Showdown at Dead End Canyon (16 page)

UPSTAIRS IN HER ROOM AT THE GOLDEN CAGE,
Lulu lit a candle. Then she poured some water from a pitcher into a basin and, taking the water with her, stepped around behind a screen.

Rob Dealey could hear the splash of water as Lulu began her ablutions. He looked at the bed. It was made, though somewhat crookedly.

Rob had come up to the Sweetwater Mountains with seven other men from the Northumbria. They had come, in the words of one of them, “bright eyed and bushy-tailed,” to make their fortune in found gold.

But none of them had found gold, and now there were only three of them left. Micah McGee and Billy Pearson had left first, saying they were going back down to Texas. Eddie Taylor and Win Woodruff were the next to leave, pulling up a couple of days ago. They were going to go back to the ranch and see if they could get their old jobs back.

Well, that was good for them, he thought. They probably could get their old jobs back. But Rob he knew that he
couldn’t. He had been the foreman, and Dorchester told him on the day that he got paid out that he would not be able to return to his old job.

He was a fool to have left. As foreman, he was getting almost twice as much money as the others. And he had a position of respect. Now he grubbed around in the mud and the mire, searching for gold.

What a fool he was to have left, he thought again.

When Lulu stepped out from behind the screen a moment later, he was surprised to see that she was totally nude. And though he knew that most whores promised much more than they were able to deliver, in this case he was not disappointed. Lulu was all she promised and more. She was slender, except for the flare of her hips and the gentle rise of her relatively small but well-formed breasts. Without her clothes, she really did look like she was only nineteen. For a moment he felt a little uncomfortable with the idea of going to bed with a nineteen-year-old. He was thirty-two, considerably older than Lulu.

On the other hand, Lulu was a prostitute, and prostitutes were without history, therefore they were without age. There was no doubt in Rob’s mind but that Lulu was much older than he was in some areas. Especially when it came to sexual experience. For in truth, his own sexual experiences had been few and relatively far between.

“Honey, you don’t even have your clothes off yet,” Lulu said, the expression in her voice indicating that she was puzzled by that fact.

“What’s the hurry?” Rob replied. “We have all night, don’t we?”

Lulu laughed. “Yes, we do,” she agreed. “It’s just that most men are so—” Lulu stopped in mid-sentence. It was as if she were embarrassed to continue the statement about
“most” men. “But that’s all right,” she said. “You’re different.”

“Does it bother you that I am different?”

“No. I like it that you’re different.”

Rob sat on the edge of the bed. “Will you help me take off my boots?” He held out his left leg.

Smiling at him, Lulu swung a long, naked limb over his leg, pivoting as she did, so that she wound up facing away from him. Rob found the image of her bare behind intensely erotic as she struggled with his boot.

As soon as his boots were off, Lulu removed his clothes. After he was naked, she leaned into him, pressing her bare breasts against his chest, grinding her pelvis against his and pushing him down onto the bed as she did.

They lay on the bed exploring each other’s bodies with their hands until, finally, Rob climbed on top. For the next few minutes there was only the sound of heavy breathing, a few groans of pleasure, and the symphony of creaking bedsprings.

Afterward they lay side by side, bathed in perspiration and coasting back down from their erotic high.

“Where are you going now?” Lulu asked.

“What do you mean, where am I going? I’m staying here all night.”

“No, I don’t mean that. I mean after tonight. When you give up looking for gold, where will you go?”

“Are you that certain that I’m going to give up?”

“You should.”

“Oh? And why is that?”

“Because there is no gold here,” Lulu said.

“I know that’s what everyone is telling you,” Rob said, “and I don’t blame them. It’s frustrating as hell to bust your ass out there day after day after day and not come up with
even the tiniest bit of color. I’m frustrated too, but I’m not ready to give up yet.”

“There is no gold,” Lulu said again.

Rob chuckled. “Are you trying to get rid of us so you and the other girls can go out and start digging where we left off?”

“No,” Lulu said. “Do you know Luke Rawlings and Percy Sheridan?”

“Sure,” Rob said. “Everyone in the camp knows them. They are the two who discovered gold up here in the first place.”

Lulu shook her head. “They didn’t discover it here, they put it here.”

“What do you mean, they put it here?”

“I think the word is called ‘seeded.’ They seeded several rocks with gold, then scattered them around.”

“Well now, why the hell would they do something like that? That doesn’t make any sense at all. It’s not like they are trying to sell off claims or anything.”

“I don’t know why, but they did it,” Lulu said. “They just did it.”

“How do you know this?”

“Because Luke got drunk one night and told me,” Lulu said. “He did more than just tell me, he bragged about it. And Percy did the same thing with Sue. They seeded the field up here. And all this time they’ve been laughing at all you men, behind your backs.”

“I’ll be damn,” Rob said. “You know, I could almost believe it. Nobody has really found anything since we started. Nobody. I just can’t understand why they would have done it, though. By the way, if you know this, why are you and the other girls staying here?”

“We’re here because we know where the gold really is.”

“You do? Where?” Rob asked.

“It’s in your pocket, honey. And the pockets of every other man up here.”

Rob laughed. “I guess I walked right into that one,” he said.

Somewhere in the predawn darkness a calf bawled anxiously and its mother answered. In the distance a coyote sent up its long, lonesome wail, while out in the pond, frogs thrummed their night song. The moon was full and the night was alive with stars, from the very bright, shining lights, all the way down to those stars that weren’t visible as individual bodies at all but whose glow added to the luminous powder that dusted the distant sky.

Around the milling shapes of shadows that made up the small herd rode four men: Eddie, Win, Willie, and Hawke.

“You ever drove a herd before, Mr. Hawke?” Willie, one of the cowboys who had stayed on at Northumbria, asked.

“No, I can’t say as I have,” Hawke replied.

“Well, sir, I know you’re the boss ’n’ all, so’s I wouldn’t want to speak out of turn or nothin’, but iffen it was me, I’d start drivin’ ’em toward the river now.”

“Good idea, thanks. All right, 1et’s start ’em toward the river,” Hawke said.

“I’m surprised they don’t have anybody out here watching the herd,” Win said.

“They do,” Hawke replied.

“What do you mean, they do? Have you seen anyone?”

“No,” Hawke answered.

“Then what makes you think they’ve got anyone out here watchin’?”

“I can feel it,” Hawke said.

The calf’s call for his mother came again, this time with more insistence. The mother’s answer had a degree of anxiousness to it.

“Sounds like one of the little fellers has wandered off,” Eddie said. “Maybe I’d better go find it and get it back to its mama.”

“Leave it,” Hawke said. “We need to get out of here as quickly as we can.”

“Ah, I don’t mind,” Eddie said, slapping his legs against the side of his horse and riding off, disappearing in the darkness.

Suddenly, from the darkness, came a gunshot.

“What the hell is Eddie doing?” Willie asked. “He’ll spook the herd.”

“I don’t think that was Eddie,” Hawke said.

“What do you mean?”

“I think we’ve got company.”

They heard the sound of galloping hooves. From the darkness, Eddie’s horse, its nostrils flared wide and its eyes wild with terror, came running by them, its saddle empty.

“My God, where’s Eddie?” Willie asked.

Now, several gunshots erupted in the night, and the muzzle flashes lit up the herd.

“Jesus! What’s happening? Who is it? They’re all around us!” Win shouted in terror.

The cattle, spooked by the gunfire, started running. But Hawke noticed they were at least running in the right direction.

“Willie, Win, keep the herd running!” Hawke said, pulling his rifle from the scabbard.

“What are you doing? Where are you going?” Willie asked.

“I’m going to stop them, then I’m going to find Eddie.”

“By yourself?”

“Stay with the herd!” Hawke shouted again, already starting back toward the sound of the guns.

The two cowboys were more than anxious to comply with
that order, and they fell in beside the herd, shooting and yelling, urging the cattle to run faster.

Hawke rode at a gallop to a nearby ridge, leaped from his horse and lay on his stomach on a flat rock.

He saw them then, four mounted men, moonlit and silhouetted against the star-bright sky. They were riding hard in pursuit of the herd, their right arms extended in front of them, pistols in their hands, firing toward the thundering herd.

Hawke fired at the one in the rear and saw him tumble from the saddle.

Because of the noise of the nearly stampeding herd and the sounds of the gunshots, the men did not realize that they were themselves under attack, nor did they know that one of their number had been shot.

Hawke fired a second time, again taking out the man riding at the rear. Not until he took out the second man did the two remaining riders realize what was happening—that they were no longer the hunters, but the hunted. Breaking off their chase, they turned and galloped away as fast as they could. Hawke threw a couple of long distance shots at them, purposely missing them now, because they no longer represented a threat. But he put the bullets close enough so they could hear them passing and keep running.

With the danger now gone, he rode back over the ground, looking for Eddie. He found him about a mile back, lying belly down. When Hawke got down to look at him, Eddie suddenly turned over, his gun in his hand.

“No, Eddie, it’s me!” Hawke said.

Eddie lowered his gun.

“Where are you hit?” Hawke asked.

“In the ass,” Eddie replied. “The sons of bitches shot me in the ass.”

Hawke looked, and saw that the bullet had hit him in one cheek of his buttocks. He didn’t see an exit wound.

“The bullet is still in there,” Hawke said.

“In the ass,” Eddie said again. “Can you think of a worse place to be shot?”

“Yeah,” Hawke said. “Think where you would be if it had hit you in the front at about that same place.”

“Oh,” Eddie said. “Oh, yes, I see what you mean. Yeah, I guess I am lucky at that.”

“Think you can sit a horse?” Hawke asked.

“I don’t know what happened to my horse.”

“We’ll catch up with him. Right now you’re going to ride double with me.”

Hawke helped Eddie up onto his horse, putting him on just behind the saddle.

“Oh, damn, this hurts,” Eddie said. “We’re not going to be able to ride very fast if those guys come after us again.”

“They won’t be coming after us.”

“They won’t? How do you know?”

“Because I ran them off,” Hawke answered without further elaboration.

EDDIE TAYLOR’S HORSE KEPT GOING, ALL THE WAY
back to Northumbria. Several of the hands recognized the riderless horse as Eddie’s, and they were forming a group to go after him and the others when a rider some distance from the Big House spotted a herd on the move. Cautiously, he headed toward them. When he recognized the men, he quickly closed the distance. That was when he saw Eddie being pulled in a travois.

“When Eddie’s horse come runnin’ in all alone, we was some worried about you,” the cowboy said.

“Hey, Tim, is my horse all right?” Eddie asked. “Was he shot?”

“No, he wasn’t shot. He’s fine. What happened to you?”

“Nothin’,” Eddie said. “Nothin’ happened to me.”

Win laughed. “He got shot.”

“What’s so funny about gettin’ shot?” Tim asked.

“Here,” Win said, pointing to his own posterior. “He got shot here.”

“I’ll go back and tell the others you are all all right. They was gettin’ ready to come after you.”

“Don’t you tell them nothin’ ’bout where I got shot!” Eddie shouted as the cowboy headed back toward the Big House. “Do you hear me, Tim? Don’t you tell them nothin’.”

“They’re back!” Tim told the others a few minutes later, galloping into the main compound to report. “I seen ’em. They’re back, and they’ve got the herd with them!”

“What about Eddie?” Dorchester asked anxiously.

Tim smiled. “He’s all right. He just got shot in the ass…uh, the rear end,” he said, amending his comment in mid-sentence because Pamela was present.

“Eddie was shot? Then there was shooting,” Dorchester said.

“I reckon there was, bein’ as Eddie got hisself shot,” Tim replied. “But I don’t know much else about what happened. I figured I’d better get on back here and tell you folks ’fore you rode off.”

“Yes, Tim, that was the right thing to do, and I appreciate it,” Dorchester said.

“Where is Eddie now?” Pamela asked, concerned for the young cowboy.

Tim laughed. “He’s lyin’ belly down on a travois, with his ass stickin’ up in the air.”

Several of the cowboys laughed, and Tim, realizing what he had said, blushed and apologized to Pamela.

“I’m sorry, ma’am, didn’t mean no disrespect.”

“That’s all right, Tim,” she said. “Your characterization was most…descriptive.”

“Phil,” Dorchester called to one of his men. “Ride into town and get Dr. Urban, would you? Tell him we have a wounded man out here.”

“Yes, sir,” Phil said, starting toward the corral to saddle his horse.

“How about some of you other fellas comin’ with me?” Tim said to the others. “Let’s go out there and take the herd,
so those boys can come on in. They’ve had a long night of it, I expect.”

“Thanks, Tim,” Dorchester said. “That’s a good idea.”

Half a dozen cowboys responded to Tim’s suggestion, and a few minutes later they were saddled and on their way.

About fifteen minutes after the cowboys left to bring the herd in, Hawke, Willie, Win, and Eddie showed up. Eddie was on his stomach on a travois, and as Tim had pointed out, his bottom was sticking up in the air. The few cowboys who were still there laughed at the sight.

“What the hell are you laughing at?” Eddie shouted angrily. “How about I shoot some of you in the ass and see how you like it?”

“Take him in the house,” Dorchester said. “Mr. Wilson will find a bedroom for him. I think he would be better off there than in the bunkhouse.”

“Yes, sir,” Win said. “That’s real decent of you, Mr. Dorchester.”

Win helped Eddie up, and then, with Win on one side and one of the cowboys on the other, they started walking him toward the house.

“Hawke, you want to tell me what happened?” Dorchester asked.

“Well, they had clearly decided to keep the herd for themselves,” Hawke said, “because they had people out there guarding it. When we came after it, they opened fire on us.”

“How did you manage to get the herd away?”

“When the shooting started, the herd stampeded,” Hawke explained. “And fortunately, they were running in the right direction.”

“There was four of ’em, Mr. Dorchester,” Willie said. “Four of ’em come at us, and Hawke, here, turned ’em back all by his ownself.”

Dr. Urban came out of the bedroom where Eddie had been taken. His sleeves were rolled up and his hands were bloody, so he washed them in a basin that Wilson had placed on the hall table.

“How is he, Doctor?” Dorchester asked.

“If the wound doesn’t putrefy, he should be all right,” the doctor said. “I managed to extract the bullet without doing too much more damage to the wound, and I poured alcohol on it. There are a couple of doctors in Europe who are very much of the belief that if a wound is sterilized, the patient will have a better chance of recovery. Of course, not everyone agrees, but it seems to make sense to me that if you can keep a wound clean, there is less chance for putrefication, or, as they call it, infection.”

“Doctor, I thank you very much for coming out,” Dorchester said.

“I’m going to leave a little laudanum. If the pain gets too bad, you can give him a few drops in a glass of water. But don’t overdo it.”

Dorchester followed the doctor to the door to tell him good-bye. Hawke, who had waited in the parlor until the doctor was finished, was ready to leave as well.

“Doc, if you don’t mind a little company, I’ll ride in with you,” Hawke said.

“Hawke, no need for you to go into town,” Dorchester said, surprised at hearing his announcement. “As the foreman, you have a place out here. In the Big House, actually.”

“Thanks,” Hawke said. “And I will take you up on it tomorrow night. But I’ve got to go back for my clothes and things, and the hotel room is paid for through the night.”

“All right,” Dorchester said. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Thinking to have a drink before turning in for the night, Hawke turned his horse out in the livery, then walked across
the street to the saloon. As soon as he stepped through the door, he caught, out of the corner of his eye, a chair being brought down on him.

Hawke’s reaction was quick enough to enable him to avoid the full brunt of the chair, but the legs caught him on the left shoulder, sending a stab of pain shooting down his side and his arm. It also knocked him down.

“Where at’s your pocket knife now, you son of a bitch?” Metzger yelled at him. Metzger lifted the chair back over his head to finish Hawke off. As he stepped forward, though, Hawke rolled and, with a sweep of his foot, caught Metzger behind the leg, bringing him down.

Hawke scrambled quickly to his feet. Metzger started for the chair again, but Hawke kicked it away.

Metzger smiled, then lifted his fists. “All right,” he said. “We’ll do it your way. I’m goin’ to enjoy this.”

“Fight, fight!” someone shouted, and the bar patrons quickly gathered around for the impromptu entertainment.

Neither Hawke nor Metzger had been longtime residents of Green River, so neither had a large following of supporters. Metzger had been there long enough, however, to make himself genuinely disliked, so what support there was in the saloon was for Hawke. But among his supporters there was little confidence in his ability to prevail.

“Metzger’s damn near twice as big as Hawke,” one of the patrons said. “Like as not, he’ll break Hawke’s back.”

“I don’t know,” one of the others said. “I’ve seen big ’uns go down before.”

After the initial comments, a hush fell over the others as they watched the two combatants go after each other. Hawke and Metzger circled about, their fists doubled in front of them, each trying to test the mettle of the other. On the surface it clearly looked as if Metzger would have the advantage. He was bigger and stronger. But to the surprise of
nearly everyone in the saloon, Hawke wasn’t backing off, and they wanted to see how he would handle it. They knew he would have to depend on quickness and agility against Metzger’s brute strength.

Metzger attacked first, a clublike swing that Hawke leaned away from and counterpunched with a quick jab. It was a good punch, catching Metzger flush on the jaw, but the big man just laughed it off. As the fight went on, it was clear that Hawke could hit Metzger almost at will, but since he was bobbing and weaving, he couldn’t get set for a telling blow. And what blows he landed didn’t seem to faze Metzger at all.

Then Metzger connected. It was only a glancing blow, but enough to send Hawke careening into one of the tables, which fell over with a crash, sending glasses and bottles banging and scattering about. Trying to capitalize on it, Metzger rushed toward Hawke to kick him, but Hawke managed to get out of the way, though not without knocking over another table.

Recovering from the glancing blow, and having avoided Metzger’s rush, Hawke was able to return to his fight plan. He hit Metzger in the stomach several times, hoping to find a soft spot, but there didn’t seem to be one there. When that didn’t work, he started throwing long punches at Metzger’s face, hoping to score there, but they seemed just as ineffectual as the others had been, until he saw a quick opening that allowed him to send a long left to Metzger’s nose.

Hawke saw the nose go, and it began bleeding profusely. He tried to hit it again, but now Metzger protected it. For his part, Metzger threw great swinging blows at Hawke, barely missing him, and Hawke knew that if just one connected, he would be finished.

After four or five blows that failed to connect, Hawke noticed that Metzger was leaving an opening for a good right
punch, if he could just slip one in across his shoulder. On Metzger’s next swing, Hawke was ready, counterpunching with a solid right, straight at the place where he knew Metzger’s nose would be. He hit it perfectly, and Metzger let out a bellow of pain.

Blood poured from his nose, across his lips and teeth, and into his beard. The broken, bloody nose was not only painful, it was making it difficult for Metzger to breathe. And that contributed to his getting tired, so tired that he no longer danced around, he stumbled. And his punches had lost nearly all of their power.

Hawke extended the three middle fingers of his right hand, stepped inside one of Metzger’s ineffectual swings and thrust his fingertips into the man’s solar plexus.

With a loud
oof
, Metzger doubled over, his hands on his stomach as he tried to regain his breath. Hawke sent a whistling punch into his Adam’s apple, and the big man collapsed, writhing in agony and struggling to breathe.

Hawke stood over him for a few seconds, until he saw that Metzger wasn’t going to get up, then he started toward the bar. Without being asked, Jake poured a drink and slid it in front of him.

“I have to tell you, for a while there I wouldn’t have given a bucket of warm piss for your chances with that big son of a bitch. I’d say he has about fifty pounds on you. You sure aren’t particular about who you pick fights with.”

Hawke chuckled. “Well, if you had paid attention to the start of it, you would see that I didn’t exactly start it.”

“Yeah, I guess you’re right at that. He didn’t leave you a hell of a lot of choice.”

After finally regaining his breath, Metzger slunk out of the saloon, leaving so quietly, few even noticed that he was gone. The excitement over, the saloon got back to normal; poker games were picked up where they left off, conversa
tions resumed, and the piano player started pounding out an almost recognizable version of “Buffalo Gals.”

Hawke winced at a couple of the sour notes, and when the piano player finished the song, walked over to him.

“May I show you something?” he asked.

He was glad to see that the expression on Aaron Peabody’s face was more curious than challenging.

Leaning over the keyboard, Hawke played “Buffalo Gals,” very quietly, so quietly that only the piano player and those closest to the piano could hear it. As he played each chord, he held his hands in place for a moment so Peabody could see what he was doing.

“I’ll be damn,” Peabody said. “Do you mind if I play it that way?”

“Be my guest,” Hawke invited.

Peabody began, playing it as quietly as Hawke had. A couple of times he made mistakes, but Hawke corrected him.

“Damn!” Peabody said proudly. “Damn, this is good!”

He played “Buffalo Gals” a second time, this time using the chords Hawke taught him. The song was a hundred percent better, so much so that when he finished, there was a smattering of applause.

“Very good,” Hawke said.

Aaron Peabody smiled broadly, then looking at the piano, frowned. “You know what? I think I’ll ask my brother to get this thing tuned.”

“No doubt it would help,” Hawke agreed.

Before Hawke went to bed that night, he lit the lantern and walked over to the window to adjust it to catch the breeze. He saw, then, a sudden flash of light in the hayloft over the livery across the street. He knew he was seeing a muzzle flash even before he heard the gun report, and he was already pulling away from the window as a bullet crashed
through the glass and slammed into the wall on the opposite side of the room.

Hawke reached up to extinguish the lantern, cursing himself for the foolish way he had exposed himself at the window. He knew better than to do that.

“What was that?” someone shouted from down on the street.

“A gunshot! Sounded like it came from over there by the—”

That was as far as the disembodied voice got before another shot crashed through the window of Hawke’s room. If he thought the first shot had cleaned out all the glass, he was mistaken, for there was another shattering, tinkling sound of a bullet crashing through glass.

“Get off the street!”

Hawke heard the voice, and even from up in his room it was loud and authoritative. The words floated up from the street below. “Everyone, get inside!”

Hawke recognized Deputy Hagen’s voice. On his hands and knees so as not to present a target, he crept up to the open window. Lifting his head up just far enough to look out, he saw Hagen walking down the middle of the street with his pistol in his hand.

“Hagen, no, the shooter is in the livery!” Hawke shouted. “Get out of his way!”