Cross-Draw

by John J. McLaglen

  Issuing classic fiction from Yesterday and Today!

  The Colt fell the short distance onto the worn carpet and Herne’s body straightened up like a whiplash. But the hand that had dropped the gun didn’t come back up empty. It had the hilt of the bayonet in it and midway through the movement the blade was unleashed across the room. Seth’s mouth stayed open, words drained in mid-sentence; he moved the gun to fire but something plunged its way into his shoulder blade and pinned him to the door. His hand opened in spite of itself and the pistol slipped out.

  CROSS-DRAW

  HERNE THE HUNTER 8

  By John J. McLaglen

  First published by Corgi Books in 1978

  Copyright © 1978, 2014 by John J. McLaglen

  Published by Piccadilly Publishing at Smashwords: June 2014

  Names, characters and incidents in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each reader.

  Cover image © 2013 by Tony Masero

  Visit Tony here

  This is a Piccadilly Publishing Book

  Series Editor: Mike Stotter

  Text © Piccadilly Publishing

  Published by Arrangement with the Author.

  For Tony Albrecht:

  everybody needs a friend these days

  everybody rides their own damn ways

  Chapter One

  The man stepped through the opening at the front of the livery stable and looked across the street. Immediately opposite there was a single-storey building with the word ‘Tonsorial’ painted in black letters between window and roof. The large plate-glass window revealed a customer being shaved, the barber leaning over the chair, pausing every few seconds to wipe lather from the blade of the open razor onto the towel that hung over his left arm.

  Further up the street there were a number of false-fronted stores advertising dry goods, groceries and liquors and the finest selection of boots and saddles in Wyoming Territory. The most impressive building in view was beyond these—The Cattlemen’s House. It was a three-story hotel made out of brick with two wooden balconies, one above the other, supported by thick wood pillars that rose up from the edge of the boardwalk. The ground floor contained a huge bar with a horseshoe-shaped counter at its center and raised booths along three wills. Stairs at one corner led up to a first floor lobby and bedrooms on the floors above.

  A group of cowboys rode noisily down the street, keeping their horses abreast, laughing and shouting at one another. They saw the man by the livery stable, saw him and ignored him. There didn’t seem to be any reason why they should do any different.

  The man watched them go by, looking at the pistols at their belts, the low crown plainsman hats they mostly wore, the Double C brand that stood out clearly on the leather of their forty pound Denver saddles.

  The rider at the near side of the line reined in his horse and called to the others. ‘Gettin’ me a shave. I’ll see you at the Five Aces.’

  He wheeled his mount round, pulling harder on the rein than was necessary; the animal tossed its head and whinnied and the cowboy slapped at its flanks with his open hand, making it rear up from the ground and swirl up dust.

  ‘You aimin’ to start a stampede all by yourself?’

  The cowboy turned the horse again, staring down at the man who had spoken.

  ‘That me you’re talkin’ to, mister?’

  ‘Can’t see no one else kickin’ up dirt round here.’

  ‘Well, you just mind your own damned business!’

  The cowboy stared all the harder, the lines of his young mouth hardening into a sneer, the fingers of his right hand sliding back along his saddle until they were close to the pistol strapped down onto his leg.

  The man watched him without moving, taking in the cowboy’s gun hand and the changed expression on his face. ‘Fer a man as earns his livin’ in the saddle, you sure don’t treat your horse with much respect.’

  ‘What’s that to you?’

  ‘Never did like to see an animal treated bad. Sort of man who’d do that don’t say much fer himself.’ The man unbuttoned the single button of his worn leather coat with an easy movement. ‘Don’t take to gettin’ my eyes full of dust, neither.’

  The cowboy’s fingers were resting on the leather of his holster now, stroking it. His eyes were narrow and the line of his mouth tighter than ever.

  ‘I ain’t gonna sit here an’ be talked to like that. Not by no old man like you.’

  ‘That so?’

  The right flap of the coat moved back slowly. The butt of the Colt 45 was smooth with use; the thong at the bottom of the dull leather holster was tied inside the thigh. Without taking his eyes from the cowboy, the man used his thumb to flip back the smaller thong from the hammer.

  ‘That so?’ he repeated softly, talking almost to himself.

  But the cowboy heard him well enough; heard him and saw the gun and looked at the stranger afresh. Couple of inches over six foot, long black hair that was greying at the temples, close to two hundred pounds. A face that was lined and weather-beaten; a hand that was veined and calloused hovering close to the Colt.

  Somewhere in the back of the young cowboy’s mind a warning clicked uneasily into place. He wasn’t sure, couldn’t be certain, but...

  ‘You got any thin’ more to say?’

  The cowboy’s hand shifted away from his holster and picked up the rein. ‘No. Not fer now.’

  ‘Best get that shave, then. There’s a chair empty right by the window. No sense in waitin’ around.’

  The cowboy pulled his hat down firmly on his head and moved his horse slowly round. Without looking back he crossed the street and dismounted, tying the animal to the rail. He glanced up at the sign over the barber shop and walked in through the open doorway.

  ‘Mister.’

  The man turned fast, faster than you would have thought just watching him stand there seconds before. His hand was tight about the butt of the Colt and his body had dropped into the alert crouch of a trained gunfighter.

  ‘Hey, steady now, mister! I didn’t mean nothin’.’

  The old timer from the livery stable had jumped back towards the door, one hand raised and open, fingers shaking. They stayed that way until he saw that the man had gone back to his normal stance and let go of his gun.

  ‘Just wanted to ask ’bout that chestnut you brung in, that’s all.’ He licked nervously with his tongue at the stained ends of his moustache.

  ‘What about it?’

  ‘Didn’t say how long you was leavin’ him.’

  ‘That’s cause I don’t know.’

  ‘Yeh, well, that’s ... that’s ...’ He broke off talking and scratched the wisps of white hair that scattered his scalp.

  ‘That’s all right, then. Ain’t it?’

  ‘Guess so. Yep, sure is. That’s fine.’

  The man started to turn away.

  ‘Mister.’

  ‘Say your piece,’ replied the man impatiently.

  ‘That feller over there,’ he pointed in the direction of the barber shop. ‘Seemed like you was proddin’ him awful hard to draw on you.’

  ‘Could read it that way, I guess.’

  ‘You know him or somethin’?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Weren’t sent into town to pick a fight with one of the Double C boys, by any chance?’

  The man shifted his head to an angle for a moment. ‘That likely?’

  The old timer shrugged and scratched at his scalp again. ‘You know what these big
spreads are like—one always tryin’ to cut the other down to size.’

  ‘I heard of it happenin’. But no one paid me to do no cuttin’. Not this day, they ain’t.’

  ‘Then, mister, I’d say you’re either plumb careless about your own life or you’re itchin’ fer a fight to let somethin’ out of you that’s crawled right up agin’ your spine.’

  The man turned his head aside and spat down into the dirt of the street. ‘You always so free with what you think?’

  The old man grinned: ‘When I can get someone as’ll listen.’

  ‘Tell you what, try talkin’ to some of them horses you got shut up in there. That way there’s no chance of them walkin’ out on you.’

  And the man stepped away and began to cross the street towards The Cattlemen’s House. The old timer watched him go, observing the walk of a man who wasn’t about to step aside for anyone, who likely never had—not since the day he’d first strapped that Colt .45 to his side. He pulled at a strand of white hair and pushed his tongue up into the yellow and brown hairs in the middle of his otherwise white moustache, sure that he’d seen the man before but unable to remember where.

  It could have been back in Fifty-Nine when the Pony Express was pushing westwards from Fort Bridger, beating the snows of the Sierras and the marauding attacks of the Paiutes.

  It could have been during the Civil War, when Captain William Clarke Quantrill and his bloody guerillas were raiding deep into enemy territory.

  It could have been in the South-West in the early sixties, playing fast and loose with Geronimo’s Apaches among spirals of red rock that burnt at a touch.

  It could have been in Seventy-Eight fighting in the Lincoln County Range War, alongside of Billy Bonney and Pat Garrett.

  Could have been earlier in that spring of Eighty-Four, standing by the graves of the two young women he’d loved. Loved and buried them both, then stood by the mounds of earth without a tear to cry. Instead he held a bitterness tight inside him, venomous like the poison of the snake the old timer had reckoned he had curled round his spine. Ready to strike.

  His name was Jedediah Travis Herne: the man they called Herne the Hunter.

  Jed Herne edged his way between two cattle dealers and flipped a silver piece onto the polished surface of the bar. When the barkeep had sidled down towards him, Herne ordered a bottle of bourbon and a glass.

  The barkeep squinted up at Herne and reached beneath the counter for a bottle of Jim Beam. He set it down and made good and sure that die glass he put next to it was clean and unchipped.

  ‘Thanks, mister.’ He dropped the change into Herne’s left hand. ‘You new in town?’

  Herne dropped the coins into his coat pocket and picked up bottle and glass without a word. He headed for a booth at the furthest end of the room, seeking a position from which he could see the door and where it was impossible for anyone to sneak up on him from behind. Ever since what had happened to Wild Bill …

  Besides, Herne had things on his mind and he wanted to be alone with them. Alone with a bottle so’s he could drink them away.

  The cowboy’s name was Tolly Richman and by the time he’d got himself sat in the first chair of Eli Pullum’s fancily-named barber shop his mood had changed from bad to worse.

  He fidgeted under the striped blue and white cloth that Eli tucked up to his neck and scowled. ‘This your place?’

  ‘Surely is,’ said Eli with a quick smile. ‘Every brick of it.’

  ‘Looks like timber to me.’

  ‘Well,’ said Eli, whisking up lather in a shaving mug, ‘you’re right of course. Boards like most others in town. Brick was just a manner of speech, you might say.’

  ‘Like that fancy sign you got painted up outside?’

  ‘Quite so. If you’ll just let your head fall back like ...’

  Tolly twisted his head to one side and took a cloud of white lather on the chin. ‘What’s it mean anyhow?’

  ‘Tonsorial? Tonsorial refers to the work of a barber, sir. From the rite of shaving the crown of the heads of monks in Europe.’

  ‘Huh!’ He was none the wiser.

  Eli settled his customer’s head back in the chair and began soaping underneath his chin. ‘To tell you the truth, sir, since you are so interested, the sign should have read tonsorial parlor. Trouble was, the signwriter I hired was too ambitious. Painted the first word so high there wasn’t room for the second.’ He lathered under Tolly’s nose. ‘Did himself out of half his money, though. Payment by the word, you know, sir. Payment by the word. Did I... ?’

  ‘Damn it!’ said Tolly angrily. ‘Why is it that every blasted barber I come across can’t shut his mouth for more than a second at a time? Stop blatherin’ on and get me shaved. I got friends to meet and some drinkin’ to get done.’ He stared hard at the barber. ‘That clear?’

  Eli nodded and set down the brush and mug.

  ‘Abundantly, sir.’

  Eli moved Tolly’s head to one side and slid the razor along his left cheek, lifting away both lather and the first layer of beard. Then he turned his wrist and slanted the razor back in the opposite direction.

  Tolly closed his eyes; the barber began to whistle. He shaved the other cheek and set the cowboy’s head back so that his face was pointing at the ceiling. With forefinger and thumb he raised the tip of Tolly’s nose and eased the blade of his razor underneath the bridge.

  He was still whistling. Tolly was thinking about the big man he’d backed down from in the street; remembering it and not liking it one little bit. He started to scowl and, sensing the contours of his customer’s face about to twitch, increased slightly the pressure he was applying to Tolly’s nose.

  Tolly jerked back suddenly: ‘Stop that blasted whistlin’!’ And as he opened his mouth to speak the razor slid through his upper lip as easy as a knife through a piece of rarest steak.

  Tolly yelled and flung up an arm, pushing the barber back across the room. There was a clatter as mugs and brushes fell to the floor and then Eli was picking himself up while the cowboy jumped out of the chair and moved closer to the mirror.

  The white lather about his mouth was rapidly changing to a deep shade of red. Tolly lifted up the striped cloth and wiped the lather clear. Stared. More than three inches of upper lip were hanging forward like a sagging envelope and blood was flowing easily over the pink edge of flesh and dribbling down both sides of his mouth and onto his chin and neck.

  Tolly continued to stare at the mirror for seconds that seemed to Eli like minutes. Slowly, as silently as he could, the barber began to move backwards in the direction of the shop door. Moving on hands and knees, his eyes never leaving the reflection of the bleeding face in the mirror.

  He got to within three feet of the doorway.

  Tolly whirled round and with his left hand he tore at the white tape that held the apron in a bow at the back. ‘You damn butcher! You dumb bastard! You cut me! You cut me bad!’

  He lifted his left hand to his face and pushed at the flap of lip. It pressed a bubble of pink air out into the barber shop and both men watch it fascinated as it plopped slowly onto the back of the barber’s chair and burst.

  Eli involuntarily drew breath and Tolly’s right hand dived for his gun. Eli jumped backwards for where he thought the opening was and felt his back slam against the wall. There was a loud explosion that seemed to fill the shop with sound, a flash of deep orange flame and Eli’s body was thrown back against the wall a second time, a strangled cry emerging from his mouth.

  Tolly reached for the chair and hurled it across the room. The pistol was still in his hand and his eyes were tight and narrow. Eli looked at the left side of his white shirt where the material had been torn away and pumped into the gap between his ribs. He pressed his fingers to the wound and closed his eyes with terror as the tips sank softly inside.

  ‘Bastard! Butcherin’ bastard!’

  Hands hauled him up and something hit him and kept hitting him and Eli didn’t know what it was; eyes firmly
shut and extremes of pain screaming inside brain and body.

  Tolly threw the barber back against the side wall and lashed out at him with the barrel of his gun. Eli was full stretch on the boards and starting to crawl along them, a little moaning noise coming from between his lips. A trail of thin blood meandered over the floor like the track of a snail.

  ‘N ... n ... n ...’

  Tolly bent down and lifted the barber up by his neck and arm; he spun him round and took a step away; then another.

  The pistol came up and Tolly squinted along the barrel. For the first time in minutes, Eli opened his eyes.

  ‘Nooo!’

  His hands reached forward, begging, praying.

  Tolly squeezed gently back on the trigger.

  The barber’s body was hammered backwards, his feet lifted off the floor. Arms flung wide, eyes bulging, he crashed through the middle of the plate glass window and landed with a thump on the boardwalk outside.

  Tolly heard a woman’s high-pitched scream and men’s raised voices and started to run. He was out of the door and a third of the way across the street, heading for the saloon where his friends were waiting when a shot rang out.

  He turned fast and saw a man coming towards him, walking slow, a rifle held in both hands, lawman’s badge clear on his shirt.

  ‘Hold it, son, or the next one’ll be aimed fer you.’

  The lawman was wrong. The next shot was Tolly’s and it took the deputy in the neck and severed the artery. The rifle curved up into the air and the man fell backwards, already losing blood heavily from his wound.

  By the time Tolly had got inside the saloon, the deputy was in the middle of the street, dead, blood continuing to spurt from his neck, mingling with the dirt and dust of its uneven surface.

  Chapter Two

  From his booth at the back of The Cattlemen’s House, Herne heard both shots, the second more distinctly than the first. He shifted in his seat, straightening his back, touching the butt of his Colt lightly with the palm of his right hand, as if for luck. Then he took the bottle and poured himself another drink. Whatever was going on out in the street, it wasn’t his concern.