The Law of a Fast Gun Read Free Page B

thump.
    “Hit ’er again, George! You’ve just about got her!” someone shouted.
    Thump.
    Hawke opened his eyes and looked around his room. The shade was pulled, but a small hole in it projected onto the wall a detailed image, not a shadow but a photographic image, of the cottonwood tree that grew just outside the saloon.
    “Again!” the man called.
    Thump.
    “That got ’er. We can get the wheel off now.”
    Hawke sat up in his bed and swung his legs over to one side. He sat there a moment, gradually getting reacquainted with the world to which he had said good-bye the night before.
    He thought of his dream, or rather, the two dreams that seemed to merge into one. Both dreams recalled incidents from his past. He had, indeed, been a concert pianist. “The best young talent to come from America in many a season,” was the way the London Times put it in the article that told of Hawke being knighted by Queen Victoria for his contribution to the world of music.
    Hawke had enjoyed a grand tour of the Continent, playing before the crowned heads of Europe and winning over audiences everywhere he appeared. Therefore his dream of an applauding audience was not without justification.
    But the other dream, which had encroached on the first, was equally valid. Hawke had also endured the cannonading of Yankee guns, after he’d abandoned his musical career to answer what he considered to be a higher calling—the calling of honor. Hawke left Europe before his tour was completed, and returned home to join his father’s regiment and fight for the South.
    It had been his intention to resume his musical career after the war. But as it turned out, that wasn’t possible. Many of the men who were not killed were maimed and scarred by the war. And some of the worst scars were not visible.
    Hawke was one of those men. For every relative and friend he saw die, and for every enemy soldier he killed, he had lost a small part of himself. Sometimes he found himself envious of his father and brother, both of whom were killed in the war. It would have been better, he believed, to have died with his dreams intact, than to wander through the rest of his days…a life without purpose, and a man without a soul.
    Padding barefoot across the plank floor, Hawke picked up the porcelain pitcher and poured water into a basin. He washed his face and hands, then worked up a rich lather and shaved.
    It was already mid-morning, but the heavy green shade that covered the window kept out most of the light. Not until he was dressed did he open the shade to let the morning sunshine steam in. He stood at the window for a moment, looking out at the street below.
    The banging that had intruded into his dream, indeed had shaped it, came from the freight office across the street. There, an empty wagon sat on blocks with one of the wheels removed. Another freight wagon was just pulling away, while a third was being loaded.
    Braggadocio, Nebraska, was an industrious town, full of commerce and activity. By painted signs and symbols, the various mercantile establishments made themselves knownto the citizens of the town, as well as to the farmers and ranchers who came in to buy their supplies. Next to the freight office, the druggist was sweeping the front porch of the apothecary, his business advertised not by words, but by a large cutout of a mortar and pestle. Next to that, a striped pole advertised the barbershop, and next to that a big tooth led patients to the dentist.
    From his position at the window, Hawke could not see the big, painted, golden mug of beer just below him that indicated the saloon. The porch overhang blocked his view. This building, where the Hog Lot Saloon was located, was not only Hawke’s living quarters, it was also his place of employment.
    After sunset Braggadocio became a totally different town. As industrious as it was by day, it was anything but that at night. Then, for those who availed themselves of the opportunity, Braggadocio was a