Hart the Regulator 10

by John B. Harvey

  Hart sensed the intensity of the stare and set the piece of bread back down. He readjusted his chair and tried again; but even though he could no longer see her, he knew she was still there and that presence was unsettling enough to take the taste away from the last of his breakfast.

  He swilled down the remnants of his mug of coffee, luke-warm only by now, dropped some coins on the table for his bill, and went out on to the street.

  The girl had disappeared.

  Hart shrugged and turned towards the livery stable. He wanted to make sure that his horse would be good and ready as soon as he’d made whatever inquiries he could.

  The old man was sitting bent-backed by the stove, a piece of stale-seeming pie untouched on a barrel head beside him. He was drinking black, bitter tea from an enamel mug and polishing the bullets that hung from his watch chain. When Hart walked in he glanced up and scowled then went back to his task.

  ‘Must be pretty special,’ said Hart.

  The livery man growled something that might have been agreement.

  ‘Guess you didn’t just find ’em lyin’ around?’

  The old timer moved his head to one side so that he wouldn’t spit down on Hart’s boots by three or four inches. ‘Dug ’em outa me when they got me back to Coloma on a wagon. Been layin’ up in the hills three days in the snow. Leg was bust an’ most the time I weren’t conscious at all. Hadn’t been for that damned snow I’d’ve bled to death if the blasted thing hadn’t took bad an’ festered up on me.’

  Hart set one foot on a bale of hay. Horses shifted restlessly in the stalls along the far wall and he knew without looking that Clay was one of them, the mare sensing his presence, recognizing his voice.

  ‘Forty-eight?’ he said.

  ‘Forty-nine.’ The liveryman swallowed a mouthful of tea and grimaced. ‘Got me a strike off towards the American. Damn gold so bright when you set a pick end against it you’d’ve thought it’d drive you blind.’

  ‘Lot of folk, it did just that,’ said Hart.

  The man looked at him. ‘True ain’t the word, feller.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘Bunch of ’em jumped me just around dark. Couple of fellers’d been talkin’ a while, claimed they was passin’ down to Coloma to meet up with some friends. They was ridin’ raggedy-assed mules an’ managed to stink worse’n them mules did. If either of ’em’d washed or shaved in a moon I’d’ve been surprised. Had some tea brewin’ an’ gave ’em some - only seemed right. One of ’em was handing’ me back the mug when they jumped me. He let the mug fall an’ grabbed my hand while the other one, he laid about my head with a shovel. Soon as I was down there was two more of ’em. Lord alone knows where they sprung from. I did my best to fight the buzzards off, but never stood no chance. When there was blood thick across my eyes so’s I couldn’t hardly see, I figured it was time to make a run for it.’

  He paused long enough to wet his lips with more tea, glancing at Hart and making small nodding movements with his head.

  ‘One of ’em pulled his gun an’ put four slugs in me. Two in the back of the leg, one under the shoulder blade, other up here close by the side of the neck. They come over an’ looked at me and laughed an’ left me for dead. When they was sleepin’ I dragged myself as far as I could down the hill but never got too far. Sometime durin’ the night snow set in an’ I was stuck. Prospector an’ his kid, they found me three-parts buried under an’ dug me out. Loaded me up and took me down to town. Heard him say to his kid it was likely a waste of time an’ I’d die for sure but it was the Christian thing to take me anyway.’

  He grinned, broken-toothed.

  That doc sure did a good job. Dug these beauties out of me an’ set ’em on the edge of the bed. You keep ’em, he says, remember how close you come to dyin’. Well …’He fingered the buckled bullets almost tenderly. ‘… I wore ’em since an’ I ain’t forgot. Ain’t passed a day without I ain’t said my thanks.’

  Hart wondered whether he thanked God or the prospector or the doctor - maybe it was all three.

  The old timer pitched what remained of his black tea on to the dusty floor and stood up about as straight as he could. ‘Guess you’ll be wantin’ that gray of yours?’

  ‘Give me an hour.’

  The man swung his head. Thought you was all finished here. Jacob’s in the jailhouse, ain’t he?’

  ‘Long as some mob don’t take it into their heads to drag him out an’ lynch him.’

  ‘That was last night. Merle Wringer layin’ there with the blood runnin’ out of him. They won’t feel the same this mornin’. I know the folk in this town. They ain’t hog-wild like you might think.’

  ‘Uh-huh,’ Hart nodded. ‘An’ the boy? He worked for you, didn’t he?’

  ‘Jacob? Yea, he did. Come bustin’ out of that hole of a place his pa kept him slavin’ on all the hours God sends and most of them as belongs to the other feller. It was like bustin’ out of Hell, I guess. He worked hard and long for me on account he weren’t used to no other way. But there was always somethin’ strange about him. Somethin’ dark I reckon. Like there was some strange feelin’ just under his skin an’ itchin’ to get out. When I heard he’d gone loco in the saloon I weren’t surprised.’

  ‘I thought he was more drunk ’n loco.’

  The old timer spat. ‘Whiskey was no more’n the excuse, I reckon. He’d’ve gone strange soon enough one way or another. ’Specially after what happened.’

  ‘How d’you mean?’

  ‘He was workin’ here one day and they sent for him. His pa was sick an’ like to die. Stayed back there till it happened. Buried him along with the rest of his kin then come back into town. I figured he’d be a deal happier with the old man gone and under, but maybe it did no more’n turn his head. I don’t know. He weren’t easy to figure. Now I guess, one way or another, he’ll end up swingin’ from a rope.’

  Hart shrugged. ‘Could be.’

  The livery man moved towards the stall where the gray mare was pushing her head over the door. Hart patted her, stroked her and she nuzzled against him.

  ‘An hour then?’

  ‘That should do it.’ Hart began to walk away then changed his mind. ‘That stage hold-up …’

  ‘Which one?’

  ‘Out by Salt Wells. Not too long back. You happen to know who drove that day?’

  ‘Likely Charlie Spencer. If it was you can find out soon enough. Got a small place on the northern edge of town. If he’s out with the stage his missus’ll be there. She’ll tell you what she can. They’re both good folks, Charlie an’ Ethel.’

  Hart touched his fingers to the underside of his hat. ‘Much obliged.’

  ‘Okay. I’ll see your mare’s ready.’

  Hart nodded and turned and as he did so he caught a glimpse of the girl’s face, oval and pale, shrouded with black hair, as it pulled out of sight past the livery door.

  ‘Hey!’

  But when he got there she’d ducked around the side and he could hear her feet running along the dusty alleyway. Hart headed up to where he might find Charlie Spencer and some more information about Dave Speedmore.

  Both the Spencers were at home. Charlie, who turned out to be a paunchy sandy-haired man of around fifty, was doing his best to stop the lean-to from leaning too far, while his hound dog tried to distract him into a game with an old bone. Ethel, who was taller than her husband, likely ten years younger, sharp-faced and shrewd, was fixing the last of a batch of meat and potato pies for the oven. She had flour on her cheeks and the front of her apron, a smidgeon of it at the very tip of her nose. Charlie kissed it off as he came in and she was too embarrassed in front of a stranger to tell him off for walking into the house without first scraping all the mud from his boots.

  They asked Hart to take a seat, gave him a cup of weak coffee and a chunk of oatcake and Charlie told him all that he knew. It didn’t turn out to be much except for one thing. He thought there might have been half a dozen of them, though he couldn’t
be sure. The one he heard called Cherokee was wearing a gun belt studded with diamonds that were as faked as a Saturday night whore (Ethel reddened and fidgeted with her cup, reaching round to pet the dog) and a black hat with a white feather sticking up out of the brim. He was a breed certain enough and looked mean enough to scalp a man as long as his hands were already tied behind his back. He didn’t recall much about the others, never heard no other names, not a lot about them that would help him to pick them out again.

  But then there was this one thing: just when they were riding off he heard one of them shout to the others, ‘Meet you at the hollow.’

  Hart set his cup down on the floor, the coffee only half drunk. ‘Any idea where that might be?’

  ‘Didn’t at the time, only the other night we was talkin’ ’bout somethin’ miles away from this and of a sudden Ethel.’

  ‘I remembered this place I rode out to one time when I was no more’n a girl.’

  ‘Weren’t no more’n ten year ago, an’ she was up there with Reno Walker, sparkin’.’ Charlie laughed. ‘Woman her age!’

  Ethel flushed again, but this time with pleasure. ‘You didn’t reckon it strange when I was sparkin’ with you, Charlie Spencer and most folk wouldn’t have thought you had anythin’ left in you!’

  ‘See here!’

  Ethel shook her head and waved her hands and calmed him down. ‘This ain’t what mister Hart’s come callin’ to hear, Charlie, an’ you know it.’

  ‘Go on then. You tell him what you remembered.’

  Ethel turned in her chair. In place of the flour on her nose there was now a small piece of oatcake at the edge of her mouth; Hart wondered if Charlie would eat it off.

  ‘We rode out to this place between here and Salt Wells. Off between two stumpy hills to the south-west. There’s a creek bed that’s dried up eleven months of the year and we rode along it, climbing all the time. Half an hour, maybe more, we come to this valley snug between the hills, choked in on three sides. Never know it was there unless you happened on it by chance.’

  ‘Or someone told you where to look,’ put in Charlie.

  ‘Or that,’ Ethel agreed.

  ‘It was called the Hollow?’ asked Hart.

  ‘That’s what Reno called it. Said a bunch of rustlers used to use it as a way-station for horses they were taking across into California.’

  ‘Reckon he was telling the truth?’

  ‘There was an old shack up there, but it was half tumbled down. Bits of fencing like there might have been a corral of sorts.’ She glanced over at Charlie, as if for confirmation. ‘Yes, it could have been used for what Reno said, I suppose. Though I never heard no one else round here call it by that name. You, Charlie?’

  Charlie shook his head.

  ‘This feller, Reno – he still around?’

  Ethel laughed: ‘Reno Walker never did stay in one place too long. I guess that’s why I got hitched to Charlie here instead.’ She reached a hand across and laid her long fingers on his arm, just for a moment. ‘Not that I’m sayin’ I regretted it, mind.’

  Hart stood up. ‘Thanks for the coffee, ma’am. An’ the information. Thanks to you, Charlie, too.’

  The couple stood up.

  ‘There’s more in the pot,’ Ethel urged him, but Hart declined, hoping she wouldn’t notice that he hadn’t drunk more than half of what she’d given him.

  Hart hesitated at the door, then stepped back. ‘Charlie, do me favor, will you?’

  ‘If I can.’

  ‘Take a look out through that window there. You see a girl hangin’ around? Young thing with dark hair.’

  Charlie looked through one window and Ethel the other. The girl was across the street, trying to find something of interest in the miserable front garden of one of the Spencer’s neighbors.

  ‘She somethin’ to you?’ asked Charlie.

  Hart shrugged. ‘She seems to think she is. Been followin’ me since first light.’

  ‘Why don’t you ask her what she wants?’

  ‘Every time I see her she runs away. Makes conversation a mite difficult.’ He looked towards the rear of the house. ‘Mind if I slip out that way? See if I can’t lose her off’n my tail.’

  Charlie nodded. ‘Help yourself.’

  Hart cut a path across Charlie’s patch of ground and circled round so as to hit the main street some hundred yards further back and just about up by the jail. There were still one of two things he had to collect before taking his leave of Fallon for a spell. He’d ride out the way Ethel Spencer had described and see just what was going on in the place she’d heard called the Hollow. If it was some kind of staging post for horse thieves, or just a general hang-out for no-goods and desperadoes, he still might pick up something about the men he was looking for.

  The two fellers Zack Moses had put into the jailhouse in his place were deep into a game of checkers and he could have sneaked up on them and taken their guns from their belts before they’d noticed.

  He hoped for Jacob Batt’s sake that what the livery man had said was true and the town’s lynch fever had passed in the night like a bad dream. It certainly seemed peaceful enough, no more than a handful of folk on the street and most of the storekeepers loitering outside their doors looking for custom.

  Hart heard Jacob’s cursing from the back and opened the partition door long enough to bid him good morning and farewell.

  Laughing at the boy’s threat to burst out of there and take a knife to his throat, Hart shouldered his saddle bags, waited to watch a few moves on the checkers board and let himself out on to the boardwalk.

  There she was right in the middle of the street, only this time she wasn’t running the second she saw his face. She was standing with her legs spread apart and the cheap cotton of her skirt hung tight against her thighs. Her black hair was pushed back from her neck at one side and her eyes were squinted up although there wasn’t any sun. Both arms were stretched out in front of her as far and as straight as they could go and her small fingers could just about grip the Colt .45 that she was pointing right at Hart’s chest.

  ‘What you fixin’ on doin’ with that?’ asked Hart, quite still.

  ‘You bastard!’ she said in her soft little girl’s voice. ‘I’m goin’ to shoot you dead!’

  Chapter Seven

  Hart stared at the face, at the dark eyes that seemed to be set just a fraction too wide apart; he watched the upturn of the mouth, the unchanging fall of hair, the fineness of the nose. The hands were steady, white to the bone with effort; her arms showed no signs of dropping but in time they would. A Colt Peacemaker .45 weighed two pounds four ounces. Anyone could buy one for seventeen dollars, mail order. All you had to do was buy some shells and point it at someone and given skill or luck it was accurate at up to forty yards.

  The girl was no more than ten yards away from Hart and he guessed she meant what she’d said. She’d sure been tailing him round long enough to make up her mind.

  Strange, standing there with that pistol in her hands and the hammer cocked, she no longer looked timid as an antelope.

  Hart sighed: it weren’t so strange.

  ‘Who are you?’ he asked.

  The tip of her tongue appeared momentarily between her lips. She gave a quick shake of her head as if to say that don’t matter none and her hair came back over her shoulder and fell against her pale cheek.

  ‘What’s your name?’

  The tongue pushed further, curling down.

  ‘What’s he to you?’ Hart’s head nodded backwards.

  She opened her mouth as though she could no longer breath through her nose. The tongue disappeared. A woman was standing watching them from the far side of the street, wicker shopping basket held in both hands and resting against her legs. Not moving, doing or saying anything, watching like it was some kind of free show.

  Back inside the jailhouse, Hart reckoned they were still playing their game of checkers.

  ‘He your feller?’

  ‘No!’ the w
ord almost spat from her mouth.

  ‘What then?’

  ‘He’s kin.’

  ‘Close kin?’

  ‘He’s my brother.’

  ‘Uh-huh. That’s why you’re goin’ to kill me, huh?’

  ‘Yes!’

  ‘On account of stickin’ him in there.’ Another backwards nod.

  ‘Yeah!’

  ‘You know what would’ve happened to him if I hadn’t done that, don’t you?’

  ‘Sure I do. He’d’ve got away.’

  Hart shook his head. ‘He’d have got lynched. You’d be cuttin’ him down right now.’

  ‘No.’

  For a second her fingers tightened further around the gun and Hart thought it was going to fire; but at the last second she relaxed just a little and sucked hard on the side of her cheek instead.

  He wondered how much longer he had to keep her standing there before her arms got too tired.

  He said: ‘You wanted him to get clear?’

  ‘Of course I did. What d’you think?’

  ‘He killed a man.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘Killed the sheriff. Shot his head clean away. With a gun like that. That what you want to do?’

  ‘Yes!’

  ‘You sure of that?’

  Her head moved to one side and swung back. ‘You miserable bastard, I’m goin’ to kill you just as you stand there!’

  Zack Moses was walking slowly along the boardwalk and had come into the corner of Hart’s vision. The mayor was toting a double-barreled shotgun and fixing to use it. If he did he was about as likely to cut Hart in two from that angle as he was the girl. Besides, Hart didn’t want to see her shredded to pieces in front of his eyes.

  He gave Moses a quick look that warned, keep out of this, and hoped that the girl didn’t notice and get panicked into pulling home on that Colt trigger.

  ‘You ever killed a man before?’