Showdown at Dead End Canyon

Chapter 19

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, conversations 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!”

His warning was too late. A third volley was fired from the livery hayloft, and Hagen fell facedown in the muck of the street.

With pistol in hand, Hawke climbed out the window, scrambled to the edge of the porch and dropped down onto the street. He ran to Hagen’s still form and bent down to check on the deputy. Hagen had been hit hard, and through the open wound in his chest, Hawke could hear the gurgling sound of his lungs sucking air and filling with blood.

Hagen opened his mouth to try and speak, but no words came. Blood poured out of his mouth, he gasped a couple of times, then he died.

At that moment another shot was fired from the livery. The bullet hit the ground close by and ricocheted away with a loud whine. Hawke fired back, shooting once into the dark maw of the hayloft. Leaving Hagen, he ran to the water trough nearest the livery and dived behind it as the assailant fired again. The bullet hit the trough with a loud popping sound.

Hawke could hear the water bubbling through the bullet hole in the trough even as he got up and ran toward the door of the livery. He shot two more times to keep the assailant back. When he reached the big, open, double doors, he ran inside.

Moving quietly through the barn, Hawke looked up at the hayloft just overhead, though it was too dark to see anything. Continuing to the rear, he saw a ladder and started to climb it when he heard someone jumping down into the corral out back.

There were several horses in the corral, and they started whinnying and stomping around, disturbed by the fact that someone had suddenly dropped into their midst. There was no back door to the stable, but there was a side door, and Hawke ran to it, then looked out into the corral. It was dark and the horses were milling about, so he couldn’t see anyone.

Finally, he gave up and started back out front. By now several people had gathered in the street, most of them were standing around Hagen’s body.

“Hold it, mister. Put your hands up!” a cold, angry voice said.

Hawke complied.

“It wasn’t him, Sheriff,” someone said. “I seen him goin’ in after whoever was doin’ the shootin’.”

“Yeah, I seen it too,” another said, and several more verified the claims of the first two.

“Sorry,” the sheriff said, putting his pistol back in his holster. “Did you get him?”

Hawke shook his head. “He jumped down from the loft window into the corral out back,” he said. “By the time I got back there, he got away.”

“Did you see anything? Would you be able to identify him?”

“No,” Hawke said. “It was too dark.”

After moving through the corral, Metzger got through the back fence then jumped into a ditch.

“Shit!” he said aloud, realizing what he had dropped into. This was the corral drainage ditch, and it was filled with horse manure, liquefied by horse urine.

He climbed up to the edge of the ditch and looked back though the lowest rung of the fence to see if Hawke was still chasing him. He didn’t see him anywhere, so he was pretty sure Hawke had given up the search.

Metzger cursed himself for not taking a rifle up to the hayloft with him. If he had used a rifle instead of his pistol, he thought, Hawke would be dead now.