The King Hill War (10 page)

“That’s him,” Lonnie said.

“Damn, he sure don’t look like no gunfighter. Look at them fancy clothes he’s wearin’,” Poke said.

“Yeah, he’s a Fancy Dan, all right,” Lonnie said. He chuckled. “And it looks like he’s goin’ to make this just real easy for us.”

“How are we goin’ to handle it?”

“Just follow my lead,” Lonnie said. “When the time comes, I’ll give you the word.”

“Would you like a beer, Mr. Hawke?” Dan asked.

“Yes,” Hawke replied. He glanced toward the piano. “And if you don’t mind, I’d like to play the piano for a moment or two.”

“Mind? Why in the world should I mind?” Dan said. “I’ve heard you play before. Of course you are welcome to play.”

Hawke went over to the piano, sat down and stared at the keys for a moment, then began playing Chopin’s Polonaise Number One.

“Oh, listen to that,” one of the girls said. “Isn’t that just the most beautiful thing you’ve ever heard?”

The three girls got up from the table and moved to a table closer to the piano.

“Wait a minute, where you girls goin’?” Jules called.

“Let ’em go,” Lonnie said after they had moved. “If they’re pawin’ over him, it’ll just make it easier for us. Get ready.” He smiled broadly. “We’ve got him now.”

Following Lonnie’s lead, Jules and Poke stood up and walked over to stand directly behind Hawke. One of the girls happened to look back toward them then, and saw the three men drawing their guns.

“Piano man! Look out!” she screamed.

Hawke threw himself to the right, off the piano bench, drawing his pistol even as he was diving to the floor. All three of his would-be assailants fired at the same time, their bullets crashing into the piano.

Hawke fired twice, hitting both Jules and Poke. But before he could fire a third time, Lonnie screamed and threw his pistol down.

“No!” he shouted. “No! I’m unarmed!” Turning, he ran toward the door. “I’m unarmed!” he screamed again.

A moment later, as the gun smoke drifted upward, they heard the sound of hoofbeats as Lonnie galloped out of town.

“Are you all right, mister?” one of the girls asked as Hawke stood up.

“Yes,” he said. “Yes, I’m fine. Thanks for the warning.”

“What about them two?” Dan asked, pointing to the two bodies on the floor.

“They’re dead,” Hawke said without looking any closer.

“How do you know they’re dead?” the barkeep asked.

“Because I didn’t have time not to kill them,” Hawke replied.

“I THINK YOU OUGHT TO KNOW,” HAWKE SAID
when he got back to the ranch with the cinnamon, “that I had to kill two men today.”

“Not Jesse!” Hannah gasped. “Oh, Mr. Hawke, please tell me you didn’t kill Jesse!”

“It wasn’t Jesse,” Hawke said. “It was a couple of men who rode for Creed. The sheriff said their names were Poke and Jules.”

Ian nodded. “I know both of them.” Poke Tilly and Jules Carr. They were as evil as they come. What happened?”

Hawke told the story.

“You said the sheriff told you their names,” Cynthia said. “Are you in any trouble with the sheriff?”

Hawke shook his head. “No. There were four eyewitnesses and they all told the sheriff exactly what happened.”

“Thank God for that. I’d hate to think I was the cause of
you coming out here only to wind up in jail. Or worse yet, getting yourself killed.”

Hawke smiled. “I don’t plan to do either,” he said. “On the other hand, I did bring back the cinnamon sticks you asked for, so I do plan to enjoy some of the apple pie.”

“Oh!” Cynthia said. “Yes, the potluck. Come, Hannah, help me. We have a million things to do before they all come.”

The next day, the sheep ranchers began arriving by midmorning; families in wagons, buckboards, and on horseback. As they arrived, the men greeted the men, the children ran to join the other children, and the women went into the house carrying their own contribution to the potluck dinner…fried chicken, sourdough bread, baked beans, corn pudding, and an assortment of pies and cakes.

There were twelve families in Camas Valley who raised sheep, and all twelve families came. By noon the Macgregor place was overrun with children as they played various games of tag, mumblety-peg, and red rover. The older children, and even some of the men, participated in a spirited game of baseball, which ended only when Cynthia rang a dinner bell.

A long table had been constructed by placing boards over sawhorses, then covering it with several tablecloths. Chairs, kegs, stools, boxes, and even hastily constructed benches provided a place for all to sit.

After the meal, as the women worked to wash the dishes and clean up, Ian asked the men to meet with him in the parlor. When Hawke hung back, Ian specifically requested that he come as well.

“What’s this all about, Ian?” Clem Douglass asked as the men began to gather. “I mean it was a good meal and a good opportunity for all of us to get together, but you’ve been pretty mysterious the whole day.”

“I’ll get to that in a minute,” Ian said. “Most of you have met Hawke today, but I want to take this opportunity to formally introduce him.” He pointed to the back of the room, where Hawke had taken what he thought was the most inconspicuous chair available.

“This is my friend Captain Mason Hawke,” Ian said. “Captain Hawke and I served together during the war, and I never knew a better officer. My wife asked him—that is, I asked him—to come spend some time with us, to help us in our…difficulties…with the cattlemen.”

One of the ranchers put up his hand.

“We’re not formal here, Patterson. If you want to say something, just say it,” Ian said.

“Mr. Hawke, I heard you was involved in a shootin’ in town, yesterday,” Mark Patterson said. “Is that true?”

“It is,” Hawke replied.

“They said it was three to one, but you come out on top.”

“What are you getting at, Mark?” Ian asked.

“Is this man you brought out here, this Mason Hawke…a professional gunfighter? Because if he is, I don’t want no part of it.”

“Why don’t you ask him yourself?” Ian asked. “He’s right here in the room with us.”

“All right, I will ask him,” Patterson said. He looked at Hawke and was met with a steady, unblinking gaze. Patterson blinked a couple of times, then cleared his throat before he spoke.

“Are you a professional gunfighter, Mr. Hawke?”

“I’m a professional pianist,” Hawke replied.

“A piano player? Is that what you said? That you are a professional piano player?”

“No, sir. I said pianist,” Hawke said. “There is a difference.”

“All right, if you are a professional piano play…uh…pianist, like you say, how is it you were able to handle all three of ’em?”

“Only two,” Hawke said. “The third one, Lonnie Creed, threw down his gun and ran away. I could have killed him, but I didn’t.”

“You didn’t answer my question, Mr. Hawke. How could you do that if you weren’t a professional gunfighter?”

“Mark Patterson, will you for heaven’s sake just shut up?” Ed Wright said. “He handled three cattlemen all by himself, and he is on our side. You wanted to know if he is a professional gunfighter, he said no, and I believe him. Now let it be. Mr. Hawke, welcome to King Hill.”

“Thank you,” Hawke said.

“All right, gentlemen,” Ian said, “if you will, we’ll get on with the meeting.”

Emerson Booker nodded. “I was wondering when we were going to get around to that,” he said. “I didn’t figure you invited us all here just to meet Mr. Hawke.”

“No, I didn’t,” Ian said. He paused for a moment. “You might say that I’m doing the work of the sheriff, but I figured it would be better coming from me than him.”

“What?” Patterson asked. “What are you talking about?”

“The other day, as I was having dinner at a café in town, the sheriff stopped by our dinner table, swore me in as a temporary deputy, and presented me with a court order. He also had one for each of you, which I took from him, agreeing to deliver them.”

“What is the court order about?” Douglass asked.

“It says we cannot use the open range to graze our sheep,” Ian replied.

“I knew Creed was a powerful man in these parts,” Douglass said, “but I didn’t know he was so powerful that he could control the judges.”

Several others voiced their opinions as well.

“This isn’t fair.”

“We’ve got to do something about this.”

“This will be the end of us.”

“I should’ve stayed in Tennessee.”

“Wait a minute,” Emerson said. He had been looking at the injunction handed to him. “You know, fellas, this could turn out to be a good thing.”

“A good thing? How can you call it a good thing?” George Butrum asked.

“Because this isn’t actually a court order,” Emerson said. “This is merely an injunction.”

“What’s the difference?” Mitch Arnold wanted to know.

“A court order is a permanent cease and desist order. An injunction is in effect only until a court hearing,” Emerson explained.

“Yes, Sheriff Tilghman said the hearing is next Wednesday,” Ian said. “I agree that we need to go to court to give our side of it, but I don’t know why you say that might be a good thing.”

“Think about it,” Emerson said. “If we go to court and establish our case, then we will not only have the law on our side, we will have court authority for the law to enforce our right to be there. The way it is now, we are sort of in limbo, us against the cattlemen, with the law staying out of it.”

“By golly, I think Emerson is right,” Douglass said, striking his open palm with a fist. “If we get a court order saying that we have the right to be there, the cattlemen will be in the wrong, and the sheriff will have to protect us.”

“All right,” Chris Dumey said. “Suppose you are right. What’s our next move?”

“Our next move is simple,” Emerson replied. “As Ian
said, we have to go to Mountain Home to plead our case before the judge.”

“We will need a lawyer for that, won’t we?” Douglass asked.

“I suppose so.”

“That’s what I was afraid of,” Douglass said with a sigh. “That means we’re out of luck. Gilmore is the only lawyer in town, and he is in Creed’s pocket.”

“Do you actually have to have a lawyer?” Ian asked. “I mean it isn’t against the law for us to plead our own case, is it?”

“No, it isn’t against the law,” Emerson said. “But you are always better off if you have a lawyer.”

“What if, instead of a lawyer, one of us pleads the case for all of us?” Ian asked. “Who would have a greater interest in our success than one of us?”

“All right, but who would that be?” Dumey asked.

Ian pointed to Emerson. “Booker is more educated than any of us,” he said. “And he certainly has an interest in our succeeding. I suggest he be the one to represent us.”

Emerson held up his hands. “Oh, no,” he said. “I’m not qualified to be a lawyer.”

“You said yourself that you don’t have to be a lawyer.”

“I also said you would be better off if you had a lawyer.”

“What if we had Gilmore represent us?” Ian asked. “Do you think we would be better off with him?”

“Gilmore? No, I wouldn’t think so,” Emerson said. “Like Clem said, Gilmore is in Creed’s pocket.”

“So you would be better than Gilmore?”

“For our purposes, yes, I suppose so, but Gilmore isn’t the only lawyer in the territory.”

“Maybe he isn’t,” Ian said. “But how do we know whether to trust any of the other lawyers out here? This
was cattle country before we brought sheep here. How do we know that any lawyer out here can be trusted to give our side? No, sir. You are an educated man, Emerson, and you are a smart man. I vote for you to represent us.”

“Me too,” Douglass said.

“Me too,” Dumey added.

“Let me hear it from the rest of you,” Ian said. “Is there anyone here who would not want Emerson to represent us?”

Nobody spoke up.

“Emerson, it’s up to you, now,” Ian said. “Will you do it?”

“You’re putting quite a burden on my shoulders,” Emerson said.

“I know we are. But all we are asking is that you do the best you can.”

Emerson sighed, then nodded. “All right,” he said. “I’ll do what I can.”

“Good man,” Douglass said, being the first one to stick out his hand. Then everyone else came up to him to shake Emerson’s hand and express their confidence in him. Emerson accepted their best wishes but said very little in return.

“Gentlemen,” Cynthia called, coming into the parlor. “Tomas has put down a wooden floor outside, and some of our Basque shepherds have agreed to play music. We can have a dance.”

“A dance, is it?” Ian said. He laughed. “Do I look like I can dance?”

“Sure you can dance, Ian,” Butrum said. “Why, you just grab hold of Cynthia and I’ll push you around myself.”

The others laughed as everyone filed out of the parlor.

Hawke had been listening to the conversation, but added
nothing to it. He was still sitting in the same chair in the back of the parlor.

Emerson didn’t leave with the others. Instead, he walked over to the window and stood there a moment, just staring outside.

“You’ll do fine,” Hawke said.

Emerson jerked around at the sound of his’ voice.

“I…I didn’t realize you were still in the room,” he said.

Hawke stood up and walked over to stand by Emerson. He pulled a golden case from his jacket pocket, opened it, and offered Emerson a cheroot.

“Thank you,” Emerson said, taking it.

Hawke extracted one for himself, then lit both of the little brown cigars.

“I don’t know what they expect of me,” Emerson said as he took a puff.

“They expect you to do the best you can,” Hawke said. “And I know that you will.”

“But I’m not a lawyer.”

“Emerson, you have intelligence and a sense of justice,” Hawke said. “It has been my experience that that makes you more qualified than half the lawyers in the country.”

Emerson thought about it for a moment, then chuckled. “That’s a pretty sweeping indictment of lawyers,” he said. “Accurate, perhaps, but sweeping.”

“Ian tells me that you were a schoolteacher,” Hawke said.

“Yes. I taught grammar and elocution at Sikeston High School in Sikeston, Missouri.”

“Why did you quit?”

“My wife died, and all of a sudden everything I saw reminded me of her. I felt like I needed to get out of Sikeston, and I’d always wanted to try something a bit more adven
turous than teaching school, so I came out here and went into sheep ranching.”

“Why sheep instead of cattle?”

“I didn’t just stumble into it, I looked into it,” Emerson said. “It is strictly a matter of business. I didn’t have very much money, and sheep ranching gives you a lot higher return on your investment. Because of that, you don’t need as many sheep, or as much land, to make it profitable.”

“Makes sense, I suppose,” Hawke said. He smiled. “And if you were looking for adventure, you are certainly getting your share.”

“I must admit that, of late, it has been considerably more adventurous than I anticipated.”

From outside they heard the music of an accordion, flute, and, guitar.

“Sounds like the dance has started,” Hawke said.

“Let’s join the fun,” Emerson suggested.

When Hawke went outside, he saw Tomas on the accordion, Josu playing a
txistu
, which was a flute, and Felipe and Xabier playing the
txalaparta
, an instrument made up of one or more thick wooden boards. The two men, using short wooden sticks about ten inches long and an inch and a half in diameter, hit the boards following a set of rules for rhythm. Each player had his own space of time that become longer or shorter during a session of playing, and this respect for the other player’s space established the rhythm.

“Señor Hawke, I know you can play the piano, but can you play the accordion?” Tomas asked, holding out the accordion.

Hawke smiled and took the accordion. The other musicians looked on with amusement until Hawke said, “Gentlemen, shall we play ‘Harnon’?”

Amazed that he would know one of their folk songs, they smiled and nodded in agreement as the music started.

When the song was finished, everyone applauded, and Hawke handed the accordion back to Tomas.

“Mila esker
,
eskerrik asko
,” Hawke said.

“Ez horregatik,”
Tomas said, beaming brightly. “You speak Euskara?”

Hawke laughed. “You have just heard my entire vocabulary,” he said. “But I’ve always thought that if you are only going to learn a few words in any language, you can’t go wrong with thank you.”

“We are honored that you chose to play with us,” Tomas said.