Hart the Regulator 8

by John B. Harvey

  She looked at him darkly and made as if to turn away and go back inside the house. One of the hens was pecking at something trying to grow in the garden and she clucked at it and shooed it off. The little girl began to whimper and she cuddled her down, one hand behind her head.

  ‘You know what happened in Albuquerque?’ asked Hart.

  She looked at him side-on. ‘I know my husband was there with Jim Taylor arranging to sell some stock and that Jack Helm came up on them with half a dozen men and tried to force John into a fight.’

  ‘He didn’t have a lot of trouble doin’ that,’ put in Lefty.

  The woman ignored him and continued to speak to Hart. ‘Helm set one of his men at John’s back with a shotgun and tried to take his weapon from him. That’s what I know.’

  ‘Maybe he figured it was his duty to arrest your husband,’ Hart suggested.

  ‘Arrest him?’

  ‘On account of a couple of months before that he’d shot another lawman named Morgan.’

  ‘Another drunk!’

  ‘Killin’s killin’,’ Hart protested.

  ‘And what do you think would have happened there in Albuquerque if John had given Jack Helm his gun? With a shotgun already on his back.’ Her eyes fixed Hart firmly.

  ‘Don’t you think there’d have been killin’ there?’

  Hart sucked in his bottom lip. There wasn’t any answer he could make and both of them knew it.

  ‘There’s more folk in these parts think John’s a hero for doin’ what he done than reckon it was any wrong.’

  ‘That’s as maybe.’

  ‘It’s more’n that. What matters? What folk think or what some bought-an’-paid-for lawman takes it into his head to do?’

  The child started to fidget and the occasional cry came from her mouth as her small fists hit her mother’s chest. Jane Hardin looked hard into Hart’s face and turned fully away. Hart watched her go, hair cut short above the nape of the neck, suggestion of curve and dip as her back slendered down. The bolt slammed back fast. Hart kicked at the ground and swung back towards his horse. Neither man spoke for a long time, till the Hardin place was almost out of sight.

  Chapter Six

  Not above two weeks later Hart and Lefty O’Neal rode into Paradise Spring on Rangers business. There’d been complaints for some time that a lot of the rustling that had been going on in the area had been centering on that small community, half-hidden in the lee of the Montero foothills. A certain amount of stock loss was accepted by most of the big cattlemen - after all, how else had they got started themselves? - but numbers in this part of the state were increasing and it wasn’t any longer a business to ignore. What with the Sutton-Taylor affair going on all around and more and more likely to break out into unaccountable violence, those cattle ranchers who were doing their best to keep clear of trouble and still make a more than tidy profit figured that someone owed them a little protection.

  With most of the state police and the county sheriffs either in Sutton’s pockets or just not anxious to get involved, the cattlemen turned to the Rangers.

  While you’re down there checking Hardin out, take a look at Paradise Spring and keep a few of these people quiet. Get them off my back for a while. Those had been Captain Armstrong’s words, more or less. And so the two Texas Rangers had made a forty or fifty mile loop away from the Hardin place and headed for Paradise.

  When they got there, it sure didn’t look like Paradise was supposed to.

  For a start there was a noticeable lack of angels, and the heavenly voices and harps had somehow become the whining of a mongrel mutt that was chained up out front of the general store and the tuneless singing of an old timer who seemed content to sit in the middle of the street, plucking threads from the cuffs of his worn-out coat and the bottoms of his shiny black pants. If he sat there long enough he’d be down to a pair of stained and darned long Johns.

  Hart and Lefty separated, swinging their mounts around the old man, who carried on with his task as if they weren’t there.

  Whoever had been responsible for building one side of the street - no more than a dozen and a half structures with flat roofs and bowed and warped walls - hadn’t been inspired to get on with the other half. Apart from a couple of heavy-duty tarpaulin tents and what looked to be a dog kennel, there was nothing there to prevent the wind hammering straight off the hills and whipping the dirt up on to the forty yards of narrow boardwalk and covering it over.

  Back of the buildings, the sails of a wind pump turned lazily now, no more than a breeze in the humid air. Both men were sticky with sweat and too much trail dust and their throats were dry as snakeskin.

  ‘So this is Paradise?’ said Lefty mockingly.

  Hart half-turned in the saddle, running his eyes along the store, a saddlers’, a boarded-up dining rooms, the barber shop with its solitary chair filled by the barber himself, aproned and reading an already yellowing newspaper, another boarded-up building, this one formerly a bank, a saloon, the livery stable and another store.

  ‘Maybe for some folk,’ he said.

  ‘If there’s rustlers holed up here they sure ain’t makin’ a lot of money.’

  Hart patted his horse’s neck, the animal hot beneath his hand. ‘You want to look around?’

  ‘We’re here. We’d best do something. Aside from gettin’ a couple of drinks, that is.’

  Hart glanced over at the saloon. ‘You want to do that first?’

  ‘Maybe we should see to the horses.’

  Hart nodded. ‘Okay. You want to take ’em or shall I?’

  ‘I’ll see to it. Why don’t you get us a couple of beers set up. That is, if they got beer in this one-eyed place.’ He laughed. ‘Jesus! I knew it weren’t right they could have no cattle thieves in Paradise.’

  Hart swung down from the saddle, grinning. He handed his reins up to his partner and said, ‘See they get a good rub-down an’ some feed. I don’t guess we’ll be stickin’ round here too long.’

  ‘Okay.’

  The mongrel stopped whining and barked instead, jagged, broken sounds like each one was tearing at his throat. The old timer had got bored with taking his clothes to pieces and was lying flat on his back with both legs lifted up in the air and his arms spread out sideways.

  ‘Damn!’ said Hart quietly, scratching the back of his head under the brim of his flat-crowned hat. ‘Damn!’

  He was half-way to the saloon when Lefty called over his shoulder: ‘Don’t drink my beer before your own.’

  Hart raised his left hand in acknowledgment and stepped up on to the sidewalk. Most of the boards were cracked or cracking, the gaps between them silted up. He could smell the rancid stink of tallow burning inside the saloon before he pushed open the door. One lamp swung lightly from a hook in the center of the ceiling, the other smoldered at the far end of the bar, which was no more than several lengths of wood resting on four barrels close by the rear wall. Along from the right-hand barrels there was a back door.

  In the smoky half-dark - there were no windows and the only light came in above and below the doors - Hart saw a huddle of men around one of the tables playing dominoes. At another table four men had their heads bent over a poker game. A couple of others sat idly talking over an almost empty bottle. A woman with fair curly hair and a smudged red mouth was playing patience at a table set away from the rest. She glanced up at Hart as he came in, took in the gun-belt and holster, the set of his body; she decided he was handsome enough but that whatever money he had in his pockets was unlikely to come her way. She shrugged and set the four of hearts down on the five of spades.

  The men surveyed Hart too, the way men did in a place where strangers were few and far between. They were still looking at him as he walked across towards the bar.

  One of the domino players grated his chair back and followed him to the back of the room.

  ‘Yeah?’ he asked, feet shuffling in broken-backed shoes.

  Hart waited until the man was behind the long tabl
e, taking the opportunity to give the place the once-over. He couldn’t see all the faces clearly, but those he did failed to strike any chords.

  ‘You got beer?’ he asked.

  ‘Sure we got beer. What kind of...?’

  ‘Two,’ said Hart. ‘Two beers.’

  The man cocked his head to one side, gave Hart an extra-careful look and said, Thirsty, huh? Rid a long way?’ He tried not to make the sideways glance towards the rear door too obvious, but it would have been like hiding a bull among a herd of cows on heat.

  Hart angled his body round to cover whoever the barkeep was expecting. ‘Sure,’ he said, not bothering to explain, ‘that’s it, thirsty.’

  The barman managed not to look too apprehensive while wiping the dust out of a couple of glasses. Over by the side wall the woman cursed quietly; she had five cards left and the only way she could get them out was to cheat.

  ~*~

  ‘Hey! Hey, there! Anyone around?’

  The man who limped forward was no more than half Lefty O’Neal’s height and less than half his weight. His skinny arm rested on a stick which he hopped along beside the useless swing of a skinny leg.

  ‘You in charge here?’

  The man’s head gave a nervous shake and his right eye blinked down.

  ‘Work here?’

  ‘Just... just lookin’ after the place for a while ... McCann, he’s out of town right now ... said would I ...’ The sentence petered out to nothing.

  Lefty looked round the stalls, four of them holding horses. Bales of straw. Buckets. Curry combs and brushes. Three long-handled rakes strangely neat side-by-side on the wall. A wilderness of hay was piled high against the half-wall at the rear. Beyond that Lefty could see the fencing of a corral and some more horses penned inside.

  ‘Like to leave these, ’he said.

  The man looked uneasy, uncertain.

  ‘You ain’t goin’ to turn away business, are you?’

  ‘I ain’t sure.’ The man hesitated.

  ‘Just a brush-down, some oats an’ water.’

  The man glanced at his stock, at the useless leg. ‘I ain’t sure

  ‘You can pay some kid to work ’em down, can’t you?’

  The right eye blinked again but at least he seemed to have stopped arguing.

  ‘Fine,’ said Lefty. ‘How much?’

  ‘I …’

  ‘Don’t tell me you ain’t sure.’ Lefty started to back away. ‘I’ll settle up when we come back. An’ don’t worry ’bout gettin’ paid. Them are Rangers ’mounts an’ they’ll get paid for fair an’ square.’

  A smile on his face, Lefty turned away. If he heard the first movement behind him, he heard it too late, reacted too slow. From the corner of his left eye he glimpsed a man rising up from the hay like a swimmer bursting upwards through water. A black patch strapped across his face, covering his right eye. Bald, uncovered head. A largely toothless grin. Winchester rifle angled up from his side, the stock pulled against his hip. It fired twice. Lefty felt the kick, the lurching hammer that drove into his ribs, his chest; he staggered sideways. Always away, always trying to turn. Lengths of straw, wisps of hay seemed to be falling slowly from the bald head. Slowly.

  Lefty crashed into the floor and grunted with pain. He tried to roll on to his back, freeing his arm. Tried, but ... there were three men now. Pistols. Still the patch and the toothless grin, but another with grey hair, a third who was little more than a kid, freckles spread across his nose like ... like...

  Lefty knew he had to pull his guns free from the holsters. Both. Either. The crack and blurt of gunfire filled the high barn, echoing shrilly. The old timer flattened himself against the nearest wall, his body shaking. Not wanting to see the way the Ranger bucked and arched awkwardly into the air as the bullets ripped through him.

  Lefty managed to lift his right-hand gun. Pain screamed from his left leg and he saw what looked like his knee cap hanging through a gap in his pants. Horses kicked inside their stalls. Others were ready, saddled, at the rear. Men running. Lefty tried once more to lift his arm, bring the gun level but his muscles refused to obey. He lurched suddenly forwards and there was nothing he could do to prevent the side of his face smacking hard against the ground.

  For moments his consciousness toyed with him, jerking him in and out of blackness. Hoofbeats seemed to gallop over him and he tried to huddle beneath the crook of one arm. His mouth and nostrils filled with blood and his eyes ... how could his eyes be full of blood?

  Hart – where was Hart?

  Lefty opened his mouth to call out and choked on blood and vomit.

  He couldn’t be dying. Not there, like that, suddenly and for no reason that he understood. One moment a man rising up out of the straw and then...

  ~*~

  West Hart had one of the glasses of beer to his mouth when the first shots sounded down the street. Two and close together. Rifle shots? He banged the glass down hard, already moving away. Between himself and the door, the two talkers stumbled their hands towards what little remained in their bottle. Dominoes clattered to the ground. The rear door scraped and Hart stopped in mid-stride and swung round, hand moving automatically towards the Colt .45 at his side. Two of the poker players were getting to their feet and at least one of them was fanning his hand out over his holster. Hart shouted a warning and the movement stopped. The door kept on opening.

  Hart watched it, Colt in hand.

  He watched the wrong door.

  The man who came through from the back was sixty years old, hunch-backed and already three-parts drunk. John Wesley Hardin had paid him to go round that way – the price of a shot of whiskey. Himself, he used the front.

  Hart spun round fast. He all but recognized Hardin right off from the likenesses on the fliers, but he wasn’t sure. That didn’t matter. What did was a man with a pistol tight in his fist and an expression on his handsome face that said, I can use this.

  The two men faced one another, weapons aimed forward and hammers cocked. A fractional move of either index finger and at that range it was likely to be fatal.

  ‘I smelt law,’ said Hardin.

  Hart spread his left hand a little, said nothing.

  ‘You with Sutton, like all the rest?’

  ‘Texas Ranger,’ said Hart flatly.

  A volley of gunfire sounded from up the street and Hart made as if to move towards the door but a slight shrug of Hardin’s gun stopped him.

  ‘How come Paradise is so honored?’Hardin asked.

  ‘Cattle rustlers,’ said Hart shortly, looking beyond Hardin towards the street.

  ‘Not lookin’ for me, I suppose?’

  Hart’s eyes narrowed. ‘That depends who you are.’

  ‘John Wesley Hardin.’

  ‘Wes Hart.’

  Hardin’s handsome mouth twitched and Hart thought he was going to fire. ‘I told Jane I’d shoot you down like a dog!’

  ‘We never did her no harm.’

  ‘You had no right messin’ with my wife.’

  ‘Not messin’,’ said Hart. ‘Talkin’, that was all.’

  ‘She ain’t done nothin’.’

  Hart nodded. ‘And you done too much.’

  It was quiet outside now, quiet aside from the occasional shout and the sound of feet running along the sidewalk, the street.

  Hart looked at the gunman’s pistol. ‘Use that and you’re dead.’

  Hardin almost smiled. ‘We’re both dead,’ he said.

  ‘That what you want?’

  ‘I want you, Ranger. Dead.’

  ‘Enough to die for it?’

  The two men stared at one another; everyone else inside the low-ceilinged room seemed to be holding their breath. Hart’s mind raced. What had happened to Lefty? What had it to do with Hardin being there in town? What was going to happen now?

  Three horses came up the street fast, only two of them with riders. Hart saw the movement back of the gunfighter, the anxiety.

  ‘John, c’mon! Some Ranger’s got
hisself shot!’

  Hart tensed: Hardin bit hard into the flesh of his lower lip.

  ‘John! Now!’

  Hardin’s breathing was coming heavier; he made two short paces back till he was in the doorway. The pistol was still leveled at Hart’s chest. ‘One day,’ he said with a shake of the head, ‘one day I’m goin ’to kill you!’

  He backed across the sidewalk, covered now by both mounted men. If they had any thought of firing on Hart it didn’t survive past their realization that however quick they were he was likely to finish Hardin first.

  Hardin didn’t look at Hart again until he was in the saddle. Then it was one hasty glance, anger bright in his eyes. Spurs kicked the animal into movement and the gunman was away down the street. The two men flanking him swung round and fired their guns into the ground in front of where Hart stood. Earth and splinters of wood spurted high into the air and Hart didn’t budge. For a few seconds his mind was torn, but there was no denying what he had to do. The Colt slotted back into its holster, he set off in the opposite direction, up the street towards the livery stable.

  Lefty was lying on the ground, one leg stretched out, the other pulled up towards his stomach. The leg that was straight was torn and bleeding. Part of it seemed to be hanging clear, barely attached. Lefty’s arms were pressed across his chest, as though attempting to hold his shattered ribcage in place. Blood seeped through his hands till his fingers were steeped in it.

  One of his guns lay on the ground five yards away from his reach; the other was still in its holster.

  Hart picked up the loose pistol and spun the chamber, checked how many shells had been fired.

  None.

  He went down on one knee beside Lefty and turned him on to his back, straightening the bent leg. For some reason that seemed important. He was surprised, though he’d touched recently dead men before, at how warm Lefty’s body felt. His hands, the blood-speckled face with its expression of surprise overladen with disbelief.

  Aware that there were figures crowded into the doorway yet ignoring them, Hart stared at his friend’s face for several moments more. As if waiting for the expression to change. Standing up, he glanced at the unfired gun and wished it not to be like that. There had to be at least a dozen gunshot wounds in Lefty’s body and he hadn’t been able to squeeze off a single shot. Some fool thought about Paradise showed itself at the edge of Hart’s mind and he shook his head to clear it away.