‘Could be they’ll drop round the side of the hill and go by us. Just pick up the horses,’ suggested Cas after a while.
‘They’re reckonin’ somthin’ out,’ said Old Tom, ‘but I don’t think as it’s that. Not now we shot a couple of ‘em. They’ll be out for blood.’
Sam nodded. ‘That’s right. They’ll want us and the horses both.’
Belle cocked back the hammer on her pistol, leaning her arm on the edge of the chimney stack. ‘Right enough, Sam. Here they come.’
The others readied their weapons as the sound and sight of the charging Cherokee got louder and clearer.
Wes Hart had heard the first sounds of shooting well down the valley. He’d been squatting over the creek, boots set on grey-white stones and hands delving down into the cold, clear water. His mouth had been dry with heat and dust and the water had tasted good. At the noise of firing he’d jerked his head up, water slipping back through his opening fingers.
When he’d located it, he drank some more, finally throwing handfuls up into his face and wiping his cool hands behind his neck. Then he’d moved the grey across the creek and mounted her, rocking his lean body in the saddle.
‘C’mon, Clay. Let’s take a look.’
The land was steep to the north, too sheer in places for the horse to climb. After a few hundred yards, Hart went back over the stream and made the more gradual ascent at the other side.
The shooting continued, sporadic bursts mixed with sustained crescendos. Now he could pick out the occasional whoop of an Indian amongst the noise. Hart dug his heels into Clay’s sides, urging the mare on.
When the ground began to level out, Hart pulled the Henry clear and checked the load. The ridge of the land was less than a quarter of a mile away. Down to his left willows and cottonwoods thrust up from the soil close to the creek; behind and to the right there were other, higher hills, one of them surmounted by an out-crop of rock shaped like a man-made fortification.
There had been no firing for a time, but now it returned with a greater intensity than before. Hart rode a little further, then got down and led the mare on foot.
Finally he went forward at a crouch; lay flat and took stock. The Cherokee were riding in on a group of white folk who were taking what cover they could from the ruins of a house; riding in and then circling round, only falling back to regroup and charge again. At a rough count there were twenty Indians; five, no, six whites. Hart levered the rifle and moved it against his shoulder, flicking up the rear sight. He followed a brave with a single feather thrusting up from the back of his head, left to right, left to ... He squeezed back on the trigger and the man went forward over his pony’s head and sprawled on the ground
Quickly, smoothly, Hart worked the lever and took fresh aim. A short Indian riding a piebald pony, using a rifle himself. Hart centered him in his sights and fired. The Cherokee’s rifle fell away and bounced several times; its owner toppled slowly sideways but when he struck the ground he didn’t bounce at all.
Hart swung the rifle to the right and selected another target.
Behind the broken-down chimney, Belle was pushing fresh .36 shells into her pistol, trying to see where the firing was coming from.
‘Where are they?’
Sam pointed. ‘Over to the edge. Lyin’ flat. Just one, I reckon. You can just... there!’
There was a flash of fire, a suggestion of smoke against the flat blue of the sky.
‘Who the hell...?’
‘Who cares? He’s doin’ pretty good.’
‘Yeah.’
Belle swung her arm round to the left and fired at a young buck as he aimed his bow at her, riding by fast. The arrow flew above her head and the buck carried on his way, unhit.
The Cherokee were becoming alarmed, uncertain whether to continue the attack or give the people up and ride on after the horses. They decided on one final assault.
Hart read their decision and whistled up Clay, pulling himself up by the saddle horn and sending the dapple grey off into a fast gallop. He slid the Henry back into its sheath and drew his Colt, leaning forward close to the animal’s warm neck.
As the Indians charged at the ruins of the Lowther ranch, Hart came in behind them, angling into them and firing at will. Heads turned, warnings were shouted. Three braves peeled off and came straight at him. Hart ducked even lower and held his fire. When no more than twenty yards separated them he shot one of them through the upper arm and narrowly missed a second. A hatchet swung dangerously close to his head and he fired the Colt a third time, aiming across his own body, the slug bursting through the Indian’s ribs, breaking them apart and tearing a large hole through the other side of his chest.
Hart heard pony hoofs close to his right and pulled himself up and round. The knife arm flashed down on him and he grabbed for it; pain seared the top of his thigh as the blade dug into him.
He yanked on the arm and held tight, feeling the Indian leave the back of his pony. There was the crack of a bone snapping out of place and he let go of the arm. A painted face looked up at him and Hart brought the Colt round and fired down into it The face was lost in a shower of blood and fractured bone.
The rest of the Cherokees were circling the ruins and Hart went on towards them, using the last bullet in his Colt to stop a brave who had jumped to the ground and was about to leap at the gowned figure by the chimney stack.
Hart dropped the pistol into his holster and brought up the sawn-off shotgun in its place. Half a dozen Indians were close together, milling round, making ready to move in. Hart dropped the reins and steered the grey round with his knees, resting the short barrel of the Remington on his left forearm.
Faded blue eyes squinted along the shiny metal.
There was a roar as both barrels were fired simultaneously and 10-gauge shot ripped into the Cherokees, knocking two from their ponies and almost unseating two more. Blood seemed to erupt into the air. The painted skin of bodies and faces was shredded. One brave clung to the mane of his pony, his other hand clutching at his head from which brain tissue seemed to be oozing.
Belle and the others advanced from their cover, firing into the wake of the now retreating Indians.
Wes Hart gulped in air, bitter with cordite; he automatically broke the barrels of the shotgun and reloaded it, pushing it back down into its specially made holster. Turning in towards the ruins of the house, he saw Dury.
Shock froze his reactions for a second, maybe two. Time enough for Belle Starr to step between the two men, unknowing, her hand lifted up towards Hart in a mixture of greetings and thanks.
‘Mister, I don’t know who you are or where you sprung from like that, but you sure did us a good turn. Them savages weren’t foolin’.’
Hart nodded, taking in her velvet dress, the plumed hat and the small pistol still held in her right hand.
Others joined in with the thanks, coming closer to do so. Drew stopped in mid-sentence, recognizing the man who had killed their former partner. He grabbed at Dury, who was still reloading his guns.
‘Looks like you got cut,’ said Sam, pointing at Hart’s leg.
‘Ain’t much more than a scratch,’ muttered Hart noncommittally.
‘Here.’ Belle set her hand lower down the leg. ‘Climb down an’ I’ll dress it for you.’
‘Sure, mister,’ snarled Dury. ‘Step right on down.’
And he pointed his Colt square at Hart’s chest.
Belle saw the change of expression on Hart’s face and noticed his hand moving towards his own gun. She swung round fast, seeing Dury and setting her mouth in a narrow, tight line.
‘What in hell’s name you doin’?’ she demanded.
‘Him an’ me, we got a score to settle.’
‘Not now, you haven’t. Not here. It’s goin’ to wait.’
Dury shook his head. ‘Who says so?’
Belle moved a pace to the left, setting herself between Dury and Hart once more but this time on purpose.
‘That answer you?�
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Hart’s mind raced. The one thing he didn’t want was to get into a showdown with the whole gang. For one thing the wound in his leg was hurting more than he’d let on and he was losing blood at a fair rate. For another, he guessed that the woman in the gown was no less than Belle Starr—which meant there were questions to be asked and answered.
Sam and Tom Starr stood on the sidelines, waiting to see which way the affair would break. Cas squatted by the chimney stack, his pistol held between his knees, waiting also.
‘Put it up, Dury,’ said Belle in a voice that didn’t allow for argument.
‘I told you, him an’ me got a score to settle. Addin’ up to near six hundred dollars.’
Belle glanced over her shoulder at Hart. ‘That right?’
‘Could be.’
She nodded and turned back to Dury and Drew. ‘What I say still goes. He’s earned his peace with us. For now anyway. Would you be fancyin’ fightin’ off them Indians without what he chipped in with?’
Dury glowered, not answering.
The old man set his hand, bulging with deep blue veins, on the butt of his own gun. ‘Seems to me as Belle’s right. He risked his neck for us. We owe him somethin’.’
Dury cursed and spat and set up his Colt.
‘You and the kid ride down to the hollow. Round up whatever stock you can find and take ‘em back towards Deep Fork. We’ll be up there in one, maybe two, days.’
Dury hesitated a moment, then slapped Drew on the arm and turned on his heels. Belle waited until the two men had disappeared from sight, then pointed at Cas.
‘Get up towards the rise an’ make sure they don’t try sneakin’ back. Any time I can’t see that Dury, I can’t get my mind round to trusting him.’
She nodded to Hart. ‘S’posin’ you sit back against that old stack and I’ll see what can be done to that leg to hold the bleedin’ till we can get back to our place and fix it proper.’
Hart did as she suggested, tearing the wool of his pants aside to expose the wound. Belle knelt down in front of him, holding up the end of her gown while she tore off a strip of her white petticoat to bandage him with.
As she was tying it round and the men were wandering around, picking up whatever weapons the Cherokees had left behind, Hart reached into his pocket and then set his clenched fist under Belle’s face.
‘What’s that?’ she asked with a smile. ‘Your lucky charm?’
Hart grinned. ‘That depends,’ he said, ‘on how you care to look at it.’
And he slowly opened out his fingers.
The six-starred Deputy U.S. Marshal’s badge lay there under Belle’s astonished, silent gaze. After several moments Hart closed his fingers again and slid the badge back into his pocket.
Chapter Eleven
Hart heard the raucous skraaak and looked towards the trees. The line of pines ran east to west, marking one side of the stream that ran less than fifty yards from the cabins at Younger’s Bend. He lifted both hands and set them over his eyes. The sun was high and bright.
The same call came a second time and was answered moments later from deeper in the pines.
Keeping his fingers across his brow, Hart sank down into a squat and waited. Finally a bird something over a foot long broke through the end branches and after a short, heavy flight perched midway up one of the nearest trees. Its body was pinkish and as it fidgeted Hart could see clearly the white rump above the black tail, the blue and white of the wing coverts. It shifted its head in his direction, as if aware that it was being watched. The harsh cry was repeated and the striped black and white feathers of the bird bristled upwards.
Hart heard footsteps behind him and as he did so the jay lifted itself off the branch with an ungainly flapping of wings and disappeared between the trees.
Hart remained where he was, only lowering his arms so that his right hand could rest on his thigh, between the bandaged knife wound and his holster.
Boots crunched on gravelly dirt then stopped.
‘Wouldn’t have figured you for a man interested in watchin’ birds.’
Hart recognized Sam Starr’s voice.
‘Fact is, I don’t rightly know how to figure you at all.’
Hart read the tightening of the man’s voice and let his fingers slide inches closer to his Colt.
‘What was it you was doin’ out by the Lowther place?’
‘Just ridin’.’
‘Uh-huh. Like you was just lookin’ at that fool bird.’
Hart pushed himself to his feet, ignoring the twinge in his right leg. He turned to face Sam slowly, taking in the hostility in the man’s face and the pistol at his hip.
‘You got it. Just like I was lookin’ at that jay in them trees.’
Sam rubbed the flat of his left hand against the worn leather of his belt. ‘How long you aimin’ to be stayin’ round here? Takin’ an interest in nature?’
Hart gave a half-smile. His reply was so quiet it was possible to hear above it the movement of the stream over stones. ‘Thought I’d ride on tomorrow maybe. Give this leg a chance to heal up.’
The corner of Sam’s mouth twitched. ‘I think you’d best do your healin’ someplace else.’
Hart glanced around, the suggestion of a smile still playing on his face. ‘That’d be a shame. This seems a pretty good place to rest up. Sort of out of the way. No one likely to wander in unannounced.’ He stared at Sam, the smile gone. ‘Make a good hide-out, I’d say.’
Sam Starr’s right arm began to move. ‘What the hell you suggestin’.’
‘For anyone who needed one, that is.’ The tension had dropped from Hart’s voice as quickly as it had appeared.
“Sides,’ he went on. ‘Belle said it was okay to stay around a while.’
Sam set his hand on the butt of his gun. ‘I don’t care what Belle says. Not where you’re concerned.’
That so? I thought it was Belle ran things round here.’
Sam Starr’s mouth twitched again. ‘That’s her way. It don’t matter none to you an’ me. Nor what I’m tellin’ you.’
Behind Sam’s left shoulder, Hart spotted a movement at the window of one of the cabins. A piece of sacking edged aside and the end of a rifle barrel caught the sun.
‘I’d like to hear that real clear, Sam. What it is you’re tellin’ me.’
Sam took another step forward so that he was standing less than two feet away. Hart could sense the barely suppressed anger in his body, smell the sour whisky on his breath when he spoke.
‘You’ll ride out of here an’ you’ll do it soon. Today. I don’t trust you and whatever it is you’re up to. What you did for us up there in the hills was fine but don’t think you can live on that for long. No longer’n I said.’
Hart nodded, his blue eyes staring back into Starr’s face. ‘We understand one another, right enough. One thing, though...’ He pointedly examined the man’s features. ‘... with all that Cherokee blood in you, how come them Indians acted up the way they did? I always reckoned you savages stuck pretty much together.’
Sam Starr hissed through his clenched teeth and rocked backwards, pulling on his gun. Hart swayed to the left, out of line of the rifle at the window and flung out his left hand. His fingers closed about Sam’s wrist as the pistol was halfway from its holster.
Their faces were inches apart.
Hart grinned: ‘No, Sam. You ain’t got much to live for, but why throw away what little there is?’
‘You bastard! One time I’m gonna kill you!’
Hart tightened his grip until he saw Sam Starr wince. ‘No, Sam,’ Hart laughed in his face. ‘No, you ain’t.’
He released his fingers from round the man’s wrist and stepped back, covering the shiny butt of his Colt with his right hand. After a few seconds Sam stalked back to the cabins, shoulders hunched forward. The rifle barrel slipped back from sight—Old Tom Starr, Hart reckoned, looking out for his boy.
Belle Starr reached round behind her and delved into the saddle bag
. She pulled out the silver flask and unscrewed the cap, letting it fall back on its chain. When she set the neck of the flask to her lips the brandy was strong and burning as it passed over the roof of her mouth. It warmed her throat, the passage to her stomach. She took a second shot then replaced the cap, returning the flask immediately.
The day was hotter than ever, but she needed the different warmth the brandy alone could give her. The brandy alone now that Cole Younger...
She heard sounds of a rider and turned in the saddle. A man on a dapple grey coming from the direction of the cabins, his outline growing clearer as he gained height.
Belle nodded to herself and flicked at the mare’s reins, setting her into a trot. She kept ahead for more than a mile, Wes Hart following; making no attempt to close the gap. Eventually, Belle swung right and headed for a small clump of cottonwoods where the land dipped away.
She was leaning back against one of these when Hart reined in his horse.
‘Belle.’ He nodded a greeting.
‘Don’t tell me you didn’t know who you was following,’ she said, one eyebrow arched.
‘I knew.’
‘Uh-huh.’
‘Just like you knew when you said you was goin’ ridin’ on your own that I’d follow.’
She smiled and arched her back against the trunk. ‘Now why should I be sure of that?’
The way she was standing pushed the shape of her breasts hard against the cotton of her blouse; the outline of the nipples was clear. She tapped the fingers of her left hand against the loose black material of her pants. The gun belt she wore was strapped in place, its buckle reflecting small, shifting stars of yellow light.
‘You ain’t answerin’.’
Hart swung down. ‘That’s right. I ain’t.’
Belle lifted a hand to her hair and brushed it away from her forehead; the fingers came away damp with sweat. Hart was close enough to smell her.
‘Would that be marshal’s business brought you out here,’ she asked. ‘Or would it be somethin’ more...personal?’
Hart grinned: ‘Depends.’
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