The Big Basin Waltz: The Adventures of Hawkeye Starbuck

By Patrick Landon

Our favorite rodeo cowboy is back. When Hawkeye Starbuck stopped to water his horse at a mountain stream, a woman screamed. He ran to help her. That began a dance that waltzed them clear across the Basin. Whether it was rescuing old used-up horses that a blackhearted rancher had locked out to starve or chasing after a cry for help, he is more good-hearted than good-timin! Yet it seldom turned out how he had planned.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Page Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Mar 15, 2023
• ISBN: 9798886548723

Book preview

cover.jpg

The Big Basin Waltz

The Adventures of Hawkeye Starbuck

Patrick Landon

Copyright © 2023 Patrick Landon

All rights reserved

First Edition

PAGE PUBLISHING

Conneaut Lake, PA

First originally published by Page Publishing 2023

ISBN 979-8-88654-855-6 (pbk)

ISBN 979-8-88654-872-3 (digital)

Printed in the United States of America

Table of Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

About the Author

Chapter 1

Hawkeye Starbuck squeezed through a stand of scrub brush and came to a narrow run of rock that veered up a wooded slope. He had not seen the girl since he had heard her scream. A burly man in a long coat had hold of her hair and was dragging her up the mountain. She was kicking and fighting, but there were three of them, and she was but a spit of a girl. The other two men packed pistols in each hand and backed cautiously up the slope, following the captor but on the alert for somebody pursuing them.

Momentarily stunned by the unexpected tussle less than a hundred yards away from where he watered his horse, Hawkeye recovered and scrambled after them. The girl screamed. Then Hawkeye lost them. He had heard her scream again. That had been five or six minutes ago. He had been racing up the mountain ever since.

The cowboy paused, panting in the unaccustomed altitude, but knew he was only feet from the summit. Gasping, he pulled himself to the top, but it was not the top. It was only a false summit which bewildered him for a moment. The top was obliterated by the dense trees. What looked like a path, maybe a goat trail, angled to his left up the ridge but appeared to peter out downslope. What now?

Durn, he cussed under his breath. If only that girl would scream again.

Hawkeye pricked up his ears, keen on sensing what was around him. To his left, about forty yards, a squirrel watched from the notch of a pine. Only minutes ago, deer had bounded into the thicket below him. Were they running from him? No. They had come toward him. At first, it was almost indiscernible; then he heard the soft crack of branches behind him, below in the ravine. Somehow, he had gotten ahead of them.

He listened to the muffled echo of angry voices, but there was no understanding in the thick woods. The cowboy slid down the slope and intersected the goat trail again. It led down to a shallow stream. He wanted to call out to the girl, to keep her screaming so he could home in on her voice. Still, he was sure they had not seen him, and being outnumbered as he was, he had to maintain the advantage of surprise. Quietly, the cowboy splashed across the stream, ignoring the cold wetness of his pants clinging to his legs, and forced himself into a bramble thicket. Voices came again, men's voices, and they were still behind him. He wondered if the armed sentries were still bringing up the rear. He heard feet plunge into the stream farther downslope, still behind him.

The trail abruptly rose up another slope, but this slope was steeper, skirting the thicket. It led away from where he thought he ought to go. Hawkeye zigzagged through a clump of boulders, past the thicket, and into a small, grassy clearing. His lungs heaved in the thin air. He pivoted to stare back into the ravine. Although the men were not in sight, he could hear footsteps splashing through the stream. There was no noise from the girl.

Away from the clearing, dense brush grew in every direction. The solid forest was like a shut door. He could not see into it, and he could find no trail down, except for the one leading back into the impenetrable thicket. The black trees angled skyward. The forest went on forever. If he could not go down into the ravine, he had to stay ahead of them. He had not counted on outflanking them, on getting in front, but it was an advantage he could not afford to lose. He raced ahead of them. Then he discovered the clearing had fooled him. It was not small at all. It extended into a narrow, long meadow that sloped down to the stream. Hawkeye picked up speed, pushing his body for all it was worth and broke into the openness of the meadow. A shot rang out. The woman screamed, and Hawkeye jerked his head to see them not fifty yards behind him.

His racing glance could not take much in, but he saw that the girl had sunk to her knees and the three men were huddled about her in a nervous cluster. Then the grass parted at his feet, and he heard the soft thud of a bullet biting the turf at the same time he heard the pistol's report.

Close. Way too close.

Twice more, in rapid succession, the gun cracked. A bullet whistled past the back of his head. A third shot grazed the back of his boot as he dived headlong over a downed log and flopped onto his belly in the pine needles back in the cover of the trees. He had made it across the meadow and was directly in front of them now.

Frantically, he scrambled higher, taking refuge behind a jagged rock.

Okay, now, you jaybirds, he muttered between short, choppy breaths, now, it's my turn.

He pulled a snub-nosed gun from the side of his boot, checked the chambers for ammunition, calmed his breathing, pulled his gun hand over the top of the rock, steadied his aim with the other hand, and became as still as the rock.

Not long now, you woman-beatin' polecats, he growled. Go ahead, stick your slimy heads out where I can pick 'em off, and we'll even this score.

He went stock still, no movement except the flaring of his nostrils as his breathing returned to normal. He concentrated on the far side of the clearing. Any moment, he figured the men would sneak into the clearing, convinced one of their shots had made him fall. Their impatience would be their undoing. He had seen it happen time and time again. Any moment now. Ten seconds passed. He was motionless, determined. Thirty seconds became a minute, then two. Abruptly, the cowboy scrambled off the rock. Something was wrong. The men should have come into view by now. At least, the two sharpshooters would have shown themselves.

Hawkeye scurried to the cover of a pine. Then he scampered farther down, hoping to get a view of the head of the meadow. Had he called it wrong? Had the men not acted the way he had it figured? Had they known the shot had not hit him? But as they approached the meadow, had they broken up and looped around him?

The crack of a gunshot gave him the answer as a bullet buried into the tree not two inches from his cheek. It came from his right. He threw himself headlong into the bushes as he felt another bullet zip past him. Another shot crumpled the bushes over his head. It came from his left.

Not only had they separated, they had followed the rim of trees on either side of the meadow and had trapped him like a fresh buck. He knew he could not stay where he was. They had him closed in a vise and were squeezing it shut. Shots sounded again, and bullets shredded the leaves above him. He had no way to return their fire. He had no target, only some vague rustling in the forest darkness.

Even if there were a target, it would be pure misery to shoot out of that tangle of bushes. Wriggling farther under the brush, he decided to face them head-on, downstream. He figured they would expect him to head for the dense cover of the trees. So he crawled in the opposite direction.

The gunfire stopped. Somebody yelled something, but Hawkeye could not make it out. He inched his way farther toward the stream. Abruptly, he stopped. It had become very still. No noise from the gunmen. No call of the birds. Only the rustle of the wind high in the trees. Where was the girl? A faint breeze freshened his face, sifted through his hair, but he barely felt it as he listened intently. The stream gurgled cheerfully a few feet away, telling him he was close to it. Slowly, he squirmed through the willows, managed to roll over onto his back, and pushed himself forward with his heels, holding his gun a breath away from his teeth.

The rain began slowly. Up there in the mountains, it never came as a surprise. Yet he had come away unprepared, running to the rescue of some girl he had never laid eyes on before.

Boy, he could be dumb. Nothing like going off half-cocked.

The rain picked up, and he was getting drenched. Pinned down, he could not quell his involuntary shivers. Black clouds pulled into the top of the trees, making him realize that he could add another enemy to the three men out there. Much more of this, and he would not need a bullet to the brain. The wet, being this high up, would do the job.

He poked his head above the bushes and gingerly hobbled to his knees. Still trembling, he pulled free from the brush to find himself at the stream's edge. He had made it to the open, but the girl and her captor were nowhere in sight. With any luck, the other two men would have tried to anticipate him, looking for him to hightail it, and would have moved up the ridge. Now that they expected him to be in front, he was behind them. Hawkeye allowed himself an inward smile. The hunters had become the hunted. Once again, the element of surprise was with him. Intuitively, he knew that both his hunters and the girl had continued up the ravine and were on their way to the ridge.

Doggedly, he plugged after them. The trees became less dense. The forest floor changed to rocks and tundra. Higher, steeper. His breathing became shallow. No matter how deeply he filled his lungs, the air was too thin. He kept a close watch on the ridge above him. Nothing yet, but there would be.

The drizzle became stronger, and the maze of rocks became slick. His cowboy boots, better suited to the open range, were not made for mountain climbing. He slipped almost every step. Suddenly, he realized that the trees were below him. He had passed above tree line. There was only tundra, snow, and the rocky crags around him.

This is nuts, he told himself. What you think you're doin'? Chasing some dolly because she screamed. That's all you got to go on. Stone-cold crazy, ol' son.

He gritted his teeth and went on.

The rain had soaked him to the bone and, with that job done, had changed to snow. He knew he could not keep up the pace. Going much higher would mean freezing to death. He fell, got up, and fell again. Panting, he pulled himself to his feet. For a brief thought, he considered heading back down the ridge. Even if he turned around and tried to make it down, he probably would freeze to death. His only hope was to find some shelter. He had to get off the ridge, out of the biting wind, and he had to do it without getting ambushed by the gunmen.

He climbed a few steps higher, against his better judgment, then peered as far as the driving snow would allow. It was reaching blizzard proportions, obscuring the ridge, the trees, anything that might be happening around him. Snow began to cling to his face. It was bone-chilling cold. He cast one last thought toward the girl, a word goodbye. She would have to fend for herself now. He could not help her.

Then he spun toward the slope below him. His slick soles slipped on the gathering snow, and he slid downhill in the beginning of an avalanche, tumbling, rolling, scraping his arms, his legs, his chest over rocks, jolting into the trunk of a pine tree at the bottom of the slope.

Momentarily, he lay on his back, dazed, struggling to catch his breath. The shivering never let up. The drenching he had taken was excruciating. He had no sensation in his fingers. With agonizing effort, he pushed up on one arm and shook his head. His vision was fuzzy.

Then he heard her scream again. Close. She was less than a hundred feet away. Suddenly, he forgot the pain and the cold and that he had said goodbye a few moments ago. His vision cleared, and he pulled up onto his knees. Quickly surveying the ground around him, he saw no sign of the girl, nothing in the snow, no tracks, no sign that she or the gunmen had come this way.

With an inward groan, Hawkeye got to his feet. The pain and the cold returned. Still the snow lessened briefly, long enough for him to see a dark figure in the whiteness. Hawkeye froze.

The figure—a man, one of the gunmen—lay facedown in the snow beneath a small cluster of pines. Was he dead or was he faking? Nobody could last very long lying facedown in this cold. Had the stalker not survived the prey? Where was the screaming woman with the talent for surfacing right at the point when he was about to give it up? Carefully, Hawkeye eased toward the figure. There was something unnatural about the way he lay sprawled across the ground. Nobody would have arranged himself that way.

A sudden gust of wind spilled over the top of the ridge, lancing a new chill into the cowboy. The downed gunman wore a jacket, a precaution Hawkeye had not taken, and now the cowboy was glad to get it. A kick to the side jarred the body slightly, but already it was stiff from the cold.

Ghoulish, he thought as he stood over the body, robbing from the dead. He was already numb from the ice caking over him. The coat might not do him much good.

As he bent to remove the coat and examine the dead man, Hawkeye heard the cracking report of a handgun, and a bullet slammed into a tree next to his head. The other hunter was very much alive.

Yanking the coat free, Hawkeye once again dived for the cover of the brush. He burrowed in as far as the thicket would permit him. Then he flailed into the coat. It was too small, but he pulled it on anyway. It covered his shoulders and his back. Good deal. Yet he continued to shiver violently. Somehow, he fumbled for and found his gun in the top of his boot. Icy gun metal grabbed his hand and shot freezing pain through his arm. He jammed it back in the boot. He was not a top shot anyway, but he doubted he could work his fingers to pull the trigger.

So he thought as he lay in the brush, How good a day is it to die?

He folded his arms across his chest and stuffed his numbed hands into his armpits. He was working solely on instinct, not that it made any difference.

Gruesome thoughts. No time to feel sorry for yourself. Move! Get up and move! Whatever noise he made was lost in the wind. He crashed through the brush like a wounded elk. Then he collapsed at the base of a tree. No more gunfire, or maybe that sound was lost too. Yet the second gunman must have caught sight of him. Hawkeye imagined him darting right and left, hot on his trail.

Then he sensed him more than saw him. Years of tracking, years of living alone in the wilds, came together in one concentrated second. He sat very still, barely breathing. His head lifted slightly. His ears twitched, twitched again, and with only a slight movement, he turned his nostrils to the wind, studying it. The wind was harsh and cold, but the sign was plain. The man was coming with the wind, and Hawkeye would have to face it full blast. A footless shadow drifted toward him as if blown on the wind.

Desperately, the half-frozen cowboy searched for some kind of weapon. With his hands numb and unresponsive, the gun in his boot was useless. His hands were like clubs, no movement in the fingers. He pawed at a broken tree branch and dragged it toward him. The shadow moved through the pelting snow and became a man. He stood motionless not twenty feet from where Hawkeye struggled to pull himself up. Was it possible the snow had blinded him and he could not see the cowboy huddled on the ground?

An angry snort, and the man moved toward him. No, he had not seen him. With a surge of weak determination, Hawkeye flailed to his feet again, wielding the pine branch as a club. A sneer escaped the man. Then it turned to a snarl. Still, the man paused. Hawkeye clenched his teeth in dread, expecting the sudden flash of gunfire in his direction.

Instead, the man shifted forward, trying to mount a rush at the cowboy, but the ice and the cold had taken their toll. His gun hand was as useless as Hawkeye's. The blizzard suddenly roared with new intensity, and the man was obscured.

This was it then, Hawkeye told himself. Time to make your move.

Hawkeye raised the branch above his head and lunged. Into the blinding whiteness he swung and swung again. He heard the branch hit—a solid, heavy score—and with a sinking sickness, he felt the rotting wood crack in two. Yet the force of his attack had knocked the man to his knees then to his face at Hawkeye's feet.

Clumsily, Hawkeye cast the branch aside and landed with a knee on the hunter's spine. As if trussing up a calf, Hawkeye jerked the man's head back and ran his hands to the throat. One strong twist was all that it needed for it to be over. But it was not necessary. As he turned the head, he spotted a deep gash in the temple that had carried death with it. Little pieces of bark still clung to the blood and hair.

It was him or me, he said to the wind. Then he repeated, Him or me.

He let the man's head drop. Now, there's only one left, he said again to the wind, only one, and the girl.

In as much of a rush as he could muster, he dragged himself in the direction from which the hunter had come. Every part of him was achingly cold, and he knew he was near the point of no return. He was woozy. His legs wobbled, and he was close to blacking out.

As he moved farther into the trees, the blizzard lessened. The man's footprints were clear in the snow. He wiped the mist from his eyes and plugged on. He staggered to the trunk of a broad pine and rested in its lee. His swollen hands did not seem to belong to him. Cramming his hands into his armpits again, he tried to warm life back into them, but there was no part of him that was not ice.

He crept forward, slapping his legs, trying to keep them pliant. It was no use. From the knees down, he had no sensation. He should not have splashed through the stream. He should have remained dry. He should not have run off on a fool's errand.

No excuses, he mumbled to himself, if you weren't ready for it, you'd better get ready now. He would keep at it.

After several minutes the footprints were still as fresh as his hope. They veered upward through the trees. Summoning strength, he followed doggedly and suddenly emerged from the trees amid a raging squall in the bitter openness.

The surprise teetered him backward, and he stepped into a drift up to his thighs. Snow gathered around him, on him, as if he had become a permanent fixture on the mountain. His joints felt immobilized. The cold seeped deeper into him.

Aw, c'mon, he growled, keep moving.

He lurched through