‘Well, sir, I see you have found employment with Mister Drummond. Mister Samuel Alexander Drummond. Samuel Alexander Drummond, Esquire.’
If he ever stopped talking for more than one minute, Herne thought, I swear he’d drop dead.
‘I trust you find your, er, employment congenial, sir?’
Herne grunted non-committedly.
‘I am aware that Mrs. Fairfax took violent objection to your taking service with the Drummond organization, but then—’
‘Mrs. Fairfax?’ asked Herne, interrupting.
‘Er, yes, Mrs. Rachel Fairfax.’
‘Then she’s got a husband?’
‘Exactly as I was in the middle of explaining, sir. The reason for Mrs. Fairfax’s strong feelings at your, em, profession is to be found in the very question of her husband.’ The eyes flittered over Herne’s face. ‘Her late husband.’
Herne looked at the man directly, waiting for him to continue.
‘It seems that when the good lady first settled in these parts she and her husband were intending to rear cattle. Indeed, they did so for a year or more and began to build up a good stock, until—’
‘Get on with it!’ said Herne as the salesman stopped to sip at his glass.
‘Until some kind of a disagreement developed with Mr. Drummond. Naturally I don’t know the rights and wrongs of it, but according to Mrs. Fairfax her husband was provoked to the point where he inadvisably went for a weapon.’
‘And they shot him down,’ Herne concluded.
The blue eyes were covered momentarily by lowered lids.
‘Did she say which one, did she mention any name?’ asked Herne.
‘No name, but she did speak of a man with a strange, high-pitched laugh.’
Herne’s bunched fist struck the top of the table and the salesman looked at him fearfully, wondering if he had said the wrong thing.
‘Sir, I hasten to make clear that in general I am wholly sympathetic to Mister Drummond’s attempts to bring law and order to this community. As I said to you on a previous occasion, only then can trade—’
‘For God’s sake!’ exclaimed Herne, ‘don’t you ever shut up?’
‘Well, I ... I—’ The drummer’s hands fluttered before him, the fingers slender and white. He stood up and seized Herne’s empty glass. ‘Allow me to replenish this for you, sir.’
And he hurried off to the bar.
Herne shifted in his seat, not wanting to stay and yet uncertain where else to go. Sometime he’d have to go and find a room for the rest of the night. Either that or get under a blanket in the livery stable. One thing was sadly certain: he wouldn’t be sleeping under the roof of Mrs. Rachel Fairfax.
And he could well understand why.
‘Another point of interest,’ said the salesman, starting to talk before he had even reached the table. ‘You will recall the other gentleman who was at breakfast that morning?’
Herne nodded.
‘You have not, by any chance, seen anything of him at the Drummond ranch?’
‘No.’
‘I can assure you he has been a visitor there on more than one occasion.’ He moved his chair closer and lowered his voice. ‘I persuaded our bushy eyebrowed friend to sample a bottle of specially imported malt whiskey one evening. Imported from the Highlands of Scotland, you know. You see,’ he leaned his head close to Herne, ‘our mutual friend comes from Scotland himself. And not as a mere sightseer. Oh, no! Quiet as he might appear, our friend is a businessman. And a very important one.’
Herne looked up as angry words came from a table close by the door. There was the sudden sound of breaking glass and the jarring screech of a chair being pushed back. Automatically Herne’s right hand drifted to the butt of his Colt. A movement behind and to his right caught his attention and he glanced round hastily. The fat barkeep was leveling a sawn-off shotgun along the room, while the smaller, thinner one struggled to cock an old-fashioned Colt Navy.
But the excitement faded away almost as quickly as it had begun. The chair was picked up and one of the group of men brushed pieces of broken glass from the table. The bartender set aside his shotgun in favor of a brush and dustpan.
Herne left his Colt alone and drank some of his whiskey.
The salesman came in close once more. ‘As I was saying, sir, our friend is a Mr. Hamish Fullerton. A representative of a powerful consortium of Scottish bankers and property owners.’
‘What the Hell is he doing out here in Montana?’
The salesman touched the side of his nose lightly with his finger. ‘Money follows money, sir. I believe they wish to invest in cattle ranching. The Drummond ranch is—’
‘But Drummond ain’t goin’ to sell them that place, not after what he’s done to build it up.’
‘Exactly! But to extend it even further, to, say, double the size of his herd would take fresh investment. Which is where our Scottish friend comes into the picture. You see
‘No, I damned well don’t! Only thing I can see is that if Drummond wants to double the size of his herd, that means doubling the amount of land he owns. Which means drivin’ more and more folk off land that’s rightfully theirs.’
The blue eyes were obviously startled by Herne’s anger. ‘In order to maximize profit—’ the whiskey drummer began.
Herne picked up his glass, drained it and flung it against the far wall, where it shattered into a hundred pieces.
‘That’s what I reckon to your talk of profit! And that’s what I reckon to you!’
He knocked back his chair and whirled round to face the bar where both men were in the act of reaching for their weapons. Herne’s hand blurred and the Colt was snug inside it. His mouth was a tightly drawn line across his face. The two men moved away from their guns and stood together at the center of the bar.
With only a quick glance back at the salesman’s still red and confused face, Herne holstered his Colt and stormed out of the saloon.
Herne woke before it was light, the cold biting through to his bones. He instantly pushed the coat from his body, spraying straw. His Colt was in its holster alongside where he had lain. Herne shook his head and started to get up. Had it been nothing more than the rawness of the morning that had woken him or had there been something else?
He slid the gun out into his hand and stepped softly in stockinged feet to the end of the upper section of the barn. A few moments later the short body of the old man who ran the livery stable came into view.
Herne nodded and stepped back again, holstering the gun and then sitting down to pull on his boots.
‘Who’s that up there? You show yourself now or I’m gonna blast you clear off that straw and into Hell!’
Herne chuckled and cleared his throat, spitting over the ledge and listening for it to drop onto the floor below.
‘Damn it! Who the—?’
Herne finished pulling on his left boot and stood up, showing himself.
‘You! What in the devil’s name d’you think you’re doin’ up there?’
‘Came to get those mounts. Thought you was always ready an hour before sun-up?’
‘It ain’t an hour before sun-up. An’ I told you before not to go tellin’ me how to do my job! ’Sides, I ain’t such a blamed fool I can’t see you bin usin’ my stable as a hotel.’
Herne lifted his coat from the floor and started to climb down. ‘You don’t like it, put that on Drummond’s bill as well. Now instead of standin’ there gawpin’, why don’t you get a move on an’ get them horses ready?’
The old timer spluttered and raged for a few moments and then, to Herne’s surprise, he did just that.
Herne passed the best part of an hour drinking coffee in The Cattleman’s House. It wasn’t really open for business and the coffee he was drinking was part of the two barkeeps’ breakfast, but after the swiftness of his gun play the night before, neither of them was about to argue.
When he thought it was time enough, Herne went up the street to Doctor Douglas. Waiting outsid
e, he turned his head and saw the shape of Rachel Fairfax passing the window of the dining room. At that moment the doctor opened the door and looked at Herne with evident distaste.
‘How is he?’
‘Still sleeping.’
‘How soon’ll he be fit to travel?’
‘Travel? That is out of the question. Unless, of course, you wish your friend to hemorrhage before he has travelled a hundred yards.’
Herne nodded. ‘I didn’t reckon you was any too pleased to be treatin’ one of Drummond’s men.’
‘That is as may be. But now that he is a patient of mine, I shall see to it that he receives the best treatment possible. Within a week he might be able to sit on a buckboard, a week later a horse – if he has a strong constitution.’
Herne raised a hand. ‘Okay, doc, that’s the way it has to be. One of us’ll be seein’ you after a week’s up.’
The doctor shut the door as quickly as he could. Herne rode back down the main street, leading Charlie’s horse after him. The day was set to be fine and dry, although the ground underfoot was still sodden after the previous day’s bad storm.
There were even greater signs of damage everywhere Herne looked. Boards missing or broken in two; holes in roofs, in walls. The tents at the back of town had been flattened and swept away.
He led his horse across the street, heading for the general store and thinking of buying some oatmeal biscuits to follow down the coffee he’d had at the saloon. He was in the middle of the street when the door to the store opened outwards and Taylor’s wife stepped onto the boardwalk, holding the boy by the hand. She walked very slowly towards the wagon that waited outside, drawing the child stumbling after her.
Herne reined in and watched, uncertain of what he should do.
It was only when she was seated in the front of the wagon that she looked up and saw him. Herne rode his horse slowly forward and slid from the saddle, looping the rein over the hitching rail just ahead of the wagon.
He stepped between his own mount and the two horses that were attached to the wagon shaft and walked along the boardwalk. He stopped beside the wagon and waited to see if she would turn away from the child and towards him.
‘Mrs. Taylor.’ he said quietly.
Her eyes were light blue and there was very little expression in them.
‘I was wonderin’ ... your husband’s brother ... did he—?’
‘He got back all right. We’re ... we’re fine. Steven and myself.’
Herne took a pace back, still feeling awkward. That that happened. I want you should know, ’cause I wear this,’ he touched his coat, ‘that don’t mean I go along with everything Drummond’s men do.’
Her voice was soft and even, without emotion. ‘I know that. I’m grateful for what you—’
All of a sudden her eyes started and her face went tense. She pushed round at the child, pressing him behind her at the same time as she started to rise, her mouth opening to shout a word of warning.
Herne read the danger before she could give it voice.
He threw himself sideways, turning as his body went towards the planking. In the space between beginning to move and landing his right hand sped through an arc and pulled the Colt free. He could see the man in the doorway of the store and the pistol that was ready cocked in his hand.
Herne hit the boardwalk and rolled. He got onto his side at the moment that he triggered off his first shot. He was in the same position, but steadier, when he fired his second.
A second later he was on one knee, ready to fire a third time: it wasn’t necessary.
Taylor’s brother lay half inside the general store, half out, He had one .45 slug jammed up against his left hip, where Herne’s first, off-balance shot had ricocheted off his lower rib cage. There was a larger hole above that entry wound, close to where the heart had already stopped beating.
Herne stood up slowly, the Colt by his side. All about him came the noises of folk running, shouting; of windows being thrown open and doors slammed back.
A bald-headed man wearing a striped apron stepped out of the store, placing his feet carefully so as not to stand on Taylor’s body.
There was a muffled sobbing sound from the wagon.
Herne looked towards it and saw that it was the child, not even understanding what had happened, who was pressing his face into his mother’s lap and crying. The mother shifted her gaze from the dead man in the doorway to where Herne was standing and there was still no sign of emotion in her faded blue eyes. She had seen too much and there was nothing now that could ever touch her again.
Chapter Nine
Never two days alike, the sky was as clear that morning as it had been dark the preceding afternoon. The wind had changed direction, blowing now from the north-west and less strongly. The sun was a perfect orb of pale yellow, lacking any real warmth. Under it the grass of the prairie shone strangely, more silvery gray than green.
Herne rode the trail back towards the Circle D ranch, uncertain as to why he was returning and what he would do when he got there. The debts that had to be collected were powerful in his mind – Nate, Billy, One-Eye. Yet a part of him still thought maybe he should play along with them a while longer. For one thing, he could do with finishing the month and collecting his wages from Drummond. For another, it wouldn’t be easy to ride in on near twenty men and make a play for three of them.
These ideas were slowly rolling round Herne’s mind when he spotted the smoke. At first it was little more than a smudge on the pale blue of the sky, eastward, edging the horizon. Then it was spiral, gradually rising until it dispersed and finally disappeared.
Herne pulled his horse round and set off towards it, increasing his pace a little as he went. The land rose steadily; soon he was moving into an area of hills where the trees grew more closely together and where outcrops of whitish rock thrust through the grass.
He stopped at the head of a rise and looked about him. Over to the left the dark winding line that was the road to Willard drew itself between the hills. To his right rose the taller bluffs of Medicine Rocks. The smoke was at a central point between both of these. Thicker now and blacker. Far more than a fire built by men for heat, even for branding. A building or a wagon, Herne guessed.
Before moving off again he pulled out the Winchester and checked its load. Did the same for the Colt, slipping the thong back over the hammer. He thought about his Sharps rifle, locked away in the armory that formed part of the cellar of the Drummond ranch house. Whatever happened, he was going to do his damndest to get that back again.
Another mile and he could smell the smoke too. An acrid burning that wouldn’t let go once it had taken hold of his senses. It was a smell he had got to know too well. From Lawrence, Kansas all the way to the present. Burning and lynching. After the rope, it was perhaps fire that he dreaded most.
Herne brought the horse to a halt and slid down to the ground. The earth was still damp underfoot, its surface breaking easily under his boots and then sinking inwards. He guessed that the fire was less than half a mile away now. The trees seemed to stretch off to the right of its source, as if maybe they kept well to one side. The land to the left was broken by jutting rock and patches of bush. It was difficult to tell which approach might offer the most cover.
He led the horse below the slight ridge he had been following and tied it to the stout branch of a tree where it was well sheltered from view. Then he hobbled it to make sure it couldn’t break away.
Carrying the Winchester in his left hand, a box of shells stuffed down into one of the side pockets of his long coat, Herne left the line of trees behind him and made his way between the rocks. After ten careful minutes he could see what he wanted to see.
The frame shack that was burning looked to have been built right onto the side of a hill. Now the sides had collapsed in on themselves and the boards were blackened and charred, half eaten away by the fire that still burned strongly at the center. The smoke which rose up was thick and bitter.
<
br /> A few pieces of hand-made furniture had been thrown clear and then smashed, parts of them obviously used to refuel the flames when they had threatened to get low.
A make-shift corral that stood off to the right had been largely pulled down. Two men were in the act of pushing a flat-board wagon onto the top of the fire.
Herne lay flat, the Winchester alongside him, taking in every detail.
His eyes moved left towards a piece of raised ground and a curve of stunted pines that grew upon it. Five of them, close together.
Two already bore extra fruit, extra foliage.
The bodies hung from their ropes, turning slightly from side to side as the wind pushed between trunks and branches and moved them now away from each other, now together.
The nearest to Herne looked to have been a man in his middle years, his face all but covered by a wild growth of beard; dark, lank hair fell forward and covered the top part of his face. On his left side there was a dark, wet patch which Herne took to be blood.
Next to him hung a much younger man, his face twisted up towards the sky where the rope had bitten into his neck and forced it to that angle. The skin on his face was as white as could be, save for a wavy line of dark red blood that ran from the top of his head and over one cheek, disappearing into his shirt collar.
If they’d shot him first, Herne couldn’t see where. Likely they’d simply got hold of him and strung him up. Nate liked best to hang them when they were alive and most aware of what was going on.
He saw Nate now, standing in a tight group with Billy and One-Eye and someone else who Herne couldn’t make out. Except that it wasn’t one of them. No duster, no peaked hat. Then Billy stepped away and started to walk to where Cole and Henry were still maneuvering the wagon onto the fire.
Then he could see it was an old woman.
Her body was slight and fragile and the black dress that she wore hardly seemed to touch her bones. Her hair was short and ragged, as if someone had hacked at it with a blunt blade; its color varied from iron gray to dirty white. She reached up her hands towards Nate, in the act of pleading, and even from where he was Herne could see the large, red swellings around the joints where rheumatism had half-crippled her.
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