The King Hill War (4 page)

AS THE TRAIN SAT IN THE STATION, HAWKE STARED
through the window at the little one-street town. The sign hanging on the weathered depot identified the town as
SQUAW CREEK, IDAHO TERRITORY.
There were no more than six or seven people on the platform, and whether they were waiting to board the train, or to meet someone, or to just watch it pass through, Hawke had no idea.

A couple of riders passed close to the train, their horses badly lathered, as if they had been run hard. Hawke was certain they would head for the livery so the horses could be rubbed down, but instead the riders dismounted in front of the saloon.

Muley Thomas and Quint Weathers had ridden their horses hard, and when they dismounted in front of the Red Star Saloon, both animals were covered with sweat lather and breathing heavily.

“If we had enough money, we could get on that train and ride it to wherever it’s a-’goin’,” Quint said, pointing to the standing train.

“And if a frog had wings, he wouldn’t bump his ass ever’ time he jumps,” Muley replied.

“What’s that mean?” Quint asked.

“It means we don’t have enough money for a train ticket, and there ain’t no sense worryin’ ’bout somethin’ that can’t happen.”

A gray-bearded old man was sitting in a chair on the front porch of the saloon, whittling on a stick. He looked up as the two riders dismounted, and seeing the condition of the horses, he frowned in obvious disapproval.

“You boys must’a rode them horses pretty hard,” he said. “You got no right to just walk away from ’em like that. You should rub ’em down.”

“You rub ’em down, mister, if you are so worried about them,” Muley said.

“Ain’t my horses.”

“That’s right,” Muley said. “They ain’t your horses.”

With a grunt of contempt, the old man went back to whittling.

“You really think someone is chasin’ us?” Quint asked as the two stepped into the saloon.

“I don’t know,” Muley said. “Tucker said he heard the Regulator was after us, and I thought I seen somethin’ back there on the trail. Could be I was just spooked, though. Maybe I didn’t see nothin’ a-tall.”

“What are we goin’ to do about them horses?” Quint asked.

“What? Are you talkin’ like the old man now? You think we should rub ’em down or somethin’?”

“No, I’m not talkin’ about that. I’m talkin’ about the fact that they ain’t our horses.”

“The hell they ain’t. We roped ’em and broke ’em ourselves. Ain’t nobody ever rode either one of ’em ’cept me ’n’ you,” Muley said.

“Well, that’s true. But we was workin’ for the Double Y. And that means that all the horses we rounded up and broke belong to Mr. Yancey.”

“He’s give horses to ever’one that’s ever rode for ’im,” Muley said. “What makes you think he wouldn’t of give these to us?”

“’Cause we didn’t tell ’im we was quittin’,” Quint said. “We just rode off.”

“Yeah, well, there ain’t no way I’m goin’ to ride for that pissant of a brother he’s got ramroddin’ the outfit now.”

“Still, we should’a said somethin’ to him about it,” Quint said. “The way we done it, it makes it look like we stole them horses.”

The bartender came down to where the two cowboys were standing at the bar.

“What can I get you gents?”

“Beer,” Quint said.

“The same,” Muley said.

“You boys just passin’ through?” the bartender asked as he sat the two beers in front of them.

“Mister, where we’re goin’ ain’t none of your concern,” Muley said.

The friendly smile left the bartender’s face. “I reckon you’re right about that,” he said as he walked away.

“You didn’t have no call to talk to him like that, Muley. He was just bein’ pleasant, is all. He’s a bartender, that’s his job.”

“Yeah, well, like I said, I’m spooked. If Yancey really did get the Regulator after us, then the farther away we can get, the better off we are. And it’d be better for us if nobody knows where we’re goin’.”

“You been spooked ever since Tucker tol’ you that,” Quint said. “Who is he, anyway? I never even heard of anyone called the Regulator.”

“Well I’ve damn sure heard of him,” Muley said. “Some say he is the fastest gun ever lived. His name is Clay Morgan, and he used to be a U.S. Marshal till he got fired.”

Quint chuckled. “Well, if he got fired as a U.S. Marshal, then he must not be all that good. What’d he get fired for? Not bein’ able to bring his man in?”

“No. He brung his men in, all right. But what he done was, he brung ’em all in dead. They say he kilt ten or twelve men when he was a marshal. And they say he’s kilt more as a Regulator than he ever did when he was a marshal.”

“He’s a bounty hunter now?” Quint asked.

“Well, he calls hisself a private detective, you know, like Pinkerton and the railroad detectives?” Muley said. “But from what I’ve heard, he’s mostly just a hired gun.”

Quint shook his head. “Then we ain’t got nothin’ to worry about. Mr. Yancey wouldn’t never do nothin’ like that. He wouldn’t hire a gun just to run down a couple of cowboys who quit on him. Even if we did take the horses.”

“Titus Yancey wouldn’t, but his brother Jack would,” Muley said. “He’d do it in a heartbeat, and you know it.”

They heard the train whistle blow, then the puffing of steam as it began pulling out of the station.

“The train’s leavin’,” Quint said.

“So it is.”

“I wish we was on it. Especially if this fella you’re talkin’ about really is after us.”

“Yeah, well, we ain’t,” Muley said. “So the best thing we can do is just keep ridin’.”

“That’s them,” a voice said from just inside the front door.

Turning toward the door, Muley and Quint saw the old
man who had been whittling on the front porch. The man was pointing to them.

“They was the ones who was ridin’ them horses. And they left them poor critters just standin’ there, more dead than alive,” the old man said. “And like I tol’ you, Sheriff, there ain’t no call for anyone to treat horses like them boys did.”

“I’m not a sheriff. I’m a Regulator.”

“Oh, God, Quint, it’s him,” Muley said in a quiet, frightened voice. “It’s Clay Morgan.”

The man Muley identified as Morgan was big, well over six feet tall. He had steel-gray eyes and a scar that started just below his left eye then ran down his cheekbone like a purple flash of lightning before hooking into a full handlebar moustache. He was wearing a badge on his vest.

“Would you two boys be Muley Thomas and Quint Weathers?” he asked.

Muley nodded. “Yes, sir, Mr. Morgan. I’m Muley, this here is Quint,” he said. “May I inquire as to why you are askin’?”

“I think you know why I’m asking, Mr. Thomas,” Morgan replied. “I expect you two horse thieves had better come with me.”

“No, sir, we ain’t a-goin’ nowhere with you,” Muley said. He pointed to the badge on Morgan’s vest. “You’re wearin’ that badge, but you ain’t no real sheriff. You just said so yourself. That means you got no right to take us anywhere.”

“Oh, but I do,” Morgan replied. “Mr. Yancey swore out a warrant against you both for horse stealing, and he hired me to bring you back.”

“Which Yancey would that be?” Muley asked.

“Mr. Jack Yancey,” Morgan replied.

Muley sighed. “It would be him,” he said. “’Cause I
know that Titus Yancey would never do a thing like that. Look, why don’t you just take the horses back to Jack and we’ll call it quits?”

Morgan shook his head. “Too late for that. You boys are goin’ back to hang.”

“What?” Quint gasped. “Did you say we was goin’ back to hang?”

“That’s what they do to horse thieves, isn’t it?” Morgan replied.

“No, sir. I ain’t goin’ back to hang,” Muley said.

“Didn’t figure you’d go back peaceable,” Morgan said. He moved his hand down to his pistol. “It’s your call, boys. You can go back to hang or you can take your chances with me.”

“What are we goin’ to do, Muley?” Quint asked in a frightened voice.

“You want to go back to hang?” Muley asked.

“No.”

“Then there’s only one thing we can do.”

“You mean…you mean draw against him?”

“There’s two of us, Quint. Only one of him,” Muley said. “I figure we got no choice but to try.”

Morgan smiled, though it was a smile without humor. “Your friend is right, Quint. There’s two of you, and only one of me. You can either try me or you can hang. Which is it?”

“Let’s do it!” Muley shouted, making a desperate grab for his gun.

Clay Morgan had his gun out before either Muley or Quint touched theirs. His two shots were fired so close together that those who heard the confrontation but didn’t see it thought only one shot was fired.

Morgan stood there for just a moment, holding the smoking pistol as he looked down at the bodies of the two
men he had just killed. Then, slipping his pistol back into his holster, he stepped up to the bar. The beers Muley and Quint had ordered were still there, both mugs more than half full.

“Are these their beers?” Morgan asked easily.

The bartender, his eyes wide in wonder over what he had just seen, nodded once.

“They already paid for?” Morgan asked.

“Yes, sir.”

“Well, then, there’s no sense in letting them go to waste, is there?” Morgan asked.

“No, sir, I don’t s’pose there is,” the bartender said.

Morgan drank both beers, then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. Turning his back to the bar, he looked out over the saloon, where some of the shocked patrons had walked over to look down, in morbid curiosity, at the two men who were lying on the floor.

Morgan pulled a pencil and a piece of paper from his shirt pocket and started to write.

“I’m going to need some of you folks to sign this paper telling what happened here,” he said.

“Mr. Morgan, you don’t have to worry none about the sheriff,” the bartender said. “Ever here seen that them two boys went for their guns before you did.”

“I’m not worried about the sheriff, barkeep,” Morgan said. “This paper is just to show to Yancey so I can justify my pay.”

“TOMAS SAID YOU WANTED TO SEE ME, MRS. MACGREGOR?”
Emerson Booker asked.

“Yes,” Cynthia said. Looking over her shoulder to see that Ian was still in the bedroom, she stepped out onto the front porch and closed the door behind her. “Let’s talk out here. I don’t want Ian to know about this.”

Emerson frowned and shook his head. “Oh, I don’t know,” he said. “I wouldn’t want to keep any secrets from Ian.”

“Well, don’t worry, we aren’t going to be able to keep this a secret very long. As soon as you bring him here, Ian is going to know about it.”

“Bring who here?”

“Mason Hawke,” Cynthia said. “I wrote him and asked him to come help us.”

“Help you with what? Help you run the ranch? Look,
Mrs. Macgregor, you didn’t need to do that. If Tomas can’t keep up with the work, I’d be glad to send over someone to help out. I’m sure any one of us would.”

Cynthia shook her head. “No, it isn’t that. Tomas and the other hands are doing a fine job with the ranch. I’m talking about the other thing.”

“The other thing?”

“The trouble Mr. Creed is causing. I want Mr. Hawke to help us fight the cattlemen.”

“I see what you mean about not telling Ian,” Emerson said after a moment’s pause. “Ian is a very proud man. I’m sure he would be a little put off by thinking you called in a stranger to fight his battle for him.”

“Mason Hawke isn’t a stranger,” Cynthia said quickly. “I have known him since I was a little girl. Why, his family and my family were friends back in Georgia, before the war.”

“I see. And you think this man, Mason Hawke, can help us fight the cattlemen?”

“I know he can,” Cynthia said. “He is an exceptionally capable man.”

“All right, I’ll bring him here for you. Where will I find him?”

“According to the letter he sent me, his train will be arriving in King Hill, today.”

“How will I recognize him?”

“He’s quite good looking and—”

Emerson laughed and held up his hand. “Mrs. Macgregor, I’m not sure I would know what ‘good looking’ means, for a man. You are going to have to do better than that.”

“Well, he’s tall and slender, dark hair, blue eyes, and he dresses well.”

“Dresses well?”

Cynthia chuckled. “Yes. He always has been somewhat of a dandy about dressing. Just pick out the best dressed man you see and it’ll be Mason Hawke. Oh. He also plays the piano, beautifully.”

“He plays the piano,” Emerson said. “Yes, I’m sure that playing the piano will come in very handy in our fight with the cattlemen.”

“Don’t judge him before you see him, Mr. Booker. I told you, he is an exceptionally capable man.”

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Macgregor,” Emerson said. “Of course you are right, I had no call to say such a thing. I’ll defer to your judgment. I’ll bring your man to you.”

“Thank you.”

Still on the train, Hawke had his elbow on the window ledge and his chin cupped in his hand as he gazed at the panorama unfolding before him. In the distance he could see the mountains, dark blue at their base and rising to majestic heights where little spindriftlike tendrils of snow trailed away from the brightly gleaming snow-covered peaks; white, against the bright blue sky. The prairie below the mountains was ablaze with a colorful profusion of wildflowers; yellow yarrow, red Indian paintbrush, light blue mountain phlox, and purple trillium.

Close by, a jackrabbit rose to the challenge of the train and began running alongside the track, actually outpacing the steam engine for a short distance until it grew tired. Then the rabbit stopped and watched in disbelief as the slower but inexhaustible locomotive continued its same, unrelenting pace.

To the south of the track was the Snake River; to the north, a building came into view, low lying and built of sod, so that at first glance it appeared to be nothing more than a clump of nature, hardly discernable as a man-made
structure. Another building followed that one, this time made of wood, and with a barn and corral. After that, as the train slowed down, the number of buildings increased and Hawke realized that they were coming into a town.

“King Hill. This stop is King Hill,” the conductor called out, walking up the aisle.

As the train rattled, creaked, and clanged to a stop, Hawke stood up and stretched. He had been on it for the better part of three days and was looking forward to getting off.

After making arrangements to have his grip stay at the depot until he called for it, he walked up Pitchfork Road until he reached the Cattleman’s Saloon. Stepping through the bat-wing doors, he moved to one side, then slid back against the wall while he perused the saloon, looking closely at every patron. He had never been in this particular part of the country before and didn’t expect to have any personal enemies here, but he had no intention of being any less vigilant because of that.

This particular saloon was new to him, but only because of its geographic location. In fact, with all the saloons he had encountered over the last sixteen years of his life, they had by now become part and parcel of his heritage. There was a familiarity to the wide-plank boards that made up the floor, an acquaintance with the long bar with brass foot rail, the mirror-reflected bottles proudly displayed behind the bar, and, especially, the piano that sat at the rear of the saloon.

It was early afternoon, the saloon was so quiet that a couple of the bar girls had found time to sit at a table and talk to each other. A couple of men were at another table, while two more were standing at the bar. What energy there was came from a third table where six men were talking and laughing. One among them, a young man, was loud
and overbearing, while the other five were submissive to him. Hawke had seen his like before, obnoxious and sure of themselves, and he knew that they often needed to reinforce their own sense of self-worth by such behavior. If he was going to have any trouble in this saloon, he realized instinctively that it would come from this young man.

Hawke stepped up to the bar and ordered a beer.

“Just get off the train, did you?” the bartender asked as he set the beer in front of Hawke.

Hawke chuckled. “Yes, I did. Why? Is it that obvious?”

“Well, I knew I hadn’t seen you before,” he said. “And I know the train just arrived, so it was a pretty safe bet. You going to stay for a while, are you?”

“Yes, but I’m not sure how long I’ll be here. I’m looking for the Macgregor place,” Hawke said. “Do you know it?”

“Yes, I know it.”

“Can you give me directions to it? I understand that it’s near here.”

“Hey, you! Fancy Dan!” the young man who was holding court at the table called. “If you’re lookin’ for the Macgregor place, it’s easy enough to find. All you have to do is follow the smell of sheep shit.”

The others with him laughed.

“Well, I’m glad to see that King Hill has one,” Hawke said, drifting toward the table.

“Has one?” the young man replied, his face screwed up in confusion. “Has one what?”

“A resident ass,” Hawke said, stopping a few feet away.

“What?” the young man sputtered. “Mister, do you know who I am?”

“I thought we had already determined that you were the resident ass,” Hawke said.

“My name is Creed, mister. Lonnie Creed. Does that name mean anything to you?”

“Would you be Creed of Crown Ranch?”

Lonnie pulled the little string of rawhide from his pocket and stuck one end of it in his mouth. An arrogant smile spread across his face. “Yeah,” he said, chewing on the rawhide. “You have heard of me, haven’t you?”

“I’ve heard of you.”

“Then you know what an important man I am around these parts,” Lonnie said.

“Oh, yeah,” Hawke said. “I’ve heard how important you think you are.”

“Then you know better than to get on my bad side,” Lonnie said, not recognizing the sarcasm in Hawke’s reply. “Tell me. What do you call that little piece of lace around your neck?”

“It’s called a cravat,” Hawke said. “But it isn’t lace.”

Lonnie smiled. “It isn’t lace yet, but it will be lace when I get through with it,” he said, pulling his knife and reaching for the cravat.

Moving so quickly that Lonnie had no time to react, Hawke grabbed his arm and twisted it, turning Lonnie around. Hawke then took his knife from him and put the point of it to Lonnie’s neck.

“Ahhh!” Lonnie called out in surprise and fear.

“Why don’t I just turn your neck to lace instead?” Hawke asked.

“No, please!” Lonnie shouted in terror. “Somebody do something!”

The cowboys at the table were on their feet now, and a few of them started toward Hawke, who stuck the tip of the blade into Lonnie’s neck, just enough to bring blood.

“Come ahead,” he said quietly. “He’ll be flopping on the floor like a gutted fish before you get here.”

“No!” Lonnie shouted. “No, don’t do anything!”

The cowboys stopped moving.

“I expect you boys better go on home now,” a new voice said.

Looking toward the sound of the voice, Hawke saw a man wearing a badge.

“Mister, you want to let Lonnie go?”

Hawke hesitated a second, then pushed Lonnie away. Lonnie put his hand to his throat, then brought it down to look at the blood in his palm.

“Do something, Sheriff,” Lonnie said. “This son of a bitch cut me.”

“You’ve been cut worse shaving,” the sheriff said. Then, to Hawke, he said, “I’m Sheriff Tilghman. And you are?”

“Hawke. Mason Hawke.”

“You want to get rid of the knife, Mr. Hawke?”

Hawke held the knife by its point for a second, testing its balance, then threw it across the room, sticking it in the side of the stairs that led up to the second floor, where it was too high for anyone to reach from the floor.

“Now, what was all this about?” the sheriff asked.

“You seen it yourself, Sheriff,” Lonnie said. “This fancy dressed fella tried to cut my throat.”

“I saw that,” the sheriff said. “But I also recognized the knife. The knife is yours, isn’t it, Lonnie?”

“Well, yeah.”

“How did he happen to get your knife?” the sheriff asked.

“He took it from me,” Lonnie admitted.

“Well now, that’s quite a trick, isn’t it? He took it from you? How did that happen?”

“I was just havin’ a little fun with him is all. I didn’t mean nothin’ by it. He took it all wrong.”

“Yeah, it looked to me like you was havin’ just a whole lot of fun,” the sheriff said. “I think you should get on back out to the Crown now.”

“Sheriff, I—”

“Get on with you,” the sheriff said. “Unless you want to spend the night in jail.”

“My father wouldn’t like that.”

“Your father wouldn’t be in jail, you would,” the sheriff said. “Now, it’s your call, Lonnie. Which will it be?”

Lonnie glared at the sheriff for a long moment, then looked at the others. “Come on, boys, let’s go,” he said.

The five cowboys who were with Lonnie followed him out the front door.

The sheriff waited until all were gone, then turned to Hawke, who had gone back to the bar and his beer.

“Mr. Hawke, I take it you just got off the train?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“You passin’ through?”

“No. I plan to stay for a while.”

“Well, I don’t mind tellin’ you that you made an enemy today. And when you have Lonnie Creed as an enemy, you’ll have his pa and the whole Crown Ranch.”

“It was bound to happen anyway, Matt,” the bartender said. “This fella has already asked how to get to the Macgregor ranch.”

“Mr. Hawke, you don’t strike me as a shepherd,” the sheriff said.

“No. I’m a pianist.”

“A what?”

Hawke pointed to the piano. “A pianist,” he said. He started toward the piano.

“Well, what business do you have with the Macgregors?” the sheriff asked.

“I’m a friend of the family,” Hawke said. He sat at the piano and began playing, the music sweet and clear.

“I’ll be damned,” the sheriff said. “He is a piano player.”

Hawke finished the song, then turned around to see someone standing just behind him.

“You would be Mason Hawke, I take it?” the man asked.

“I am.”

“I thought so. Mrs. Macgregor said you played the piano well.”

“Who are you?” Hawke asked.

The man stuck his hand out for a handshake. “The name is Emerson Booker. I’m a friend of the Macgregors, and I’m here to take you out to their spread.”

Hawke looked over at the sheriff, who, leaning against the bar, had stuck around long enough to listen to the music.

“Will you be needing me for anything, Sheriff?”

“No, Mr. Hawke. I won’t be needing you.”

Hawke nodded. “Then I’ll be going. Thank you for your timely intervention.”

“Good day to you, Mr. Hawke.”

The sheriff watched Hawke and Emerson leave the saloon, then asked the bartender, “Dan, did you see what happened between Lonnie and Hawke?”

“Yeah, Matt, I seen it. It was the damnedest thing you ever saw. Lonnie come at the fancy dressed fella with a knife, and he took it away from him as easy as takin’ candy from a baby. Who woulda thought some piano player could handle Lonnie Creed like that?”

“He isn’t just any piano player,” the sheriff said. “He’s Mason Hawke.”

“Yeah, that’s what he said, but the name don’t mean nothin’ to me. Should it?”

“If he stays here for any length of time, you’ll know who he is,” the sheriff said. “You can mark my words on that.”