Death School (Herne the Hunter Western Book 14)

by John J. McLaglen

  ‘Tell me about the kids, Walt.’

  ‘Sure.’ He hooked a seat with a foot and sat down on it, leaning back against the wall Grinning at Herne in a friendly manner, the previous anger vanished.

  ‘The Mescalero?’

  ‘That’s right. Heard a lot of shootin’, then some yelpin’ and screams from the old mine.’

  ‘Then why didn’t you go look?’

  ‘Not my business, Herne the Hunter. I got them kids away. Different band of Apaches.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘Poisoned them. Found it in the back of the old Rodey place. Used it on the water a few miles east. Knew they’d water themselves and the ponies first. Before the prisoners. I had plans for them children. I’d been hidin’ up here and doin’ some listening. Rode around a few places. Heard word of you. And this slut Susannah Jackson. Word of a reward. I set it up. Crazy Walt. Pretty good, huh?’

  Herne was impressed. For a plot woven in the tortured brain of a crippled mad old man, it had worked well enough. Using his own greed for a bounty as the lure.

  ‘What about the parents?’

  ‘Whose?’

  ‘The children’s’? What happened to them? The Mescalero butcher them?’

  It was a question that had been puzzling Herne.

  ‘Hell, no!’ Nelson began to laugh, his shoulders shaking, coughing and spluttering. His merriment overcoming him to such an extent that he nearly fell from the chair, wiping his eyes and trying to steady his breathing.

  ‘What’s so damned funny, Nelson?’

  ‘Just that ... I guess you folks must have felt sorry for them kids. Sorry. Thinkin’ them poor orphaned little mites, left to face the cruel world all on their little ownsomes. That what you thought?’ He didn’t wait for Jed to reply. ‘Well they ain’t.’

  At that moment Aaron appeared in the office, totally ignoring Herne.

  ‘Want us to change the sentry duty, Mr. Nelson?’ he asked.

  ‘Sure. But first, come over here, boy, and tell this fuckin’ bastard all ’bout you and the others.’

  ‘You mean what we done?’

  ‘Hell, no!’ Spitting his disgust on the scuffed boards of the floor. ‘Not all. Just the good parts.’

  ‘We’re all from the Richmond Institute For Criminal Juveniles,’ he began. ‘Being shipped west to San Francisco. Seeing as they have—’

  ‘A real prison for kids they’re startin’ out there,’ finished Nelson with a laugh. ‘These mites was the worst in the party.’

  ‘I killed some niggers and burned them,’ said the teenager, calmly. As if he’d been talking about some boyish prank. ‘Mary liked cutting animals and bleeding them to death slow. Did it to both her grandparents. Twins were kind of odd. Tied up their parents while they slept. Peeled the skin off them bit by bit. Then they salted them down and left them out in a winter night. Told folks they’d gone away on a journey and, when weeks passed, they got caught with the bodies in a barn.’

  ‘What about Caleb?’

  ‘He was ... What was that?’

  Nelson jumped to his feet and peered out into the street. ‘What d’you hear, boy?’

  ‘Sounded like … I don’t know. The Indians took us offa train. Killed some. Rest you seen up the mine. Different band kept them. We got away, thanks to Mr. Nelson here. Saved our lives. So, we owe him a favor.’

  Herne considered the idea of having these junior monsters as allies, and shuddered. Wondering just how long it would be before their evil came out and took its toll of Nelson. With them on his side, Herne doubted how a man could sleep easy at night.

  ‘What about Caleb?’

  ‘Never mind the white-head. Want to know the rest of the tale?’

  Herne shook his head. ‘No. Easy to guess. You wanted vengeance on me, and you wanted it here. You heard about me being in the area, and about the girl being taken. So you sent in the kids as a diversion. Clever. Knew I’d take the double bait. Where’s Susannah Jackson, Walt? Dead or livin’?’

  Nelson scratched his earring thoughtfully. ‘The little lady with the five thousand dollar price tag on her? That would be telling, wouldn’t it, Aaron?’

  ‘Surely would, Mr. Nelson,’ grinned the boy, squinting at Herne. Who looked away, towards the rear barred window.

  And turned quickly back, desperate not to draw attention to what he’d seen.

  A fresh coil of rope, knotted around the bottom of the rusted metal grille. The loose end vanishing out into the evening light beyond the jail, taut as a bowstring, where someone was pulling on it.

  ‘You killed her, boy?’ he asked.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Susannah Jackson. You knew she was—’

  ‘He don’t know nothin’ you loud-mouthed fuck! Just shut up and wait until tomorrow noon. See what we get you then.’

  ‘Noon?’

  ‘You and me. Like with baby Waylon. You out in the street with an empty gun and me with this here Peacemaker. That’s what all this is about, Herne the fuckin’ Hunter. Tomorrow when you and me—’

  ‘Fire!’

  The shout came from outside. Sounding like John Two’s voice. Repeated twice more.

  ‘It’s that fat bastard of a lawman,’ snarled Nelson, leaping for the door. ‘Aaron. Stay outside and watch the door with that rifle. I’ll go look see. Don’t let anyone get close.’

  The teenager followed Nelson out of the office, yanking the door shut behind him. There was the smell of smoke in the air, and Herne could already hear the dry crackling of flames from somewhere down the hill.

  ‘Lucky Ralph’s here, Jed. Makin’ good for you,’ hissed a low voice from outside the barred window.

  ‘Get on, before they come round here.’

  ‘Indeed, I will, Jed. Here we go. Stand clear.’

  For a few moments Herne thought that the lawman had underestimated the strength of the bars, but there was a dusty creaking sound, then one snapped under the man’s weight. The others following, cracking off leaving short stumps of bright metal.

  ‘Up and through, Jed. Quick as you can. Lucky Ralph’ll keep watch.’

  The sheriff had become infatuated with the nickname he’d given himself, and used it now at every opportunity. He was outside, a great blur of darkness in the pale light. The smell of smoke stronger now, blowing around them. And the noise of flames as they raced through what was left of Houghton’s Bluff, destroying the lower part of the township in minutes.

  ‘Thought that would keep them busy.’

  ‘Thanks, Ralph. Let’s move.’

  ‘Not too fast. That little bitch stabbed me in the ass and it pains,’ turning to show the patch of dried blood that decorated the seat of his worn pants.

  ‘Best move before you get a bullet to go along with it.’

  ‘Right. Don’t want my luck to turn.’

  They kept well to the back, cutting across by the tottering buildings, and the empty lot. Ready to make a dash past the rear of the bordello, towards the ruined church. From there they could circle towards the horses and the Sharps rifle.

  But they didn’t get there.

  John Two appeared at the edge of the building, hefting the rifle. Seeing them and stopping dead, struggling to lift the heavy gun and cock it’

  ‘Hold it!’ he squeaked.

  ‘Bust him, Sheriff,’ snapped Herne.

  Abernathy was in front of him, and he hesitated for a moment, giving the surviving twin the chance to blast off a shot, the bullet plucking at the lawman’s shirt on the right shoulder, whistling away into the hills.

  ‘You little bastard,’ snarled the fat man, striding forwards faster than Herne had previously seen him move, aiming a punch at the boy.

  John Two never saw it coming, fighting to clear the action of the Winchester, finding he lacked the strength to lever the next round in. Abernathy’s roundhouse swing caught him unprepared, on the point of the jaw. The thirteen year old was lifted from his feet by the force of the savage blow, pitching him round and back. Even above
the noise of the fire, Herne clearly heard the brittle snap as the boy’s neck’ broke.

  ‘See that,’ said Abernathy, looking round at Herne. Touching the tear in his shirt. ‘Lucky Ralph rides again, huh?’ Peering round for the rifle. Taught that bastard a lesson. Guess he’ll wake up with a sore head.’

  ‘He’s dead, Ralph. You killed him.’ Bending to pick up the Winchester and carry through levering the next bullet into the breech.

  ‘Dead …’

  ‘Yeah. Had it coming. Seems he killed his Ma and Pa. Least it was quick. Come on … let’s get ... God damn it!’

  Mary must have heard the sound of the shot from the Winchester and was the first of them to come running. Carrying the sheriff’s Tranter in both hands, checking herself as she saw the two men. And the limp body of the boy, his head turned at a strange angle.

  ‘You killed little John,’ she said, eyes narrowing. By now the evening was closing in fast, but there was plenty of light from the burning buildings down the main street for everyone to see well enough. For the first time Herne saw clearly that the girl was a killer born. There was something about the flat, brutal face, the close-set, suspicious eyes. The hard mouth with its hint of unnatural delights in the sufferings of others. He had no doubt at all that she was going to shoot them both, if she had half a chance to do so.

  ‘Give Lucky Ralph Abernathy the gun, girly, then nobody’ll get—’ began the sheriff, holding out his hand for his own pistol. Flinching backwards and nearly falling at the sudden roar of the Winchester in Herne’s hands.

  Followed immediately by a scream of agony from the girl and the boom of the Tranter going off.

  Jed had fired from the hip, but at less than fifteen feet it didn’t take a lot of accuracy. The rifle bullet hit Mary just below the line of the bodice of her dress. Plumb center. Driving in a neat black hole that began immediately to leak dark blood, even as the impact of the heavy slug kicked her over backwards.

  In a reflex her finger tightened on the spurred trigger of the Tranter pistol. Squeezing off a single shot as she fell, the bullet whining off somewhere, Herne had no idea in which direction. He heard Abernathy grunt with shock at the swiftness of the action, but he was watching the girl, making sure she was dead.

  In a reflex movement her body rolled over on its face, revealing a hole between the shoulder-blades the size of a tin of molasses, with blood gushing from it in a torrent, almost black in the poor light.

  ‘Come on, Ralph, before Nelson and the other two get here,’ stooping and plucking the Tranter from the girl’s fingers.

  Turning when he heard no reply.

  Seeing the corpulent figure of Abernathy, sitting down with his back against the remnants of a wicket fence, legs apart, hands folded across his belly as if he was having forty winks.

  ‘Ralph.’

  There was no reply. The eyes weren’t closed, but they were veiled, as if Abernathy was wrestling with some inner struggle that was taking up all his attention.

  ‘Come on, Sheriff. Let’s get away from this place. Trail them in the light. Got a pistol and a rifle and …’

  Herne’s voice trailed away as he saw that there was something trickling through Abernathy’s linked fingers.

  ‘She hit me.’

  ‘Bad?’

  ‘As could be. Gut shot, deep. I … Jesus, it surely pains me, Herne.’

  Somewhere down the street Herne could hear the sound of Nelson’s voice, shouting. And Aaron yelling something at the top of his voice. It could only be a matter of seconds before Walt found his bird had flown and guessed that the shots weren’t part of a diversion.

  ‘Can you help me, Jed? Please. You know what a bullet in the belly means?’

  It meant he was going to die slowly and painfully. Inevitably.

  Herne shot him carefully through the middle of the head, holstering the pistol and turning to run beyond the houses into the safe blackness. It had been unfortunate to be hit like that by a stray unaimed bullet.

  ‘Unlucky, Ralph,’ he said to himself as he ran.

  Chapter Thirteen

  The Tranter held five rounds of four-fifty bullets. The Winchester was left with four.

  Herne checked them as he waited up in the hills, away behind the remains of the church, looking down from cover at what the dawn showed of Houghton’s Bluff. The strong wind that had helped the late Sheriff Abernathy of Tyler’s Crossing to start his fires had also saved the upper part of the township. Blowing the flames away down the street, reducing all that part to smoldering ashes and rubble. Here and there Jed could see a stone chimney standing forlornly among the ashes. Bringing back to his mind the gaunt desolation that he’d seen in Kansas during the War. When there’d been bands of roving, bloody guerillas under men like Jim Lane, Charlie Jennison and Quantrill. A burned house with its chimney standing was called a Jennison Cemetery in those days.

  The house below the jail still stood, and everything above it. But the flames had carried across the street and the stores and saloons on the further side had also disappeared. A thin column of pale smoke rose into the clear blue sky of morning, the wind having dropped during the night.

  There was no sign of Walt Nelson. Nor of Aaron or Caleb. Herne guessed that they would all have holed up in the sheriff’s office for safety, rather than risk a fight of it in the dark. And he doubted that Nelson would make a nm for it. The ghost town was where he’d made for, like a mortally wounded animal struggling to return to its lair. And that was where he would stay until Herne either left him, or killed him.

  If it hadn’t been for the hanging query over the whereabouts of Susannah Jackson, Herne might well have gone on down the trail to his horse. And ridden out and away. Though there was also the nagging interest of whether Caleb Fletcher might possibly be the son of Whitey Coburn. It would make for a touch more peace of mind if Herne could find that out.

  The question of revenge for the accidental killing of Abernathy never entered his head. Unless it was for the closest personal reason, or for money, then revenge was a tasteless dish best left alone.

  At a little after eight the door of the sheriff’s office swung open, and out stepped Aaron holding a strip of dirty white rag, waving it furiously above his head.

  ‘Flag of truce, Mr. Herne! Are you there, Mr. Herne?’

  Jed remained silent, hunkering down in the dirt and drawing a bead on the boy’s chest with the Winchester. Ready to pull the trigger at the first sign of treachery.

  ‘Mr. Herne!’ Stepping further up the street, keeping in close to the right. Behind him, Jed could see the gleam of sun on metal, and the shadowy figure of Walt Nelson, just inside the door. Out of range of a safe shot.

  ‘Are you there?’ Turning and calling back to Nelson. Receiving an inaudible reply, continuing reluctantly to walk up the hill. The flag waving around his shoulder. Herne noticed that the boy was wearing a Colt strapped low down on his thigh.

  ‘Mr. Herne. Please don’t shoot. Please!’ Either the boy was a fine, actor, or he was terrified of being gunned down from cover.

  ‘Show yourself, Mr. Herne, I beg you. See the flag of truce, Mr. Herne! Don’t you hear me?’

  Aaron was about half of the way between the jail and the church before Herne replied. Keeping his head right down, trying to aim his voice to the further side, so they wouldn’t be able to locate him.

  ‘I hear you.’

  The boy stopped dead, lowering the flag in his left hand, the right dropping to cover the butt of the pistol.

  ‘Where are you, Mr. Herne? Won’t you show yourself tome to talk?’

  ‘Time I want to put my hand in a rattler’s mouth, I’ll let you know, boy,’

  ‘Will you talk?’

  ‘You talk, I’ll listen.’

  ‘Mr. Nelson wants to talk,’

  ‘Let him come.’

  ‘He figures you might try and kill him.’

  ‘He’s damned right, boy.’

  ‘What do you plan?’

  ‘
Take you back to the authorities, boy. You and Caleb. Or kill you. Same with old Walt. Makes scant difference to me.’

  ‘Three of us with guns.’

  ‘Sure is. Time was you were five. Two dead.’

  ‘And the sheriff,’ retorted the boy.

  ‘Come on up, if’n you want a deal, boy. Out of sight of Nelson and his rifle.’

  Aaron glanced behind him as if he was considering the idea. There was a muffled shout from inside the jail and the boy waved a hand to show he’d heard.

  ‘Mr. Nelson says it’s all right. But no tricks, Mr. Herne. I’m trusting you.’

  ‘Come on ahead. Up by the church. I’ll be there, close by. Watching you. First off, throw down that pistol.

  ‘That ain’t fair, Mr. Herne. Gives you too big a side.’

  ‘Boy! I’m losin’ patience with you. I could have put a bullet through each of your eyes, if’n I’d wished. Do like I say.’

  Reluctantly, and slowly, Aaron threw down the Colt, letting it lie in the street dirt at his feet. Starting to walk up the rest of the hill, past the empty lot and the leaning houses, until he was near to the half-built church. Stopping there and looking around for the shootist.

  ‘Where are you, Mr. Herne?’

  Jed wanted a position where he could see the teenager and also keep an eye on the jail, in a case Caleb or, more likely, the old man, tried to sneak out and dry-gulch him.

  On the ridge, it was ideal. About twenty paces from Aaron and with a good view along the backs of the remaining buildings.

  ‘Mister …’

  ‘Here, boy.’

  ‘Oh.’ spinning round. ‘Thought you—’

  ‘Never mind, Aaron. What do you want?’

  ‘Can I come closer?’

  ‘Sure. Remember I got this rifle, and a pistol. Killing a murderin’ boy doesn’t worry me more than stepping on a scorpion.’

  ‘Sure.’ Shuffling in until he was only about ten yards from the shootist, scratching himself as he rubbed in the sand with his toe. As if he was stuck for words.

  ‘Come on. I don’t have all day.’ Jed moved slightly, so that his back was against the wall of the church. Leaning on the wood, the white paint blistered off it by the sun. Watching the boy to hear what he had to say.