Now he was staring at Herne over the end of a pistol. Finger white on the trigger. Trying to remember.
“What’s your name, Mister?”
“Travis. Albert Travis.” Using his father’s Christian name and his own middle name.
“Travis. You ever been up around the Bozeman Trail through Fort Laramie?”
So he half-remembered as well. Herne shook his head. “Nope. Never did get that far north.”
“I’m sure that I know you. And I’m damned sure that when I remember it’ll be a whole cart-load of bad news for you. If I could ...”
His thoughts were interrupted by a shout from outside, the words blurred by the rising wind. “George, go see what they want.”
The robber went out, leaving the door open, so the cold air swirled through the carriage. There was an exchange of muffled bellows, and then George reappeared, shivering and slapping his hands together.
“Cal says they got what they wanted.” Then he dropped his voice and moved in closer to Luke Barrell. But Herne strained his ears and caught a mention of “fuses”, which was enough.
Death was very close.
Luke turned to the crowd at the far end of the carriage. “George here says that there’s a spot of trouble with our horses. I’m goin’ out to take me a look. You all stand quiet now, and nobody gets hurt. As soon as we’re away from here, there won’t be anything to stop you walkin’ away free as air.”
With a final stare at Herne, he turned on his heel and walked outside. Herne could hear his boots scraping on the wooden trestles, then a pause. Then a call up to George, who immediately looked at his pocket watch, licking his lips nervously. Finally, the noise of the feet moving away.
Immediately in front of Jed, a little boy was crying, his mother busy comforting another child. Herne bent down to pick him up, the movement as natural as brushing hair back from your eyes.
But when he straightened up, he was holding the honed bayonet in his right hand, concealing it behind the body of the bawling child. George watched him but didn’t spot the concealed weapon, being more concerned with the watch in his hand. Herne wondered about the length of the fuse. Had to be long enough for them to get the horses well away, otherwise they might get spooked. And they had to give George time enough to get down and clear. But not long enough for the folks on the train to get suspicious or to put the fuse out on the dynamite.
“George?”
“What is it?”
“You sure you trust that Luke Barrell?”
“How the Hell do you know his name? Hey, he said that he knew you!” For a moment he looked out of the window into the swirling blackness as if he was thinking of calling back his comrade, then realizing the futility of it. But his face showed his worry.
“I did see him up in Fort Laramie, like he said. Better than ten years back. I saw him all right, and I’d rather trust a dying rattler.”
“What’s that mean? You talk fast, Travis, or by God, I’ll blast you where you stand, and take the kid with you!”
“He ran out on two of his friends there. Stood safe and watched them dancing on air with hemp collar tight round their necks.”
“Luke wouldn’t …”
“Like Hell! He didn’t need them, any more than they need you now, George. You’re what I guess they’d call a mite expendable.”
“I’ll ...” The gun barrel wavered uncertainly, and there was another frantic look at the hands of the watch.
“They say to you to stay here on guard? Good old George, he’s done well. Kept them folks in that carriage right until the big bang.”
“Mister, what are you ...?”
The conductor on the train suddenly realized where Herne’s words were leading. A realization that came swiftly to the rest of the folks. Herne knew there was a danger of panic and shouted above the screams and babble of voices.
“Hold on there! Keep calm. Let George do some thinkin’ first.”
He had pushed his way to the front of the crowd, still gripping the bayonet in his right hand, so that he was only some eight paces from the bandit. Close enough to see the sweat that beaded the upper lip, despite the cold in the carriage.
The gun wavered. The little boy in Jed’s arms had gone quiet and still, which he didn’t want, and he pinched him to make him holler and wriggle again. Watching George like a hawk watching a jack-rabbit.
“Damn you, Mister! If you’re wrong …”
“If I was you, George, I’d be a sight more concerned about what happens if I’m right.”
“Jesus! He wouldn’t!”
“I’d wager with you, except we’d both be the losers, George.”
The final prod was enough. With a wordless yell, the man turned and took a step towards the door. Herne immediately dropped the child to one side, his right arm coming up and back, holding the heavy knife like a hatchet, by its hilt.
Throwing it with all of his power at the retreating figure. A woman screamed, and George began to turn back, sensing danger at the last.
He was too late.
Jed was able to take the heart out of an ace at twenty feet, so hitting George in the back at less than ten paces was like shooting fish in a barrel. Although he was just beginning to turn to face Herne, the point of the knife was already ripping through coat and shirt and skin and muscle, finally slicing through the walls of the heart.
“You bastard,” he said, before the impact of the throw sent him crashing back against the paneled door of the train. The gun was suddenly heavy in his fingers.
Bitter experience over twenty-five years had taught Jed the invaluable lesson that if your first blow doesn’t succeed then you follow it up faster than smoke. His dive was a part of the throw, striking the bandit with his shoulder, hitting at the wrist holding the gun, sending it spinning to the dusty floor.
George fell backwards, the impact forcing the point of the slim bayonet so hard into his body that the ruby-tipped point emerged through the front of his chest, glistening in the light of the oil lamps.
“You bastard,” he repeated, making one effort to get to his feet, before he lay back, chest heaving. Fighting for the last few breaths, fingers tearing at the hem of his own coat in concentrated effort.
Ignoring him, Jed leaped to his feet, holding up his hand for silence, his blazing eyes controlling the carriage filled with frightened folks.
“I reckon they’ve dynamited the bridge. Men get your guns in case they’re still out there. Women and kids off the train and off the bridge quick as you can. Don’t wait for anything. Now!”
He shouted the last word to get them moving, pausing himself only to retrieve his own Colt and strap the belt on. Rolling over the dying man to tug out the bayonet, not even stopping to wipe it clean. Ramming it back in the sheath in his boot.
While the passengers fought their way off the car, climbing down into the murky darkness and stumbling along the narrow trestle bridge towards safety, Jed was kicking in one of the windows, scrambling through, tearing his sleeve on the way. Landing on the balls of his feet with the lightness of a cat, immediately scouring the night for the tell-tale glow of the burning fuse that he was sure he would find there.
There was a scream as one of the mothers tripped and fell sprawling, her body hanging between two of the railroad ties. The conductor helped her up, and Herne was aware of them all struggling to get off the bridge. He guessed that the explosive must be near the middle of the train, to make sure that it all toppled in when the bridge went.
So it had to be somewhere ….
“There,” he said to himself, seeing the scarlet glint, getting close enough to hear the spluttering of the fuse. Throwing himself flat, Jed peered along between the still wheels of the stationary train, seeing where the bandits had taped a half dozen sticks of dynamite to the rods. The fuse sparked, a tiny yellow worm in the blackness, creeping its way towards the top of the explosive.
It was less than an inch away.
To reach it Herne had to crawl, sp
reading his body between the ties, hanging on the axle of the train, feeling the cold wind from the canyon far below tugging at his clothes.
A half-inch to go.
It wasn’t possible in the time to get to the fuse and snuff it out. The only chance was to draw the bayonet and slice through the tapes. Angling his body painfully, stretching upwards, the hilt of the knife almost slipping through his sweat-slick fingers.
Feeling the blade cutting through the bindings, watching the glow of the fuse as it crawled nearer and nearer the dynamite, only a couple of feet from his face.
Suddenly, it was free, falling towards him, landing with a heavy thud on a cross-tie, one end hanging over the drop. The fuse had almost burned right through, and Jed knew it could only be a matter of seconds before it blew up, taking the bridge, the train, the passengers ... and him, with it. It was out of reach of his groping fingers. Wriggling like a landed salmon, Herne was able to change his grip on the wheel, moving the knife to his left hand, straining and just reaching the dynamite. Pushing at it with the point of the bayonet.
Knocking it clear of the trestles, watching it plummet to invisibility into the abyss below him. Panting with the effort, feeling perspiration stinging his eyes. His throat dry as sand.
He was immediately conscious of the night sounds. The noises of the passengers still fighting their way off the bridge. Somewhere away in the distance he could make out the noises of horses, traveling fast. Up the trail that he knew would be leading them to the silver mine. Herne grinned to himself, seeing a chance to make some very easy money, telling the Government where the printing plates had been taken by the gang.
It was impossible to tell if the explosive reached the deeps of the canyon before the fuse finally ignited it, but the ensuing blast tugged at his clothes, and lifted the long hairs at the nape of his neck.
The air was heavy with the smell of the dynamite, and a thick cloud of smoke and dust billowed up all around him, making him cough.
“You all right, Mister?” called a voice from the further side of the bridge.
“Yeah. Yeah, I’m just fine,” he replied, replacing the bayonet once more in its hidden sheath.
Crawling out from under the train, standing up and brushing himself clean. Making sure the Colt was still safe in the holster, the thong keeping it secure. Walking steadily towards the yellow light that showed where the conductor had managed to lead the party of passengers to safety.
Joining them and shrugging at their praise for him, accepting a hug from one of the women, and handshakes from just about everybody.
All things considered, it hadn’t been too bad. He’d killed one of the gang and he was going to be able to set the agents on them to recover the plates. What was best, he thought as he joined the guard and some of the men in walking to the baggage car, was that he had succeeded in avoiding any serious involvement.
He thought.
The door of the car was shattered to splinters, and the inside was filled with open boxes and crates, broken by the robbers in their search for the plates.
By the light of the conductor’s lamp, Herne was the first to see that Becky’s sealed coffin had been ravaged. The body lay untouched, still wrapped in its scented winding-sheet.
But the pendant was gone.
Chapter Six
The train finally steamed into Tucson at a little after five o’clock that morning, with most of the children sleeping. The wrecked car was patched up with nailed battens of wood from the boxes, like a child’s framework, shedding splinters all the way into the depot.
They were met by a handful of deputies, and a harassed Government agent, who first asked the train crew what had happened, then came wringing his hands to Herne.
“I’m Auden Jollye, Mr. Travis.”
“The name is Herne,” said Jed, shortly, eager to get to a saloon and bath and sleep, then see to the burial.
Only then could he begin to think about going after the sons of bitches who had stolen from the dead. Stolen the pendant that had belonged to his wife. That should have been interred along with young Rebecca.
“Herne?” The agent was puzzled. “I thought that the folks on the train said that …”
“I told them what I told them because ...”
“Because what?” Although he appreciated that the little man in the dark suit had just been given a hell of a shock, Herne had taken an immediate dislike to him. He had the face of a quarrelsome rat, with a small moustache that looked as if it was hiding under his nose in the hope that his shifty eyes wouldn’t notice it.
“Had a friend up in Oregon. Portland town.”
“Yes?”
“Got drunker’n a skunk one night.”
“I don’t ...”
“You will, Mr. Jollye. You will. Took off every stitch of clothes and jumped clear in the middle of the biggest midden you ever saw.”
“Midden? Why ...?”
“We asked him the same question. We asked him why he’d dived in the shit like that.”
“What did he say?”
Herne squinted up and down the street, seeing the backs of the passengers as they vanished off towards a saloon. Where he wanted to be.
“He said that it seemed like a good idea at the time.”
Herne turned on his heel and stalked away from the little man, leaving him fingering the scrub of hair beneath his nose and staring.
Wondering.
As he lay between the crisp, pressed sheets of the Tucson rooming-house, Herne thought back to the scene that had met his eyes in the damaged baggage car, standing there above the immensity of the deep ravine.
The coffin lay flat on the floor of the carriage, its gleaming lid ripped away at the screws by someone with a great deal of strength. The cold night air had been filled with an odd smell. Not the sweetness of death and corruption, but a bitter tang that caught at the back of the throat and stayed there. As he swallowed, Jed Herne could still taste it.
A chemical sort of taste, that he guessed must be something that the mortician had used to try and keep the body from rotting to a pool of liquid and stinking bones in the long journey. It had worked well, whatever it was.
The others had replaced the lid, but Jed had looked first, making sure the pendant hadn’t slipped down by the head, lodging among the silken cushions on the floor of the coffin.
It wasn’t there.
Becky wasn’t there. Oh, what she had left behind on earth after her spirit had been released was there. A cold, slightly wrinkled corpse, looking three times her age, with a white linen cloth bound around the head to stop the jaw sagging open and showing the mouth. The cloth shaded the eyes, and the oil-lamp hadn’t been that bright, but Herne had seen them.
Hadn’t been able to avoid them.
What was left of them.
They had gone milky, turning into opaque chips of watery stone, lying still and sour at the bottom of the deep sockets. Enigmatic and unfathomable. Perhaps they held a mystery. Jed didn’t know.
Wouldn’t ever know.
But the pendant—
That was something very different. They had tried to kill him, but that was nothing. They hadn’t succeeded, and one of them was going to rest up on Boot Hill that afternoon. A lot of men had tried to waste Jedediah Herne, and nobody had made it yet. An attempt for the life of one of the gang didn’t seem a bad exchange to Jed. But there were two other things to think about.
One was that he knew there would be a substantial reward for the missing plates. In the hands of what seemed a skilled and well-led gang, they could be worth a whole lot more than their weight in gold. And Jed knew where they were taking them. He figured they’d hide up the trail for a couple of days until the heat of the pursuit died down a little, then they’d move on.
Once they’d moved he’d lost them. He would have to go fast and hard.
If the money was right.
But in his heart Herne knew that he’d go after the gang for no pay. Just to get that pendant.
He finally dropped into a shallow and uneasy sleep, with the heart-shape of the rubies burning into his mind.
A red heart.
Red as blood.
“Mr. Herne, I must say how very sorry I am. The sheriff here has only just told me who you are. So I came straight over.”
“Sheriff Wells?”
“Yes. He told me about Herne the Hunter. When I first heard the name I confess that it meant something less than nothing to me.”
“No reason why you should. I guess you spend a lot of time in an office holding up a desk, Mr. Jollye.”
“Yes. I admit that I do.”
“You got the pallor. Only two sorts of men got that. Pen-pushers and convicts.”
“I don’t see why you ...”
“You wouldn’t. Nor would you have heard of me out there in the Government, Mr. Jollye.”
There was the hint of a smile, that made the face even more rat-like, baring a set of yellow teeth.
“No. Killers, thieves and assorted desperadoes are hardly in my line of business, Mr. Herne.”
“They were in the way of the Pinkerton man, Lovell, were they not? There were those desperadoes, just waiting for the train. Waiting for your damned plates, Mr. Jollye. Worth a lot, I guess.”
“You guess right, Mr. Herne. Many thousand dollars in gold.”
“Lovell had a wife. Kids.”
It was a flat statement not a question, and the little Government man merely nodded. “I believe so. I knew nothing about him.”
“I just wonder how much of your gold his widow and orphans think those plates are worth, Mr. Jollye. You think on that.”
Death Rites Page 5