Willow Creek Showdown
by
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The smell of sage was strong on the small breeze that stirred the warm night air. The platform of the old train station was dimly lit with three lanterns hanging on posts, which held up the weather beaten roof. Hawk settled down on the wooden bench to wait, listening to the muted chorus of the crickets as they played off in the dark. From somewhere out in the sagebrush came the mournful prayer of a lonely coyote, and closer, the whispering of bat wings looking for a snack in the desert night. The eastbound train to Denver was due at eleven thirty, although it would probably be late, most trains were these days. Glancing at the station clock through a dirty window, Hawk saw that he had twenty minutes to wait. The stationmaster had told him earlier that the eastbound trains had plenty of room, but the westbound trains were always filled up. Hawk was glad he didn't have to fight the crowds on the westbound trains. He was a loner and hated crowds. He had let no one get close to him since his mother died. Someone at her funeral told him, "Everybody dies, Son", so he had decided, why go through it again? It hurt too much and he didn't need it. The bench was hard, so he eased his lanky frame down a little and stretched his legs out in front of him, crossing them at the ankles. He watched the evening breeze play with tumbleweed, pushing and rolling it down the tracks toward the empty stock pens at the end of the platform. The stars were close and bright in the clear sky, with one thin solitary cloud drifting lazily across the face of the moon, slicing it into two pieces. The heat of the day still lingered in the dust that hovered silently, like a morning mist, above the dirt road that ran on the other side of the tracks. It covered everything in sight and he could taste the grit in his mouth. The waiting room and platform were empty, except for the stationmaster and a young redheaded girl. The stationmaster was busy, his praying-mantis body curled over a large roll top desk. He was pounding on the telegraph key, while the girl stood waiting at his desk, tapping her foot impatiently. Hawk pulled his battered old Stetson down almost covering his dark watchful eyes. His weathered features appeared to be chiseled from rock and never seemed to know a smile, yet somewhere in the back of his eyes lurked amusement at life itself. Slowly, he rubbed the stubble of a three-day-old beard and decided that tomorrow he would shave. The handkerchief around his neck had seen too many dust storms and as he daubed the sweat on his upper lip, he promised himself a new one. He had thick broad shoulders and could feel the cord-like muscles flexing beneath his blue faded shirt as he settled his back more comfortably against the rear of the bench. Folding his hands across his stomach, he loosely interlocked his fingers near the Colt .44 that hung low on his right hip. The holster was worn and shiny from use, holding a Peacemaker that was as well cared for as it was well used. The sun had removed the last memory of color from his trousers and his battered boots were scuffed and run down at the heels. The waiting was almost over and he was quite sure Red would be here soon. Hawk eased his hand to a more comfortable position nearer the .44. He had caught a slight movement at the end of the platform, along with the sound of spurs. He was always alert, for he knew that those who were not ever alert, was a long time dead. Suddenly out of the darkness, three men stepped up on the far end of the platform. Without moving his head, he studied them from the corner of his eyes. They stopped, uncertain, and stared at him. Red Davis took a long step forward, hooked his thumbs in his gunbelt, and said with scorn etching his voice, "Hey drifter, what time is the train due?" From beneath his hat, Hawk eyed him coolly. He had been looking for Red a long time and now that the moment had arrived, he could feel the excitement building inside him. "Hey, I'm talking to you, saddle tramp." Hawk reached up with his left hand and removed a wooden toothpick from his mouth. He pointed at the big man with it and said in a matter-of-fact voice, "Mister, if you want to know the train schedules, maybe you better talk to the man inside. I don't work for the railroad." "You don't tell me what to do," Red uttered in a threatening voice, "Stand up!" The three-quarter moon was bright in the almost clear sky as Hawk flipped the unwanted toothpick out into the darkness surrounding the station. Moving with the sure grace of a mountain lion, he rose from the bench to stand facing the man in the hush of the night. The sound of silence was deafening as the two men waited for some unknown signal to end a life. Slowly with his left hand, Hawk thumbed his Stetson to the back of his head so his face could be seen. Then, as the light from the lanterns revealed his face fully, the other two men whispered quickly to each other. The Mexican in the big sombrero said cautiously, "Hey Red, can we talk to you a minute?" "You two guys shut up. I'll take care of this." "But, Red," the one in the sombrero pleaded. Red crouched over slightly with his hand a mere whisper away from his gun. "I said, shut up! Okay now, Tramp, prepare to meet your maker." "It's not going to be as easy as that train was," Hawk stated flatly. "I bet that was just like shooting fish in a barrel, wasn't it? Did it make you feel like a man?" Through clenched teeth he finished, "I think you're a low life coward. Two of those soldier boys you shot were my brothers." Surprise lit up Red's eyes as he grabbed for his gun. "Hawk," he whispered. He had heard talk about the speed of this man's draw, but now they would talk about Red Davis, because he was going to kill him. Thoughts of glory and the reward he would get from the senator flashed through his mind as his hand settled on the butt of his bone-handled .45. With a speed too fast for the eye to catch, Hawk's gun appeared in his hand and bucked twice. Red's shirtfront exploded and he crumpled to the floor, his own gun barely clearing leather.
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About the Book
Hawk knew all about death and trouble, and that’s why he was a loner. He had a quick smile, a fast gun and a horse that had sense enough to turn its rear to the wind in a storm. He was a smart horse and that was more that he could say for some humans he had met lately. They all seemed to have one thought on their minds and that was attending his funeral and if a popularity poll was taken, it looks like he would have to hire pallbearers. In 1863, Bloody Bill Anderson and his outlaws stopped a westbound train just outside Centralia, Missouri. They stole the strongbox, which contained three thousand dollars, and executed twenty-five Union Soldiers. Hawk remembered his two brothers who were killed that day. As a small boy he tried in vain to comfort his mother who died a few months later of a broken heart. It was that day in the churchyard that he swore on his mother’s grave that he would get revenge. Now his time had come and the trail of these killers had lead him to Frank James and Bob Ford and a question he may not live long enough to answer. Why was it that everyone who knew about the agreement between the Ford Brothers and the James Brothers, committed suicide, died mysteriously, or was murdered? Hawk knew he would have to find the answer to that question or die trying.
About the Author
Will Price was born and raised in and around the farmlands of Central Indiana. He attended Labratory, Rankin, and Garfield High School. Before graduation, Will said that school was interfering with his education, so he quit and joined the Air Force. As a proud member of Security Service, Will traveled around the world. He served in Europe and the Far East for eight years then returned to civilian life. While in the USAF, Will received his GED Diploma and after leaving the service, attended Indiana State University for five years, majoring in Archeology and a minor in English. After the Air Force, Will worked on the railroad as a locomotive engineer for twenty-five years. Some of the men he worked with appear under different names in his book. Will loved to travel and he loved the Western reaches of our great land the most. Since as far back as he could remember, he listened to stories of the western gunfights, the Indians, and the baked land that absorbed the lives and stories of the people, like it sucked up the infrequent rains that touched its face. Once when he was just a youth of thirteen, he met a man in Arizona who rode with the Younger Gang. He was a very old man known as Outlaw Bob. Bob told of the old days. The hard riding, hiding, hunger and other hardships that the outlaws of those days had to endure. He always finished his stories by saying "Boys, ya had to be in it for the excitement, cause there sure wasn’t any money." Will’s Great Grandmother told him a story of Jesse James and part of that story is told here.