Authors: Robert Vaughan
THERE WASN’T ROOM FOR HIM IN THE BUNKHOUSE
, so Hawke slept in the tack room of the barn, throwing out his bedroll on some soft hay. On the third night it rained, and though he didn’t get wet, he did notice that rain was coming through the roof. He mentioned it the next morning.
“Yes,” Ian said. “I have a pile of shingles ready and I was going to get around to fixing the roof myself before I broke my legs. Tomas offered to do it, but I didn’t want him to waste his time. Without me, he and the other two boys are kept busy watching the sheep. Sheep aren’t like cows, you know…they have to be watched over twenty-four hours a day.”
“I’ll fix the roof for you,” Hawke said.
Ian held up his hand. “Hawke, you don’t have to do that. I’m about to decide that maybe Cynthia was right in send
ing for you, but not so you could roof my barn.”
Hawke laughed. “It won’t be the first time I’ve ever worked on a roof,” he said. “My brother and I roofed the entire barn once. You’ve got nails?”
“I do.”
“I’ll get started on it right away.”
“All right, then, if you are going to do that, I’ll help,” Ian said.
“Now, how are you going to help with your legs broken?”
“Most of the time when you’re putting on shingles, you are sitting down, aren’t you?” Ian replied.
“Well, yes, but you are sitting on the roof.”
“Then all I have to do is get on the roof.”
“And just how are you going to do that?”
“You’re going to use the hay hoist to get me up there,” Ian replied.
Hawke smiled. “I’ll be damn,” he said. “Yes, that might work after all. That’s a good idea.”
It took Hawke half an hour to attach another stanchion to the barn, just under the roof. Adding a pulley to the stanchion, he then looped the hay-lift rope over it and, attaching a hay bale, tried it out.
“All right,” Hawke said as he tied the end of the rope around Ian’s waist. “I can hoist you up to the roof, but the problem is going to be when you get there. Somehow, you’re going to have to pull yourself onto the roof.”
“I can do it,” Ian insisted.
“Mama,” Hannah said, looking out the open front door at the activity. “What are Mr. Hawke and Papa doing?”
“Mr. Hawke is going to fix the roof of the barn,” Cynthia said.
“Then, why is he raising Papa up on the hay hoist?”
“What?” Cynthia said in surprise. “What are you talking
about?”
Cynthia dusted the flour from her hands and hurried to the door to look outside. She saw Hawke on the ground, pulling on the rope, hand over hand, lifting Ian slowly but surely toward the top of the barn.
“Ian, what in heaven’s name are you doing?” she called out.
“I’m doing what I should have done two months ago,” Ian answered. “I’m fixing the roof.”
“You’ve got no business up there. Mason, bring him back down.”
“No!” Ian called. “Hawke, you keep pulling me up! Cynthia, this is something I have to do. Do you understand? This is something I have to do. I can’t just sit around on my backside day after day, doing nothing.”
Cynthia and Hannah watched anxiously as Ian was hoisted to the top of the barn. Then, as Hawke held onto the rope below, Ian managed to pull himself onto the roof. With a little wave of success, he called down to Hawke.
“I’m here!”
Hawke began sending up bundles of shingles, then climbed up the ladder to join him.
The two men had been working for a little more than an hour when Hannah came up the ladder, carrying a basket.
“Honey, what are you doing up here?” Ian asked.
“I brought you both some cookies,” she said.
“Well, I’d say that’s worth a break anytime,” Hawke said, smiling, and took the basket from her.
“Mr. Hawke, Mama says that you knew Papa during the war,” Hannah said.
“That’s right,” he answered.
“I’ll bet he was a good soldier.”
“He was the best and bravest soldier I ever knew,” Hawke said.
Hannah beamed proudly. “I knew he would be,” she said.
The sign in front of the building read:
FELIX GILMORE, ATTORNEY AT LAW.
Gilmore stood as Joshua Creed came into his office.
“Mr. Creed,” he said.
“I understand you have some information for me,” Joshua Creed replied.
“I do indeed, sir,” Gilmore said. “Have a seat and I’ll show it to you.”
Gilmore put a sign on his front door that read
IN CONFERENCE
, then locked it and pulled the shade down before coming back to sit at his desk.
“You wanted to know about Mason Hawke,” he said.
“Yes. What did you find out?”
“Quite a bit, actually,” Gilmore said. “He is a piano player who has worked in saloons all over the West and—”
Creed laughed in loud guffaws. “A
piano
player?” he said. “Is that what you said? That Mason Hawke is a piano player?”
“Yes, and evidently he is quite good. According to the information I’ve been able to ascertain, he was a concert pianist before the war, playing before audiences, not only in the United States, but over in Europe as well.”
“A piano player,” Creed said, still chuckling.
“Evidently, when the war broke out he returned home to join his father’s regiment.”
“Let me guess. He played piano in the ballrooms of Washington.”
“No, sir. In the first place, he fought for the South, not the North. And he fought quite well, frequently mentioned in the dispatches. In fact, it was during the war that he met Ian Macgregor. They are two of the very few members of
their regiment who survived the entire war.”
“Well, I appreciate all that, Gilmore,” Creed said. “I was wondering what he was doing out here with Macgregor. Now I know he must’ve come to play piano for a birthday party,” he added, laughing again.
Gilmore shook his head. “I wouldn’t dismiss him that easily.”
“Why not? What else would a piano player do?”
“It turns out that our Mr. Hawke is considerably more than a piano player. In fact, he is establishing quite a reputation as a pistoleer.”
“What is a pistoleer?”
“Some people refer to such men as gunfighters,” Gilmore said. “And from all the evidence I’ve been able to gather, Mason Hawke is an exceptionally skilled and deadly gunfighter.”
Creed squinted his eyes at Gilmore. “How deadly?”
“I’ve not been able to determine the exact number,” he said. “But I think a guess of twenty would not be too far off.”
“Are you telling me he has killed twenty men?”
“I would say that is a conservative estimate, yes.”
“If he has killed that many men, why isn’t he in jail?”
“According to my sources, every man he has killed, he has faced. And, apparently, he has been on the right side of the law on every occasion. He has simply bested them all.”
“I see,” Creed said, less ebullient now. “Well, in your research, have you been able to determine why he is here?”
“I don’t have any definitive evidence, but I would suggest that he is here to help his friend, Macgregor, in the confrontation between the sheep men and the cattlemen,” Gilmore said.
“In other words, Macgregor has hired himself a gun
fighter,” Creed said.
“Exactly.”
Creed drummed his fingers on the desk for a moment. “Well, now, a gunfighter. If that doesn’t make Rosie sing.”
“Mr. Creed, I can’t warn you strongly enough,” Gilmore said. “If, in your dispute with the sheep men, you engage in any physical confrontation, you will be doing so at your own risk. Like I told you, this man Mason Hawke is quite deadly.”
“You aren’t telling me to walk away from this, are you?” Creed said. He pointed back toward the prairie. “Those damn sheep are destroying the grass, don’t you understand that? The open range has always been there for all of us to use. But when the sheep use it, they kill it.”
“I can take care of that for you, but it’s going to cost you,” Gilmore suggested.
“I don’t expect to use a lawyer for free,” Creed said.
Gilmore shook his head. “I’m not talking about my fee. I’m talking about what we will have to pay Hodge Eckert.”
“Eckert? From the government land office?”
“Yes.”
“What has he got to do with it?”
“The open range is government land. Eckert is in charge of it. For a fee, we could convince him to get a court injunction that would prevent the sheep from using it.”
“For a fee?” Creed said. Then he smiled. “You mean for a bribe, don’t you?”
“No, not a bribe. If you pay a bribe, I could be charged with setting it up, and you could be charged with paying it. But if it is a fee, and the fee turns out to be illegal, only Eckert could be charged with wrongdoing.”
Creed’s smile grew broader. “I like the way you do things, Gilmore. Do you think the court will give us an
injunction?”
“Yes. Since Eckert represents the government, that gives the government an interest in the case. At least until there is a hearing on the matter.”
“Yeah? Can you guarantee that the hearing will rule in our favor?” Creed asked.
“No, of course I can’t guarantee it,” Gilmore said. “But it doesn’t matter, because the injunction will be in effect until the hearing is actually held. And, with a little manipulation, we can put the hearing off indefinitely, thus giving the injunction the authority of law.”
“How do you put off the hearing?”
Gilmore stroked his cheek. “Oh, if you have a skilled and motivated lawyer, there are many ways to accomplish this.”
“Uh-huh,” Creed said. “And you know where I might get this skilled and motivated lawyer?”
“Skilled I am, Mr. Creed,” Gilmore said. “It is the motivation that you must deal with.”
“Would five hundred dollars motivate you?” Creed asked.
Gilmore smiled broadly. “I think it would motivate me quite well,” he promised.
“What about Eckert?”
“Oh, I doubt that his fee will be more than one hundred dollars.”
“All right, come to the bank with me and I’ll draw out the money,” Creed said. “But I’m counting on you to get that injunction.”
“You will have it within the week,” Gilmore said confidently.
Some 130 miles away from King Hill, in the town of Eagle Rock, Clay Morgan was sitting at a table in a sa
loon, his back to the wall, playing a game of Solitaire. He didn’t even look up when Sheriff Majors entered. Morgan had been in town for a week now, and though the sheriff had come into the saloon several times during that week, Majors had not appeared to take notice of him. Morgan knew that was because he was afraid. And that was good. As long as men were afraid of him, he would always have the edge.
He started to go back to his card game, then noticed something that caught his attention, something different.
Sheriff Majors was carrying a shotgun. There was also another man with him. And like Majors, the other man was wearing a start on his vest.
“Clay Morgan?” Sheriff Majors said.
Morgan felt all of his senses heighten. It was a familiar feeling, one that he always felt just before he killed.
He felt giddy, almost excited.
“You know who I am, Sheriff,” Morgan said. “I’ve been sitting here at the same table for a week now, and you’ve seen me every day. Why the sudden interest?”
“This is Deputy Colmes from over at Squaw Creek.”
“Squaw Creek? I was just there a few days ago,” Morgan said. “Nice town you have there.”
“Muley Thomas and Quint Weathers,” Deputy Colmes said. “Do those names mean anything to you?”
“Yes.”
“You killed them,” the deputy said.
Morgan nodded. “As a matter of fact, I did.”
“Good Lord, he’s not even denying it,” Majors said.
“They were a couple of horse thieves. I was serving a warrant.”
“Turns out there was no court warrant on those boys,” Deputy Colmes said.
“Oh? Ask Jack Yancey about that.”
“Yancey is in jail. He’s about to be tried for the murder of his brother,” Colmes said. “And for paying you to kill Muley Thomas and Quint Weathers.”
Morgan went back to his card game. “Well, there you go,” he said. “It looks like you got your man.”
“All he did was pay you to do the job,” Colmes said. “But when you come right down to it, you are the one who killed those two boys.”
“Like I said, I had a warrant,” Morgan said. “And whether it was real or not isn’t my problem.”
“Oh, but it is your problem,” Colmes said. “I’m taking you back.”
Morgan got up from the table then and stepped out to one side. He let his hand hang loosely by the pistol he had strapped at his side.
“No,” Morgan said. “I don’t think I want to go back.”
Because he had been there for about a week now, the other patrons of the saloon had come to an uneasy acceptance of Morgan’s presence. They had even come around to enjoying, in some macabre way, the fact that they were drinking with a man as notorious as Clay Morgan, realizing that this was something they would be able to tell their grandchildren years from now.
But it was now clear that Clay Morgan’s peaceful stay in the little town of Eagle Rock was about to come to an end. Realizing that in all likelihood shooting was about to break out, the patrons of the saloon began moving out of the way.
“You don’t have much choice, Morgan,” Sheriff Majors said, emphasizing his comment with a little thrust of his shotgun.
“I see. You plannin’ on helping him, are you?” Morgan asked.
“There’s no helpin’ to it,” Sheriff Majors replied. “You’re going to unbuckle your gun belt, then stick your hands out
so we can put your wrists in cuffs.”
Morgan said nothing in response, and the silence became palpable.
Sheriff Majors pointed the shotgun at Morgan and pulled back both hammers. They made a loud, double click in the room.
“I said, unbuckle your gun belt,” Majors repeated.
Morgan shook his head. “I’m not going to make it easy for you, Sheriff.”
The three men stared at each other for one long moment. Not only the three principals, but not one other person moved or talked, creating an eerie tableau, a scene that could have been reproduced in
Harper’s Weekly
. The silence was broken only by the measured tick tock of the clock that hung on the wall by the piano.