‘Nor me. It’s Mr. Nelson, sir. He’s real crazy, you know.’
‘I know it.’
‘He’s threatened to kill us all. We hated him. Still do. We’ve done …’ then he stopped as if he had said more than he’d intended at that time. Herne knew that the boy was waiting for him to pick up on it, so he deliberately let the sentence lie.
‘You stay with me, Aaron. Safer. I’ll take Walt and maybe save Caleb.’
‘Caleb! He’s a real baby, Mr. Herne. Scared so bad he near shits himself every time Mr. Nelson looks his way. He figures you’re takin’ him back to that orphanage. He didn’t have a happy time, Mr. Herne. Real bad, if the truth’s told. On account of his hair and red eyes and all. They used to stick him with pins to see if he bled white or red. Folks runnin’ it weren’t better. Pickin’ on him and jokin’ ’bout him.’
‘Poor little kid.’
‘Yeah. He’d rather jump from the steeple there than go back.’
As he spoke, Aaron casually pointed up at the tower of the church. His right hand had been scratching behind his back, and Herne was fooled into following the pointing fingers of the left hand. A mistake that came close to costing him his life.
Out of the corner of his eye he saw the flicker of lightning movement as Aaron’s right hand appeared, holding a leaf-bladed throwing dagger by the hilt. Whipping it round and up, letting it go in a hissing arc of death, aimed at Herne’s throat.
There was no time to level the Winchester, or draw the Tranter. Just a frozen moment of stolen time to snake his head sideways, feeling the steel as it sliced across the side of his neck, pinning him to the wooden wall by a fold of skin. It was like a tongue of fire lancing through his flesh and he gasped at the sudden pain.
‘Bastard!’ he cried, pulled off balance by the knife, seeing Aaron look at him, knowing that he’d failed in his treacherously murderous bid. Spitting at Jed’s feet, and turning to run for his own life.
Herne reached up and tugged out the blade, wincing, feeling blood trickling down the side of his neck, over his chest. Throwing down the knife, running to the top of the rise and hurling himself flat as a bullet from Nelson’s Winchester kicked up the dirt just to his right. Pulling the rifle forwards, seeing that Aaron was halfway to safety, zigzagging jerkily to throw Jed off his shooting.
The kid was good. For his age, one of the best that Herne had ever met, and he’d met most of the best along the way, but even the best finds it hard to outrun a bullet.
Jed’s first shot, using the strange gun, missed by a yard to the left, spraying up dirt and stones. The second and third also missed, though the last one clipped Aaron’s heel, sending him tumbling in the street. Nelson was screaming at him to hurry, firing as fast as he could left-handed up at Herne.
The boy was close to safety, standing again, jinking left and then right, trying to fox Herne’s aim. Jed squinted along the barrel, suddenly remembering the scrawled name down at the mine.
‘Aaron!’ he shouted, putting a military bark in his voice. ‘Aaron Webb! Stand still, boy!!’
Unexpectedly hearing his full name called out like that threw the teenager, and he froze. Stopping in his tracks, turning and staring back up the hill, arms down at his sides like a soldier.
‘How did ...?’ he began.
He never finished.
The forty-four forty hit him between the eyes, killing him instantly. The boy went backwards as though he’d been struck by a slaughterer’s hammer, pitching in the dirt, his fingers scrabbling in the sand for a few moments, legs kicking, before he was still.
Herne dropped the empty Winchester, keeping low, out of sight. Peering over the top of the hill to see what Nelson would do. Ducking against the predictable volley of shots that peppered the street, one of them ricocheting high and hitting die rusty bell that still hung from the top of the steeple, making its sonorous echoes reverberate around the ghost town.
Walt slunk back inside the jail, and Herne never even glimpsed a sight of the little boy, Caleb. Though he was reasonably certain that there was a white face at the second storey window. From what Aaron said, and it had the rare ring of truth, the youngster must be frightened out of his wits at the bogeyman that Herne had been turned into. Terrified that Jed was going to come down and drag him screaming back to that orphanage. Even though his true plans were far from it. He was becoming increasingly convinced that the boy was a bastard son of Whitey Coburn. If he could have a few minutes of conversation with him, Jed was certain he could find out for sure. If he was, then Herne was more than prepared to do everything that he could for him. And that would start by not letting him go back to the home out East,
‘Herne!’
It was unmistakably Walt Nelson’s voice. Hoarse and cracked. The strain showing.
‘Herne the Hunter!! I know you can hear me, you fuckin’ son of a bitch.’
‘Yeah,’ replied Herne. ‘I hear you. Send the boy out if’n you want to talk.’
‘He wouldn’t come. Thinks that you’re goin’
‘I know. Let it ride. What do you want?’
‘It’s around nine. I’ll meet you at high noon. One handgun each. I’ll come out first. Show it’s no trick. I practiced long hours left-handed. I’ll draw on you at noon.’ There was a long pause. ‘You agree?’
‘Yeah. I agree. But you come out first. And Caleb’s out there as well. Just in case …’
‘You won’t abandon me now. I waited a long whiles for this. High noon.’
‘Sure,’ shouted Herne. ‘Noon. I won’t forsake you, Nelson. Noon!’
Chapter Fourteen
The hands of Jed’s battered watch crept round towards noon. He lay still in the shadow of the church, alert for any attempt by Nelson to trick him. Wondering whether he could try to get down and shoot the madman through the window of the jail when he was least expecting it. Saving himself the main street shoot-out with the cripple who hated him so bitterly. Herne would have felt no compunction about it.
There was a code of honor - of sorts - between the men and boys who lived and died by their speed and skill with guns. And it was respected. But Walt had shown himself a crazed and cunning murderer who would not hesitate to use the most underhand trick to get his own ends. And that put him beyond the barriers of normal behavior as far as Herne was concerned.
But he had weighed up the odds, having no doubt in his own ability to beat a one-armed man in a fair fight.
Just so long as it was a fair fight.
The old Tranter of Sheriff Abernathy held its five rounds of center-fire cartridges, and Herne spun the chamber, unhappy at the stickiness of the action. He’d used a Tranter before, and it was fine under good conditions. But he’d found that the pistol was less reliable if its owner hadn’t cherished it. Abernathy hadn’t been that careful with his guns and the handgun was in a poor state. But it was the only weapon around, and it would have to do.
Jed had nothing to grease it with and lubricate the action. No fat nor butter. Nothing. He tucked it in his holster and stood up, uncoiling from the hot ground, staring down the hill into the remnants of Houghton’s Bluff. Watching for the appearance of Nelson.
It was around four minutes after twelve when the man appeared. His shadow a lopsided pool of blackness that dung to his feet as he moved out of the sheriff’s office, carrying the rifle in one hand. The pistol holstered at his left hip. Herne wondered just how many weapons Nelson had concealed around Houghton’s Bluff. There must have been some taken from the band of Mescalero that he claimed to have poisoned. If the claim was true. There were so many lies hanging around that it was impossible to know what was true and what false. The only certainty was death.
‘You comin’?’
‘Where’s the kid?’
‘There,’ pointing to the balcony where Nelson had first fired at the shootist. Herne could see the figure now. The white hair in shadow. The heavy slats of the balcony hiding the rest of the boy.
‘I want him out in the street.’
‘No. No. Herne. Not fuckin’ likely. Cal wants to stay there, safe away from you. Don’t you, boy?’
There was a movement that might have been a wave of the hand in acknowledgement. If Aaron had been telling the truth about the albino’s terror of Herne and fear of being taken back to the authorities then it might be better to allow him to stay there. Providing he wasn’t holding a gun out of sight. Herne considered that, unable to make up his mind about the odds.
‘You comin’, or are you fuckin’ yellow, Herne?’
The challenge didn’t make any difference to Jed. It. didn’t anger him. Or make him change the way he was thinking. In the end what decided him on coming down was the simple fact that he now believed Caleb was probably kin to Whitey. Right or wrong, that ought to mean something.
‘I’m comin’. You want top or bottom?’
‘I’ll go down.’
It was the place that Herne would have chosen. It was easier to shoot up a hill than down it, and you had more chance of scoring a hit. Even if it was on the other man’s legs. Jed knew he’d have to be careful not to aim high and miss altogether. Just as long as the battered Tranter didn’t let him down.
Jed stood at the crest of the hill, looking down the street, seeing the tottering remains of the buildings ranged down each side. Stopping abruptly where Abernathy’s fire had cut across them as clean as a huge knife. Nelson was waiting about twenty paces beneath the last house. If they walked in at about the same speed, then they would probably come within pistol range somewhere around the front of the jail. Caleb Fletcher would have a fine view of the killing.
‘I’m ready, Nelson.’
‘Then let’s to it,’ called the crippled gunfighter, dropping the rifle, beginning to walk slowly up the hill. His left hand twitching over the butt of his pistol. Herne noticed that it was a Remington. The Army single-action pistol of ’seventy-five. And he wondered what had happened to the other Peacemaker. In a shoot-out he’d always have preferred the Colt, but that was just personal taste. Maybe Nelson had grown used to the Remington.
Jed flicked the thong clear of the hammer of the Tranter, flexing his fingers a few times to make sure they were as supple as possible. Walking easily, relaxed. Looking ahead to make sure there was nothing in the street that might catch a boot. No loose stones or hunks of wood lying there. He’d once seen a man gunned down in Wellesleyville by stepping in some horse chips and stopping to look down at what he’d trod in. His opponent using that moment to draw and fire.
The church was behind him, and the gap between the two men had narrowed to about thirty steps. Still not close enough for a draw, but Nelson was already moving his hand over the butt of the pistol, as if he was planning to call the play early. In a gunfight, even the best shootist will hold off as long as he can. The average pistol is only accurate to about twenty feet in that kind of situation.
Jed drew almost level with the jail, seeing Cal’s face peering at him over the balustrade. He tried a quick smile at the little boy but got nothing in reply.
Walt had slowed, nearly stopping. Turning sideways on, the loose right sleeve of his shirt flapping with the movement. Herne wasn’t worried, knowing he’d met and beaten some of the best and fastest. Simply refusing to believe that a man who’d taught himself to shoot left-handed could be both good and fast.
He knew that there was the renegade Apache, Cuchillo Oro, who’d suffered mutilation of his right hand from the cruelty of the cavalry officer, Cyrus Pinner. And had learned to fight again with his left hand. But he had never become very skilled with a gun. Good, but not that good.
Nelson wasn’t likely to be any better.
‘Shame the brats aren’t all here, Herne,’ shouted Nelson.
‘Why?’
‘They’d have sure liked to see you dead. It was Aaron who hated you so much he made me let him take charge of loading this here gun. Way of him being involved if it came to this shoot-out.’
That made Jed wonder. There’d been something that the oldest of the children had said to him, earlier that very morning. Before he’d died. A sentence that he’d begun and not completed. The memory wasn’t quite there. He shrugged it off.
Herne kept moving, knowing from the long years of experience that Nelson was trembling on the edge of making his draw. Ready for him. Nelson’s eyes flicking at him, and then up beyond him. To the balcony that Jed has just walked past.
‘Now! Bust him kid!’
It happened faster than a man can think.
Spinning on his heel, the gun-hand slapping down on the butt of the Tranter, the awkward balance slowing him by a sliver of a second. The pistol out and up, cocked. Eyes raking the balcony and seeing the boy standing, his face enigmatically in shadow. Looking directly down at Jed. And in his hands was the Colt Peacemaker, pointing into the street, in Herne’s direction.
At that moment the shootist knew that there was a good chance he was about to die. Even as he fired twice up at Caleb, off balance, he knew that Nelson would be leveling his own pistol at him. Taking his time.
The slugs from the Tranter both narrowly missed the child, ripping dusty shards of white wood from the railing. Cal ducked out of sight without shooting, and Herne even had a moment to wonder why. Had he been frightened or had there been another reason?
‘Die, you bastard!’ screamed Nelson, squeezing the trigger of the Remington as Herne began to turn back to face him. The handgun kicking twice. Three times. Black powder smoke flaring from the barrel.
Jed had been shot at before. More times than he cared to recall. And he’d always been aware of the noise of the bullets hissing past him. Like a train at night, moving fast, at a great distance. But this time he heard nothing beyond the boom of the pistol being fired.
Nelson shot twice more, aiming with greater care, and still there was nothing. And both men realized then, at almost the same second, what had happened.
‘That little bastard switched to blanks!’ shouted the cripple, his voice grey with shock. Seeing his own death facing him as Herne slowly brought up the Tranter.
‘Yeah. They loved us both the same, Nelson,’ said Herne.
‘Listen … Don’t do …’
‘So long,’ called Jed, pulling the trigger.
The Tranter jammed. The previous round had expanded and blocked the chamber, and when Jed tried to fire it, the hammer clicked on the spent round. And when he attempted to cock it again, it was dead. A useless, inert lump of warm metal.
‘God damn!’ Herne spat, dropping the Tranter as he saw Nelson, unable to believe his luck, spin on his heel and dash down the hill towards where he’d thrown the rifle.
Jed stooped and drew the bayonet from his right boot, gripping its smooth hilt and starting to run after Walt Nelson. The older man had a good start, but Herne was fitter and faster. Overtaking him in great strides.
Finally catching up with him as he was bending, clumsily trying to lever the Winchester around. Cutting at his face with the razored edge of the blade, the flesh of Nelson’s cheek opening like a scarlet mouth.
Walt screamed; a desperate thin cry of despair, scrabbling on his knees as Herne checked the speed of his run and came back at him, the needle point of the Civil War bayonet darting at his face. Cutting him twice more, close to the eye.
‘No. Please! Oh, Jesus …’
Jed suddenly varied his attack and kicked out at Nelson, the toe of his boot hitting him in the ribs, tipping him backwards, off balance. The right sleeve wrapped itself around Walt’s free arm, tangling it close to him, as it were a snake seeking to embrace him’ It hindered Nelson just long enough for Herne to step in close and drop with both knees on his chest, hearing the cracking of bones and a sigh of agony from the helpless man.
‘So long, again, Walt,’ breathed Herne, holding the knife over Nelson’s face; leaning forward on it with all his weight, driving it crunching into the right eye. There was a spurt of clear liquid, and the body twitched and flailed for a moment, then it was still
, a trickle of blood worming from the open mouth.
All that was left was Caleb. And, maybe, clear up the mystery of Miss Susannah Jackson.
Herne stood up, leaning over the corpse and wiping the bayonet clean on the shirt. Looking round up the street and seeing the small white-haired boy, staring at him. Still holding the pistol in both hands, a couple of steps from the door of the sheriff’s office.
‘Cal. Caleb Fletcher!’ called Jed. ‘Wait on there, boy.’
The albino jumped like a shot hare, scampering back inside the office, slamming the door shut behind him. Herne began to walk back up the hill, not wanting to frighten the boy even more.
‘I want to talk, Cal. Talk about you and your Ma. I might know your Pa, boy.’
There was silence in Houghton’s Bluff. Just the faint breath of wind that stirred the tumbleweed and rattled the leaves of the sagebrush.
‘Your Pa could have been my best friend, boy. Man named Whitey Coburn. He …’
A thought struck Jed Home. What the others had said. ‘He’d rather die than go back.’ He started to run up the street, closing in fast on the jail and the sheriff’s office, Thinking about the frightened face. The shock of snow-white hair. The inscrutable eyes, red-tipped.
‘Cal! Don’t, son.’ Whitey’s boy?
He didn’t quite make it.
His foot was on the steps, his right hand reaching out for the handle of the door, when he heard the shot. Strangely muffled. A muted sound.
‘Oh, Jesus,’ he whispered. Turning the handle and pushing the door slowly open. Not going in. There wasn’t any need. He could see it, huddled in the far corner, like a discarded bundle of clothes, the gun still in the hands.
‘Oh, Jesus,’ he whispered.
After he’d buried the children, leaving Caleb to the end, Jed walked for a final time down the main street of Houghton’s Bluff. Past the leaning houses and the ruined bordellos and stores and saloons. Past the stone jail and on down, not even glancing at the heaps of white ash where the fires had been.
Death School (Herne the Hunter Western Book 14) Page 11
