Herne the Hunter 21

by John J. McLaglen

  ‘Well?’ asked Howell.

  ‘Don’t know.’

  ‘You served it. You must know.’

  The man nodded. ‘Yeah. Guess it must be rat shit.’

  ~*~

  ‘Ethan plans to kill you, Jed,’ insisted Charley Howell as they faced their dessert. A hunk of pallid suet pudding speckled with small brown dots. Neither of them felt much like asking the owner of the place just what they were.

  ‘I know it. I plan to kill him, Charley, and that is the truth.’

  ‘Why not leave?’

  ‘I said it before. Some things that a man can’t ride around. This is one of them.’

  ‘If I can, I’ll help you, Jed. You know that, don’t you?’

  Herne grinned. ‘So’s I can be back in your debt, Charley?’

  Howell looked rueful. ‘Nothin’ wrong with that, friend.’

  ‘No. And there’s times a man needs all the friends he can get.’

  ~*~

  A new rider had joined them, briefly, at the end of the meal. He’d been hired out west, in the Sacramento office, to replace some of the large numbers of riders who’d quit the Pony as soon as the bad weather started to come on down across the unforgiving high country. His lame was Coburn. He was as tall as Herne, and even skinnier. Around about the same age. Eyes that seemed to burn like the embers of a dying fire, crimson. Skin paler than fresh, foaming milk.

  And white hair.

  A tumbling veil of snow-white hair, fine as spun silk, that frothed to his shoulders like a fall of Sierra melt-water.

  He was called ‘Whitey’.

  At first Jed didn’t take to him, but over the next few weeks they found themselves involved more and more with each other. Sharing evenings off, and going out together. Charley Howell became visibly jealous of their friendship, but there wasn’t much he could do about it.

  ~*~

  The relationship between Jed Herne and Whitey Coburn was barely begun in the period covered by this book. But the unlikely friendship was to survive for better than twenty years, off and on, all through their time with Quantrill and the raiding of the War. Right on through some of the bad times of peace. Until it ended in a totally unforeseeable way.

  ~*~

  The albino teenager left in early November, sent by the Company out west, to fill in on the worst stretches across the Sierras towards Placerville. But he shook hands firmly with Jed.

  ‘Be seein’ you, Herne,’ he said.

  ‘Sure, Whitey. And you take care of yourself out there.’

  He nodded, the movement making the drifting shroud of white hair shimmer on his shoulders.

  ‘I’ll be finishin’ this job in the next couple of months. I’ll have made me enough dollars for a break. And I need time to heal the calluses on my ass.’

  ‘Seems like this nigra slave question’s about to raise a ruckus, Whitey.’

  ‘Hear that’s right, Jed. If’n that comes to pass, how’s about you and me joinin’ up and gettin’ ourselves some action.’

  ‘For or Against?’

  Whitey laughed, red eyes crinkling with amusement. ‘Don’t give a shit in the wind, Jed. Just which has the best pay, best drinkin’ liquor, finest horses and the prettiest whores.’

  ‘I have to do some things.’

  ‘Corleon?’

  Jed sniffed. ‘Yeah. I figure that’ll come down real soon. When I’ve seen the end of that bastard, then maybe he can join up.’

  Whitey pulled his coat around him, looking out through the misty window. The room was sweltering hot, with a stove at its center that glowed a dull crimson. If a man spat on it the saliva bounced, hissing, right back at him. Outside there was a dusting of snow, flurrying between the buildings, carried on the western wind along the empty main street of the little town.

  ‘Guess I’ll be goin’.’

  ‘Good luck, Whitey. How’s about fixin’ a meeting for the spring?’

  The pale face lit up at the idea. ‘Sure. Why the Hell lot?’

  ‘Where?’

  Coburn considered. ‘How’s about round Richmond? Or Washington. If there’s to be war, then it’ll all be round there. Virginia. Maybe round Kansas. But for sure I’ll be around Richmond.’

  ‘I’ve been there. Let’s say noon on the first day of April.’

  ‘Agreed, Jed. Agreed with all my heart. I know the woman runs a bordello, called the … let me see. The Owl and Cat, down off Dock Street. There at noon on the first day of April.’

  They shook hands one more time and then Whitey opened the door, letting in a great blast of chilled air. Disappearing into the gathering storm. Jed remained there, waiting to resume work.

  And waiting for Ethan Corleon.

  Fourteen

  First was the broken girth.

  Snapping when Jed was a half-mile out on the first run of the day. Only his great skill and marvelous reflexes kept him on the back of the galloping mare. A lesser man would have fallen out the side door, crashing down at twenty miles an hour among jagged rocks.

  When he dismounted Herne pulled the loose end of the leather strap. Seeing the frayed section where it had failed. And also the neatly cut section that sliced nearly all the way through the girth.

  He finished the ride bareback, the mochila slung across his shoulders.

  ~*~

  Second was a day later. The rooming house where Jed was staying was run by a motherly Irish woman called Daphne Pearson. Each morning she would rouse Jed from his room with a rap of her knuckles on the panels on the door. Leaving him a bowl of thick, wholesome soup in the corridor outside.

  That particular morning it tasted bitter. Not the bitterness of herbs, but an odd taste that lay flat on the tongue. Not wanting to upset her he levered open the stiff window of his room and tipped it out into the alley beyond. Jed had only taken a couple of sips of it, but that afternoon his stomach was knotted with griping pains that made him stop, tethering the mustang while he crouched by the side of the trail, emptying his bowels of what felt like scalding water. For the next two days he was still shaken by the experience.

  He asked Charley Howell whether Ethan Corleon was back from New Jersey, wondering whether the two experiences were linked. But Charley said nobody had seen the older galloper.

  ~*~

  Third time was closest.

  Herne had once heard someone say that the first time was a happening; second time was a coincidence; but the third time was enemy action.

  He believed it.

  ~*~

  It was a rifle bullet. The sound of the shot told him that it came from the darkness somewhere along the side of Paddy Newman’s clothes shop. There was a pathway that ran to the livery stables, across the back of the houses on the main street.

  Whoever aimed it was good, shooting in poor light at a moving target. But they weren’t quite good enough.

  Jed felt the wind of the bullet’s passing, hissing by his face like the whisper of the Grim Reaper. He was already starting to move before the crash of the gun reached his ears. The shot hit the wall behind him, kicking sparks and a burst of powdered stone, echoing away down the street towards the north.

  He dived flat, drawing the Colt Navy, peering out into the blackness. The sound of the explosion brought folk uniting from several of the houses and stores and saloons, giving the would-be killer plenty of cover and time for his escape.

  Jed went to the nearest saloon, ordering a shot of whiskey, downing it in one and immediately taking another. The barkeep was new, working there only three or four days. But he was interested in the attempted murder.

  ‘Must be some devil with a grudge against the Pony,’ he suggested.

  ‘Or me,’ said Herne.

  ‘Oh, no, Mr. Herne.’ Laying one hand on Jed’s sleeve. ‘I can’t imagine that anyone would have a grudge against someone as fine-looking as you.’ Herne pulled his arm away, making the barkeep pout in disappointment. ‘Unless it was someone jealous of your looks.’

  ‘I don’t figure t
hat. Give me another.’

  ‘Sure.’ Sliding the bottle along the polished counter. Catching a glimpse of his own reflection in the long etched mirror. Unconsciously smoothing down his curling auburn hair. ‘Might have been that ruffian I saw this morning.’

  ‘Who was that?’

  ‘Don’t know, Mr. Herne. Not someone I recognized. But he looked so rough.’

  ‘What kind of rough. Come on, friend.’

  ‘Wish I was your friend, Mr. Herne. And my name’s Wellbeloved.’

  ‘You’re joshin’ me.’

  ‘I’m not. It’s Angus Wellbeloved. But if you like you can call me Angus.’

  Jed drained the third slug of liquor, feeling it warming his throat and chest. Driving away the tension from the near-killing.

  ‘Tell me ’bout this person you saw.’

  ‘Surely. Another? No, very well. I was up early this morning, around dawn. I was … well, I had a friend with me, bundling against the cold and he had to rise early to return to the arms of his ever-lovin’ wife, bitch that she is! Oh, where was I?’

  ‘In bed with one of your brown-hole friends.’

  Wellbeloved simpered at him. ‘You are a beastly rogue, Mr. Herne. No, I wiped away some of the ice from the inside of my window, and it was just light. Saw this man, dark maroon coat, high-collared. Looked like he’d been to see one of the soiled doves in the bagnio along the way. Though why any man would want to … Oh, my, I’m losin’ the thread of it again.’

  ‘What did he look like? You better quicken this up some or you’ll be spittin’ teeth.’

  ‘Is that a threat or a promise, Mr. Herne? You know that—’

  ‘That there’s a difference. Yeah. I know that.’

  ‘He was skinny, near as I could tell under all the layers of clothes. No hat. Goin’ bald, with what was left sort of trimmed around in a tonsure.’

  ‘Tonsure?’

  Wellbeloved ran his hand around the crown of his head. ‘Like a monk. And he looked up and saw me at the window, and was off.’

  ‘You see his face?’

  ‘Not too well. My friend was getting ready to bid me farewell and, I guess I was somewhat distracted. Know what I mean? No, guess you don’t. I saw enough to know him again. Scar, big one.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Face?’ Touching his left cheek. Tracing the course of the scar. ‘Ear to mouth. Made him look like he was smiling all the time.’ He paused, considering. ‘I don’t figure him for the sort of man who’d do a whole lot of smiling.’

  ~*~

  ‘Sure sounds like Ethan Corleon,’ agreed Charley Howell when he came in with the mail-pouches the following evening.

  ‘Must be. The cut girth. Poison in the soup. And a bullet last night. The cowardly son of a bitch has come sack early, tryin’ to hide up somewhere round town.’

  ‘What’ll you do, Jed?’

  ‘Go after him. Track him. Now I know he’s here, it shouldn’t be that hard. Tonight. Around nine. I’ll go out. There was a good moon early this morning. Clouds are clear today. Should be easy to trail in the light.’

  ‘He’s a powerful frightenin’ man,’ sighed Howell, shaking his head. ‘You know that there’s not a rider with the Pony wouldn’t gladly see him dead. But there’s not a one that would turn against him and aid you.’

  ‘Including Mr. Charles Howell,’ grinned Herne.

  ‘You know I’m on your fuckin’ side, Jed.’

  ‘On my side … or around twenty yards clear behind me?’

  ‘If I can help … without, you know. Then I will. I want to see Corleon dead…’ he dropped his voice, looking around the saloon, ‘… much as you. But I don’t have your balls in a fight.’

  ‘Sure. Anyway, keep safe and wait in here. I might just be grateful for a little of that support of yours, Charley.’

  ‘Sure, Jed.’

  ‘’round nine. Be here.’

  ~*~

  In his room Herne once more stripped down his pistol. Using up three large bowls of boiling water and a pile of dry and oiled rags before he was satisfied. Reassembling the gun and loading it, going through each step of the operation as if his life depended on it. Doing the same with the reserve cylinder.

  The only option that appeared to him was that of getting his retaliation in first. There was precious little profit in sitting around in his room waiting for Corleon to come sneaking in and ambush him again. Having failed three times, it was likely that the older man would come up with a better plan.

  The snow had stopped, lying in small drifts against the walls of some of the buildings. The wind had stripped it away from the rutted mud of the main street and his heels rang in the frosty air. Nobody was out and about, but he could hear the jingling of the piano and laughter from the crowded saloon. It was a big place, with a balcony inside that ran clear round three sides, above the bar.

  Out back was where Wellbeloved had said that he’d seen the man. Seen Corleon. That was the best place to go, along a side path, past a privy, stinking less in winter than it would in high summer. And then scouting around, looking for some sign in the brush beyond the buildings. Signs of a man passing.

  Jed had met an old Kiowa scout, now crippled with arthritis, nearly blind, and had bought the Indian a drink. In return the Kiowa had passed on some valuable tips about trailing a man.

  ‘Surely you can kind of replace things behind you, the way they was?’ Herne had asked.

  The face had wrinkled up and the old man had shaken with wheezing, barely audible laughter. ‘Yes, young man,’ he’d said. ‘How can you replace the web of the spider?’

  ~*~

  It was absurdly simple. Once he’d been given the necessary pointer from the barkeep it wasn’t hard to find the racks. Winding among the brush and stunted trees, through a pair of dry arroyos, their sides flanked with snow. Across a ridge to where a clump of solitary sycamores stood guard over a water hole.

  The moon was bright enough to give Jed plenty of light or his tracking. But the center of the grove of trees was impenetrably black. And it was large enough to hide a dozen soldiers, or a hundred Shoshone.

  Or one killer.

  For ten minutes Jed squatted down on his haunches and watched. Staring at the trees until his vision blurred and he looked away. He moved a few steps closer, drawing his pistol and cocking it.

  Seeing a patch of snow that had drifted into one of the hollows on the trail. Herne stooped over it, laying his lead on one side to study it. Touching the marks of boots with his finger. Making a decision, then going back and checking it again. Having miscounted the numbers of the Cheyenne at the way station, and nearly paid for his mistake in the fullest possible way, Jed had learned something of caution.

  But this time he was certain.

  The tracks led back past him, towards the distant lights of the township. The snow had obscured earlier heel-narks heading towards the trees. Unless Ethan Corleon lad returned to his hiding-place by a different route, then re was not there. He was back in town, probably planning the death of Herne.

  Despite his certainty that Corleon was no longer there Jed stepped cautiously forwards. Closing in on the clump of trees. Stopping twice more in the sharp, silver moonlight to check the trail. Each time finding evidence that he was right. The most recent marks were those of a man going towards town.

  The dirt was well-trodden at one side of the grove and Jed picked his way through the trees. Discovering what he’d thought. A shelter, of woven boughs and moss roofed with mud and branches to keep out the cold and wet. It was the lair of a skilled woodsman and hunter. There was food inside and a bottle of whiskey.

  Herne stood up and came out again from the hiding place, breathing slowly. Holstering the pistol and beginning the quarter mile walk back to the settlement.

  ~*~

  The piano was now playing a slow, sad ballad. Through the windows on the upper floor Herne caught a glimpse of one of the whores, moving past, her breasts exposed wearing some kind of flounced corse
t.

  The places were filled with men, drinking and gaming. But if Corleon was trying to keep himself hidden, he would not be likely to go in any of them.

  The attacks had been becoming more open. If Corleon had passed along the trail recently, he would probably be skulking around town. Maybe even trying to find when Jed Herne was.

  ‘The rooming-house,’ said Herne. Turning his collar up against the biting wind. Hail pattered down, rattling against the window of the store nearby. It was only a dozen or so buildings along the street to the one when Jed was currently rooming. Clouds had come scudding along, carried on the teeth of an impending storm, and the light was fading fast. Shadows disappeared and the blocks of the houses and stores and saloons were blurring into one another.

  Somewhere a door had been left open and the wind was jerking at it, banging it to and fro. Jed picked his way along the street, trying to watch both sides at once. The big thing in his favor was that Corleon wasn’t likely to shoot at him unless he was certain of his aim. And in poor light one man in a heavy jacket looked much like another.

  As he neared the rooming house he became more careful. On an impulse Jed turned off, along a narrow alley. The side door was generally locked and bolted at night, but there was someone opening it. A woman, or a short man. Jed came closer, but his foot caught a discarded can, sending it rattling along in the frozen dirt.

  A light came on in a room across the alley, sending a golden flood out into the night. Illuminating the door of the rooming house. And the face of the man caught with a crowbar in his hand trying to force the lock.

  Less than a dozen yards separated Jed from Ethan Corleon.

  Fifteen

  ‘You sneakin’ little fuck!’ shouted Corleon, taken totally by surprise. His hands dropped to the matched pair of five-shot Colt Patersons, fumbling with them. He was still wearing gloves and it made a smooth draw almost impossible.

  Jed was marginally quicker, even though the sudden illumination of the alley had taken him equally by surprise. His hand went to the .36 caliber pistol on his right hip, but the retaining thong was over the top of the hammer and he, too, was slowed.

  Jed’s handgun was out and cocked first.