Death School (Herne the Hunter Western Book 14)

by John J. McLaglen

  ‘It doesn’t please me, Caleb. I know that you’re telling me lies. I know you’re all lying. Been lying ever since we met up.’

  ‘How do …?’ and he stopped short.

  ‘How do I know? There’s lots of ways. Lots of things you and the others have said that I know aren’t true. On the surface, it’s a good enough story. Good enough to take in a decent, kind-hearted man like the sheriff there.’

  ‘But we …’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘That “but” Caleb, interested me. Like you was standin’ on the edge of something and peerin’ over. Trying to decide about whether to jump or not. That it?’

  The boy swallowed hard and looked away again. Up to where the rest of the party were still sitting.

  ‘I can’t, Mr. Herne. You see that.’

  ‘I see why you’re scared, Caleb. But, truth is, I’m a damned piece more scary than those others.’

  ‘Maybe, sir …’

  ‘You see, there are lots of holes in that tale you all tell. Yet there’s a kind of shine to it. Poor bunch of kids, taken by the hostiles, and then escapin’ like that. Damned spunky. Damned horseshit, Caleb! That’s what it is!’

  ‘We were took by the Apaches,’ the albino protested, looking again directly at Herne,

  ‘Yeah, I believe that. But it’s like a pool of water, Cal. Stand on the edge and look at it. It’s real pretty. Sunlight dancin’ and it looks clean and safe. Then you get close and look under all that prettiness and there’s foul mud at the bottom and all kinds of sinewy creatures that can cling to you and bite you and drag you under. Now that’s how I see that story of yours.’

  There was no reply and Jed decided to try and change the course a little.

  ‘Tell me about your Ma, Cal.’

  ‘My Ma?’ startled Cal.

  ‘Yeah. You was only with the Mescalero a few weeks, by your tellin’ of it. Kid your years don’t forget his Ma just like that. There must be bits you recall. Or your Pa.’

  ‘I never had a Pa.’

  ‘Everyone does somewhere. I got me one but I just don’t know where he is.’

  It was the truth. A fact that Jedediah rarely thought about. But he had never known his father and didn’t know if he was alive or dead.

  ‘Can you tell me about your Ma and Pa, Mr. Herne?’ asked Caleb quietly.

  ‘I will, and you promise to tell me a mite about yours, boy?’

  There was a slight nod of the head, the fine hair dangling like a mist over his face

  ‘I want to hear you say it, Cal,’ urged Herne.

  ‘Yes. I promise.’

  ‘Then we got us a deal.’

  It was a chance. A narrow crack of light at the edge of the locked door that offered a hope of finally breaking through the barrier of lies and deceit. Herne leaned back against the still warm boulder and talked about his parents. Something that he had not done for more years than he could recall. Since his marriage.

  ‘My father was called Albert Jedediah Herne. That’s where I get my first name from. And he was a cartographer. Know what that is?’ The boy shook his head. ‘Well, it’s a fellow goes out and makes maps. My Pa went with a man called J. C. Frémont. Kind of famous man. Ma went with him.’

  ‘What was her name?’

  ‘Elizabeth Julia Herne. Very pretty. Your Ma pretty, Cal?’

  ‘Yes, Sir. Very. Lots of men liked her.’

  ‘What was her name, Cal?’

  ‘Amanda.’

  ‘What was her other name, Cal?’

  The question asked very gently, like walking on the shells of eggs.

  ‘Fletcher.’

  The boy didn’t even realize that he’d given his own name. The one he was supposed to have forgotten. Herne was torn with mixed emotions. The whore of Whitey Coburn’s had been called Amanda as well. There’d even been a song that the lean albino had sung. About Amanda being the light of his life. How she should have been the wife of a real gentleman, and not finish up with a hired gun like Coburn. She’d come from Dallas.

  ‘My parents came from back east, Cal. Where did your Ma live?’

  ‘Most places, sir. She always said my Pa was a famous lawman who went and got himself killed savin’ a lady from a drunk in a saloon. That’s how I never knowed him.’

  ‘Where was that?’

  ‘Tucson. But we moved around a lot, because Mama was a dancer and worked lots of different places.’

  ‘I suppose you’re too young to recall many of the names of those towns,’ prompted Jed.

  ‘Tucson, Phoenix, Wichita, Fort Worth, Dallas, Tulsa, Albuquerque ... those were the big towns. Some places we stayed longer than others.’

  ‘That’s interesting. Where did ...?’

  ‘You haven’t told me much about your folks, Mr. Herne.’

  ‘Neither I have, boy. They were on this mapping expedition into the Sierras in the first part of ’forty-four. Got caught by the snows in Carson Pass. Ma was carrying me then, about ready to deliver. I was born in a makeshift tent on a bitter morning. February twenty-ninth of that year.’

  ‘What happened?’ The boy had shuffled a little nearer to Herne, and seemed to have temporarily forgotten his fear of the other children.

  ‘Ma died having me. My Pa was broken up by it. Kind of blamed me and blamed himself. Turned his mind. When they got out he took me and left me with his sister in Boston. Spinster woman. Aunt Rosemary. Eyes like chisels and a mouth like a bear-trap. Not a gentle woman, Cal. Heavy with her hands. Drinker. Drank too much and went soft. Couldn’t bridle a wild colt like me. I went bad, Cal. You start that way and it takes a deal of comin’ back.’

  ‘What happened to your Pa? Did he die?’

  ‘I don’t know, Caleb, and that’s the truth. Like I said, his mind went after Ma’s death. Once he’d seen me settled he just vanished. I tried to find him, long years later. Traced him far as Independence, Missouri. In the fall of forty-four. Went into Indian country with a small tram of settlers. Then he up and disappeared. That’s all I ever knew.’

  ‘You didn’t hear a thing from him?’

  ‘Nope. Not a word. I guess he must have died around that time. Man alone out there can’t live. If he was still alive he’d be … oh, around sixty-five. Something like that. It’s a funny thought, boy. Maybe my Pa’s still living. Out there …’

  Pointing into the black night, towards where the star-scattered sky came down to meet the mountains.

  The two of them sat in silence for some moments, and Herne knew that he’d broken through. The boy had already given him a name. And plenty to speculate on. Amanda. A dancer who worked saloons. That meant a whore. And he’d even mentioned Dallas. It was a long shot, but the boy could just possibly be the son of Whitey Coburn. It was a Hell of a thought to have.

  The next question was going to be the big one. Who was behind this bizarre conspiracy? And what was the truth about it all?

  ‘Cal?’

  ‘Yes, Mr. Herne?’

  ‘Hey, Jed! You all finished there? The rest of the kids was gettin’ anxious.’

  It was Abernathy, surrounded by the other three children. As soon as he saw them, Caleb shot to his feet, mouth working in terror.

  Herne could have slit the lawman’s throat for his idiocy and bad timing. Knowing that the boy would now clam up again, tighter than ever.

  Maybe he’d never talk, now.

  Chapter Nine

  Herne didn’t say anything to Sheriff Abernathy about the interruption. There wasn’t any point. When the lawman whispered whether he’d managed to get any information out of the white-haired kid, Jed simply shook his head.

  And left it at that.

  All he had really learned was that his name was Caleb Fletcher and his mother had been a saloon girl called Amanda who’d traveled around the South and West. And that little Cal was scared near out of his skin of the others. And of someone else.

  There hadn’t been sight nor sound of any further Apache trouble, and a
little after midnight Herne decided that they’d waited long enough. It was time for them to start moving, along the steep trail. Towards the deserted mining township of Houghton’s Bluff. And the place where the children claimed the Mescalero had been holding white prisoners.

  Herne led the way, even though he wasn’t happy about leaving Abernathy to bring up the rear. It was just that he was even less happy about letting the lawman go first.

  Even in the comparatively short time since Herne had been there, the trail had altered almost beyond recognition. There were two more places further up where the rains had washed away part of the track. At the second of them Jed , decided it was better to leave the animals there. Tethering his stallion and the lawman’s bay gelding, alongside the four ponies. Pressing on through the moonlight on foot.

  It was colder, a few high clouds scudding across the sky, driven on a rising norther. Down below them he twice heard the noise of coyotes. And hoped that it was only coyotes. Once Herne also caught the hunting sound of a cougar. Well over to their left, beyond the ridge of the next mountain along.

  From his recollection, they were coming close to the site of the old Houghton Mine. In the days he’d been there it had been a thriving affair. Several buildings, ranged around the dark cavern of the mine itself. Bunkhouses and even its own saloon-come-brothel. About a third of a mile from the town itself.

  The children had still refused to tell them precisely where the Indians had their camp, but it had to be the town or the mine.

  ‘Stop,’ he said, quietly. Holding up his right hand so that all could see it. Looking back to watch them straggle to a halt. Aaron, then John Two. Caleb, with Mary in close attendance. Then, blundering along at the rear, slipping And nearly falling, Sheriff Ralph Abernathy.

  ‘What is it, Jed? Can you see ’em?’ hissed the lawman, panting and wheezing for breath at the steepness of the climb.

  ‘No. I want a word with these kids. Come on. Closer so I don’t have to shout. Aaron?’

  ‘Yes, sir? What is it?’

  ‘Time to talk, boy.’

  ‘What about Mr. Herne?’

  ‘Where the Indians have the prisoners.’

  ‘Oh, that.’

  Jed grabbed him by the throat, feeling the scrawniness of the lad’s neck, gripped between his fingers. Tight.

  ‘Yes, that! You little bastard. Tell me where it is or I’ll—’

  ‘At the mine,’ replied Aaron, his voice low and still perfectly under control. As though he’d been intending to tell Herne all along.

  ‘Why didn’t you tell us that before, boy?’ asked Abernathy.

  ‘We thought you might not let us come with you and we wanted to be here when you reached them.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Herne, letting the lad go. Feeling that he’d been second-guessed and made to look foolish. And not liking that feeling at all. Nor trusting any of them.

  ‘Shall we go?’

  Herne shook his head. ‘Wait on a moment. Let’s think this one through, Sheriff. Calm and slow. Not go rushin’ in there like headless chickens.’

  ‘If they’re in the old mine then—’

  ‘If? That’s part of it. If they’re there ... then what? We go in like the Seventh Cavalry comin’ over the hill. They kill everyone and run. Including Miss Jackson. Think on that. And do you believe they’ll still be there, with all that shootin’ and killing? There was one more warrior up on the hill with a rifle. He’d go right on back to the camp. They’d have come on down and wiped us off this mountain like a child swatting a fly off a window pane.’

  ‘Guess that’s true, Jed.’

  ‘I guess. So, either they’re waitin’ for us, or they’ve gone.’

  ‘Figures.’

  ‘But we must go and see,’ said John Two.

  ‘Yes, we must,’ repeated Mary.

  ‘If they are not at the mine, Mr. Herne, then perhaps we should go and look for them in the ruined town.’

  Houghton’s Bluff. Somehow, Jed knew that was where they’d end up. That hilly street with the bustling saloons and shops. And the memory of Walt Nelson, screaming like a hog at the butchering, trying to hold his blasted shoulder together while the blood fountained through his grasping fingers.

  Herne shrugged himself out of the memories. Feeling a shiver pass through him as though someone had just walked over his grave.

  ‘We try the mine first.’ A thought struck him and he changed his mind. ‘No. You reckon you can do what I ask you without fuckin’ it up, Sheriff?’

  Abernathy breathed in as hard as he could, trying to make himself look reliable and steadfast, succeeding only in making himself look rather ridiculous. ‘Sure I can, Jed. What do you want me to do?’

  ‘Stay where I tell you with these kids. All of them. If one of them moves, put a bullet from that Tranter right through their belly. I don’t give a damn if it’s the girl, neither. Understand?’ Abernathy nodded. ‘And the same goes if one of them tries to call out. Or makes any noise. Kicks a stone against another. Anything! I’m goin’ in there on my own, and I want to know nobody’s sending a calling card on ahead.’

  ‘That’s fine, Jed. I’ll do like you say. Trust old lucky Ralph.’

  ‘Sure. And you kids heard that.’

  ‘Don’t worry, Mr. Herne. We wouldn’t dream of betraying you now, would we?’ said Aaron, looking round at the other three. All of them nodding. Caleb later than John and Mary. Still not looking in the direction of Herne.

  ‘One question, Aaron.’

  ‘Yes, Mr. Herne?’ The boy was so patently pretending to please that Jed found it hard not to lash out at him. But he managed to control his temper.

  ‘Just how many are there?’

  ‘Apaches?’

  ‘No, boy. The whites. Men, women, children. When you were … when you managed to escape?’

  Aaron stood silently. The moon was still bright, and Herne watched the sullen, secretive face. The hooded eyes and the sealed mouth.

  Finally, the teenager replied. ‘I would say about eighteen in all.’

  ‘More than twenty,’ interrupted Mary,

  ‘No. I think less. There were deaths.’

  ‘How many were men?’

  ‘None.’

  ‘Not one?’ Abernathy couldn’t hide his shock.

  ‘No. The men died quickly. There are only women and children there now.’

  ‘How many adults, then?’ asked Herne.

  ‘About twelve. Some very old. In their fifties or even older.’ Mary rubbed her hand over her thigh as she stood looking at Jed. ‘Some of them younger. Mothers. And three, including that Jackson girl, around sixteen.’

  ‘Fine. I understand. And where are they?’

  ‘I don’t know, Mr. Herne. Truly, I don’t. Honest to God, if I—’

  ‘Save it, kid,’ snapped Herne, turning on his heel, back to face Abernathy.

  ‘Stop them here. Not a hundred paces down that trail. Right here. And keep them quiet, Sheriff. I mean it. It’s your ass hangin’ on the wall if anything goes wrong. I’ll come back before dawn. Either to tell you what I’ve found, or ... guess that’s the only reason. You hear shooting down by the mine, get yourself down there fast and careful as you can.’

  ‘Sure will,’ nodded the fat man. Hoisting his stomach up over the belt.

  ‘And make sure you’ve got bullets in all your guns, will you?’

  ‘Yeah. You taking the Sharps?’

  ‘No. Be better with a sawn-off scattergun. I’ll rely on the pistol.’

  As Herne started to walk away, Abernathy went a few steps after him. ‘Jed?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Listen ... I … I surely appreciate you kind of carryin’ me along on this ... hunt. I know I’m only an old fool with a beer-gut and a gun I don’t handle too good. But, I won’t let you down again, Jed. I mean that.’

  The shootist looked at him for a moment. ‘Hell, Ralph … I knew that all along.’

  ‘Good luck.’

  ‘Yeah’
>
  The clouds were gathering faster, massing and reinforcing each other to block out the moon. Every now and again the light would break through with startling brightness, throwing sharp-edged shadows over the rocks. Herne cursed every time it happened, knowing that anyone watching from cover would be waiting for those clear moments to pick out any trace of movement.

  It took him a half hour of cautious walking to reach a point where he could look across the plateau to what was left of the Houghton Mine.

  Waiting, straining his sight to make out the shapes and hollows around the ruined buildings.

  Once man deserts what he has placed in a hostile land like southern Arizona, it doesn’t take long for the elements to begin to break down what he’s built. The mine had been well constructed. Four-square and solid to combat the knifing winds and sudden storms. Herne remembered it that way.

  Now, a break through the clouds showed a scene of almost total desolation. Exposed on the edge of the mountain there was little left of the mine. He could see that a couple of leaning derricks still stood, propped crazily against each other, coated thick in rust. One of the nearby processing plants seemed more or less whole, and the old bunkhouse, pressed back against the wall of the cliff also looked to be fairly solid.

  But all the rest had gone. Sheds and offices and the saloon and the company store. If he tugged at his memory, Jed could just about recall where they had been, seeing the heaps of overgrown rubble that marked their passing.

  Nothing else remained.

  For better than an hour, Herne kept still and silent. Hidden behind one of the waste tips, in a position where he could see everything.

  But there was nothing to see. Once the wind kicked loose a clump of tumbleweed that rolled like a stately galleon across the plateau, fetching up against the black hole where the bunkhouse door had once been. The rest was a silence broken only by the soft sounds of the night. Wind among the ruins, and the faint shifting and easing of stones, settling in the cool of the darkness.

  ‘Time to move,’ Jed whispered to himself. Drawing the pistol and cocking it, holding it ready in front of him as he started to creep from his cover. Stopping short as he heard a banging sound. Hesitating until he’d identified it. The rising wind tugging at a loose edge of metal and flapping it against a broken shutter on the top corner of the processing plant.