Vigilante!

by John J. McLaglen

  Charlie and Herne exchanged a quick glance.

  ‘Sure,’ said Charlie. And turning to Herne. ‘Let’s go.’

  In five minutes they were riding south, passing slowly out of sight of the tower and chimney stacks that jutted up into the graying sky.

  It was better than sitting on a fence.

  The sky seemed to close in on them the further they rode. Dark, heavy clouds pressed down and all but shut out every trace of sun. The wind blew up from the south-west and cut across their faces, making the skin smart and sting. Both men tied kerchiefs over the lower parts of their faces and pulled the curled brims of their hats down as low as they would go.

  The atmosphere was stormy, close; heavy as the clouds.

  ‘Reckon we should turn back?’ asked Charlie.

  Herne shook his head: ‘Best get on with it now we got this far.’

  On the side of the rough trail they were following, Herne spotted something in the short grass. It proved to be the rowel from a spur.

  Herne held it up. ‘Bust off the shank. Don’t mean nothin’ special. Could have been anybody’s.’ But he slipped the star shaped piece of metal into one of the pockets of his long coat. It was unlikely that Rob would have broke a spur driving Mrs. Drummond’s buggy and the rowel didn’t seem to have been on the ground that long a time.

  Moving over the summit of the next hill, Charlie called out softly and pointed down to the left. Herne followed the arm and saw what looked to be the remains of a fire.

  ‘Let’s get us a closer look.’

  Whoever had made the fire had taken trouble over it. Pieces of sod had been dug up and set in a rough circle.

  Inside this the gray ashes were still slightly warm. Herne pushed out a length of wood and picked it up; the end was showing red.

  More important were the traces of singed animal hair in and around the ashes.

  ‘Changin’ brands,’ said Charlie.

  ‘Looks like it. That or makin’ their own mark on some mavericks,’

  Charlie squatted on his haunches. ‘I mind a time not more than a year or so back when the way any feller set up his own spread was by ropin’ maverick steers and brandin’ ’em. Nobody paid heed to it then.’

  ‘That’s right enough,’ Herne agreed. ‘But that was before the likes of Drummond and his kind.’

  And us, Herne’s voice ran on inside his head. And the likes of you and me.

  ‘We gonna track ’em?’ asked Charlie without a great deal of enthusiasm.

  Herne stood up.’ ’Cordin’ to what Rob said, they was just a couple of kids. We might as well do what we can.’

  The tracks went due south, a dozen cattle and a few horses, but they crossed back and forth across one another so many times it wasn’t easy to tell. Neither did it seem that important.

  The sky was getting darker and the first drops of rain had begun to fall onto the sides of their long coats and the tall peaks of their hats. Large, heavy drops.

  They rode on at a trot, following the natural slope of the land, rising and falling easily. The sides of the hills away to the east were already becoming lost in a mist of rain and dark. Shapes of trees were ill-defined, their tops merging with low cloud.

  ‘Damn ‘n’ blast it!’ Charlie muttered angrily. ‘Blast it to Hell!’

  Herne followed him down a diagonal path towards the bottom of the next valley. His coat collar was pulled up against his neck and still the rain was dripping steadily inside it, making him less than comfortable. The south-easterly which had dropped away with the start of the rain began to get up again, driving it into their faces, almost blinding them.

  Less than fifteen feet away, Charlie was little more than a blurred shape, Herne drew his arm across his eyes and blinked into the surrounding darkness.

  Further south there was a low rumble as of thunder.

  ‘Blast!’

  He heard Charlie’s familiar curse and the next moment there was a flash of light to the left, the crack of gunfire muffled by rain and the echoes of the thunder, and Charlie was lurching sideways in his saddle.

  Herne gritted his teeth and drove his own horse forward fast even as two shots sounded from the same direction. He saw Charlie reach for his animal’s neck and miss, nearly coming out of the saddle.

  Herne ducked low as more shots sped their way, grabbing for the reins of Charlie’s horse and pulling the animal fast away. Herne was uncertain of what lay ahead but so far the shooting had all been coming from the hillside to the east.

  The rain stung his eyes, making it difficult for him to look for cover. Behind him, Charlie was swaying in the saddle. Herne could hear his voice repeating, ‘Blast! Blast!’ over and over.

  The shapes of trees appeared suddenly out of the mist and Herne reined in, turning the two animals round behind them, freeing his boot from the stirrup and jumping to the ground. His hands caught hold of Charlie and the man winced as he was touched.

  ‘Get down here!’

  Herne lifted him from the horse with some little trouble, finally laying him out on grass that was already more than damp.

  After a lull, shots were seeking them out once more. Herne left Charlie where he was and freed his Winchester from its scabbard.

  He steadied himself against the trunk of a tree and waited. At the flash of fire he took quick aim and sent two shells in that direction. Someone else replied from further along the hill and Herne fired again into the dim rain-filled space.

  Then he heard movement and saw the vague shape of a man on horseback, right to left across his vision, and knew that they were trying to circle round behind him and cut him off.

  Charlie groaned with pain.

  Cut them off.

  Herne turned his head. ‘How bad you hit?’

  ‘Side. Damn bullet’s stuck there, I reckon.’

  ‘Can you handle a gun?’

  ‘Don’t know. Maybe ... yeah, yeah, I guess so.’

  Herne dropped back and found Charlie’s horse. He tied the reins of both animals to a branch beyond their immediate position, not wanting to lose any chance of making an escape if that was what it came down to.

  He took Charlie’s rifle from by his saddle; lifted a couple of boxes of cartridges from their saddle bags.

  ‘Here. Now brace yourself against that trunk. One of ’em got round that side an’ he’ll be makin’ his way in. You see to it he don’t get close. I’ll watch the front. Much as I can see in this damned rain!’

  Charlie did as he was told, holding his breath and trying not to let Herne see the pain that the least movement caused him. When he was in position, Herne went back to his former place. There hadn’t been any shooting for some few minutes and he didn’t like that; didn’t trust it.

  Neither did he trust what Nate had told them. Not any longer. This wasn’t any couple of fool kids out from town to get themselves a bit of excitement. These fellers knew what they were doing and Herne was certain there were more than two of them.

  The only thing he didn’t yet know was whether they’d picked up the fact that he and Charlie were on their trail by either chance or carefulness – or whether they’d been told in advance.

  As the rain continued to slant into his back and the thunder continued to rumble to the south, Herne thought bitterly about the fact that they might have been set up. That Nate might have engineered a trap and ordered them right into it.

  There was a sound to his right and a nerve began ticking at the side of Herne’s temple. Whoever – whatever – it was was less than twenty yards off.

  In that darkness and during that space of time, a man could have got across that much ground.

  Herne leaned the Winchester against the side of the tree and slipped away from it. Whoever it was would have him pegged at the same spot he’d done his shooting from.

  The ground underfoot was already slippery, grass sliding away from underneath his boots, the earth becoming mud. Branches of trees came across his path and he was thankful for the patches of bush. For
a short while he thought the noise might have been nothing more than an animal and then it was there again and this time there could be no mistaking it, no doubt at all.

  The distance between them was the same as before, the angle different. Whoever it was was heading for the tree where Herne had left his Winchester. If he got that far, he would find Charlie as well. Charlie with his back towards him and unable to turn easily.

  But the man would not be expecting Herne to come at him from the direction in which he was now heading. Moving carefully but determinedly, Herne drew the Colt .45 from his holster. A few steps more and he saw the outline of a man in front of him. Herne froze: waited: carried on. His left boot almost lost its footing and he held his breath. Then on, the figure so close now that he had to sense Herne’s presence.

  Herne lifted the pistol. If he could get in near enough to use it as a club, he might find out a good few things he wanted answers to. If—

  A jagged flash of lightning ripped the sky apart.

  In front of Herne the man seemed to jump back in surprise and then he knew that Herne was there. His own reactions stilled by the suddenness of the lightning, Herne held back a second too long. He saw the startled expression on the man’s face and the image of it lingered even when the darkness had returned. Thunder boomed louder and an arm flailed out and sent the Colt spinning from Herne’s hand.

  The man was upon him, fists pummeling into his body and feet flying. The sheer force of the attack knocked him onto his back as a boot caught him high in the groin and in spite of himself Herne shouted out with pain. Something hard and metallic clipped the side of his head as instinct made him jerk it to one side.

  Desperately, Herne reached down, feeling for his right boot, fingers going for the special sheath he had had built in, touching and pulling at the handle of the army bayonet he always carried there.

  Knuckles struck his mouth and immediately he tasted his own blood. He glimpsed a pistol aimed at his face. His right arm swung upwards and there was a jarring thud as the blade of the bayonet forced its way between the man’s ribs. Tear and slide of skin and flesh being forced open.

  The man’s mouth parted and a high scream became a gargle of spittle and the beginnings of blood.

  Herne pushed himself off the ground with his left hand, keeping the bayonet where it was. He got himself sufficient leverage to swing his own body up and force the other man’s down onto the wet earth. As he swung round, all of his weight went behind his arm and he twisted the bayonet to either side. There was a final choked cry and then Herne felt the resistance leave the body. He knelt up, drawing the inches of blade back out, automatically wiping it on the man’s coat, although the steady pour of rain would wash it clean soon enough.

  He looked closely at the man’s face. Around thirty, a full moustache that fell across the top of his open mouth. No one that Herne recognized, but he was no kid, that was definite. Neither had he fought like somebody who didn’t know what he was doing.

  Herne started to feel for his Colt, pushing his fingers into small pools of water through sodden ground. A rifle shot came from the trees behind him, followed rapidly by another. He wondered if Charlie’s had been the first, if it had been the most accurate.

  The pair of shots set off more shooting from the hill. Herne paused and listened. He counted two, possibly a third. Carried on searching for his pistol. After a couple of minutes he found it.

  Ducking low and moving fast back towards where he had left Charlie, he hoped it would be the right situation he was returning to. His Winchester was leaning against the trunk where he had left it.

  ‘Charlie?’

  Silence, then: ‘I’m still here, blast it!’

  The rifle fire from the east had stopped once more. There had been no more lightning. The thunder retreated and there were only dull and distant rumblings remaining.

  ‘Best take a look at the bastard,’ Charlie suggested. ‘Make sure.’

  Herne skidded down a steep but short slope. The dead man was lying at a right angle to the path of Herne’s descent, as if thrown across it. His right arm was high above his head and close to it, the carbine he had carried. The other arm was pulled in tight to his body. Herne turned him from his side over onto his back, using his boot to do it. Charlie’s shell had taken away a good half of his face, from the right ear into the side of the nose. There was no eye: not any longer.

  Herne nodded. Strange that in visibility like that fate should guide Charlie’s shot the way it had. Strange, too, the number of men there were about with less than their fair share of eyes. He wondered whether One-Eye and Billy or any of the other vigilantes had been in on Nate’s scheme. For scheme he was now certain it was.

  ‘Blasted chest of mine feels like it was all burned up. Ain’t nothin’ in this rain like to put that blasted fire out.’

  Herne bent down and peered at the wound. Charlie was right; the slug had gone in and never come out. He tore away half of Charlie’s shirt and folded it into wadding, placing it over the opening of the wound. He bound it fast with a strip off his own shirt.

  ‘That’ll do till we can get you to a doc.’

  Charlie looked at him quizzically.

  ‘I reckon the rest of ’em have slipped away. No chance of takin’ us now, not with two of ‘em gone and this rain set in. We’ll ride on into Powderville and get you fixed up proper.’

  ‘What about Nate?’ asked Charlie.

  Herne grimaced. ‘As for him, Charlie, as you might say, damn and blast him!’

  Chapter Eight

  Herne and Charlie rode slowly down the main street. Powderville looked to be awash. It had obviously borne the brunt of the storm. There was over an inch of water splashing up around the hoofs of their mounts. Several of the boards had been pulled away from the terracing over the bank and hung down towards the boardwalk that shone black with rain. It wasn’t yet full evening, but kerosene lamps were lit up and down the street.

  Now that the rain had stopped falling, the air was clear and fresh but the wind kept it bitter cold.

  Streams of water poured from the guttering on the roof of The Cattleman’s House, splashing up from the boards below. Herne had a few dollars in his back pocket from the advance Nate had arranged for him that first day, before things had changed. He thought of going in for a drink as soon as he had found the doctor and the idea warmed him more than a little.

  He’d remembered the shingle attached to a stanchion opposite the rooming house where he’d stayed. It was hanging loose from the metal bar which supported it, but still there. Raymond Douglas M.D.

  Herne helped Charlie down from his horse, glancing over at the rooming house, half hoping that he might catch a glimpse of the woman. He realized that he had never heard or seen her name, didn’t have an idea what she was called. After the way she had thrown him out it wasn’t likely to matter.

  ‘Take it easy. Let’s get you over to this door.’

  The doctor came quickly, possibly readied by the sound of horses stopping outside. He looked at Herne and Charlie, taking in their coats, their distinctive hats.

  ‘You’re Drummond’s men, ain’t you?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘I don’t take too kindly to treatin’ the likes of you. Them as live by the gun should—’

  Herne pushed him aside with the flat of one hand. ‘For Christ’s sake, you a preacher or a doctor?’

  He helped Charlie over the threshold and along a short corridor. ‘Which way?’

  ‘My friend, I didn’t say—’

  ‘Which way!’

  ‘My surgery is on the left.’

  Herne opened the door and led Charlie inside. There was a long wooden table in the center of the room; a leather arm chair to one side. Two more chairs with straight backs. A folding screen. A jug and bowl set on a high table. By one wall was a bookcase with a number of heavy-looking volumes and a stack of pamphlets.

  ‘Shut the door and get movin’, doc!’

  The man
’s face tightened. He lifted a pair of wire-framed spectacles from the top pocket of his coat and set them on the end of his nose. The eyes behind the lenses were small and light. His hair was gray and receding at the temples. Herne put him at close to fifty years of age.

  ‘Doc, this man’s got a bullet in him an’ he’s likely to get a whole lot worse while you stand there lookin’ down on him.’

  The doctor looked for a moment longer, then turned his back and set his hand on the door handle.

  ‘Hold it!’ Herne’s Colt was half out of its holster.

  The doctor, unworried, looked back over his shoulder. ‘If I’m to do anything about that gunshot wound, I’ve got to boil some water.’

  Herne let the pistol slip back down and the doctor carried on his way.

  Three quarters of an hour later, Herne was inside The Cattleman’s House. He’d taken the two horses down to the livery stable and told the old timer he could put the cost of feeding them on the Circle D bill. He’d fussed and squawked and limped about but Herne had left the mounts just the same.

  There weren’t many folk in the saloon but all of them reacted to his long coat and hat the way he’d figured they might. It was like introducing a rattler into a Sunday go-to-meeting picnic.

  The only person who looked any way pleased to see him was the whiskey salesman he’d met at breakfast over at the rooming house weeks before. Herne hadn’t had time to order himself a drink from either of the bartenders before the drummer had insisted on buying one for him.

  ‘Now this place is stocking a brand that I can personally recommend,’ he winked knowingly.

  Herne accepted the drink and followed the man over to his table. The drummer was dressed as neatly as before, though the suit he was wearing was black instead of brown. It had the same high winged lapels and when Herne got closer it smelled of mothballs. The blue eyes were never still in the alert face.