Noonan and Moody looked at one another quickly. Carter nodded, then allowed a smile to appear on his face as he thought of the consequences.
Beaumont looked past him. ‘Lacy, I think you’d better go with them.’
Lacy put his hand to his face and removed his spectacles, folding them and slotting them down into the breast pocket of his coat. ‘With respect, Mr. Beaumont, this might not be the best of times for me to be away.’
‘How d’you mean?’
‘The two Waterford brothers that Carter, killed. There is a third brother. From what I hear he’s headstrong, determined ...’
Beaumont gestured with his hand. ‘I understand.’ His gaze returned to Carter. ‘Go back to this man. Give him one more chance to accept my terms.’
Carter’s grey eyes were alive: ‘What if he won’t?’
Beaumont let his head fall back against the soft leather of his chair; his voice was soft as a whisper. ‘Kill him,’ he said. ‘Kill him.’
Wes Hart let the coins fall from one hand to the other, the soft metallic chink of money. It wouldn’t be too long before the cash he’d taken from the Jackson place in Indian Territory was all used up. Before that happened he’d have to get himself another job and that might not be too easy. Maybe he’d been a fool to turn down the one at Tago.
Hart shook his head. There was something about Crazy John Carter that made him want to keep as much distance between Carter and himself as possible. And any man who’d employ someone like Carter, as Beaumont apparently had, wasn’t a person whose judgment Hart trusted a great deal.
He slipped the coins back into the cotton bag and pulled the drawstrings tight. It didn’t make sense thinking about it now – Beaumont would have found himself another man.
Hart buckled on his gunbelt, giving the Colt the usual heft and spin before slipping the safety loop over the hammer, tied the thong about his leg, and went out of the room.
He nodded to the few people sitting around the foyer of the hotel and stepped on to the boardwalk. The sunlight was strong, causing him to pull the brim of his flat-crowned black hat down over his eyes. A hay wagon trundled past, drawn by a pair of shaggy brown mules, a boy of no more than ten sitting up behind them and encouraging them along with whistles and shouts. A tall woman carrying a parasol paused outside the draper’s shop and looked into the window. Reflected there, she saw Hart looking at her and swung round quickly, her face showing displeasure. Hart turned away.
He thought he’d fetch his horse from the livery stable and take a ride up into the wooded hill country north of the town. Last time he’d been there he’d spotted a black bear up above the line of the pines, its brown face peering back down at him, small dark eyes staring past the straight nose. The black of its coat veered towards cinnamon in places. Hart and the bear had looked at one another for quite some time, each summing the other up and finally deciding it best to keep out of the way. There had been something honest and direct about it – not like the woman over by the draper’s store.
‘Wes?’
He swung his head at the voice. Kate Stein had come out of the store and was now heading in the same direction as himself, though across the street.
She waved a gloved hand at him, unaware of the look of disdain, hatred almost, being given her by the woman with the parasol. Or perhaps she wasn’t unaware; perhaps she just didn’t care. Hart liked her for that. It was one of the things he liked her for.
He considered waiting for Kate to catch up with him and walking along with her, but instead he just acknowledged the wave with a gesture of his right hand to the brim of his hat and carried on his way.
He saddled up the animal quickly, finally letting the stirrups fall down from the seat of the Denver saddle and tightening the cinch.
In one of the stalls down to Hart’s right, a horse snickered loudly and banged its hoofs against the wooden slats. A rake, or something similar, fell to the ground. Hart slipped the toe of his left boot into the stirrup, left hand tight on the curve of the saddle pommel.
‘Hart.’
The voice came from behind and he spun fast, his body turning and his hand arching downwards towards his holster. The big Colt came up smoothly and cleanly, thumb bringing back the hammer, arm angling the gun upwards towards the upper story.
‘Hart.’
He pulled his boot clear of the stirrup and dropped into a crouch. A different voice this time and further round the gallery, behind ropes and tackle and bales of hay.
Hart moved, cat-footed, towards the nearest empty stall, listening for either man to move.
‘Hart.’
A third voice and this one he recognized: they had come back.
‘John. Crazy John Carter.’
‘You called it, Hart.’
He was by the double doorway, tall doors, rounded at the top, big enough for a loaded hay wagon to drive through with ease. One of the doors was fastened to, and Carter’s voice seemed to be coming from somewhere behind that.
‘What d’you want, John?’
Hart was looking around the inside of the stables. There was a ladder five yards to his left, another fifteen yards to his right, close to the far wall. Both led up to the half-floor above. A side door, beyond the second ladder, was shut and could be locked.
‘Same as before, Hart.’ Carter’s voice sounded strained, uneasy, as if it was about to break. Hart thought that if it did it would be into that laugh of his and that after that happened the shooting would follow fast. He didn’t fancy having to move forward and show his back to two men up above.
‘Call your men out, Carter, then we can talk.’
The laugh started, choking off after a few seconds. ‘We already did that. We talked already. All you got to say is yes or no.’
A board creaked directly over Hart’s head and he ducked, staring up. The dark shape of a man pulled back behind a block of something solid. Light came thinly through the space between the planks of wood.
‘We ain’t waitin’ all day, Hart.’
Someone was approaching the stables, whistling and leading some kind of wagon. Hart could distinguish the rattle and squeak of the rig. As he listened, the whistling stopped abruptly and the wagon with it. Hart slipped out of the stall and began to edge along towards the right-hand ladder and the side door. His boots pushed through the straw. Again, a horse snickered and kicked.
There was the sound of something heavy falling outside.
‘Yes or no, Hart, that’s all you got!’
Hart held his breath and continued towards the ladder; it was less than a dozen feet away now.
‘John, he’s movin’!’
Hart turned from the waist and brought up his Colt. He saw the movement along at the other end of the gallery and fired once, fast.
His shot splintered the edge of a post and whined away towards the roof. Two guns answered him and he ducked back fast, close by a big chestnut mare, who tossed her mane and stared at him balefully.
Carter’s voice called out over the fading sound of gunfire. ‘That your answer, Hart?’
‘That’s it.’
He ran past the ladder towards the door. A shell tore through the top corner of it as his left hand gripped the handle. Another slammed into the floor close by his feet. The handle refused to turn; the door was locked. Through the boards he could see bales of hay piled close against it. Two more shots sounded from behind.
Hart dived full length into the loose beginnings of a pile of straw. Breath was pushed out of his body. His elbow jarred badly. Another shot sought him out. He rolled to the left, over and over, into the straw. A figure began to descend the ladder at the other end of the stable. Hart stopped rolling and lay flat, bringing up the Colt in front of his face. He aimed fast and squeezed down on the trigger.
The slug drove through Noonan’s upper arm, making him yell out and let go of the rifle in his hand. The butt of the Winchester hit the ground with a thud and Hart fired a second time. Noonan rocked back against the ladder, a
bullet wound clean through his side, below the rib cage. He waved his left arm wildly, then opened his mouth in a helpless scream. He pitched forwards on to the ground, the hard floor stopping his mouth fast.
Hart sprang to his feet and jumped towards a couple of crates close by the front wall of the stable. A shot from another rifle followed him, ricocheting away from the corner of the top crate.
‘You ain’t gettin’ out of here,’ Carter called. ‘Not now. Not alive, you ain’t.’
Hart ignored him, trying to work out where Moody was on the gallery. He thought he could separate out the man’s shadow from the other dark shapes and wasted a shell proving himself wrong. He cursed under his breath, worked the ejector rod on the Colt and fingered fresh shells from the loops on his gunbelt and into the chambers.
‘Too bad you didn’t see it my way, Hart.’ Carter’s voice was tinged with laughter. ‘Too bad you chose the wrong damned way.’
There was no mistaking Crazy John Carter’s excitement, the joy at what he was saying. His laugh rose, jagged and high, up towards the roof of the stable.
‘Hart, you picked yourself the route to hell!’
Hart scowled and racked his brain trying to figure out what was making Carter so infernally happy with himself. It only took a couple of moments before he found out. There was a loud crash of glass in the middle of the floor and almost immediately the sound of gunfire. Flame burst up from the smashed kerosene lantern Carter had hurled into the stable and something went splashing close to it.
Hart knew at once what it was: Carter was throwing more kerosene from a can. Throwing it over the wood, the dry straw, alongside the horses’ stalls.
‘Carter, you crazy bastard!’
Hart edged his gun round the crate and fired twice but Carter was back beyond range. He started to move round, eager to rush the door. A rifle shot from on high sent him ducking back down.
‘Carter!’
The only answer was the laugh, weird through the crackle and leap of flame.
‘Carter, you madman, what the hell you done?’ The voice was Moody’s, aware now that he was trapped, too, just as Hart was. Even worse, cut off on the half-floor above.
‘Carter, get me out of here!’
Moody had lost caution in his newfound fear. Hart angled up his Colt and squeezed back on the trigger. The gun jumped against the steadiness of his hand and Moody was sent slamming back against the wall, a slug through his shoulder. Blood spurted through the ragged hole then trickled unsteadily.
Moody bit down on his lower lip and tried to bring up the Winchester. Hart saw the movement and fired again. This time he hit Moody in the hip, the slug deflecting off the chipped bone, upwards through his chest and lodging between two ribs. Moody shook and swayed and staggered towards the edge. The rifle fell from his grasp and bounced on the floor below.
The flames were at head height now and spreading. Animals were kicking against their stalls and whinnying loudly in panic. Hart coughed on the smoke and put his left arm across his face against the rising heat.
Moody toppled on the edge of the gallery, then fell forward, one arm coming out in a vain effort to break the fall. The arm broke instead. Hart heard it crack seconds before the heavy thump of the man’s body. Moody landed first on arm, shoulder and head, rolling a little to one side before being still. His legs were spread-eagled behind him; blood ran out from beneath his body towards the fire.
‘Too bad, Hart!’ shrieked Carter. ‘Too damned bad!’
Hart ran low towards his horse, which had hurried to the side of the stable and was shying away in terror, joining its noise to that of the other animals. Hart had one hand on the mare’s nose to quieten her when he heard what might be a fire bell ringing further back along the street.
He pulled himself up into the saddle and swung the animal’s head round towards the center of the fire.
‘Come on, Clay! Come on!’
The big grey reared up and fought; Hart held the reins fast and dug his knees into her sides, kicking into her with his heels. Wisps of blazing straw sailed over their heads. The sound of men’s voices was louder now and the ringing of the bell was clear and insistent.
The front wall of the stable had caught fast and was like a wall of flame around the high door. As the grey bucked and wheeled beneath Hart’s body, a couple of shots rang out from the far side of the fire’s center.
‘Clay! Come on! Through! Through!’
He slapped at her flank with his open hand and kicked hard. Head to one side the mare charged at the flames, heading for the rear edge of the fire where there was still a small gap between flames and the stall along the back wall. Hart flung up an arm to protect his face and swiveled his body away from the searing heat.
The horse jumped through and immediately slewed right, heading for the doorway. Beyond the arc of fire Hart could see a chain of men forming with buckets and at the far side of the street more men were turning the water wagon.
Hart stared around for sign of Carter, but he couldn’t pick him out. People were milling around, shouting orders and counter orders; children raced between the line of men passing buckets and shrieked and waved their arms. A group of women stood together down the street from the water wagon, pointing and talking excitedly. From inside the stable came the high, terrified sound of the horses.
Hart rode the grey a little way down the street, folk looking at him as he went, speculating on what had gone on inside. He slipped from the saddle and tried to calm the mare down, stroking her nose and talking to her quietly at the same time as looking up and down the street. Carter could have ridden away when the first of the firemen appeared, but Hart didn’t think that likely.
He looped the reins about the hitching post and stepped on to the boardwalk.
‘Hart!’
He heard the hissed name and flung himself to the ground, twisting as he went. A pistol roared from the store window behind him, shattering the plate glass to smithereens. Pain lanced along Hart’s back and he winced as he struck the boards heavily with his left arm. Rolling fast, right hand clawing for his Colt, he saw Carter in the center of the window, standing in the middle of sacks of flour, jars of peaches and plums, cans of beans and beef. His mouth was twisted in a macabre laugh, grey eyes staring at Hart, hate and anger strong within them.
The hammer of Hart’s Colt came back as Carter fired his second shot. The report of Hart’s gun merged with it. A slug tore through the planking inches away from Hart’s left arm.
Crazy John Carter staggered back against a stack of crates with his hand clutching at his side. Hart’s shot had gone home close to the edge of his ribs, smashing one and deflecting upwards to exit near his armpit. He struggled to bring up his gun arm as Hart got to his feet.
Men were running down towards them, away from the fire.
Carter stumbled forward, kicking against lines of jars and sending them crashing on top of one another. He lurched wildly and a sack of flour plummeted down. The pockmarked face was contorted with pain.
Hart cocked the Colt and took a pace nearer.
‘Beaumont sent you back, huh?’
Crazy John’s head nodded strangely, small dipping movements, the grey eyes opening and closing. The thin mouth widened into the laugh Hart knew so well and the cast in the left eye twitched rapidly.
‘Sent me back to kill you.’ Carter seemed to think it was funny. He rocked back and forth on his feet, blood falling away from his side and staining the spilled white of the flour. The laugh rose and rose, became sharper and sharper. Folk standing in an arc around the scene stared at him in amazement.
‘Kill you!’
Crazy John Carter made a final effort to bring up his gun as he screamed defiance. Hart shot him twice, the two bullets so close together they formed a single wound. Carter’s body was lifted off its feet and flung back against the crates. His arms spread wide and his head drooped. Blood came freely from the great gash in his chest. He wobbled forwards again, turned, buckled, fell.
Hart released the hammer on the Colt and slipped it back down into his holster. Crazy John Carter was sprawled across the window, one leg sticking out on to the boardwalk. His face lay in a pool of syrup that had run from several smashed peach jars. Flour dusted his clothes. The clear syrup and the milled flour were rapidly becoming dark, red.
Hart turned away, expressionless. The pain from the wound in his back was biting into him, biting deep. He gritted his teeth and narrowed his eyes, straightening himself before walking through the crowd.
As he walked away a loud crash made him turn his head: the front and one side wall of the livery stable had come to the ground. Presumably the bodies of Noonan and Moody were still inside. At least that took care of their burial. Hart wondered if anybody would do the same for Carter.
Some men he’d had to kill, that was a responsibility he’d taken upon himself. He’d had to kill and had regretted it. But not Crazy John - you didn’t waste time preaching words over mad dogs set to rest too late.
Hart saw Kate Stein in the doorway of her place, one hand resting on her hip. She opened her mouth to say something, but thought better of it. Instead she walked across the street towards him, taking his arm and leading him in the direction of her door, leading him gently but firmly. Hart didn’t feel he was about to argue.
Chapter Five
The bullet had plowed a line nearly an inch deep along the left side of Hart’s back, starting a few inches above the buttock and continuing until the shoulder. It had carved out a straight channel, grazing the blade bone and causing Hart to lose quite a lot of blood.
The doctor had cleaned the wound thoroughly and strapped it up tight, telling Hart he had to spend a couple of days at least in bed.
After one of those days, Hart was restless and bored. Kate kept telling him he had to stay put and do what the doctor had said, but still he didn’t like it. It was one thing to be in bed in a whorehouse of your own free will, quite another to be there as a patient and not even allowed to take advantage of the amenities.
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