The bodies of Miller and one of his men still lay untouched in the street, ignored except for a little girl in a pretty gingham dress who was bending over Scott Miller’s huge, dead shape and wondering why he didn’t answer her when she spoke to him. All she wanted was for him to get up and play.
Herne pushed open the doors and stood just inside the saloon. Bottles, glasses, all stopped on their way to open mouths; eyes turned to him and watched; no one spoke.
‘Faulkner?’ he asked.
Still nobody said anything. Then one of the girls in emerald green nodded in the direction of the office. When Herne started to head that way, she turned her back and pushed her way through to the center of the horseshoe bar.
The door was locked and Herne took a step back and aimed a kick with the underneath of his boot at the wood alongside the lock. There was a loud splintering of wood and the door sprang open.
Herne went inside fast.
Faulkner was standing at the far side of his desk. There was a case open beside him and the contents of his safe were on the surface of the desk, but he hadn’t put them inside the case. Possibly he hadn’t had time; perhaps he’d seen fit to change his mind.
He was wearing the same blue suit Herne had first seen him in and the diamond tie pin was still in his cravat. What interested Herne most was the pistol he held in the podgy fingers of his right hand.
Not that the gun was threatening him: Faulkner was holding it against his own jaw.
Herne thought the man should be looking frightened, but he wasn’t; his hand was steady and his eyes were clear. Herne thought maybe he knew why Faulkner hadn’t gone through with packing the cash and papers from his safe.
He moved his mouth to speak: ‘My affairs, Mr. Herne, seem to be in some disarray.’
Then he squeezed the trigger and blew half of his head off.
Dan Stewart lay propped up by a couple of pillows and the color had more than come back to his cheeks. His shoulder was still heavily bandaged, but the doc reckoned it would get as good as new given rest.
Herne stood alongside the bed, looking down. He’d stayed around for a few days but now his things were packed up on his horse and he was ready to be away.
The big herds were due into Cheyenne and maybe after that he’d take a trip east. Omaha. See Long John and help him to ride his favorite horse one last time.
‘Jed, I ...’
Herne waved it away. ‘I know. And it ain’t worth talkin’ about.’
Dan Stewart grinned. ‘Thanks, Jed. Thanks a whole lot.’
He reached out his hand and Herne took it without hesitation and shook it firmly. Then, with a nod and a final word, he left the room and headed out to where his horse was waiting, impatient to be gone.
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If you’ve enjoyed this book , read the rest of the series:
HERNE THE HUNTER
White Death
River of Blood
The Black Widow
Shadow of the Vutlure
Apache Squaw
Death in Gold
Death Rites
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