Hart the Regulator 3

by John B. Harvey

  The grey eyes shone and he threw back his head and hollered with laughter, high and edged like a knife blade being drawn along stone.

  The man to Carter’s right took a step forward. ‘Come on over,’ he said. ‘Let’s talk.’

  Hart hesitated, finally nodded. He turned his head a little, talking to the barman. ‘Let me have a bottle. An’ one more glass.’

  The taller bartender moved away from where he’d been standing, close by the shotgun, and set the whiskey and glass on top of the counter. The silence broke like a rain cloud: men moved away from the sides of the room, talking loudly, insistently, too loudly. The pianist lifted up the lid of his instrument and cracked his knuckles above the keys; the banjo player strummed a chord, then reached for a half-finished drink. A girl in a pale and dirty blue dress stared at the flecks of blood across the inside of her hand. Hart pulled back the empty chair and waited.

  ‘This here’s Moody,’ said Carter, nodding towards the man with a round, stubbled face. ‘An’ that’s Noonan.’ The man with the broad, strong nose looked back at Hart and nodded briefly.

  ‘Wes Hart.’ Hart introduced himself and sat down, pulling the top from the bottle and passing it across the table to Moody. ‘How d’you know I was here, John?’ asked Hart. ‘Or did you strike lucky?’

  Carter laughed quickly. ‘You weren’t hard to find. Not with the sort of reputation you’re gettin’.’

  Hart looked back at the pocked face and made no comment. ‘We heard you been holed up here since you rode out of Indian Territory a while back.’

  ‘I ain’t holed up,’ said Hart quickly. ‘I’m just livin’. Ain’t hidin’ from no one.’

  Noonan grinned and twisted the whiskey glass in his hand. ‘Way we heard it, there was this U.S. marshal awful keen to clap irons on you and drag you off to Fort Smith.’

  ‘Yeah,’ Moody continued, enjoying it now. ‘Seems you quit workin’ as a deputy an’ then sort of ran wild, endin’ up shootin’ this rancher who took you on. Mighty important man, too.’

  Hart stared at the two men coldly. ‘Some folk listen too much. Some folk ...’ and he nodded his head towards Moody, ‘... talk too much.’

  Moody’s face shifted with displeasure and he shifted awkwardly in his chair, but other than that he let the remark ride.

  ‘Whatever happened then,’ said Carter. ‘What you doin’ now?’

  Hart shrugged and reached for the bottle. ‘Not too much. They had a little trouble here in town an’ I cleared it up.’

  ‘You ain’t no marshal or nothin’.’ questioned Noonan.

  ‘No. Ain’t nothin’.’

  ‘You fixin’ to stay that way?’ Carter had a smile in his grey eyes and round the edges of his quivering mouth.

  ‘Depends.’

  Carter sat back and slapped first the edge of the table and then his leg. ‘Don’t it, though,’ he said with a laugh. ‘Don’t it, just.’

  Around them most folk had gone back to their own drinking and gambling and were paying the four men little attention. Only one of the barmen cast his eyes towards the center of the room every now and then, not trusting the peaceful way things had worked out. For one thing, he reckoned he could tell from the three strangers’ manner the kind of troublemakers they were. For another, he’d seen Hart in action. Part of the little trouble Wes Hart had spoken of so lightly.

  It had been a couple of weeks back and Hart hadn’t long arrived in town. A bunch of miners had ridden down from the north-west and threatened to take the place apart. They’d started in the saloon and then made their drunken way to the whorehouse up the street. Kate Stein had wanted to keep them out altogether but there hadn’t been any way she could. At first they’d just been loud and aggressive but finally one of them had started beating up on the girls. The man Kate employed to keep the peace tried to interfere and gotten shot in the legs for his trouble.

  Kate had sent Charlie for the marshal but he was out of town. His deputy was an old timer with a wooden leg and only good for feeding the prisoners and sweeping out the jail.

  Finally Kate had gone across to the saloon herself and offered fifty dollars or a month free on the house for any man who’d take the miners on. Wes Hart had done exactly that, offering the bartender a third of the proceeds to stand in the doorway with his shotgun as back up.

  It had been worth it simply to see Hart in action. In less than a couple of minutes he’d put a slug through one man’s shoulder, shattered another’s elbow, shot one through the back of the calf and pistol whipped another two.

  Kate and the bartender had watched open-mouthed in amazement. Hart had looked the girls over, talked with Kate and decided to take his payment in kind. So far it wasn’t a decision he regretted.

  Now Hart sat easily in his chair and drank some of the whiskey and waited for Carter to make his proposition. If he hadn’t gone to the trouble of finding him to pick a fight, he had to have had some other good reason.

  ‘Know a place called Tago?’ Carter asked eventually.

  Hart shook his head.

  ‘Mining town, forty, fifty miles from here,’ said Moody. ‘On up into Colorado.’

  ‘South of Rattlesnake Buttes,’ added Noonan.

  ‘Is this important?’ asked Hart, looking at Carter. ‘Or are we just passin’ time?’

  Carter slapped his thigh once again, laughed again and leaned forward, arms spread across the table. ‘We come from there. Tago. An’ we aim to take you back there.’

  Hart set down his glass slowly. ‘Take?’

  Carter grinned. ‘No more’n a way of speakin’.’

  ‘Uh-huh. An’ why should I be interested in ridin’ up to Tago?’

  ‘Money. Good money.’

  ‘Doin’ what?’

  Carter sat back, glanced at Noonan and Moody. ‘Tago needs a regulator. Hundred and fifty a month an’ all found.’

  ‘That’s a lot of money.’

  ‘Top rates.’

  ‘How come? The town could hire itself a marshal for maybe half that.’

  ‘They tried it,’ put in Noonan quickly. ‘Three times.’

  His expression told Hart clearly enough what had happened. ‘I still say it’s a lot of money.’

  ‘Beaumont’s a rich man.’

  ‘Who’s Beaumont? I thought I was bein’ hired by a town.’

  ‘You are,’ Carter grinned. ‘Mason Beaumont is Tago.’

  Wes Hart glanced round as a couple of men threatened to get into an argument over the play of the cards. When it had blown over he relaxed and accepted another drink from the bottle.

  ‘Maybe this, what’s his name, Mason Beaumont, ought to do his own regulating.’

  Carter pulled his lip back over his uneven teeth as though he was about to let out a howl of amusement, but no sound emerged.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ asked Moody. ‘Don’t you want to work?’

  ‘I’d need to know more about the job.’

  ‘You’re awful choosy for a two-bit gunslinger,’ snapped Moody, letting his annoyance show.

  Carter spread his hand towards him. ‘Steady, now, this ain’t no two-bit gun. This here’s a hundred-and-fifty-dollar gun.’

  ‘An’ I’m still sayin’ I want to know how come ifs worth so much.’

  Moody pulled his head to one side and pushed his chair back from the table. ‘Like I want to know what makes you worth so much. You don’t seem like nothin’ special to me.’

  ‘Moody,’ said Noonan, ‘you been drinkin’ too much.’

  ‘You shut your goddamn face!’

  The men at the surrounding tables began to glance round apprehensively; one or two of them to edge away. Elsewhere the general clamor persisted.

  Carter grinned at Hart. ‘They’re two good boys but when they been at the liquor they get to goadin’ one another like a couple of wildcats.’

  Hart nodded. He noticed that the bottle he’d brought over from the bar was almost dead.

  ‘You goin’ to tell me ’bout Tago?�
� he asked Carter, while the other two continued to utter half-heard threats at each other.

  ‘Nothin’ to tell. It’s a silver town. Sprung up Sunday come Monday. Beaumont owns the largest mine an’ most of the buildin’s in town. Like most places there’s been a lot of drinkin’ an’ whorin’, but since he was scoopin’ off a profit from most of that he didn’t care none. Last few months, though, things been turnin’ sour. So much shootin’ in town that folk stopped drivin’ in for supplies an’ went up north for ’em. Then someone started hittin’ the mine, stealin’ ore, you name it.’

  Carter turned sharply and glared at his two companions, shutting them up. When he turned back towards Hart he was smiling calmly. At that moment he looked like as sane a man as Hart had ever seen.

  ‘That’s where you come in,’ he said.

  Hart shook his head. ‘No, it ain’t.’

  ‘What d’you mean?’

  ‘What I say. I ain’t interested.’

  ‘Why the hell not?’

  Hart set both hands to the edge of the table and began to push himself back. ‘Just ain’t.’

  Something broke at the back of Carter’s grey eyes. ‘Damn it! That ain’t good enough.’

  Hart stood up – fast. His body was back into a leaning crouch and his hand was clear above the butt of his Colt. All three men stared at him, Moody licking his lips back and across.

  The side of Carter’s face twitched.

  ‘I’ll say it once, John,’ said Hart. ‘You boys rode over an’ made me a proposition. I turned it down. There ain’t no obligation either way. You make sure you understand that. All of you.’

  Moody’s mouth fell open, the tip of his tongue visible. Noonan scratched at the stubble below his chin. Carter continued to stare through cat-like grey eyes. Men behind and to the sides of the table were shifting away, going as fast as they dared without drawing attention to themselves. Pockets of noise were loud in a spreading anticipation.

  ‘I guess it’s time you were leavin’,’ said Hart. He nodded down at the table. ‘Bottle’s mostly gone.’

  Carter started to move his head from side to side, still fixing his eyes on Hart and drawing back his upper lip as he did so. ‘He’s not goin’ to like this. Beaumont ain’t goin’ to like this.’

  Hart looked back at him. ‘That’s his worry. It sure ain’t mine.’

  Behind him someone accidentally backed into a table, sending a glass crashing to the floor. Hart jerked his head sideways, unable to prevent the automatic reaction. As he did so, Carter sprang back from his chair and his right hand swung into an arc that would bring it round to his gun, round and up.

  ‘No!’ There was a shout from the side of the room and immediately the crash of a shotgun being fired shook the saloon. Plaster from the ceiling showered over men’s heads. Pieces bounced from tables and floor.

  Hart’s hand was tight about the mother-of-pearl grip of his Colt and the barrel was two-thirds of the way out of its holster. Opposite him, the fingers of Carter’s hand were just beginning to close about his pistol butt.

  The two men stared at one another through narrowed eyes. Then Carter threw back his head and began his manic laugh, hybrid, out of control. He laughed until tears had started to run down his pockmarked cheeks. When the laughter had finished, Hart was still waiting, his Colt in the same position. Behind his shoulder, the bartender had a fresh charge in the barrels of his shotgun.

  ‘That’s twice,’ said Hart. ‘Next time you might not be so lucky.’

  Carter’s face twitched angrily. ‘Next time the luck might not be yours.’

  Hart nodded and slowly released the hammer, letting the pistol fall back into the holster but keeping his hand near to it. Carter hurled his chair away behind him, sending it crashing into one of the tables. He snarled and began to push his way towards the door, Noonan and Moody following, heads swiveled round to watch Hart.

  The three pushed through the bat-wing doors and out into the street. Moments later came the sound of horses riding away. Hart went over to the bar.

  ‘Thanks.’

  The thin bartender put his head to one side. ‘Weren’t nothin’. You could have taken him anyway.’

  Hart said nothing, wondering. A man to his left offered to buy him a drink but he refused. The bartender moved away to deal with a customer. The Negro from the whorehouse worked his way to Hart’s side.

  ‘What is it, Charlie?’

  ‘Miss Kate, she wants to see you.’

  ‘Okay.’

  Hart turned and followed him out of the saloon and back across the street.

  Kate was sitting on a settee in the center of the room. She was smoking a cigarette, a glass of white wine on the table beside her. Her hair was no longer tied at the back but fell loose about her shoulders, long and dark, lustrous in the orange-yellow light.

  ‘Sit down.’

  A girl walked slowly downstairs, combing her fingers through tightly curled red hair. The front of her robe was open and her legs were long and bare. Hart glanced up at her and then away, back at Kate.

  ‘I heard shooting. I was worried.’

  Hart looked at her questioningly. ‘It didn’t amount to nothing.’

  ‘Who were these men? What did they want?’

  Hart told her.

  She put out her cigarette, half smoked. She picked up the glass and drank some wine. ‘Why didn’t you take the job?’

  Hart shrugged.

  ‘You didn’t want to leave town?’ There was a hint of playfulness in Kate’s eyes, in her voice.

  ‘I didn’t like the way I was asked. I don’t like Crazy John, don’t trust him. And I didn’t like the sound of Beaumont. I just finished working for a man like him. Too much money and too much greed. I don’t want to work for another.’

  ‘Who else d’you think is going to employ you, Wes?’

  Hart looked away without answering; there wasn’t an answer. At least, not one he liked.

  She leaned towards him with a swish of her dress and he could smell her scent again. ‘You didn’t have any other reason for not wanting to leave town?’ Her voice was soft, almost a mockery of itself.

  He shook his head. ‘No,’ he said. ‘None that I could think of.’

  A smile grew about Kate’s dark eyes, then faded. She sat back and reached for her wine. There were lines of condensation down the outside of the glass. For several moments neither of them spoke.

  ‘You want another of my girls?’

  Hart stood up. ‘Not tonight.’

  ‘That’s good.’ She looked at him and her face had a hardness which the soft fall of her hair belied. ‘Your credit here’s almost used up.’

  Chapter Three

  The odor inside the room was sickly sweet. Warm. Fat, white fingers lifted the bottle from the table and began to remove the stopper. The bottle was small, rounded, violet in color. While one hand held the bottle, the other took hold of a thick-bottomed glass, half filled with water. Carefully, the neck of the violet bottle was tilted over the glass. The first drop of laudanum fell into the water, spreading. More drops followed, turning the water round, turning it cloudy. One drop more.

  Mason Beaumont lifted the glass to his lips. Lips that were loose, almost purple at the edges of the loose, segmented skin. His eyes widened, the pupils small and dark as stones. The head jerked back as the mouth opened, swallowing.

  Beaumont’s tongue pushed out, licking at the rim of the glass, turning inside it. At last he sat back heavily in his chair, his arm falling wide. The fingers loosened, parted, and the glass fell to the floor. It landed on its base, wobbled, then was still. It was unbroken.

  Beaumont’s eyes were closed, his head lolled to one side. Small bubbles of sweat began to form at his temples and along the hairline. A nerve beat rapidly at the right side of his head. He began to breathe heavily, with difficulty, but then within minutes became more controlled. His breathing steadied; the nerve stilled. He could have opened his eyes but had no wish to.

&nbs
p; What he could see was more important, more beautiful. The bright light of the sun so bright on the Mississippi that it dazzled the eyes. A great sternwheeler passing up from Memphis. The rich smell of warm earth and the sweetness of pinewood. The perfume of magnolia in bloom, filling the night air. Melodies of a Creole orchestra. Gardenias. Lace.

  Someone knocked softly on the door and Beaumont was uncertain where in his reverie it came. The sound rose and faded, rose again, faded, ceased.

  Beaumont’s head slumped further to one side. After a time his mouth slacked open and a thin sliver of saliva dribbled down his smooth skin and on to the white silk of his shirt.

  Jimmy Waterford slapped hard at the mule’s rear, moving quickly aside in case the animal should decide to kick back.

  ‘Jesus and Mary! Will you get movin’ or what?’

  The mule shook its head, long ears flapping; its feet seemed almost embedded in the thick mud of the slope. Each fresh attempt to climb merely made things worse. The bundles roped to the animal’s back weighted it down, heavy and cumbersome as they were.

  ‘Jimmy! Are you comin’ now?’

  Waterford stepped on to a ridge of rock and shielded his eyes from a light that was strong and cold. The sun shone but it shone into puddles of grey rainwater, clogged with reddish-brown mud. Jimmy’s eldest brother, Frank, was standing at the top of the pass, leaning one arm against the side of the grey rock.

  ‘What the hell are you doin’?’

  ‘Tryin’ to get this cursed animal to budge up this hill. What d’you think I’m doin’? Prayin’?’

  ‘I thought maybe you was pissin’.’ laughed Frank. He began to work his way back down, nearly slipping several times.

  ‘It’s no use,’ said Jimmy when his brother was by him. ‘She isn’t goin’ to make it.’

  Frank looked at the load. ‘We’ll have to get this from its back.’

  Jimmy shook his head, despairingly. ‘Jesus! It took ages to get it all tied on.’

  Frank laughed and reached towards one of the knots. ‘It’ll come off easier.’