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  Jared Hawk stank of death. It hung about him like gunsmoke and the sour smell of drying blood. He thought he’d take life easy for a while: enjoy whisky and women and nothing more. Leave his Colt .45 in its greased holster.

  But things turned bad and he took a job riding herd on a prisoner due to be hanged. It should have been simple...

  Before Hawk could collect the four hundred dollars pay, and the hangman could settle his rope around the killer’s neck, Hawk’s gun was back in action leaving the stench of death in the air.

  HAWK 4: KILLING TIME

  By William S. Brady

  First published by Fontana Books in 1980

  Copyright © 1980, 2023 by William Stuart Brady

  This electronic edition published April 2023

  Names, characters and incidents in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

  You may not copy, store, distribute, transmit, reproduce or otherwise make available this publication (or any part of it) in any form, or by means (electronic, digital, optical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorized act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

  This is a Piccadilly Publishing Book / Text © Piccadilly Publishing

  Series Editor: Mike Stotter

  Published by Arrangement with the Author’s Estate.

  Visit www.piccadillypublishing.org to read more about our books.

  This one’s for Mandy:

  putting on the night moves.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  About William S. Brady

  Chapter One

  FOR THE LIFE of him he couldn’t figure out just why he’d crossed the border at Langtry. Except that it was the only place either way for fifty miles where he could ride across the Rio Grande and he sure as all hell wanted to do that. Wanted it bad. Needed to get the dirt of Mexico off the worn soles of his boots; the clogging dust of it from the pores of his skin, the corners of his eyes, from beneath his fingernails.

  Mexico!

  Hawk cleared his throat and spat down on to the ground. Texan ground. The dark brown wool of his pants clung wetly to his legs, his boots glistened; the water had splashed up on to the dark broadcloth coat he wore over a thick plaid shirt, making it darker still. The river was running strongly, flushed with the winter rains: the Rio Grande—the Mexicans called it Rio Bravo del Norte.

  He turned in the saddle and looked back at it for several moments through the saplings breaking green with the beginnings of spring. Hawk frowned: they were too early, too hopeful. He pulled up his coat collar against the east wind. Winter hadn’t finished with them yet.

  The dead season.

  Hawk lifted the heavy leather gun belt over his head from where it had been resting round his shoulders, keeping his weapons clear of the water. He unbuckled the belt and set it round his hips, nestling it into position, conscious that the least deviation could prove fatal, could cost him that split second which meant the difference between living and dying, between winter and spring.

  In Mexico there had been so much killing, so much death. The air hung with the stench of it. Even a trained gunman like Hawk, a practiced killer, had had his fill. The carrion had been choked to surfeit.

  He set his right hand round the smooth butt of the Colt .45 holstered at his right side, a Frontier model with a five-and-a-half-inch barrel. The pistol felt perfectly balanced as he slid it from the greased holster; a natural extension of his arm and as much a part of him as the hand itself.

  He dropped the Colt back and flicked the small leather thong over the hammer. He tied the leather strip that wound round his thigh loosely to allow for easier movement when riding. Next he reached his hand across and drew the weapon from the reversed holster on the left side of the belt. Where the Colt was quite a normal sight, this was something unusual, especially when worn at the hip.

  The gun was a 10 gauge Meteor shotgun, with its single barrel cut down to twelve inches. The stock had also been shortened and rounded into a pistol grip. From close range it would almost cut a man in half.

  Not only a man.

  Hawk let the Meteor fall back into its holster and tugged at the brim of his low-crowned black hat. The reins were held tight inside the black leather glove which covered his left hand, a cord about the cuff of his shirt holding it in place. His eyes narrowed and he kicked his heels into the horse’s flanks, setting it in motion.

  Soon the first buildings of Langtry came into sight, small adobes set alongside the creek that ran into the Rio Grande and which provided the small town with most of its water and carried away its sewage and other outpourings.

  The creek wound round in a lazy, slow curve towards the west and the buildings followed it, thickening out and growing in size and ambition as they neared the town center.

  Hawk rode at a walk, eyes flicking from side to side while his head never seemed to move, taking in any possible danger, noting anything and everything.

  A lean mongrel dog ran out from between two buildings and crossed less than six feet in front of Hawk’s horse. The short brown hair on its back bristled and its tail was pulled down between its legs in a long curl.

  Curses followed it and Hawk turned towards a short stocky man wearing a black vest over a torn and soiled white shirt, dark pants unbuttoned at the front and one boot. He was hollering and waving a Colt .45 in his left hand.

  Hawk reined in his mount and as he did so his right hand grazed the butt of his own pistol.

  ‘You aimin’ to use that thing on me or that damn dog?’

  The man stopped shouting, mouth still open. He looked at Hawk, then at the gun in his hand; the dog had disappeared from sight. He slowly lowered the Colt, tucking it down into his belt and noticing that his buttons were in need of fastening.

  ‘Blasted animal stole my boot!’

  He glanced up at Hawk and then pointed to his right foot, where two toes poked through the end of a grey sock.

  ‘Stole my fuckin’ boot!’

  Hawk laughed: a good laugh, open and ringing. It made his young, hard face appear handsome; struck warmth into the otherwise cold and calculating eyes.

  ‘What the hell you think you’re laughin’ at, mister? It ain’t so damned funny.’

  Hawk slapped a hand down on his thigh. ‘From where I’m sittin’ it looks pretty damned funny.’

  The man took a pace closer and his hand hovered dangerously close to the pistol at his belt. His wispy hair was blown across his head by the wind that cut across the street. His eyes were small and dark, angry.

  ‘You ain’t goin’ to laugh at me.’

  The laughter froze on Hawk’s face.

  ‘You’re right. I ain’t. But all you lost so far is your boot. Think yourself lucky an’ keep it that way. I ain’t laughin’ at you no more but I ain’t lookin’ to kill you either.’

  The man’s mouth fell open once more and a wave of cold fear rose from his stomach, spread along the backs of his arms and the small of his back. He tried to gulp in air but he couldn’t swallow. Couldn’t take his eyes off Hawk’s face.

  Hawk stared down a few moments longer then slowly and deliberately turned away. He moved his gloved hand and flicked the reins. The horse tossed his head a little and set off down the street. The man stood watching him, looking at his back and knowing for certain that if he should start to go for his gun the tall stranger would turn and fire before he’d as much as cocked the hammer himself.

  Instead he went back towards his room, searching for his missing boot and cursing the mongrel again inside his head - anything rather than think about what his temper had nearly led him into.

  Jared Hawk dismounted outside the livery barn and led his horse towards the high double doors. Sam Smith & Son read the sign painted on to the planking above the doors, Livery & Feed. An old iron stove was burning in the center of the barn, the smoke being guided up to a hole in the roof by an elaborate tin chimney, the sections of which were only precariously fixed together. Some half a dozen men sat around the stove, a pair of them playing a game of checkers set out on a rickety wooden table.

  ‘With you in a minute, mister,’ called one of the players without taking his eyes from the board.

  ‘Okay.’

  Hawk loosened the animal’s girth and untied the saddle bags, throwing them over his left shoulder. The man who’d spoken moved one of the black pieces and stood up.

  ‘That’ll keep you tight, Spence. You think on that for a while.’ He chuckled and started off towards Hawk, favoring his left leg which was obviously stiff at the knee.

  ‘Been playin’ five years near enough to the day, me an’ Spencer Langtry, ever since he settled here. Weren’t more’n a few old ’dobes an’ a river crossin’ then.’

  Hawk scowled. ‘I come to get my horse tended to, not for no damned history lesson.’

  The livery man looked at him surprised, scratching his stubbly chin. ‘Mite spiky, ain’t you?’

  Hawk shook his head, then released a breath. ‘Guess you’re right. Nothin’ meant by it. Maybe I’ve been ridin’ too long or something.’

  The livery man stared down at the guns holstered at Hawk’s hips. ‘Or somethin’, more like.’

  Hawk nodded briefly, not wanting to say more.

  Smith took the reins from Hawk and patted the horse on its nose. ‘He’ll get well tended to here, don’t you worry.’ He looked up at Hawk. ‘Be stayin’ long?’

  Hawk shrugged. Several of the men over by the stove were paying a lot of attention to his answer. ‘Few days. Rest up a while.’

  ‘Uh-huh. Course …’ Sam Smith rubbed at his stubbly chin. ‘… ain’t too much for a young feller to do round here. My boy, he stuck it for a twelvemonth then lit out. New Mexico way. Punchin’ cattle.’

  Hawk started to shift away. ‘There’ll be enough for me. Good bed, someone who can cook a decent steak an’ a place to buy some whisky and a few beers-that’s all I’m lookin’ for just now. I’m just going to be killin’ time.’

  ‘Okay. We’ll set tie up at the end of the week if you’re still here. That or when you move out.’

  Hawk turned to go.

  ‘Mister!’

  Spencer Langtry was standing alongside the checkers board, one hand pushed down into the pocket of his coat, the other with the thumb hooked inside his belt. He was a couple of inches short of six foot, his body thickening out, hair still strong but greying at the temples. Hawk put him at close to fifty years of age.

  ‘You want a place to stay,’ Langtry said, ‘down at the end of the street there’s Alma Barrett’s Boarding House. I can vouch for that; she’s my cousin.’

  Hawk acknowledged with a raised hand. ‘Thanks.’

  ‘Best saloon’s the Deuce of Hearts. Bill Langtry’s a cousin, too.’

  Hawk nodded and grinned. ‘Sort of wondered why the place got itself called Langtry.’

  When he turned again there was a man standing just beyond the doorway. Hawk stopped short and his hand moved a fraction closer to his Colt.

  ‘Stranger.’

  ‘Marshal.’

  The two men stared at one another, each sizing the other up. The lawman was perhaps fifteen years older than Hawk but he looked to have kept himself in trim. From that distance there didn’t seem to be a pound of excess fat on his body and his eyes were clear and blue as they gazed back into Hawk’s face. A pearl-handled Colt Peacemaker sat snug in a holster tied down to his right leg and the fingers of his right hand were curved above it. The marshal’s badge was pinned to the left side of a leather vest.

  He looked enough like Spencer Langtry to have got the job whatever his other qualifications might have been.

  ‘Heard some young feller toting a couple of fancy guns rode into town a while back,’ said the marshal. ‘Guess that must be you.’

  Hawk allowed himself a slight smile. ‘Don’t know ’bout the fancy guns, Marshal, but I just rode in true enough. You want to see me for anythin’ special, or did you just want to take a look for yourself?’

  The marshal glanced past Hawk and raised an eyebrow questioningly. A moment later he moved to one side, letting his right hand drift slowly away from his pistol.

  ‘Don’t let me keep you,’ he said.

  Hawk nodded and walked through the double doors. As he passed the marshal he paused. ‘Just got a little advice on settlin’ in. Feller playin’ checkers name of Langtry. Figured he might be a cousin of yours.’

  The marshal shook his head. ‘No. Spencer’s my brother.’ Hawk smiled and continued on his way.

  Alma Barrett’s Boarding House was a broad, two-story building made out of seasoned timber and showed its class by having glass in the windows and chintz curtains on the inside of them. Hawk knocked on the door with the brass knocker in the shape of a fist and waited.

  A voice called from the other side and after a few moments Hawk was looking at the flour-smudged face of Alma Barrett herself. She told him so.

  ‘Hello, I’m Alma Barrett. Who are you?’

  ‘Name’s Hawk, ma’am. Jared Hawk.’

  She was a foot shorter than himself and her hair as fair as his was dark; the shape of her face was round without being fat. Her mouth was red and full; her eyes greenish-blue and soft. She was wearing a white apron tied over a dark blue dress with a collar and cuffs of white lace. Where it covered the swell of her breasts the apron was smudged with black, as if she had been leaning against the stove. Hawk figured her close to thirty years of age.

  A curl of hair fell across her face and she pushed it away with her left hand, extending the other towards Hawk. When he took it inside his own it was warm and yet firm.

  ‘Your cousin said …’

  ‘Dalton, the marshal?’

  ‘No, ma’am, Spencer, the checkers player.’

  He was still holding her hand.

  Alma Barrett laughed and the curl of hair fell loose again; this time she let it stay, curving over her eyebrow. ‘You mean Spencer, the mayor.’

  ‘I see.’

  She looked down at his hand. ‘Don’t you think we’re introduced by now?’

  Hawk flushed slightly and withdrew his hand; it was dusty with flour.

  ‘Your cousin, the mayor, he said you had the best boarding house in town. Recommended you highly.’

  Her smile was quick and open. ‘Spencer would say that. More than most folks, he likes to keep things in the family.’

  ‘Some would think that a good thing.’

  She nodded, loosening another strand of hair. ‘Some would.’

  ‘And you?’

  She stepped back into the small hallway. Hawk noticed blue and gold flowers in a white vase just to the left of the door. A smell of baking drifted out from the kitchen. ‘After you, ma’am.’

  He followed her along the hallway and into the kitchen. Three pies stood in glass dishes on the table and a mixing bowl with a cake mixture three-parts stirred was on a ledge before the window. The room was warm from the stove and smelt good.

  ‘Will you be wanting a room for long?’

  She was leaning back against the edge of the table and her apron front was pulled tighter over her breasts. Hawk tried not to look at her body, tried to look only at her face.

  ‘A few days, ma’am. Enough to rest up. Take things good an’ easy.’

  ‘That’s fine. Only …’

  ‘Yes, ma’am?’

  ‘Only don’t call me ma’am. It makes me feel sort of …’ She reached forward and rested her hand on his arm. ‘… old and dried-up. I don’t like to think that.’ She moved her hand. ‘Call me Alma.’

  ‘Yes, ma’am.’

  They both laughed.

  ‘Yes, Alma.’

  Hawk moved his things into the front room at the right of the first floor landing. He hung his saddle bags over one bed post and his gun belt over another. There was fresh, cold water in the white jug and he poured it into the wide bowl and stripped off his coat and shirt. He was bending his head over the bowl when there was a soft knock on the door.

  Hawk stood up and reached behind himself for his gun. ‘Come in.’

  Alma Barrett half-opened the door, stared at the Colt in Hawk’s hand. ‘Is that the kind of welcome you always give to callers?’

  He said nothing, just slipped the gun back into its holster. ‘I had some warm water on the stove. I’ve tipped it into the tub.’ She pointed along the landing. ‘It’s in the room at the end. I thought …’ She smiled apologetically. ‘… you might be needing a bath.’

  Hawk grinned. ‘You mean I smell pretty strong.’

  ‘Now I didn’t say that.’

  ‘I guess you didn’t have to. I’m obliged. Only while I’m here you let me carry buckets of water up those stairs. No need for you to do it.’

  She set a hand on her hip and looked at him with mock exasperation. ‘And what happens when you’re not here? When you’ve gone? No, the only way for a woman to survive is to do things for herself without depending on any man.’

  Hawk started to say something but her eyes made him think better of it. She handed him a towel and turned away. Hawk watched her until she was out of sight on the stairs and then walked thoughtfully along the landing.

 

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