Herne the Hunter 19

by John J. McLaglen

  Herne won.

  The bandit lost.

  ~*~

  Goddard couldn’t stop talking about it. Knotting the ribbons around the brake, locking it on. Jumping down and pumping Jed’s hand as though he’d just been elected to the United States Senate by an overwhelming majority.

  ‘Fuckin’ amazing.’

  ‘Guess they’ll not come after us. Unless they try an ambush.’

  But the driver’s ears weren’t hearing him. He was still locked into the devastatingly lethal display that he’d just seen from the shootist.

  ‘Killed ’em. Fuckin’ killed ’em. Like that. Easy as fallin’ off a fuckin’ bridge. One. Two.’ Sighting an imaginary rifle. ‘Boom. Three down. Boom. That’s fuckin’ four. And the others ran like scared fuckin’ coyotes with their asses drippin’.’

  ‘Roy,’ interrupted Herne, patiently reloading the rifle. Also ejecting the spent cases from the Meteor and recharging it. ‘They might take us if’n we go on. I figure we should head back to Stow Wells.’

  ‘Maybe. Maybe so.’

  ‘Best tell that jelly in there.’

  ‘Hey, if Job Burnham was one of ’em, and you fuckin’ blew his head all over my rig, then his five hundred comes to us. Don’t it?’

  ‘Should. Seven hundred and fifty of the best for each of us.’

  ‘That right?’ called the driver. That right, Mr. Locke?’

  A face whiter than the most spotless bridal veil appeared at the window of the blood-speckled Concord. Eyes blinking furiously, tears still glistening on the merchant’s pallid cheeks.

  Goddard repeated the question. ‘I was askin’ whether we’d get that fuckin’ money?’

  ‘Money?’

  ‘Sure. You promised us fifteen hundred dollars between us for saving your silver,’ said Herne.

  ‘Yes. Yes, I did. Have they gone?’

  ‘Those livin’ have gone.’

  ‘Will they come back?’

  ‘Don’t rightly know. Be a surprise if’n they do. Mr. Herne here sure took a fuckin’ toll among ’em .’

  ‘Then let us go.’

  ‘We are.’

  ‘Why are we turning, driver?’

  ‘Goin’ back.’

  ‘Where? To Stow Wells?’

  Goddard nodded. ‘That’s about right. No way of knowin’ if’n there ain’t more of them bastards up yonder. Go on back and maybe make the run in a couple of days with a guard or two out-ridin’.’

  ‘Oh, very well. But I would greatly appreciate it if one of you would remove this … this carcass from in here.’

  Herne looked across at Roy Goddard. ‘Hell, I’ll do it, Jed. This team’s goin’ to be real tuckered out if we don’t make a change.’

  ‘I’ll get that stray horse,’ suggested the shootist. ‘Ride ahead to the town and warn them you’re coming in. Williamson can arrange an escort for you.’

  ‘Sure. Damn! White men.’

  ‘Yeah. Easier to blame Indians, huh? Still kind of strange that scalping and all on the other trip. Not like … Hell, I don’t know.’

  He walked out and called in one of the dead bandit’s horses, whistling it to him. It was a fine bay mare and it nuzzled against him, standing still as he stroked it, blowing up its nostrils in the way he’d learned from the Oglala Sioux.

  He heard Locke moaning behind him about the mutilated corpse of Burnham, drooped half out of the one window. As Herne looked round he saw that Goddard was struggling to heave the body out of the way, totally unhelped by Locke.

  ‘Always said he was a mite impulsive, old Job here,’ cackled the driver.

  ‘Impulsive?’ shouted Herne.

  ‘Sure. Now he’s nearly lost his fuckin’ head. Get the joke, Mr. Locke?’

  But Mr. Locke was too busy throwing up on his hands and knees on the far side of the coach.

  Five minutes later everything was organized. The body was stretched out in the hot sand. Goddard was back up on the box of the coach, ribbons ready in his gloved left hand. Whip gripped in his right fist ready to start the team. Mr. J.W. Locke was half-sitting, half-lying on one of the seats, weeping uncontrollably, deep in shock. But he’d agreed between sobs that Herne and Roy Goddard should share the fifteen hundred dollars equally, soon as they were back in Stow Wells again.

  ‘I’ll get the drinks on the bar ready for you,’ called Herne, setting heels to the mare, giving a wave to the whiskered driver - a man that he’d come to like during the few short hours he’d known him.

  It was the last time that he was to see either Locke or Goddard.

  Alive.

  Eight

  On the way back into town Herne had checked over the Sharps. The one miss didn’t bother him too much, but the gun hadn’t felt quite right to him. There was something wrong; but he couldn’t put his finger on it. The Sharps had been with him for so long that it was like an extension of his body. It was as though a pianist was suffering from some exceedingly minor complaint, like a hang-nail. But it would be enough to put him off the finest edge of his technique.

  Though he looked closely at his beloved fifty-caliber rifle the shootist couldn’t actually see anything out of line. But he suspected that when he’d thrown it down in the sand it might have struck a hidden stone in the dirt. And that had been sufficient to jar the gun. When he got back to Stow Wells he’d take it out behind the houses and test-fire it. Maybe go to Big Jim Bisset if any work needed doing.

  Herne was also his own gunsmith and would rather trust his own eye and hand against anyone else.

  It was a good way of keeping living.

  Sheriff Clifford V. Williamson came running from his office, brought out by a street urchin who’d raised the settlement with the news that the tall shootist who’d gone out as shotgun on the morning stage was coming in alone on a strange bay mare.

  ‘What happened? Jed! Jesus, where’s the coach?’

  ‘Out yonder. Take it easy, Sheriff. Don’t go get your breeches filled.’

  ‘You get hit?’

  ‘Yeah. Whites. Seven. Job Burnham was one of ’em .’

  ‘What happened?’ Williamson was half-running alongside the shootist, face turned up, surrounded by better than half the settlement.

  Herne reined in and swung from the saddle, feeling the sudden tiredness that often came long after violent action was finished and done.

  ‘Job got his head blown apart with the Meteor. I brought down four of the rest with this,’ hefting the Sharps. ‘Locke is fine. Though I guess he could use a private cleaning-up when he gets back. Goddard’s fine, Fine. Good man, that.’

  ‘The silver?’ asked someone in the crowd.

  ‘That’s safe.’

  ‘Why did you …?’ began Williamson.

  ‘Come back?’ completed Herne. ‘Horses were tired and we figured safest was to turn ’em back here. Do the run again in a couple of days. Guess the Concord should be here in around an hour. Hour and a half.’

  ‘Jesus Christ, breathed Williamson. ‘You sure went out and did it, then. Killed …’ calculating rapidly. ‘Killed five bandits. All on your own.’

  ‘Locke promised me and Goddard fifteen hundred dollars for savin’ his ass and his money,’ said Herne. There was no harm in sowing those particular seeds to make it harder for the merchant to go back on his word when he was safe and snug back in town.

  Bisset appeared at the edge of the throng. Herne noticed that his arm was already out of its sling and the big man was grinning. Waving the injured hand at the shootist.

  ‘It’s a heap better, Mr. Herne. If’n you want that tooth pulled?’

  Jed shook his head. ‘Bath first, thanks. Then some food. Shot of whiskey. And then you can pull the little bastard for me.’

  The truth was that the excitement had temporarily driven away the pain of his tooth. But he knew from experience that it would return. It was good to feel that the killing was over for a while. That he’d earned himself seven hundred and fifty dollars without getting even a scratch. And t
hat tomorrow he’d ride on from Stow Wells without the nagging pain in his jaw.

  ‘Even the losers get lucky some time,’ he said to himself as he walked towards the saloon. Wondering as he said it where he’d caught the expression recently. Hearing a call from the balcony and looking up to see the young whore waving to him.

  ‘Lucky,’ he repeated, starting to smile. It looked like it was going to be a real good day.

  It wasn’t.

  ~*~

  The water was deep and hot and the girl compliant and enthusiastic. Responding to him, helping him wash. Sitting down to a meal with him, and then joining him in bed again for a half hour after.

  They were still in bed when there was the jingle of spurs in the corridor outside the room and the soft sound of someone rapping on the door. Herne reached across the girl, taking the Colt from the holster at the head of the bed. Cocking it and readying it in his fist.

  ‘Who’s there?’

  ‘Me. Williamson.’

  ‘Come in, Sheriff,’ easing down the hammer. The girl pulling the sheet up over her budding breasts, sliding down the bed, almost out of sight.

  The door opened and the lawman stuck his head into the room. ‘Sorry to interrupt you, Mr. Herne.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘The coach.’

  ‘Holy Jesus!’ The shootist had been relaxing and had regarded his job as finished. It had not occurred to him that the coach should have arrived in town. Even allowing for Roy Goddard taking it easy the Concord should have been in Stow Wells at least a half hour back.

  ‘I just …’

  But the shootist was already out of bed, starting to get dressed. The whore sat up and made a rude gesture at the Sheriff. ‘You just spoiled one of my best times, you miserable bastard, Cliff.’

  ‘Now, Louanne. Can’t talk to the law like that.’

  ‘I can talk any way I want.’

  ‘I’ll have to get hard with you.’

  The girl sniggered. ‘Be a change if’n you got it hard for me, Cliff.’

  ‘Now that ain’t …’ began the sheriff, stopping when he saw the girl’s malicious grin. I’ll tan your hide for you, you. . . .’

  ‘Promises are fine things, Clifford V. Williamson. I’d be mighty pleased to see some action.’

  Herne was dressed, ignoring the banter between the whore and the lawman. ‘Let’s go.’

  ‘Where, Mr. Herne?’

  ‘Find the coach.’

  ‘But we …’ Williamson stopped when he realized that the shootist had gone.

  ~*~

  It was four and a half miles out from Stow Wells.

  By the time that the hastily grouped posse of good men and true from the settlement reached it the sun was already sinking far away to the west, dipping beyond the nearest range of jagged mountains. The shadows were long across the desert, thrown behind the men and the horses. Herne had first seen the circling black shapes, etched deep against the darkening sky. Reining in and pointing. The others stopping around him.

  ‘God damn!’ said Williamson, taking his hat off and nearly throwing it to the earth in his anger.

  ‘Looks like someone got there first,’ said Herne, voice calm as a Sunday church social.

  ‘You said there was but three of them bandits left alive?’ said one of the shop-keepers. Looking across at Herne as though he was a nasty red figure that had crawled in among the black at the bottom page of an annual balance sheet.

  ‘Yeah. It wasn’t them.’

  ‘You sure?’

  ‘One more sneer and I’ll push the muzzle of this Colt down your damned throat and pull the trigger,’ said the shootist, voice still and unflurried.

  ‘I don’t …’

  ‘No. That’s right. You don’t.’

  The shop-keeper turned to the sheriff for support, but he was gazing studiedly out across the desert towards the circling buzzards. The man looked back at the stranger, seeing the tightness around the eyes and mouth. And decided that it might be a good time for keeping quiet.

  ‘You figure it for Indians?’ asked Jim Bisset, sitting astride one of the biggest geldings that Herne had ever seen. Its back looked broad enough to support the foundations of a cathedral.

  Herne sighed. ‘Guess so. Looks like there’s traces of smoke. Hard to make it out. Know when we get there.’

  ~*~

  ‘Yeah. Chiricahua. Whole thing makes a kind of sense now. Mendez has scouts out. Each time they see this gang of outlaws after a stage he sits and waits. Comes in to pick up any pieces left around. Little scalping for his young men.’

  ‘Think Goddard and Mr. Locke are dead?’ called someone from the back of the posse.

  ‘Don’t think it. I know it. Less’n they’ve taken them with them for some sportin’. That could happen. But that makes them good as dead.’

  ‘How many Indians, d’you figure?’ asked Williamson, shading his eyes with his hand and looking to where they suspected the coach had met its final end.

  ‘Maybe tell you when I get right there,’ replied Herne. ‘No point talkin’ now. Let’s see.’

  ~*~

  The shootist wasn’t certain about the numbers of the attackers, but he was inclined to think that there might only have been two or three.

  The Concord had been stopped in a narrow defile, just before the trail opened to its long wide run into the township. It was burned out clear to the axles. The two lead horses were dead in their traces and the wheelers had disappeared. Arrows clustered in the chests of the dead animals. Unmistakably Apache arrows.

  Roy Goddard was lying still and dead a hundred paces away from the charred wreck. The Indians were never kind to the corpses of their defeated enemies and it was hard to tell how he’d met his death. But Herne found the stump of an arrow protruding from the side of his neck and another below the right arm.

  ‘Jesus,’ said one of the posse, turning away. ‘Why do …?’

  ‘Enemy goes on for ever, son,’ said Herne, straightening with a sigh. Feeling a twinge of rumbling pain from his rotten tooth. ‘So they make sure that old Roy here won’t cause no trouble to them in the lands beyond this one.’

  The Apaches had done their work well. The scalp had gone, peeled neatly away from the raw top of the skull. The eyes had been gouged from their sockets. Teeth - what had remained of them - battered from the driver’s jaw. Ears sliced off and nose slit. Every finger and toe broken. Arms and legs dislocated. The genitals cut off and the stomach opened, intestines draped across the front of the body as it lay, a poor broken thing, on its back in the evening light.

  There was no sign of Mr. J.W. Locke.

  Herne realized that Locke was an important man around Stow Wells. Maybe not as highly regarded as Miss Lily Abernathy and her daughter, but a man of some importance.

  Important enough for Sheriff Clifford V. Williamson to order an immediate return to town.

  ‘Then we get food and water for three days and head off after these butcherin’ bastards. What do you say, men?’

  There was a somewhat grudging cheer of approval.

  ‘You with us, Mr. Herne?’ asked the blacksmith.

  The shootist shook his head. ‘Not me.’

  ‘Figured it might be worth it, seeing as how he owes you seven hundred dollars,’ said the lawman, unable to keep the anger from his voice.

  ‘Fifteen hundred, seein’ poor Goddard’s gone and bought the farm here,’ replied Herne.

  ‘Then why not come? You surely aren’t scared, I know that.’

  ‘I hope you do, Williamson,’ snapped Herne. ‘Because I can teach you real easy.’

  ‘Then why not?’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I don’t get it?’

  ‘The man’s dead, Sheriff,’ said Herne, trying to explain in slow, patient tones, as if he was dealing with an idiot child. ‘Dead or as good as. Those Apaches have a start on you of … maybe two hours or more. By the time you get near them it’ll be dark. Maybe you’ll lose more men at night. They can circ
le.’

  ‘Mendez has a big party. Word was he might have thirty warriors.’

  Then this wasn’t his main group. Makes it more important you don’t go off like your breeches caught fire. Keep patient, Williamson. You’ll get to live a whole lot longer.’

  ‘I’ll go where I damned well want and do what I damned well want, Herne. You want to go oh back to the safety of town and skulk around gettin’ sucked dry by that little whore, Louanne. Waitin’ for all that money.’

  ‘Locke’s dead, you dumb bastard. And my money’s dead with him. I’ll go back to town right enough. And I’ll be long gone ’fore you get back from chasin’ after all them wild geese.’ There was a murmur of anger, but the shootist wasn’t finished. ‘Those of you that get back, that is.’

  ~*~

  It was only as he rode slowly back along the main street of Stow Wells through the gloom of evening that Herne realized virtually every male between fifteen and fifty-five had gone on the posse. It would be bad news if Mendez chose to come calling.

  Nine

  Louanne was waiting for him, sitting disconsolately at a table in the empty saloon. With no customers most of the local girls had gathered to play a noisy game of penny-ante stud in the corner near the bar. And a couple of Miss Abernathy’s oldsters were also in there, one of them quietly picking a tune out of the battered piano by the staircase. As soon as they saw Herne walk in the old men exchanged glances and rose to their feet. Hurrying out of the Inside Straight without a backwards glance at the shootist.

  The posse had left earlier, all fed and watered, loaded with extra ammunition and guns. Rifles, pistols and scatterguns. Ready to teach “that bastard Mendez a damned lesson”.

  Herne would be surprised if the posse got close enough to fire a shot in anger at the Chiricahua leader.

  There seemed a resentment against the shootist, most of the girls turning away from him, refusing him even the minimal courtesy of a whore’s smile. Louanne explained to him that the Sheriff had told folks in Stow Wells that Herne wasn’t prepared to ride out with them after the killers of Roy Goddard and the kidnappers of the respected Mr. J.W. Locke.