Hart the Regulator 2

by John B. Harvey

  ‘Let’s have another.’

  ‘Sure.’

  Hart dropped a dollar piece on to the counter; the man gave Hart his beer and change.

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘Been ridin’ long?’

  ‘Long enough.’

  ‘Warmer today, wouldn’t you say?’

  ‘Uh-huh, that’s what I’d say – if I had nothin’ better to do.’

  The one-armed man chose to ignore Hart’s sarcasm. ‘Come far?’

  ‘Fort Reno.’

  ‘Where you headed?’

  ‘Turkey Creek way.’

  ‘You ain’t...’

  Hart set down the glass with a bang which caused the three behind to shift in their chairs uneasily. ‘Mister, you sure ask a lot of fool questions.’

  The man tried a smile. ‘Nosy, I guess. Plain interested, maybe.’

  Hart scowled and said nothing. He finished his second beer and turned away, leaning back against the bar. The three men at the table took a sudden interest in the bottle before them. Hart watched as the half-breed he’d seen in the street came to the door and stood there, staring in.

  ‘What the hell you want, Tacos?’ called the man behind the bar.

  But Tacos said nothing and continued to stare at Hart.

  Hart moved his right hand slowly, thumbing the leather thong away from the hammer of his Colt.

  ‘You want me?’

  The half-breed nodded, dark eyes bright. His work pants were patched and patched again; the coat he was wearing was too small for him and his bare arms stuck through the ends of the sleeves not far below the elbows.

  ‘How d’you know it’s me you want?’

  Tacos licked his lips. ‘Tall man with blue eyes and pearl-handle gun. Rides gray horse.’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Message.’

  ‘Go ahead.’

  The breed’s eyes flickered. ‘No. You come outside.’

  Hart shook his head. ‘Say your piece from there.’

  Tacos glanced at the one-armed man behind the bar and the three sitting to Hart’s right. The brown and white mongrel came slowly up behind the breed and rubbed itself against his leg. Tacos kicked out at it suddenly and the dog jumped back, whining.

  ‘A man, he spoke of killing you.’

  Hart held his breath; behind him a chair scraped on the boards. Tacos began to back away from the doorway, nodding his head.

  ‘You come,’ he said. ‘I will tell you.’

  Hart turned towards the bar and looked at the one-armed man, who shifted his gaze away.

  ‘Whisky.’

  The man pulled out the stopper with his teeth and when he poured the measure, some of it splashed on to the counter. Hart drank it in a single swallow, then tried his pistol in its holster, checking the ease of movement. He pushed the glass back across the bar and went towards the door.

  The light was cold and bright. The half-breed stood thirty feet back from the stage building, waiting, lank black hair shielding part of his face. Further off, to the left, the mongrel dog lay on the ground, forepaws stretched out underneath its long head.

  No one, nothing else moved.

  Hart took a pace away from the door.

  Instinct threw him forwards a second before the sound of the shot. A shell screamed off the woodwork behind where he’d been standing. A second report, a second ricochet. Hart came out of a fast rolling movement with the Colt tight in his right hand, hammer back. He was crouched low, feet spread for balance. The shots had come from a building off to the side. He waited, mouth slightly open, eyes keen as a hawk, every muscle of his body tensed.

  He saw the glint of gun metal before the whole of the barrel pushed over the window frame; saw it and fired a foot above. There was a muffled cry and the sound of someone falling.

  Hart straightened up a little and waited again.

  Watched.

  The breed hadn’t moved. He was staring at the sod shack also, eyes dark with fear. Several others had come running and now stood on the periphery. Two women with shawls pulled over their shoulders; the one-armed man from the bar; a handful of men, one with a rifle held across his body. Three children, two boys and a girl, all in bare feet and patched clothes, all holding hands. The girl had her hair tied into tight plaits which were fastened with blue ribbon and curved out from either side of her head.

  The dog was slowly retreating, growling low in its throat.

  Hart’s fingers had not moved from the trigger and hammer of his gun. His eyes had not left the building opposite.

  The shape of a man became clear beyond the doorway. Merv Griffiths stepped forward, swayed, pushing out his left hand on to the door edge for support. There was a dark, spreading stain low on the left side of his chest and he held his body arched. His pistol was tight in his right hand, but the arm was unsteady.

  He came further into the light.

  ‘Your pa should’ve tied you to the saddle an’ whipped you home to Texas.’

  The brown moustache moved as Griffiths’ mouth grew ugly in a wordless snarl.

  ‘Then again, maybe I should have taken you up at Buffalo Spring.’

  Merv Griffiths coughed and his body shook: ‘Maybe you couldn’t’ve.’

  Hart said nothing, shook his head.

  Griffiths came another couple of steps closer and the little girl saw the blood on his shirt and realized what it was. She pulled away from her friends and ran towards one of the women, crying wildly. The boys continued to stare, fascinated.

  ‘Why, boy?’

  ‘Don’t call me boy!’

  This time he coughed up a sliver of blood and it slid down his chin and on to the front of his shirt like a crimson tear.

  ‘Bein’ mad at me weren’t enough.’

  ‘You…you talked down to me in…in front of…’

  ‘No, that weren’t enough. Who put you up to it?’

  Merv Griffiths pressed his left hand hard against the bullet wound in his chest; for a moment his eyes closed and Hart thought he was going to fall, but he recovered.

  ‘Who was it, boy?’

  Griffiths began to raise his right arm, the gun still in his hand.

  ‘Don’t be a fool. You’ll likely die anyway, but if’n you get patched up you might stand a chance.’

  The arm came almost level; Griffiths winced as he pressed his thumb down on to the curve of the hammer.

  ‘I seen two boys near as old as you dead for no reason an’ laid to earth. Don’t make me do it.’

  Griffiths opened his mouth and more blood trickled out; his eyelids blinked down and his body swayed from side to side — but the hammer on the gun came back.

  In the silence the mongrel’s growling rasped inside Hart’s brain. He brought his lower lip back tight against his teeth and shot Griffiths through the forehead.

  The shell struck dead centre, a couple of inches above the top of the nose. Griffiths was hurled back and his legs kicked out from beneath him as he spun sideways. Soft gray matter from inside the shattered skull flew through the bright, hard air. The exit wound at the rear of the head was large enough to punch through with a fist.

  Hart brought back his arm and dropped the Colt down into its holster. He was three paces towards the dead man’s body when a fresh gleam of metal caught the corner of his vision. Hart hurled himself sideways, drawing his gun as he rolled over, steadying himself with his left hand flat to the ground. A rifle shell gouged the ground where he had been standing; metal reflected sunlight once again.

  Hart fired once, twice; pushed himself to his feet and sprinted across open space. His shoulder sent the door crashing in and he dived in after it. Boots shuffled at the top of the stairs. Hart sent a shot ricocheting off the wall. One slug left.

  He darted to the foot of the stairs and took them three at a time. The door at the end of the corridor banged shut. Hart kicked it back against the wall. Frank Peterson was standing by the open window. Before Hart could call out he had dived outwards, head first into
space.

  The crunching thump echoed deafeningly.

  When Hart knelt alongside him, blood was trickling from both corners of Peterson’s mouth and his eyes were open, staring at nothing.

  ‘I figured it was your money brought him back,’ said Hart. ‘What I didn’t figure was that you’d be backing him up yourself.’

  Frank Peterson blinked and coughed blood on to his shirt front.

  ‘The other thing,’ said Hart, bending lower, ‘is why? Why?’

  Peterson tried to ease himself up on to one arm but fell back again. His face was grainy white except for the twin lines of bright red blood. When he spoke his voice sounded as though it was coming from another body.

  ‘Fredericks, he wanted to buy the ranch. Said he needed the land, the valley. He offered us money…a lot of money.’ A bubble of blood formed at Peterson’s nostrils, then burst. More blood was matting his fair hair, darkening it. ‘Carol, she…she didn’t want to move…wanted…stay…a family…’

  Hart put his hand behind Peterson’s head and lifted it up at an angle.

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘Fredericks sent some men round…told me if they didn’t get what they…they wanted, they’d take it anyway. Kill us. Kill us!’

  His eyes lost their focus and Hart shifted his head a little.

  ‘They came once when Carol was in Stillwater. I…I sold the ranch…the land. When Carol came back and found out, she just left. Right off. I followed her…argued with her. In the end she said it. Said about you…how she’d met you the once…how you were more man than I’d ever be.’

  His voice was little more than a whisper and Hart had to bend right over his face to hear what he was saying.

  ‘She…said she…couldn’t love me again…not after…said I wasn’t fit to be…father of her…’

  The sound hissed to silence. Hart shook him, lifted him into a sitting position. ‘Where is she, Peterson? Where?’

  His head rolled sideways and when Hart moved his hand clear it was damp and sticky with the man’s blood. He set him down and stood up. Before doing anything else he reloaded his Colt, the townspeople watching him.

  When that was done he walked over towards Merv Griffiths’ body; the brown and white dog was alongside him, licking his face. As Hart approached it went back on to its hind legs, growling. Hart bent down and found the gold piece he knew would be there in Griffiths’ pants pocket.

  ‘Here,’ he tossed the coin to the one-armed man. ‘See he gets buried. Write to his father at the C Circle down in Texas. Tell him what happened. Tell it right.’

  Hart untied his horse and climbed into the saddle. There was still Fredericks to deal with – now more than ever.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Peters and Chavez were riding along behind the supply wagon; T.C. was sitting up behind the team of two, sacks and barrels and boxes stacked high at his rear.

  Hart rode in to meet them, his path due to cross theirs where the trail flattened out after descending a long hill. He came easily, not wanting anything to panic the three men or warn them into flight.

  T.C. hauled in on the reins when he saw Hart coming and Chavez raised his arm in greeting. Peters carried on riding, only stopping when he had gone past Hart and turned back round.

  ‘Fredericks has been gettin’ pretty mad waitin’ for you to show,’ said T.C., holding the reins between the three fingers of his left hand.

  ‘He’ll see me soon enough.’

  ‘Where you been?’ asked Chavez.

  ‘Down the Cheyenne agency.’

  Chavez moved his horse. ‘Family of sodbusters got…’

  ‘I know,’ interrupted Hart, his voice tight and hard. ‘I seen ’em.’ He looked from one man to another, finally letting his gaze rest on Peters. ‘They was shot up with brand-new Winchesters, Whisky an’ guns.’

  Peters held his stare for a few moments, then turned his head aside and hawked up spit from the back of his throat.

  ‘You wouldn’t know anything about that?’

  T.C. and Chavez exchanged nervous glances: Peters spat at the ground.

  ‘Weren’t just odd families. Small place called Stillwater, east of here, whole town got wiped out. Women and kids, too.’

  T.C. and Chavez glanced at one another again. Peters let his horse turn through a half circle. There were two to Hart’s left, one to his right. He thought T.C. might stay out of it, but couldn’t be sure.

  ‘I’m pretty damned sure it’s Fredericks supplyin’ arms. Only…’ His voice slowed. ‘…I don’t reckon he’s carting rifles down to the Cheyenne himself. Which means someone else is doin’ it for him.’

  Hart looked from one to another.

  ‘Wouldn’t you say?’

  Peters pulled at his greasy Stetson, taking it off and wiping his gloved hand round the inside of the crown. ‘You go talk to Fredericks about it.’

  ‘I will. But I’m takin’ account of you boys first.’

  ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘It means I’d like my feelin’s made a little more definite. About the movin’ of these arms, that is.’

  One of the wagon horses lifted its head and snickered, shifting to one side. T.C. called to it to settle down.

  Peters let his own mount move again; now he was sideways on to Hart and less than a dozen feet away.

  ‘I told you,’ he said, ‘you go talk to Fredericks.’

  Hart faced him. ‘And I told you that I want an answer.’

  Peters mouth moved inside the drooping moustache. Hart knew none of them was about to talk without a little persuasion.

  He leaned back in the saddle and without warning his right hand blurred with speed. The next thing Peters realized was that he was staring down the barrel of a Colt .45.

  ‘Talk!’

  ‘Go to hell!’

  Hart worked the hammer.

  ‘You ain’t goin’ to use that. An’ I’m not goin’ for no gun. ‘

  A smile edged on to Hart’s face. ‘An’ you’re not talkin’ either?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  Hart squeezed the trigger and Peters rocked backwards, clutching his right shoulder where the shell had torn through the skin and a good inch of flesh. His face went white; blood ran over and between his ringers.

  ‘Jesus Christ!’ exclaimed T.C. softly, shaking his head in astonishment.

  Chavez stared from under his sombrero, thinking how fast he could get his knife from its sheath and hope to throw it.

  ‘Now talk!’

  Peters shook his head slowly, mouth shut tight.

  Hart thumbed back the hammer and the triple click was loud in Peters’ head.

  ‘The next one’s goin’ to break that arm.’

  Sweat ran down Peters’ face.

  ‘Tell him,’ said T.C. ‘For God’s sake tell him.’

  Peters told him. They’d been making deliveries to the Indians for several months – rifles, ammunition, a few handguns, lately bottles of whisky. Fredericks hadn’t helped with the deliveries but he had talked with some of the chiefs. He’d told them the more whites that were enabled to settle, the faster the Indians would lose the last of the lands ceded to them. Fight back, he’d advised them. Fight for what’s yours.

  And all the while he waited for the Cheyenne to go so far that the government would be forced to act – and when they did, Fredericks would take what he thought was his.

  Peters finished talking and it was quiet. Hart released the hammer on the Colt and slipped the gun back into the holster.

  ‘What you aimin’ to do?’ asked T.C. after a few moments.

  ‘I’m goin’ in to see Fredericks. Right now.’

  ‘And us?’

  Hart looked at him. ‘That’s up to you. But if you get in the way, or do anything to stop me, you’re dead.’

  T.C. swallowed hard and nodded. Hart touched Clay’s sides with his spurs and set off north. The Fredericks place was a little over an hour away.

  A mile on Peters suddenly lashe
d his horse into a gallop and rode ahead. Hart lifted the Henry clear, thought better of it, put it back. If he warned Fredericks and he ran, he wasn’t going to get far.

  Not far enough.

  Bonney Fredericks’ face was whiter than ever: white as the silk of the blouse she was wearing. She sat astride her horse on a rise to the right of the trail and the sun caught the sheen of her black hair as she inclined her head.

  Hart pulled away from the wagon and rode up to meet her.

  Close to, her face was strained; fear edged the corners of her dark eyes. There was no make-up on her mouth and her lips were the pale color of dead skin. She was beautiful like a snake is beautiful: and cold.

  She stared at Hart until he was forced to blink and look away.

  ‘You’re going to kill my husband, aren’t you?’

  Then he looked at her. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Because of selling guns to the Indians?’

  ‘Partly.’

  ‘Because he tried to make a fool of you?’

  ‘Partly that, too.’

  ‘Why else?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  Her fingers round the reins were tight and the knuckles white against the dark brown of the leather.

  ‘But you’ll kill him anyway?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Whatever I say?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Hart started to turn his horse away but she came after him, closing the distance between them. Her hand on his wrist was like glass.

  ‘There’s a lot of money, I expect you know that.’

  ‘I don’t want the money, only what’s due to me.’

  She raised her eyebrows. ‘You’re an honest killer.’

  Hart looked away and the ends of her nails pressed hard and brittle against his skin.

  ‘When it’s done, take me with you.’

  For a few moments he didn’t react, didn’t answer. The pressure on his wrist increased. He looked at her pale face, at the slight rise and fall of her breasts beneath the silk of her blouse, at the intensity of her eyes.

  He shook his head. ‘No.’

  The nails bit into his flesh and when he pulled his arm away there were spots of blood on the broken surface of his skin.

  ‘No.’

  He wheeled the gray round and clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth, touching her with his spurs to bring her into a trot, then a canter. He didn’t want to look back and when he did, once, she was sitting in the same position staring after him.