Vigilante!

by John J. McLaglen

  It was likely that as soon as he got time to draw breath and think, Nate would be back – and this time he wouldn’t ride so hastily into a trap. Herne could only play the same trick once in the same place.

  He set off down the side of the hill, scrambling from foothold to foothold, leaning his weight backwards with the gradient, keeping the Sharps tight in his right hand and using his left for support.

  He was some distance down when he heard a shot from a Winchester and guessed that Charlie had got fed up with waiting and was trying to drive Tom out himself. Herne stopped on a piece of fairly level ground and sent a shot through the hole that served for a window. Encouraged by this Charlie began firing more or less at random.

  When his volley finished, the door was thrown open and Tom leaped out. He fired twice, in rapid succession, in the direction of the trees and then turned and ran, heading for the side of the shack.

  Herne ran down the hill as well as the uneven ground would let him. Below he could see that Charlie was leaving the cover of the trees and making a dash across the space between his position and the shack. Only with his injury not fully healed he wasn’t travelling all that fast.

  Herne brought up the Sharps quickly and leaned back against the rough ground. He snapped off his shot too soon and the shell ripped through the boards at the side of the shack, missing Tom by a good couple of feet. But it was enough to make him think twice about going after Charlie. Instead he turned tail, ducked low and made a crab-like scuttle towards the stream and the supposed cover of the line of trees beside it.

  Herne hesitated, then allowed himself a grim smile. Slow Charlie might be, but he wasn’t that slow. Tom got as far as mid-stream when Charlie let his Winchester fall and drew the double-action .44 from his hip. He raised his right arm at the moment that Tom glanced back over his shoulder.

  Herne was close enough by now to be able to read the expression of fear and shock on Tom’s face and then Charlie fired. Tom was spun round by a bullet that hit him full in the shoulder, splintering the bone and making him drop his own gun. He was facing Charlie now and slowly going down onto his knees. He could have been begging for forgiveness, but more likely he just couldn’t support himself any longer.

  Either way Charlie didn’t seem bothered. He let the Starr come up nice and easy, level with Tom’s chest and squeezed down on the trigger. The shot man’s arms spread wide and his head was jolted back as a blow like an invisible fist thudded into his breast bone. Something burst inside him and the next moment he was on his back in the water, arms still wide, blood beginning to stain the clear, cold water.

  ‘That ain’t bad, Charlie,’ said Herne walking across the flat ground towards him.

  Charlie grinned behind the stubble of his beard. ‘Thanks, Jed.’ He chuckled. ‘But we got ’em good, didn’t we?’

  ‘It weren’t bad. We finished off five of ’em and winged two more. That leaves ’em with eleven fit men. It’s gettin’ better odds every minute.’

  ‘Sure! Long as we don’t come up agin ’em all face to face.’

  Herne shook his head. ‘Not yet. They might be expectin’ us to do somethin’ as fool as that. Soon as they start to thinkin’ and work out just who it was today. Well, if they’re expectin’ us to ride in on ’em or chase ‘em out on the open range, they’re wrong.’

  ‘What we gonna do then, Jed?’

  ‘I reckon we’ll wait up a bit. It’ll be a while before Drummond can hire some more guns to make up for those we shot down. We’ll let ’em get jumpy. Wait till some of ’em come into town. Supplies, maybe. Hankerin’ after whiskey or a girl. They won’t be able to stay out of Powderville for long ... and when they do come we’ll make sure they get a real nice welcoming committee.’ Herne’s smile was bitter, deadly. ‘Real nice!’

  Charlie holstered the pistol still in his hand and bent to pick up his Winchester. Tell you somethin’, Jed. Afore it happened I was wonderin’ what it’d feel like, shootin’ men you’d ridden with—’

  ‘And?’

  Charlie shook his head. ‘It wasn’t like nothin’. Not the kind of men they were. They’d turned on me just the same as they did you. Any one of ‘em would have shot me in the back without givin’ it a thought.’ He spat. ‘You an’ me, Jed, we’re doin’ folk a favor gettin’ rid of ’em.

  Herne nodded agreement and set off to fetch the horses. He had a lot more favors in mind.

  Chapter Twelve

  The other boarders had finished their breakfasts and left the dining room. Herne and Charlie sat where they were, lazily enjoying their third or fourth cup of coffee. Cold like it was out, there didn’t seem to be any call to rush outside. If they were playing a waiting game, they’d best wait warm.

  Rachel came in to clear away the used dishes, apparently happy to see Herne still sitting there. ‘I saw Joanne Taylor yesterday,’ she said over her shoulder. ‘Along with her little boy.’

  Herne set down his cup and looked over at her enquiringly.

  ‘They were catching the weekly coach up north. Thinking to winter at Fort Keogh. After that she’ll maybe take the boy back east. She’s got kin still living there.’

  ‘Good,’ said Herne. ‘I was wonderin’.’

  The woman went back to collecting the dishes and piling them on a tray. Herne stood up and went over towards her. ‘Here, let me take that,’ he said.

  Behind him Charlie scraped his chair back. ‘I’ll take a walk round. See if anyone’s drifted in.’

  ‘Okay, Charlie.’

  Herne took the tray and carried it out of the dining room and down towards the kitchen.

  ‘You remember the last time we was in here?’ he asked when he’d placed the tray on the draining board beside the deep sink.

  She came and stood close in front of him; close enough for Herne to feel the slight pressure of her rounded breasts against the front of her former husband’s shirt, feel the warmth of her breath on his neck and face.

  ‘I’m sorry about that,’ she said softly. ‘I lost my temper, It … it—’

  There were traces of tears at the corners of her green eyes. Herne reached up and took hold of her arms, the warmth of her skin good on his fingers.

  ‘Maybe,’ he said, ‘maybe what I’m goin’ to do will take part of the hurt away.’

  Around an hour later, Herne was sitting on the back step cleaning the Remington. Charlie came round the side of the house, out of breath from running. The expression on his face made it clear that something important had happened.

  He leaned against the wall, panting, trying to talk.

  Herne pulled the piece of cloth through the barrel and stood up. ‘Let’s have it. Nice an’ easy.’

  ‘I saw it down the street. A buckboard.’ He pointed behind him. ‘From the ranch. He must’ve brung Mrs. Drummond into town.’

  Herne’s eyes shone. ‘Who, Charlie? Who?’

  Charlie gulped: ‘Jo-Bob.’

  Herne spun the chamber of the pistol and slapped it down into the holster, bending to tie the leather round the inside of his thigh.

  ‘He alone?’

  ‘Uh-uh. They sent in two of the others in case there was any trouble. They’re over in the Cattleman’s House gettin’ a drink.’

  Herne straightened up. ‘That’s fine. Where’s the kid?’

  ‘Sittin’ in the buckboard. Outside the general store.’

  ‘He didn’t see you?’

  Charlie shook his head.

  ‘You sure on that?’

  ‘Yeah, I’m sure.’

  ‘An’ Mrs. Drummond?’

  ‘She’s inside the store. Least, she was a couple of minutes ago. But you don’t have to worry. I brung her in once. She spends a coon’s age lookin’ at lengths of calico an’ such. There ain’t no hurry on her account.’

  Herne picked up the Stetson he’d got from Rachel and set it on his head. ‘You think maybe you can keep those other two pinned down in the saloon till I get done?’

  Charlie grinned. ‘Just leav
e me time to get my Winchester an’ I reckon I can hold them boys all day if needs be.’

  ‘All right. Only watch out for the pair behind the bar. They might seem like some kind of joke, but the big one, he’s got a sawn-off stashed under the counter somewhere. I’d hate to see you peppered to pieces.’

  ‘Me too. Give me a couple of minutes start an’ then that bastard kid’s all yours.’

  Herne nodded and flexed the fingers of his right hand; they were still stiffer than he’d have liked, but he thought they were supple enough. For Jo-Bob.

  The kid was sitting right where Charlie had said, up on the seat of the buckboard, the pair of horses turned and ready to head back out to the Drummond ranch. Every now and then, Jo-Bob would glance round nervously or peer through the plate glass window of the store, anxious for Drummond’s wife to be finished with her shopping.

  Herne watched Charlie go in through the doors of The Cattleman’s House, then slipped round behind the line of buildings which made up the main street. He hurried along, not wishing to draw attention to himself too soon. There were a few folk about and he didn’t want the kid to have any more warning than was necessary.

  Herne went quietly along the alleyway that would take him back onto the street just two buildings above the store. It was the closest he could get.

  From the corner he looked out. There were a couple of old timers sitting on the side of the boardwalk more or less opposite, smoking on thin-stemmed pipes and jawing away. A woman was walking towards Herne, a shopping bag in her hand. Further down, a tall wagon was turning into the front of the livery stable.

  Herne thumbed the loop away from the hammer of the Remington. The woman was standing outside the General Store, making up her mind whether or not to go inside. Jo-Bob turned his head suddenly and Herne ducked back, just in time.

  Come on! he screamed at the woman inside his head.

  Come on, damn you!

  Finally she turned away from the window and started to walk along the boards towards him. Herne flattened himself back inside the alley and waited for her to pass.

  At the intersection, she paused and looked into the alley. As soon as she saw Herne pressed back against the wall, she started and a shout came to her lips. She tried to stifle the cry with her hand, but only half succeeded.

  That was it.

  Herne jumped out past her, almost knocking her flying. Jo-Bob had heard her too and was rising from the seat, turning as he did so, his hand going down for the gun strapped to his leg.

  Herne straddled the boardwalk, legs spread and body bowed in a gunfighter’s crouch. His right hand moved in a blur of speed and the pistol was in it, thumb bringing back the hammer, eye judging the angle, watching Jo-Bob’s mouth open. He aimed for the back of the seat beside where the kid now stood and the wood splintered up into the air like needles.

  Jo-Bob’s gun was barely half way from its holster.

  ‘Get down!’

  Jo-Bob froze. Behind Herne the woman he had knocked aside was sobbing convulsively, also unable to move.

  ‘Get down!’

  Jo-Bob moved slowly, keeping his hand on the butt of his gun, his eyes firmly fixed on Herne whose pistol was still smoking in his hand.

  Herne saw from the corner of his eye the severe face of Mrs. Drummond at the window of the store. On the other side of the street the two old timers had stood up and backed away to the wall.

  ‘Out in the street! Now!’ Herne gestured with the gun.

  Jo-Bob did as he was told, his own gun half cleared, not daring to pull it all the way.

  When he was in the middle of the street he stopped moving. Herne looked at him with disgust, looked down at his legs. His pants were tucked inside a pair of boots Herne recognized as his own.

  Thought you were man enough for them, did you, kid? Big enough to step into ‘em after they’d bin stole from me.’ Herne’s face became a snarl. ‘I’ll tell you, you ain’t fit to wear no man’s boots, least of all mine. All you’re fit for is six feet of dirt. Sooner the better afore you get some more innocent men or old women to drop a lynch noose around.’

  Jo-Bob’s hand was starting to shake. Underneath his freckles his face was whiter than new-milled flour. ‘You ... you already got your gun on me. There ain’t no way I can go agin that.’

  Herne spun the pistol over his finger and let it fall back into the holster.

  ‘Okay, kid. That’s all the chance you’re goin’ to get.’

  A rifle shot sounded from up the street, followed quickly by another. Herne let his head turn a fraction and in that second Jo-Bob made his play. Herne saw the kid’s gun begin to come up and his own hand dived for the Remington. Out of the middle of the arc flame spurted and Jo-Bob spun round in a half-turn, staggering back on already faltering legs. He fought to bring his right arm back round but it was a losing battle. He got it level from the elbow but there was nothing he could do to stop his fingers from gradually parting and the pistol slipping away to the ground.

  The young eyes flickered as he tried to focus on Herne’s face but there was a dark mist which closed over his vision, clouding his brain to anything but the pain that ate into him like a burning fire. He could feel the blood pulsing out from his body, steady, unquenchable. He glanced down and looked at the spreading redness that came from the bullet wound in the center of his chest. His left leg gave under him and he sank down onto his side. The fingers of his left hand crawled slowly across his chest and touched the warm stickiness of the blood; gently he pushed the finger ends inside his shirt, into the hole that had caved in on his chest. Sharp ends of bone bit at it. The kid’s head jerked sideways, once, twice, three times. He doubled over and folded onto the hard ground of the street, face to the dirt. His legs twitched and then were still.

  Herne looked round for the first time since the shot had been fired. No one had come out of The Cattleman’s House so he guessed that Charlie was handling things well enough.

  He looked back around and noticed that Mrs. Drummond had stepped out onto the boardwalk. She was standing there with both hands clenched together in front of her sharp bosom. Herne ignored her and holstered his gun. He walked slowly forward to where Jo-Bob lay and bent down; carefully he pulled off his boots and picked them up. He swung them over his left shoulder and walked over to the buck-board.

  ‘Looks like you’ll be drivin’ yourself back home, Mrs. Drummond.’

  Her dark eyes blazed hatred upon him. She stood straight, hands now to her sides; her hair as usual combed tight to her head and parted at the center. There was a pendant hanging from her neck again only Herne didn’t think it was the same one. Not that it – or she – mattered one way or the other.

  ‘Did you have to kill him?’

  Herne nodded. ‘Yes, ma’am. Yes, I did.’

  ‘He was a boy. You’re nothing but a cold-blooded killer!’

  Herne stared at her hard. ‘I may be a killer, but so was he. An’ if bein’ cold-blooded means you don’t get laughs out of lynchin’ folks as don’t deserve it, then I guess I’m that as well. If all I done was stop that boy growin’, then I reckon I done a good thing.’

  Her eyes moved from Herne’s face and looked down the street. ‘And the men in the saloon?’ she asked.

  Herne shook his head. ‘I think maybe they’ll be staying here.’

  She stepped off the boards and into the buckboard, sitting down by the splintered seat.

  ‘One thing you can do for me, ma’am ... tell that husband of yours that I’ll be ridin’ in to see him. In a while.’

  Mrs. Drummond’s face showed its first traces of fear. ‘But he ... he didn’t … he—’

  Herne interrupted. ‘They’re his men. Carryin’ out his orders.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘You just tell him!’ Herne spat out, then turned and left her sitting there. Jo-Bob’s body was still stretched out in the middle of the street. His feet showed through the ends of his socks at both toes and heels.

  Herne looked ov
er the bat-wing doors of The Cattleman’s House. Charlie was sitting at a table to the right, between door and wall. The Winchester was in his hand and pointed at two men who stood in the center of the room. One of them was trying to nurse a gunshot wound, high on his right leg, from which blood splayed over his fingers and ran down to a pool that was widening on the floor.

  There were a handful of other men in the room, all of them sitting very still and minding their own business. At the far end of the saloon, both bartenders were cleaning and polishing glasses for all they were worth.

  ‘You did all right?’ Charlie asked.

  ‘I did all right,’ Herne replied. ‘Heard some shootin’ up here.’

  ‘Uh-huh. He didn’t listen to what I said. Tried to run,’ Charlie chuckled. ‘I stopped him.’

  ‘So it seems.’ Herne pushed open the doors and went in, letting them swing to behind him.

  ‘Heard somethin’ real interestin’,’ said Charlie.

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Bunch of the boys gone on down to Broadus, by the Little Powder River. Drummond got news of some fellers tryin’ to sell stock with his brand showin’ through. Seems like they’re plannin’ to stop by here on their way back tonight. Get themselves a little entertainment.’

  Herne liked the idea. ‘That’s fine. We’ll see what we can arrange by way of a good surprise.’

  Charlie turned his head towards Herne and laughed. It was the best chance the Circle D men were going to get and they knew it. The one with the wounded leg made a grab for the gun that was on the floor maybe three feet in front of him, while the other took a running leap at Charlie.

  Herne took a pace back and drew, sliding the Remington out before the man’s hand had reached the pistol on the floor. From the corner of his eye he saw Charlie swing the barrel of the Winchester and catch his attacker crack across the side of the head.

  ‘Don’t!’

  The man crouched by the floor looked up and found himself staring into the barrel of Herne’s gun. He pulled his hand back and slowly stood up. Kicked the gun across the scuffed boards without Herne even having to tell him. His friend was lying on the floor, cradling his head in both hands and moaning loudly.