A game that wouldn’t end with the deaths of the last two men. Because Herne was the hunter and the hunted. The first man to die had been the spoilt son of the influential Senator Nolan, from the west coast. Enraged at the murder of his only child, the old man had sought out the best gunman around and set him off to claim a massive bounty for Jed Herne. Dead or alive.
Before he had married, Herne had been one of the top guns in the South-West. And that meant the top gun anywhere. He’d met the best. Some he’d killed. Some he’d ended up liking and respecting. And the one he liked best was the tall, lean albino, Isaiah Coburn. The one they called behind his back, ‘Whitey’.
Jed and Whitey had ridden together in the Civil War under Quantrill, and then fought alongside Garrett and Bonney in the Lincoln County Range War. Jed always reckoned that Whitey was the only man who might - just might - have the edge on him.
The man that Senator Nolan had hired was Whitey Coburn.
Jed knew well enough that a contract was a contract, and that their long friendship would mean nothing when it came to the confrontation. Already there’d been a couple of attempts. But Coburn was handicapped with the other members of his unofficial posse that Nolan had saddled him with. Nolan mistrusted Coburn, feeling that he might betray him for the sake of an old friendship.
But there’d be other attempts.
And maybe on the girl as well. Something had to be done about Becky. That would come after the last two killings. If they were the last...
Herne looked up from the fire, aware that the snow had eased. It was getting late and far across the giant scar of the valley the pinpoints of light at Mount Abora were going out.
‘Time for sleep,’ he said.
Chapter Two
Morning had broken, just like any other morning, and Becky had rolled out from under the blankets, still fully clothed, sleep clogging her eyes.
They had left Carson City a week back, heading south and climbing higher each day. The cold biting in at them like a pack of wolves, nipping fingers and ears. Like Jed she had taken to wearing a hat tied down over her head with a long woolen scarf, wrapping it round her mouth and tucking it down the front of her thick jacket. But the freezing wind still poked and pried, finding the cracks and chafing her skin.
They’d seen the first snow as they passed close to Yosemite Valley, the vaulted mountains towering over ten thousand feet high. Gradually getting closer to the end of the quest for the last two men on Herne’s list. Brothers who lived in a castle with their widowed mother. Names were Stanwyck. Twins, called Mark and Luke. That was all she knew.
The fire was out and she scrabbled among the ashes for some dry wood to get it going again, leaving it to go behind a tree to answer a call of nature. As she did so her boots squeaked in the thin layer of snow.
Herne rolled from his blanket, prodded by the sound into instant alertness, the heavy Colt up and cocked and in his hand. He grinned at her when he saw who it was and what she was doing.
‘Told you, Becky. Wake me before you start the fire. Never know if there mightn’t be a bobcat up here just waiting for some young girl takin’ a leak behind the nearest tree.’
The girl blushed, and tugged down her skirt, walking back to join him. ‘Jedediah Herne! I do wish that you’d recall that I’m not a little girl anymore and that ladies like a mite of privacy.’
‘Sorry,’ said Herne, insincerely. ‘Better get the fire going, Becky. A mug of coffee might thaw me out.’
While she labored with the wood, cursing to herself as the match burned her finger, Herne began his morning ritual. Taking the Colt from his holster, the bayonet from its special sheath in his boot and getting the Sharps rifle from its saddle holster.
His stallion and the girl’s mare nibbled at the patchy grass that still poked through the coverlet of snow. He had tethered them close enough to the trickling stream for them to water themselves. Across the valley, he stood for a moment and looked at his target. Mount Abora. A fortress with its own private army. That was what the storekeeper in Lone Pine had said. Jed wondered whether it might not be safer to leave the horses in the town, and climb back here. Maybe even leave the girl behind?
But if he did, then Coburn or any of his men might take her. They’d know exactly where he was headed. With only two left alive from the gambling train, there was only one place in the whole country he could be. He knew that Whitey wouldn’t be far away.
‘Get that wet wood off the fire. It’ll send up enough smoke for anyone to see for fifty miles.’
‘Sorry, Jed. My fingers just don’t feel properly anymore.’ She was on the edge of tears.
Herne turned away from her and started to check his weapons. Care of his guns and knife was just one of the reasons that he’d kept alive as a hired gun into his thirties, long after most of his contemporaries were moldering dust in frontier cemeteries.
He laid the Colt on the greased rag, half-cocking it, working the ejector, flipping the six cartridges out on the cloth, wiping each one carefully. Rubbing down the grips, and working the action a dozen times to ensure perfect smoothness. Reloading again, flicking the gate up with his index finger. Cocking it, and easing the hammer back down again.
Checking the long Sharps, making sure the action was smooth. Peering along the sight, and picking away a thread of cotton from it. Using the rag to wipe down the barrel and then loading and unloading it. Opening the leather pouch of ammunition, making sure he wasn’t in danger of running short.
Replacing both guns, while steam started to pour out from the spout of the coffee pot, clouding the cold air. Finally checking the bayonet, wiping it down and examining it for any trace of rust, or for any sign of a weakness in the polished blade. Slipping it soundlessly back in its sheath inside the right boot.
‘Nearly ready, Jed. We haven’t got a lot of jerky left. Should I go to the store?’
It was around twelve miles back down the narrow trail, and Herne didn’t want the folks in Lone Pine knowing that they were still in the area. He’d told the shopkeeper they were just passing through. And that was the story he wanted to get to the ears of anyone else asking questions.
‘Damn it!’ he exploded. ‘Why didn’t you check it out and get some while we were there?’
‘I’m sorry, Jed.’
He bit his lip. Fond though he was of Becky, there were times like this when he regretted having to drag her around with him. To exist in that part of the Sierras in the late fall wasn’t easy. And he had tried to give her responsibilities, like keeping a check on the food.
‘Truly, I’m sorry, Jed.’
‘That’s ... Just never mind. I’ll try and snare something for us if we have to stay up here for longer than a couple of days.’
‘Coffee’s ready. Have you finished with your guns for today?’
‘Yes.’
‘Jed. You couldn’t do that trick with the dollar on the back of the hand for me, could you?’
She loved to see him exhibit his skill with the Colt. But in this sort of weather, it would mean trying to draw either in his gloves, which was as near as damn-it impossible, or taking them off and risking the cold. Normally, Jed Herne would practice his skills as often as he could. But high in the mountains...
Then again, he thought, if I was called upon to use my guns up there, I’d have to do it, regardless of the weather.
‘Right. Pour me out a cup of coffee, and I’ll do it. Just once.’
“That’s wonderful.’ She clapped her hands like a child who’s been promised a treat from a benevolent uncle.
Breath pluming out from his mouth, Jed walked a few paces from the smoldering fire, bracing his tense muscles against the biting cold. Flexing his fingers inside the gloves, ready for the moment when he’d have to peel them off, already regretting his weakness in giving in to the girl’s request. But when she turned those deep-set serious eyes on him, and set that determined jaw, he felt like when he first saw his young wife, Louise. And the stirring of the memory
made him uneasy. Made him even more concerned to get Becky away from all this to somewhere Nolan’s gunmen couldn’t reach out to harm her.
Jed sucked in cold air, feeling it snap at his teeth. It wouldn’t take many days of this weather to leave them both stiff and dead under the snow for the animals to tear at.
‘Ready.’
It was the first time for days that the girl had shown any real spark of interest, and this worried Herne. Since the death of her parents, Becky had ridden hundreds of miles with him, and seen the deaths of several men. And none of it seemed to have touched her. She was changing from the sweet innocent child she once had been, back on the spread near Tucson. Hardening. Ignoring the hardships of the trail they rode, and becoming increasingly concerned with the mechanics of death and killing.
He fished in the pocket of his jacket for some money, finding it hard to feel anything through the thickness of the gloves. Appreciating that this simple demonstration might have a great practical use. It had been a long time since he’d ridden the high country in winter.
At last he managed to grip a smooth coin in his hand, and he quickly took off the gloves, stuffing them into his pants’ pockets. The cold took a while to clamp on the muscles, and it felt good to have the freedom. While the girl squatted on her haunches, watching him eagerly, Herne took the dollar in his left hand and laid it carefully on the back of his right hand. Unconsciously moved his toes inside the boots, getting his footing firm and safe. Reached across his body to flip the leather thong that held the hammer of the Colt secure.
Becky looked at him admiringly. She’d seen him like this before. Standing in the peculiar straddle-legged stance of the gunfighter, toes turned slightly in, knees bent. At first she’d hated the killing, and hated Herne for being so good at it. But gradually she had come to see the genius that lay behind what he did and realize how he had been the best. And probably still was the best.
Herne the Hunter!
That was what they called him, before his marriage, and it was still a name to stir memories. And those memories were being rekindled with the news that Herne was back. The stories of why he vanished were revived: killed in an Indian massacre. Shot in the back in a saloon. The bodies heaped around him in a skirmish south of the border. But now the myths were being buried by the man.
And by his gun.
Herne’s hand was quite steady as he held out the coin at arm’s length, level from the shoulder. Moved the fingers against the chilly winds that echoed around the sides of the valley.
Dropped his hand down, letting the dollar spin towards the hard earth. It seemed as though there was a splitting of time. The gleaming dollar caught in a trap where the seconds stretched out. Herne’s hand moving like a blur towards the holstered gun. Thumb striking the hammer, clicking it back to full-cock even before the barrel was clear of the greased leather. The index finger unerringly inside the trigger-guard, bending, ready to take up the pressure as the gun came up and out.
Becky gasped at the beauty and speed of the action, and shook her head, the wind bringing tears to her eyes.
If it hadn’t been for the closeness of the Stanwyck house, Herne would have snapped off all six shots. But he took up the tension on the light-filed trigger, and eased the hammer forward with his thumb.
Wonderful, Jed.’
He shook his head, reholstering the Colt, quickly putting his gloves back on, rubbing his hands to maintain the circulation. ‘Not that good, Becky. Maybe good enough for up here. But this damned cold sure takes the edge from a man.’ He thumbed the cord across the hammer to hold the gun in place in the holster and hunkered down beside her. ‘I guess that cup of coffee might be welcome now, Becky. Take a mite of the cold away from my bones.’
As he sat down on his blanket, feeling the earth immovably hard beneath him, cupping his hands round the warmth of the chipped mug of scalding coffee, and let his eyes wander across the lake, white-whipped by the wind, towards the house.
‘Jed?’
‘What is it?’ Irritated by the interruption to his thoughts.
‘The dollar. You forgot to pick it up.’
He grinned at her, suddenly amused, putting down the cup, and striding over to where the coin lay shining in the pale sunlight. It had hit the ground a fraction after he would have squeezed the trigger of the gun. The cold had slowed him, but he was still fast. That was a feeling to warm a man more than a whore’s belly would.
He turned to remember who it was who’d first said that to him? Tiny, frail John Holliday? Maybe. He carried enough guns in the old days to fortify a bank. But his favorite had been the ten-gauge Meteor shotgun with the shaved stock and the sawn double barrels. Carried it on a shoulder strap like that Mormon Avenger, Porter Rockwell.
‘What you thinkin’ about, Jed? Haven’t seen you smile in days.’
‘Doc Holliday.’
‘The gunman? I heard about him. Something in Tombstone with those Earp brothers?’
‘Yeah. Doc. Wisp of a man, but he burned like aflame. Haven’t seen him in a year or so. Hell! Must be about a year since he and the Earps tangled with those bastards - sorry Becky - the Clantons. In that dead-end corral in Tombstone. Heard he moved on to Denver. Or maybe it was Leadville. Might look him up after this is over. Funny sort of guy. Went with “Big Nose” Kate Fisher. Had a cough fit to scare the ears off a mule.’
Becky’s eyes went past him, looking towards the house, set squat and dark on the hillside, with a fringe of trees reaching nearly to its walls.
‘Look.’
Jed was already moving, hardly realizing that his hand had dropped to his gun, staring hard as the main gates of the house swung open, like the jaws of some beast, and eight or ten men rode slowly out, like a procession of ants across the whiteness of the snow that had drifted more on that side of the valley.
‘Is it them?’
‘Becky Yates! I may have good eyes, but not that good. Might be them. Probably is. That’s most of the men they have there, so I guess they’re on their way out for a huntin’ trip.’
‘Not leaving for the winter?’
It was like a kick to the groin. In all his planning, it had never even crossed Jed’s mind that the Stanwyck family might leave their house for the winter. Everything he’d heard about them made him doubt it, but there was always a maybe.
‘I’m going to check it out. Stay here with the horses, and try and tend that fire. Keep it in, but no more than that. And don’t use no green nor rotten wood. They’ll get you by the smoke.’
As he stood up, she looked up at him, her face quite without expression. ‘Jed. Take care.’
He stooped over her, bending down from his six feet two, and kissed her gently on the forehead, finding a bare space among the fringe of hair. Marveling at the coldness of the skin.
It was only as he strode away among the trees that he recalled the last time he’d touched his lips to flesh as cold as that. The bitter memory of the manner of his wife’s lonely dying hastened his movements towards the towering mansion across the lake.
It took him the best part of an hour to get to the water’s edge, keeping among the fringe of sparse brush that bordered it, alert for any sign of guards from Mount Abora. There was a narrow trail that he’d already scouted which wound up from the lakeside, towards the house, keeping a man under cover until he was almost under the walls.
There had once been a clear path through the woods, but the snow and the rain had undone it again, and now it was almost lost to sight. But Jed Herne had found it.
For much of his scramble the house had been invisible, but he had paused in a clearing and been rewarded by a view of the entrance trail, and the main gates open once more. To readmit the bunch of riders. There seemed to be the same number, all huddled in dark clothing against the rising wind. Except for one of them who wore a coat of stark whiteness, making him almost invisible against the snow.
‘Luke Stanwyck,’ breathed Herne, relieved at the sighting. So they were staying. He was
much closer by the water than he’d been at their camp site, and he could see that one of the last riders was carrying a small sledge, with polished runners. That was where they’d been. Just off for a morning’s sport.
He coughed and hawked up a ball of phlegm, spitting it in the shallow water at the lake’s edge, sending a fish skittering away in a ring of white water.
It was as good a time as any to try and get closer to the house, so he cautiously began the steep climb, cursing as he caught the branch of a tree and brushed powdery snow down the back of his jacket.
Herne stopped for a moment, untying his scarf from round his hat, tucking it back under his collar. He ran his fingers through his mane of black hair, streaked for the last few years with threads of gray, and put his hat back on. In the trees the wind was less keen, and he felt the relief on the skin of his face.
Above his head, through the top branches of the pines, he noticed that the sky was lightening again, with patches of blue among the gray clouds. He stepped cautiously along the path, carefully avoiding the dry twigs that lay on the bone-hard earth. Knowing that a boot-heel on one of those would crack like a whip.
Somewhere away to the left he heard the sound of a heavy animal lumbering through the forest, and he waited, drawing the Colt. At that height it had to be either a mountain lion or a bear. And neither of them would make good company in the climb.
But soon all was still again and Herne moved on. Halfway up the path there was a small clearing, in the middle of which stood the remains of a massive tree, its heart ripped out by lightning. Gradually the green was pressing back in again, but it was a place for a brief rest, before carrying on towards the house.
Jed knew that within a couple of hundred yards he would come within the range of the patrolling sentries. He rubbed the stubble on his chin as he pondered which way he might play it. Stealth was going to be the key, so he holstered the Colt and drew the bayonet from his boot, ready for the sudden encounter.
The Black Widow Page 2