Herne the Hunter 22

by John J. McLaglen

  ‘You always greet a girl that way?’

  ‘That depends.’

  ‘On what?’

  ‘On a lot of things, but jumpin’ out from behind bushes’d be one.’

  ‘I’ll remember that. Next time I come at you from a bush I’ll be certain to do it slow enough that you don’t frighten.’

  Herne moved his hand from the gun and looked at her. She was tall, maybe two or three inches under six foot, and willowy but it would have been a strong wind that would have blown her away. Her hair was dark and pinned up beneath the brim of her hat. Her face was oval and the mouth was full, the eyes were green and they didn’t let go.

  There was paint on her finger nails and she had obviously been cultivating them for a long time.

  She was wearing a white silk blouse with very little underneath, brown riding breeches and tight-fitting boots.

  Herne wondered where she’d left her horse: he wondered a lot of things.

  ‘You’ve never seen a girl in riding clothes before?’

  ‘Why d’you say that?’

  ‘I don’t believe you always stare at women that way.’

  ‘Maybe I was trying to picture you in the saddle.’

  ‘You don’t think I’m a good rider?’

  ‘I’m sure you are.’

  ‘You should see me.’

  ‘I’d like to.’

  ‘In the saddle?’

  ‘Where else?’

  She smiled and half-turned her head so he could get a better look at the line of her nose and the curve of her mouth. ‘I sometimes ride bare back.’

  ‘I’ll bet you do.’

  ‘Now don’t step too far out of line, or …’

  ‘Or what?’

  ‘I might be forced to curb you.’

  ‘Think you could handle it?’

  ‘I’ve handled some stallions in my time and they haven’t been any trouble.’

  ‘I’d hate to spoil your record.’

  ‘You’d like to try?’

  Herne grinned. ‘I’ll think about it.’

  ‘Don’t think about it too hard,’ she laughed, ‘it’s supposed to be bad for your health.’

  ‘You look healthy enough.’

  ‘That’s because I don’t think about anything for very long. I’m a girl who likes to get things done.’

  Herne caught a movement at the corner of his eye and turned his head. The black was standing at the top of the short flight of steps outside the front door, staring down at them.

  The woman followed his gaze and the smile disappeared from her face.

  ‘Don’t worry about Lucas. He just likes to stand around and glower at people. He seems to think it scares them.’

  ‘And it doesn’t?’

  ‘Not me, it doesn’t.’

  ‘Your father seems to think perhaps it should.’

  ‘My father?’

  ‘You are Veronica Russell, aren’t you.’

  She raised an eyebrow. ‘You must be a detective?’

  ‘Not exactly.’

  She took a step towards him and silk shimmered over her breasts. ‘What are you, Mister …’

  ‘Herne, Jed Herne. I’m just a man with a gun on his hip and a mind of his own.’

  ‘And you’re for hire?’

  ‘For some things … and some people.’

  She laughed and the sound was as low as her voice. ‘I’ll remember that.’

  Almost immediately she went serious again. Her fingers came close to touching his arm.

  ‘What did my father hire you for?’

  ‘Who says he did?’

  She looked meaningfully at the Colt. ‘You don’t look as though you came to play billiards, or manipulate his joints.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘So it must be your gun he wants you to use—one way or another.’

  Herne shrugged. Lucas was still paying them close attention from the steps. A blackbird perked its head on one side on the grass and dove its yellow beak at a worm.

  ‘It’s about Connors, isn’t it?’

  ‘You tell me.’

  ‘My father wants you to find his killer.’

  ‘If you say so.’

  ‘Why be coy about it, mister? After all, it’s all in the family. Isn’t it?’

  ‘You mean his killer?’

  Anger flushed her face and for the first time, she looked ill at ease. She recovered fast but not fast enough for the moment to have passed unnoticed.

  ‘You know I didn’t mean that. Everyone knows who killed Connors—who was responsible for his death, anyway.’

  Herne shrugged. ‘If that’s the case, why bother to hire me?’

  ‘Because knowing’s one thing and being able to do something about it’s another.’

  ‘There’s always the law.’

  ‘Get yourself enough money and you’re above the law.’

  Herne turned his head and looked back towards the house. ‘You ain’t exactly poor. As a family.’

  ‘And we aren’t that rich.’

  ‘Just rich enough to hire me, huh?’

  ‘Sure, you and your gun.’

  Herne stepped back and touched his fingers to the underside of his hat brim. ‘Good day, ma’am.’

  ‘Cute,’ she snapped at him. ‘Cowboy manners, too.’

  Herne gave her one last look from the end of the drive, standing there without a bead of sweat on her body, without a fold of her white silk blouse out of place. Back of her, Lucas’ bald head shone almost as much as his dark eyes glared.

  Two

  Herne had a room in a small hotel on Stockton Street, near Broadway. It was a brick-built place, five stories high with half a dozen rooms to each floor. There was a dining room and a bar on the ground floor, a coach house and stable through the courtyard out back. The room itself was large enough for a fair-sized bed, a couple of chairs, a wash stand, a wardrobe and a chest of drawers.

  Herne pulled off his vest, stripped off his shirt and poured water from the rose-patterned jug into the bowl. He washed and dried himself on a towel with the hotel’s name embroidered on the top corner.

  He hadn’t been in the city more than a day and already he felt hemmed in, enclosed. The air didn’t seem as easy to breathe. Everywhere he looked there were buildings without a break. Even from higher up Broadway, where it was possible to get a view of the bay, he was still surrounded by buildings that were taller than any he’d seen save for his one, dismal trip to New York.

  Herne sat on the corner of the bed and stripped his Colt, cleaning it carefully and setting each piece down on the bed cover with care. Only when he was satisfied the task was properly done, did he reassemble the weapon. He stood and slipped the Colt down into its holster, making several practice draws, turning at the same time and drawing the hammer back with his thumb, finger against the trigger.

  That done, he reached inside his right boot and drew a bayonet from the sheath that was hidden there. It was his one souvenir of the War Between the States, honed to a razor sharp edge and balanced so that he could use it in hand-to-hand fighting or as an accurate throwing weapon over distances of up to twenty feet.

  He replaced the blade, put on a clean but creased shirt and took his worn leather jacket from the wardrobe.

  The dining room was full and anyway he didn’t think too much of the prices. Down the street and right there was a small restaurant with steam on the windows and a fair-sized crowd inside. Herne found himself a table near the back where he didn’t have to share and he could still watch the door.

  When the waitress came he ordered steak and potatoes with a side order of tomatoes. It was good and well-cooked, if not exactly the size he was used to. The fruit pie more than made up for that, even if he couldn’t have named all the fruit that was crammed inside. He washed it down with two cups of coffee, got a smile from the waitress and was pleased enough by the change he slipped back into his pocket.

  From there it was a short walk to Kearney Street.

  Gas lamp
s set at intervals cast a yellowish light on the paving stones and the people Herne passed looked as if they were either suffering from jaundice or had come from Chinatown—which some of them had.

  He had some difficulty in picking out which of the houses was the premises Daniels used as a gambling establishment; the streets were not yet all that crowded and no one of the places-seemed better frequented than the others. As he waited, it became clear that there were several coaches coming to a halt up on the left hand side of Kearney Street, letting out their passengers in front of a three-storey building with iron shutters across the front windows, an iron gate at the end of the short path which led to the front door. They were men in the main, wearing evening dress and giving the impression of wealth and respectability. Herne watched as the lamp at the door showed them ringing a bell and then waiting patiently to be admitted. In some cases, entrance was immediate, in others there was a pause while questions were asked, in a very few the caller was turned away and walked, disgruntled, back along the path.

  Herne set his flat-brimmed Stetson at an angle and walked determinedly towards the gate.

  As soon as he rang the bell, the central section of one of the door panels swung back and a face peered at him from semi-darkness.

  Herne opened his mouth to speak but the panel was pushed back into place.

  Nothing more happened.

  Herne looked around at a carriage drawn by two black horses passing slowly along the street, a woman’s face palely looking out. He rang the bell again, hammering his fist against the door at the same time.

  Again the panel opened; again it closed; nothing.

  His hand was on the bell push when he heard a sound off to the right and spun fast. Two men were coming towards him through the shadow of the bushes. One was small, around five six or seven, an equally small pistol held low by his side. The second man more than made up for him. He had to be five inches above six foot and he would have turned the scale close to three hundred pounds. His face suggested that he had a good deal of Chinese blood in him, possibly a trace of Negro also. Instead of a hat he had a white handkerchief knotted round his head. His mouth opened to reveal the glint of gold teeth at the front; a gold earring hung from his right ear. In his hand he held a club the length and size of a normal man’s arm.

  Herne took a pace backwards and pushed back the flap of his leather coat to reveal the Colt .45 at his hip.

  At the sight of it the men stopped.

  The big man tapped the end of the club into the palm of his hand.

  ‘Persistent, ain’t you?’ The small man’s voice was high-pitched, with a tinge of an accent Herne recognized as Irish.

  ‘I don’t like the door bein’ shut in my face.’

  ‘It was never that,’ said the man with a quick, nervous laugh, ‘for it was never opened.’

  ‘What do you want?’ asked the big man.

  ‘What does anybody want comin’ here? I’ve got money in my pocket—that’s enough, ain’t it?’

  ‘Not for the likes of you,’ said the Irishman. ‘Take your money somewheres else. This place ain’t for you.’ He laughed again. ‘… nor for me neither. Why don’t you try down towards the waterfront?’

  Herne stared at him, his hand close enough now to the butt of his Colt that his fingers could have straightened and touched it.

  ‘I came here.’

  ‘Sure, an’ you can leave as easy.’

  ‘Without a reason?’

  The Irishman glanced at the little gun in his hand. ‘Maybe this is reason enough. Or maybe the way you’re dressed. We only admit the best of society here and, mister, if that’s what you are your clothes don’t do you justice,’

  ‘I thought it was my money you were interested in, not what I’m wearing?’

  ‘Ah, but generally the finer the cloth, the fatter the wallet.’

  The big man was starting to look restless. ‘Quinlan, you talk too much. Let’s throw this cowboy outta here.’

  ‘Well, now, that’s an interesting proposition. An interesting proposition indeed.’ The Irishman looked Herne up and down, as if weighing up his chances.

  As he was doing this a carriage drew up beside the gate and a tall woman got out wearing a fur cape over her shoulders, the skirt of her long blue dress brushing the ground as she walked. The two men hesitated and then took a couple of steps back towards the bushes, allowing her to pass between Herne and themselves.

  ‘Why, Mr. Herne,’ exclaimed Veronica Russell with a pointed look at the hand that was close to the Colt, ‘you’re not threatening somebody again?’

  She turned towards the two men by the bushes and tutted. ‘Boys, you aren’t being unpleasant to Mr. Herne now, are you?’

  The big man scowled but Quinlan gave his nervous laugh and said: ‘Not at all, Miss Russell. Not at all. Is he a friend of yours then, is that it? We didn’t know that, did we, eh?’

  The big man grunted.

  ‘We didn’t know that at all.’

  ‘That’s all right then.’ said Veronica, ‘as long as it was no more than a misunderstanding.’

  And she slipped her arm through Herne’s and moved him towards the door.

  ‘The gentleman is with you then, Miss Russell?’

  ‘Quinlan,’ she snapped over her shoulder, ‘you’re becoming very tiresome.’

  ‘Yes, ma’am. Yes, indeed, ma’am.’

  And the two men disappeared from sight through the bushes and back around the side of the house. Veronica Russell pulled the bell and as soon as her face was seen through the panel, the door was opened and swung back.

  They stepped into a dimly lit hallway with a heavy black curtain at the far end. A tallish young man with pock marks on his face made a quick bowing gesture towards Veronica and then looked towards Herne with concern.

  ‘Is this—’

  ‘Mr. Herne is my guest,’ she said a shade abruptly. ‘I trust there is no difficulty …?’

  The young man shook his head and assured her there was none.

  ‘That’s fine then.’

  He quickly stepped in front of them and pulled the curtain back at the centre. Herne followed the woman through into a wide room that was fairly crowded with people. There were three faro tables directly ahead and behind them two largish poker games were in progress. At the rear of the room steps led up to a balcony which held a roulette wheel. To the left there was a bar and on small tables before it a selection of cold meats and cheeses. At either end of the bar were settees and easy chairs, arranged in a semi-circle.

  All of the dealers wore white shirts, each one spotless and uncreased. Behind the bar, the two bartenders wore white linen jackets. The two superintendents who walked between the tables were wearing black velvet coats that bulged meaningfully over the left side of their chests.

  Cigar smoke clung to the ceiling in a rich blue film.

  Herne felt as out of place as a horse thief at a neck-tie party.

  ‘If you can afford to come to a place like this,’ said Veronica Russell, ‘you can afford to buy me a drink.’

  Herne nodded and walked over towards the bar, while she went to one of the settees and waited. He came back with the brandy that she’d asked for and a Jim Beam for himself.

  ‘You always buy a lady a drink so graciously?’ she asked, amused by the look on his face.

  ‘Price that feller charged me, I figured I was gettin’ the bottle.’

  She laughed and took a cigarette from her bag. Almost from nowhere one of the superintendents leaned over her and struck a match to light it for her.

  ‘Good to see you again, Miss Russell,’ he said, looked disapprovingly at Herne and went about his business.

  ‘He makes it sound a while since you were here.’

  ‘It is,’ she smiled. ‘Almost a week.’

  ‘I’m surprised a woman like you doesn’t have anythin’ better to do with her time.’

  ‘Really?’ She arched an eyebrow. ‘Surely that isn’t a high moral tone you’re adop
ting?’

  ‘Hell, no. I just figured—’

  ‘That I’d have some fine-looking man who would take me to dinner and to dances and parties and stuff like that … is that what you had in mind?’

  ‘Something like that.’

  ‘Well, Mr. Herne, it may not be the same in the Mid-West, or wherever it is you come from, but here in San Francisco there are women who prefer doing things for themselves and not at the beck and call of some man who happens to be holding all the money.’

  ‘Where I come from, as you put it, there’s women more stubborn than anything you ever set eyes on. They get by without men givin’ ‘em a by-your-leave when they has to, bringin’ up a handful of kids an’ runnin’ a farm at the same time. That’s a sight more to be proud of than feelin’ good just because you can go and throw money away over a faro table without some feller holdin’ your hand.’

  Veronica leaned back and smiled, shaking her head slowly from side to side, all the while her green eyes fixed on Herne’s face. ‘That’s quite a speech.’

  ‘Ain’t it just!’ Herne scowled and looked around.

  One of the men in dress suits was walking away from a poker game like he was about to pull a gun from his pocket and set it to his head; instead he settled for a stiff drink at the bar.

  ‘Did my father give you money for expenses?’

  ‘Huh?’

  ‘If you have to come here, you have to lose money. I don’t see why it should be yours.’

  ‘What makes you think I’m here on your father’s business?’

  ‘Aren’t you? It hardly seems the kind of place you’d frequent unless you had a reason. And everyone knows Cord Daniels.’

  She lowered her voice as the superintendent came close.

  ‘If you’re going to talk about Connors and what happened to him again, forget it. I’m not interested.’

  ‘Of course you are. Why else would my father …?’

  Herne stood up, taking his glass with him. ‘Excuse me, Miss Russell. It was nice talking to you.’

  She sat and watched him walk between the tables, thinking what a strange, strangely attractive man he was and wondering what on earth he might be interested in if it wasn’t what had happened to Dan Connors.