Hart the Regulator 1

by John B. Harvey

  Someone who needed a gun.

  He was half-standing when the door sprang open and the bulk of the man called Dury was riling it, hair still ragged from sleep, a Colt .45 tight in his fist and pointing straight at Hart.

  Hart couldn’t recognize him immediately, only saw the shape, the outline of the gun; misty light drifted in through the open doorway.

  ‘Step clear!’

  Hart’s brain raced; his tongue licked against the inside of his upper lip. His own pistol was on the ground, resting by the top of the blanket. Rifle and shotgun were lying underneath the saddlebags.

  The gun in Dury’s hand jerked. ‘Now, move. Away from that damned armory of yours.’

  Hart still hesitated. It wasn’t light enough to see the man’s finger on the trigger but he could sense it pulling slowly back. Whatever it was that had riled him he wasn’t about to calm down easily.

  ‘Care to say what’s...’

  ‘No! An’ if you don’t shift your ass over by that stove I’m goin’ to drop you dead where you stand.’

  ‘No, you ain’t.’

  Amos Grant’s voice was far from steady, but in that depot it had the force of a thunderclap. He was still sitting in the chair, but his arm was resting on the top of the counter and he was steadying the Colt Navy with both hands.

  ‘You ain’t shootin’ no one. Not less’n you want to stop a shell plumb in your chest. Nothin’s goin’ to make me miss from here.’

  Dury swung his head, shouted: ‘Old man, in this light you ain’t goin’ to hit a damn thing!’

  ‘I ain’t so old or foolish I can’t hit you. Depends if you want to take the risk.’

  Hart was figuring his chances of dropping to the floor and snatching up the Colt. Maybe Dury wouldn’t fire right off, not at him anyway, not with the other gun already on him. But Dury realized he was stuck. Without shifting his aim away from Hart he stepped further into the room and called the boy in after him. Drew was carrying a pistol, too, only he kept it down by his side. He was wearing a vest over his pants, the off-white of it showing clearly; above that his face was nearly as pale.

  ‘All right,’ said Dury, ‘suppose you tell us what’s goin’ on?’

  ‘I’d say that was up to you,’ answered Hart. ‘You bust in here pushin’ that gun of yours at folk.’

  ‘Might be I got reason.’

  ‘Then let’s hear it.’

  ‘Boy woke up a short time back, saw Quint had gone.’

  ‘Quint?’

  ‘Tall man, ridin’ with us.’

  ‘Goon.’

  ‘Got up and looked all over; he ain’t around.’

  ‘Could be he just wanted to ride on ahead?’

  ‘Yeah. With our money.’

  Amos Grant whistled, low and long.

  ‘That amount to much?’ Hart asked.

  ‘More than six hundred...’ Drew began.

  ‘Shut it, you damned fool!’ Dury whirled round on the youngster and aimed to slash at him with the barrel of the gun. As soon as he started to turn away Hart’s right hand dived for the Colt on the floor. His fingers closed round the butt, body crouched deep, left arm lifted high and spread for balance.

  By the time Dury had realized his mistake and spun to the front, Hart’s gun was aiming up at his stomach, the hammer pulled back.

  ‘That makes two of us,’ Hart said.

  ‘Sure does,’ echoed Grant with a chuckle.

  Dury bristled. ‘Two against two, that’s...’

  Hart shook his head. ‘The boy don’t count.’

  Dury blinked, thought, released the hammer of his gun.

  ‘Let’s not worry about how much it was or how you come by it,’ said Hart. ‘Least, not for now. Point is, this friend of yours snuck off in the night with whatever money you were carryin’. I still don’t see how that concerns me.’

  Dury hawked phlegm from the rear of his throat. ‘Concerns you, mister, on account of how he took off on your horse.’

  Anger flooded Hart’s face; he pressed the palm of his left hand hard against his hip.

  ‘You an’ him wouldn’t have made no deal, would you?’

  ‘What kind of deal?’ Hart snapped.

  ‘Him takin’ that mount of yours, the two of you meetin’ up later.’

  Hart’s eyes narrowed further. ‘We’ll meet up okay, but it ain’t goin’ to be anything he’s goin’ to know about. Not till he’s starin’ down this Colt of mine. You know where he’d be headed?’

  ‘Texas way, I’d guess.’

  Hart nodded and glanced over at Amos Grant. ‘You got a good horse I could borrow?’

  ‘Not me. Miles Palmer’d let you have one of his, though. Given my say-so.’

  ‘Right.’

  Hart bent forward and set his pistol on the top saddlebag, butt towards him. Then he reached for his pants and began getting dressed.

  ‘We’re ridin’ with you,’ said Dury belligerently. ‘We want to get our hands on that thievin’ bastard, too.’

  Hart buckled his belt. ‘You can ride, but I ain’t waitin’ on you. What I saw of them horses of yours they still ain’t goin’ to be up to much travelin’. Not fast.’

  ‘You can’t...’ Drew began, but Dury pushed him back towards the open doorway. ‘Come on, boy, let’s make tracks.’

  Amos Grant came slowly round the end of the counter, still holding on to the big, old gun.

  ‘Thanks,’ said Hart, tying down his holster, ‘you sure did me a favor.’

  ‘Weren’t nothin’. Never did trust them three the moment they walked in. Only shame was,’ he chuckled, ‘I never got to blast a hole right through that lard head’s fat belly!’

  Grant chuckled some more and crossed the room. ‘I’ll get over and fetch that mount.’

  Wraiths of mist wrapped themselves about the legs of the galloping horse. A cold dampness sank into Hart’s bones. The sky was lightening gradually to the east but there was no sign of the sun.

  Hart reckoned that Quint had maybe three hours start. It was going to take a lot of making up, but that didn’t matter. What did was that he got his horse back. Next to stealing his gun, it was the worst thing the man could have done.

  The worst and the most stupid.

  Dury had been right about the direction Quint had taken; the trail led south out of Stillwater and kept on going. Hart had no difficulty in picking out the tracks of his own mare. The way he had it figured, Quint would ford the Cimarron east of Ripley, then it was another forty, fifty miles till he hit the North Canadian River. After that the going would get more difficult, sharp inclines run through with fast-flowing creeks, sudden ranges of mountains that thrust across the plain.

  If he was heading for Texas that was the terrain he’d have to negotiate—always heading for the Red River.

  Hart let the animal slow to a canter, knowing it was best to allow it to choose its own pace, the most important thing being to keep going. Dury and the boy were some way adrift of him and he couldn’t see them catching up. That made it interesting for when he did come face to face with Quint. It wasn’t just a question of the stolen horse, he’d taken off with a whole lot of money, too. Six hundred dollars the boy had been going to say. And it stood to reason the three of them hadn’t come by it honestly. Which meant that when Hart got his hands on it there wasn’t any legal way for Dury to claim it back again.

  Hart allowed himself the beginnings of a smile.

  By the time he was fording the cold waters of the Cimarron an orange blur was spreading from the eastern horizon. A line of yellow light grew from it, ringing the edge of land and sky.

  Ten miles south and the sun had risen clear; coldness evaporated. Hart took off his waistcoat and stuffed it down into one of the saddlebags. He rocked his body in the saddle, speaking softly to the horse, encouraging it, urging it on.

  Around noon Hart spotted smoke rising beyond a low range of hills to the east. A small ranch was tucked down in the corner of a valley, its buildings flanked at the rear by a
line of medium-sized pines. The wood of the house was still fresh, only half of it tarred against the weather. A barn was half-built to the left and a small corral held five horses and a mule.

  Hart rode down easy, not wanting to spook whoever might be home. He was a couple of hundred yards off, the sound of his mount’s hoofs clear in the warm stillness, when a woman stepped out into the strong light.

  The sun shone through her fair hair, making it glow like fine gold.

  ‘Ma’am,’ Hart raised a hand in greeting, seeing beyond her hair—the tightness of her mouth, the stained check apron, the rifle held diagonally in front of her, finger slipped through the trigger guard.

  Hart pulled in on the reins with his left hand, turning the horse broadside on and bringing it to a stop.

  ‘Ma’am.’

  ‘You said that already.’ Her voice was deeper than the frame of her body suggested.

  Hart turned in his saddle. ‘I did, didn’t I?’

  She pushed the rifle outwards, following his movement. Hart wondered where the man was, why he’d left her alone.

  ‘You got anything else on your mind or are you just going to shift round and ride back up that hill the way you came?’

  ‘Well, ma’am, I was lookin’ for someone.’

  ‘He ain’t here. Get going.’ The rifle lifted a few inches. Hart glanced at the barrel end then at the green of the woman’s eyes, the lines beginning to form at their corners.

  ‘Tall man riding a dapple grey mare.’

  She hesitated, then: ‘What you want to know for?’

  ‘Horse he’s ridin’, it’s mine.’

  Her face relaxed into a smile. ‘You let him steal your horse?’ The tone was mocking, incredulous.

  ‘He snuck off with it in the night.’ Hart was almost apologizing and he wondered why.

  The rifle lowered a little. ‘Well, well, so he stole your horse.’ Her teeth were even and white when she laughed.

  ‘You seen him?’

  She nodded, fair hair glistening. ‘Couple of hours back. Rode in the way you did. Wanted somethin’ to drink and eat.’

  ‘D’you give it to him?’

  The head shook the other way. ‘Chased him off.’

  ‘You did? Alone?’

  ‘He wasn’t much,’ she said scornfully.

  ‘No man to help you?’

  ‘I didn’t need a man for that.’

  ‘But you got one ... I mean there’s a man livin’ here on the ranch?’

  ‘I didn’t say I never needed one.’ Her look left Hart in no doubt as to what she meant.

  He raised his hand and started to pull on the rein and turn the horse around. ‘Thanks, ma’am, I’ll be goin’.’

  She took a pace towards him. ‘You don’t want no coffee? It’s on the stove and there’s sourdough biscuits.’

  Her name was Carol and she and her husband had moved into the valley that spring. They’d chopped down the trees and sawn the timber themselves, done the building as well. While the place was being put up, they’d slept in a tent. Aside from the horses, they had a dozen head of cattle and on the other side of the pines, to the east of the hill, they were plowing land that would be used to grow grain.

  ‘No kids?’ Hart asked between mouthfuls of biscuit.

  ‘We’ve got to get this place in shape first and kids would only get in the way. In a year or two maybe, so Frank reckons, we can start a family.’

  ‘You’re not so sure?’

  She looked at him: ‘Why d’you say that?’

  Hart shrugged. ‘Something in your voice.’

  She reached across for the coffee pot. ‘You don’t miss a lot, do you?’

  He held out his empty cup. ‘Depends.’

  ‘On what?’

  ‘What’s bein’ offered.’

  Carol held his gaze: ‘Coffee and biscuits.’

  ‘Uh-huh.’

  Hart finished his second cup quickly and stood up to go. Carol watched him from the far side of the room, where she was starting to mix flour and fat in a wooden bowl, her fingers precise and knowing.

  ‘I’m obliged.’

  She barely looked at him. ‘It was politeness, nothing more.’

  Just before reaching the open doorway, Hart turned his head. ‘If I’m passin’ by this way...’

  ‘No.’

  She said it with her back towards him, shielding her face. Hart loosened the tether on the borrowed horse and led it a few paces before mounting. Halfway up the hill he looked back but the doorway was empty.

  He dug in his boots and galloped the animal up the remainder of the slope. Quint would be something over two hours ahead of him now and Dury and the boy maybe half an hour behind. He wondered if the lanky man would rest up at nightfall or try and drive the mare on. His face scowled hoping it would be the former; he didn’t want the grey lamed.

  ‘Bastard!’ he called down the wind.

  ‘Bastard!’

  Chapter Four

  Hart’s clothes stuck to him; his skin flamed and prickled with heat. Flies moved round the horse’s head as it trotted south, trying to settle around its eyes. Hart’s throat was dry and he wanted to stop and take a long swallow from the canteen but more than that he wanted to make ground.

  A bird, large and dark against the blue of the sky, flapped out of the clump of trees a quarter of a mile to the right. Behind the trees the ground rose sharply and the trail turned to run at an angle towards it.

  The horse tried to slow to a walk but this time Hart urged it on, body rising and falling in the saddle to the rhythm of its movements. The bird was circling overhead now, wings flat and straight. He watched it for a moment, lifting his hand against the sun.

  Slow, wide circles.

  He felt the sudden, juddering impact of the bullet almost before he heard the shot; felt the animal sliding away underneath him. He threw himself to the left, feet clear of the stirrups, mind racing, cursing himself for not thinking, not realizing.

  A second shot cracked out into the echoes of the first and Hart rolled, seeking the cover of the horse. The animal had sunk forward, rear legs still trying to maintain balance. He could see blood spreading across the glossed coat of the chest.

  He made a leap for the reins, his other hand pulling at the rifle in the scabbard. As his fingers touched the butt the animal was slammed hard against him and he was knocked backwards, dragging the rifle with him. The horse fell heavily, quickly, trapping his boot, making him wince with pain. The earth exploded inches to the right of his body, dirt hurtling up into his face, stinging his eyes. He tugged his leg clear of his boot and jumped flat, pushing the barrel of the Henry over the horse’s side.

  Whoever was firing was on the ridge of the high ground, close by the edge of the tree line. Maybe two hundred yards away. Under his arms the horse shook through its final spasms. A shell had split its head apart, breaking the bone between eyes and nostrils, thin, grey-white fragments sticking up through reddened flesh.

  Hart moved the rifle through a short, slow arc watching for the next spurt of fire. When it came he squeezed the trigger, pumped the gun, fired again.

  He squinted along the rifle, lining up the sights; waiting, waiting. He hadn’t reckoned on Quint waiting to dry gulch him, had thought the lanky man would ride flat out, thinking of nothing more than getting away.

  He had underestimated him—unless the move had been forced upon him, unless something had happened to the horse he had stolen, to Clay.

  Hart tightened his grip on the rifle: come on, he said inside his head, show yourself.

  The gun flashed ten yards to the left of its previous position. Hart started to move his own rifle but the shell tore into the horse’s side and threw a splatter of blood and flesh and fiber towards his face. Instinctively he pulled his face away, ducking back. He wiped at the mess with his left hand, fingers scraping red and grey off on to the ground.

  A hole the size of a large fist burrowed between the dead animal’s ribs and leaked blood.
>
  Hart grimaced, cursed: from that range and with the advantage of height, Quint had all the cards stacked his way.

  Hart knew he wasn’t going to be able to reverse that without taking chances. He didn’t have any alternative—other than stay where he was and eventually get picked off.

  He fired two shots at the hill, spacing them along the ridge, then pushed himself backwards and wriggled his boot free, bending to pull it on. He made sure the loop was down on the hammer of his Colt so that he wouldn’t lose it when he ran.

  He scanned the land between himself and the bushwhacker. A flat stretch of grass for a full forty yards, at which point there was a natural dip in the ground, a hollow perhaps ten feet in diameter. Then thirty yards to a clump of brush; another forty from there to the first of the trees. That would put him nearly at the foot of the incline. Thinly grassed soil rose up for the most part, peppered with low bushes and the occasional rock. Above it all, shielding Quint, was the ridge.

  ‘Quint! Quint, you thievin’ bastard!’

  He snapped off one shot with the Henry before starting to spring across the clearing. Dead straight for ten yards, then a sudden veer to the rights cutting back to the left, body bent low, rifle tight in his left hand. After that he sprinted for the hollow. A shell went past his head close enough for him to feel the wind of its passage; another ploughed a line through the ground to the right of where he was running.

  Five yards short of the dip he flung himself headlong.

  The ground thumped hard against him and he rolled fast, turning as he did so. The Henry firm against his shoulder he fired twice at the hill then ducked back, flat. His right elbow stung, grazed in landing; the middle finger of his left hand had been forced back against the bone and Hart knew without bothering to look that it would swell up.

  He shifted forward, digging his toes into the earth and getting ready to move again. When Quint loosed off another couple of shots that was the signal. This time he zigzagged immediately, drawing fire, only going flat-out for the last ten yards. He rolled behind the brush and came up on one knee, the Henry moving fast to his shoulder. Hart saw the flash of orange flame and aimed towards it, firing fast. Twice. A replying shot. Hart squeezed the trigger again. Five shots left but he would soon be able to use the Colt as well.