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.”