Belle Starr shouted something he couldn’t make out. He drew his gun fast, wincing as the movement took up the blow with the riding crop. A third rifle shot whistled close to his head and he fired three times himself, firing fast, quick, covering shots, then rocking his body, kicking with his boots, moving Clay towards the anxious cattle.
The longhorns were pawing the ground, heads lifted on the air, beginning to push against each other. Hart fired twice over them, shouting, waving his Stetson with his left hand.
More rifle shots cracked out and Hart could hear the sound of galloping hoofs. Useless to turn round. The cattle were moving now, bellowing, gathering speed, racing down the creek valley.
Hart maneuvered Clay between the hind-runners, yelling at them to clear the way, knowing the danger of riding in the midst of the stampeding animals but realizing that the other, following, danger was the greater.
The noise of the cattle was almost overwhelming. Hart stopped flailing his arm and leaned low over Clay’s neck, urging every ounce of speed from the mare. As shots still tried to pick him off, he broke through the front of the steers and sensed the horse beneath him finding fresh energies now that they were not so tightly surrounded.
Hart veered right, making for the tree line, now allowing himself to glance over his shoulder. Two of the men were still coming, the third was sitting astride his mount a quarter of a mile back, the animal’s head lowered to the ground. Further back was a small, dark shape he took to be Belle Starr.
As he reached the first oaks, Hart reined in the mare and swung round, pulling the Henry from its scabbard. He thumbed up the rear sight on the stock, worked the lever. Realizing what was happening, the two chasing men spread wide. Hart moved the rifle barrel marginally and squeezed back on the trigger. The horse of the nearest rider stopped as if it had raced into an invisible wall. Front legs splayed, dipped; the body began to fall even as the man was hurled, somersaulting, forwards.
His companion turned his mount away, galloping back down in the direction of the creek. Hart let the rifle drop down into its sheath and moved Clay about, passing between the trees.
Chapter Eleven
Like a lot of sod houses, it had been built into the overhang of a hill, back wall formed from the solid ground. A lean-to at the far side was missing several planks completely, others had slipped from place, become broken. Nobody had bothered to repair or replace them.
In the muted brightness of the moonlight, the manes of horses shone dully as they moved restlessly in the corral. The man sitting on the end of the fence turned his head a little, pulled his collar up against the cold and tucked his head back down inside it. It was a bastard of a night to draw guard!
The others in there, drinking raw whisky and playing some cards, likely draw poker. Warmth of the stove. Later Belle and Sam would get into their cot behind the curtain and they’d be goin’ at it half the night, not giving a damn about who heard them. The rest of the boys in their blankets on the floor trying not to notice how hard they were getting, listening to that woman’s moans and growls of pleasure.
Jesus Almighty!
She weren’t no raving beauty but there was something about the way she looked at a man, some special way of eyeing him that let you know she could treat you like no woman ever did before or would after. And you didn’t even have to see her; it was enough to be close to her – scent of her body, sweat and skin strong inside a man’s head.
The guard pushed up his head and turned left and then right. What in hell’s name was spooking those horses he didn’t know. God, he wished a little light would start to show; he wished it would be morning.
He felt it before his eyes registered anything; hard and sharp against his throat. Mouth opening, he saw the shape close – from nowhere – choking, he felt it push alongside the windpipe, thrusting against his neck. Blood filled his mouth. A face moved fast in front of his own, one he couldn’t recognize, see clearly. He knew he was falling forwards and that an arm was catching him| he was folding over it. He spewed vomit and blood from his opened mouth. His neck burnt like fire. The knife slid out of his body. He didn’t know if he was lying down or still falling; didn’t know if his eyes were open or closed; didn’t know…
Wes Hart bent down and wiped the razor-sharp blade of the Apache knife on the man’s coat sleeve and then stood back up. He dropped the knife down into the sheath hanging from a cord round his neck and pushed it down between shirt and skin.
Light seeped through the sacking tacked over the windows; smoke rolled out from the hole in the roof above the stove.
Hart moved silently back to where he had tied Clay, by the far side of the corral. He lifted the shotgun from its holster and broke it, checking the load. Stealthily back again towards the door.
Outside he transferred the Remington to his left hand and drew the Colt .45. He guessed there would be a bolt pushed to behind the door, possibly a length of wood slotted into place. He stood one pace back – if the kick didn’t work he would use the shotgun and blast the timber apart.
A cloud shut across the moon.
Hart lifted his right leg and rammed the underneath of his boot flat against the wood, closest to the handle. The door rocked and sprang open. Hart jumped through before it had struck the wall.
‘Hold it!’
Belle Starr was standing at the rear of the single room, close by the stove. Surprise startled her dark eyes. Sam was sitting at the head of the rough wooden table, cleaning a pistol. Three others were sitting around the other end, playing cards. The dealer held his action in mid-flow; slowly one card slipped away from his fingers and fluttered to the table top.
‘You’re a fool!’ the words hissed through Belle’s tight lips.
Hart shook his head, holding both guns steady. The shotgun was covering the card players, the Colt aimed at the centre of Sam’s chest.
‘Get to your feet. One at a time an’ slow. Take your gun out with your other hand an’ get over by the wall.’
He jerked the shotgun barrel at the dealer.
‘You. First.’
The man blanched and scraped back his chair, never taking his eyes off the weapon in Hart’s left hand. He stood up slowly and reached his left hand across to his holster.
‘Finger and thumb.’
The man nodded, jaw hanging down some on his lean face. Sam Starr fidgeted on his chair and Hart flicked his eyes in his direction. Finger and thumb were on the pistol butt. The man at the end of the table kicked his chair backwards and threw himself to the floor, grabbing at his gun. Sam tried to turn the table but it was too heavy and only rocked. The dealer moved his hand down on to his pistol and started his draw.
Hart squeezed back on the shotgun, arching his body backwards as he did so. The dealer was lifted from the ground and hurled through the air, crashing into the solid wall. His face simply ceased to exist; instead there was a bloody pulp that denied any shape. The upper part of his chest was raked through with shot.
Hart swung the Colt away from Sam towards the man who’d dived for the floor. As the man’s pistol came up from its holster, Hart fired the Colt twice. The first shot shattered the bone below the neck and deflected upwards along the side of his head, tearing away his left ear. The second slug hammered through his chest and he arched up under its impact, eyes closing, fingers splaying wide, the gun falling away.
Belle Starr had jumped in front of the body of the shotgunned man, her gun belt hanging from the back of a chair in the corner.
‘Don’t, Belle!’
Hart thumbed back the hammer on his Colt as Sam stood up and lifted his own chair into the air, aiming it towards the kerosene lantern hanging from the ceiling.
Belle Starr pulled the .36 Manhattan clear and started to turn. The third of the card players dived low into Hart’s body. Sam smashed his chair into the lantern, sending it to the floor.
There was a sudden flare and then the light was all but gone. Just the dull glow from the stove. A shot rang out and Hart f
elt something graze his left arm, inches above the elbow. Arms were tight around his legs, trying to force him over. He fired the Colt and heard the bullet whine away harmlessly.
An arm swung near him and a chair back shattered against his head.
He went down heavily, the man who’d been pulling at his legs releasing his grip and trying to scramble over him. A boot rammed down into his stomach and he opened his mouth in a shout. Two more shots were fired harmlessly in the room.
Sam Starr was yelling for Belle to come after him, to make a run for it. Hart rolled sideways and pushed himself to his feet. He could see Belle still near the back of the room, hear Sam still shouting, the voice receding.
He scrabbled on the floor for the Colt that had got knocked from his hand.
Belle made no move: waited.
Outside, the sound of horses being led from the corral. Hart found the Colt and jumped through the doorway. A couple of shots sent him low to the side, stopping him. One man was already mounted, leading a horse for the second. Another shot came from the man on the horse and then as the other one jumped for the saddle, Hart snapped off a shot and started to run.
Clay was twenty-five yards back; dapple gray coat showing in the moonlight. Hart freed her reins and slapped her flank, one hand grasping the saddle pommel.
The pair had got a start but not one that the gray couldn’t make up. The earth was hard and black beneath her hoofs. Hart leaned forward in the saddle, urging her along, looking for the riders he could hear up ahead.
As the land slanted upwards and the trail broke between two groups of brush he saw them, riding one behind the other, going at full gallop. The moon showed them in strong silhouette as they hit the top of the slope. Hart though of stopping and using the Henry but before he could decide they had dropped down from sight on the other side.
‘Clay! C’mon! Let’s go!’
Hart’s voice was loud in the clearness of the night; the drum of hoofs reverberated from the hard ground.
He could see them clearly as he raced down the far slope, closing fast with them now. Anxiously, first one then the other of them glanced back over their shoulders. Hart touched his hand to the stock of the rifle, reins tight in his grasp.
Yards shortened between them.
The rider at the back wheeled off the trail to the right and started to turn back to face Hart, pulling his own pistol clear. Hart thought, made the decision, hauled hard on the reins. As Clay slowed and swung round, he heard the first shot and levered a shell into the chamber of the Henry.
The man was coming directly at him and he brought the rifle to his shoulder. It would have to be a lucky shot with a pistol traveling at that speed. His eye squinted along the sight at the dark shape, squeezed the trigger once, brought the gun down, worked the lever a second time.
Unnecessary.
The man spread his arms wide and rocked back in the saddle, feet coming out of the stirrups. As the horse continued on its way, the man fell to the ground and rolled several times. The riderless animal veered wide, out of Hart’s path.
Hart sent Clay forward at a walk, keeping the rifle at the ready in case.
He lay with one arm high above his head, the other twisted up behind his back as though it had been broken in the fall. His legs were spread from the knees. The bullet had punched an entry wound inches wide in his left side, midway up the chest. Hart turned him on to his side, using his boot. The broken arm flopped awkwardly – there was no other movement.
It wasn’t Sam Starr.
Hart shrugged and turned away. Back by his horse, he reloaded his guns before remounting. The shotgun was back at the place the gang had been using for a hideout and he intended to ride back for it. After that he guessed he’d get back to the Fredericks’ place.
There wasn’t any point in lighting out after Sam now and Belle would be clear away.
He went back easily, letting the gray pick her own pace. The door to the sod house was still wide open and there were traces of fire still showing from the stove. The shotgun had been knocked well into the room during the struggle and lay on the floor beyond the table.
Hart bent to pick it up and heard the noise at the door. He spun fast, right hand diving for the butt of the Colt and pulling it clear from the greased holster, thumbing the hammer, finger beginning to work the trigger.
He was crouched low, left arm put wide for balance. Belle Starr stood in the doorway, the .36 tight in her gloved hand and aimed right at Hart’s chest.
The moment froze time. Their eyes caught. Neither fired.
‘I didn’t think you’d be here.’
‘Of course you didn’t.’ Belle’s eyes seemed black in the half-light.
Hart straightened up, hand steady on the gun, the barrel still pointing at Belle’s left breast.
‘Sam?’ she asked.
Hart shook his head. ‘He rode clear.’
‘And Jed?’
‘If that’s what he was called, he’s dead.’
She blinked for a moment, letting her body relax. Slowly she lowered her gun, letting her arm fall by her side. Hart released the hammer of the Colt .45.
Apart from that neither of them moved. The bodies of two of her gang were where they’d fallen.
‘What now?’ Hart asked.
She gave a half smile. ‘I’m going after Sam.’
Hart nodded and then said: ‘Why?’
For a few seconds she seemed to think about it.
‘Because…’
‘He ran out an’ left you.’
‘Sam knew I’d make it on my own.’
‘Maybe you won’t always, Belle.’
She frowned. ‘Some day, perhaps. Could be that’s why I’m goin’ after Sam and not stayin’ round here.’
‘You’re keepin’ clear of Fredericks’ range?’
Belle took half a pace inside the room. ‘If I don’t then sooner or later one of us is goin’ to put a bullet through the other. I don’t want that to happen.’
‘Me neither.’
Hart went close to her and for a moment he thought about taking her in his arms. But it would have been starting something neither of them would have been able to handle.
‘You’re not going to stop me?’ She looked up into his face.
Hart shook his head.
‘Okay.’ She lay her hand on his arm and the warmth of it sent a shiver to his brain. Again he could smell her.
She stopped outside the doorway and turned. ‘Some feller at Fort Reno – whatever you done to him got him plenty riled.’
‘How’s that?’
‘Enough to offer good money to get you killed.’
Hart went cold; he remembered the rifle shots from the trees by the Peterson place, the attempt by the ferryman to gun him down.
‘Who was it, Belle?’
‘Didn’t know his name. Youngish feller, late twenties. Good-lookin’ in a empty sort of way. Sort of sandy hair.’ She looked at Hart with a grudging smile. ‘He hates you worse than poison.’
‘He say why?’
‘Not to me he didn’t. But then I wasn’t interested in takin’ him up on his offer.9
‘Yeah. Well, thanks for the warnin’, Belle.’
She nodded, her head for a moment angled to one side. Velvet was waiting alongside the lean-to.
‘Maybe we’ll meet again, Wes,’ she said from the saddle. ‘But I doubt it.’
Hart stepped forward and raised his hand.
It was time to head back towards the Fredericks place. There were questions which still needed to be answered, which had to be asked. Soon the shape of woman and horse were no more than a greater dark against the land and sky, then not that. Hoof beats faded. Hart was thinking back to the time he’d ridden by the Peterson place in the early morning and seen Carol standing with her arm about her husband. He recalled the man’s clean-shaven, open face, his sandy hair.
Chapter Twelve
The little girl was running, aimlessly, legs always threatening to give
way under her as she stumbled, recovered, stumbled again. At the hill crest she was swallowed up in the brightness of the rising sun, disappearing as if the strength of its heat had consumed her. Then she was there at the other side, a glow tracing the outline of her skin.
Hart had heard the shooting several miles off and driven the dapple gray at a gallop. Now he veered to the right, moving fast towards the girl.
She saw him coming, panicked and tried to run faster. With a cry she fell headlong; picked herself up and began to run again. The horse came close by her and Hart leaned sideways from the saddle, scooping her up in his arm.
She struggled frantically, shouting and swinging her arms, kicking with her legs. He sat her across the front of the saddle and her bunched little fists struck at his chest again and again.
Hart reined in the horse and held her with both hands; when she could hit him no longer the tears ran down her face and her mouth gulped in gouts of air. The hair on her head, cut to the scalp because of nits or some such, had begun to grow slowly, unevenly.
Shots still sounded from the other side of the hill.
‘Listen, you stay here. You’ll be okay. I’ll go and help your folk.’
She didn’t hear him; eyes clenched tight, the crying continued unabated.
‘Stay here. You’ll be all right.’
He shook her, trying to get her to look at him, to understand what he was saying. Fear gripped her totally. Finally, Hart lifted her round and set her down on the ground. Then she did look at him and for a few moments the crying ceased, though her body heaved with soundless sobs.
‘Wait.’
He swung Clay round and dug in his spurs. The firing was becoming more sporadic. He freed the rifle and worked the lever fast, going over the rise of the hill. The sun blinded him.
He blinked and purple lights gleamed on the inside of his eyelids.
The Cheyenne were charging in on the sod house, firing as they came. Hart noted bows and rifles being used more or less equally. Saw the smoke of replying fire from the windows. Two guns at most.
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