There are several smaller ranches on it, but they are all owned by the same man.”

Hawker pressed the phone hard against his ear, straining to hear a name he already knew. “And what is this man's name, Sancho?”

“My friend,” the man pleaded, “you must not go to this place. For if you do, it is certain death. Please, come live with us. You are a lonely man and homeless—but my prettiest daughter, Juanita, looks upon you favorably even though you have but one arm—”

“The man's name, Sancho. What is it?”

“His name … his name is Skate Williams. It was this same man whose employees tried to force us into selling our oil rights.” He sighed unhappily. “And God forgive me, James, for ever telling you, for now your death is on my hands.…”

eight

Sancho was right about the size of the Sister Star Ranch. It was a county unto itself. Almost a country unto itself.

Hawker rattled along through the rolling range of mesquite and prickly pear cactus, through the one-gas-station towns with their solitary
COKE
signs and peeling clapboard houses, past the rank longhorn cattle of south Texas.

At a general store outside Tilden on Highway 72, Hawker stopped for fuel and something to eat.

He wasn't really hungry. Back in Houston, he had re-armed, bathed, changed clothes, and eaten enough Rio Bravo Burgers to last him a week. But he wanted to see how people outside Star County felt about Skate Williams and his Sister Star Ranch operation.

Hawker had decided to stay with the one-armed drifter character. Back in Mexico, the only member of the organization who had survived his assault was the driver of the slave truck. And the driver had not seen him.

So he smoothed the serape and went inside the little general store. The man behind the wooden counter was a wizened, sour old man with white hair and a gigantic chaw of tobacco in his cheek. Hawker drank a quart of buttermilk and ate pig's knuckles and crackers while he tried in engage the man in conversation.

Yes, the old man said, Hawker might be able to find work in Star County. No, he didn't think it would be at Skate Williams's ranch. Skate Williams never hired. (This was said with a private smile that told Hawker just what he wanted to know.) Yes, he knew Skate Williams, and he thought he was a self-important son of a bitch.

It took Hawker nearly a full hour to dig this information out of the old man. But it was worth it. Hawker needed to know if the locals in the adjoining counties were for or against the slave lord. And if the store owner was any indication, Hawker might be able to find some backup help if he needed it.

The scenery began to change when he entered Star County. The roadside shanties disappeared, as did the dilapidated little towns. In Star County all seemed clean and undeveloped. There were miles of open range on which cattle grazed. The brand on the cattle was plain, even from the road: two overlapping stars.

Hawker saw the first of Skate Williams's ranches from about ten miles away. It was in a shallow valley by a river that rolled down out of the hills. There was a large main house and several smaller houses. As Hawker drew nearer, he could see the main house was built of stone. The barn and the outbuildings were clapboard or board and batten, painted white. Miles of five-plank fence, also painted white, rolled along the edge of the ranch.

The front gate was open, but Hawker stopped, anyway. A sign read:

SISTER STAR RANCH #4

SKATE WILLIAMS, OWNER

ROY DALTON, MGR
.

ABSOLUTELY NO TRESPASSING

From the sign Hawker made two general deductions: one, Williams owned at least four such ranches, and Cristoba de Abella could be on any of them—if she was still alive; and two, Skate Williams—if his ego matched his wealth—probably didn't live here. He would live on Ranch #1.

Ignoring the sign's warning, Hawker drove through the gate and down the long drive.

The greeting he received was something less than friendly. As he pulled into the main house's circular drive, four burly men strode out to confront him. They wore old jeans, stained western shirts, and high-crowned western hats. They looked like prop toughs in some mid-forties cowboy movie.

As Hawker stepped out of the truck, the four men fanned out around the door, blocking Hawker's exit.

“You got business here?” the heaviest of them, a florid-faced man with massive hands, asked.

“Maybe,” said Hawker. “I'm looking for work.”

“Then maybe you telephoned ahead and got permission to apply?” the florid-faced man pressed. Hawker noted that his huge silver belt buckle read, “Jeb.” Jeb wore a Ruger Blackhawk .44 in a holster strapped to his hip.

“Didn't call,” Hawker said. “Didn't know I was supposed to.”

As Hawker turned to slide past the men, Jeb grabbed his shoulder and swung him around. “We're talking to you, mister. Don't go trying to sneak off like that.”

“Shit, Jeb,” one of the other men cut in, “he ain't got but one arm.”

Jeb's lips curled back. Hawker guessed it was his version of a grin. “And just what kind of work do you think a one-armed man can do around here?” He looked at the other man and winked. “We got a vet that does all our artificial insemination.” He winked again. “And that's about all a one-armed man is good for, isn't it? Jackin' off bulls, and whatever other creatures that gets in his way.”

The others laughed. Hawker could feel the muscles in his face grow tight. “You seem to know all about it, Jeb,” Hawker said softly. “I guess it's true what Texas women say about you guys with great big belt buckles.”

The big cowboy's face grew serious for a moment. “Yeah? And what do they say?”

“They say you've got tiny little dicks, Jeb. And I guess that would make you real
handy.”

The others roared with laughter.

But Jeb didn't. He shoved Hawker roughly against the truck and threw a ponderous right fist at Hawker's face.

Hawker ducked under the punch and drove his left hand deep into the big man's solar plexus, then put all his weight behind a backhand that sent the cowboy backpedaling across the drive.

The punch to the belly had knocked most of the wind out of him, so he wheezed as he said, “You one-armed son of a bitch, I'll
kill
you for that.”

Hawker could do nothing but stand helplessly as Jeb drew the Blackhawk .44—one of the most powerful sidearms ever sold.

There was the sound of a hammer clicking back—and Hawker was surprised to realize that one of the other ranch hands had also drawn a weapon. He was a tall rugged-looking man with smooth, weathered skin and bright blue eyes. The way he leveled his Colt revolver at Jeb reminded Hawker just a little bit of Gary Cooper.

“You got no call to shoot this man, Jeb,” the cowboy drawled easily. “Unless you're afraid to take on a one-armed man in a fair fight.”

Jeb's eyes burned as he glared at the man. “You put that sidearm away right now, Quirt Evans, or I'll shove that son of a bitch up your ass!”

The tall man he had called Quirt Evans smiled broadly. “One fight at a time, Jeb. One fight at a time.” He nodded at Hawker. “Right now it looks like you got your hands full with this old boy.”

Jeb glared at him for a moment more, then reluctantly holstered the Blackhawk .44. More cautiously now, he began to stalk Hawker, both fists clenched.

Hawker nodded at Evans. “Thanks,” he said.

Quirt Evans winked briefly. “You can thank me later—if you live.”

Hawker chuckled as he took two careful steps toward the huge cowboy. “Thanks for the reassurance,” he said.

Jeb threw a series of roundhouse lefts and rights, and Hawker ducked under them all, backing away. He felt a great temptation to pull his right arm from beneath the serape and beat the hell out of this overweight bully. But if he did so, he knew he would immediately expose himself as a fraud, and all the long weeks of work would be wasted.

No, he had to fight this man—and he had to beat him using only one arm. That meant he had to stick and move; beat him with speed and skill. And under no circumstances could he allow Jeb to get him on the ground. The man was big and slow, but he looked strong as hell. On the ground Jeb would tear him apart.

Hawker allowed Jeb to come charging at him once again, still backing away. Then, at the last microsecond, he faked a high overhand left. When Jeb's hands flew up to protect his face, Hawker spun and kicked him full force in the ribs with the heel of his boot.

Jeb bowed over, sputtering. Hawker was immediately on him, cracking the florid face open with a series of left uppercuts and hooks. Jeb kept backing away, trying to get his hands up to shield his face. When his hands came up, Hawker went to work on the broad belly, putting all of his two hundred pounds behind the punches.

The huge cowboy was wobbly now, and once again he reached for his gun. But Hawker beat him to it, drawing it out of the holster and tossing it across the drive.

“I'll kill you for this,” Jeb wheezed.

Hawker slapped him twice in the face, hard. “You'll what?”

“I'll kill you—”

Hawker hit him flush on the nose. His nose flattened, immediately went pale white, then began to pour blood.

“That's the second time you've said that, and both times you've been on your ass.”

Hawker knew that one more good shot would put him down, but as he drew back his fist a voice stopped him.

“What in the hell is going on here?”

Hawker turned to see a lean, middle-aged man with a black mustache standing on the porch of the big house. He wore a blue western leisure suit, and a cigarette hung from the corner of his mouth.

“Jeb was just provin' to this stranger that a one-armed man ain't worth a shit.” Quirt Evans laughed.

Jeb was hanging on to the wooden fence, trying hard not to fall. His face and shirt were soaked with blood, and he looked as if he were about to vomit.

The man on the porch looked from Hawker to Jeb, and then back to Hawker. “You got any particular reason for being on Sister Star property, mister?”

“Looking for work,” Hawker said, trying to shake some of the pain out of his left hand. “Saw the ranch and just stopped by.”

The man stepped down off the porch and stopped at a point midway between Hawker and the bloodied cowboy. He looked pointedly at Jeb. “That big mouth of yours finally got you into trouble, huh, Jeb?” He dropped his cigarette in the sand and ground it out with his foot. “Go to the bunkhouse and get cleaned up. I always had the feeling you were nothing but mouth and pussy. Pack your gear while you're at it, and get the hell off this ranch.”

Jeb straightened immediately. “Hell, Mr. Dalton, I got bills to pay. I just bought me that new truck, and that Appaloosa roper ain't paid for yet—”

“I don't give a goddamn about your financial problems, Jeb. I told you to get, and I mean just that—”

“Maybe you ought to check with Mr. Williams before you go firing an old hand, Mr. Dalton,” Jeb said in a tone that clearly had a double meaning. “With what I know about this operation, he might not be in such a hurry to cut me loose.”

The man Hawker assumed to be Roy Dalton, the ranch manager, took a step toward the huge cowboy. His voice was calm, but there was a deadly undercurrent in his tone. “Remember what I said about that big mouth of yours, Jeb. And that busted nose ain't nothing compared to the kind of trouble we can give you.”

Jeb's manner changed immediately. Hawker knew raw fear when he saw it, and that is exactly what the cowboy's face now showed. “I'm … I'm sorry, Mr. Dalton. I shouldn't have said what I did. I wasn't thinkin'. I'll get my stuff. I'll clear out. I got no grudges against you or Mr. Williams.”

Roy Dalton stared at him and said nothing. After a moment of the ranch manager's withering silence, Jeb turned and walked quickly toward the long wooden bunkhouse.

When he disappeared through the door, Dalton turned to Hawker. “We're not hiring right now, mister,” he said. “And do yourself a favor. Never step on Sister Star property again uninvited. Not all of these boys are as soft as Jeb there.”

“Any kind of work's okay with me, Mr. Dalton,” Hawker said quickly. “I'm reliable. I don't drink much. And if Jeb there is leaving—”

Dalton's eyes studied him carefully. Hawker felt as if he were a steer or a quarter horse being sized up. “What's your name?”

Hawker told him.

“Where are you from?”

“Around. I was born in Chicago, but I've been down in Mexico for a while.”

Dalton nodded and said nothing. “You got trouble with the law?”

Hawker sensed that Dalton hoped he had. He took a chance. “Some. Nothing serious. I'm no thief. You don't have to worry about that.”