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It was the 24th year of Hannibal Hawkes’s life. He’d gained a slight reputation in the past year prowling around Arizona in his covered wagon, fixing whatever malfunction the folks of Tucson, Pheonix, or Apache Junction happened to suffer from.
The “Fix-Em” Man was always welcome whenever his horses pulled into town. All the men welcomed the extra help and the women always hoped he’d stay a little longer, but before too long Hannibal moved on to the next town.
He didn’t feel right staying in the same spot for too long. He was a restless soul who seemed to be looking for something, but he couldn’t be quite sure what that something was. He’d know when he found it, but until then he’d just keep going, helping folks when he could and rising the range.
But it wasn’t as Hannibal Hawkes that the “Fix-Em” Man did his best work. Only when he donned a simple bandana with holes cut out to cover his face, along with his custom blue uniform with a white hawk emblazoned on the chest, did the true Hannibal Hawkes reveal himself and meet out justice to the roughnecks and outlaws that plagued Arizona worse than any maintenance problem ever could.
Even in his younger years, the Nighthawk was well respected by those he protected and feared by those he was after. Following in the legends of shootists like Johnny Thunder, El Diablo, and Madame .44, Nighthawk didn’t rely on the law to tell him what was right and wrong. He figured that out for himself, though he wasn’t the kind to ignore the pleas of lawmen or the occasional U.S. Marshal that needed his help when he could give it.
Still, Nighthawk preferred helping people outside the law when a local sheriff wasn’t enough. Perhaps one day when he was older, he’d find the right place to settle down and guard from the dangers of the prairie, but until then he’d just keep going.
Unfortunately, Hannibal still had a lot to learn. It didn’t matter how many hours you practiced your draw before hitting the bedroll, there would always be someone faster. You had to fight smarter not faster to beat some of the more gruesome desperados on the trail.
Youth wasn’t a substitute for experience, and there were things out on the range that Nighthawk still hadn’t seen, things that would fill lesser folks’ nightmares if they knew about ‘em.
One of those things just happened to be in Hannibal Hawkes’s immediate future.
It was on the trail to Tucson that the solitary fix-it man came across another lonely traveler.
The gray-haired stranger seemed friendly enough, just stopping to ask where the nearest town was. He looked like he’d been riding the trail awhile and hadn’t seen a town in weeks. A simple Winchester Rifle for hunting food was holstered near his saddle next to a bedroll and two canteens. It seemed to be enough for the man to survive. His eyes looked like they’d seen a lot of sunsets, filled with the experience of a lifetime and then some.
Hannibal may have been something of an outdoorsman, but even he wouldn’t brave the prairie with such meager supplies.
“Tucson’s still a day’s ride,” Hawkes informed the man, “Even if we ride all day, we won’t make it before sundown.”
“Well, if you’ll make the fire, I’ll catch us a pair of jackrabbits to eat. I’ve been on the trail a while and can wait another day before sleeping on a soft mattress.”
“Sounds reasonable.” Hannibal hesitated before adding, “The name’s Hawkes by the way.”
“Shelley, friend,” the stranger replied.
The rest of the day was filled with other small talk and introductions, how Hannibal worked as a handyman and Shelley worked as a bounty hunter after quitting the railroad, but little else of importance was said before they settled in for the night.
Later, when the stars were high in the sky like fireflies stuck in a giant blue blanket, the two travelers filled their bellies with tasty jackrabbit meat while being warmed by a lively fire.
It was Mitchell Shelley that finally broke the silence once all the meat was eaten.
“Do you know Arizona well, Hawkes?”
“I’ve spent the last few years here, so I know it about as well as anyone else.”
“Ever see a vigilante that walks these parts by the name of Nighthawk?”
“Why?” Hannibal replied, interested in the question about his dual identity. “Is there a bounty out for him?”
“None that I know of. Just that there’s a fancy gunslinger I’ve been after the last two weeks. Last I heard, he was looking for a man named ‘Nighthawk’ to settle an old debt.”
“From what I know, Nighthawk hasn’t been around long enough to have any one looking to settle a score. Besides, anyone he’s dealt with usually ends up at Boot Hill.”
“That’s what I thought,” Mitchell said smiling, “Trouble is, this one’s the kind of guy to imagine petty rivalries. Figure he probably heard about Nighthawk and wanted to test himself against him just for kicks. He’s been around long enough that he’s had a lot of practice against vigilantes and those that protect the innocent.”
“Sounds like a pretty bad cowpoke. I’d sure hate to run across him,” Hannibal said humbly.
“Well, if you ever see him you’ll know it. He’s all done up like New York gent, with hair as black as tar, and eyes filled with hate for all his fellow men. He’s been around for too long and needs to be put down like a rabid dog every now and then.”
“Sounds like you and he have a history.”
“We’ve known each other longer than most. He’s always had a habit of stirring up trouble wherever he goes. I try to keep him in check, but he always rears his head when he’s least wanted. Hopefully if I can find this Nighthawk, he and I’ll take care of him before he has a chance to hurt anyone.”
Shelley let his words sink in to the mind of the young Hannibal Hawkes.
Mitchell saw a way about Hawkes that reminded him about a few others he’d known in his long time on Earth. Just like Shelley and his prey, Hawkes had an old soul destined to wander the Earth but in different incarnations each time.
Of course, Shelley couldn’t reveal this to the young Nighthawk, only guide him however he could. An encounter with the black-haired Savage was just one trial he’d have to overcome in each life to prove his worth.
Before long, the two decided to turn in for the night, unsure of what the next day would bring, except for a normally simple ride into Tucson.
The next morning, Shelley and Hawkes woke up early, as soon as the sun crested the horizon.
Two hours later, they were pulling into Tucson. Shelley made a beeline for the general store, having commented the previous night about missing the taste of coffee in the morning. Hannibal decided to stop his wagon near the livery like he usually did, giving his horse some time to rest and eat a couple buckets of fresh oats. Hawkes treated his horse right, and she’d never let him down when he was riding the range as Nighthawk.
It was a mutually beneficial arrangement, like with most riders and their steeds.
Hawkes walked towards the largest saloon in town to rustle up some business at about the same time Shelley left the general store.
Shelley checked around town for his long-lived menace, wondering if he’d gotten to Tucson before he and Hawkes. Fortunately, it appeared the only strangers that had passed through recently left days ago.
Mitchell Shelley breathed a sigh of relief at the prospect of delaying the inevitable confrontation before being shaken by an approaching rider.
Clad in fancy duds with twin Colt Single-Action Revolvers at his side, Vandal Savage road into town and glared at his fellow immortal.
He hitched his horse to pillar in front of the saloon and walked to the center of the dirt street towards Shelley.
Mitchell responded by swaggering forward, his hand gently pressing one of his own Peacemakers, unsure if this encounter would be like the one just two months ago in St. Roch, where Vandal had shot him down in the street without warning, almost annoyed at even running into Shelley.
Mitchell made sure he was on his guard this time.
“Where’s the Hawk, Shelley?” Vandal asked. “No other reason for you and me to run into each other like this.”
“You can’t take this one. You’ve tried before with others but somehow they always survive. Why don’t you just give up?” Shelley taunted.
“If you think you can protect him, just remember what happened the last two times you got in my way. You’ve been little more than a slight hurdle each time.”
The words cut Shelley harshly. The previous time was in the forests of France eighty years ago, and the time before that was off the shores of Hispanola in the 1730s. Each time, Vandal plowed through Shelley to reach the Hawk champion he was travelling with. Fortunately, these were just minor battles in a greater war that Shelley usually came out on top of.
“Doesn’t mean I have to make it easy for you,” Shelley spouted like an angered dog.
“Do you really think you stand a chance?” Vandal asked as he stroked his right holstered pistol.
“Reckon I do,” Shelley replied, prepared to draw.
Shelley was faster on the draw by barely a second, but Savage aimed better.
Vandal fanned the pistol hammer twice before Shelley even got off a shot, both shots in the chest.
Shelley fell to his knees thinking about how painful each death always was before falling face first in the dust of the Tucson road.
Savage stepped forward and fired a third shot into Shelley’s brainpan adding, “That should keep you from resurrecting a little longer.”
The few civilians walked the street tried to ignore the display, but could only stand in horror at the brutal murder before them.
Hawkes was still taking orders when he heard the three shots outside. He ran outside to see the gray-haired stranger’s blood watering the dust, a black-maned killer standing over him triumphantly.
He and Savage shared a glance before Hannibal causally and unobtrusively made his way to the livery. He’d need his guns if he was going to avenge the stranger that had befriended him the previous day and now lay dead for all to see.
Savage saw the whelp try to go unnoticed in the crowd and thought how amusing it was when the Hawk champion had to stop and change before some of their encounters.
He was willing to wait because it would make the finale all the sweeter. He wanted to savor the hunt for now, if for no other reason than because he could. He had all the time in the world to wait.
At the livery, Hawkes checked his horse and pulled out the uniform he kept hidden in his saddlebags, the simple blue clothing and bandana mask. The uniform was better for nighttime escapades, but Hannibal was willing to make an exception this time and ignore the heat.
Less than a minute later, Nighthawk emerged from the livery, prepared to do battle with this roughneck that had a bone to pick with him.
Shelley was right about the man looking right nasty. He looked like he had a meanstreak a mile wide and was willing to kill at the drop of a hat. Still, the clothes made him look like a dandy with a limp wrist to match. Shelley had been out on the trail for a while and had probably let himself go. Nighthawk could beat this man to the draw.
“Nighthawk, it’s nice to finally run into you,” the stranger taunted.
“Let’s go, before the sun gets too high in the sky,” the masked vigilante replied.
Both men gripped their weapons, though the Savage seemed more relaxed than he should be.
Before long, both men shot for their irons, Nighthawk getting both drawn first.
So sure of himself, Nighthawk was prepared to fire when he felt both his hands get hit by flying metal, and his pistols fell to the ground.
The stranger had shot his guns out of his hands with a draw that seemed as old as the Colt Peacemakers they were using.
“Now for the fun,” Savage said as he approached, both pistols still aimed at the Hawk.
Hawkes stood still, not wanting to be incite his opponent to fire and just watched as the stranger walked up behind him. Seconds later, he felt the thump of a pistolwhip against his head and he fell unconscious.
It wasn’t long before Nighthawk woke up, this time riding bareback on a horse, his horse.
The Savage must’ve taken her from the livery as a prize for beating Nighthawk.
Looking around, they were only a little ways outside Tucson with Savage leading the horse. It wasn’t so bad, but Hawkes’s hands were tied behind his back and the rope in Savage’s hand didn’t look too accommodating. Neither did the tree he was leading them to.
“The fun of beating you Hawks is ruined by the fact you won’t remember this after you die,” Savage said matter-of-factly. “Men like Shelley and myself remain, while our foes move on. It’s hard to appreciate something, when your opponent is doomed to forget your victory.”
Nighthawk just looked at him like the crazy man he surely had to be.
Hawks? What was the man talking about?
“This should be fine,” the man said, stopping at the tree. He led Nighthawk’s horse under a large branch presumably strong enough to support a man’s weight.
Savage tossed the noose over the tree limb and wrapped the rope around Hawkes’s neck. The vigilante tried to struggle, but he risked falling off his horse and expediting the hanging.
“I’d stay and watch, but hanging can be so undignified,” Vandal taunted. “It’s a satisfying end to a foe, but I can’t stand to see a good man soil himself at the end of a rope. The stink in the air is beneath me.”
As Savage road in the opposite direction of Tucson, he raised one of his revolvers and fired a bullet into the sky.
Hawkes’s horse kicked up a fuss and sped away, usually spooked by pistolfire. Before, she’d never hesitated to remain steady in a gunfight, so this time seemed peculiar.
As he watched his horse ride away, Hawkes bulged his neck trying to delay the inevitable. One good thing to come of this was that the rope hadn’t been tied to snap his neck immediately, so he still had a few seconds left of life, a few painful seconds feeling the air choked out of him.
Hawkes wasn’t sure what to do except try to call out, despite the nearest person being too far away to help. The best he could muster was a low whistle, not being able to relax his neck without tightening the rope.
His legs did a little jig, seeking ground that was just a little too far away to stand on, his shoulders clenching and trying to brace himself. None of it did any good.
As the black started to fill his mind with air leaving his lungs and his throat closing in on itself, Hawkes though he heard the thump of horseshoes as a good strong bit of horseflesh lifted him up.
After he started coming around, he looked down to see his own horse now returned underneath him.
His whistle must as signaled her that it was safe to come back now with the Savage out of sight. Once again, his horse had saved his life when things seemed in doubt.
Of course, that didn’t change the fact Hawkes was still strung up like gallows meat.
From behind, Hannibal once more heard the clump of horseshoes coming towards him. Perhaps Savage had returned to finish what he started.
“You sure are in a fine predicament,” the friendly voice of Shelley commented.
Hawkes couldn’t turn for fear of falling off, but he was happy to know the man was near.
Without asking, Shelley pulled out a knife and cut the rope tied around the trunk of the tree. He then cut the rope holding Hannibal’s hands behind his back.
Rubbing his wrists and then removing the noose, Hawkes tipped his head to Shelley, his hat having fallen off in the Tucson road after Savage pistol-whipped him. Thankfully, Shelley produced his dark blue stetson and handed it to Nighthawk.
“You still got a little fight left in you or are you all tired from the hanging party?” Mitchell joked.
Hawkes wasn’t quite ready to laugh at his brush with death, but he nodded and said, “The man couldn’t have made it too far,” not prepared for whatever explanation Shelley had for being up and about after getting shot three times.
Both horses and their riders tore off towards the trail Savage left in his wake. It wouldn’t be long before the score both men had with the dark rider was settled.
A little later, both riders arrived at the opening of a small canyon, Savage’s horse tracks leading them on.
“This canyon is a shortcut around,” Nighthawk said, “But it’s not fit for horses. We’ll have better, luck on foot,” as he dismounted and left his horse at the canyon’s entrance.
Shelley complied and left his horse next to Hawkes’s.
Both men drew their Colts and stepped forward into the breach.
Before long, after navigating the twists and turns of the tight canyon, the two men could hear their prey yelling, no doubt getting mad at his horse’s inability or unwillingness to trek on.
“Hannibal made it through passages this narrow with elephants. Why must you give me such grief?”
Hawkes wasn’t sure what other Hannibal the Savage was talking about, he noticed some jutting rocks that looked large enough for footholds.
He silently pointed towards them with the barrel of one of his pistols and steadily climbed the wall.
Meanwhile, Mitchell Shelley continued onward.
Savage was temporarily distracted by his stubborn horse, but he soon heard the approaching footsteps of his immortal foe.
“Ah, Shelley, you finally got back to the land of the living,” he said turning to face him. “Shame about the Hawk though. Better luck next time.”
“You so sure about that,” Shelley snickered.
Savage was unsettled by Shelley’s cool demeanor, before realizing he sensed a familiar aura nearby.
Vandal tried for his weapons but was already too late, as the Nighthawk came diving down from above, Colts firing downward.
This time, Savage found himself filled with metal trespassers, his limp body hitting the ground.
“That oughtta keep him down,” Nighthawk chuckled, “Assuming he doesn’t have a disregard for the Grim Reaper, like you do,” he added looking at Shelley.
“Best to take care of him before he’s given the option of doing something about it,” Shelley replied.
Mitchell approached Savage’s horse, still steady at the loss of his master, and grabbed a small lasso of rope, the leftovers from Vandal’s abrupt hanging attempt. He tossed Savage onto the horse’s back and tied the rope around Vandal’s feet and wrists, looping it under the horse’s belly.
He then grabbed the reins and led it back to the canyon entrance.
“So what’s going to happen to him now?” Nighthawk asked, “I reckon there aren’t many places that can hold him for long.”
“Even holding him for a little while is good. It’ll give me a little peace of mind. He’s wanted in Texas for a string of murders. The Rangers can handle him from there.”
A few minutes later, the two men were back at their horses. Nighthawk saddled up and made his way back to Tucson to pick up his wagon, while Shelley rode in the opposite direction with his captive.
Both men were sure their paths would cross again.
Maybe not in this life, but the next.
The End...
Mitchell Shelley is also known as the Resurrection Man, an immortal adventurer who opposes Vandal Savage whenever he can.
Nighthawk is a former reincarnation of the super-hero Hawkman, one of many lives that the reincarnated prince Khufu has led over the centuries.
This story was dually inspired by scenes from issue 29 of the 1990s Hawkman series (which shows the hanging) and the DCU Villains Secret Files & Origins (which shows the gunfight between Shelley and Savage). I also wanted to do a story which showed how Nighthawk would survive being hung by Savage because he was destined to die against his immortal nemesis Hath-Set.
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