Cross-Draw

by John J. McLaglen

  Herne let the boy fall away from him and, just before he hit the floor, he kicked out with his boot and caught him in the kidneys. The slight body shifted several feet in the air before it crashed against a table. Herne ducked down with both hands reaching for the twin guns at the kid’s belt.

  Silence in the saloon and then everyone began talking at once. Everyone except for the cowboys from the Double C. They stood there stunned. The only one of them making any sound was the whimpering shape on the floor.

  Herne’s Colt .45 was still in its holster.

  He turned to face the man with the quirt. ‘You boss of this outfit?’

  ‘Scott Miller. I ramrod for the Double C, sure.’

  ‘Well, next time you or any of your boys come into town lookin’ to pick a fight I reckon you’d better give it a long, hard thought first. An’ ...’ He pointed to the ground, ‘... don’t try to use some punk like that ‘cause he’s still wet behind the ears. Now drink up an’ get him out of here. Throw him over his horse and take him back to your ranch.’

  Miller looked Herne steadily in the face. He didn’t like being talked to like that—not in front of a saloon full of people, especially not in front of his own men. But at that moment he didn’t see what he was going to do about it. Herne had showed that his reputation wasn’t built on rumors; had proved that what had happened back in The Five Aces hadn’t been any kind of fluke.

  ‘That understood?’ asked Herne.

  ‘Understood,’ said Miller with a scowl on his dark face. ‘For now.’

  ‘What about the kid’s guns?’ asked one of the cowboys.

  ‘He wants these back,’ said Herne, ‘he’s goin’ t’ have t’ come to me real nice and polite an’ ask fer ’em. Now when he comes to, you be sure to tell him that.’

  ‘Come on, boys, let’s get out of here.’

  Scott Miller shouldered his way towards the door, leaving the others to lift up the still moaning kid and carry him out into the street.

  Herne stood his ground, watching in case any one of them should try something at the last moment. But they didn’t. Behind him the piano started to play again and soon there was the sound of a group of horses galloping away.

  Only then did Jed Herne turn round.

  Only then did he spot Dan Stewart on the stairs to the back, his Remington shotgun over one arm and a smile on his face nearly as wide as a house.

  Herne walked over towards him.

  ‘How long you bin there?’

  ‘Just before you started that walk of yorn. Snuck through the crowd when they was all watchin’ you an’ that fool kid.’

  Herne nodded.

  ‘Not that I thought it was anythin’ you couldn’t handle. I mean, they was only half a dozen.’

  ‘This time,’ said Herne.

  ‘Yep, this time.’ Stewart slapped Herne on the arm. ‘Come on, I’ll buy you a drink. My badge pulls thirty a month more than yours.’

  The girl with the red hair and the green dress came over to their table and tried to draw them into conversation, but Herne shook his head and Stewart gave her his best smile and sent her on her way.

  ‘Think you an’ me’ll take us a ride early tomorrow,’ Dan said.

  Herne lifted his glass. ‘Where to?’

  Stewart’s smile was back on his handsome face. ‘Double C,’ he said.

  Chapter Seven

  The morning air was clear and bright, with a sharpness to it that smacked a man awake. The trail that Herne and Stewart followed led them down into a valley bounded by lines of Ponderosa pine and, above those, Douglas fir. A stream meandered along the valley bottom, flecked with white spray where the water passed over rocks. Yellowing cottonwoods bordered either side of the stream, branches glowing in the early sun.

  Herne sensed his horse willing to move towards the water and let it have its head. The grass between track and stream was scattered with wild flowers, yellow, purple and pink.

  ‘Sure is a fine morning,’ said Dan Stewart as the two animals drank from the stream.

  ‘Surely is.’ Herne was bending over the edge of the water, cupping it in both hands and lifting it to his mouth.

  ‘Take a look there,’ said Dan, still in the saddle.

  Herne stood and looked where Stewart was pointing. A small herd of mule deer were grazing the far side of the meadow, their long ears pricking up every now and then at the sound of the men’s voices.

  ‘Now they,’ said Dan, ‘have got the right idea. Just wanderin’ in the sun, with nothin’ to do but eat an’ drink. Don’t even have to pay for it.’

  Herne made no reply, but pulled himself back onto his horse. ‘Somethin’ I bin meanin’ to ask, Dan. How come you left that job you had in Ogden an’ come up here?’

  Stewart glanced quickly at Herne, then looked away, fingers fidgeting with the rein. ‘Long story, Jed.’

  ‘An’ you don’t want t’ tell it?’

  ‘Sometime, maybe. Not now.’ He swung his animal round and away from the water. ‘We got us a job to do.’

  Herne shrugged his shoulders and watched as the marshal moved away, heading back towards the trail. After a few moments, he touched his spurs lightly to his horse’s side and followed.

  The Double C ranch was one of the biggest in the southern part of Wyoming Territory. The ranch house had been built in such a way as to suggest it was intended to stay that way. With a background of high hills, the main building was brick built for the first two floors, with an additional wood floor and balcony set above. Some way to the right, there were a number of lesser buildings, the longest of which served as a bunkhouse for the Double C cowhands.

  There was a large corral to the left of the house, with a smaller one behind it. As Stewart and Herne rode towards the buildings, a group of men were standing round the larger corral, watching as one of their number did his best to get a saddle onto one of the new stock.

  Their shouts of encouragement or derision grew louder, then faded away as they became aware of the two men riding slowly towards them. Stopped altogether as they realized who the men were.

  One of them set off for the main house at a run, the others leaned back against or sat on the corral rails, watching Herne and Stewart closely.

  Dan kept a foot or two in front; he had told Herne to leave the initial talking to him—something that Jed was quite happy to do.

  They got to within fifty yards of the ranch house before Scott Miller appeared. The ramrod came out of the house and down the short flight of steps that led to the yard at the front. The riding whip was in its usual place on his right wrist; his hair and beard were unkempt as before.

  He stood there, feet apart, waiting, the end of the whip drumming impatiently against his leather boot.

  The Double C cowboys watched the two lawmen go past them with hardly a word, starting to mutter once they had moved past. Herne recognized three of them from the previous night in The Cattlemen’s House—the kid, though, was nowhere to be seen. Maybe he was still nursing his injuries ... and his pride.

  Dan Stewart reined in his horse fifteen yards away from Miller and Herne came up alongside him. The two men sensed some movement behind them and knew that the cowboys were adjusting their positions in case of a showdown.

  ‘You got a lot of nerve, marshal, ridin’ in here like this. Bringin’ him with you.’ He nodded at Herne briefly.

  ‘Got business, Miller.’

  ‘That so. Who with?’

  ‘Not you. With your boss.’

  ‘Suppose the boss don’t want to see you?’

  ‘That ain’t for you to decide.’

  Herne was aware of the movement of Stewart’s right hand. He hoped that he wasn’t going to make a play for his gun: not then and there.

  The ramrod had noticed the movement, too, but did nothing about it. The whip continued to tap against his boot. ‘An’ if the decision’s already bin made?’

  ‘It’ll have to be unmade, won’t it?’

  One of the cowboys came in
to the edge of Herne’s vision; he thought he saw a piece of sacking move in one of the bunkhouse windows. Couldn’t be sure, but he wasn’t about to forget the possibility. Too many guns, Herne thought, too many by half.

  Dan Stewart edged his horse a few paces further forward. ‘You goin’ t’ take my message, or do I have to ride through you an’ deliver it myself?’

  ‘Marshal, you’re either a bigger fool than I took you for, or you’re ridin’ your luck for some reason I don’t understand.’

  Miller’s left hand was now poised over his gun, his eyes fixed on Stewart’s face. Herne let his own hand rest on the butt of his Colt and pressed his knee against the rifle by his saddle. Two men to his right, five more behind, at least one in the bunkhouse and someone else up at the first floor window of the ranch house. He didn’t like the odds one bit.

  ‘Never mind who’s a fool, Miller, just get inside an’ tell the boss we want to have words. If’n you want to try anythin’ we still got to come out once we bin in.’

  Miller stopped moving his right arm and the whip ceased its tattoo. Herne tensed, knowing the ramrod had made up his mind at last. His fingers on the smooth wood of the pistol butt, he slowly exhaled as Scott Miller turned abruptly on his heel and stomped back towards the house. Miller went heavily up the steps and disappeared inside.

  A couple of minutes later, he came back out. ‘The boss’ll see you.’ He spat out the words like they were scraps of rotten food.

  Herne and Stewart rode towards the rail at the side of the ranch house steps and the Double C ramrod cussed and walked over towards the bunkhouse, kicking up the dust with his boots as he went.

  The hallway was larger than Herne had expected; its floorboards were polished and everything smelt of lavender. On a round table to the left of the door, a bunch of tall, blue flowers stood in a white bowl spotted with a pattern of roses. To the right, a staircase wound its way upwards; close by there was a closed white door.

  Stewart took off his hat and lobbed it at one of the hooks beside the front door. It settled neatly over the metal hook and as it did so, the sound of applause came from the landing.

  The two men looked round, one calmly, the other with obvious surprise.

  ‘Hello, Dan. Have you brought your new deputy out to meet me?’

  The owner of the Double C started to descend the staircase. She was dressed in a white shirt and dark green pants that fitted as though she’d been stitched into them. Her hair was long and dark, falling well past neck and shoulders. She favored them with a smile that was as bright and cold as the Spring air had been when they’d started their ride out from town.

  She took Dan Stewart’s hand and held it for a moment or two longer than was necessary. ‘It’s been a long time since you paid us a visit, marshal. You know you’re always more than welcome at the Double C

  Stewart nodded and turned towards Herne: ‘This here’s Jed Herne. He’s my new deputy, like you said. Some of your boys took care of the old one.’

  She gave him a look that would have had a lot of men scuttling for the door, then offered Herne her hand.

  ‘Jed,’ said Stewart, ‘this is Bathsheba Emerson. The Double C is all hers.’

  Her hand on Jed’s was as soft as a snake about to strike.

  She stepped back, Herne forgotten, her green eyes appraising Dan Stewart. ‘Come and sit down. Have some coffee.’

  ‘We don’t have the time, there’s ...’

  ‘Nonsense. I had the cook see to it when you first rode into sight.’

  And with that she turned and walked into the room by the foot of the stairs, leaving the white door open behind her. Stewart and Herne exchanged glances, then followed her.

  The room was furnished to a standard of comfort that Herne had rarely seen away from the east or New Orleans. Deep comfortable armchairs, a long sofa stacked with a number of brightly colored cushions; tables with more bowls of flowers and strange ornaments; a large fireplace with logs heaped beside an empty wrought iron grate; above this a portrait in oils of Bathsheba Emerson herself.

  Apart from the painting, Herne thought, what the room reminded him most of was one of the better New Orleans brothels.

  ‘A dime for your thoughts, Mr. Herne.’

  Jed looked at her and shook his head slowly, fearing that he was blushing under her gaze. ‘No, ma’am.’

  ‘I’m surprised, Mr. Herne, I didn’t take you for a bashful man. That wasn’t the report my men brought back to me.’

  The door opened and a colored maid came in with a tray. She put it down on the table closest to her mistress and walked back out. It was the first time Herne had seen a black servant so far North West. Again, he glanced at Bathsheba and again he wondered about her. But the lady’s eyes were once more firmly fixed on Dan Stewart’s handsome face.

  ‘Black or white, gentlemen?’ she asked, rising. The coffee was poured from a tall pot that looked to be made of silver. Her hands and arms moved over it like ivory. She was, Herne thought, the best preserved woman of some forty years that he’d encountered.

  ‘Now then, marshal,’ she said when they were all sitting again, ‘you wanted to talk to me about something.’

  Stewart set his cup and saucer on the floor. ‘You know about last night, of course. I don’t know how that ramrod of yours told it, but …’

  Bathsheba held up a hand: ‘He said that foolish kid talked out of turn and suffered for it. He laid no blame on you, Mr. Herne, none at all.’

  ‘He didn’t tell you they all bust in there lookin’ fer a fight?’

  ‘Why, Mr. Herne, I’m sure my men wouldn’t do any such thing.’

  Herne sat back and said nothing. Stewart was less hesitant. ‘That won’t wear, Miss Emerson. Not after what Tolly and those other men of yours got involved in.’

  ‘Tolly was always wild, marshal. You know that. I should have fired him a long time ago. He was only allowed into town because Shay Brennan was going along. I thought he could handle Tolly. I’m sorry about that.’

  Stewart stood up. ‘So are a few new widows an’ orphans.’

  ‘What about Shay Brennan’s kinfolk?’ she blazed back at him. ‘And the others your man killed. What about them?’

  Stewart turned and walked over to the window; Herne sat where he was admiring the fire in the woman’s eyes. There was something in her fierce anger that made it less absurd that she should be the owner of a place like the Double C. There was also a lot about her that made Herne more than usually curious.

  For a while none of the three spoke: voices drifted into the house from the corral.

  ‘You surely didn’t ride all the way out from town to lose your temper, marshal.’

  Bathsheba Emerson moved towards the window, stopping only when she was close enough to have touched Dan Stewart with her hand. When he faced her, his manner was only slightly less hostile.

  ‘I’ve come to say two things. One concerns Tolly. It’s a week before the circuit judge gets to Liberation. In that time I aim to see that he stays where he is and any attempt by your men to get him out of my jail will get them either shut up with him or shot down. The other concerns Jed there—what he did agin Shay an’ the others he was doin’ as part of his job. He’d bin properly deputized an’ they got what they asked for. So I want no more of your boys ridin’ into town to pick a fight with him an’ get their own back on Tolly’s account. On your account, maybe.’

  She took a pace past him and stood close to the glass of the window. The light shone on the edges of her hair. Once again, Herne caught himself thinking what a truly handsome woman she was.

  ‘I don’t care anything for Tolly, marshal. Like I said, he was wild and likely got what he deserved. I’m sorry about the others but I’m not about to wage a vendetta against the town on their account. Of that I assure you.’ She moved gracefully to the center of the room. ‘When my men next come into town it won’t be to make trouble for your deputy or to try and break Tolly out of your jail.’

  ‘Do I h
ave your word on that?’ Stewart asked.

  ‘My hand, marshal. You may have my hand on it.’

  Dan Stewart ignored the offered hand. ‘Your word will do, Miss Emerson. And understand, if it’s broken then you’re the one I shall hold responsible.’

  Bathsheba lowered her eyes for a moment. ‘I understand you, marshal.’

  Stewart thanked her for the coffee and he and Herne moved towards the door. When they were across the hall and Stewart was collecting his hat, she spoke again: ‘Drop by again, marshal. And next time, don’t feel compelled to bring a bodyguard.’

  Dan Stewart jammed his hat into place and pushed open the front door. He was down the steps well ahead of Herne and heading for his horse fast. Herne followed more slowly, wondering why he was rushing away from such an attractive woman with such speed.

  Maybe he just didn’t like to mix business with pleasure.

  Neither man said much as they began their ride back to town, each apparently lost in his own thoughts.

  The sky had begun to cloud over and a wind had got up, driving down the valley towards them. Herne stopped and freed his coat from the straps behind his saddle. The grass that sloped up from the path wavered like a green sea.

  ‘That sure is some woman,’ Herne said when he had drawn level with Stewart again.

  The marshal looked at him and nodded in agreement.

  ‘How come you didn’t tell me we was goin’ to see a woman?’

  Stewart smiled: ‘Thought you’d figure that out for yourself soon enough.’

  ‘How long she bin bossin’ the Double C?’

  ‘Since before I came here. Well before. Ten or more years, I guess.’

  ‘Know anything about her before that?’

  Stewart took his time before answering. ‘Rumors. That’s all. Ain’t worth tradin’ in rumors no how.’

  Herne thought from the tone of Dan Stewart’s voice and the changed expression on his face that he likely knew what he was talking about. His mind went back to the unanswered question about why the young marshal had left Ogden. Then he looked ahead and the wind struck at his face and blew the thoughts from his mind.