Hart the Regulator 4

by John B. Harvey

  Issuing classic fiction from Yesterday and Today!

  The Regulator is Wes Hart – ex-soldier, ex-Texas Ranger, ex-rider with Billy the Kid. He’s tough, ruthless, slick with a .45. He’s for hire now and he isn’t cheap…

  Little Alice was cute. And brave. On her father’s instructions – and for the right price – Hart agreed to escort her to Denver. Seemed like easy money … until Hart discovered silver bullion stashed away in the stagecoach …

  Lee Sternberg’s gang found out too. So they figured on blowing Hart’s head clean off and making a quick exit with the loot. Hart thought different. So after the blood of an ambush, it’s the agony of a kidnapping and the brutality of a pulse-pounding showdown in a Rancho Nuevo whorehouse …

  And all this for a little girl …

  THE SILVER LIE

  HART 4:

  By John B. Harvey

  First published in the U.K. by Pan Books in 1980

  Copyright © 1980, 2014 by John B. Harvey

  Published by Piccadilly Publishing at Smashwords: March 2014

  Names, characters and incidents in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each reader.

  Cover image © 2014 by Edward Martin. Visit Ed’s site here

  This is a Piccadilly Publishing Book

  Series Editor: Mike Stotter

  Published by Arrangement with the Author.

  This is for the American Studies Department, Nottingham University, England: 1978-79

  Oh, yes, and Siobhan... right?

  Here I am in the heart of the land

  Where they sell it on the run

  And they steal it if they can,

  Living in the heart of a dream

  In the promised land.

  John Stewart:

  Living in the Heart of a Dream

  Chapter One

  The eyes were the faded blue of a shirt that had seen a lot of summers, a stream running over rocks in the lazy heat. They were still yet alert, waiting. The face they were set in was lean and strong, tanned skin stretched tight over high cheekbones. Stubble grew round the jaw and the beginnings of a mustache showed clearly on the line of the upper lip. Darkening brown hair fell away from under the brim of a flat-crowned black hat, almost brushing against the man’s shoulders.

  He was crouching close by the base of an aspen, the Henry in his hands lowered just a little from his shoulder, finger inside the trigger guard, the extra rear sight he’d had fitted flicked up into place.

  Waiting.

  The dapple-grey mare shifted sideways and tossed her head, but he ignored the movement. The fingers of his left hand were tight on the metal of the barrel, thumb of the right laying alongside the hammer.

  Now!

  The grey-brown head appeared over the knoll of land and the long ears went up even as the rifle moved up to the man’s shoulder, the curved, reinforced end of the wooden stock fitting firmly into place as the eye squinted along the barrel and the trigger was squeezed evenly back.

  The buck rabbit tumbled through a series of awkward somersaults, most of its head blown away.

  The man was on his feet and walking towards the dead animal; he was tall and wiry, maybe an inch or so over six foot and weighing close to a hundred and seventy pounds. Not an ounce of surplus fat on his frame, but the muscles taut and strong. He bent down and picked up the rabbit by its hind legs and carried it back towards the fire that was already burning in the clearing between the trees, aspens and pines, together here where the trail ran down the side of the hill to the valley bottom.

  He slid the Henry down into the scabbard alongside his saddle and pulled out the double-bladed knife from the Apache sheath which hung from the saddle pommel. He sliced off the remains of the head and threw it clear, then got to skinning the rest.

  In minutes, the creature was impaled on a sharpened stick and laid over the fire, the bloodied flesh beginning to singe and sizzle.

  The man poured water from the skin container into a blackened pan and set to making coffee, tasting already the black and bitter liquid in his mind and starting to savor the freshly killed meat.

  He’d been riding for a couple of days, down out of Colorado and back into the north-west corner of Indian Territory. Taking it easy on account of the two wounds that his meeting with Crazy John Carter and his ride to Tago had brought him. Neither of them was serious, the first not much more than a groove that a bullet had taken out of his back, a line that ran almost from buttock to shoulder. The second had been a shot from a rifle that had gone clean through the flesh of his left shoulder, missing the bone altogether and not doing much more damage than a loss of blood. If he rode too fast, though, they reminded him of their presence with small, nagging pains that vibrated through his left side and back.

  So he was making the journey in his own good time, enjoying the warmth of the sun and the movement of the aspens in the wind that stopped it from getting too hot for comfort.

  Another day and a half and he’d be back in Creek City, near the North Canadian River. Then he’d take a bath and get himself a shave. See that Clay was taken good care of down at the livery, curried and brushed and fed. Take himself a walk down main street to the dining-rooms for a steak that tipped over the plate at both ends, have a few shots of whiskey and then step across the street to Kate’s.

  He thought about the last time he’d seen her. Full, red mouth and dark eyes, darker than her hair which was pulled back tight behind her head. She’d been wearing a tight-fitting black dress and silver trinkets. Wide, round earrings, a thin bracelet on her left wrist, a silver locket that hung from her neck - a silver heart that rested on the swell of her breasts. The only piece of jewelry that wasn’t silver had been the small cameo ring on the second finger of her left hand.

  Yes, it would be good to see Kate again.

  He reached forward and turned the stick so that the rabbit would be cooked on both sides; he poured a measure of the boiling coffee into his tin mug and set it to rest a few moments before drinking it, not wishing to burn his lips or tongue.

  Before he lifted the mug to his mouth, he saw a movement higher up the trail. Saw it before he heard it, a branch being swept aside. A rider making a slow descent. Heard the sound of the horse then. Saw the man.

  He got up and pulled the rifle clear from its scabbard, sitting back down so that he faced the trail, the Henry across his knees.

  He tasted the coffee: it was good.

  The newcomer was riding a dun-colored gelding, despite the heat wearing what appeared to be a suit. In place of a hat, a white handkerchief was knotted over his head. He rode with his shoulders slumped forward, face downcast. Fifty yards off, he seemed to become aware of the smoke from the fire, possibly even the smell of roasting meat.

  ‘Hello, there! I say, hello!’

  The man with the rifle across his knees made no reply, but continued to drink his coffee, turning the rabbit again, never taking his eyes off the stranger as he rode towards the fire.

  ‘Hello to you.’

  The black hat dipped in a curt nod of welcome.

  ‘D’you mind if I dismount? I seem to have ridden for days without meeting another soul.’

  ‘Go ahead.’

  He got down from the saddle a trifle warily, as if uncertain whether the animal would veer suddenly to one side or the other. Once his feet were on the ground, he appeared all the more confident. He wiped both palms down the sides of his pants and walked briskly t
o where the man was still sitting.

  ‘My name is Edwards. Virgil Edwards.’

  ‘Wes Hart.’

  They shook hands, Edwards wincing at the strength of the other’s grasp.

  ‘I’d be obliged to join you.’ Almost in spite of himself, Edwards glanced towards the rabbit.

  ‘That’s okay. If you don’t mind sharin’ this mug, you can have coffee while we’re waitin’ for that meat to cook through.’

  ‘Thank you. I … there’s a cup in my things, I could just fetch it …’

  Both of Edwards’ saddlebags were bulging and in addition a sack which also appeared to be full was tied to the horn of his saddle. Edwards opened one of the leather bags and took out a chipped china cup, which he proceeded to clean with a piece of cloth he also drew from the bag.

  ‘I should tie up that horse of yours if you’re stayin’ for a time. You don’t want him wandering off.’

  ‘No, I …’ Edwards glanced round and then began to fumble with the reins, doing his best to secure them round one of the aspen branches.

  ‘Travelin’ far?’ Hart asked with no more than a hint of curiosity in his voice.

  ‘Texas. Sterling City.’ Edwards sat down with the cup held in both hands. ‘Do you know it?’

  Hart shook his head. ‘Heard of it.’

  Edwards smiled diffidently. ‘I have a position there.’

  ‘You got a what?’

  ‘A position. A job, I suppose you could say.’

  ‘I could, huh.’

  ‘I am a preacher.’

  ‘Oh.’ Hart stared into his face until Edwards looked away.

  Hart poured coffee into the china cup and some more into his own tin mug. He watched as the preacher blew on the surface of the black liquid and began to sip at it suspiciously.

  Edwards had a young face, without lines or marks. Somehow he’d managed to shave that day like he probably did most days, not a nick or a cut to show for it. His mouth was even, nose regular, the eyes a neutral grey-blue. From close up his suit was fashioned from dark blue material that was fraying at the edges and beginning to bust apart at the seams. Only one button remained in place. The shirt underneath it had been white once, as had the handkerchief that he kept knotted across the top of his head.

  If he was carrying a gun, it wasn’t anywhere in sight. There wasn’t even a bulge under the jacket such as might suggest a shoulder holster.

  ‘You know Texas?’ Hart asked, lifting the stick that held the rabbit away from the fire.

  ‘No. No, I can’t say that I ... no, I’ve never...’ He looked at Hart earnestly. ‘I’m from the East. Boston.’

  ‘Yeah.’ The suggestion of a smile played at the edges of Hart’s mouth.

  ‘I finished my studies earlier in the year. A thesis I was writing upon the sermons of Jonathan Edwards.’ The grey-blue eyes flickered on to Hart’s face and quickly away. ‘He was, sadly, no relation but a wonderful preacher. His sermon on the perils of the evil way of life and the horrors of Hellfire must be the finest ever delivered. All based upon the verse from Deuteronomy, chapter thirty-two, verse thirty-five: Their foot shall slide in due time.’

  Hart snapped one of the legs from the cooked rabbit and passed it over to Edwards, who looked suddenly flustered and embarrassed.

  ‘I’m sorry, I guess you’re not too interested.’

  Hart bit away a chunk of meat. ‘That’s right,’ he said, chewing. A trail of juice began to run from one corner of his mouth into the stubble of his chin.

  Edwards bit into the leg gingerly; it was only barely cooked and tasted of the animal’s blood. Close to the bone, the meat was almost raw.

  ‘Good, ain’t it?’ asked Hart enthusiastically.

  ‘Indeed,’ replied Edwards politely but without fervor. He spat a piece of the meat delicately out into his cupped hand and set it down on the ground.

  ‘You must’ve been travelin’ a long time,’ said Hart after he had sliced more meat from the rabbit’s carcass.

  ‘That is so,’ Edwards agreed. ‘But there is a need for the word of the Lord to be preached wherever Christian families foregather.’

  ‘An’ you reckon there’s a lot of these families round this Sterling City?’

  ‘Oh, certainly. Otherwise, I should not have been sent for.’

  Hart coughed and spat in the direction of the nearest tree. ‘You was sent for?’

  ‘Certainly.’

  ‘All the way from wherever you said it was?’

  ‘Boston.’

  ‘Yeah, Boston.’

  ‘That’s right.’

  Hart whistled. ‘You must be some preacher.’

  Edwards looked disparagingly at the blood-streaked rabbit bone between his fingers. ‘No, you don’t understand. I didn’t mean to suggest that I was sent for personally. The community had need of a preacher and they wrote to Boston and I was...’

  ‘Sent.’ Hart finished for him.

  ‘Well, in a manner of, em, yes. I was sent.’

  Wes Hart smiled to himself and sliced the blade of his knife into the remains of the meat; it was a dull silvery-grey, shot through with traces of pink. He offered some to the preacher, who shook his head and refused. Hart shrugged and took the meat to his mouth with the knife.

  ‘More coffee?’ he asked a few moments later, still chewing eagerly.

  ‘Em, yes. Thank you, that would be ... I wonder, do you have anything I might sweeten it with? Sugar or...?’

  ‘No. I ain’t.’

  ‘Well, in that case, I wonder if you’d be offended if I... you see, I have some of my own and I think it might…’

  ‘Go ahead,’ said Hart, wondering if the preacher dithered and hemmed and hawed when he was standing up in the pulpit. If he did, he couldn’t see the good citizens of Sterling City, Christian or not, paying him a lot of heed.

  ‘May I ask, Mr Hart,’ began Edwards once he’d sat down again. ‘What it is that you do?’

  ‘Well,’ Hart looked at him a moment before continuing, ‘folks got different names for what I do, but I call myself a regulator.’

  ‘A regulator? I’m not sure I understand. Is that some kind of detective?’

  ‘Don’t know ’bout bein’ no detective. But it’s close, I guess. Sort of unofficial lawman, that’d be puttin’ it best, maybe.’

  Edwards ran the palm of his left hand along the leg of his pants; the tip of his tongue pushed against his upper lip. ‘Unofficial? Why that, I mean why aren’t you a marshal or whatever?’

  Hart leaned back, tossing the bare rabbit bone over into the trees. ‘One thing, you can get caught in one place for too long, like you might be in Sterling City. I don’t want that. I like to ride free when I want to, keep movin’. Then again, there’s usually someone givin’ orders, tellin’ you to do things their way. I tried it once an’ didn’t take to it.’ Hart grinned. ‘Another thing, doin’ it my way, there’s more money. Man wants a job done right, he’ll pay for it.’

  ‘But, Mr Hart, you must remember that our true reward is not gained on this Earth.’

  Hart looked at the preacher closely and nodded. ‘That’s damn right. Most folk I run into ain’t gettin’ their reward out of this earth at all. Either they’re workin’ from sunrise to sunset punchin’ another man’s cows or diggin’ another man’s ore, else they’re scrabblin’ around tryin’ to get a livin’ from a couple of head of scrawny beef or a patch of land as won’t grow corn or gold no how.’ Hart set his head aside and spat. ‘They sure ain’t gettin’ no true reward.’

  ‘Mr Hart,’ exclaimed Edwards, shocked, ‘how can you be so cynical? Why, everyone knows the West is the land of hope and promise. Any man, however humble, can work his way, diligently and with the help of God, to his fair share of our nation’s plenty.’

  Hart stood up abruptly. ‘Preacher, you may know what you’re talkin’ about when it comes to the Good Book, but that apart, if you’ll excuse me for sayin’ so, you’re full of shit!’

  Edwards flushed deep r
ed and began to bluster, but Hart had already turned aside and begun to put out the fire, emptying the coffee dregs on to the smoldering flames and returning the pan and his tin mug to his saddlebags.

  ‘One thing,’ he said to Edwards while tightening the cinch on the grey’s saddle, ‘you carryin’ a gun or are you trustin’ your protection to the Good Lord?’

  ‘No, sir, you may consider me unacquainted with the ways of this country, but I am not simple minded. I do, naturally, have a weapon. Purely for self-defense, should the occasion arise.’

  Hart looked at him quizzically and he reached into the side pocket of his suit jacket. He lifted into sight, proudly, a derringer model Colt .41, fingers tight about the small curved butt. He smiled and pointed the weapon at Hart.

  ‘You see.’

  Hart gestured with the palms of both hands outwards. ‘Sure I see. Just point that thing to one side.’

  ‘There’s no call to concern yourself with your safety, Mr Hart. I wouldn’t be so imprudent as to ride with this in my pocket and loaded.’

  Hart lowered his hands.

  ‘But I do have the necessary ammunition.’ Edwards took a shell from the opposite pocket, broke the short barrel of the gun sideways and slid the shell into place.

  ‘There.’

  ‘That’s fine. Only thing you got to remember now is that little toy ain’t goin’ to hit the side of a barn unless you’re right close to it. An’ it ain’t goin’ to stop a rampagin’ steer that’s comin’ straight for you any more than a stone from a slingshot.’

  ‘Ah,’ exclaimed Edwards with a rare note of triumph. ‘Remember the story of David and Goliath.’

  Hart had never heard the story so he would have had difficulty in remembering it. But he wasn’t about to confess his ignorance to Edwards and risk getting a forty minute sermon on the point. So he nodded and mumbled vaguely and finished tightening the saddle cinch.

  When both men were mounted, Hart raised his hand in farewell.

  ‘You take care now, preacher. I’d ride aways with you, only I feel the need to make a little time. I hope the good folk of Sterling City appreciate what they’re gettin’.’