A boy with tousled hair and large, brown eyes, scuttled up from where he’d been sitting in the shadow of the wall and hurried towards him. He was wearing the loose cotton shirt and pants of the Mexican peons. He was favoring his left leg, a limp that he was doing his best to disguise.
‘Señor!’
Two men rode in here, sometime in the last hour
‘Gringos, señor.’
Herne shrugged. ‘Could be. I don’t know. But they been ridin’ pretty hard. Horses’d be all lathered up.’
‘What of them, señor?’
‘They ride on through?’
The boy stared at him for several moments before shaking his head slowly from side to side.
‘Know where they are now?’
Again the pause, and this time the head nodded yes.
‘Take me to ’em?’
The eyes widened with concern and there was no answer, no gesture.
‘You don’t have to come near. You won’t get hurt. Just point ’em out, that’s all.’
Still the boy hesitated, his eyes flicking away from Herne towards the small group of buildings to the left.
Herne took a dollar piece from his pocket and flipped it once in the air, catching it and tossing it down between the boy’s feet in one movement.
‘Come with me.’
He took hold of the horse’s bridle and led Herne past half a dozen flat-roofed adobes towards a well that was bricked round where the street widened out. A woman with a scarf around her head paused in hauling her bucket to the top and watched Herne and the boy with concern.
The boy said something to her in Mexican and she finished pulling the water to the surface, freed the bucket, set in on her shoulder and hurried away.
The boy moved to Herne’s side, touching the shiny metal of the stirrup, his fingers running back and forth along it, stroking it.
‘See there, the store?’
Herne looked across at a wooden building, low and flat save for one end where a second floor had been added in a ramshackle way that gave the impression it was going to fall to the ground with the first good wind. Signs scrawled on the wall advertised beer and tequila, tacos and tortillas. An old curtain hung across one window, a piece of blanket half-covered the other. There were a couple of mangy-looking dogs outside, curled in the dirt on either side of the door, ignoring one another totally.
The door swung open and closed with the wind, creaking each time.
Five horses were tethered to the hitching rail outside.
‘They in there?’ Herne asked quietly.
‘Si, señor.’
‘An’ their mounts . . .?’
‘There, señor.’ The boy pointed to the end of the line, a pinto and a grey. Herne could see the flecks of lather and the dark of sweat still on their coats.
He loosed the safety thong from the hammer of his Colt and lifted it clear, spinning the chamber and checking the load.
‘Know who else is in there?’
The boy shook his head, no.
‘Okay.’ Herne let the gun fall back to the holster, swung his leg and dropped to the street. He handed the reins to the boy. ‘You look out for her. Have her ready case I have to leave in a hurry. You understand me now?’
Excitement lit up the boy’s eyes, his face.
‘Si, señor. I will do this.’
‘Good kid.’ Herne ruffled the boy’s hair, grinned down at him, and began to walk across the square.
A dust ball rolled and skipped in front of him as the heels of his boots pushed crisply into the packed dirt. To his right a door opened and closed and he covered the movement but still kept walking. One of the dogs yawned and nipped absent-mindedly into its sandy coat for fleas.
Herne paused at the end of the rail and bent down, quickly examining the pinto and the grey.
The door creaked back and then banged against its frame.
Herne set the palm of his left hand against it and pushed it open, holding it wide. The fingers of his other hand grazed the butt of his Colt. Eyes narrowed, he peered into the long room.
A couple of trestle tables were arranged at the centre so as to make a wide counter, one of them holding bottles of liquor and glasses, the other laden with small crates and boxes. To the right there was an assortment of larger crates, sacks and more boxes, none of them arranged in any apparent order. Shoes sat alongside flour; nails kept company with fence posts and biscuits; coffee was forced into a gap between bottles of cure-all and boxes of ammunition.
Over to the left there were a few tables and chairs, a couple of bunk beds and a blackened stove with a round-bellied pot of what smelt like chili simmering inside it.
Herne picked out the two men he was looking for right off.
They were sitting over against the rear window, eating. One had his chair hooked back so that it was balanced on its hind legs, knees resting up against the edge of the table. He had more than a trace of Mex in him, but mostly he was white. His hair was thick with grease and hung in clumps; he had a beard that was tangled and spotted red with the droppings of chili that hadn’t made the distance from plate to mouth.
His companion was younger by ten or more years, not much more than a kid. He was trying to grow a moustache without too much luck, just a grey shadow over his upper lip. He’d turned his head towards the door when Herne had entered and his fork was frozen midway between his face and the tortilla that was getting cold on his plate. He chewed slowly at whatever remained in his mouth, watching.
A couple of Mexicans sat between that pair and the door, playing cards and drinking beer.
A fifth man was stretched out on one of the bunks, one arm over his head the way a cat does to keep out the light. He could have been asleep or he could have been drunk—or simply playing possum. As yet Herne had no way of knowing.
‘Howdy, stranger.’
The greeting came from a shriveled man with silver hair on one side of his head and blotched skin on the other. His face was twisted up at the left side of his mouth and the eye on that side was dead as if maybe it was made out of glass.
He shuffled along behind the counter, one half of his face smiling.
‘Passin’ through?’
‘You could say,’ Herne answered, not really looking at the man, looking at the couple over by the grimy window instead.
‘Beer?’
‘Okay.’
‘It’s good an’ cold.’
‘I said, okay.’
The man chewed at the inside of his mouth and opened a bottle, pushing a glass across the table in Herne’s direction.
‘Traveled far?’
‘Can’t say I have. Rode out from town a spell. Hills south of here.’
Herne poured half the beer into the glass, tilting it so that the liquor didn’t froth up the glass, tilting his head so that he could see the worried glances being exchanged between the couple at the back of the room.
‘Mite warm for ridin’ far,’ said the silver-haired man.
‘Yeah, happen so. ’specially when there’s folk around wantin’ to make it hotter.’
‘Come again?’
‘Feller sets himself up back of some trees with a Winchester, tries his hand at bushwacking. Only this feller, his hand ain’t too good. Don’t get it done.’
The breed jolted the table hard as his chair rocked down. His hand disappeared from sight, but the man with him shook his head and leaned across and told him to hold hard.
Silver-hair twisted his head and stared glassily over towards the corner.
‘Anyone special you got on your mind?’ he asked, turning back towards Herne again.
Herne took another swallow at the beer. Sweat was running down both sides of his face from under the brim of his Stetson; more of it caught at the nape of his neck and at his crotch; more ran down his nose and dropped onto the trestle table.
He wiped the palm of his right hand down the leg of his pants.
‘There’s a pinto outside with a Winchester in the sc
abbard. A grey that runs heavy on the left side, got a crack across the curve of its rear shoe. That …’
He’d said enough.
The breed jumped again and this time the kid made no attempt to hold him.
The breed had a Smith and Wesson .45 with a filed-down trigger and he wasn’t slow. Chili flew into the air as the table leaped upwards and the plate careened across and collided with the kid’s tortilla. The breed’s chair cracked back against the wall and the barrel of the pistol swung clear of the rocking table edge.
The kid threw himself sideways and dived for the floor.
Herne rocked backwards on his heels and his hand blurred through a fast arc that had Silver-hair staring open-mouthed.
The breed yelled something and squeezed back on the trigger but the sound of his voice was buried in the roar from Herne’s Colt and a .45 slug was tearing through his shoulder before his own shot dug into the ceiling high to Herne’s left.
‘Jesus Christ!’ breathed the owner and his mouth stayed open.
One of the Mexicans had time to cross himself; the other wanted to sneak a look at his opponent’s cards but didn’t have the time.
The breed hit the wall close by the window frame and fell face forward, his nose striking the centre of the table with a crash that broke the cartilage and fractured the bone.
His companion was still on the ground, still watching, waiting, making no move for his own gun.
Herne had the hammer of the Colt back and his arm outstretched, sighting along the barrel.
Slowly the breed pushed himself up from the table, chili dripping from his face and beard, mingling with the blood that flowed freely from his shattered nose.
The Smith and Wesson was still in his right hand, but his shoulder was screaming with pain and he couldn’t have raised his arm if he’d wanted. He grimaced and pain flooded his eyes. Herne could have been little more than a blur across the other side of the room.
He may have been little more than a backshooter who’d sell what little pride he had and take another man’s life for a couple of pieces of silver, but something gave him some guts then. Maybe nothing more than the sure and certain knowledge that he was going to die anyway.
He winced and buckled forwards, pushing the Smith and Wesson across the table, clawing for it with his left hand.
‘Don’t do it!’ called Herne.
The fingers fumbled with the grip, twisted it upwards as the man’s face contorted with pain. The left side of his shirt was dark with blood. His eyes blinked hard as he tried to steady himself against the wall.
‘Don’t!’
The pistol kept on coming.
Herne sighed and squeezed back on the trigger.
The breed went back against the wall, his right side thrown round and his arm jolting out and smashing through the filthy, cobwebbed glass. A hole the size of a man’s fist had ripped its way through the centre of his chest and the slug had deflected off the breast bone and torn a way through back of his ribs.
Glass splintered about him and the breed fell head first through the gaping pane and slumped over the sill.
‘God almighty!’ breathed the silver-haired man and inched a fraction closer to the sawn-off he kept stashed between crates on the floor.
The Mexican crossed himself again and mouthed a few anxious prayers.
There were footsteps running in the street outside, but they stopped well short of the door.
Herne angled the Colt round and gestured for the kid to get up from the floor.
He came up good and slow, his tongue wetting his lips nervously, the tip of it grazing the edges of his pitiful little moustache. A boy playing at being a man before his time. Herne recalled himself at fifteen, sixteen: one man’s death already back of him and riding for the Pony Express out of Fort Bridger. Him and Bill Cody.
The kid’s eyes darted towards the creaking door and Herne knew he was reckoning his chances of reaching one of the broncs outside.
His hand drifted towards the Colt at his belt and Herne knew he was thinking of that also—one lucky shot or going out in a blast of pointless glory.
‘You saw what happened to your friend.’
The kid nodded, blinked, nodded. Herne doubted if he was a day over sixteen.
‘Ain’t no reason for it to be like that with you.’
‘You reckon it was us as tried to bushwack you—’
‘I know damn well it was!’ Herne snarled.
Then you ain’t—’
‘I ain’t goin’ to gun you down in cold blood. Save that for the likes of your friend over there.’ Herne nodded towards the window.
First one Mexican then the other got up from the table and backed off towards the door, hands clawing the stifling air above their heads.
The man on the bunk groaned in his drunken stupor and wrapped both arms about his head.
‘That Winchester …. it’s in his saddle, ain’t it?’
The kid nodded.
‘Then let’s just say you was along for the ride. Which means all you got to do is answer a coupla questions.’
The kid licked his lips all the more and gulped stale air. ‘That means …’
‘That means you can leave your gun an’ ride out of here scot-free.’
‘You give me … your word on that?’ the kid stumbled out.
‘You got it.’
The kid sighed and his shoulders slumped and he glanced over at the dead man hanging half in and half out of the window, but he wasn’t about to interfere.
‘Okay,’ he said at last. ‘Okay, tell me what you want to know. Long as you’ll keep your word.’
‘I always have.’
‘Sure,’ the kid nodded, drawing in more air. ‘Sure.’
‘Who sent you out here?’ asked Herne. ‘Who paid you to bushwack me? That’s the …’
Silver-hair was quiet and smooth and for a man whose body wasn’t close to the state it had once been, he was pretty fast. Maybe it was accident as much as anything that knocked the end of the sawn-down barrels against the glass as he swung it round—maybe having only one good eye didn’t allow him to judge it as he should.
Either way, the sound spun Herne fast and sent him diving for the floor.
Both barrels exploded over his head.
Herne’s elbows jarred against the boards and the Colt was jolted from his grasp and spun away out of reach.
He pushed his left hand to the ground and levered himself to his feet, right hand snaking inside his boot for the handle of the hidden bayonet. He sprang onto the nearest of the two trestle tables and it rocked and gave beneath his weight, sending glasses and bottles flying in a torrent of splinters.
Silver-hair swung the shotgun for Herne’s head and he ducked underneath it, the end of the barrels raking the back of his head and opening the largest of the scabs he’d picked up the day before.
The impetus of his jump carried him on, under the swing and smack into the owner’s frail body.
The two of them accounted for the second table and a welter of boxes and crates bounced around them.
Herne saw the twisted face close to his and jutted his head down fast, butting him between the eyes.
The man’s head jolted back hard and before it could swing back the point of Herne’s bayonet was resting against his Adam’s apple.
The one good eye focused on Herne and blinked while the glass one continued to stare emptily.
The merest trail of blood began to trickle down from his neck.
Herne caught hold of his shirt and lifted him to his feet, keeping the bayonet where it was.
The line of blood thickened.
Herne withdrew the bayonet, pulled the man close to him and pushed him away again fast, his arm jerking straight as a ramrod.
Silver-hair went cannoning from one stack of boxes to another, finally landing in a heap by the side wall.
Herne was over him in a second, dragging him up and tossing him round, pushing him down over one of the collapsed tabl
es.
Silver-hair screamed as the bayonet blade flashed through the air and wet himself as it passed through the collar of his shirt and pinned him to the table top.
Herne shook his head and stepped away. His gun was close by the door and he went over and scooped it up.
Silver-hair was shaking and the room stank like he’d lost control of his bowels along with the rest.
Herne pointed the gun at his head. ‘I wondered why they rode here. Now I know. It was to collect the rest of their money.’ He grunted. ‘What’d they tell you? They’d left me up there in the hills dead? That what they said? They sure as hell didn’t ride back here an’ tell you they messed up.’
He didn’t answer, didn’t do anything but stare.
‘Who set you up for it?’
The mouth opened but all that emerged was a drool of saliva mixed with blood.
‘You know you’re goin’ to tell me, don’t you? One way or another. It’ll hurt a whole lot more than it does now if you waste my time.’
Silver-hair’s mouth wobbled and he finally spat out: ‘I ain’t tellin’ you. No matter … matter what you …’
Herne shot him through the right leg, splintering the kneecap to shards of bone.
Silver-hair screamed and reached down for his shattered knee but the bayonet held him fast, the shirt tearing but not enough to come free.
‘You’ll tell me,’ Herne assured him. ‘It’s just a matter of when. How many bullets.’
‘No … I … won’t …’
Herne took careful aim at the other leg and began to squeeze back on the trigger.
‘All right! All right!’
Herne grinned and released the hammer carefully, dropping the Colt back to his side.
His hand rested on the handle of the bayonet.
‘Bellour. His name’s Ray Bellour. He’s got an office in town.’
‘What kind of office?’
‘Sort of ... he paints portraits, society folk mostly. That an’ pictures, daguerreotypes. He …’
‘What’s his interest in me?’ Herne snarled.
‘I don’t know. Honest. I don’t know. He just paid me to get it done. Any way, he said. Any way.’
‘He tell you where I’d be?’
The single eye closed and the silver head nodded.
Herne the Hunter 22 Page 6
