Hart the Regulator 1

by John B. Harvey

  Issuing classic fiction from Yesterday and Today!

  When a double-crossing gunman called Quint stole Hart’s horse from a Stillwater saloon, Hart went all out to see his blood spattered over the Eufaula prairie …

  Then the Quint boys joined a cattle-rustling set-up under that crazy lady Belle Starr, and Hart was appointed to clean them up real good. For seventy-five bucks a month, he could afford to take a few chances, as well as tangle with a band of trigger-happy Cherokees …

  CHEROKEE OUTLET

  By John B. Harvey

  First Published in 1980 by Pan Books

  Copyright © 1980 by John B. Harvey

  Published by Piccadilly Publishing at Smashwords: May 2013

  Names, characters and incidents in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each reader. If you’re reading the book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Cover image © 2013 by Edward Martin

  edwrd984.deviantart.com

  This is a Piccadilly Publishing Book

  Published by Arrangement with the Author.

  For Nick Webb, a straight shooter, if you know what I mean.

  Chapter One

  He was a tall, dark shape coming out of the sun. Shrouded in his own shadow. A man who rode alone.

  Like an orange medallion, the sun hung behind him in the afternoon sky. Its light caught the surfaces of misshapen rock scattered on the hill to the north, making them glow red and silver; it shone on the creek water where a whitetail doe drank nervously; it spread the shadow, long and deep, as horse and rider moved slowly towards the east.

  The doe touched her head to the water a final time before pulling it nervously back, soft nose twitching the air. Brown eyes flickered their fear and she turned, springing away, white rear sparkling as she chased for the safety of higher ground. In less than a minute the doe had disappeared from sight.

  Wes Hart rode easily, reins resting across the palm of the left hand, the thumb of the right hooked round the pommel of his saddle. The fingers of that hand were spread wide, touching the leather, never far from the pistol that sat snug in its cutaway holster. A Colt Peacemaker .45, the mother-of-pearl grip carved with the Mexican emblem of an eagle holding a snake in its mouth and between its claws.

  It wasn’t the only weapon that Hart carried. A Henry .44 pushed its smooth wooden stock up from the rifle sheath tied under the left flap of the saddle. On the opposite side a specially fashioned bucket holster held a Remington 10-gauge shotgun, the 28-inch barrels sawn down to half their usual length.

  A fringed buckskin sheath hung from the left side of the saddle pommel, showing the bone hilt of a double-bladed knife.

  Smelling the water clearly now, the dapple-gray snickered her head to one side and broke into a trot. The rider nodded, half-smiled, letting her go; he was thirsty too.

  It had been a long ride east out of New Mexico Territory, away from the Pecos River, never certain that he wasn’t being followed; odd moments when the short hairs at the back of his neck began to prickle and his sweat burned dry.

  Now he turned in the saddle and shielded his eyes with his left arm, staring back into the sun. Wave upon wave of buffalo grass shimmered, shifted in the hazy light, unbroken. He dropped his arm and looked northwards. Low, rounded oaks patched the hill, almost to its crest. To the left a fist of red rock thrust itself upwards defiantly. He scanned the hill for some moments before turning away and freeing his boot from the stirrup, swinging his left leg over the horse’s back and dropping to the ground.

  He was an inch over six feet, wiry under his light brown wool shirt, seeming lighter than the hundred and seventy pounds that had been his weight for thirteen years. His face was lean and stubbled, the high cheekbones strong against his tanned skin. Above them, Hart’s eyes were a faded blue.

  He squatted on his haunches by the creek, pulling the wool of his pants free where it had been stuck by sweat to his thighs. The water was surprisingly cool. He splashed his hands down into it, lifting it to his face, ridding himself of the coating of trail dust that had formed like a second skin, clogging the pores. He shook his head vigorously, pushing his fingers through the tangle of thick, brown hair. Only then did he drink.

  Satisfied, he moved the mare back from the water, loosening the cinches then taking the leather canteen from where it was tied behind the saddle. He filled it in the creek and replaced it, resting it on the woven Indian blanket strapped above the two saddlebags. From one of these he pulled a piece of salt beef wrapped in muslin cloth. He bit away an end of the meat and started to chew on it as he recovered the rest and put it back. The beef was fibrous and tough and he pushed it from one side of his mouth to the other, working his jaw steadily.

  He thought of making a small fire and brewing up some coffee in the old enamel pot he carried with him but decided against it. He didn’t want to wait around that long. Stillwater couldn’t be far off: maybe a couple of hours’ ride.

  Hart glanced again at the hillside as something moved in the branches of one of the oaks. Riding here into the Outlet, he hadn’t exactly headed clear out of trouble. Any time he was liable to be jumped by marauding Indian bucks, a bunch of hungry desperadoes, the Lord knew what. Even the Kid coming out after him.

  Hart grinned ruefully. You couldn’t be certain he wouldn’t do just that. Never could be with someone like him. Half-crazed the way the Kid was how could you be?

  First time he’d laid eyes on the Kid, that should have told him. The broad nose, long jaw, mouth too small and more like a girl’s, the eyes set too far apart. The Kid had been leaning back against the wheel of a wagon, toying with his pistol, grinning at nothing at all. Then a woman had run out of the ranch building opposite, flapping the end of her apron and calling angrily at some half-dozen chickens. The Kid had spun the gun round on his finger and clicked the hammer back; his smile had frozen, mouth set tight, angled up at the right side.

  He’d fired four times: four hens had been hurtled into the air amid a flurry of orange-brown feathers. One landed on its feet and scuttled in widening circles, head missing, blood arching outwards from its torn and opened neck.

  The Kid had laughed aloud and shouted down the woman’s cries, watching fascinated as the bright red blood continued to pump, the decapitated animal continued to run. By the time both had finished, a trail of spittle ran from the upturned edge of the Kid’s mouth and curled round to his neck.

  Hart should have known then; should have got back up on his horse and ridden away.

  Billy Bonney: Billy the Kid.

  ‘What’s your name, mister?’ The voice was high-pitched and mocking.

  ‘Hart. Wes Hart.’

  The Kid had smiled his twisted smile. ‘What’s your business?’

  Hart had stepped through the mess of feathers. ‘Saw a lawyer. Name of MacSween. Reckoned you was hirin’ men.’

  ‘Yeah.’ The Kid’s smile became a chortle, starting way back in his throat, making his Adam’s apple vibrate. He nodded towards the pistol at Hart’s side. ‘Can you use that, Mister Wes Hart?’

  Hart wiped finger and thumb of his left hand across his dry mouth. ‘I can use it well enough.’

  ‘You got proof of that?’

  ‘Been servin’ with the Texas Rangers. Rode in John Armstrong’s detachment. Was with him the time he took J
ohn Wesley Hardin.’

  The Kid narrowed his eyes. ‘You don’t say. That’d be down by the Rio Grande, wouldn’t it?’

  Hart shook his head. ‘No. That’d be in the smoking car of a train at Pensacola Junction in Florida.’

  The Kid hollered with laughter and slapped his knee. He pushed himself to his feet and slipped his gun down into its holster. ‘Can’t be too careful,’ he said. ‘Not in times like these.’

  He held out his hand and Hart shook it; it was like clasping fingers round an eel.

  Hart rode with Billy for nearly three months. Lincoln County was torn apart by a bloody feud that came to be known as a war and warfare was pretty nearly what it was. The sale of beef stock lay at the center of it all. Two Irishmen, John Riley and J. J. Dolan, had tied up the government beef contracts to such an extent that the big ranchers such as Tunstall and John Chisum were in danger of getting squeezed out. To make matters more difficult Riley and Dolan had managed to ensure that all the official law in the territory was in their pockets.

  One day a deputy of theirs shot Tunstall in the head. Chisum knew he had to get even tougher or go under. He ordered Billy Bonney and Dick Brewer to put together a posse of gunfighters who would not only avenge Tunstall’s death but break the Irishmen’s power once and for all.

  The Kid called his posse the Regulators.

  Under that name they terrorized Lincoln County, using their weapons first and talking afterwards—whenever there was anyone left alive to talk to. Mostly those they crossed had as much chance of talking back as that headless chicken the day Wes Hart had signed on.

  Hart rode along, drew his pay and did what he was told. The War Between the States, the Rangers—it was all part of the same thing. All that worried him was the Kid.

  It wasn’t just the way Billy reacted when he used his gun, the smile of pleasure and the drool of saliva from his mouth, it was the foolhardy way the Kid led his men into danger, almost as if he was courting death. Walking towards it, anxious even, the way a man goes at night to his woman’s bed.

  Only Wes Hart wasn’t counting on dying. Not yet. Not there in Lincoln County with a half-crazed youngster as his companion.

  The showdown came in an adobe outside Santa Rosa. Billy had been drinking heavily, tequila and whisky, getting alternately sullen and loud. He knew there were a bunch of Riley’s men in the town, ten or more of them; aside from Hart, the Kid had only three.

  Finally he kicked over a table and smashed a bottle against the still-rolling edge. Glass splintered about him and tequila splashed up into his face.

  ‘Come on! We’re goin’ in to get those sons-of-bitches. Now.’

  No one moved.

  ‘You hear me? You bastards hear me?’

  In the corner Moreno moved, began to answer haltingly. ‘Sure, Billy, we hear you, but...’

  ‘But what?’

  Moreno gestured with open hands. ‘They got us outnumbered. We wouldn’t...’

  ‘You yeller...’

  Billy sprang across the room so fast there was nothing Moreno could do to get out of his way. The Kid grabbed hold of Moreno’s shirt and swung him forward, throwing back his own right arm at the same time.

  His right hand still held the broken bottle.

  Moreno screamed as the arm hurtled towards his face. The scream was choked off as the jagged ends of glass gouged through the man’s skin and flesh, stuck fast, then twisted. Billy pulled Moreno further forward, turning the bottle as he did so.

  Hart and the others watched, stunned by the viciousness of the Kid’s action.

  Billy gritted his teeth and gave the bottle a final, sharp turn before hurling it against the sidewall. Moreno staggered backwards, both hands to his face. Blood ran between his fingers, down his wrists and arms, across his shirt and down on to the floor.

  Hart shifted his hand close to the butt of his Colt, watching alternately Billy and the injured man. Moreno’s mouth was opening behind his hands, making burbling sounds that never approached words. After a few moments he sank down on to his knees and then his hands fell away from his face. A raw, red circle had been carved into it, slicing unevenly across the bridge of his nose, pulling down the pouched skin beneath his eyes; the corners of his mouth had been dragged wide. Blood bubbled and burst.

  Billy stood between Moreno and the door, breathing heavily. When he spoke his voice was slurred with drink.

  ‘Nobody backs down on me. Nobody! I’m the one who’s runnin’ this outfit and I called it.’

  He swung round fast, too fast, nearly losing his balance. He quickly pushed the flat of his left hand against the wall to steady himself. At the side of the room Moreno was dabbing at his face with the tail of his shirt, moaning incessantly.

  ‘I called it, didn’t I, Wes? Huh, I called it?’

  Hart nodded: ‘You called it, Billy.’

  ‘An’ I was right, wasn’t I,’

  ‘No.’

  Moreno stopped wiping the blood from his face; the other two men caught their breath. The Kid jutted his head forward as if he hadn’t heard correctly.

  ‘Wha...?’

  ‘I said, no.’

  ‘An’ I said I was right. I called it right an’ that stinkin’ bastard got what was comin’ to him for bein’ yeller. Now let’s...’

  ‘No.’

  Hart spread his feet wider, easing his right hand away from his belt. His body had dropped naturally into a gunfighter’s crouch. The faded blue eyes never faltered as they watched for the Kid’s first movement towards the gun at his hip.

  ‘We can take Riley’s men when the odds ain’t so stacked against us. We ride in now and likely we won’t be ridin’ out. None of us.’

  The Kid lurched sideways, still not going for his pistol. He stood in the middle of the room, swaying slightly, boots crunching down on splinters of glass, his head shaking from side to side.

  ‘Think you know better’n me, don’t you?’ He waved his arm vaguely in Hart’s direction. ‘Mister Texas Ranger, big man who held Armstrong’s coat tails when he snuck up on Wes Hardin and poked a gun in his back.’

  ‘That wasn’t...’

  ‘Don’t you tell me!’ The words flew out in a high scream of anger. ‘Don’t you tell me nothin’! Sneakin’ up on a man when he ain’t expectin’ it, that’s the only way any lawman’s goin’ to get someone like Wes Hardin.’ He drew himself up straight. ‘Someone like me.’

  He pointed an unsteady finger at Hart. ‘I ain’t turnin’ my back on you. Not no more. You understand me? An’ I ain’t sleepin’ without my gun right in my hand. Not while you’re around. That clear?’

  Hart nodded, his eyes still watching for the Kid’s gun hand to make its play.

  ‘You don’t worry ‘bout me none, Billy. I’m through. Quittin’. As of now.’

  The Kid’s mouth jerked upward at the edge. ‘You can’t walk out on me. Damn it, you snivelin’ bastard! You yeller...’

  He aimed to jump Hart the way he had Moreno, but he never made it. As Hart sprang back, fingers tightening round the pearl grip of his Colt, Billy’s right leg gave under him and his body turned and tumbled towards the packed mud floor. His hands went out to stave off the blow but they weren’t in time to stop the base of his spine jarring hard.

  As the Kid shouted out, Hart backed away to the door, his hand still resting on his gun butt.

  ‘So long, Billy.’

  The Kid was in the middle of the floor, on all fours like a dog. He stared up at Hart and his brain and vision were suddenly clear; the expression on his face was of contempt and loathing. Hart wondered how much they were for him and how much for Billy himself.

  Hart glanced at the other men then pulled the door open behind him. Quickly he was outside and heading for his horse. He threw the saddle on fast and secured it with fingers that were not quite steady. All the while he watched the door of the adobe but no one came out. From inside the Kid’s voice rose and fell to silence, rose again. Hart pulled himself up into the saddle and dug h
is heels into the mare’s sides.

  For a long time he kept glancing back over his shoulder, uncertain of how Billy would react when the tequila and whisky had emptied themselves out of his system. He knew the Kid didn’t take to being talked down, even less being walked out on. If it hadn’t been for Chisum, Hart figured that Billy might have lit out after him himself. As it was, if the Kid let the word get out that he had a debt to settle there’d be those who would be eager enough to do it for him. A reputation like Billy’s earned friends as well as enemies. Hart ran his hand down the warm, dappled coat of his horse’s neck.

  ‘C’mon, Clay, let’s go.’

  He readjusted the saddle and climbed on to the animal’s back. Behind him the sun was as full though its light seemed to be weakening. The rocks on the hillside were dark masses with little color. Maybe in Stillwater he could get some hot food inside him; at least he’d be able to make sure the mare was properly fed. After that he might find something softer than the ground to sleep on.

  ‘C’mon.’

  Hart flicked the reins and touched the grey with his boots, setting her into a brisk trot.

  Chapter Two

  Stillwater wasn’t a lot of town. It stood in the middle of a flat of land ten miles north of the Cimarron River; a huddle of buildings lost in an expanse of drying grassland without much excuse for being there at all.

  A couple of years before, the stage from Wichita had used the place as a stopover, but now it ran on down to Guthrie or forked east to Tulsa.

  The low, reinforced log building that had been the stage depot now served as general store, saloon and meeting place for the small number of folk who lived there and the smaller number who passed through. Apart from that there was a livery barn with a broken-down corral alongside it; a saddler’s with its front boarded up and its sign hanging on by a single nail; a barber’s shop which the owner had abandoned eight months back and which was now home and comfort to an ever-expanding family of rats; three other wood cabins and half a dozen soddies.