‘Thought he said two?’ called Garrett breathlessly when they were level with the dead man.
‘He did.’
The building on their left stopped short, leaving an open yard with a ramshackle shed at the far end. To the other side, the wall continued towards the street. Herne pointed the barrel of his gun in the direction of the shed.
Garrett followed the line and nodded, setting off to curve round towards it from the far side. Herne gripped his gun and waited, half an eye on the alley opening in case another of Jennings’s men should take it into his head to investigate. He hoped they wouldn’t; he hoped Billy and the others were keeping them occupied.
Garrett was within a dozen yards of the shack now and crouching low, motioning Herne forwards. Herne nodded and set off. He was six, maybe eight yards on when two shots burst out of the shack towards Garrett.
The first dug a groove through the packed dirt of the open ground less than an arm’s distance to Garrett’s right; as Garrett flung himself towards the floor the second bullet took the heel clean off the bottom of his left boot.
Herne cocked the hammer of the Colt and aimed steady: fired three times.
There was a shout of surprise and pain from inside the shack and a moment later a body crashed against the front of it and broke several of the rotting planks in two. The man’s face showed first, eyes screwed tight and mouth wide open, hat falling slowly back from his head. An arm jutted forward, then another grabbed upwards and a plank smashed to pieces. The top half of the man’s body folded forwards as it bent at the waist, the lower section of the shack holding firm. He somersaulted awkwardly over, legs coming up at all angles. When he landed his head was skewed strangely to one side, one arm was bent behind his back, one leg thrust upwards. The front of his shirt and vest were thickening with blood, thickening and darkening.
Pat Garrett grinned at Herne ruefully and stepped back to retrieve his heel. He held it up for Herne to examine–the bullet had scarcely touched it, striking the edge with sufficient force to tear it off and nothing more.
‘Guess I should be sayin’ thanks,’ he said to Herne.
Herne shook his head, the sounds of rifle and pistol fire still coming from the far side of the alleyway. ‘There ain’t time.’
He turned away from the shack and moved cautiously to the end of the adobe, glancing in either direction. The livery stable was some way down to the right and to the left there was a scattering of smaller places and then empty space.
Someone was using a rifle high up in the livery stable, firing across the clearing, but it wasn’t possible to see who or exactly where from.
Garrett judged the distance as fifty yards.
He rubbed at his jaw, the traces of a smile in his eyes. ‘That’s a lot of space for a man to get shot in.’
Herne grinned back at him. ‘Specially for a man who sneaks up on a feller waitin’ to shoot him like he was a coyote sniffin’ out his next meal.’
Garrett frowned, then laughed. ‘I was just distractin’ him, so’s you could get your shot in. Didn’t you know that?’
Herne clapped him on the shoulder. ‘Let’s get to it.’ He looked at Garrett. ‘You want to go first? Run till you draw fire an’ I give cover. Then change about. Suit you?’
Garrett looked briefly at Herne, his head angled to one side. Without saying another word he drew his pistol and spun the chamber; then he touched Herne quickly on the arm and set off across the street.
Garrett ran fast, not bothering to duck or weave, not yet, intent upon making as much ground as he could. Herne watched the livery stable, steadying his gun arm against the side of the adobe.
He heard the shout and anticipated the first shot a second before it came. The dust spun upwards in a sharp cloud a foot to Garrett’s right and Herne fired twice, aiming for the rifle flash high in the stable, hearing one of his shots go winging off the wooden beam.
Pat Garrett swerved to the left and carried on running, bending his six foot five frame now so as to reduce the target as much as possible. Herne fired twice more, getting one rifle shot directed back at him in return; he saw that Garrett had pulled up short and was bringing up his own pistol. He set off at a sprint, boots close to slipping on the dusty surface.
Almost up to where Garrett was crouching and firing, Herne skidded sideways and lost his balance, the Colt spinning away from his grasp. At the same moment another rifle joined in from the opposite side to the livery stable, trying to pick both Garrett and himself off before they could make cover.
‘Jed, I …’
‘Get goin’!’
Herne rolled towards where his Colt had landed, covering himself in a shower of white dust. His fingers hit the metal of the barrel, shifted, caught at the wooden butt. A slug spat more dust up into his face and his eyes closed automatically, mouth spitting to one side. He heard a pistol shot from his left and assumed Pat Garrett had reached the far side. As his eyes opened he caught a glimpse of the man firing at him and snapped off a shot that whined along a length of adobe wall and sent the man scurrying back for safety.
‘Jed.’
Garrett’s call was unnecessary. Herne was on his feet and running fast; he made cover without another shot being fired’
‘You okay?’
‘Yeah.’
Garrett’s eyes smiled. ‘Right. Let’s get to that bastard up in the stable.’
They moved along close by the wall, switching positions every ten yards, watching the opposite corner as well as the stable itself. Trouble came from both places at once. Two movements that were similar but not identical; two rifles moving from cover. In response two separate hands moved for separate guns, speed blurring with speed. Herne ducked his body backwards as he brought the Colt up and cocked the hammer, finger starting to squeeze back evenly on the trigger, waiting until he could see the shoulder, the shoulder and a little more, chest and a little more …
Herne fired and was aware of Garrett firing at the same time. His shot took the man inches to the right of his breast bone, fracturing two ribs as it broke between them, bursting through his back wide of the spine with a shower of bloody tissue that sprayed itself over the grayish white of the adobe wall and the patina of dust on the hardened ground.
Garrett’s shot smashed his man’s wrist, glancing upwards from the bone and leaving the hand dangling uselessly.
‘Let’s hit it!’
They ran in tandem, turning fast at the big stable doors then separating left and right. Herne saw a pile of loose hay and dived into it, raising his right shoulder and letting his body roll as it landed. He came up into a kneeling position with the Colt still tight in his hand, staring up at the balcony that ran round the upper part of the stable. He couldn’t see the man and then he could, no more than a shadow easing from corner to corner along the farthest wall,
‘Above you, Pat.’
‘Right.’
Garrett moved along quietly, heading for the ladder at the back of the stable. Horses shifted uneasily in their stalls, one whinnying loudly and kicking its back legs hard against the end boards. As Garrett set his left hand on the rung and prepared to climb, Herne sighted along the barrel of the Colt, waiting, waiting …
Garrett was almost at the top when the man made his play. He did it well, too, throwing himself forward and firing as he fell, the bullet breaking through the end of the top rung and leaving Garrett grasping a piece of smashed and splintered wood and fighting to keep his balance.
Herne’s first shot went inches over the man’s head; his second drummed into the wall behind him and he only just made his third before the man picked Garrett off easy as a peach on a California tree.
Herne’s third shot caught the man in the shoulder and drove him backwards, cursing. As he tried to lever himself up for a shot at Herne, Garrett swiveled fast and put a .45 caliber bullet through his neck. It went clean through, behind the Adam’s apple and severing the windpipe. The two men heard a rough gurgling and Garrett ran along the balcony
and kicked the dying man’s pistol down on to the floor. Blood and pale yellow fluid oozed from twin holes in his neck; his eyes blinked and tried to focus but when they finally fixed it was on a space several feet to Garrett’s right. A moment later the body slumped leisurely sideways–all the time in the world now.
Below, Herne was saddling the horses as fast as he could, calling for Garrett to help him. Between them they were ready in minutes, both mounted and raring to go, the reins of the three spare mounts in their free hands, pistols tight in the others.
‘I guess …’ For an instant, Garrett’s face was clouded with doubt. ‘... there ain’t no other way of doin’ this.’
Herne shook his head. ‘No there ain’t.’
‘Fine. Let’s get to it.’
Whooping and hollering and firing as they rode, the pair went fast through the stable doors. Both men were far to the right in their saddles, leaning along the necks of their mounts and showing as little of themselves as possible. They used their guns from under the horses’ necks, firing at will, hoping to hell that the three in the cantina would be covering them and ready to move fast.
A volley of fire raked across the clearing and it was answered swiftly as the cantina door was thrown open and Billy jumped out, pistol in one hand, rifle in the other. Herne hauled in on the reins and straightened up, glimpsing Will Jennings by the doorway to the church and loosing off a shot that had the marshal ducking fast out of sight.
Mason and Pecos ran towards the horses, Pecos vaulting into the saddle and almost losing his grip on the pommel and tumbling off again. Mason shouted his mount on, pushing with his right boot on the ground, left slotted into the stirrup. His leg was lifting through the air when a slug hit him in the back of the thigh and made him sway wildly, shouting with pain.
Garrett turned the horse he was riding and tried to circle round behind him, but now Mason’s mount was dragging him across the dirt, dragging him from the stirrup, the man’s heavy body bouncing amongst swirls of dust.
‘Come on, Pat! Leave him! Leave him!’
Garrett swung his head as Billy’s high-pitched voice cut through the surrounding noise. He knew the Kid was right; Mason was being pulled, screaming, towards the church. The last thing Garrett saw before he spurred his horse away was Will Jennings standing just inside the church doorway, aiming carefully down at Mason’s bouncing, helpless body.
Herne neither saw that nor thought about it–he was at the head of the charge out past the adobes and into open country. However he was going to end up, it wasn’t going to be down in Mexico with a bullet in his back from an illegal posse. Mostly he thought about that, but he gave some little thought to Marshal Will Jennings as well … and how their next meeting might begin and end.
Chapter Eleven
South-west of Banderas the land rose sharply then fell away gradually into a level plain bordered by hills on both sides. A river ran diagonally across the plain; there was brush and even grass. Clumps of stocky trees stood towards the western edge. A little over half a mile distant what looked like a ranch sat close to the far side of the river.
‘We need supplies if we’re goin’ to keep ridin’.’ said Billy, ‘Maybe we can get ’em there.’
‘Yeah,’ said Garrett, looking over his shoulder and back down the steep slope they’d just climbed. ‘Maybe we could at that. What d’you think, Jed?’
Herne shrugged and was about to answer when the Kid cut in.
‘What you got to ask him for?’ he said angrily. ‘If I say we’ll do it, we’ll damn well do it. You understand that?’
Garrett looked at the Kid almost sadly. ‘What’s eatin’ you up, Billy? That wound givin’ you a hard time again?’
The Kid turned his horse through a circle, yanking hard on the reins. ‘Never mind no damn wound! Nothin’s fussin’ me, neither. ’Cept folk questionin’ what I say. Now let’s ride on down there instead of wastin’ time.’
He dug his spurs into his horse’s flanks and set off down the hill. Garrett and Pecos following ten or so yards behind. Herne hesitated on the ridge, looking carefully down for any signs of pursuit. They’d not heard or seen anything of Jennings and what was left of his posse since leaving Banderas. Herne couldn’t figure it. Now that Jennings had got so far, he wasn’t going to give up. Even if he’d lost four or five of his men, he’d push on, maybe trying to hire more on the way.
Herne cleared his throat. There could be another reason–Jennings could have a good idea where they were going and be circling round rather than following. After all, he’d picked out Banderas correctly enough. Herne turned his horse and prepared to follow the others. It could be that this time Jennings had guessed wrong. Then again …
~*~
Manuel Gómez was the Mexican who had bought drinks for them in the cantina in Banderas. When Billy and the other three rode between the outbuildings and up to the courtyard of his rancheria, he stood with arms folded waiting to greet them. There were silver circles decorating the edges of his waistcoat, silver stars lining the hem of his black pants; the high peak and broad brim of his sugar-loaf sombrero were crisp and new. His hands were tanned and empty, resting easy by his sides.
As Billy brought his horse to a halt, Gómez hailed him in Spanish and English, offering to take the reins of the Kid’s horse. Billy hesitated, unsure, not certain that when the Mexican had left the cantina he hadn’t gone straight off to tell Jennings where they were. But the Kid got down from his saddle anyway and shook Gomez’s hand briefly, stepping aside so that Garrett could exchange the same greeting.
Gómez called one of his men into the courtyard to take away the mounts and waved Billy and the others inside.
The furniture was rough-hewn but well cared for, solid tables and chairs and sets of drawers standing on a stone floor. The men sat at a long table and Gómez passed them glasses and then poured red wine into them, toasting their good fortune.
‘I know there was trouble in Banderas,’ he said to Garrett. ‘Shooting.’
Garrett nodded.
‘It is bad. This American law officer, he has no jurisdiction here. If the federales meet up with him they will show no respect for this badge that he wears.’
Garrett nodded again, turning and translating for the rest. Gómez asked how they had escaped and why the marshal was chasing them with such vigor. When he heard it had to do with John Chisum, a smile came to his face.
‘Señor Chisum, he is my good friend. Several years since we have done business together. Cattle and such.’ He stood and smiled broadly, extending both hands towards the four men. ‘If you are friends of John Chisum you are friends of mine. You must stay here, there is plenty of room for you all. Stay one week, two, as long as you like.’
He lifted his glass once more in their direction, then called over his shoulder: ‘Maria! Maria! Come here.’
After a few moments the door opened and a plump, dark-haired woman came into the room, followed by two taller girls, one with hair of her mother’s color, the other’s auburn, falling to her shoulders in ringlets.
‘Maria, these men are friends of Senor Chisum. They will be our guests for some time. You must make them welcome.’
Maria Gómez looked at the men and smiled, hands clasped together in front of her white, embroidered apron.
‘And these are my daughters, Carmellita and Camilla.’
The two girls gave a half-curtsey, the auburn-haired girl, Camilla, blushing generously. Maria turned away and ushered them back through the door.
‘Come, my friends,’ said Gomez, walking towards the door leading bark into the courtyard. ‘I will show you where you can stay. One of the buildings put up for my men is not being used. There are half a dozen bunks. They are yours to use for as long as you wish.’
The Mexican rancher showed them the adobe building and prepared to leave them alone. ‘One more thing,’ he said in the doorway, ‘in three days there is a fiesta to celebrate the birthday of my younger daughter, Camilla. She is seventeen. I
hope you will attend and enjoy yourselves.’
Pat Garrett thanked him and assured him they would all be delighted. When Gómez had gone, the Kid sat on one of the lower bunks and wiped a hand over his mouth, shaking his head.
‘I don’t like it.’
‘Jesus, Billy!’ exclaimed Garrett. ‘You don’t like what? Being given free food and board for as long as we want?’
‘It’s too good, too easy. No one treats strangers that way without cause.’
‘He told us,’ put in Pecos, ‘He’s a friend of Chisum’s.’
‘Yeah?’ Billy stood up. ‘Well, if that’s so, how come Chisum never said nothin’ to us about it?’
The Kid looked from one face to another but no one offered him an explanation.
‘You sayin’ we should leave?’ asked Garrett.
‘No, I ain’t sayin’ that. But we’d best keep our eyes open every minute of the day. That’s all.’
Herne said nothing but he was thinking plenty; amongst other things he was thinking that for once the Kid had got it plumb to rights.
~*~
The crack and splutter of a hundred firecrackers burst through the noise of drinking and talking, for several moments cutting it dead. Then there was a united shout of surprise and pleasure and as colored fireworks sprayed into the night sky above the courtyard, the guests applauding and calling their appreciation. Camilla ran to her father and threw her arms around his neck, kissing him on the cheeks and hugging him until he was scarcely able to breathe.
Gómez freed himself and laughed, holding his daughter at arm’s length and savoring the beauty of her young, excited face, the glorious color of her auburn hair lit by the dazzling display that celebrated her birthday.
‘Father, father! I was never so happy as now.’
She smiled up at him and blushed and he leaned forward and kissed her.
‘I’m glad, Camilla, glad. After all, this is your day. Your very own.’
She blushed again and turned to watch the last lights dimming down in the sky, yellow and gold stars that fell slowly towards the ground and disappeared.
Billy the Kid (A Herne the Hunter Western Book 13) Page 10