Hart the Regulator 6

by John B. Harvey

  ‘Uh-huh,’ Hart nodded.

  That the way it was?’

  Hart’s face tightened. ‘He missed out a few things.’

  ‘Like?’

  ‘Like a few people got shot up. One of ’em a girl no more’n five or six years old.’

  The gravedigger looked into Hart’s face. ‘Your kid?’

  Hart gave the slightest hesitation before shaking his head. ‘Told you, this is railroad business.’

  ‘More or less,’ said the man.

  Hart ignored the comment. ‘Know where he’ll be?’

  ‘Only place I ever saw him was the saloon. Must sleep somewhere, but I don’t know where. You could ask around.’

  Hart nodded. ‘Maybe. Maybe I’ll just keep my eyes open.’ He clapped the man on the shoulder. ‘Thanks.’

  The man shrugged. ‘Never did a thing. Never said a word.’

  Hart nodded again, more emphatically. ‘That’s right. You never did.’

  From the foot of the graveyard, he looked back over his shoulder at where the man was bending over the hole in the ground. It occurred to him that the drifter who’d been shot couldn’t have been a very tall man - it wasn’t a very large hole. Maybe the gravedigger should start on another right off. Bigger, this one, a whole lot bigger.

  He mounted up and rode into town.

  There weren’t too many of the hundred and seventy-nine people around; Hart guessed they were keeping out of the heat. He nodded to a man who was sitting on a wooden chair outside a store, his feet crossed over one another on the hitching rail, the chair angled back on its hind legs; he glanced at two ragged-assed boys of around ten who were playing tag round a wagon with a busted wheel; he half-smiled at a woman walking incongruously down the street with a parasol in one hand and a black book in the other, for all the world as though she was heading for the church in Kansas City; he stared at the plain wooden coffin laying out ready in a flat-bed wagon, a ginger cat curled up at the point where the box widened out the most.

  The man who ran the livery was heavy-eyed from sleep but awake enough to take Hart’s money before leading his horse away to be rubbed down and then fed.

  Hart stepped back into the street with his saddle bags thrown over his left shoulder, the shotgun butt poking up close by his ear, his Henry rifle gripped in his right hand.

  The poster on the wall outside the saloon announced as a coming attraction Miss Nellie Dangerfield - famed singer and stage actress - all the way from New York and Chicago - together with her troupe of six dancing girls and soubrettes. But the edges of the poster were torn and hanging down and the front of it had already begun to fade. The attraction had been and gone and left Highwater a cultural desert once more.

  Hart pushed open the saloon doors and went in fast enough to take the man he was looking for by surprise if he was inside.

  If he was, Hart couldn’t see him.

  There wasn’t anything big enough for him to hide behind.

  The bartender was a sleepy-looking man with a left arm that stopped where his shirt was knotted below the elbow. Hart reckoned that the only inhabitant of Highwater who wasn’t either asleep or about to be was the gravedigger out there on the hill.

  No one else was in the square room.

  Unless you counted the flies.

  ‘Hot, ain’t it?’ said the bartender and flicked at one of the flies with a striped towel.

  Hart nodded and stepped over to the bar, dumping his bags close by him and fingering out a coin, dropping it down on the counter.

  ‘Beer?’

  ‘Is it cold?’

  ‘No.’

  Hart shrugged. ‘Beer.’

  Sleepy the bartender might be, but he wasn’t a liar. The beer was warm enough to wash the dirt off a man’s feet. After the third swallow it tasted as though it had.

  ‘Passin’ through?’ asked the barman disinterestedly.

  ‘Could be.’

  ‘Yeah.’ He caught two flies with one swish of the towel and looked pleased.

  ‘Friend of mine comin’ this way,’ Hart said. ‘Might be here already. Big feller. Real big.’ Hart gestured with his hands and the bartender’s eyes became less sleepy.

  ‘Little Ben?’

  Hart supposed that was what the big man called himself and nodded.

  ‘He didn’t say nothin’ ’bout meetin’ no friend.’

  ‘Yeah, well, that’s Ben. Talks about some things an’ not others.’

  ‘Meanin’?’

  ‘I wouldn’t be surprised if he ain’t been shootin’ off his mouth about the train.’

  The now awake eyes widened but the man’s mouth stayed closed.

  Hart laughed and threw down another coin.

  ‘Beer?’ asked the man, incredulous.

  ‘Whiskey.’

  The bartender smiled to himself, understanding. He poured a shot and waited for Hart to continue. Hart let the burning sensation begin to fade from the back of his throat and then asked where his friend, Ben, might be.

  ‘Only place I seen him is in here, down that end of the bar, throwin’ back one glass after another. Where he goes the rest of the time, I ain’t got no idea.’

  Hart finished the whiskey. ‘I’m goin’ to get a bath an’ a shave, get somethin’ to eat. Ben comes in, you tell him a good friend of his is lookin’ for him. A friend from the train. You got that?’

  ‘Sure.’ The bartender nodded and lifted away the empty glass, trapping the striped towel between his side and his half-arm to do so.

  When Hart got to the doorway and glanced around, the bartender was leaning sideways against the counter, his eyes blinking and beginning to close.

  Hart gave the barber a dollar over the top to allow him to lock his things in one of the back rooms — the one that didn’t have the bath in it. He felt fresh and good, the stubble had been shaved from his chin and his jaw was smooth, his hair had been straightened and he had a clean, if crumpled, shirt under his leather vest.

  Wiry and strongly muscled, he strode down the street towards the saloon, the Colt Peacemaker strapped to his side, its safety thong already flipped clear, the bottom of the holster secured to his leg. Hart had checked the mechanism, checked the load; the pistol had felt good in his hand, properly balanced, right, the mother-of-pearl grip fitting perfectly into his palm. His lean face was serious, the faded blue eyes flicking to either side, seeing everything, everyone. There were more folk around now, as if Highwater came awake only after the moon was up and the oppressive sun had slid behind the last purple to the west.

  Hart saw folk and knew they didn’t matter, they were not the man he was seeking out, none of them. The man he was searching for was where the bartender had promised he’d be - at the far end of the counter, a whiskey bottle and a glass set in front of him, his body already lurching. He hadn’t been in the saloon long enough this evening to get drunk; he was still drunk enough from the past couple of days for a single shot of whiskey to break the straightness of body and mind.

  But Hart wasn’t forgetting that out of five shots in the half-darkness, he had still made three count.

  Hart looked around the interior and saw the two kerosene lamps hanging from the ceiling, the half-dozen tables and a scattering of chairs; two poker games and a couple of old timers sitting alone nursing glasses of beer; a girl in a dirty yellow dress leaning back against the side wall and looking as though she’d been waiting there for weeks on end without ever moving. Hart’s eyes took it all in quickly, placed it clearly: Ben was positioned so that the moment Hart entered through the swinging doors he would see him and likely make a play for his guns. There were questions that Hart wanted to ask the big man before he had to kill him.

  He stepped back from the doorway and headed for the back of the saloon.

  There was a single door two thirds of the way along the wall and Hart turned the handle easy. He found himself in what was obviously part store room and part office. The table which served somebody as a desk was also cluttered with bottl
es, empty and full; barrels and crates were piled along two walls. Unused glasses stood in one corner, stacked inside each other.

  Hart let his hand touch the butt of his gun briefly, as if for good luck. The second door let him into the saloon less than ten feet from Little Ben’s back.

  The slumped and huge figure was asking the bartender for the fourth or fifth time exactly what this friend of his had looked like.

  ‘Don’t turn round,’ said Hart coldly, ‘or you might find out too soon.’

  Ben tried to turn anyway, had to; his reflexes, dulled as they were, made him.

  He was turning, straightening, his hand moving towards his pistol and stopping, when Hart’s Colt jammed into the center of his back.

  ‘You don’t listen too good.’

  ‘Who the—?’

  Hart increased the pressure and the movements halted. With his left hand Hart drew the big man’s gun from its holster and tucked it down at an angle into his own gun belt.

  ‘Now face back to the bar.’ The gun poked hard. ‘Do it!’

  Little Ben, his face furiously red with anger and impotence, did it.

  ‘Now I’m steppin’ back, but this gun’s pointed at you so close there’s no way I can miss if you make a false move. You understand that?’

  Nothing.

  ‘You understand?’ Hart asked in a louder voice.

  Everyone inside the saloon was staring, including the woman in the soiled yellow dress, who had shifted fractionally away from the wall to get a better view.

  ‘Sure,’ growled Ben reluctantly.

  ‘Okay. Turn round real slow.’

  Little Ben did as he was told and when he was almost there Hart darted forward faster than the big man could follow and slammed the pistol barrel into his temple. Ben’s knees started to give and his eyes glazed over. Hart swung the gun back and pistol whipped him a second time. There was a crack of bone as the Colt hit against the cheekbone and the girl in the yellow dress uttered a stifled scream. Little Ben rocked back against the counter and his left arm swatted awkwardly at Hart’s hand as it brought the Colt up and round a third time.

  The force of the blow knocked the huge hand aside and the side of the barrel slammed into Ben’s jawbone and chipped a piece of it away, breaking the skin and drawing blood.

  Ben’s knees gave way.

  Hart stepped back and swung his right leg; the underside of the toe crashed into Little Ben’s chest and drove the wind out of him. His head was jolted forward and it met Hart’s knee. Ben yelled as the chipped bone of his jaw was hit by the knee and when his teeth met the ends of several of them splintered away.

  If the bartender’s eyes had got any wider they would have burst clear out of his head.

  Hart moved the Colt slowly now, slowly and precisely until the end of the barrel was resting above the bridge of Little Ben’s nose, between his eyes.

  ‘Talk!’

  Ben’s head rolled a little but the gun kept it from shifting too far. He didn’t say anything and no one else inside the saloon was talking either.

  Talk!’

  In the silence the hammer coming back made a very loud sound.

  ‘Wha … what about?’ A fragment of yellowed tooth flew between his lips.

  ‘What happened to the money? That first.’

  Ben’s head slid sideways and his eyelids came slowly down. The Colt followed him close.

  ‘The money!’

  Hart’s eyes were narrow, little more than slits of faded blue that shone their color dully in the light from the kerosene lamp above the bar.

  Ben’s eyes opened, one more than the other. ‘What money?’

  Hart kicked him, hard and quick, under the ribs.

  ‘Hey, feller!’ called one of the men from the center of the room. ‘Take it easy, will you? You want to kill him?’

  Hart’s look shut him up.

  ‘Wha—?’ Ben began a second time. Hart kicked him a second time.

  ‘We … we split it. Right after.’

  Hart leaned forward. ‘You remember now.’

  ‘Yeah. I—’

  ‘How much did you get?’

  Ben blinked against the Colt’s barrel. ‘Two hundred.’

  ‘Get it out.’

  ‘Hell, I—’

  ‘Out!’

  He reached painfully behind his bulky body and began to pull dollar bills from his back pockets, ones, fives and tens. His fingers fumbled them on to the floor between Hart and himself while the onlookers strained for a glimpse of what was happening.

  Finally he stopped and looked up at Hart.

  ‘That it?’

  Ben nodded, anger beginning to show in the corners of his eyes. Hart knew that the beating he’d given him was enough to quieten most men for a long time; he also knew that Little Ben wasn’t most men.

  ‘Right. Now keep talkin’. How’d the rest split up?’

  ‘Mace, him an’ Colley rode off together. Waite an’ Weston an’ the nigger. Don’t know ’bout Rafe, guess he struck out on his own.’

  ‘Waite and Weston and this third man - they have these long white coats? Dusters?’

  Little Ben nodded.

  ‘I want to know which way they went.’

  A sound from the street took Hart’s attention, a horse, no, the pace wrong, the hoofs, a mule maybe. His eyes flickered past Ben towards the still batwing doors.

  Ben saw his chance and took it. He was faster than Hart had any reason to believe he would be after the whipping he’d just taken. The bull-like head rammed towards Hart’s stomach, an up thrust arm sent the Colt flying from his fingers. Hart went backwards, his left arm trying to save himself from falling and not succeeding. His shoulders struck the wall and he bounced forward into Ben’s two fists, clenched tight together. He managed to weave his head out of the way of the blow and it struck him on the collarbone and he went numb across his neck and shoulders.

  He hit the wall a second time and this time with his spine. He shouted involuntarily and just saw the second double-handed blow coming for his face. This time his last-second movement let the fists swing past him and into the wall. Ben yelled and bellowed like a wounded bull. Hart punched up into his stomach and jumped clear, eyes searching for his gun.

  Ben thrust his left leg out and Hart tripped across it, landing half on the floor, half into the side of the bar.

  Ben kicked out at Hart’s head and Hart ducked under the boot and caught the shin with both hands; caught and swung hard.

  There was a mighty crash as the two hundred pounds-plus weight hit the floor. Hart was on his feet and his hand was reaching for the half-empty whiskey bottle that had fallen sideways on the counter and was spilling whiskey from its neck.

  As Little Ben was pushing himself to his feet, Hart’s fingers closed about the bottle and he waited to see the big man’s face.

  The bottle broke into it, broke it, glass shattering thickly as the cartilage inside the nose was torn apart. Splinters of glass raked Ben’s cheeks and eyes.

  Hart let the useless bottleneck fall from his hand. Blood splattered both men, but it was Ben’s blood. His face seemed to swell with it, bright and red. It didn’t stop him trying to grasp Hart in a bear hug that could still have squeezed the breath out of him for good.

  Hart evaded the charge and scooped his pistol from where it lay close by the wall. His boot skidded on a patch of blood on the floor. Little Ben turned slowly, lumberingly and came for him again. In the midst of the welling, bright redness, his mouth opened, dark red, and emitted a roar of rage.

  Hart flattened himself back against the wall and pulled the trigger of the Colt .45.

  Ben didn’t even stop coming.

  Hart fired again.

  The second slug stopped the big man short and he put his left hand to his chest as if he’d felt a sudden, unexpected punch. His blood-smeared eyes showed no understanding.

  Hart thumbed back the hammer and waited.

  Little Ben went over like a tree, sideways witho
ut a hand coming out to lessen his fall. He hit the floor with a booming bang and bounced twice then rolled on to his stomach.

  Wes Hart leaned back against the wall and waited until his breath had steadied. It took quite a time. The spectators shifted closer, anxious to look at the body. The one-armed barman leaned over the edge of the counter and shook his head from side to side.

  A woman with red hair in several shades and a face caked with trail dust pushed through the crowd. She must have come in when Hart was fighting and he hadn’t noticed. He looked at her now and wondered if she’d been the one who’d ridden up just before it started. She looked as if she might once have been pretty; she looked as if she might once have been young.

  She watched as Hart turned Ben over and when she saw him, even through the blood, she knew who he was.

  ‘Mister,’ she said, moving round the dead man to be closer to Hart, ‘if I had the money I’d buy you a drink for what you just done.’

  ‘You know him?’

  ‘In a manner of speakin’.’

  ‘You know them he was runnin’ with?’

  Rose nodded. ‘In the same manner.’

  Hart tried a smile that didn’t really happen. ‘I’ll buy you a drink.’ He nodded towards the bills strewn over and around the body, some of them marked with blood. ‘He’s got plenty he ain’t goin’ to be usin’.’

  Chapter Nine

  The sky was dull and opaque; heat shimmered behind it as behind a shield. The dew still hung from the small yellow-red heads of switch grass, from the filigree of Indian grass and the interwoven green blades. Cattle grazed to both sides of the trail, occasionally lifting their horned heads and looking balefully at the two riders before returning to their task. In the distance, the land was dark gray, iron gray.

  ‘You sure you can remember where this shack is?’

  ‘I can remember right enough.’

  Hart looked at the woman; lines of bitterness and pain crisscrossed her face, the eyes with which she looked out at the world held little hope of happiness or joy. He wondered how long she had been like that, like so many of the women he met in cowtowns and army posts. Women who might be following a bunch of outlaws, who might be working in a whorehouse or just drifting from place to place as and when they were moved on by the local sheriff or committee of indignant citizens. Wherever and however they went, they were always alone. Inside their heads, behind the flat staring eyes, they were always alone.