Till Death (A Herne the Hunter western. Book 15)

by John J. McLaglen

  He clapped his other hand over Martha’s mouth and she bit into his fingers.

  He moved his hand enough to slap her, quickly, then pressed it back.

  The man had stopped struggling, making noises, just a ragged hiss of air from the bared throat. Blood.

  Herne slid the blade out and wiped both sides of it on the dead man’s shirt. The eyes were open and Herne closed them. He was one of the brothers, Damon or Howie, he wasn’t sure which.

  No one seemed to have reacted to Martha’s scream – probably they had figured it to be part of the fun. She huddled her legs up to her body, tugging at her tattered dress. Her eyes never released Herne’s face. She was certain that he would kill her.

  Herne bent towards her and set a finger to his lips. ‘Stay here. Stay quiet. Don’t go back in there till it’s over. You understand me?’

  Martha nodded, breathing unsteadily.

  ‘Remember,’ whispered Herne from the door.

  Outside he slipped the bayonet back inside his boot and walked around to the front of the post. One of the men was singing, his voice surprisingly strong and tuneful.

  When we arrived in Mexico

  I wrote that girl who’d loved me so

  I wrote a letter to my dear

  But no return word did I hear

  Lord pity a girl who won’t be true For a false-hearted love I never knew I’m goin’ back where the bullets fly And stay on the cow trail till I die

  Herne drew his gun and kicked in the door, jumping through the space and turning low. Billy Dean was standing up on a barrel, a bottle in one hand, the other still outstretched in the final gesture of his song. Herne’s first shot hammered him into the air, the bottle crashing to the floor as Billy Dean clutched at the sudden pain in the center of his chest. Ezekiel hollered and grabbed at his holster and was still grabbing when Herne shot him through the side of the neck, an inch beneath the ear. Ezekiel stumbled backwards, falling, sending tables and chairs against one another, screaming.

  The other brother lunged for the shotgun that lay on the counter, both hands touching it, starting to turn it. A slug ripped through his left arm, deflecting sideways off the shattered bone. His hand fell away from the shotgun stock and one of his legs slipped under him. He looked Herne in the face and his eyes pleaded mercy: Herne put a bullet through his heart. Latham slammed back against the counter, hung there several seconds, then buckled slowly forward. Herne stepped aside to allow the body room to hit the floor.

  Gunsmoke and the stink of cordite mixed with the sour smell of whiskey in the long, low room.

  Peg-Leg Mary was sitting in the arm-chair by the end wall, hands gripping the sides. There was nothing pleading in her eyes, only a fierce anger.

  ‘You had to kill them all, didn’t you?’ she said. ‘Every poor damned one.’

  Herne holstered his gun and stepped over Ezekiel’s body.

  ‘And my sister, too?’ said Mary.

  Herne shook his head. ‘She’s okay. She’s in the barn.’

  Peg-Leg Mary wiped a hand across her mouth. ‘Herne, you’re a heartless bastard. You show yourself in here again and I’ll try an’ kill you myself, I swear to God on it.’

  ‘Yeah,’ said Herne, ‘I believe you will.’

  At the door he stopped and looked at her again. ‘Get what you can for their saddles, guns an’ horses.’

  It was as though he hadn’t spoken. It was time to mount up and ride back to Louise. Time to get married and hang up his gun.

  Chapter Ten

  It was morning. The sky through the window of Herne’s room was shading black into purple, purple into orange, orange yellowing out to a flat, drained white. He was still sitting on the edge of the bed, the whiskey bottle was where it had been when the night had begun. Something ached and it was more than the set of his back, the numbness that had entered into his legs.

  Someone was coming towards the door. Herne slid the Colt into his hand.

  ‘Jed?’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘You awake?’

  ‘Come in and see.’

  Tom Lenegan walked in slowly, as though each fresh movement jarred pain through different parts of his body. He was obviously bandaged heavily under his shirt. His face looked white, years older.

  You shouldn’t be up an’ walking,’ said Herne, setting the gun aside.

  Tom ignored the remark. ‘I’ve been thinking ’bout what you said. Different things. Can’t see any way out.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘I’m riding out there. This morning.’

  ‘The Clayton place?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Herne looked doubtful. You’re goin’ to ride in an’ tell old man Clayton you’re marryin’ his daughter.’

  ‘That’s it.’

  You know what’ll happen?’

  ‘Yes’

  ‘And if you ride back out of it, then have you figured what your Katie’s goin’ to think?’

  ‘What’s she going to think if I wait till they come after me an’ gun me down somewhere without a chance?’

  Herne stood up and went to the window. The sky was brightening further, patches of blue seeping through.

  ‘She’s not the same as the rest, neither her nor John. They could be different family. There’s no love lost between Katie and her pa. None at all.’

  ‘You sure on that?’

  Tom nodded. ‘Yes.’

  Herne still hesitated, his memories of the night strong in his brain. ‘Wait up till I get some black coffee,’ he said after a few moments, ‘I’ll ride with you.’

  ‘No.’ The word was out of Tom’s mouth almost before Herne’s offer of help had been made.

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘I’ve got to do this myself. It’s my fight, my quarrel, not yours.’

  Herne shook his head. ‘You’re forgetting something. I was the one who shot Hal Clayton, not you. Besides, you’re in no state to go up against four guns.’

  ‘Three.’

  ‘You sure John won’t chip in when it comes to it?’

  ‘He won’t. I’m positive.’

  ‘That still leaves three.’

  ‘I’ll handle it.’

  Herne smiled and shook his head. ‘Okay, let’s say I’m coming along to see how you do it – all right?’

  Tom Lenegan struggled with himself, his stubbornness of pride against the sure and certain knowledge that if Herne went with him, he’d be likely to come through and marry Katie, whereas if he didn’t . . .

  ‘Well?’

  ‘Thanks, Jed. Thanks.’ He shook Herne’s hand.

  ‘Okay. Now if you can rustle me up some coffee from somewhere, I’ll wash up. Then we’ll ride out.’

  ~*~

  First they saw cattle wearing the Circle G brand, then the sails of the windmill and then that gave on to the ranch. A single-story house in the shape of an L, a high barn and a couple of outhouses, all arranged so that the overall impression was of a nearly closed rectangle. There were fruit trees in a small grove back of the barn. Horses in a corral. Everything looked damned peaceful.

  The click of a rifle lever being worked was awful clear. Tom turned and made a move towards his gun but Herne stopped him fast. ‘If he was goin’ to shoot one of us in the back he’d’ve done it. Don’t give him no excuse.’

  They rode into the middle of the rectangle, Stewart Clayton walking at their backs, the Winchester aimed at the rear of Tom Lenegan’s head.

  Cyrus Clayton came out of the house with a bull whip in his hands, coiled and mean. Jack was no more than a pace behind him, a pistol strapped to his side.

  ‘You got gall, Tom Lenegan, I’ll give you that. Comin’ in here like brass an’ bringin’ that murderin’ bastard with you.’

  ‘I came to talk,’ said Tom.

  Cyrus laughed and flicked the whip out casually, till its tip touched the ground between Lenegan and himself. ‘Boy, you ain’t got nothin’ to say to me, but I got plenty to say to you – an’ I’ll say it with t
his.’

  He worked the whip and it snapped the air less than a couple of feet in front of Lenegan’s face. Tom ducked his head back instinctively and Cyrus laughed again.

  Katie came running around the side of the house and stopped short when she saw the confrontation.

  Tom looked over at her and smiled, made a gesture telling her not to interfere.

  ‘Get back in the house!’ shouted her father. ‘No, Pa.’

  ‘Get back!’

  She looked at him defiantly, prettily. ‘While Tom’s here I’m staying put. It concerns me and I’ve a right to hear what’s said.’

  For a moment it looked as if Cyrus might turn the whip on his daughter for answering him back so boldly. Instead he hunched his shoulders and then brought back his arm and flicked the bull whip once again towards Lenegan’s head. Again Tom Lenegan ducked aside, but this time the whip was a foot closer.

  ‘Better speak up fast,’ warned Cyrus Clayton, ‘the next one’ll take out your eyes.’

  ‘Tell your son to stop pointing that gun at his back,’ said Herne, ‘then maybe he’ll feel more like talking.’

  ‘Shut your mouth!’ called Stewart Clayton, but he lowered the rifle just the same.

  ‘Get to it!’ snarled Cyrus, his stocky body bristling with anger.

  ‘It’s Katie,’ said Tom. ‘Katie and me. We’re goin’ to be married.’

  Cyrus’s round face flushed and then almost as suddenly seemed to drain of any color. He looked round at his daughter and then back at Tom. If it had been a gun rather than a whip in his hand, he might have shot them both.

  ‘I’m telling you because we didn’t want to go behind your back, not any more. You were right to be angry about that. We’re going to marry and settle the far end of the valley where ray folks live.’ He nodded. ‘That’s all there is to say.’

  The words seemed to strangle out of Cyrus Clayton’s lips. ‘You’ve caused me to lose my favorite son. Now you think you’re going to take my only daughter when you’re not worth the price of her spit. You’ll do it past my dead body.’

  Katie ran forward, placing herself between them.

  ‘Pa, that isn’t true. It isn’t! Tom’s a good man, an honest one. He’s worth more than anyone else in the world.’

  ‘Even your own father?’ asked Cyrus.

  She almost spat the answer back at him. ‘Yes! Yes! Perhaps especially my own father!’

  He struck out with the bull whip, the thickness close to the handle lashing into the side of the girl’s head.

  Tom shouted and went for his gun, leaning sideways in the saddle. Behind, Stewart Clayton jumped across to see what was happening, bringing up the rifle at the same time.

  Herne sprang down from the saddle, pulling the Colt clear as he was in motion.

  Tom’s first shot missed the old man and hit Jack in the left arm, the slug tearing through the flesh without hitting the bone. Jack stumbled back inside the house while, in front of him, Cyrus was trying to wield the whip and Katie was pushing herself up from the ground, blood running from a cut beside her ear.

  Stewart Clayton fired his Winchester once from the hip, aiming at Tom’s back and missing.

  ‘Drop it!’ yelled Herne. ‘Now!’

  Stewart swung the rifle through a short arc and began to squeeze back on the trigger. Herne put a bullet through the space above the rifle barrel and below Stewart’s head and shoulders. He bucked backwards as if he’d been punched hard in the chest. The Winchester went off, the slug burying itself harmlessly in the ground.

  ‘Katie! Look out!’

  Tom drew a bead on her father as the whip sailed through the air towards him. The lash coiled about Tom’s neck and dragged him from the saddle. He half broke his fall with his left arm, but the pain that shot through his chest and thigh was intense.

  Jack Clayton reappeared in the doorway, pistol in hand. It leveled at Tom’s fallen body.

  ‘Jack!’

  Katie jumped towards him as the explosion of a gunshot rocked the air. Her hands went to her face and she fell to her knees.

  Jack hit the door frame and fell away like so much dead weight. A .45 slug from Herne’s Colt had killed him outright.

  ‘Katie? Katie!’

  Tom scrambled towards the girl, wincing at every movement he made. His arms closed on her shoulders and she turned to face him with tears in her eyes and blood splashed across her face.

  ‘Oh, Tom!’ she cried and let herself fall forward into his arms. ‘Tom, he’s dead. He’s dead.’

  Tom looked over Katie’s shoulder. The shot he’d fired as the whip had wrapped itself about his neck had broken open old man Clayton’s head and it lay on the porch, spread wide for all to see.

  ‘Tom, oh, Tom.’

  ‘Katie, shush. Hush now, it’s all right. It’s all over. Over.’

  Herne hoped that he was right.

  ~*~

  ‘You’ll stay for the wedding?’

  Herne shook his head. ‘Sorry, Tom.’

  ‘But you must. Katie, tell him. You tell him how sad you’ll be if he doesn’t stay.’

  She touched his arm, her face pretty, almost beautiful except for the traces of pain at the corners of her eyes. ‘Please, Jed. I do want you to.’

  He put his hand over hers, surprised at how small it felt. ‘Katie, I’m sorry. I can’t.’

  ‘But…’ began Tom.

  ‘No. But I’ll think about you. You just work hard and be happy. The pair of you.’

  He shook Tom warmly by the hand and Katie leaned her face up towards his and kissed him on the stubble at the side of his chin.

  An hour later Herne was in the saddle. He knew he was doing the right thing in not staying. There were memories enough already without those that would spring back if he stood up with Tom at the wedding ceremony. He’d ridden back Tucson way thinking there’d been enough time between, but that hadn’t been so. He’d let some of his past with Louise up from the box where he kept it locked and now he was going to shut it away again. Maybe one day he’d be able to face it better: look back on those three years as the best he’d known and thank God for giving him Louise, even if it were only for that short time.

  He rode south, easing towards the sunset, hoping that for Tom and Katie things would be better.

  ~*~

  John Clayton had been in town the day his father and two brothers had been killed in the shootout at the ranch. He’d ridden back to find their bodies and his sister waiting to tell him what and why. His father’s body had lain on the porch, his high-peaked Stetson hat thrown some fifteen feet further on and wedged against a post. There were no eyes in his father’s head to accuse him, to show him hate or love. John had looked at his father for a long time, then he’d seen to the bodies. He’d ridden back into town and made the arrangements for the funerals. A few days later, he’d put the ranch up for sale and agreed to give half the money to Katie.

  Clothes and personal belongings he had burnt, other things were either sold with the ranch or given away.

  It was all done efficiently, coldly: even at the funeral John Clayton didn’t cry.

  When he finally quit the ranch for good it was the day of Katie and Tom’s wedding. He rode off with his few possessions packed into his saddle bags and he took nothing that hadn’t been his own - except for his father’s gun.

  John had thought it over for a long time.

  He wanted to ride off and forget it, forget what had happened, but he knew that he couldn’t. It had to be done and there was no avoiding it: however much he regretted it, he was his father’s son.

  When he arrived in town there were few people in the street. The wedding was in progress in the church, he’d heard the bells as he’d been riding in.

  John tied up the horse and pushed the barrel of the gun at an angle down into the top of his pants, handle towards his right hand. The voices of a hymn drifted out into the street. John looked over at the church door and waited.

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