The Black Widow

by John J. McLaglen

  ‘I’ll take the hero,’ said Coburn, standing up and drawing his Colt. There was no danger from frightened men on horseback, riding head down out of a trap.

  Herne also stood, bracing his front foot against the side of the boulder in front of him, noticing that it was veined with a silvery metal. Pyrites, he guessed

  The albino was like some terrifying avenging angel of death, the wind whipping his hair about his long white face, the Colt in his hand spitting lead at the oncoming horseman. Snow blew into Jed’s face and he blinked it away, taking careful aim at the horse’s chest as it came towards him. Squeezing the trigger three times. Actually seeing all the bullets hit home, bringing the poor beast foundering to its knees, throwing the rider clean over its near shoulder to land with a dreadful crack on the earth of the trail.

  Whitey fired five times.

  Aiming at the men rather than the mounts, using the most difficult and least-tried technique of the hired gun. Fanning the hammer of the Colt with the heel of his left hand, keeping the trigger depressed with the right forefinger. Although it was lightning fast, it also presented problems of accuracy. In a situation with men on horseback coming past at the gallop, it was a reasonable way of putting as much lead as possible into a small area in a short time.

  Jed registered the shots, noting that even at the height of the battle that Whitey was still the careful professional. Only using five of the six bullets. Just in case.

  Both men toppled off their mount, falling together on the snow-covered stone of the trail, tangling together in a jigsaw of arms and legs. The one who’d originally been wounded was clearly dead, half his head leaking blood and brains in the trampled whiteness. His companion, who’d tried to save his life was hit in stomach and left thigh, and was trapped by the corpse of his fellow gunman.

  ‘Help me, Mister! I never done nothing to you, whoever you are.’

  He was very young, his pale face turned up to them showing the faintest beginnings of a fuzzy moustache. Ignoring him, Coburn started to reload his gun. Jed looked down at the boy, remembering back to times when he might have died like that. Gutshot and helpless. It was one Hell of a way to die.

  ‘Please, Mister. Don’t shoot me again. I’m hurtin’ real bad. Help me!’

  ‘We don’t have a lot of time, Jed. Waste him and let’s get to it.’

  Whitey was right. They had to get the man who lay groaning and semi-conscious near them. The one whose horse had been shot from under him by Jed. He was what they needed to make the day a complete success. The other men from the house would have heard the burst of shooting. It wouldn’t be long before there were reinforcements on the way from Mount Abora.

  ‘Mister. I’m only twenty-one.’

  He looked younger, vulnerable, and in pain.

  Jed carefully took aim with the Colt and shot him between the eyes, watching the blood-rose flower in the center of the boy’s forehead. The body twitched once and then lay quite still in the snow.

  There were two more shots from near the earth-slide as Coburn put the finishing touches to their ambush. With the one man who was now sitting up, watched by Herne, they had succeeded in wiping out half of the Stanwyck’s hired army of young killers in one simple attack. With no real way in or out of Mount Abora, the odds had come down in their favor.

  ‘What the fuckin’ hell happened?’ Jed stepped forward and tugged the holstered gun away from the gunman. Apart from a scalp wound that was bleeding profusely, he seemed unmarked.

  ‘You’re comin’ with us, friend,’ said Herne. ‘On your feet now and climb up there, behind those boulders. We got a mite of waitin’ to do.’

  Unsteady on his feet, the boy got up and did what he was told, menaced by the two guns of the attackers. He was clearly terrified by the grim-faced men, especially so by the shocking appearance of the albino. The wind was rising as the afternoon faded away towards evening, and more snow filled the air with a downy, icy softness.

  Coburn joined them on the narrow ledge and crouched down, checking his guns, waiting for the relief party from the house to arrive, glancing down at the carnage below, the bodies already starting to blur at the edges with the driving blizzard.

  ‘Good that. Real good, Jed.’

  The prisoner looked up at the name.

  ‘Jed?’

  ‘That’s right, son. Jedediah Herne.’

  ‘Oh, God! Sweet Lord Jesus! Herne the Hunter.’ Turning to look at Coburn. ‘And you’re the bounty hunter we heard of. Whitey Coburn.’

  Without changing his expression, Coburn swung an open-handed slap at the boy’s face, slamming him back against the rocks behind, nearly knocking him out.

  ‘Name’s Isaiah Coburn, boy. And you better not forget it again.’

  ‘I ... I didn’t ... Truly ... Truly ... They never told us that it’d be both of you ... We ... I swear to God we didn’t know ... Not like this.’

  ‘Hush up, boy. There’s goin’ to be some of your friends comin’ soon, to find out what’s happened to you. And I wouldn’t want them knowin’ we was up here. Jed here’s got a knife ... show it him, Jed... There. That’ll go through your throat like a trail-hand through a Denver whore. Not a word.’

  They waited in the falling snow.

  Coburn whispered to Herne. ‘That kid you shot through the head.’

  ‘Yeah.’ Herne didn’t particularly want to be reminded of it.

  ‘When he said he was twenty-one you should have told him that bit of poetry in Birch Wells. Remember? “This verse on your grave won’t be read by you. Your killings done, you’re twenty-one, you won’t see twenty-two.”’

  Jed nodded. He remembered the verse. Even remembered the boy. Should have done. He’d put him in that graveyard.

  Chapter Seven

  Outside their shelter, Herne could hear Becky vomiting in the snow.

  Retching and crying at the same time, coughing as she brought up the thick soup that she’d cooked for them all with the makings Coburn had brought from the store. Inside the shelter, Jed and Whitey crouched each side of the young gunman they’d taken prisoner. He was tightly bound, with ropes round his ankles and wrists tied behind his back. He was bare to the waist, and despite the cold his body was covered with a slick coat of sweat.

  Sweat and blood.

  Their main enemy in getting the man, whose name was Mel Tarrant, back to their camp was the weather. They waited for more men to ride out from Mount Abora, huddled down behind the rocks, the tip of Herne’s bayonet pricking Tarrant’s throat. They’d heard hooves, but only one man had appeared round the bend, peered cautiously through the driving sheets of snow, and galloped back to safety. Jed didn’t blame him.

  At least half of the force slain, by nobody knew how many gunmen. Killers who might still be hiding in the rocks waiting to carry out further slaughter. It made a lot of sense not to wait around within rifle range.

  Once darkness fell, it was comparatively easy for the two gunmen to hustle their prisoner back through the white carpet of snow, now well over ankle deep, and in places over the knees. Past the brightly-lit front gate, and in among the trees, stepping cautiously. Pushing Tarrant in front of them, and treading in his footprints, so that if there were any traps in the way it would be the boy who would lose his leg.

  Becky was almost beside herself with worry, and grabbed Herne tightly round the neck, squeezing him to her. The fire had been well tended and there was a fresh pot of coffee steaming away brightly. It was good to be back out of the snow and in the warm.

  ‘They’ll know now that we’ve arrived. They’ll guess that you aren’t alone, Jed. Not with that many downed. So they’re going to stay holed up inside, jumping at every shadow.’

  Herne nodded, cupping the hot mug in his hands, letting his mind and body relax after the tension and violence of the afternoon. Glanced across the fire to where the boy sat, blood dried brown over much of his face. Becky had made a move to help him, and wipe it clean, but Coburn had stopped her. Quite rightly, thought He
rne. It didn’t do when you were about to ask someone some questions he might not want to answer to show him too much kindness.

  As soon as he’d finished his coffee, Whitey began on Tarrant.

  ‘Right, Mel. You did say your name was Mel, didn’t you? Don’t want to get things wrong. Not right at the start like this.’

  ‘What do you want to know, Mister Coburn, sir? Just ask me and I’ll tell you.’

  Lips pulled back from his teeth in what he thought passed for a reassuring smile, Coburn leaned forwards. There was a hiss in the air, and faster than the eye could follow, the albino had drawn a knife and cut the boy’s coat open, slashing the shirt and red vest underneath, nicking the flesh. Tarrant whimpered with the sudden violence, and tried to roll away. But Coburn reached out and locked his fingers in the damp tangled hair, tugging him right forwards, so that their faces were only inches apart. His voice dropped to the faintest whisper, so that only the boy and Herne could hear.

  ‘You sit right still, boy. I’m just going to cut away all these clothes you got on.’

  ‘Whitey!’ interrupted Herne. ‘Remember the girl’s here.’

  ‘Yeah. Like my partner here says. There’s a young lady with us. But it’s mighty hot with this fire, so I’ll just slice away the clothes from above the belt, and keep the decencies. Right.’ The voice dropped even lower. ‘And if it wasn’t for the girl, you stinkin’ little bastard, I’d cut off your cock and burn it in front of you!’

  Shamed and bare, the boy had been right on the edge of tears, but Herne had felt no pity for him. A hired gun was paid on results. If the going got tough, then he shouldn’t snivel about it. Neither he nor Whitey had ever wept over screwing up on a contract.

  And this boy wasn’t even on the side of the angels. The Stanwyck family was evil, and it was boys like this one who stood between Jed Herne and his justified revenge. So what was a little more suffering among so much?

  ‘I’ll tell you! Please. Why don’t you just ask me some questions, and I’ll tell you?’

  And he’d talked. Betrayed every one of his friends and the people who paid his hire. Herne shook his head in silent contempt at the lack of guts. Within a couple of hours they knew most everything they wanted to know.

  Just how many men there were left? Seven. How many other servants? Just the butler, Jackson, and the housekeeper, Mrs. Bellamy. Where were the guns kept? Where did the guards sleep? Where were the rooms of the Stanwycks? When did they eat?

  But there was one question that Mel shook his head on and refused to answer. Coburn didn’t press it, preferring to slide around it, and try other questions. Finally, though, there wasn’t anything else left.

  ‘Apart from that main gate, there has to be another way into the place. Where is it, and are you going to take us there? That’s the last one, Mel. You done real good so far, and we’ve not had to hurt you scarcely at all, so come on with this one.’

  The boy shook his head. The time had given him some time to regain his composure. ‘I can’t I told you everything else. But if I tell you about the other way in, and they find out... Then they’ll give me either to that creepy one Luke, with his white clothes and his fuckin’ needles, or to his brother.’

  Despite the sweat that ran down his naked chest, the boy shuddered.

  ‘What’s wrong with Mark Stanwyck?’ asked Herne.

  Glancing across at Becky who was trying to sew up a tear in a skirt, the boy whispered: ‘He’s a pervert... you know? He likes doin’ it up your... Only he hurts you while he does it. And in your mouth. When he...’

  ‘All right. We get the picture.’

  Yes, we see,’ said Coburn, shaking his head in distaste. ‘But you got to realize, Mel, that if you don’t tell us, then they won’t be able to harm you. ’Cos we’ll kill you. Course, we’ll hurt you horrible first.’

  ‘If you tell us, then maybe we’ll let you go after all this is over. And if you tell us right, then we’ll get in there and kill them and you needn’t worry no more. Now how about it Mel?’

  The boy’s eyes flicked from man to man, the firelight bouncing off their faces, hardening them. And he shook his head.

  ‘I can’t. Truly. Please let me go.’

  ‘Jed?’

  All three men turned to look at the girl, speaking for almost the first time since they’d arrived with their prisoner.

  ‘What is it, honey?’

  ‘Can’t you let him go, Jed? He’s answered all your questions. Hasn’t he?’

  Whitey turned to her, the red of the fire reflected deep in the hollow caves of his eyes, making it seem as if flames glowed within his skull. ‘Becky. Young Mel here’s told us a lot that helps. But none of that’s worth a flying … flying damn, less he tells us how to actually get in the house. And for that we figure we need him to take us in. So you just hush up and leave us be. It won’t be long, and if you don’t like it, then go take a breath or two of that fresh air.’

  Her lips went thin with anger and hurt, and Herne saw, half in the shadows, how much like his dead wife the girl was.

  ‘Becky. Remember what the boy told us. These two are the last. And in some ways they’re the worst. I recall what Louise told me about these twins before she … before she died. The one who wears white, he couldn’t do it, and he threatened to cut her eyes out if she told. And this other. Mark. He was one of them to do it the... to do awful, blasphemous things, to her. She was your friend and my wife, Becky. We got to do what’s needful to avenge her.’ After that, she said nothing.

  It hadn’t taken long. But it had been messy, and noisy, despite the knotted rope gag jammed in the boy’s open mouth.

  Because the needle-point of Jed’s bayonet was a little sharper than his own knife, Coburn borrowed it to help ‘persuade’ Tarrant that it would be better if he helped them.

  There wasn’t all that much blood.

  But so much pain that Herne had to lie across the boy’s body to hold him still under the probing of the steel. It was at that point that Becky rushed outside to be sick.

  ‘That’ s enough, Whitey. Look at his eyes. He’ll talk now. Won’t you, Mel?’

  The young gunman nodded, his face a white mask of agony, blood trickling from his gagged mouth where he’d bitten through his tongue. His eyes were rimmed with blood from the delicate touch of the knife, and breath bubbled through the slit nostrils.

  Before handing back the bayonet, Coburn cut away the gag, and wiped the blade on the boy’s own trousers. Helped him to sit up, putting his arm gently round his shoulders.

  ‘You did well, boy. None of them in that house could have done better. Ain’t no shame in knowing when to give in, isn’t that right, Jed?’

  Herne nodded his agreement, feeling the thin bitterness of bile rising in his throat at the violence and coldness of this sort of torture. Whitey had always been better at it than him. Even though he didn’t take any pleasure from it, like Bill Yates, Becky’s father, had.

  He was just glad it was over, and wondered whether he ought to go out to the girl, then deciding she’d probably be better for a while on her own. Looking out into the night, he could see that the snow had eased, with just an occasional flake catching the light of the fire as it drifted past the mouth of the shelter.

  ‘You should have killed me,’ said the boy, his voice flat and dead.

  ‘Come on, Mel.’

  There’s a door. At the bottom of the far tower wing. Nearest to the path you brought me down. Nobody knows about that. The path.’

  ‘This door?’ prompted Herne, leaning forwards intently.

  ‘It’s just for us. The guards. It’s got its own sentry on twenty-four hours a day. Man with a scatter-gun behind it. Barred window that slides open for him to see through to who’s outside.’

  ‘And? This is interesting, boy, but it’s not getting us inside there.’

  ‘Mrs. Stanwyck is very tight on discipline. Always makes rules that we have to knock and wait and the guard inside has to identify the men outsi
de and slide back the grill so he can see them. Only then will he let them in. Oh, and he’s supposed to carry a lantern at dark so there’s no mistake.’

  ‘Sounds tight to me,’ muttered Coburn to Jed.

  ‘It would be, only most of us have been there for several months, and it comes to be a whole load of wasted time to keep going through that.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘So we have a special knock.’

  ‘And the man inside just reaches up and opens the bolts and doesn’t even stop looking at his set of French postcards. Is that the way of things?’

  Tarrant nodded. ‘Yes. Maybe after what happened this afternoon, things might get tighter.’

  ‘And again, they might not. What’s the knock?’

  The boy looked down at his feet, ignoring the question. Spitting out a trail of blood and saliva in the fire where it hung sizzling on the end of a branch.

  ‘I’ll make it easy, boy,’ said Coburn. ‘I’ll make like you didn’t quite hear me, and I’ll keep real nice and I’ll ask you again. If’n you mishear me that time, then I’ll have to trouble Jed for his sticker again. Now. What is ... ?’

  ‘Three close together. Then a pause. Then two more. That’s all.’

  Coburn grinned, elated by the news. ‘Good! Good boy, Mel. So we’ll move tomorrow, Jed. Right?’

  ‘Wait on. There’s two ways of thinkin’ on this, Whitey. One says they’ll be more careful now and then relax over the next few days. Other way, they won’t expect us to come back straight away. Which do you favor?’

  Coburn scratched his nose. Put his head on one side, screwing up his eyes. ‘There’s things for and there’s things against. What do you reckon, Jed? You were always a mite better than me at the thinkin’ game.’

  Becky came back in the shelter, her face almost as pale as the albino’s. Averting her eyes from the blood-speckled face and body of the boy. She ignored Jed and sat down as far away from him as the cramped shelter would permit, picking up her sewing again.