Vigilante!

by John J. McLaglen

  ‘Jesus!’ Someone to Herne’s right repeated it again in a tone of awe and wonder.

  The kid’s hand was only barely resting on the butt of his own pistol; his eyes were on Herne’s face, flickering, frightened eyes that pleaded for the man who had the drop on him not to squeeze the trigger through one more fatal fraction of space.

  The broken-nosed man slapped his leg with the flat of his hand and threw back his head and hollered with laughter. Nobody else joined in or said a thing.

  Herne waited for the laughter to subside, aware of the fact that although he had his Colt on the youngster there were at least two rifles out and ready.

  The red spots on the man’s cheeks were redder than ever; he shifted his wiry body in the saddle and reached back for his hat, sliding it onto his head.

  ‘Boy, he sure got you that time! Teach you not to talk too much when you don’t know who you’re talkin’ to.’ His tone changed and his face tightened. ‘Less’n you got the speed to back it up.’

  He raised a hand and pointed at Herne: ‘You, you’re lucky you picked the right one to draw on. There’s others you wouldn’t have found so easy.’

  ‘Maybe.’ Herne lowered the hammer with care and slipped the Colt back into his holster. He looked one way and then the other, saw two Winchesters being pushed down into their scabbards.

  He guessed that it was going to be all right: for now.

  ‘Tell you what,’ said the leader, ‘we’ll ride back to the ranch with you. Sort of keep you company.’ He laughed once more. ‘Wouldn’t want to see you gettin’ lost. Not after goin’ to all this trouble to get here.’

  His laughter was still rising above the men as they turned their mounts about and reformed. Herne rode in the middle – four men before him, four behind. It wasn’t as if they were actually taking him in as a prisoner, but it seemed mighty like it.

  Herne rode in silence, looking about him thoughtfully.

  You could see the ranch house from a long way off. Chimneys and a small tower were thrust up into the horizon before the sprawl of low buildings and fences that surrounded them came into sight.

  From a distance it looked impressive. But from close up—

  Herne took in the barns and outhouses first, noting the number of men who seemed to be about the place, all busy with one job or another. There were a large number of horses in three corrals; some, he guessed for the cowboys, the faster-looking ones for Drummond’s private army. A L-shaped single-storey building to the right seemed to be the bunkhouse, some of the planking suggesting that it had recently been repaired. Smoke drifted up from one of the two tin chimney stacks.

  All this Herne marked and noted, impressed by the size and manner of the set-up. But nothing was as impressive as the ranch house itself. Herne had seen similar buildings on his rare trips back east; hotels in New York would have rivaled it. In the middle of cattle country it was difficult to ignore or forget.

  The building was set squarely on the ground with a permanence which suggested that whoever built it had been thinking about the generations to come. The basic structure was of brick. The main floor was set some four feet off the cleared earth, the area below obviously being used for some kind of storage. Broad wooden steps led up onto a wide terrace which appeared to run all the way round the building. Pillars rose up along the edges of this and supported the second storey which hung out over the terrace.

  High, arched doorways fitted with glass were set at intervals around the main floor. More windows, with ornamental frames, were studded about upstairs. An arched brick tower at the front was crowned by a rectangle of ornate iron work, over which flew the Circle D flag – the brand in dark blue on a white background.

  The tower was flanked by a pair of high brick chimneys and more chimneys of the same design were placed on the other walls. Small trees, now bare of any but the fewest leaves, were standing at intervals in front of the terrace.

  ‘Somethin’, ain’t it?’ said the man just in front of Herne, turning in his saddle.

  Herne nodded slowly.

  ‘Bet you ain’t never seen anythin’ like that before.’

  Herne nodded again and moved his horse out of the line, going up front and level with the leader. ‘Do I get to see this Drummond, or what?’

  The man looked at him keenly: ‘Ain’t for me to say. That’s for Mr. Drummond. But I’ll see.’

  He swung his leg over and down, dropping to the ground and walking briskly up towards the steps at the front of the house. The other riders spread out, getting down to free the saddle cinches, then standing in groups to chat and smoke. Herne saw the freckled kid watching him every now and then, but paid it no mind. He hadn’t seen him in the saloon the previous night and wondered what he would have thought about the treatment meted out to two youngsters much the same age as himself.

  Herne shrugged: he didn’t suppose the kid would have cared any too much. Wouldn’t have seen that the ones getting shot and hanged could as easily have been himself.

  After a few moments, there was a shout from the top of the steps. ‘You’re to come up, Mr. Drummond’ll see you now.’

  Herne dismounted and led his horse over to the nearest stretch of rail, tying the rein about the top pole. He automatically touched the butt of his Colt as he set off towards the house, walking slow and easy, watching everything that was going on around him.

  The face with the bent nose nodded to him as they passed on the broad steps. ‘Go right on in.’

  Herne turned the handle of the door to his right and stepped into a large hall with polished black floor boards and a variety of wooden and glass tables, mostly bearing ornaments or vases of dried flowers. At the center of the hall was a big iron stove, the front of which was partly open, showing the glow of burning wood. The blackened smoke stack went up towards the ceiling. Beyond it Herne could see a flight of stairs.

  Alongside the stairs a door opened and a man walked quickly through and marched across the floor towards Herne.

  ‘You’re the one Nate told me about.’ He extended his hand and Herne shook it, noticing the firmness of the grip. ‘I’m Drummond. Samuel Alexander Drummond.’

  Drummond stepped back and looked Herne up and down. He was only an inch shorter than Herne himself and looked to weigh twenty or thirty pounds more. His solid frame was encased in a three piece suit in a dark material patterned with tiny checks. He wore a white shirt with a high collar at the center of which was a large black bow-tie. He had a full growth of beard and a moustache, the ends of which came out sideways into tightly rolled strands. The hair of his beard was several shades lighter than the dark brown of the hair on his head, which was parted on the left and neatly brushed.

  His eyes seemed gray, almost colorless. He looked at Herne for what seemed a long time.

  ‘Nate didn’t say your name.’

  ‘Herne. Jed Herne.’

  There was no sign of recognition. If Herne’s earlier reputation as a gun hawk had come this far then it had evidently faded and been forgotten. Or maybe Drummond didn’t trouble to remember the names of such as Herne.

  ‘Where you from?’

  Herne shrugged and looked past Drummond’s head for a second, sensing rather than seeing a movement at the half-open door by the stairs. ‘Anywhere,’ he said. ‘Everywhere.’

  ‘So what brings you to the Powder River?’

  ‘Work.’

  Drummond looked Herne over once more. ‘I can’t say that I would have considered you if it hadn’t been for what Nate said about your move out on the range. He was impressed. And there are areas in which I trust his judgment.’

  Drummond paused, a sudden thought striking him. He turned sharply on his heel and began to walk back across the hall. At the door he stopped and spoke over his shoulder. ‘Come in here.’

  Here was Drummond’s office. The centerpiece was a walnut desk that was eight feet long by four feet wide. The top was covered by dyed leather except for a six inch border. On it were a blotter, sheets of
paper, an open account book, a number of pens in a glass holder and several bottles of ink.

  There were glass-fronted bookshelves all along one wall; the books themselves were large and leather-bound. On the opposite wall was a big map of the area.

  Drummond stood by the map.

  This is the extent of my range – north and south along the banks of the Powder River, reaching up nearly as far north as Fort Keogh, south half way to Powderville. The land to the east goes up into the hills here.’ He pointed with a well-manicured yet strong finger. ‘How many acres would you say?’

  Herne ignored the abrupt brusqueness of the question, looked at the map and thought it over. ‘I’d say,’ he ventured, ‘close on five hundred thousand acres.’

  Drummond laughed shortly and shook his head, moving away from the map and sitting behind his desk. ‘Six hundred and fifty thousand acres. This year we’re grazing more than thirty five thousand head. Next year it should be more.’

  Herne glanced back at the map: ‘You’re takin’ over fresh land?’

  Drummond tapped his fingers on the desk. That is my plan. And what I plan, I do.’

  Herne looked at the gray eyes and thought that what Drummond said was almost certainly right. He wondered how successful he would have been in carrying out his plans if he hadn’t bought the support of so many hired guns. Like himself.

  ‘Er ... about the job. There’s—’

  ‘We lost a man a week or so back. Some fool thing. Unnecessary. He got himself into an argument with a farmer and didn’t have the right kind of support. I’d like to replace him.’ He looked quickly up at Herne and then at the blotter on his desk. ‘I’ll give it a try, but … but there are things you have to understand.’

  ‘Go ahead.’

  ‘My men are my responsibility. I look after them well and I expect a loyalty that is total in return. You will wear the uniform provided and take orders when they’re given. Your pay will be forty dollars a month with all meals found, ammunition, a Winchester rifle and a string of three horses. I take it that is satisfactory?’

  ‘Sure. Only

  Drummond moved his hand across the blotter: ‘Only—’

  ‘You said a lot about other things, but nothin’ about duties.’

  Drummond’s eyes flickered and he pushed himself up from the chair. Tour duties are simple. This range is plagued by rustlers. Rustlers and folk who think they can pull calves out of the herds and fit them up with their own brand. Do-nothings and no-goods who come out from the east thinking they can take a hundred and sixty acres of land just because some Federal official says they can. As though simply by existing they had a right to it.’

  Drummond leaned forward and hammered his clenched fist down onto the desk. ‘Well, I’ll tell you this. I worked for what I’ve built up here and I’ll be damned if I’m going to let anyone ride in and take one acre from me, never mind a hundred and sixty. I’ll go further than that – no one’s taking one single blade of grass.

  ‘So your duties are very clear. You help to get any sniveling bastard off this land who don’t belong on it and anyone you see getting within a dozen yards of any of my stock you string him up from the nearest tree.

  ‘That clear enough?’

  Herne coughed, nodded.

  ‘Good. Nate will see that you find a place in the bunk house and fit you out with gear. You can cut out some horses from the string later. That’s all.’

  Herne nodded again and went out of Drummond’s office. On the way to the front door he turned his head. The woman on the stairs was tall and wearing a long green dress that fell past her feet and swelled out at the back. Her hair was combed tight to her head and parted at the center; her eyes were dark, her mouth generous. A diamond-shaped pendant hung low from her neck, resting on her bosom.

  Her eyes held Herne’s for an instant and then she swung her skirt round and walked slowly up the stairs, her head and back quite erect.

  Herne shut the door behind him and walked over towards the corral to find Nate.

  Chapter Five

  Herne slowed the horse to a trot, reaching sideways and down and patting it appreciatively. Not as responsive as the bay, the near-black mount that he had led out of the corral probably had the edge for speed. They were yards gained which might yet be significant.

  He went on until the pine was around two hundred yards off, then dropped from the saddle. He used the rope that hung from close to the saddle horn to hobble the horse, then slipped the new Winchester from its scabbard. The walnut stock and the wood at the center of the rifle both shone, the grain showing clearly through. The blue-gray metal of the barrel gleamed. Herne fished a box of shells from one of his saddle bags and slid them into the magazine. He worked the lever and slotted the first shell into the chamber, noting that the action was a touch stiff and unyielding. Doubtless it would ease with use.

  Herne flicked up the rear sight, just behind the hammer. Squinted through it, along the length of the barrel. When his finger squeezed back on the trigger that seemed a fraction stiff also. The recoil of the rifle jarred against his shoulder.

  Herne worked the lever again: again: he fired ten shots in all. Carefully he reloaded, filling the magazine rather than leaving it less than half full.

  He unhobbled the horse and rode it down to the tree.

  At the center of the trunk, at the height of the average man’s head, there was a large, uneven hole torn away where the majority of the shells had landed. Two had obviously struck somewhat to the right and high, but none had missed the central point by more than six inches.

  Herne nodded to himself, not displeased, although he knew that he would have been more accurate with his own Sharps. Not, he had to admit, as rapid. A frown crossed Herne’s face; already he had set aside his rifle and his horse, the Montana Peak hat that hung from his saddle horn he knew sat uneasily on his head; the duster coat that was strapped at the rear of the saddle was awkward and cumbersome.

  Herne felt like he was letting his identity slip away from him, piece by piece. At least he still had his own Colt .45 – the one thing he would never agree to part with, even for an hour, less. He felt it was an extension of himself; was himself.

  He turned slowly, hearing a couple of men approaching. It was Nate and the youngster with the freckled face.

  ‘Heard shootin’.’

  Herne took hold of the horse’s rein. ‘Figured I’d best try that Winchester. Look foolish havin’ to use it an’ findin’ it shot a foot high.’

  ‘Reckon so,’ answered Nate. ‘How’d it show up?’

  Herne stepped away. ‘Take a look for yourself.’

  Nate did so and whistled, the note as strange as his laugh. The kid just stared, not quite certain of what Herne had done. ‘How many slugs you put in there, mister?’

  ‘Eight in the middle. Those two flaked a way a mite.’

  Nate laughed: ‘See what I was sayin’ afore, Jo-Bob. You got a lot of growin’ to do afore you can take on the likes of us.’ He pointed down. ‘Him an’ me. Ain’t that so, Herne?’

  ‘Happen so.’

  Herne noted that Nate had classed them together and wondered how right that was. How fast the man might be? How accurate when it mattered? Maybe one day he’d need to find out.

  ‘You headin’ back?’ Nate asked.

  ‘Yeah.’ Herne climbed into the saddle and swung the horse round.

  The three of them were within sight of the tower of the ranch house when another rider came headlong towards them, driving his mount for all it was worth, the ends of the rein lashing over and over.

  Twenty yards off he hauled it in, turning behind the three of them and coming up alongside.

  ‘Nate. Jo-Bob.’

  ‘What’s ridin’ up your tail, Tom?’ asked Nate.

  ‘Couple of the boys took sight of a bunch of rustlers out towards the hills. Close by the trail to Baker. Six of ’em they reckoned. Rode back in for help.’

  Nate grinned and looked across at Herne. ‘
Good thing you tried out that Winchester when you did. Looks like you’ll get to use it right soon.’ He set his spurs into the horse’s flanks. ‘Let’s ride!’

  The sun was near central in the sky by the time the posse reached the area where the rustlers had been seen. It hung there like a pale yellow disc, almost overpowered by the blue of the sky that surrounded it. The horizon was flecked with scuds of thick, dark gray cloud but everywhere else was clear. Clear and cold.

  A narrow valley twisted itself between three hills, an even narrower stream running round the foot of it. Here and there were clumps of green scrub and the crest of one of the hills held a pair of spruce, their branches permanently bent in one direction by the wind.

  To the south-east it was possible to see steeper hills rising behind, over in the direction of Medicine Rocks.

  ‘They was down by the stream, just far enough along to get cover of that rise there.’

  Nate followed the out-stretched arm and sucked in his lips. ‘Charlie, Cole, go down and have a look around. Likely you won’t find much but a mess of tracks. The rest of you separate and circle round. If you find any sign, fire a shot.’

  He looked back at Herne. ‘Best take Jo-Bob with you. He’s gotta start learnin’ some time.’

  Jo-Bob flushed and turned his head aside, but followed on after Herne anyway. There wasn’t anything much else he could do.

  The pair of them dropped down behind the first hill and rode wide around it, coming up the slope of the furthest one and slowing to a walk, examining the ground. If there had been as many as half a dozen men, and if they had succeeded in running off a number of cattle, it shouldn’t be too hard to find which way they went.

  In less than ten minutes Herne and Jo-Bob were stopped short by the echoing crack of a rifle.

  ‘That’s it!’ called the youngster, excitement already showing on his freckled face. ‘We’ll soon get the bastards on the run!’

  Herne turned his horse around and followed Jo-Bob in the direction of the shot. He could remember how it had been. Recall the days when each chance of action had sent the adrenalin flooding through his body, had made his nerves and senses razor sharp. How he had loved the fresh excitement that each chance of danger brought with it.