Nighthawk Read online

  Nighthawk

  by F. M. PARKER

  Russ was just a boy one day and a killer and outlaw the next. Instead of tending his father’s cattle and saving to build a ranch of his own, he was fleeing into the desert. It wasn’t the path he had chosen. When he killed those two lawmen, he thought they were outlaws after his father…They were lawmen after his outlaw gather. To protect his father, he gave up his future and fled into a bleak and lawless land.

  Crazy Caloon had planned his escape from Yuma prison with great care and made his break in a powerful lightening storm. On the banks of the Gila River he tries to kill Russ for his horse and pistol. Instead they unite and join the ruthless gang of bandits led by Raasleer.

  Samantha and her father and grandfather start a ranch on the edge of bandit land. Russ, upon seeing the beautiful young girl and knowing the danger she is in, becomes her secret protector. Now he wants to find a way to get back on the right side of the law. In a final battle for survival and to save Samantha, Crazy Caloon and Russ must fight Raasleer’s fierce band of outlaws.

  * * *

  From Nighthawk

  The rhythm of Russ’s breathing subtly changes, increasing slightly. Then the volume faded and Caloon could no longer hear it. He knew with certainty that Russ was awake, that somehow even though asleep, he had received a signal of danger and was now roused and alert.

  Barely audible, muffled by Russ’s blankets and probably also by his had, Caloon heard the click of Russ’s six-gun being cocked. Caloon smiled and nodded in the blackness of the night. With his keen reflexes, Russ might survive for a short time in the dangerous world he lived in. Maybe just for a little while…

  About the Author

  F. M. PARKER has worked as a sheepherder, lumberman, sailor, geologist, and as a manager of wild horses, buffalo, and livestock grazing. For several years he was the manager of five million acres of public domain land in eastern Oregon.

  His highly acclaimed novels include Skinner, Coldiron, The Searcher, Shadow of the Wolf, The Shanghaiers, The Highbinders, The Far Battleground, The Shadow Man, and The Slavers.

  “SUPERBLY WRITTEN AND DETAILED… PARKER BRINGS THE WEST TO LIFE.”

  Publishers Weekly

  “ABSORBING…SWIFTLY PACED, FILLED WITH ACTION!”

  Library Journal

  “PARKER ALWAYS PRESENTS A LIVELY, CLOSELY PLOTTED STORY.”

  Bookmarks

  “REFRESHING, COMBINES A GOOD STORY WITH FIRST-HAND KNOWLEDGE.”

  University of Arizona Library

  “RICH, REWARDING… DESERVES A WIDE GENERAL READERSHIP.”

  Booklist

  Also by F.M. Parker

  Novels

  The Highwayman

  Wife Stealer

  Winter Woman

  The Assassins

  Girl in Falling Snow

  The Predators

  The Far Battleground

  Coldiron – Judge and Executioner

  Coldiron - Shadow of the Wolf

  Coldiron - The Shanghaiers

  Coldiron - Thunder of Cannon

  The Searcher

  The Seeker

  The Highbinders

  The Shadow Man

  The Slavers

  Nighthawk

  Skinner

  Soldiers of Conquest

  Screenplays

  Women for Zion

  Firefly Catcher

  The Making of the Land - A Prologue

  Only the hot eye of the primeval sun saw the birth. Watched the water womb of the ocean torn aside and the breast of a new continent rise to life upon the earth. This earliest dawning of the land took millions of years, but only a minute of time in the unimaginably long life of the world.

  Propelled by some irresistible energy within the bowels of the earth, the continent battled to emerge, crowding away the salty brine of the sea. Exposed for the first time to the brilliant light of the day were massive layers of sandstone, limestone, and shale piled thousands of feet thick by the energetic waters of the sea. During the passage of a few more million years, the broad land plain grew a fertile cover of soil and came alive with countless species of life.

  A great mountain range with scores of tall peaks lay to the north of the plain. The mountain’s crest cut crosswise the path of the prevailing storms that drove in from the west, forcing the moisture-laden air to rise abruptly. And the sky-brushing crown of the mountain milked the clouds, wringing billions upon billions of gallons of water from them to fall upon land.

  The water rushed down from the rocky crags of the mountains, collected into rivulets, which grew into creeks that merged to form a mighty river. Lesser streams were born on the plain itself. Some of them hurried off to find the sea. Most found the mighty river from the north and added their volume to its prodigious flood.

  For countless thousands of years the great river meandered back and forth across the plain, cutting into the land, carving a wide valley to carry its never ending flow. And the millennium passed, score after score, adding to millions of years.

  During this long span of time, gigantic pressure again built up in the crust of the earth. The awesome might, too powerful to be contained, began to lift and arch the plain.

  The change in the slope of the land altered the grant of the streams, forcing them from their channels, destroying them. All except one, that is, the giant river from the north. The source of its water, the mountains, were also rising and their increased height squeezed ever more moisture out of the clouds. This enlarged volume of water and the steepening of the grade charged the river with new vigor and energy. It now moved more swiftly and carried vast quantities of sand and gravel.

  Using its torrent of water as a blade and the abrasive sand and gravel as the teeth of that blade, the river sawed at the bottom of its channel, fighting to retain its familiar bed. At times it almost lost, forced within inches to abandon its course. In the end it won, but it was a strange-appearing river; though it had long looping meanders of old age, it flowed swiftly with the lustiness of youth.

  The upward bowing of the land had created great tension upon the rock layers. One added inch of movement exceeded the strength of the rock and faults of unbounded force sliced up through the earth’s crust. Vents and fissures gaped open at the surface. The zones of weakness along the fault zones reached deep within the earth, tapping into the live core of the planet and allowing boiling, molten rock to gush out.

  Red-hot and charged with volatile gasses, the liquid rock flowed down the slightest incline, smothering square mile after square mile with a blanket of death. As the lava surged across the ancient landscape, it trapped the panicked animals, burning them to ashes in a moment, and incinerated the grasses and weeds into a thin carbon film.

  Sometimes the outpourings slowed and even stopped, and at other times burst forth with great violence, blowing ash thousands of degrees hot upon the land. One lava flow piled upon another. After many eruptions over hundreds of centuries, hard rock more than two miles thick was formed.

  This cataclysmic upheaval of the land threatened the river. Faults slashed across its course and lava poured into its channel. But again the river beat back its attackers. As the walls of the faults rose to bar its passage, the mighty torrent pounded great gaps through them. And the cold mountain water of the stream solidified the liquid lava into massive blocks, then ground those chunks of dead rock into sand and flushed it away to the ocean.

  Finally the stress on the stone foundation of the plain slackened and faded away. The lava cauldrons deep within the earth were again capped off. The land rested. The rains fell.

  The river and lesser streams continued to devour the land as they had since time immemorial. One stream was especially aggressive, the one that stemmed from the direction of the morning su
n. It cut headward, breeching the channels of smaller currents and consuming their floods. It could not rival the north river, however, and paid homage by bestowing its total flow upon that ancient stream.

  The voracious appetite of all the many currents wore away the ash and softer lava beds, leaving the superhard cores of the volcanic eruptions standing as young, angular mountains surrounded by wide flat valleys.

  The climate turned dry, a desert grew, and its desiccating winds ravaged the country. The streams that had once run all year now had only short seasons of life in the sun, flowing in their courses only small fractions of their lengths before the thick sand and gravel of the valley bottoms swallowed them hungrily.

  Some of the animal and plant species adapted to the harsh land of desert valleys and mountains. Other species d.

  That is the way man found the land.

  CHAPTER 1

  Arizona Territory—February 1884

  The winter storm, howling like a she-wolf that had lost her pup, rushed down from the arctic. Powerful gusts of wind buffeted the stone walls of the ranch house built on the bluff above the valley. The hammer blows of the wind rattled the window pane where John Blackaby stood looking out.

  Blackaby reached out a calloused old hand and pressed the glass tightly into its sash to stop the noise. He shivered at the touch of the frigid glass. Getting old, he thought. I can’t stand the cold like I used to. He was glad for the flames that crackled in the fireplace behind him.

  Wind-driven curtains of snow scurried away to the south, hiding the valley from Blackaby’s view beyond a few hundred yards. From the bunkhouse smoke rose, to be snatched away and shredded by the wind almost before it could climb out of the chimney.

  To the right of the bunkhouse, the large stone corrals lay empty. All the horses and the dozen or so sick range cows that had been brought into headquarters for doctoring were in the stables, snugly hidden from the storm.

  The nearest snow squall, torn suddenly by an erratic shift in the wind, split into many ribbons. The streamers of snow poured down like miniature waterfalls to bury the desert in white. And they pelted with stinging blows the three horsemen that pushed in from the east.

  Blackaby spotted the dark forms of the men and walked to where his holstered six-gun hung on a wooden peg beside the fireplace. “Three riders coming,” he said to his wife as he buckled the gun to his waist.

  Sarah Blackaby rose from her chair near the fire and followed him to the window. “The weather isn’t fit for people to be traveling in,” she said.

  “Maybe they got caught by the storm,’’ answered Blackaby, “or have some other game to play. Anyway, we’ll soon know, for they’re coming straight in.”

  * * *

  Dan Tamblin raised his head and squinted into the stinging ice pellets. Through a break in the storm, he saw the ranch house, a large two-story structure with its lava rock walls showing black against the snow-covered land.

  He turned to see if his father and daughter had seen the house. They rode with their heads tilted down so the brims of their hats protected their faces. Snow was piled on the shoulders of their heavy sheepskin coats. Not once had they complained during the long cold trip from Tucson. He was proud of both of them.

  “Less than a quarter mile to go,” he called.

  Both lifted their heads to stare ahead. “Damn big house,” said Lafe Tamblin. “The owner must be prospering to afford it. Sam, do you see how big it is?”

  “I see it, Grandfather. It is large. Looks out of place here in the desert. Do you think this Mr. Blackaby will be agreeable to our plan?”

  “We’ll soon know,” answered Lafe.

  The Tamblins rode directly up to the hitching rail at the main house and dismounted. “Wait here and stay away from the ranch hands,” said Dan. He separated from the others and climbed the flight of stone steps leading up to the house.

  The ranch foreman had seen the three horsemen arrive, and now he and two ranch hands left the warmth of their fire and came outside. While the foreman continued toward the house, the other men pulled their heads down into the collars of their coats and stood with rifles in the crooks of their arms and watched the strange riders.

  Dan Tamblin noted the men with the rifles taking position near the bunkhouse and a third man hurrying up the grade toward him. The defensive actions of the ranch crew were easily understood; three unknown horsemen coming in out of the storm could likely as not mean trouble.

  At Dan’s knock, an old man with thin gray hair opened the door. With his hand on his six-gun, he measured the stranger with hard eyes. Finally he said, “Come in out of the weather.”

  “Thank you,” said Dan. He removed his hat, slapped it against his leg to send a shower of icy snow flying, and stepped inside.

  “My name is Tamblin, Dan Tamblin,” he said as he stripped off his glove and shoved out a hand.

  “John Blackaby is my name,” said the rancher, taking the proffered hand, feeling the thick calluses on the palm. “Come over by the fire and warm yourself. It’s cold outside so tell your friends to come in too, if you want.”

  “They’re all right outside,” said Tamblin, moving up to the fireplace and turning his back to the flames.

  The old woman remained near the window and watched the two figures, bundled in their heavy coats, walk back and forth along the hitch rail. One stood almost a head taller than the second. Now and then the smaller would turn his head and say something. The second made only very brief answers and often turned to observe the men with the rifles at the bunkhouse.

  “Bad storm we’re having, so you must have a mighty good reason for being out,” said Blackaby.

  “Yes, it’s a mite rough, but we’ve been in worse. I do have something important I want to talk with you about.”

  “What would that be?”

  “Running cattle in the Growler Mountains,” responded Tamblin, watching the old man’s face.

  “Well, there’s free government range over there in the Growlers and all the other mountains to the west of us. But there’s a complication—that’s rustler range.”

  “I’ve heard the tales,” said Tamblin, “but I expect they’re exaggerated like most such stories are.”

  “Not stretched at all,” snorted Blackaby. “They’re all true as hell. They’ll have you robbed blind before the summer is over. They take some of my cows every year and I have twenty riders. How many cowboys do you have?”

  Before Dan could answer, the outside door opened and the foreman came in without knocking. He crossed the room to stand beside Blackaby.

  “This is Harry Tullos,” said Blackaby. “Best, and, I might add, the toughest ranch honcho in a hundred miles, any direction. Meet Tamblin. Wants to run cattle in the Growlers.”

  “Howdy,” said Tullos, making no effort to shake hands. “That’s been tried once before by a fellow. We found his bones bleaching out on the desert. Rustlers must of found him right off cause he didn’t even have time to build a cabin. His cows were all gone, too.”

  Tamblin decided to change the subject from talk of the rustlers. “I made an inspection trip through the Growlers and found good grass on the higher slopes, especially the north and east ones.”

  Blackaby nodded. “I agree there’s grass. That ain’t the problem. You can’t keep cattle. They just up and go south to Mexico.”

  Tamblin was tired of this kind of talk. “Well, my cows go only in the direction I want. And since the rustlers are such a bother, you won’t have any objections to me running a herd on the mountain. My place would act as a buffer between your stock and the rustlers.”

  “All men are allowed to make mistakes and I think going to the Growlers would be one,” said Blackaby. “After the Army finally gets out here and hangs the rustlers, things will be better. As far as your ranch being a buffer between my cattle and the rustlers, I doubt they would be much benefit. Why do you ask me if you can run cows over there?”

  “Your spread is the nearest ranch to the G
rowlers, probably not much over twenty miles or so east. I need to know where your west line is. I don’t want my cows eating your grass.”

  “I appreciate that. Ajo Mountain is part of my range. Let’s say the base of the west face of the mountain will be the dividing line separating your range and mine.”

  Tamblin knew Blackaby lied and was claiming at least ten thousand acres more than he used. The Double B-branded cattle did not get farther west than the lower eastern slopes of Ajo Mountain. Dan had carefully noted that fact the past autumn when he had ridden over Ajo Mountain going to the Growlers.

  “Your cattle don’t get past the top of Ajo. But I agree with the boundary. Any cattle I find of yours, I’ll shove back to the mountain. Any you see with my brand, just haze west down in the valley.”

  “All right,” said Blackaby. “Where’s your herd now?”

  “About five miles east of here.”

  Blackaby looked at him sharply, and his eyes hardened. “Well, I see you planned to go to the Growlers despite what I said. And I can see you don’t believe what we say about the rustlers. But have you considered that because of this extra cold winter, green grass will be a couple of months late?”

  “Yes, I’ve thought of that, but I want to get an early start. I plan to turn my stock out on last year’s old grass until the new green-up comes.”

  Sarah Blackaby interrupted, speaking from the window. “The Growlers are not a fit place for that young woman. She’ll not be safe there.”

  “There are no women in my family,” said Dan, beginning to button his coat. “Just my father and my son, Sam.”

  Mrs. Blackaby had been studying the smaller person outside, had noted the hand gestures, the manner of walk, the way the head was held, and knew with complete certainty it was a female. Sarah’s wise old eyes caught Tamblin’s look, saw the controlled, noncommittal expression on his face. She understood he wanted no person to know there would be a woman in that isolated, bandit-infested land.