The Wrong Tracks

 The town of Yonder looked like every other frontier town Matt Hawk had ever ridden into, but he knew it was different. It smelled of death. The smell came up with the dust rising from under his horse's hooves. Hawk wasn't surprised. He was there to end the dying.

The man who had summoned him waited on the raised wooden sidewalk in front of the boarding house, right where he said he'd be. Frank Monroe was a rancher, but Hawk noticed that he wasn't covered with road dust. He was older than Hawk, his boots were polished and his string tie lay flat against a black shirt that had been ironed before he put it on.

"I take it you're Matt Hawk," Monroe said. "Not as big as I expected."

"I'm not a wrestler, Mr. Monroe. I'm a hunter. I only have to be big enough to hold that rifle steady."

As Hawk dropped from his horse, Monroe pulled his hat off. He rubbed a hand back over his bald scalp, then through the sparse gray fuzz in back and down his neck. "Well, I hope you're as good as your rep, son. My men are dying and they won't even go near the Twin Forks, where the streams split southeast of here. It's common ground for the local ranchers where we can usually get our cattle to plenty of fresh water. But now a grizzly bear or something is chewing them up. He's got to be stopped. I'm a pretty fair hunter myself, but this thing's dangerous so I wanted to get a professional on this one."

Hawk slapped dust from his jeans, and stepped onto wooden sidewalk to shake Monroe's hand. While straightening his hat he took a wary look around. Yonder was a small enough town that he could smell the lilacs and hastas in the surrounding hills, yet the men on the street all carried firearms in plain sight. Of course, Hawk had a Colt on his hip, but he was just coming in off the trail. Travel was still dangerous, and in fact he had lost some time detouring around a band of renegade Apache bandits he spotted before they saw him. But townsfolk didn't usually carry these days, not in most civilized towns, unless they felt they needed to. He could feel the tension of division. Some men looked at Monroe with deference, others with suspicion. This was how it felt when a range war was brewing.

"Yours is the biggest ranch in these parts, isn't it?"

"That's right," Monroe said. "Anderson's spread is pretty big, but not as big as mine. That's why I figure it's my job to get rid of that killer."

"Good. I just hope I can tell your boys from those from the Anderson Ranch if things get hot. I ain't no gunfighter." Hawk raised his voice just enough for anyone nearby to hear. As he spoke, another man stepped out of the boarding house.

"You are perceptive, as befits a great hunter," the newcomer said. Monroe greeted him warmly."

"Mr. Hawk, this is Charlie Swiftrunner. He's going to be your guide through this unfamiliar territory. Knows the hills and woods around these parts better than any man alive." The newcomer medium height, like Hawk, and matched Hawk's muscular build. His hair was as black as Hawk's, but hung to his shoulders while Hawk's was short enough to stay under his hat. Instead of boots like Hawk's, Charlie Swiftrunner wore tall moccasins of a design familiar to Hawk. He was tanned a deep copper color and showed the high cheekbones and broad nose of his race.

"Glad to know you," Hawk said, offering a hand. "You're Blackfoot I'm guessing. A noble people. Are you on Mr. Monroe's payroll?"

Charlie did not smile. His eyes answered, and asked more than Hawk wanted to say right then. Besides, Monroe was staring at him.

  "Was that a bad question?" Hawk asked. "If there's a fight brewing it would be good to know who's on the same side."

"Not every man has to be on a side," Charlie Swiftrunner said. "Some of us would rather be allowed to simply hunt and live in peace. I would be content if all the ranchers left. My people are better caretakers of the land." Hawk's eyes cut to Monroe, but he seemed to have nothing to say about it.

"Yeah, well we'll be lucky if the sheriff let's you lead this particular hunt. Meanwhile, why don't we walk down to the saloon and talk over a drink."

 

Hawk thought the saloon smelled of cowhide but it was cool after spending the day in the June sun. Monroe steered Hawk and Charlie toward a table. Too late, he noticed the overdressed and overweight man at the next table. He nodded and forced a small smile.

"Howdy Mayor Ebert," he said, touching his hat brim.

The mayor looked right through Monroe to scan Hawk from his buckskin shirt down to his boots. His eyes lingered on the Peacemaker strapped to Hawk's right hip.

  "Well, Monroe, I see you got a new hand. I hope you're not hiring on extras for a fight with Anderson's boys. I don't want you bringing your feud into my little town."

Monroe glanced out the window at a couple of toughs across the street, both carrying guns. "Our feud's already here, Mister Mayor. You can't avoid it. But this man's no trouble. Matt Hawk's a hunter I hired to work down by the Twin Forks."

"But I thought you pulled all your stock out of that area," the mayor said.

"I did," Monroe said, dropping into a chair. "Been some wild animal killings over there. Truth is, I'm about to do the town a service, Mister Mayor. I brought this fellow up from Texas to kill this man-eater before it decides to wander into town."

Hawk was still standing, feeling rather uncomfortable to be in the middle of this conversation. He turned toward Charlie Swiftrunner just as three more men approached their table, carrying drinks. The dark haired one was their leader. That was obvious. He walked with authority and with a big Navy Dragoon revolver on his hip.

"You boys are going to have to do your hunting somewhere else. That area's closed to everybody."

  "And just who are you?" Hawk asked. He wondered who thought they could tell him where he could or could not work.

"My name's Irons. John Irons. I'm the law in these parts."

"Then, you'll want your people to be safe," Hawk said. "Why not let me do my job?"

"Because we've had a fourth killing," Irons said, his hand resting on his ivory handled revolver. "Poor old Mark McGee, the hand at the livery stable. I'm convinced from the look of the man's carcass that we got us a killer grizzly on our hands and he don't plan to be moving on. I'm thinking he come down from the hills and settled in for the fishing at Twin Forks. So I've quarantined the whole vicinity."

While Monroe, Ebert and Irons got involved in a heated conversation about citizens' rights to go where they please, Charlie Swiftrunner headed for the bar. Hawk figured he had the right idea. After all, he didn't come to Yonder to talk politics. He came to hunt. It was what he did best. The only useful thing he could think of to do was to go to the bar and try to make friends with the man who would guide him through the local woods. He leaned on the bar beside Charlie Swiftrunner, who stared straight ahead.

"What's good to drink around here?" No answer. "Hey, I'll buy you a drink, okay? Sorry if I offended you before." No response. "Look, we're going to be working together. Might as well get along, eh?"

"If you want to drink, drink." Charlie Swiftrunner said, his face as still as stone. "If you want company, go talk to your white friend. I prefer to keep to myself."

Hawk was starting to get riled, but before he could respond, the burly bartender moved closer.

"You need to learn some manners, boy," the bartender said. "You're lucky we let your kind drink in here at all."

Charlie Swiftrunner stared hard into the bartender's eyes. "This, I have been told, is a free country. It was in truth when it was our land."

"Well it ain't your land no more," the bartender said, leaning into Charlie's face. "You Blackfoot savages better start learning your place."

Hawk turned to the bartender. "That isn't really necessary, is it? Isn't there enough trouble in this town without that kind of talk?"

"Mind your business," Charlie Swiftrunner shouted. "I can handle my own trouble." With that, he turned and punched the bartender in the mouth. The bartender rocked back, and then lunged forward, dragging Charlie Swiftrunner over the bar by his shirt. The two men disappeared below the counter. Hawk turned to see several of the other patrons moving toward the bar, some muttering about teaching that damned Indian a lesson. He raised his palms to the group and his face assumed the expression he used when facing a wounded predator.

"Why don't we keep this one on one?" Hawk asked. For an answer, a red-headed stranger threw a right cross Hawk barely ducked.

Hawk stood a couple of inches shy of six feet tall and was more wiry than bulky. He was not an imposing figure and the truth was he hated to fight, but that didn't mean he wasn't good at it. His right to the gut blew air out of his attacker, and his following uppercut dropped the man on his back.

The next man who stepped up held a long, pointed knife, the kind Hawk knew as an Arkansas toothpick. Hawk reached behind himself, pulling his hunting knife from its horizontal belt sheath. His teeth were bared and his eyes blazed in a way that made the other man hesitate.

"You won't be the first polecat I've skinned," he said in a low, menacing voice. Then a deafening gunshot froze everyone, and plaster chips flittered into Hawk's hair. Irons had punched a forty-five-caliber hole in the ceiling over Hawk's head with his pistol. His voice was a threatening growl.

"Next man moves gets to eat one of these slugs," Irons said. "Now you two trouble makers get the hell out of here so the rest of us can get back to getting drunk."

Hawk took a deep breath, sheathed his knife and walked out. He figured he would walk off his anger, then go back to the boarding house and book a room. He picked a mesquite tree in the distance and focused on it as he walked. It was an old trick he used to calm himself down. Before he reached the end of the wooden walkway he heard Charlie Swiftrunner call his name. He turned and extended a hand, which Charlie Swiftrunner ignored.

"I can fight my own battles, Mister Hawk," the guide said as he walked past. Hawk briefly wished the man were the rogue bear he had been summoned to kill. Still, he respected Charlie Swiftrunner for some strange reason, and felt him a kindred. He was about to follow Charlie when he heard his voice again from behind.

"Hey, Hawk," Monroe called. "Never mind that old boarding house. You come on out to the ranch so we can get ready for tomorrow. I ain't letting no half wit lawman do me out of a bear hunt."

 

Less than an hour after sunup, Hawk nudged his horse into position behind two others. Monroe was settled into the second position on a huge chestnut stallion. He carried his big Henry rifle like a king's scepter. Hawk could see he fancied himself a great hunter. He probably had been, thirty years ago. Charlie Swiftrunner led the trio on a small but spirited pinto. He carried no rifle, in fact had no firearm at all.

Hawk fingered the coil of rope strapped to his saddle and turned to sniff the air. The morning was surprisingly cool, with a soft mist rising off of the ground. The sun, big and bright as a fifty dollar gold piece, would burn off the mist before long. A gentle breeze carried the scent of pinesap down from the hills. Hawk thought it was a good day for hunting. Of course, a bear would think the same thing.

As they crested a low hill Hawk's right hand moved down to the lever-action rifle hanging from the right side of his saddle. He rubbed its shiny brass receiver for reassurance. He was looking at an imposing, dense forest. In front of it a narrow river came into view. A smaller stream flowed into the main body from beyond it, and another stream came in at an angle on Hawk's right.

Between Hawk's party and the river, a small buckboard wagon trundled toward them, followed by one rider. Hawk recognized Irons and his two friends on the wagon from the night before. Both horses were lathered. They had been on a long, early morning ride.

"Hold up there Monroe," Irons called, pulling his mount to a stop beside the wagon. "I know where you're going and I got to stop you. Come take a look in the wagon. That's the latest victim." Before Irons finished his sentence, Hawk had dropped to the ground and hopped up into the wagon. It took him a minute to recognize the bartender he had seen the night before. Most of his face remained, although it was torn as if by a pair of massive jaws. His chest was caved in, as if slapped by a heavy paw. Claw marks stood out just above the massive wound. A similar wound stood on the side of his neck. That blow must have snapped his spine, but he would have bled to death slowly from the claw wound anyway.

He looked around and found himself at the center of a small circle. The sheriff and Monroe had dismounted and stood staring down at Hawk along with the two deputies.

"You're the expert, Hawk," Monroe said. "What do you think?"

"Sure looks like an animal mauling to me," Hawk said.

"Well, I ain't so sure," the redheaded deputy said. "I think a man did it."

"Good Lord, Jake, what man could do this?" Irons asked.

"Not a white man," Jake said. "A man who had a fight with this poor fellow just last night. An uncivilized savage." He spun to point at the only man still on horseback.

"You're not going to pin this on me," Charlie Swiftrunner shouted. "I'd never get a fair trial in Yonder."

Irons looked from Jake to Charlie. "I guess it could have been you," he said, his voice almost apologetic. "Maybe we'd better take you into custody."

Charlie Swiftrunner's expression never changed. Without a word he turned his pony's nose toward the water and the woods beyond. Then he said, "No," and dug his heels into his horse's ribs.

Irons and Jake reached for their side arms but by the time they cleared their holsters, a cloud of dust obscured the Blackfoot scout in the distance. Irons paused for a moment in thought while Jake spewed oaths into the air.

"Don't worry," Irons said. "He's headed right toward Twin Forks. Charlie Swiftrunner may have killed this man, I don't know. But he sure didn't get the other four. There's still a crazed bear out there and the area is still off limits to everybody. My men and I will go in alone to get him."

Hawk appraised Irons' mount. "You really think you can catch him, sheriff?"

"Oh, he won't get very far on horseback. Them woods are mighty thick and the ground gets too soft to gallop once you ford the river. Once he's on foot he'll be easy to nail." It all struck Hawk as a little peculiar but he held his words. Irons mounted up, his men turned their wagon around, and they trotted off on the Indian's trail.

"Well, are you game to go into those woods, just the two of us?" Monroe asked.

"I guess we got no choice," Hawk said. "If Irons finds him before we do they'll lynch him for sure."

"You mean old Charlie? He can take care of himself. I'm anxious to hunt that bear."

 

Old forests in mountain valleys can have three tiers of green overhang and be gloomy and dark, even at midday. The constant sounds from animals and birds merge, producing an even wall of sound. The myriad odors from decay and death and fresh vegetation and sweet blossoms assail the nose to the point of overload. The world looks identical in every direction and if a man doesn't have an infallible sense of direction he could wander in circles for days.

Hawk felt right at home.

Monroe possessed surprising vitality for a man his age. He tracked with eyes to the ground, so all Hawk had to do was to keep them from getting lost. They found the wagon soon after fording the river, and both Irons' and Charlie's horse a few minutes later. The ground really was boggy there, and the woods too dense to ride through at any speed anyway. Hawk and Monroe had tied their horses within sight of the sheriff's mount. Hawk had slid his rifle from its saddle scabbard, pulled his coiled lasso around his shoulder and turned to sort out the prints. Irons and company proved easy to follow, but signs of Charlie Swiftrunner's trail were few. At one point Hawk stopped, while Monroe continued on.

"Come back, Mr. Monroe," Hawk said, dropping to his haunches. "See that flattened leaf there? Charlie's trail branches off from Irons' right here."

"Your eyes must be as good as his," Monroe said, following Hawk now.

Minutes later, searching for evidence of Charlie Swiftrunner's passing, Hawk paused and pointed to something else on the ground.

"You recognize that print crossing Charlie Swiftrunner's trail?"

"Looks like Bear tracks." Monroe replied. "Let's go."

"What is it with you and bears?" Hawk asked, following.

"I've got to admit I never understood why bears are so scary." Monroe said. "They're not much bigger than us, after all."

"A grizzly, or even a brown bear around these parts might be six feet tall," Hawk said, "but he could weigh four hundred fifty pounds. One that size would be as strong as seven men, and he could outrun you without breathing hard."

"And you're gonna kill him with that lever gun?" Monroe asked.

"This here Winchester Yellow Boy hasn't let me down yet," Hawk responded.

"It's lighter than that Henry you carry. I've taken moose with it, and I'm betting this .44 caliber round will take a bear down, assuming I see him before he sees me." Hawk stopped, because Monroe was staring past him. He pointed, grabbed his rifle and moved quietly into the woods. Hawk followed. If they sighted their quarry, maybe they could finish the beast before finding Charlie Swiftrunner.

 

Soon both hunters dropped to the ground and eased forward. Whatever was moving made too much noise to be any forest animal. Crouching behind a fallen maple, they watched Irons and one of his flunkies tramp through the woods. They backed off and Monroe turned to Hawk, grinning.

"You don't need to worry about Charlie Swiftrunner. If we could get that close to those two without being seen, a Blackfoot warrior can dodge them for months."

Hawk didn't see any point in telling Monroe that Charlie Swiftrunner was not a warrior. He imagined Charlie laughing at all of them, probably just a few yards away. They had all lost his trail.

After stopping for a lunch of pemmican and hard tack, Hawk and Monroe spent the next couple of hours moving through the forest, eyes focused on the carpet of leaves. They wandered through deer or elk trails and soon found prints that Hawk knew must have been made by the same bear whose tracks they had seen before. He searched for the other predictable signs, such as bark ripped from tree trunks by a bear scratching its back, or disturbed beehives. Before he found any of these, a distraction seized his attention. Hawk's head snapped up when a gunshot reverberated through the forest. Colonel Monroe grimaced, but forged ahead.

"Didn't you hear that?" Hawk asked.

"Another hunter."

"More likely somebody taking a shot at your guide," Hawk said. "I'm going to track that sound."

"I have the bear's tracks," Monroe whispered through clenched teeth. "I hired you to help me hunt this bear. I say we follow the tracks."

"You don't own me, Mr. Monroe," Hawk said. "You're following the wrong tracks, but if you want to keep after that bear, you go right ahead. I just quit."

Hawk marched away from Monroe, but he wasn't sure why. Maybe it was his aversion to lynch mobs. Or maybe he identified too much with Charlie Swiftrunner.

Moving toward the source of the gunshot, Hawk soon sighted Irons and one of his deputies through the trees again. He was much too close to have fired the shot Hawk heard, yet he felt no need to alert Irons to his presence. The sheriff and one of his deputies were talking, and Hawk decided to listen in for a moment.

"Sounds like Jake caught the Indian at the cabin," the deputy said.

"He'll take care of him for good," Irons answered. "We've got business to take care of. He can catch up when he's finished with that redskin fool." The lawmen moved off but Hawk stayed in place. He didn't care about Irons' business. But then he heard a second shot and hurried toward it.

Within a couple of minutes he came to a small cabin sitting in a small clearing in the forest. As he watched through the trees, Charlie Swiftrunner and Jake rolled out the door, wrestling. A rifle rolled out too, dropped by one of them. Charlie slapped the deputy's head with something, and broke free. As Charlie backed away, Hawk could see that it looked like a big bear's paw tied to a leather strap wrapped around Charlie's hand. He let out three feet of the strap while Jake gathered his wits. When Jake lunged at Charlie again, Charlie swung the bear paw into Jake's head. When the deputy dropped, he stayed down. Hawk feared that another blow might kill him. He drew his revolver and stepped into the clearing.

"Handy weapon," Hawk said, aiming his gun at Charlie Swiftrunner. "I'm betting you skinned a bear's arm, sewed it back together and filled it with sand or gravel for weight. Is that how you killed the bartender? The claw marks that thing would leave would look just about right."

"This was self defense." Charlie Swiftrunner said, winding the strap around his hand. "He tried to kill me. I came to this hunter's shack to hide. It was empty when I got here. I found this bear paw in the shack, but then Jake found me. He took a shot at me from out here but he couldn't hit me hiding inside. Finally he opened the door and stepped inside hoping to kill me up close in the cabin. I snatched the bear paw and charged him. His second shot went over my head when I dove into his stomach, and I figure you saw the rest."

"I reckon I'm glad he didn't shoot you," Hawk said, "But it sure looks like he should have been arresting you for murder."

Charlie held his hand apart, palms forward. "I didn't kill anybody. That bartender was working for Monroe, just like you. A spy. He was infiltrating Irons' gang to see what they were up to. Our fight was fake, just so we could talk behind the bar without anybody thinking we were friends."

Infiltrating? Hawk hadn't heard that word since his days as an Army scout. "Look, I don't know what the facts are, but that story's pretty hard to swallow. I think I'll just take you back to Yonder. The mayor can decide what to do before Irons finds his way home. At least that way you're not likely to get killed before there can be a trial."

Charlie Swiftrunner edged closer, looking at the ground. "I'm sorry, but I can't go back now. I have to follow Irons." He looked up to make eye contact. "I didn't notice right away. Now, I see. You're not so far from home, are you? Arapaho maybe? Or, no, Shoshone by the look of you. Yes. You are Shoshone."

"Well, you're half right."

"I see." Charlie smiled. "That's why you care. And that's why you won't gun me down in cold blood."

Charlie Swiftrunner turned away as if to leave, but kept on turning. With unexpected speed his foot spun up, knocking Hawk's gun from his hand. A follow-up punch with the back of the bear hand put Hawk flat on the ground. Seconds later Charlie was running through the jungle with Hawk's revolver in his right fist.

 

Monroe watched the red sun resting on the edge of the horizon. It would go down soon, and he wondered where his hired hunter had run off to.

Colonel Monroe had followed bear tracks into a small clearing and right to the edge of a butte. The cliff dropped off rather suddenly. He couldn't imagine a bear dropping over it. He was about to turn away from the cliff when a light caught his attention from the sparser woods below. Looking more closely he saw a group of men on horseback there. His old eyes could just about make out rifles on every horse, and guns hanging on each man's waist. Then he saw two more lights flash. What the hell?

Monroe jumped when a heavy hand landed on his shoulder. He spun, staring into Irons' pale face.

"Thank goodness it's you," Monroe said. "There's about a dozen men out there. They look like bandits."

"Matter of fact, they're renegade Apaches," Irons said. "But don't you worry. They're here to see me. They're using a mirror to signal, to see if it's safe to come closer."

"What?" Monroe asked as Irons' deputy took his rifle. "What are they doing here?"

"You'll die wondering, old man." Irons pulled out a hunting knife and placed it against Monroe's chest. A rustling beyond the wood line made him turn.

"The bear!" Monroe almost shouted.

Irons stayed calm. "None around here. But whatever it is won't be there long. Nate?" The deputy leveled Monroe's rifle at the wood line. His finger tensed on the trigger, but the forest fired first and the rifle flew from Nate's hands. Nate gripped his upper arm, blood oozing between his fingers. Charlie Swiftrunner stepped from the trees, the smoking automatic pointed at Nate.

"You're lucky I aimed for your arm," Charlie said. "Want to try your luck again?" Nate stared hatred into Charlie Swiftrunner's face and then made a diving roll for the dropped rifle. As Charlie Swiftrunner's eyes followed Nate, Irons dived too, tackling the Indian. Charlie Swiftrunner dropped the pistol in the scuffle. While they wrestled, Nate recovered his rifle.

Monroe wasn't sure what was going on, but he knew that Charlie Swiftrunner had just saved his life, so he jumped on Nate from behind.

"Back off old man," Nate snarled, slamming the rifle butt back into Monroe's midsection. Monroe staggered backward, lost his footing, and slipped over the cliff. He snatched at the edge, but his grip was weak. He held on for a brief moment. He saw Nate, at the edge of the wood line, turn and train the rifle on Charlie Swiftrunner. Charlie was kneeling, straddling Irons. The pistol lay a good three feet away from him. Nate had an easy shot. As Monroe's grip slipped from the jagged rocks his only thought was that he couldn't help, and that Charlie Swiftrunner was about to die because of him.

 

"Bye-bye, Redskin," Nate said, taking aim at Charlie's head. Charlie looked up, eyes filled with defiance, not fear. That's when Hawk stepped out of the woods and swung his rifle butt into Nate's wounded arm. Nate's shot went high and wide and with a sharp scream, he passed out. That left two men for Hawk to hold in his rifle sights.

"Why don't you two stand up and spread out a little?" Hawk said.

Irons got to his feet and brushed himself off. "Where did you come from?"

"Well, Charlie Swiftrunner knocked me out a while back," Hawk said, "but I managed to pick up his moccasin trail when I came to. Now it looks like I followed a murder suspect through the woods just to save his life." Irons gave an easy smile and stepped forward, reaching for Hawk's rifle.

"You're making a big mistake trusting him," Charlie Swiftrunner said.

"I don't think so," Hawk said. He returned Irons' smile, then swiped the sheriff's head with the rifle's wooden butt. "I ain't trusting him."

Irons dropped to the ground on his back, then pushed himself up on his elbows. "What the hell?"

"Sorry, Sheriff, but you kept the bear story alive as best you could, even when the evidence pointed at Charlie here. I asked myself what you were hiding."

"The real evidence, the look of the bodies, said an animal did the killing," Irons said.

"Only if you don't know bears." Hawk said. "Even a rogue grizzly wouldn't hang around one place like this long enough to kill four men. They don't like people that much, they like to wander a wider space, and they don't travel alone. Bears don't attack men at all unless they're protecting their cubs. But I only saw one bear's identical tracks, and they never detoured to a bee hive or a scratching tree. It just didn't make sense. Unless they were faked tracks. Whoever had that bear's front paws could have his back ones too."

"You are smarter than I thought," Charlie said, reaching for the abandoned pistol. Hawk closed on him, and planted a right cross on Charlie Swiftrunner's jaw, putting him on the ground as well.

"I owed you that, amigo," Hawk said, bending to retrieve his revolver. As he slipped the gun into his holster he heard movement behind him. He spun his rifle toward Irons but before he could bring the barrel on line he felt a smashing impact on his right forearm and his rifle dropped from his numb fingers.

Irons was pulling in a stuffed bear paw, just like the one Charlie had hit Hawk with before. He snapped its ten-foot long thong like a whip. Hawk ducked once, but the next swing caught him in the back, shredding his shirt and smashing him to the ground. Pain lanced through his body. His legs refused to move. He doubted he could avoid another blow, and doubted anyone could survive a solid smash in the spine from that weighted flail. He tried to push through the pain and reach to his gun, but he knew he could never draw fast enough.

"It's all over, boy," Irons growled, spinning the weighted paw for one more strike.

The rifle blast came as a surprise. Hawk craned his neck in time to see Irons flop to the ground. Charlie Swiftrunner stood behind him with Nate's forgotten rifle. Hawk pressed himself to his knees.

"So now what?" Hawk asked, trying to shut out the pain. "You kill me too? You know I can't just let you walk off." That brought a smile from Charlie Swiftrunner. "I mean, so many deaths. If I don't have you, they'll put it on me. Even if I made it to the governor's office, they'd hang me for the death of a sheriff."

"I guess you're not as smart as I thought, Hawk," Charlie Swiftrunner said, shaking his head. "You are talking to the governor's office right now."

"They hiring Indian guides to run the state these days?" Hawk asked, slowly pushing to his feet.

"Truth is, I'm a federal Marshall. The governor sent us to Yonder to check out rumors of corruption and a brewing range war."

"Us?"

"The bartender was my partner, doubling as a spy. He was trying to find out what was going on with the local government. He found out the sheriff was taking sides, helping Bart Anderson prepare to push Monroe right off his ranch. But Irons caught him spying on them."

"So they killed him with those weighted paws to fake a bear attack?"

 

Charlie Swiftrunner nodded. "He was working secretly out of that hunter's shack where you found me. The killer bear story was just a ploy by Irons to keep Monroe's hands out of the area. It was also a handy way of getting rid of unwanted visitors. And now we know what he was hiding."

"We do?" Hawk asked.

"Here." Charlie Swiftrunner handed Hawk his rifle. "That's a show of trust. Now go over to the cliff and look down into that ravine."

Hawk accepted the rifle and walked stiffly to the cliff's edge. Squinting against the sun, he dropped to one knee and focused his gaze on the movement about two hundred yards away.

"Can you see the paint on their faces, Hawk?" Charlie asked. "Recognize the markings?"

Hawk had inherited his father's eyes, and those eyes had earned his father his surname when translated into English. "Those markings. They're Apache. Kind of far from home, ain't they? Renegades I'll bet."

"Right," Charlie Swiftrunner said. "Irons was meeting them here. That's why he needed the area cleared, and the bear scare worked for him. He's been getting them ready for a raid on Monroe's ranch. They'd wipe out Monroe's hands, and his family of course, then disappear."

"Sure, and none of it would get traced back to Anderson, or Irons. Looks like this time I was the one who was on the wrong track."

"Today Irons was going to show the renegades the best way to approach the Monroe spread, and the best time to attack. In return, Anderson promised him he'd be the next mayor after he took over Monroe's spread. They could still make that raid, too. I'd never make it to a place where I could get help in time. A lot of people will die for nothing in this range war."

Hawk's face was as hard as stone. He realized that the smell of death he noticed when he rode into Yonder was really the rot of corruption. It sickened him. "People die for nothing? I don't think so."

He settled into a prone position and took up a good sight picture, snugging the rifle butt into his shoulder. The rear sight was, of necessity, five inches from his eye. Charlie sat beside him.

"Yeah, it's a nice thought, but what can we do from up here?"

Hawk didn't answer while he scanned the distant group. In a few seconds he had picked out the leader. If his face paint hadn't given him away, the way he sat his horse and the way the others regarded him would have. He aimed for center mass, stopped breathing and squeezed the trigger slowly. The Marlin kicked hard into his shoulder and two seconds later the lead warrior's head snapped back.

"Amazing," Charlie whispered. Hawk cocked the lever, adjusted his aim and fired again. Another Apache's body burst open. Hawk was literally loaded for bear, and the .44 caliber round was a bit heavy for human targets. In the distance, the camp of renegades became a beehive of frantic activity.

"You've thrown them into a panic," Charlie said.

"They probably can't hear the rifle's blast from this distance," Hawk said. "They didn't expect to be fired on and they don't know where it's from."

The raiders began to fire in all directions. Confused, they scrambled for their horses. Hawk figured one more shot would do it. His third bullet smashed an Apache's back, pushing the man off his horse. The others scattered, Hawk assumed back where they came from. Charlie rested a hand on Hawk's shoulder.

"You are either very good or very lucky. Too bad Monroe couldn't be here to see how you averted a range war and saved his spread."

"Oh, I seen just enough, thanks."

Frank Monroe crawled in from the wood line on hands and knees. Charlie rushed over to help the older man to his feet. Hawk wasn't prone to rush to do anything just then. He had a variety of wounds, and his big bore rifle's kick had just about finished him.

"What happened to you?" Charlie Swiftrunner asked Monroe. "I don't mean to sound ungrateful, but I saw you go over the edge a few minutes ago."

"Don't rightly understand it myself," Monroe began. "I only fell for a second. Something grabbed me, something scratchy and hairy. It got me around the middle, so hard it forced the breath out of me. I think it might have a cracked rib or two. Anyhow, I blacked out, but I remember being lifted up, over the edge. The next thing I knew, I was waking up out there in the trees. I heard shooting and wandered out here quick as I could. Can't say what saved me."

"Strong and hairy?" Hawk asked. "Like a bear's arm?"

"Monroe's voice dropped, gaining almost a sense of wonder. "Would a bear save a man's life like that?"

Charlie grinned but before he could speak, Hawk said, "Stranger things have happened. These animals are a lot more intelligent than most people think, and they have a sense that lets them tell good folks from bad folks." He locked eyes with Monroe, pinning him to the spot with his stony visage. After a few intense seconds he walked over to the cliff edge to stare out at the sunset. He knew they faced a long, dark walk back to their mounts before the ride into Yonder. As he stood in pensive quiet, Charlie Swiftrunner walked up beside him. Charlie stared at the sun also, not turning to look at Hawk.

"It was you, wasn't it?" he asked in a low voice.

Hawk barely nodded. "Saw him on the edge but I could see he couldn't hold on for long. So I wrapped my rope around a tree and when he slipped off, I caught him with my lasso. There was no way to do it gentle-like."

"Why let him think it was a bear of all things?"

"The seed is sown," Hawk answered. "Let it grow. It'll keep folks out of this neck of the woods for a little while more. You don't know how deep the corruption really goes in Yonder yet. You're going to want to move on Anderson sometime, and probably the mayor. You sure won't want them to see a Marshall and his posse coming. Marshals might want a place to meet near Yonder without being seen. Know what I mean?"

"I think I do," Charlie Swiftrunner said. Then a grin slowly spread across his face. "It is a beautiful sunset."