Hart the Regulator 1

by John B. Harvey

  He had learned in town of two ranches who’d suffered losses of stock in the past weeks. The Bar Zero, ten miles to the west, and the Broken Triangle, some fifteen miles south. The stories he heard at each one were much the same. Twenty to twenty-five head of horses had been taken from their remudas. The raids had been fast, efficient and planned beforehand. In the case of the Bar Zero, they had chosen a time when most of the hands were off the ranch and simply ridden in in strength. The cook had made an attempt to drive them off with a rifle and got shot in the leg for his pains.

  At the Broken Triangle ranch, the rustlers had sneaked in close during the night and lifted the corral bars aside, leading the horses out one after another, like fool children. It hadn’t been till cockcrow that anyone had realized the stock was missing. By then all they’d been able to find was a jumble of tracks.

  One thing was constant about both raids. The stolen horses had been ridden out no more than a couple of miles before being split into three separate groups, each of which lit out in different directions. Southeast towards Dewar and Eufaula beyond; east into the hills this side of Deep Fork; down into the flatlands around Shawnee to the south-west.

  Hart had listened to the two ranchers, promising to do what he could without ever feeling very certain that he could do anything. Not unless he could latch on to a hotter trail.

  The reactions were very different. Chet Williams at the Broken Triangle was as helpful as he could be, seemed to blame himself as much as anyone for not making sure there was a guard on the stock all night, and assured Hart that he’d give him whatever assistance he could.

  Texas Jack LeFarge was different: in most every way. Near to fifty, he’d lived a life that had packed more into it than any other half-dozen men. Except maybe Hart himself.

  Gold mining out in California, riding hell-for-leather in the Pony Express, fighting against the Mexicans: unlike Wes Hart, the nearest he’d got to the Texas Rangers was when a bunch of them chased him clear across the state and still didn’t catch him. Only succeeded in putting a couple of bullets through his right arm, which now hung uselessly by his side, the bone irreparably shattered.

  After that Texas Jack had come north into Indian Territory, bringing his name with him. He’d set up a ranch north of Boley and after a twelve-month the Cherokee had attacked it and burnt it to the ground. Texas Jack had been hit in the side with an arrow and on the head by a piece of falling roof timber that had been ablaze. The timber had taken out his left eye and Texas Jack wore a black leather patch tied fast with a length of black cord.

  The minute he saw Hart riding in towards his ranch he’d started telling him how useless the damned law in the territory was and how the only law that was worth thinking of was the one you provided yourself.

  When Hart had glanced at his shattered right arm, Texas Jack had turned his head and whistled towards the house. The two men who came fast were both young, both wearing black shirts over black pants, both toting Colt .45s in hand-tooled holsters that hung awful low from their hips.

  ‘Lee and Aaron,’ introduced Texas Jack. ‘They’re my law. Since I lost the use of this arm, they’ve had to be.’

  Hart looked hard at them, his face just short of a sneer. ‘Where were they when your stock was rustled if they’re so damned good?’

  ‘They were with me. Ten miles away.’

  Hart turned his head and laughed. ‘They don’t look so hot.’

  Lee twitched the muscles of his smooth-skinned face and Aaron’s hand drifted dangerously close to his pistol. Hart saw the movement from the corner of his eye and covered it.

  ‘Let’s hope that deputy badge you’re wearin’s got some spell workin’ for it,’ said Texas Jack. ‘Otherwise you ain’t goin’ to last in this territory for very long.’

  Hart ignored the remark and started to move away, watching the two gunmen all the while.

  When he was mounted up on Clay, Texas Jack called up to him. ‘If you’re in town tonight, marshal, drop by and have a drink on us.’

  Hart wheeled the mare round, taking a last look at the rancher standing close by the corral fence-thin, tall, hair graying at the sides, his face arrogant behind the black eye patch, right arm dangling lifelessly by his side. To his right, between himself and the house, the two gun hawks, drawing attention to themselves with their black clothes and the way they wore their guns.

  Hart thought he’d likely give that drink a miss.

  Ten at night and he was in his room at the hotel, sitting on the bed with his back resting on the bent rods of the bed head. His Colt was stripped down and in pieces on the blanket in front of him, as he cleaned it with the soft cloth he carried for the purpose.

  A bottle of whisky stood on the floor beside the bed and at intervals he reached down and lifted it up by the neck, setting the lip to his mouth.

  He was wondering what was going on with the Kid down in Lincoln County, whether he was still alive or if the death wish that seemed to run so strong in him at times had finally been fulfilled. Wondering, too, about Carol Peterson, up near Stillwater, working that little place with her husband. He tried to see her face clearly in his mind, but couldn’t. Only the outline of her body, her hair about her face, fair almost to the point of whiteness.

  He bit down into the soft flesh inside his bottom lip and leaned over for the bottle.

  Someone knocked on the door.

  ‘Hold it!’

  Hart swung his legs off the bed, careful to avoid the sections of gun. He reached down into his bag and came up with the Starr .44. Sitting back on the bed, he said to come in.

  The door opened slow, then fast. Closed faster. She was wearing clothes this time and a smile. The smile came from painted red lips and highly rouged cheeks; the clothes drew more attention to what they left exposed rather than what they covered up. She was wearing a deep red dress with a bodice that clung and swooped and a skirt that was slit up one side almost to her hip. She stood just past the end of the bed, one arm reaching out towards it, her fingers resting on the brass ball at the top of the bedpost.

  ‘Remember me? Annie.’

  ‘Yeah, you’re the bed bug I threw out this morning.’

  She set her head on one side so that a length of black hair fell down at an angle. ‘Now that just isn’t nice. Not when a girl comes calling all sociable.’

  ‘Maybe I’m not welcoming visitors.’

  ‘You said to come on in.’

  ‘That was before I knew who it was.’

  ‘And now that you do?’ she asked with a slight pout.

  ‘You can go on out again.’

  She slid her fingers round the brass ball and kept moving them, slowly. ‘Marshal, I can see you’re going to be a hard man to please. All I wanted to do was make up for our misunderstanding this morning. Getting off on the wrong foot the way we did.’

  Hart tried to stop himself looking at the way her hand was caressing the bedpost, but it wasn’t easy.

  ‘I thought we could kiss and make up,’ the girl smiled. ‘After that, who knows?’

  She looked down at the dismantled Colt on the bed. ‘Though I see your weapon isn’t in very good shape at the moment.’

  Hart felt himself flush as he jumped off the bed, the second gun still in his hand.

  ‘Why, Marshal, you’ve got two!’ she exclaimed, pointing.

  He dropped the pistol on to the blanket and seized hold of her shoulders with both hands. The flesh beneath his ringers was soft and warm and she stepped in close enough for him to be able to breathe the perfume she was wearing and feel the swell of her body against his.

  ‘Marshal...’

  When he bent his head and kissed her, her mouth opened to him immediately, the warm, soft flesh inside her lips moving over his, her pointed tongue darting deep inside him.

  Hart let go of her with his left hand and reached down to the bed, to break their fall. As soon as they lay there his right hand cupped her breast through the shiny material of her red dress. She wriggled h
er face up close to his, lips parted, tongue probing for his ear. Hart gave a moan of pleasure and she moved closer still, whispering. At first he didn’t make out what she said.

  ‘It’ll be five dollars, Marshal, we’ll have a real nice...’

  Hart threw up his arm and knocked her back against the end of the bed. His eyes were wide and his right hand was raised and open as if to slap her face. She flinched for the blow that didn’t come, smoothing down her dress.

  ‘Get the hell out of here, you cheap little whore!’

  ‘Five dollars ain’t cheap.’

  The arm swung further back. ‘I said get!’

  She pushed herself off the bed and stood at the other side of the railings. ‘Marshal, you knew what I was when you let me in.’

  ‘Get your five-dollar ass out of here and back to the saloon or wherever you peddle it.’

  She made a face and opened the door. ‘Talking of the saloon, Marshal, Texas Jack’s in there with those two boys of his and he’s hollerin’ all round about how you’re afraid to go and take a drink with him.’

  Hart released his arm and looked at her coldly. ‘You goin’ back there?’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘Well, you tell Texas Jack to get ‘em set up cause I’m goin’ to be right down.’

  Chapter Seven

  ‘Ain’t one man in this damned town with a full set of balls!’

  Jack LeFarge stood away from the bar and turned his head slowly, staring at the customers of the Black Ace with his one good eye and daring any of them to contradict.

  No one did.

  LeFarge stuck out his left arm and pointed his finger round the low-ceilinged, smoky room. ‘If there was we could have whipped a posse down to the Canadian border and smoked out that damned thievin’ bitch and her gang an’ strung ‘em up from the nearest high tree. That’s what we should’ve done. That would have put a stop to any rustlin’ that’s goin’ on round here.’

  He moved forward fast and reached for a chair, picking it up high and then thrusting it towards a couple of cowboys who happened to be standing nearest to him.

  ‘But you ain’t got the guts for that, have you? You ain’t got but half the guts of a one-arm, one-eyed man like me. You’d rather wait till some fool judge a hundred miles from here thinks to send us a deputy to do the job for us.’

  LeFarge put his head to one side and spat at the sawdust floor in disgust.

  ‘You’re chicken-hearted, mealy-mouthed piles of cowardly pig shit! Ain’t you? Ain’t you?’

  The cowboys stood tight-lipped, faces white and strained itching to knock the chair aside, do something for their pride. But both knew that Lee and Aaron were standing at the far end of the bar, leaning against it, hands close to their guns, watching, smirking.

  They glanced at one another then down at the floor.

  ‘Ain’t you?’ prodded LeFarge.

  First one, then the other mumbled something inaudible.

  LeFarge worked the chair into their chests. ‘Louder!’

  ‘Yeah,’ they agreed resentfully, turning away.

  LeFarge turned back towards the crowd, swung the chair in an arc and smashed it against the edge of the bar counter, shattering legs and back. The pieces spun in the mixture of spilt beer, sawdust and spit and Texas Jack kicked them aside savagely.

  Under his black patch, his cheeks glowed with anger.

  ‘I’ll tell you somethin’ else. All of you. This damned deputy marshal ain’t goin’ to get rid of Belle Starr an’ her kind. He’s as scared as the rest of this town. Too scared to come in here and take a drink with Texas Jack LeFarge.’

  A sly laugh left Aaron’s smooth face and his fellow gunfighter grinned and poured another shot of whisky. He was lifting it to his lips when the batwing doors to the saloon swung open.

  Wes Hart stood inside, the doors squeaking slowly to a halt behind him. He didn’t make a move, just stared into the low, long room. Waited.

  Apart from the nervous drumming of someone’s fingers against wood, everything was silent.

  Hart had the Indian blanket slung over his left shoulder, hanging down to cover his left arm. The wide stripes of dark blue, red and white wool folded one into another. His head was bare and beneath the thick brown hair his lean face was taut, skin tight against high cheekbones. He was wearing an unbuttoned leather waistcoat over his wool shirt, a heavy leather gun belt over the hips of his black pants. Even in the dulled light of the saloon the mother-of-pearl grip on the Colt .45 showed clearly.

  Texas Jack stood half-facing the mirror behind the bar, half-turned towards the doors. Lee and Aaron were no longer leaning on the counter but standing away from it, giving room to their gun hands. The glass of whisky still hadn’t finished its journey to Lee’s mouth.

  Men standing and sitting round the room held their breath, worked tongues round dry lips, eyes flicking from LeFarge to Hart and back again. Annie smoothed her hands down over the shiny material of her dress, mind and feelings racing, remembering that less than fifteen minutes before she had held Hart in her arms, had felt his body against her own.

  ‘I think you was sayin’ somethin’ ‘bout a drink.’

  Hart’s voice was like iron; his eyes rested on LeFarge or seemed to, though he knew every movement the two young gunmen behind him made.

  When LeFarge’s reply came he had lost the roistering confidence that had terrorized men minutes earlier. Instead it was grudging, uncertain.

  ‘Sure. A drink.’ He pointed to the bottle. ‘Come on over.’

  Hart moved his right hand, but only to adjust the blanket. Lee set his untouched glass back down on the counter and took a couple of steps wide, leaving Aaron where he stood.

  Hart let the man see that he had noticed, then went slow and easy to where the rancher was waiting. LeFarge pushed along an empty glass and reached for the bottle. Hart’s fingers were round it so fast that LeFarge could only blink and jerk his hand away.

  ‘Better let me do that. You’re goin’ to have difficulty—only one good hand an ’all.’

  LeFarge flinched as if he’d been struck; someone in the crowd laughed. Hart poured the two shots of whisky just as if nothing had been said.

  ‘There she is.’

  He set the bottle down on the counter and picked up the glass with his right hand. His blue eyes looked keenly at LeFarge through narrow slits.

  ‘Seems to me,’ said Hart slowly, ‘as I was on the way in you was sayin’ somethin’ ‘bout me bein’ too scared to come in here an’ drink with you. Least,’ he paused a moment, lingering on the words, ‘that was what I heard.’

  Hart downed half the contents of the glass.

  ‘Maybe you could tell me if that’s right?’

  Lee took a further pace to the left and Hart swiveled his body through an angle, keeping the young gunman covered. Texas Jack glanced over his shoulder, wanting one of his men to take a hand.

  Hart finished his drink and put the glass on the counter. In the mirror he could see the faces watching, hanging on the action they thought must be about to break.

  When Hart turned his face back he was smiling. ‘Don’t worry, Jack, I guess I didn’t hear you right.’

  LeFarge nodded quickly, letting his body relax. Hart’s smile broadened and across the room Lee flexed his fingers and moved his hand away from his gun butt.

  Hart nodded down at the drink in the rancher’s left hand. ‘Drink up.’

  ‘Sure,’ said LeFarge. ‘Sure.’

  He lifted it to his mouth and as he did so Hart swung his right arm across and up. The heel of his palm slammed against the underside of the glass and rammed it into the man’s face. Texas Jack’s head was jolted back hard and he let out a choking shout of anger and pain as the edge of the glass shattered against his upper teeth and gums. Whisky splashed up into his eye, blinding him; as it ran back down it merged with the bright red of his blood.

  Hart was no longer watching.

  The instant the glass had burst apart in the ran
cher’s face, Hart had jumped sideways, his body dropping into a gunfighter’s crouch. His right hand hovered above the butt of his Colt .45, fingers grazing it, his blue eyes switching from one black-shirted gun hawk to another.

  ‘Try it and you’re dead!’

  They faced him, young, lean bodies copying his position, hands close to their own guns, eyes never still, nerves close to breaking.

  A jagged piece of glass fell away from LeFarge’s lip and bounced back off the floor. One of the saloon girls was sobbing, her breath catching with every other breath. The same fingers had gone back to tapping a tattoo on the same piece of wood.

  ‘What’s it goin’ to be?’ Hart asked.

  Aaron, nearest to the bar, curled his lip. ‘There’s two of us. You ain’t goin’ to take two.’

  Hart smiled grimly: ‘I wouldn’t bank on that if I was you.’

  LeFarge pulled more glass free from his gums as blood ran freely down his shirt. ‘Take him!’ he shouted, enraged. ‘Take him!’

  Annie pressed her back against the wall, screwed her hands hard into her groin, mouth gasping air.

  Lee’s hand came to rest on his gun.

  ‘I gave you good warnin’,’ Hart said clearly.

  Lee and Aaron exchanged glances, uncertain. ‘Take the bastard!’ LeFarge shrieked, spitting blood. Lee exhaled breath fast and pulled on his gun. Hart’s body jerked and his right arm flowed through an arc that defied anyone to keep pace with it. His thumb pulled back the hammer on the Colt as it moved upwards and as soon as it came level he fired. Lee jumped backwards, unused pistol falling from his hands, left crossing to right, grabbing at the place where Hart’s bullet had torn through him, high in the right shoulder.

  ‘No!’

  Hart had swung his gun across to cover Aaron whose pistol was halfway from its hand-tooled holster, his young eyes wide with fear.

  ‘No!’

  ‘Go on!’ urged LeFarge.

  Aaron looked again at Hart’s gun, at Hart’s face, at Lee’s shattered arm. He let his pistol slide back down into the holster.

  Hart waited until Aaron’s hand had let go of the grip and come to rest on the bar counter. Lee was staring at him, white-faced, hate filling his eyes with blackness. The blood ran from his shoulder and over his fingers. Maybe he would have an arm as useless as that of his boss. When he stared over at LeFarge it was clear that the thought tore at his mind.