Gunhawk Read online

  ‘Aw, that weren’t nothing. Rand plugged Jake’s brother in Vulch City. Everything’s fine now, though,’ Bruce explained, trying to keep his voice level and bold, yet his eyes had strayed to Symes’ guns.

  ‘Go on, go on. Tell the rest of it,’ urged Symes, looking highly pleased and eager, and pouring more drinks for himself and Rand.

  The Boss proceeded to relate the gunfight, helped in detail by Mister Sturdy who had been champing excitedly on his cigar throughout this time, and who at the present moment was maintaining a sly watch over Jake Crocker. It was clear that fear of Symes duelled with Crocker’s hatred for Rand. He could not speak. He just stood back against the wall, and stared and stared at Jeff Rand, his eyes ablaze from interior fire.

  ‘Seems I shoulda went to Vulch City not Flintstone.’ Symes ruefully shook his head. ‘Guess I miss stacks of good raw entertainment thataway, pleasing other folk.’

  ‘Never mind that. What about the shipment o’ dollars?’ Bruce began to shout with impressive authority. ‘When is it due? Did you scare any sense into Hank Williams? Do yuh reckon he’ll stay on as clerk till we bust in? Well, Symes, well?’

  ‘Have you finished croaking, fat-belly?’ snarled Symes. ‘You’ve got quite a gunful o’ questions, ain’t yuh?’

  Big Bruce rolled restlessly in his chair and viciously bit at a quid of tobacco. He glared around him at his staring men, then fired a stream of tobacco-juice through the cabin window. Symes was playing with him, and he knew it, and what was worse half the outfit was present, all keenly watching him lose his dignity as leader. It was right down maddening. These skinny gunmen, Bruce reflected, were all branded alike; all big-headed; all tough and talkative as long as they carried six-guns. Bruce entertained a secret loathing of gunplay, and he longed to give Mister Symes, but now especially Rand whose calm manners somehow infuriated him the most, a sound and lasting lesson in fist-play. Another stream of powerful tobacco juice sailed through the window. Bruce was certainly feeling his weakening authority in the presence of these professional gunslingers.

  ‘All right, all right. Evidently you went on a fool’s errand, Symes. Mebbe you didn’t even see Hank Williams.’ Bruce tried again, with an effort to look unconcerned.

  ‘Cool off, fat-belly!’ sneered Symes. ‘Naturally I saw Hank. He was preparing to slug the bossy president of the bank when I rode into town. Hank said he didn’t like his job in the express office, but after a little pow-wow he even started to hanker after being president himself.’

  ‘What you mean? You ain’t gone and killed him have yuh?’ Bruce glared anxiously into the killer’s face.

  ‘Clay has settled down agin at the saloon,’ Symes continued, ignoring the question, ‘and he too has got real ambitious now. He likes sweeping floors. He said he would like to sweep saloons all over the derned country, till he was dead, for me.’

  Bruce began to understand; he looked around him, a sickly grin on his face, which grin reflected in the faces of the other men.

  ‘Thought sending you would do the trick,’ he said, conceitedly. ‘How about the shipment, though. When’s it due?’

  ‘That shipment o’ dollars arrives at Bulmer’s Bank, Flintstone, somewheres over a week from the present day,’ Symes stated, with sighing endurance. ‘Hank sez he’ll signal exact time to Clay. Clay sez he’ll ride hell-fire for here. I say I’m dead tired, hungry, and fed up with your dictating attitude, fleshy-guts. So throw some grub out here and leave me in peace.’

  The low murmuring that the news brought from the men nevertheless pleased Symes, who smirked contemptuously at them. The shipment was definitely arriving at Flintstone; each monthly shipment was always greater than the last, so fast was the mining town prospering. Only one thing tempered the satisfaction of this knowledge, and that was another spell of waiting, wherein war would be waged between a growing anticipation and fear.

  During the last few moments Jake Crocker had been filling his pockets from the cracker barrel and wrapping two bottles in a blanket. He was now prepared to leave; but, turning in the doorway, he directed a malicious look across the cabin, and said:

  ‘Mister Rand! You ain’t getting my brother’s share o’ dollars. You ain’t a-taking his place. You murdered him, say what you like. And I’m a-going to kill yuh!’

  A dreadful quiet was created by those words. The quiet was shockingly broken by a boisterous guffaw. That was Symes.

  ‘Ted Crocker had a fair chance to beat me, neighbour,’ Rand softly addressed Jake. ‘You get the same chance.’

  ‘He smells, Jeff! He’s a skunk-cabbage!’ Symes insulted Crocker whose eyes bulged wider. ‘Go on, kid, pack a gun for Mister Rand, and we’ll see you pack a coffin. Hopes I’m a bystander to this play, Jeff, I want to see how you work on small fry.’

  Rand glanced sharply at Symes, whose laughter sank low. Another battle of looks waged between them, to be broken when Crocker brutally slammed the door behind him, shuddering every plank in the place.

  ‘Try to calm the kid down for us, Mister Sturdy,’ sighed Big Bruce, pouring himself a mugful of liquor. ‘We’ll be needing every fella on the job what’s coming up.

  ‘No powers of talk are going to alter Jake much,’ murmured Mister Sturdy, shoving a pack of cards back into his vest pocket and preparing to leave. ‘I’ll do my best, of course, but not tonight.’

  ‘Look here, Rand, you’d better use the small bunk-house with Mister Sturdy,’ said Bruce; then, suddenly crashing his fist on the table, he leaned forward in a towering rage. ‘There’ll be no more gun-slamming, Rand! Do you hear?’

  ‘Naturally. Reckon your voice carried a coupla generations back,’ Rand dryly remarked. ‘I aim to kill no fella, if no fella aims to kill me.’

  Bruce felt he had already borne enough impudence from Symes, and therefore Rand’s remark inflamed him, seemed to choke him, and make him look tremendously hot for a human being. Had he to sit there and be over-ruled by every gun-packing saddle-bum that rode into the place? Why, before long he would be doing the chores for the whole confounded outfit. Impulsively Bruce crashed back his chair, drew himself to his full height, which candidly amazed Jeff Rand, and glowered down at everybody.

  ‘I’ll crush yuh to a bloody pulp!’ he roared, his voice deafening in that confined space. ‘I’m running this camp. You will keep your guns cold, Rand. Fust sign o’ violence and, by the bowels of hell, fella, I’ll pound yuh to gravel. That’s final.’

  He shook a great meaty fist in front of Rand’s face, and Rand flushed and tensed. Rand felt Symes and Sturdy and all of them eagerly watching him. Sure enough he was scared, yes, and scared of Big Bruce too, yet he raged inside like a furious fire. But he dare not touch his guns just then. There was nothing else to do but surrender to the humiliation, unless he desired to fist-fight Bruce, which would ruin him for life anyhow, hands and all. Gradually by a supreme effort Rand controlled his wrath.

  ‘Don’t nobody ever sleep around here?’ he drawled, with a pretence of stifling a yawn.

  ‘Just follow me, Jeff,’ Mister Sturdy replied quickly in relieved tones. ‘Yeah, just follow me; you too, Smily. Good night, boys!’

  ‘Rand will get a chance to prove himself soon enough; you’ll see,’ Bruce called after them forebodingly, his face plainly recording disappointment.

  ‘He sure will,’ added Symes, releasing another of his noisy guffaws.

  Jeff halted halfway to the door. Were they deliberately goading him, perhaps testing him? Slowly he turned and stared mournfully at Symes.

  ‘Our future should be real interesting,’ he muttered, ominously.

  ‘I’ll make it interesting, and exciting,’ Symes promised him with wicked kindness. ‘Good night, Mister Rand.’

  Slowly and thoughtfully Rand passed outside. He felt downright uneasy.

  Moonlight streamed through a certain cabin window, revealing phantom forms of sleepers to Jeff Rand, who could not sleep. Apart from himself, the cabin was occupied by Sturdy, Merrick and Gowl the cook.
Mister Sturdy had use of the only bunk in the place; the remainder were rolled in blankets on the floor, using saddle-bags for pillows. Rand’s boots and guns lay close beside him, one of each to right and left, as caution had taught him. His thoughts, ponderously battling with his great weariness, concerned a variety of things. But mostly he wondered just how fast Symes was with a gun. Another thing, did Symes rule the gang? Certainly Bruce did not appear clever enough for that position, and for the planning needed to hold up Bulmer’s Bank. But never mind; none of it mattered; Rand would quietly ride away at daybreak. It was none of his business. Still, how fast with a sixshooter was Mister Symes?

  Stealthily the moonlight crept across the floor. Jeff, watching its yellow richness, thought of gold. He then wondered despairingly of ever finding Miller’s yellow ore; next he mused on those peaceful days at Miller’s Mine. That was the only time he had really felt content, truly at ease, for years. Now old Jim was gone. Witty old Jim; good old Jim; he could see him now, grinning mischievously round his corncob pipe.

  The moonlight had faded; that infernal bull-frog had quit raising mischief at the spring out yonder, and the sizzling of crickets had dwindled at last into nothing. Deep sleep engulfed Rand.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Rand did not ride from Grapevine gulch next morning. He postponed his break with the Bruce Gang until next day, and then the next: a vague suspicion, a hunch which could not be defined, held him in captivity. Rand could not sacrifice his only slim lead to finding Miller’s killer and the gold.

  During this time, as the raid on Flintstone bank drew nearer, he became affected by the mounting excitement amongst the men. To hear them talk imparted anxious thrills of expectation, made him curious as to how the play might pan out in the end, but also roused guilty feelings on his own part. Rand had done many a shady thing in his life, just like everybody, but he had never ridden with a gang and raided a bank. What was more he was not inclined to that kind of livelihood, and he was a-going to get himself a few hundred miles away afore he was hauled into such big business. Anyhow, the boys now began to squabble as regular as a starving wolf pack in the gathering tension, creating more immediate dangers.

  Fearing trouble, knowing they mistrusted him and grudged him a share in the profits, Rand began to indulge in exploring rides among those rugged mountains. Sometimes Smily Merrick strung along with him, pleased to believe he was Rand’s saddle-buddy. Sure enough Smily was cheerful company to a lonesome fellow, and Jeff had a secret liking for Smily. But he allowed it to become no more than just a liking, because Smily’s light-hearted nature kept roping in memories of poor Jim, which all re-established his resolution of no more partnerships for grief’s sake. Occasionally Mister Sturdy joined the riding party, and what Mister Sturdy didn’t savvy about formations of rock, the different qualities of gold-bearing ore, and the how, where and why-for of all the big strikes, just wasn’t worth a duck’s teeth. What specially interested Rand was to watch Sturdy’s behaviour in camp, when he smoothly reined in and steered the hot talk of Big Bruce. Even Symes responded to Sturdy’s personality. But nobody would ever really master and subdue that cold-blooded killer.

  Rand mostly fancied riding alone, naturally; and one time as he meandered through the intricate windings of the canyons, he had a queer experience. He had ridden further than usual and was about to turn back and head for camp when, rebounding from one gulch to another, came the crash of gunfire. Alarmed yet afire with curiosity, Jeff started to search around. But those lofty walls of rock, still echoing repeated shots, were a power of deception in themselves. One could get himself real scared by their resounding behaviour; and what with jerking and turning this way and that in the saddle, one could get a badly twisted neck, not to mention other slight diseases. Of a sudden the firing stopped, however, long before Rand injured himself or came any place near discovering its source.

  Next day, deliberately riding through the same location, it all began again like a kind of ghostly ritual. Off went Rand, searching like mad; galloping recklessly down one rock strewn ravine, dashing all out into another, then branching off sometimes to cut along tight-squeeze fissures, and continuously making breathless halts to listen. It was downright exciting while it lasted, and reminded him of hunting jack-rabbits with Jim Miller. And like Jim used to say: dogged perseverance has its reward. Only Rand’s reward on the present occasion filled him with anxious dismay.

  Finally he came along a narrow pass, wherein stood Jake Crocker, perfecting an already slick gun-draw. A hundred yards or so wide of Jake lay a heap of bullet-riddled cans, purposely lugged out there from camp. Plain to see, Jake was preparing in earnest to avenge his no-good brother. Rand watched the fellow’s progress for close on an hour. Long before he stealthily departed, he had to admit that Jake Crocker was no slouch with a six-gun.

  Strong now grew that desire to drift and avoid more bloodshed: Rand became as restless as the desert sands, and as he rode back to camp after his discovery, he more firmly resolved to ride off for good at nightfall. Nonetheless, when he struck camp again and headed straight for his sleeping quarters, quietly figuring out what supplies he would carry away with him, he made another find, a whole piece more astounding than the last.

  It was stifling hot inside the cabin, and blinding dark after the sun’s brilliance. Jeff, groping forward, stumbled first against a wooden wash bowl, or rather half a barrel, then tripped over a pair of saddle-bags. He cursed gently. He bent down to remedy the damage: from those saddle-bags tumbled toilet gear, cartridges, pieces of gold-veined rock, quids of tobacco – and Jim Miller’s watch! Shock overwhelmed Rand. He grew pale and cold. Slowly and tenderly he picked up Old Jim’s once cherished possession. It was Jim’s all right. In a prayer-like murmur Jeff read the inscription, laboriously scraped on the back. It had once taken him a whole afternoon to perfect the lettering.

  ‘To Jim, a great old friend, from Jeff.’

  Bitter curses leapt to Rand’s lips. Fiercely he hauled up the saddle-bags, his face twisted with intense hatred. Murderously he glared at the name branded thereon – William Sturdy.

  How long Rand stood there, furiously pondering, he had no distinct idea. He mentally retraced the winding trail back across the flowing desert, past the time when Sturdy mentioned a certain prospector’s gold-finding mules, and back through Vulch City; then beyond to those scorching plains, to the trails he had followed, and so into the woodland beauty of the mountains. Finally Rand arrived back to the hour of Jim Miller’s death at the mine. As he had held Jim up in the creek, the dying old fellow had mentioned that about six men had raided the place, and that one of them had been smartly dressed in black, just like a judge. That’s what Jim had said: just like a judge. It had been Sturdy. Sturdy, the genial and instructive Mister William Sturdy, guilty of murdering James Miller. Rand decided to kill him.

  The sun was setting. Night was arising from the gullies below to the crannies above, and loading those lofty unexplorable places with a wilder mystery. A thin spiral of smoke was feeding a motionless halo that lay over Grapevine Gulch. The smoke issued from the main cabin, accompanied by mealtime sounds served up with a relish of profanity. That profanity was of a mirthless kind, due to the expectation of Clay riding in with good news from Flintstone.

  No light shone from Rand’s cabin. A glow of burning tobacco came and went at regular intervals in the gaping doorway, while a last blood-red shaft of sunset absorbed itself on the doorpost, like an omen of early Winter, or of sudden and terrible death. Jeff Rand was sprawled idly on a blanket, and he stared outside with a face as wooden as an Indian’s. The all-revealing saddle-bags had been repacked, and once more held the old prospector’s watch. Rand’s first impulse had been to pocket the timepiece, shock Sturdy with a sudden accusation, then with a challenge, and finally with death in a flaming gunfight. But now calmer reasoning controlled him. Rand smiled bitterly and mirthlessly as he heard Merrick and Sturdy approaching, wearily dragging spurred boots through the grass. They entered.<
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  ‘Who’s that? Say, you startled me, Jeff!’ Sturdy grunted, angry because he had jumped. ‘Guess moody fellas like skulking in dark places.’

  ‘Shucks, you can’t blame Jeff for steering clear of Gowl’s stomach-howling hash,’ chuckled Smily. ‘Here you are, Jeff; I’ve rustled these wheatcakes and this bottle of rye for yuh. A man will perish to dust in the infernal heat here, unless he feeds on something.’

  ‘Thanks, Smily,’ Rand forced a grin, and his grins were rare, and therefore valuable to the worshipping Merrick.

  ‘Hello-hell! Whose hoofmarks are these on my saddle-bags?’ Sturdy now wanted to know, lighting the lamp and glancing over his property. ‘Just cast a look at this mess, Jeff,’ he went on, a humorous twist to his mouth as he displayed the marks of crime. ‘Bet those mighty prints belong to Merrick.’

  ‘Too dainty for him,’ observed Rand, solemnly inspecting the saddle-bags. ‘More like signs of a pack-mule to me.’

  ‘Aw shucks, I’m sorry; I’m clumsy, Mister Sturdy. I reckon I ain’t no lady. Seems my Pa was right; seems my feet have grown some.’

  ‘Never mind, kid. They’ll stop. The rest of yuh will catch up, I hope,’ Sturdy consoled him, but with a gravity really disturbing to Smily.

  Rand did not respond to Mister Sturdy’s fun-making. In fact he no longer heard him. His mind was on gold, honest and hard-earned gold, equalling in his mind the promised share-out from the bank raid. Somewhere in this gulch lay a season’s rich output of truly high quality ore from Miller’s Mine. Once it was located and lifted Rand aimed to confront the killer. There would then be a different grin on the false face of Mister William Sturdy.

  Rand resolved to begin his search as soon as the camp was wrapped in sleep. Sturdy and Merrick retired early; and when at last Sturdy quit smoking and slept, Rand still lay waiting. Hours seemed to pass. He watched the lamp burn itself out, then watched the moon’s lazy-headed travel from one upper ridge to another. Eventually the moon so situated itself that the gulch became flooded by the mountain’s black and thunderous-looking shadow. Rand arose.