It was forty yards to the trees. From there on in the cover was better, especially if he went right instead of trying to approach from the front. He could work his way round through the edge of the tree line and come up on Quint from the side.
If he got that far he wondered if the man would make a run for it or hold his ground. There was no point in trying to outguess him—he’d done that once already and been wrong. Instead of thinking he’d better do something.
Without a covering shot he raced from the brush, alternately sprinting straight and making swift changes of direction. When Quint had fired at him three times, Hart dug in his heels and checked his run, swiveling the Henry upwards and firing from the chest. Fifteen yards short of the first tree, he stumbled and almost fell, staggering for another five yards, arms spread wide as he did his best to keep moving and not lose his balance completely.
A rifle shell ripped away a section of bark at head height just as he finally collapsed against the foot of the trunk.
Hart worked the lever on the Henry and began to move deftly between the trees, never pausing but sliding between one and on to the next, making as much ground as he could before Quint tried to cut him off.
He was almost on the same level as the ridge from which the man had been firing before he was forced to stop. A branch broke to his right and he looked and saw a movement shaded from the sunlight. Hart stopped in his tracks, slid his right hand down to his gun belt and used his thumb to free the hammer of the Colt from its loop of leather.
Rifle in his left hand he waited for the shape to move again.
Stillness.
Sweat trickled down his back, spreading at the line of his belt and then running down between his legs. Under his hair, his scalp prickled. He was keeping the center finger of his left hand away from the rifle stock, aware of its throbbing.
One minute. Two.
Something scuttled through the underbrush to his right and he held his breath, hand on the butt of the Colt.
Three minutes.
Just when it seemed he must have been mistaken in the movement, when he was becoming sure that the man could not, would not, have been so still for so long, Quint came for him.
It was a headlong rush that brought the man crashing down the hill, left arm knocking obstacles aside, right extended, finger working the trigger of his pistol.
Hart drew his Colt calmly and leveled it as bullets soared past him; one ricocheted from a tree trunk a few feet in front of him and whined off to the right.
He saw Quint’s chest beyond the gun barrel, glimpsed the wildness of his face above it. Began to squeeze evenly on the metal of the trigger. Exactly as the Colt seemed to explode Quint either flung himself to the ground or was tripped.
Hart didn’t know and anyway it didn’t matter.
He thumbed back the hammer and took a pace backwards, resighting the pistol. But Quint hadn’t stayed where he had fallen. The impetus had set him sliding sideways and taken him into the trees at the left.
Hart fired once and cursed as he heard the shell crack away from wood. He ran forward, ducking under a low branch, and jumped for the spot where the man had disappeared from sight.
Nothing.
Bright light slipped between cracks in the leafed branches and slanted across the ground. Particles of dust floated through the air, visible, invisible, visible again.
No Quint.
Hart stood where he was, listening, swiveling his head from one side to the other. No one could...
There was a crash to his right and he spun round, body crouched, a grim smile slipping into place; the Colt was extended, ready. Almost as he realized it had been something hurled, some log, the man jumped him.
A second’s sense of danger made Hart sway his head sideways as he turned. The stock of the rifle swished before his eyes, missing him by less than three inches. He staggered backwards, doing his best to bring his gun arm round. On its return journey the rifle cracked down on the inside of the forearm and Hart shouted out, fingers parting, the pearl-handled Colt tumbling out.
Quint stood with legs braced wide apart, eyes wide with wild fury; gripping the rifle by the end of the barrel, he swung it round his head and aimed it at Hart’s skull.
Forgetting his pistol, Hart dived underneath the plunging rifle, headfirst into Quint’s stomach. The pair of them thumped on to the ground and a knee jabbed upwards and dug hard in Hart’s groin. He let go his hold and rolled away, rubbing himself with his right hand. With a wordless shout, Quint scrambled to his feet and raced away through the trees.
Hart grabbed up his own weapons and gave chase. Although he couldn’t see him, he could hear his quarry ahead of him, bursting through the trees. He ducked under a low branch that was still vibrating with the impetus of Quint’s charge—ahead was the clear blue of the sky and the open ground of the hill.
Hart ran faster.
As the brightness of light burst round him he narrowed his eyes and through the smallest of slits saw Quint stop and turn. Hart threw himself sideways, right hand reaching down for his gun as he dived. Quint’s shot cracked over his head and he came up on to one knee, thumbing back the hammer as he leveled the pistol.
Quint was running once more.
Dashing the length of the ridge.
‘Hold it!’ Hart yelled and fired exactly as the warning left his mouth.
He saw the running man jerk forward, right arm and side arching round, hand going down towards the back of his leg. Quint hopped almost ten yards, the impetus of his run and the force of his fear keeping him moving.
Hart stood up and watched as Quint’s legs gave under him and he went sideways off the ridge, slid, slithered, finally stopped against an outcrop of rock.
The .45 shell had entered the rear of the thigh, tearing muscle and sinew apart. Its nose had deflected off the bone, chipping splinters away and forcing them through the flesh. Finally it had exited on the right side, making a hole several inches wide below the hip.
Blood ran freely from both wounds, pulsing away with a rhythm that made Quint open and close his eyes in time. Pain racked him: shook him. Dimly, he saw Wes Hart approaching. He slid his fingers down past his waist, along the sodden material of his pants, slowly on to the ragged edge of his wound. Slowly inside—warm, wet stickiness; sharp fragments of bone like razored teeth at his finger ends.
He closed his eyes as a wave of pain rocked through him and when he opened them again Hart was standing less than six feet away, staring down.
‘Where is she?’
Quint stared, blinked, tried to focus.
‘ Where the hell’s my horse?’
Quint opened his mouth but there was only a moan of pain, no words. Through the haze that filled his mind he heard distinctly the triple click of the hammer being pulled back.
‘Where?’
Quint moved his left arm; spoke so quietly that Hart could only just make out what he said. ‘Down...other side...hill.’
Hart took a step closer.
‘And the money?’
‘Uh?’
‘The money, for Christ’s sake! Money!’
Quint screwed up his eyes and tried to turn away. Hart swung back his boot and kicked him in the side, low down, close to the kidneys. Quint screamed and Hart lashed out a second time, his toe jolting against the man’s hip, immediately above the gunshot wounds.
‘Where the hell’s the money?’
He dropped down beside him, wrenching his head round by the hair and placing the end of the gun barrel alongside his temple. He waited for Quint’s eyes to open.
‘In... saddlebags.. .’
Hart stood up, sliding the Colt back into its holster. He reckoned that Dury and the boy couldn’t be far behind now; if they were close enough to have heard the shooting they’d be driving their horses for all they were worth.
He hurried over the ridge and started down the other side. A third of the way down he glimpsed Clay through a small thicket off to the left. The mare was hob
bled fast and he freed her quickly, stroking her nose when she put her head towards him, patting her neck, talking to her all the time.
When he checked the saddlebags there was no money.
Hart pushed the rifle into the scabbard and swung himself up into the saddle. His face was tight with anger.
‘C’mon, Clay, up that hill!’
The grey climbed at an angle, changing direction twice as she went, across and back. On the ridge, Hart reined her in. Quint was no longer resting against the rock. Somehow he’d made it to the foot of the hill and had started out across the flat land beyond. He ran slowly, dragging his wounded leg behind him so that the whole of his body was twisted to one side.
Hart watched for several moments before sliding the Henry from its place beside the saddle. With the nail of his thumb he pushed up the rear sight.
‘Okay, you bastard, you ain’t just a stinkin’ horse thief—you’re a no-account liar as well.’
He moved the rifle until the slowly moving man was fast in its sights.
‘Right!’
Hart squeezed the trigger easily back, feeling the familiar recoil of the rifle against his shoulder. He lowered the Henry a few inches and watched as Quint threw up his right arm then pitched forward on to the ground, the back of his head blown away.
Hart clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth and touched his boots to the mare’s sides. As he rode, he returned the rifle to its place and let his right hand rest near the butt of his Colt.
It wasn’t necessary.
Quint’s left leg was curled underneath the right, toe of the boot hooked round the other knee. One arm was pushed forward, hand open, fingers pointing across the plain. The other was folded underneath his chest. Hart stared at the shattered skull where the .44 slug had burst it asunder. Then he dropped down from the saddle and turned the dead man over with his foot.
The face that stared back up at him was split at the center where the bullet had exited. The nose no longer existed; the remains of a single eye socket hung down the bloodied skin like so much raw egg. The lower line of uneven, blackened teeth showed through where the lip and gums had been torn clear.
Hart bent down and ripped the man’s shirt open. A leather pouch hung from his neck and he set his fingers round this and pulled hard, snapping the length of leather that held it. There were a dozen gold pieces inside, that was all.
Hart knelt down, thought. With a smile he unbuckled Quint’s belt and found the money belt underneath. Soft leather and four inches wide, tied fast about his waist. He could feel the hard roundness of the gold through the leather. What had the boy said? More than six hundred dollars?
Hart was still smiling as he slung the money belt over his shoulder and got back into the saddle. He took one final look at the dead man before riding over to collect his own saddlebags from the horse Quint had shot away from under him. In the heat of the sun, the carcass was already beginning to stink; flies and black ants swarmed over its body. The holes in its head and chest were a festering, writhing morass of greed.
In a very short while, Quint’s head would look exactly the same.
Hart untied the saddlebags and set them in place on Clay’s back, the mare nervous at the closeness of death was pawing the ground.
Two shapes showed on the horizon: it didn’t have to be Dury and Drew but most likely it was. Hart remounted, the gold pushed down into one of the bags. He’d ride west and circle back round; somehow he didn’t think that they’d follow him.
Not now: not after they’d found their former partner.
He set the grey in motion, gathering speed as the bodies of man and horse were left behind. Soon the sun would be losing its strength and with the evening Hart would start to feel easier.
He still hadn’t found work but he’d got his horse back and with a sizeable bonus into the bargain.
When the sun began to fade, he moved off the trail and up to higher ground, scanning the land behind him. There was no sign of any riders following. Satisfied, he turned Clay and continued on his way west towards the deepening orange light.
Chapter Five
Although it was early, smoke was already drifting upwards from the chimney and amongst the chatter of birds Hart could hear two voices, male and female. The smell of bacon being fried drifted up towards him. At the side of the corral closest to the house, the horses bent their heads over a trough of mash.
The pines seemed closer to the place than before; too close. He wondered at the wisdom of the man who had chosen that exact location. Shelter, yes, but...
The door to the cabin swung open and she came out, holding her apron at an angle in front of her. Three steps and then she shook the contents, crumbs and pieces of bacon rind, down on to the ground. As she stepped back towards the doorway, a dozen or so small birds launched themselves at the food; swooping, snatching, bickering.
Hart sat astride his horse, wanting her to look up, see him, maybe invite him down to share their breakfast.
No: if that was all why didn’t he ride on down?
Carol’s husband came out and stood next to her, one arm folding round her waist. He was a couple of inches taller than Carol; flat, sandy hair, clean-shaven. His work shirt was rolled high at the sleeves. He said something to her that Hart couldn’t grasp and then she leaned her face towards his and kissed him on the cheek.
He smiled and stepped away, patting her backside as he. went past her in the direction of the corral.
She watched him lift the top pole and climb underneath before she turned to face the house. For a moment she seemed to be looking above and beyond it, into the pines. Then she disappeared from sight.
Hart clicked his tongue softly and moved the mare away at a slow walk. Only when he was well out of sight did he spur her on, driving her fast, faster than necessary, not fully realizing why.
Stillwater hadn’t changed one bit. The barn Hart left his horse in was as tumbledown and empty as before; the sign over the saddler’s still hung on by the same single nail. Amos Grant was sitting outside the former stage depot, having dragged his armchair out and set it there so as to enjoy the sun a while.
As Hart walked towards him, he raised a hand in greeting and eased himself up, pleased to have someone to talk to.
‘Got that grey mare of yorn back then?’
‘Uh-huh. Lost the other, though.’
Grant shook his head. ‘Pity. That was Palmer’s best horse.’
‘I’ll see to it.’
Grant pushed open the door. ‘Come in and have a drink.’
‘I’ll settle for some coffee if there’s any brewin’.’
‘Sure is.’
The pot was resting on the stove, bubbling gently. Apart from the two of them the place was empty. Hart sat down between stove and counter and set his feet on to one of the tables.
‘You caught up with him, then?’ Amos asked, holding the handle of the pot in a cloth.
‘Could say he caught up with me.’
‘Tried to lay out for you, did he?’
‘Somethin’ like that.’
‘Damn fool! Stupid enough to reckon he could steal a mount from a man like you an’ get away with it. Even worse waitin’ around so’s you could get a shot at him.’
Hart chuckled and tried the coffee; it was too hot and bitter as gulch water in winter.
Grant saw him wince and came round the counter with a bottle of whisky. ‘Freshen it up with this.’ Hart held up the cup and the owner topped it up to the brim.
They talked little while Hart was finishing his coffee. When there were only the black, burnt grounds left at the bottom, he stood up and pushed his hand down into one of his saddlebags.
‘What d’you reckon for Palmer’s horse?’
Grant scratched his cheek. ‘Let’s see now. More’n fifteen, no, twenty dollars, I’d reckon.’
Hart tossed a coin on to the counter, then another. ‘That settle it?’
‘Sure,’ said Grant, scooping them up. ‘Sure w
ill.’
Hart looked at him. ‘You know anything ‘bout a couple live south of here. Near half a day’s ride. Built themselves a small place an’...’
‘You mean the Petersons?’
‘I don’t know. The woman’s name, that was Carol.’
Amos Grant leaned forward on to the counter. ‘That’s them. Frank an’ Carol Peterson. Nice couple. They come in for supplies every once in a while.’ His eyes flickered over Hart’s face. ‘Fine lookin’ woman. Don’t you think?’
‘She’s okay.’
Grant was about to say something else when the sound of horses outside cut him short. Hart went to the door fast, pushing it open and looking out. Three men were approaching from the north, passing the sod huts and heading for the depot. He didn’t recognize any of them as men he’d met before. But there was no mistaking the way the sunlight caught the polished tin of their badges and flicked it from side to side.
The one in the middle wore a long buckskin coat, despite the heat. His pants were tucked tight into polished black boots and the battered Stetson on his head was angled over to one side against the sun. A long moustache ran down to touch his jaw line, dark brown and graying at the ends. His pistol was hidden by the flap of his coat, but the gun belt was clear, as was the rifle in the sheath by his saddle.
Hart put him at around forty.
The men with him were younger, in their early twenties. Tall and rangy, clean-shaven and bareheaded. The one with sandy-shaded hair, the other dark. As they watched Hart in the depot doorway, they made no secret of pulling their hands back down by their weapons.
Hart shrugged and went back inside.
‘Company comin’,’ he said. ‘The law.’
‘The law!’ echoed Grant in astonishment. ‘We ain’t seen no law round here for nigh on a twelve month. Didn’t rightly think there was no law in these parts. Not no more!’
He was shuffling towards the open doorway when the marshal came in, followed by one of his deputies.
‘Well, I’ll be...’
‘You ain’t by now, Amos, you never will.’
‘I declare, Marshal James F. Fagan in person. Marshal, I thought you’d given us up for lost. What you doin’ out here in this wilderness, anyhow?’
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