Herne the Hunter 19

by John J. McLaglen

He turned on his heel, keeping his balance like a great cat, as though he was about to attack Two Knives. Who stepped instinctively back a pace. The other young brave checked himself, standing still. Herne carried on swinging the rifle, suddenly letting it go, scything through the air and striking the Apache across the knees.

  Herne caught the brittle noise of cracking bone and the young warrior fell like a pole axed steer, rolling in the dirt alongside the first of the Chiricahua.

  Two Knives couldn’t believe it.

  Both down.

  One hit where he knew he would not live. The other with a broken knee, helpless to do anything but cry out and crawl away as best he could.

  The white man stood motionless, without a weapon to his hands, while Two Knives had both his blades out and ready. Jed made a move towards his pistol, but the Apache saw it and immediately closed with him, yelping his anger. Hoping his fear would not make him lose control of his body and foul himself.

  ‘Die!’ he screamed.

  Herne saw there was no chance of sliding out the Colt. He went forward to meet the boy, gripping his wrists with all his great strength, rolling him sideways, kicking at him. Heaving him away to one side, close by the sprawled and bloody corpse of Louanne.

  Two Knives gathered himself for another attack, deciding on more caution. He saw the white man was reaching down towards his boot, as though he might have hurt his ankle, and the boy grinned. It would go his way. Crippled, the white man would be easy slaying.

  The Apache boy was good. Herne expected that. But, by God he was fast! In with his two skinning knives snaking out at Jed. He winced away, feeling one of the blades nick him across the side of the face, the other catching him on the outer, fleshy part of his left arm.

  Two Knives was good.

  Herne was better.

  In a special sheath in his right boot he carried a razor-edged, needle-tipped Civil War bayonet. His hand gripped the taped hilt and drew it out, hacking up at the Indian with devastating speed and violence.

  The boy never even saw it. There was the faintest flicker of reflected light as Herne drew the bayonet. That was all. Then a fiery sensation in his throat. Liquid, warm across his naked chest and arms. He reeled away, the knife falling from his left hand. Staggering. Dropping the other knife. Seeing blood bright in the shadows, pattering in the dry earth around his soft leather boots.

  So much blood.

  ‘So much blo …’

  He died.

  Jed looked round, seeing that the Apache boy he’d shot with the fifty-caliber rifle was still rolling over and over, hugging himself, tied into his own suffering. Oblivious to everything else.

  The third of the young warriors had disappeared.

  ‘Can’t have gotten far,’ grunted the shootist, flexing his fingers, making sure that the cut on his arm hadn’t done any damage. But the wound was only shallow, superficial. It was bleeding freely, dappling the sleeve of his shirt, but that would soon stop. There was also a smaller amount of blood trickling down his face from the cut on his right cheek. Herne had done worse to himself shaving.

  Suddenly there was the clatter of hooves from above him. ‘God damn!’ he breathed.

  From the trail in the dirt it was obvious that the crippled Chiricahua had managed to haul himself up a hidden path and reached his pony. If they were a scouting party for Mendez then it would be a good idea to stop the boy from giving his news. If none of his scouts returned, it might at least slow the war-chief down some.

  Herne stooped and picked up the heavy rifle, ignoring the weeping of the gut-shot boy, and ran quickly along the canyon. Following the trail, seeing the narrow path that snaked up the walls of the ravine. Reaching the top as the thundering of the animal’s hooves was fading in the distance, away to the north. The boy was already close on three hundred yards off, leaning low over the pony’s neck, his broken left leg trailing on its flanks.

  It took the shootist only a couple of seconds to eject the spent cartridge from the Sharps and slide in a fresh round. Quickly adjusting the sights, bracing the long gun against his shoulder. Setting his finger on the trigger and steadying his breathing after the short, sharp climb.

  The Apache was a touch over four hundred paces off, riding hard, almost invisible behind a seething curtain of spiraling red dust.

  ‘Six inches high. Three right,’ he said, remembering the target shooting at the saguaro cactus.

  Bringing the sights in line. Holding his breath. Firing.

  Stepping immediately to one side, automatically reloading the Sharps. Watching for the effect of the bullet.

  It was a perfect shot.

  Striking the galloping man precisely in the back. Three fingers left of his spine and three fingers below the sharp angle of the shoulder blade. As he was leaning forwards it burst through the muscular walls of the boy’s heart, clean through, between the ribs and exiting out of the left side of his chest, cutting a bloody gouge along the neck of his pony.

  It kicked and reared, spilling the dying brave in the dirt. Herne stood, silently watching. Intent on seeing if a second bullet would be needed.

  The Chiricahua rolled over twice, arms and legs flung out like discarded bolts of cloth. Then he lay still.

  Behind the shootist, at the bottom of the canyon, the last living Indian was still crying out. Herne walked carefully down the path, stopping near the boy, looking down at him. Wondering whether the wound was fatal. Guessing it was, but it would take a long time.

  The Chiricahua was suddenly aware of his presence as the shadow of the white man fell across him. His eyes blinked open and he stared up out of eyes that were too blurred with pain to see properly.

  Herne shook his head as he saw how young the Indian was. Unlike many whites Jed had never felt any great personal hatred of Indians. Sure there’d been a lot of times that he’d killed them. But that had generally been because they had been trying to kill him. As far as he was concerned, any Indian was much like any white.

  Not to be trusted at any time.

  That was the safest line of thinking.

  He knelt beside the teenage Apache, reaching down to ease the thong off the hammer of the Peacemaker. Drawing the forty-five pistol and thumbing it back. The triple click of the cocking action.

  The boy closed his eyes again, lips moving slowly. ‘Aid me, my father, in my passing,’ he muttered.

  ‘Sure,’ said Herne.

  Blood wormed down over the Indian’s chin, where he’d bitten his tongue in his pain. Jed lowered the handgun, pressing the barrel against the warrior’s mouth. Pressing hard to make him part his lips.

  The eyes opened again, frightened. Uncomprehending. Gazing into Herne’s face, seeing no spark of humanity or warmth. No pity.

  ‘Aid me,’ he whispered.

  Herne understood something of the Apache tongue and he nodded. ‘I will. Open.’ Probing at the compressed lips with the gun.

  The Chiricahua finally opened his mouth and the barrel of the Colt slid easily between the jaws.

  Herne turned his face away to avoid the risk of becoming splashed with blood and brains … and squeezed the trigger.

  The sound of the explosion was oddly muffled, the gun kicking up and breaking the boy’s front teeth. The forty-five ripped through the roof of the Indian’s mouth, pushing the palate to rags of torn flesh. Up into the frontal lobes of the brain, then punching a great hole in the back of his skull, splintering away a chunk of bone bigger than a grown man’s fist.

  The body jerked back, legs kicking and jerking like a shot rabbit. The hands clenched and opened. Clenched and opened. The eyes stared up at the deep blue sky. Blood came down the nose and seeped from the open mouth.

  Jed replaced the spent bullet, spinning the chamber, reholstering the pistol. Looking round the ravine, shaking his head at the dead body of Louanne.

  He didn’t waste time on words. She wouldn’t hear them. Time was now crucial. If the boys were scouting, then Mendez and the rest of the warriors wouldn’t b
e far behind. Maybe four or five hours. Odds were he’d be coming before sunset.

  ‘From the north,’ guessed the shootist.

  That was the direction that the boy with the broken leg had been heading. Out into the foothills. That meant Mendez would be coming for the town. If his intelligence was good enough the Apache would know that the town was virtually empty of fighting men. So he’d come on in for the easiest pickings he’d ever dreamed of. And if he came from the north the first thing he’d see would be …

  Jed looked to the left. Behind the steep walls of the canyon lay the neat white buildings of the Abernathy Home.

  ~*~

  He left the whore’s corpse where it lay, the two dead Indians on either side.

  The wound in his arm was still bleeding freely and it was almost impossible for him to tie a tourniquet with only one hand. He headed towards the Home, shaking his head and sighing at how weak he was feeling. Blinking at the dazzling light outside the arroyo.

  It took a quarter of an hour to make the short distance across rough, broken ground, leaving a trail of dark spots in the sand.

  Several of the old men saw him coming and he heard someone yelling out for Miss Lily to come quick. He recognized Ben, standing in the yard, holding a broom.

  Another of the old-timers came hobbling up to him, flies gaping open.

  ‘Hey, you’re Herne, ain’t you? Al’s goin’ to be mighty pleased. You’re wounded.’

  Yeah. Where’s …?’

  But the old man hadn’t finished. ‘You know me, don’t you?’

  The shootist was puzzled, wanting only to get out of the sun and have someone stop the bleeding from his arm. ‘No. No, I don’t know you. And who’s Al?’

  ‘Don’t know me! Hell, Herne … I’m … I’m …’ The eyes misted and the mouth sagged. ‘I’m … I’m Jesus, I’m always forgettin’ who …’ The voice faded and he wandered off towards the house.

  The main door swung open and Jed saw a woman he recognized as Miss Lily Abernathy walking briskly towards him. Ben was still watching.

  ‘Hey, who’s Al?’ asked the shootist. ‘And why’ll he be glad to see me?’

  The old-timer gave a sly grin and winked. Why? ‘Cos Al Carson says he’s your Pa, Mr. Herne. That’s why.’

  Eleven

  ‘My father?’

  ‘Keep still.’

  ‘But I need to know, for Christ’s sake! I mean … my father.’

  ‘Will you keep still so that I can tie this bandage properly around your arm.’

  ‘It’s fine.’

  The woman sniffed as though he’d broken wind at a social tea. ‘It most certainly is not fine, Mr. Herne.’

  ‘It’s …’

  Miss Lily Abernathy favored him with her most steely glare. ‘I say that it is not better. I have nearly done with bandaging you. A great deal of blood was lost, Mr. Herne.’

  ‘Happens when someone sticks a knife in you, Miss Abernathy.’

  ‘And I do not wish to experience your trail-drive, drifter attempts at sarcasm, if you would be so kind as to cease them.’

  Yes, ma’am.’

  ‘There. It’s done.’

  ‘Thank you. Can I talk some now?’

  Miss Lily Abernathy was a poem in black bombazine. Hat of black feathers nodding as she moved around the cluttered parlor where Herne had been taken. She washed the blood off her hands in a white porcelain basin and dried them on a spotless linen towel.

  ‘You may. You say that we are at some risk from an attack from that rapscallion, Mendez?’

  ‘Yes. I killed three of his young bucks. I figure they was scoutin’ this way to …’

  ‘Were,’ she interrupted.

  ‘What?’

  ‘I said they were.’

  ‘Were what, ma’am?’ Herne was becoming thoroughly confused. It was like meeting the head-mistress of some awesome girls’ finishing school. Again, for a fleeting moment, his thoughts returned to dead Becky.

  ‘You said they was. I was merely attempting to improve your abysmal grammar.’

  ‘Well, I surely thank you for that, Miss Abernathy. Mendez and his gang of Chiricahua are comin’ this way. I figure for them gettin’ here around sundown.’

  The woman came and sat down on an over-stuffed sofa across from him. She crossed her ankles and tapped one finger on her perfect teeth. She was certainly every bit as handsome up close.

  ‘We have time to get into town?’

  Herne nodded. ‘Sure. But I don’t …’

  ‘Because all of the able-bodied men have gone off on a wild-goose chase after those robbers.’

  She was also very quick on the uptake. ‘That’s correct.’

  ‘I know it is, Mr. Herne. There is no point in wasting precious time on idle chatter.’

  The shootist felt like he’d just been rapped over the knuckles with the edge of a steel rule.

  ‘We’re better here.’

  ‘Perhaps. They said in Stow Wells that you had not gone because you were scared.’ She looked across at him with a calm, level gaze. ‘I see from meeting you that they were quite, quite wrong.’

  ‘Idle chatter, Miss Abernathy,’ he warned, smiling slightly.

  ‘Touché, Mr. Herne.’

  ‘I have to ask about my father.’

  ‘Albert Carson. One of the saddest cases among so many …’

  ‘Carson? Carson, like the Pass?’

  ‘Yes. Why?’

  ‘I was born in Carson Pass.’

  ‘Would you recognize …?’

  Herne shook his head. ‘Ma died bearing me. I never even saw my father that I recall. He disappeared into Indian country in the fall of forty-four.’

  ‘And then?’

  ‘Nothing, Ma’am. Not a word. Nothing. I always figured him for dead.’

  ‘Perhaps he is. Albert Carson is not … how shall I say? Not entirely reliable as far as matters of the memory go.’

  ‘Ninety cents in the dollar?’

  ‘Perhaps no more than fifty cents, and that on one of his better days. He has been with us now for some four years. A delightful man.’

  ‘And he says he’s my Pa.’

  ‘He does. Always has. It is, perhaps the one consistent detail in his blurred past. He is very proud to be the progenitor of such a notorious killer, Mr. Herne. Very proud.’

  Herne was used to that kind of bitterness. A town asked you in to rid them of some scum that was terrorizing the community. You did it for them and they drew away when the blood started spraying around. After that all they wanted was to throw your money in the dirt and watch you ride away out of their lives.

  That was the way of it.

  ‘I’d best get started on organizing some sort of defense.’

  ‘Defense, Mr. Herne! I don’t. Come in, my dear.’

  Andreanna Abernathy was still wearing the same clothes that Herne had seen when the couple had come into Stow Wells. The simple black jacket in soft leather, over a pleated, divided skirt in plain black material. And the same riding boots with tiny silver spurs. That jingled as she walked across the room and shook Jed by the hand, firm and strong as most men.

  ‘You’re Herne the Hunter.’

  ‘Miss Andreanna.’

  ‘Your father is waiting for the chance to talk to you. We can arrange a private room for them, can we not, Mama? In the visitors’ wing.’

  ‘Be glad to talk, ma’am, and find out whether this old guy is really …’ He found that he couldn’t bring himself to say the words. Not after so many years of total certainty that his father must be dead. Things to do first, less’n we all aim to end up deader than beaver hats.’

  The daughter smiled at him. ‘Oh, the Indians. You believe they will attack us.’

  ‘I surely do. They’ll come this way. And when they come for town they’ll stop off and take us first. Figure us for a fine fat steer to have its throat opened up.’

  ‘They would attack a charitable institution like this one and risk harming such sweet old men
and two utterly defenseless women?’ asked Miss Lily.

  Herne wouldn’t have called either of them ‘defenseless’ but he let that pass.

  ‘Sure would. I guess Chiricahua language doesn’t have much to do with charitable institutions. Fact they’re old men makes them easier to kill. Fact you think you’re defenseless makes it a whole lot easier to strip you and rape you and then take you in as servants for the rest of the tribe.’

  ‘Servants!’ exclaimed Andreanna. That would be just intolerable, Mama.’

  ‘I’d have figured the rapin’ was worse, but that’s just my point of view,’ said Herne. ‘Fact is, I’d best get up and about.’

  ‘Should we not try and get everyone into town with the rest of the folks?’ asked the mother.

  Herne shook his head. Standing up, feeling that he was a whole lot weaker from loss of blood than he’d expected to be. There’s no men there worth a damn. Frame houses. Burn easy. No good place to try and defend. This is different. Built a mite like a fortress.’

  Lily smiled at him, reaching out and touching him on the shoulder. ‘That was the intention of my dear late husband. Colonel Roderick Abernathy. When he decided to found this Home for the poor lost souls who wander this great land of ours.’

  ‘Colonel?’ asked Herne.

  ‘In the Confederate States Army, Mr. Herne. He rode with … Who is it?’ there had been a soft knocking on the door, like a small animal trying to get in.

  ‘Only me, Miss Lily,’ It was the old-timer whose memory had given out on him.

  ‘What do you want? Are the Apaches coming?’

  ‘Are they? By God but we’ll …’

  ‘No, Angus. No. I asked whether they were coming. I see they are not.’

  ‘No. No, Miss Lily. Just wanted Mr. Herne here to know I recalled what I done. Led the wagons to the sea. That’s what I done. Independence, Missouri. To the sea. That’s what I done.’

  He stood, eyes bird-bright, waiting for Jed to reply. The shootist nodded at him. ‘That’s good. Real good.’

  ‘Knowed you’d appreciate that. Knowed you would.’ Without another word he turned and shuffled out, forgetting to close the door behind him.

  ‘You think we can defend this place with men like that?’ asked Andreanna, mockingly.