Willie’s charge went first, a flash of light, followed a second later by the heavy thump of the explosion. Then came Rob’s, followed almost immediately by the dynamite Hawke had placed. Even from there they could feel the concussion of the blow. Then pieces of debris rained down from the sky, followed by the sound of rushing water as Sugar Creek began to flow again.
“Yahoo!” Win shouted. “Damn that was good.”
“All right, boys, let’s get back home,” Hawke said. “We’ve done a good night’s work here.”
By the next day, everyone on Northumbria and the adjacent ranches knew that the water was flowing again. And shortly after they learned that the water was flowing, they also found out why. Hawke and the men who had ridden with him became the heroes of the valley.
“What am I paying you for?” Bailey railed at Dancer.
“To be your bodyguard,” Dancer answered.
“No, I’m not paying you just to be my bodyguard. That’s just what I tell everyone,” Bailey said. “What I really pay you for is to make certain that things like what just happened don’t happen.”
“I wasn’t there,” Dancer replied. “If I had been there, it wouldn’t have happened.”
“You are supposed to be intimidating enough that nobody would dare do something like this,” Bailey said. “Here you are, one of the most famous gunfighters in the West, but a bunch of cowboys have no more respect for you than to go out to the dam and blow it up.”
“I wasn’t there,” Dancer said again.
“I know you weren’t there, you ignorant baboon!” Bailey said loudly. “My point is, if people were afraid of you, they wouldn’t do it. But you know what I think? I think you are afraid of that man Hawke.”
“I am not afraid of him,” Dancer said.
“Really? Well, you can’t prove it by me.”
Metzger stepped into the office during the argument between Dancer and Bailey. As soon as he realized what was going on, he stepped back outside, without having been seen. He knew, intuitively, that he didn’t want to get caught up in the middle of a fight between Ethan Dancer and Bailey McPherson. The best thing for him to do now, he decided, would be to go down to the saloon and have a drink or two until things calmed down.
A piano tuner had come from Cheyenne, and Hawke stood at the piano with Aaron Peabody as the instrument was tuned.
“You know, there’s not a lot I can do with this,” the tuner said. “The soundboard is warped, the strings are stretched out of shape. This piano is in terrible condition.”
“I know,” Peabody said. “But my brother says I don’t play well enough to make it worth buying a new one. Maybe if you could get it closer into tune, my playing would improve enough to convince him.”
“I’ll do what I can,” the tuner said. “As long as you don’t expect miracles.”
“You want to hear a miracle, you should hear this man play,” Aaron said, nodding toward Hawke. “I mean, even with the piano like this, he made it sound real good the other day.”
“If he made this piano sound like anything at all, it was a miracle,” the tuner said as he continued to work.
When Metzger stepped into the saloon, he saw Hawke standing by the piano. Hawke’s back was to him.
Damn! he thought. He would never get another chance like this. If he was ever going to do anything, he would have to do it right now.
“Hawke!” Metzger shouted. “Turn around and die, you son of a bitch!”
Turning slowly, Hawke saw that Metzger was pointing his gun at him.
“I missed you the other night,” Metzger said. “But I ain’t goin’ to miss you now.”
“So you were the one in livery stable?” Hawke said. “I thought as much.”
“Yeah, that was me.” Metzger smiled a crooked, evil smile. “When you get to hell, tell my ol’ pards Poke ’n’ Gilley I said hello.”
Metzger lifted his thumb from the handle of his pistol, preparatory to pulling back the hammer, but his thumb never reached the hammer. Hawke drew and fired. His bullet crashed into Metzger’s forehead, then burst out through the back of his head. A little spray of blood glowed pink in the light of the overhead lanterns.
Metzger fell back onto a nearby table, breaking it and winding up at the bottom of the V that was formed by the two pieces. He was dead before he ever realized he was in danger.
“My God! How’d you do that?” Jake asked.
“How did I do what?” Hawke replied.
“How’d you kill him, when he already had the drop on you?”
“Simple,” Hawke said. “While Metzger was thinking, I was acting.”
“What do you mean he had his gun in his hand when Hawke shot him?” Dancer asked.
“’Cause I was there and I seen it,” Booker Landers said.
“Nobody is that fast,” Dancer said. “Nobody.”
“This here fella is,” Landers said. “I was lookin’ right at him, and I tell you the truth, I didn’t even see him draw. I mean, one second he was standin’ there by the piano, and the next thing you know the gun was in his hand and he was already shootin’ it. I don’t know how he got it out so fast.”
“Do you think he is faster than you, Mr. Dancer?” Bailey asked.
“No!” Dancer answered, slamming his fist on the counter in the office. “He’s not faster than I am.”
“You’re sure?”
“I’m sure,” Dancer said. “Don’t worry about it. When the time comes, I will take care of him.”
“Yes, I have every confidence that you will,” Bailey said.
Chapter 22
AT ALMOST THE SAME TIME THE WATER STARTED flowing again, the cowboys who had left the range to try their hand at searching for gold began returning. At first they came back in ones and twos, then small groups, then in droves. Within two weeks South Pass City, which had for a short time been the third largest settlement in Wyoming, was all but deserted, the tents struck and its occupants moved out. Now all that remained was a half-built saloon and the magnificent structure that was once the Golden Cage.
The overnight businesses that had sprung up in Green River—the outfitters, the Gold Nugget Haulers, and others—closed their doors. Now, three passenger carriages and six freight wagons were lined up down at the depot, waiting for flat cars to transport them to someplace more productive.
A buckboard, driven by Hawke, came into town by way of White Mountain Road. Pamela was riding in it, and they followed the road to Railroad Avenue, stopping in front of Blum’s Mercantile.
“I’ll just be a few minutes,” Pamela said as she climbed down.
“No hurry,” Hawke replied.
“Why, Mr. Hawke, we meet again,” a woman’s voice called from the boardwalk in front of the mercantile.
Looking toward the voice, Hawke saw Libby St. Cyr. He touched the brim of his hat. “Miss St. Cyr,” he said.
“Aren’t you going to introduce me to your lady friend?” Libby asked.
Hawke hesitated for a second, then decided that Pamela was the kind of person who probably would not take offense.
“Miss Dorchester, this is Miss St. Cyr,” Hawke said. Then, to Libby, he added, “Miss Dorchester is the daughter of the owner of Northumbria.”
“Oh, yes, I know all about the great ranch called Northumbria,” Libby said. “I must say, it is an honor to meet you, Miss Dorchester.”
“Are you just visiting?” Hawke asked. “I thought you, Jay, and the others, were up at South Pass.”
Libby chuckled. “There is no South Pass anymore. Not since word got around that there is no gold and there never was. Everyone left, so we had no choice but to leave as well.”