Herne the Hunter 19

by John J. McLaglen

  Herne felt a prickle of tension in the voice and turned slowly. What is it, Sheriff?’

  ‘Two things. How old would your Pa be? Supposin’ he was still living.’

  ‘’round …seventy-two. Seventy-three. That kind of age. Why the damned interest?’ The nagging pain from his jaw had shortened Herne’s temper to the point where he wasn’t likely to suffer fools at all, never mind gladly.

  ‘Nothing. Hold on that rein, Mr. Herne. Hold on, there.’ The look of anger had frightened Williamson. Red fire had seemed to flare behind the eyes of the shootist and the lawman had felt the chill wind of death brush around the office.

  ‘What else?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You said there was two things.’

  ‘Sure. If’n you could use a few dollars, it looks like we got us a vacancy as shotgun or driver on the coach, next time it makes a run.’

  ‘When’s that?’

  ‘Should be in three days.’

  ‘I can’t drive a Concord. Well, I guess I could if’n I had to. Don’t have the hands for it. Not the feel.’

  ‘I know someone who’d drive. But not anyone who might ride guard.’

  ‘No. Thanks, Sheriff, but it’s not my style.’

  ‘Pay you twenty dollars. Twenty-five.’

  ‘No. Be seeing you.’

  He walked out of the cool of the office into the bright sun of late afternoon. There were people on the street watching him and he was sure he caught the movement of someone behind the dusty windows of the saloon. It looked like a man. With red hair.

  *

  ‘Igth at on.’

  ‘Sure. I see it, Mr. Herne.’

  Herne felt the blacksmith touch the tooth that was paining him, sending a white flash of undiluted agony lancing through his jaw. ‘Jesus Christ!’

  ‘Guess there’s some infection under it. Soon as I draw it that’ll start drainin’ away. Two or three days and you’ll feel great.’

  ‘I’ll believe that when I feel it,’ replied the shootist.

  ‘Go sit down there.’ said the smith, pointing to an old wooden chair in the corner of the forge, away from the glowing fire. ‘Hang on that leather strap runnin’ under it. Kind of brace yourself.’

  The room was unbearably hot and Herne felt sweat coursing down his cheeks, soaking into the collar of his shirt. Running down into the small of his back. At least he figured that it was the heat that was making him perspire so much.

  The leather strap was right there and he reached down and gripped it. Fighting the temptation to hang on real tight, forcing himself to relax. Taking several slow, deep breaths. Closing his eyes and easing the tension from arms and legs.

  When he opened his eyes again Jim Bisset was right in front of him, blotting out the rectangle of light from the open door. The smith was a big man with broad shoulders and a neatly trimmed beard. His arms and shirt were dotted with scorch marks from the fires and muscles danced beneath the skin.

  ‘You ready now, Mr. Herne?’

  ‘Sure. Ready as a stallion facin’ the gelding. Get to it, Bisset.’

  ‘There’s a cup of water there by your feet. Use it real quick and rinse out when the tooth’s gone.’

  ‘Get to it,’ repeated the shootist. Opening his mouth, feeling the strong fingers reach in. The taste of smoke on his tongue. A jab of searing pain as the smith’s thumb and finger closed shut.

  Then there was an interruption. A voice from near the door. Young.

  ‘Stand off the stranger, Jim. Leave him be.’

  Over the smith’s shoulder Herne glimpsed someone holding a gun. And the sun from outside glinted off the boy’s bright red hair.

  ‘Shit.’ said Jed.

  Four

  ‘Now, Seamus—’ began Jim Bisset.

  ‘Shut that flappin’ mouth, you stinkin’ bag of tripe,' retorted the red-headed stranger. ‘And move away slow and easy.’

  ‘Why don’t you go play with your toy trains, son,’ said Herne, suddenly ice-calm. The tension at having the tooth pulled was totally gone. This was something he knew about now. Something he’d faced before. Might get to face again.

  ‘Don’t rile him, mister,’ said the smith, his voice barely a whisper. Outside a wagon rattled by, but inside the forge the three of them seemed locked away in a warm, dark universe.

  ‘Come on Bisset.’

  ‘He’s just a stranger, son.’ said the big man.

  ‘Don’t talk him down for me,’ hissed Herne. His temper had finally flared clean over the top and he was angrier than he’d been in long months.

  ‘Hear you call yourself a shootist, old man,’ sneered Blackstone, the Peacemaker with its polished barrel and engraved chamber casual in his gloved right hand. Gloves! So many of the kids thought it was smart to wear gloves like the flashy gunmen in the penny magazines they read.

  ‘Go away, boy. Now and for good.’

  'You threatenin’ me, old-timer?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then …?’

  ‘A promise, boy. Not a threat. A promise.’

  There’d been plenty of times when Jed Herne had been feeling more benevolent, and he’d let kids like Seamus Blackstone walk away alive. But he wasn’t in the mood for charity right then, and that was the God’s own truth.

  ‘You belong out there with them other crazy old bastards in the Home, you dirty killer. I heard ’bout old men like you. Dirty.’

  ‘Move away, Bisset,’ said Herne, quietly, ignoring the tirade from the red-headed boy. Sweat gleaming among the cropped hairs of his blonde beard, the big smith stepped a little to the side so that Herne could see Blackstone more clearly.

  ‘Guess you probably like lifting little girls’ dresses and fumblin’ at them, you stinking old bastard. You ought to be dead. You ain’t no …’

  ‘Enough!’ shouted Herne, powering himself to his feet, hand dropping to his right hip faster than Seamus Blackstone had ever seen anyone move before.

  So fast that the boy didn’t even believe what he was seeing.

  There’d been times before that Seamus Blackstone had crossed paths with strangers in Stow Wells. He had the reputation as being a bit of a no-good boy, eager for a quarrel with anyone that he thought weaker than himself. Three times in the last two years he’d drawn on drifters passing through the small settlement, killing them with a casual ease. The long hours he practiced with his hand-gun paying dividends against men with no skill as shootists.

  Herne was the sky and the stars better than the boy, long years of killing paying their own dividend for him.

  Even as he started to come up from the old chair his right hand was down, flicking the thong off the top of the Colt’s hammer. Beginning the draw. He didn’t stand upright, holding himself in a low crouch, body slightly turned to the right to make a smaller target.

  Blackstone had the chance to fire off a single shot, but the speed of the middle-aged shootist blurred his mind. He jerked at the trigger, his mouth falling open in a frightened gasp of shock and fear. The pistol bucked in his gloved hand.

  Herne was concentrating on killing the red-headed boy and he was barely aware that a shot had been fired at him. There was the booming sound of the gun and a burst of powder-smoke that momentarily obscured Blackstone. The shootist was conscious that the smith had been hit, glimpsing him shudder sideways, clutching at his muscular shoulder and yelping in pain.

  But none of that mattered to Herne.

  What mattered was his own eye and brain and arm and hand. All combining together with lethal efficiency.

  His first shot hit the boy high in the chest, kicking him backwards, the pistol dropping from his suddenly nerveless fingers. Blackstone tried to scream with the thunderous impact of the blow to his body, but the bullet had ripped into his lungs and there was no air to breathe. Blood came to fill his mouth, dribbling down over his chest, pattering among the dry straw in the forge.

  Herne’s second bullet caught the staggering boy in the face, smashing his nose t
o shards of splintered bone, the distorted lead angling upwards and sideways, pushing the right eye clean out of its socket so it dangled obscenely on his cheek.

  Seamus Blackstone was dying.

  He toppled backwards, rolling so that he caught the heavy iron tripod that supported one of the pans of charcoal embers. Spilling the glowing ashes all over himself. His clothes catching fire in a dozen places at once, the smithy filling with the stench of scorching flesh and cloth.

  The boy’s legs twitched and kicked out as he lay burning, on his back. His hand clutched at the gaping raw socket where his eye had been. His lips parted as though he was going to try and speak but all that came out was pink froth from his ruptured lungs.

  ‘Jesus Christ Almighty!’ sighed Jim Bisset, leaning with one hand against the wall of the forge, staring down unbelievingly at the twitching corpse of Seamus Black-stone, red hair puddled with his own blood, matted in the dirt.

  ‘You hurt?’ asked Jed, starting to reload the pistol.

  ‘Nicked me in the top of the left arm. Seems to have gone clean on through. Yeah.’ Examining the plaster behind him. ‘There it is. Figure I’ll dig that out and keep it to remind me of this day.’

  ‘Let’s have the gun, Herne,’ said a voice from the doorway.

  The shootist didn’t turn around. Didn’t need to. ‘Hello, Sheriff,’ he said. ‘Like the damned law the whole country over. Too damned little and too damned late.’

  ‘The pistol,’ warned Williamson.

  ‘The kid had already drawn,’ said Bisset.

  ‘Bull’s chips,’ spat Williamson. ‘Seamus wasn’t that stupid that he’d hold a gun on a man. And then get hisself killed. Just don’t seem likely.’

  ‘It happened,’ insisted the smith. ‘I seen it, Clifford. Kid shot me.’

  ‘Bad?’

  ‘Nope. Flesh wound. I’ll get it bandaged up and it’ll be good as smilin’ in a couple of days.’

  Herne finished reloading the pistol, rolling the chamber with the palm of his hand, listening to the soft, whirring click. Holstering the Colt, but leaving the strip of rawhide clear of the hammer.

  In case.

  ‘You drew on him and killed him, Herne?’

  ‘You’ve been told it twice, and already you’re startin’ to get the picture clear. That’s real bright of you, Sheriff.’

  Williamson wasn’t going to be pushed. His own gun was steady on the shootist’s midriff. And Herne knew better than to argue with a cocked double-barrel Meteor ten-gauge. At that range it would have come close to blowing him clean in half.

  ‘We’ll take you over the jail for an hour or so, Herne. Get this sorted out.’

  ‘But I already told you. Cliff. We all knew that kid’d get to buy the farm one day. It just happened that Mr. Herne here was first in line for it.’

  ‘Shut your mouth, Jim. I’m the law and I do what seems right.’

  ‘Sure.’ muttered Bisset. ‘But it don’t …’

  ‘Jim.’ warned Williamson.

  ‘Sure. Sure.’

  ‘You don’t get my gun, Sheriff. Not just like that. I’ll come to the jail with you, of my choosing. I’ll tell you what happened. You get the smith to tell you. Anyone else wants a say … Fine. Then after that I ride on out of your town.’

  Most of Stow Wells had gathered in the doorway of the smithy, whispering to each other in excitement and shock. First the stage, and now young Seamus gunned down by the tall stranger. There’d never been a day like it in living memory.

  ‘I can make you drop the gun.’

  ‘You don’t look like a killer to me, Williamson. There’s somethin’ round the eyes and you don’t have it. Some lawmen like it hard. I figure you for someone kind of likes it easier. I’m givin’ it you that way. Someone sweep up that garbage,’ pointing at the motionless body of the red-head. ‘And I’ll walk to your jail with you.’

  That’s the way it was.

  ~*~

  There had been a few angry shouts from the citizens of Stow Wells as Sheriff Clifford V. Williamson led Herne across the main street, into the cool of the office. Despite the calling and the protests, the lawman slammed the door closed and slid the bolt across it.

  ‘There. Make sure we don’t get interrupted.’

  The shootist sat silent, looking at the Sheriff, wondering what he had on his mind.

  ‘Guess you’re wonderin’ what I have in mind?’ asked Williamson.

  Herne shook his head. ‘No. Can’t say I was. I’m just wonderin’ how long you figure on wasting my time here. That’s all.’

  ‘About as long as it takes you to agree to ride shotgun in a couple of days.’

  ‘You got a driver?’

  ‘Sure. Old Roy Goddard’ll do it. Do anythin’ for a couple of bottles of liquor. Used to drive a Butterfield. Got fired for drinkin’ on the job. Turned a coach over and killed a couple of nuns. He’ll do it.’

  Herne grinned. A thin, mirthless smile that brought Williamson up sharp. Blinking and suddenly licking at lips that had gone dry.

  ‘Now, Mr. Herne … There ain’t …’

  'I'll do it.’

  ‘Well I …’

  ‘Not because of your brainless bastard idea of try in’ to pressure me. That kid was worthless trash and the whole town knows it. I’d back that Jim Bisset to stand up and tell the truth.’ There was a pang from his temporarily forgotten tooth. ‘Even though he can’t draw my rotten tooth for me with that bullet through his arm.’

  ‘It wasn’t …’

  ‘Fifty dollars.’

  ‘Thirty.’

  The shootist smiled again. ‘Let’s settle at forty-five dollars and call it halfway.’

  Williamson couldn’t understand it. As soon as he heard the shooting he’d guessed that it was Seamus and the stranger. Yet he hadn’t figured on Herne being so damned good. But immediately he’d seen the boy’s corpse, he’d seen a chance to blackmail the middle-aged gunman into doing him a big favor.

  It had gone wrong.

  Now Herne had more or less volunteered for the job of shotgun on the stage, and at a far higher price than Williamson had ever intended paying. And the lawman was only too aware that the shootist had backed him down in front of the whole town. It hadn’t been a good day at all.

  ~*~

  That night Herne checked himself into a room at the rear of the Inside Straight, taking up a half bottle of whiskey and a plate piled high with two thick steaks and a mountain of hash brown potatoes. It had been a long, hard day, and the prospect of riding guard in a couple of days’ time didn’t fill him with excitement. It was a lousy job. Ninety-nine rides out of a hundred it was plain boring.

  The hundredth time it was lethal.

  Before he undressed and went to bed Herne inched open the warped window, finding that it wouldn’t rise more than three or four inches, letting in the cooler air of the Arizona night. From down the stairs he could hear the sound of an out-of-tune piano and the occasional high-pitched yelp of laughter from one of the soiled doves who worked there.

  Sheriff Williamson had suggested that maybe the shootist might like to take advantage of one of those ladies’, on the town, so to speak. But Herne had shaken his head and firmly refused.

  ‘Thanks, Sheriff,’ he’d replied. ‘There’ve been times when I’ve found comfort there, but this isn’t one of those times.’

  Women were just there to be used. That was Jed’s simple creed. And if they didn’t like it then he wouldn’t waste energy trying to persuade them.

  The window from his room looked out across a narrow alley, then a line of outbuildings. And beyond that was the desert. As wild and desolate as it had been for the last thousands of years. Herne thought for a few moments on how weak and shallow was man’s grip on the land of the South-West.

  His eye was caught by a movement among the shadows between the storage sheds and privies. There was someone hiding and he instinctively wondered whether Seamus Blackstone might have some vengeful relative or friend but there
.

  There was a full moon sailing serene and untroubled overhead and it gave him sufficient light to make out that the figure was one of the old men from the Home in his uniform of dark blue pants and cream shirts. As soon as he saw Herne peering at him the old-timer scampered away out of sight.

  Jed wondered who he was and why he was taking such an interest in his presence in town.

  Five

  Herne slept well.

  Over the years he’d learned the skill of slipping easily into an untroubled darkness, yet ready to come instantly awake at the slightest odd sound. There had been a period when he’d been plagued by awful nightmares of his dead wife. Seeing her climbing on a beam in a cold barn, the snow white all around, her breath pluming out and hiding her pretty face. And he had been unable to stop her, his feet seeming to be trapped in thick molasses.

  The dream would always end with her falling into space, laughing. Laughing! While he looked up at her, helpless, seeing her drop slowly towards him. Then the sharp snap as the hemp noose jerked tight around her slender neck.

  Time had eased away that nightmare for Herne.

  ~*~

  During that first morning he walked over to the smithy, to see how Jim Bisset was feeling. He found the big man sitting with his feet up on a bench, the fires dead in the braziers. The blacksmith had his arm tied in a sling, but he was in good spirits.

  ‘Good day to you, Mr. Herne,’ he called. ‘Hear that Clifford talked you into taking the job of shotgun on the next stage.’

  ‘You could say that.’ The shootist paused a moment. Then again, you could say that I’d agreed that the money was right for it.’

  ‘They’ll be layin’ Seamus to rest later.’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘You’ll not go?’

  The tooth was still paining Herne. While breaking his fast he’d bitten hard on a boney piece of gristle in the smoked ham and it had jarred his jaw. It hadn’t left him in the best of spirits.

  ‘No. I’ll not be goin’ up the hill. I seen enough buryings to last most men.’

  Bisset didn’t reply for a while, looking past the tall, lean shadow of the gunfighter, out into the sunlit Arizona street. Coughing and spitting in the straw.