Hart the Regulator 4

by John B. Harvey

  Fowler pointed.

  ‘It can’t be. There’s only two.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘Alice ... she isn’t there. They haven’t brought her with them.’ Alarm flooded his voice. He jerked clumsily at the reins of his mount. ‘We’re getting away from here, now while we can.’

  Fowler reached across and caught firm hold of the reins, restraining him. ‘Don’t be a fool.’

  ‘Who’s a fool? Don’t you see, Alice isn’t with them. It’s some kind of trap.’

  ‘Now you don’t know that.’ Fowler kept his voice reasonable.

  ‘The note said they’d exchange here. Mm, Alice for the money.’

  ‘That’s right.’

  Kennedy wheeled his horse round despite the detective’s efforts to stop him. ‘Don’t you understand? The note could be a trick. They might not have Alice at all.’

  ‘What about what Hart said?’

  ‘He’s probably in it with them.’

  Fowler knocked the heel of his hand against his forehead and growled disbelief. ‘Kennedy, for God’s sake get a hold of yourself and stop panicking. If you want to find out what’s happened to your daughter, you’ve got to wait an’ talk to them.’

  ‘Suppose they just take the money?’

  ‘Well, I appreciate that’s what you’re worried about. But first off, they’d have to take me, which may not be as easy as you think. Besides, which is more important? The money or your daughter?’

  Kennedy let his arms fall to his sides and sighed. He turned again and took up his earlier position. The two men approaching them were making no attempt to hurry themselves along, keeping to the same steady walking pace, side by side down the sloping track through the trees.

  As they turned left along the main trail and began to ride towards Kennedy and Fowler, the detective was thinking of what else might have happened to Alice. He was thinking that it wasn’t beyond the realms of possibility that she was somewhere back past the trees, dead.

  He thought it but didn’t say anything to Kennedy.

  Lee Sternberg pushed his Stetson back on his head, silver hair falling loose almost to the darker line of his eyebrows. ‘You Kennedy?’

  The Scotsman nodded.

  ‘Who’s this?’

  ‘He’s...’

  ‘Name’s Fowler,’ interrupted the detective, with a glance at Kennedy to shut him up.

  ‘You’re...?’ Lee began.

  ‘I’m just along for the ride.’

  Sternberg noted the bulge of the detective’s shoulder holster and nodded.

  ‘So where’s the girl?’ asked Fowler when he’d given Little Fats the once-over.

  Lee Sternberg smiled: ‘She’s safe. She’s just back up that trail there.’

  ‘You were to bring her,’ snapped Kennedy and again Fowler gave him a quick look that said, shut up.

  ‘You’ve got the money,’ Lee went on, ignoring Kennedy’s outburst.

  ‘Maybe we were as cautious as you,’ said Fowler easily.

  Lee’s smile broadened for an instant then disappeared. ‘An’ maybe you weren’t.’

  ‘What’s the deal?’ asked Fowler.

  ‘You hand over the money. We take the kid to a place back along the trail an’ leave her.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘What d’you mean?’

  ‘Why the switch?’

  Lee smiled again, the scarred side of his face turning towards Fowler. ‘We didn’t trust you. For all we know you could’ve got the place crawling with lawmen. Some fool posse. If we ride in with the girl we’re givin’ up our only card.’

  Fowler shrugged his bear-like shoulders. ‘Could be.’

  ‘You can see there’s nobody else,’ Kennedy broke in.

  Lee Sternberg glanced around. ‘These trees an’ rocks - they can hide a lot of men.’

  Fowler shifted his horse sideways, moving closer to Little Fats. ‘We’re wastin’ time. How far back’s the girl?’

  ‘Less’n a mile. She’s watched.’

  ‘Okay. We’ll give you the money when she’s in sight.’

  ‘No!’

  ‘Yes. We’ll ride back together. That way you can check we’re not bein’ followed. When we’re in sight of where you’re keepin’ her you can holler out for her to be let go. We’ll hand over the money.’

  ‘I don’t see it that way.’

  But Lee glanced at Little Fats and one of his eyebrows raised a question - Fowler saw this and pushed his point home.

  That’s the way it’s goin’ to be. Either that or we ride back the way we come.’

  ‘And the girl?’

  ‘You don’t want to get stuck with no kid.’

  Lee glanced at Little Fats again and the round face nodded.

  ‘Okay,’ said Lee. ‘We’ll do it.’

  ‘Right. You an’ me, we’ll ride together. Kennedy an’ your friend bringin’ up the rear. That way no one’ll get shot in the back.’

  He smiled as he said it but there wasn’t any doubting the seriousness of his words.

  Without saying any more, Lee turned his horse through a wide circle and Fowler moved along the trail so that they were riding side by side. Little Fats waited for Kennedy to fall into line and then circled round to ride with him. For half a mile no one spoke. They turned off the main trail and began to head up the slope through the trees.

  Fowler took the flask from his pocket and offered it to Sternberg. Sternberg shook his head and Fowler flipped off the cap and put the neck to his lips, tilting his head back. He was in mid-swallow when a shot sounded - away and distant but unmistakable. He half-choked on the bourbon and pulled the flask away from his face. Alongside him, Lee Sternberg had swung round in his saddle and his hand had begun to move towards the Smith & Wesson in his holster. Fowler jerked back his hand and threw the flask full into Sternberg’s face. The bourbon splashed into Sternberg’s eyes; the flask itself struck him on the jaw and bounced away. While Sternberg was smarting from the liquor, Fowler threw a left-handed punch that glided off the side of his face and at the same time reached inside his coat for the snub-nosed pistol.

  Little Fats had reacted more slowly - Kennedy slower still. It wasn’t until Fowler had thrown the flask and a second shot had followed the first that, swerving his mount away from Kennedy’s, Little Fats made a play for his own gun.

  Kennedy saw him and grabbed at his pocket but he was far too slow. By the time he had touched the butt of his gun, Little Fats had his Colt drawn and leveled. Kennedy froze: his eyebrows arched even as his mouth fell open. The hand on the gun felt suddenly like lead.

  In front of them Fowler had cleared leather and thumbed back the hammer of his own Smith & Wesson. Lee Sternberg saw this and threw himself forwards from his saddle, Fowler loosing off a shot that tore a hole in the brim of Lee’s Stetson as it fell from his head. The next second Fowler was knocked out of the saddle, Sternberg crashing down on top of him.

  ‘Get that hand clear!’

  Kennedy gulped and hemmed and did as he was ordered. His face was white, lips apart, drawing in breath through his nose. Little Fats glanced quickly at the couple struggling on the ground - not enough for Kennedy to dare any move.

  Fowler was winded badly, struggling for breath as Lee Sternberg tried to force one knee hard into his groin and the other down upon Fowler’s spreading stomach. The gun was still in the detective’s hand but only just, fingers catching at the butt with desperation.

  Sternberg moved one of his legs, trying to prise the pistol free and as he did so, Fowler landed a punch on his jaw that succeeded in jerking his head back and round. The detective followed up fast, butting his head into Sternberg’s chest and wriggling from underneath him.

  ‘Bastard!’

  As Fowler scrambled to his feet, Lee Sternberg dived forward at his legs, toppling him once more, the pair of them rolling over and over while Little Fats and Kennedy watched.

  Fowler’s boot thudded into Sternberg’s thigh and a punch swung past his face a
nd caught him on the shoulder instead. The fingers of Sternberg’s hand jabbed at Fowler’s eyes and missed by inches only, landing on either side of his nose.

  Again Fowler struggled free, breathing heavily. He swung his fist and pushed himself up behind it, crouching bearlike and beckoning Sternberg to come and attack him.

  ‘No!’

  Little Fats yelled loud and pointed the Colt at the detective’s head.

  Fowler looked up and slowly let his arms fall by his sides, his own weapon was on the ground and out of reach. The narrowed eyes staring at him from the almost flat face gave him no option. He shrugged and allowed his shoulders to slump forward.

  Kennedy looked on, white-faced, too frightened to move.

  A third shot broke the silence and as Little Fats’ eyes flickered momentarily away from Fowler and up towards the trees, the detective jumped forwards. The space between them was too great; the time too small. Fowler too slow; Little Fats too fast.

  The underside of the Colt barrel smashed down on to Fowler’s forehead, breaking the line of thinning dark hair with blood.

  Fowler grunted and threw up his right arm.

  He fell heavily by Little Fats’ horse and Lee Sternberg reached down and turned him over, straightening himself sufficiently to kick into the detective’s ample belly and his broad chest.

  ‘Leave it,’ said Little Fats, wiping the blood from the barrel of his gun.

  Sternberg cursed and kicked again: it was like driving a boot into a sack of lard - like the still-warm bulk of a slaughtered boar.

  ‘Lee. Lee!’

  Sternberg looked up on the second shout, breathing heavily, the scar on his cheek standing out clearly.

  ‘Yeah,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘Yeah, it’s okay.’

  ‘We ought to...’

  ‘I know.’

  Lee retrieved his hat and pushed his little ringer through the hole Fowler’s bullet had made in the brim.

  ‘See that?’

  Little Fats nodded.

  ‘That fat bastard could’ve shot my head off.’

  ‘Uh-huh.’ Little Fats gave way to a laugh.

  ‘It ain’t funny!’

  ‘No, sure. Sure ain’t.’ Little Fats chuckled and turned his face away.

  Lee Sternberg went back to Fowler and drove his boot into him once more, this time into the kidneys. The heavy body moved a little but Fowler felt nothing.

  ‘You got the money?’ Little Fats asked the terrified Kennedy.

  Kennedy stared back at him, mouth falling slowly open, one eyebrow arching upwards.

  ‘The money... you got it?’

  ‘Sure he’s got it.’ Lee drew the Smith & Wesson from his holster. ‘He wouldn’t’ve come all this way without it. Would you…’ The final words were shouted as the hammer on Sternberg’s gun was prised back and the barrel lined up with Kennedy’s head.

  ‘No, hmm, of course I … mm ... it’s here, the money ... the money’s all here...’

  ‘Get it!’

  Kennedy turned in the saddle and while his fingers fumbled, Little Fats looked back up the sloping trail.

  ‘What d’you reckon?’

  ‘We’ll find out soon enough. Just as quick as we get this money.’ He moved closer to Kennedy. ‘Get it movin’, will you?’

  Kennedy nodded and fumbled all the more.

  ‘Only three shots,’ Little Fats went on, thinking aloud. ‘Could be Turkey.

  Lee shook his head. ‘Weren’t no rifle.’

  ‘Vonnie, then, gettin’ in a little target practice.’

  Neither of them believed it.

  Little Fats looked over at Kennedy. ‘You don’t suppose he was tryin’ somethin’ smart, do you?’

  Lee sniggered. ‘Smart? Him?’ But he pressed the end of the pistol into Kennedy’s side none the less and leered up into his frightened face. ‘You got any idea what that shootin’ might be about?’

  ‘Me? No, mm…’

  Lee Sternberg pressed the gun harder and deeper until Kennedy winced. ‘Cause if I find out you was tryin’ to double-cross us, I’ll put a bullet in your yeller hide easy as spit.’

  Sweat ran down both sides of Kennedy’s face and his eyes stung and smarted. He gulped in air noisily, helplessly. He handed over the money to Sternberg.

  ‘What about my … what about Alice?’

  ‘That depends.’

  ‘But you’ve got the money. I kept my side of the bargain. You’ve got to hand Alice over to me. You must.. .’

  ‘Must?’ Lee smiled and released the hammer of his gun, reaching round with one hand to stuff the money down into one of his saddlebags. ‘Things are different now. We’re holdin’ all the cards.’

  Kennedy opened his mouth, floundering for words: none came.

  ‘Lee,’ said Little Fats, ‘we’d best move.’

  ‘I know it.’

  He nodded at Kennedy. ‘Okay. You ride with us. Up in front. When we get to the cabin we’ll see what’s happenin’. If your girl’s there an’ everythin’s all right, you take her as planned.’

  Kennedy’s question was scarcely heard. ‘What if it’s not?’

  Sternberg smiled grimly and gestured with his gun. ‘Get goin’, Now.’

  Kennedy sighed and kicked his boots into his horse’s flanks, moving back on to the trail. The sweat that ran down his face was sticky and warm; his heart hammered against his ribs so hard he thought it might break. He set his eyes on the tree line and headed towards it.

  Chapter Eleven

  Fowler tried to open his eyes. He’d been trying for several minutes and they wouldn’t budge. Somehow they seemed to be stuck shut. He figured that if he could get his hand up to them he could find some way of prising them open, but moving his fingers that far seemed a more insurmountable problem than the one he had already.

  He forgot about it and lay there with his eyes closed, curled up like a big, shaggy ball, thinking. He didn’t know for sure what those shots had been about but he could make a good guess. He thought if he was right then those shots - some of them, at least -had been fired by Wes Hart.

  Three shots and as far as he knew there were two of Sternberg’s men guarding the girl. The girl and the silver. No one had said anything about it for a long time - no one had really spoken to him about it at all. But he knew that Lee Sternberg had it - and Hart knew it, too.

  He wondered what Hart would do if he found the silver.

  Keep it or return it to Kennedy?

  He didn’t know: he knew what he would do if it were him but that didn’t help any.

  One of his eyes opened and then, slowly, the other. He groaned involuntarily and rolled part way on to his back, lifting his hand up to his face. The eyelids had been stuck down with blood.

  As carefully as he could, he wiped and scraped it away from the corners of his eyes and the lids. The center of his forehead felt as if it had been kicked by a mule with a sense of vengeance in its hoofs. As soon as he was able, he sat up and looked around. The animal he’d been riding had wandered some thirty or forty yards away from the trail and was cropping grass between the trees. At first he didn’t spot the gun and assumed that it had been taken, but then he saw it on the ground behind him and nodded his head.

  Okay - all he needed now was a drink.

  The hand that lifted the flask from the ground was none too steady, but it was managed just the same. He shook it and smiled. The first slug of bourbon tasted as good as any he’d ever had. The second was pretty good, too.

  After the third he felt good enough to think about standing up.

  After the fifth he did it.

  When he got to his horse he hauled himself up into the saddle and sat there for several seconds while the jolts of pain shot through his body from his stomach and his kidneys.

  He cursed Lee Sternberg a whole lot and hoped that whatever else Wes Hart did, he didn’t get to Sternberg before he did.

  Fowler slipped the flask back down into his pocket, grunted up at the unrelenting sun
and followed the three riders up through the trees.

  The whistle was two-toned - low and high, low and high, repeating. Lee reined in and glanced around at Little Fats, who had the same look of recognition on his face.

  ‘That’s Turkey,’ said Lee.

  Little Fats nodded and drew his pistol. ‘I know.’

  Kennedy stared at them both and waited. He felt helpless, stupid. He had no idea what might have happened to Alice, whether the shots they had heard could mean good or bad. And now this - this Turkey. Who was he?

  ‘Wait up.’ Lee pointed at him and Kennedy nodded and watched as Lee rode past him, turning away into the trees. Soon he could only hear him as branches shielded his horse from sight.

  ‘What’s happening?’ He turned towards Little Fats.

  The round, flat face looked back at him, no expression in the narrow eyes. ‘Shut up.’

  Kennedy shrugged and turned away. Nothing would stop the cramps that were biting into his stomach or the waves of cold that were sweeping along the backs of his legs and arms.

  Turkey gave his whistle once more and stepped out from behind the trunk of a tree less than fifteen yards ahead of where Lee was riding. He had his long-barreled Sharps in his left hand.

  Lee dismounted and tied his reins to a branch.

  ‘What gives?’

  ‘Vonnie’s dead.’

  Lee stared at him questioningly, feeling a small jolt at the back of his head. ‘How come?’

  ‘That feller who was ridin’ guard on the girl. Kennedy’s girl.’ Turkey pushed one hand through the side of his iron-grey hair. ‘It was him.’

  ‘ Jesus Christ!’ Lee’s voice was low and wondering. ‘You saw it.’

  Turkey shook his head and his neck wobbled from side to side. ‘Not happenin’. Got there when he was draggin’ him out of the corral. Looked like he put a slug through the center of his chest.’ Turkey spat. ‘Weren’t pretty.’

  ‘How come Vonnie let him get that close?’

  ‘Don’t know for certain, only...’

  ‘What?’

  ‘The girl - her clothes was all torn. She looked in some state. I wondered if Vonnie’s feelin’s got the better of him. If he was get-tin’ all hot and bothered ’bout her, he wouldn’t’ve been any too careful who was sneakin’ up on him now, would he?’