Herne the Hunter 19

by John J. McLaglen

Now it was going to be a whole lot harder.

  ‘Don’t fire!’ he yelled at the top of his voice. Wait for the word, and make ’em count.’

  He watched through the slit, pushing the long barrel of the Sharps out into the dulling light. The Apaches cast enormous, distorted shadows away to the right as he looked at them. Mendez was in the lead on a wiry pinto, heeling at it to swing it from side to side, making himself a more difficult target. He was good. Good enough for Herne not to risk a shot at him. Picking instead one of the other warriors to the left.

  ‘Wait for the word!’ he called out again, hoping that his voice would carry through the almost visible tension that filled the Home.

  ‘Wait!’

  The nearest of the Indians was within a hundred paces and Herne instinctively felt that he could hold back the old men no longer. An impressive volley that missed was better than ragged shooting.

  ‘Now!’

  The house seemed to rock with the explosions. Black powder smoke billowed from every window, making it look as though the entire building had caught fire. Herne waited a moment before squeezing the trigger of the Sharps, peering through the slit and having the satisfaction of seeing the Indian he’d aimed at throw up his arms and topple lifelessly from his mount.

  But as far as he could see none of the other attackers had gone down. Then he saw a pony stumble and fall, throwing its rider clean over its neck. But the warrior was up and running, dodging like a scared jack-rabbit, diving for cover into a narrow draw some fifty paces from the northern flank of the house.

  ‘Get reloading,’ yelled Herne, hearing the first sounds of bullets striking the walls of the Home, clattering against the shutters and rapping on the doors as the Apaches circled around, firing their rifles under their ponies’ necks.

  Jed decided that he could do best by moving around and keeping an eye on the old men, encouraging them and urging them on. Making sure they were reloading and checking any tendency to panic. He’d seen enough action during the great War between the States to know that even the hardest of soldiers might lose his nerve in the grim whirling reality of action. One third of the muskets picked up after Shiloh had either been loaded incorrectly, or carried several charges, or in many cases still had the ramrod jammed down the barrel.

  ‘Steady, men,’ he called as he walked through the main hall.

  Josiah Fisher was sitting on a chair near the rear door, listening to the sounds of fighting from outside. Twice shifting in his seat as bullets thudded on the heavy oak of the door.

  ‘Knock, knock, Mr. Herne,’ he cackled, like bein’ porter on the gates of Hell, ain’t it?’

  Herne nodded and hurried by. Pausing to look in at the room where his … his father? Could it be? Where the man lay who called himself Al Carson.

  The old man rolled over on the narrow bed, looking towards the door. Blinking at the shadowy figure he saw there. The scar across his head stood out livid and fresh.

  ‘That you, Jed?’

  ‘Yeah. How are you doin’?’

  ‘Not so dusty, son. Not so dusty.’

  Herne looked down at him. Wondering. Wondering how he felt about it. ‘You truly figure you’re my father?’ he asked, finally.

  ‘I know it, son. Been many a mile of wanderin’. Here and there. Times I been places I don’t recall. So many chilly winds.’ He shuddered at the cold memories that jostled in his mind. ‘I been all round, pushin’ on like the headlight on a west-bound train. I heard lots of you. Came close to seein’ you once.’

  ‘I can’t stay,’ said the shootist, hearing voices yelling out for ammunition.

  The old man smiled, a tear still glistening on the lined cheek. ‘Hell, boy, I know that. Duty calls. Save us all, huh?’

  ‘Hope so.’

  ‘I’m glad, Jed. Real glad.’

  ‘Yeah.’ Pausing in the doorway. ‘So am I.’

  ‘Even losers, son.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Get lucky some time. Even losers like me.’

  One thing that Colonel Roderick Abernathy had sadly neglected in his building was the numerous walls that scattered and snaked around the Home. Low stone they gave the attacking Chiricahua ample cover once they’d slid off their ponies, darting in and out, snapping off shots at the defenders behind their rifle-ports.

  But the spirits inside were high. Ben had succeeded in winging one of the warriors, tumbling him like a hamstrung gelding. Three other men firing at the wounded Indian and all claiming credit for the kill. Herne had to break up the argument as they’d all left their firing positions to continue their high-pitched wrangling.

  He saw Paddy, mechanically taking a musket from another oldster, pointing it, and firing. Keeping up a low chant to himself.

  ‘One went high,

  One went low.

  And where the fuck

  Did the third one go?’

  Repeating the little verse over and over again, where he’d dredged it up from the Lord-knows-what long-past battles.

  Miss Lily Abernathy was standing serenely in the center of the big kitchen, bandaging the hand of one of the old men who’d caught his fingers in the lock of a musket. Andreanna was sitting in a bentwood chair in the corner, by the stove, fingers tangling and knotting over each other like a nest of soft pink snakes. Her tongue kept flicking out and licking dry lips and she looked up at Herne as he walked in, eyes blank, seeming that she didn’t even recognize him. The shootist had seen enough fear in his life to know that the daughter was right on the ragged edge of panic.

  ‘How is it progressing, Jedediah?’ asked the other woman. ‘Goes the day well?’

  ‘Well enough,’ replied Herne, dipping a metal ladle into a bowl of water and taking a mouthful. Swilling it around his mouth and spitting it into a waste bucket near the window.

  ‘Will we … will we beat the devils?’ asked a voice from the chair. A voice so hollow and frail that Herne had to look round to make sure it really was the brisk and efficient Miss Andreanna Abernathy, Matron of the Home.

  ‘Sure, ma’am,’ he replied, catching the eye of Miss Lily. ‘Sure. They’re stuck out there and they can’t get in at us. No way at all. Doors are locked and barred.’

  ‘How many of the ruffians have we managed to harm?’ asked the mother.

  ‘I guess there’s two certain dead. And maybe one or two more harmed.’

  ‘We have not suffered any casualties, have we? Apart from poor Webb and his foot and Michael here with his fingers?’

  Herne shook his head. ‘Your husband built well enough. If there was maybe twice the number out there then we could have trouble. But Mendez doesn’t have the men to try and carry us with a frontal assault. No, I figure we’ll be able to hold them off until they get themselves all tired out with the bother.’

  ‘It’s nearly dark,’ moaned Andreanna. I’m frightened of the night.’

  ‘Shut up, child,’ snapped her mother. ‘You are a grown girl in your twenties. Not a mewling baby. Get a hold of yourself.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Mama,’ replied Andreanna.

  ‘Indeed and so you should be.’

  Herne turned away. ‘I’ll keep moving around the house. Kind of keep an eye on everyone.’

  ‘Are the Indians frightened of darkness, Mr. Herne?’ asked Andreanna.

  ‘There’s some are, Miss. But you hear a whole lot of lies and stories about that. Tales that they fear dying in the night in case their spirits lose their way and can’t make it to the hunting grounds of the life beyond.’

  ‘And it is not true?’

  ‘Sure. Some Indians think it. But if there’s good enough reason there aren’t many tribes won’t buckle on down and keep fighting after sunset.’

  The Chiricahua had built themselves a fire, just down in dead ground to the east of the building. An hour and a half had passed and the shooting against the walls of the Home Had faded away almost to nothing. The defenders were eager to carry on pouring lead out into the darkness beyond their rifle-slits, but
Herne walked around and told them to stop shooting.

  ‘Hold fire, men. Save powder and shot. Those who’ve been shooting can stand down and go to the kitchen for a bowl of soup and some bread. Cup of strong coffee. Those who’ve been loading take their places on watch.’ He was aware of how tired some of the oldsters were looking and realized that he would have to organize some kind of rota for guards if Mendez stayed there all night. And the likelihood was that the Apaches would stay at least until dawn.

  ‘Can I have a sleep, mister?’ asked one old man. Joseph Wales, Herne recognized, through the mask of dark powder that grimed his face. It was like the face of a clown, smudged and pale around the eyes and mouth.

  ‘No. Not yet. Once everyone’s eaten then we’ll fix up for some to get a rest while others stand sentry. That all right?’

  There was a muttered chorus of agreement.

  ~~*~~

  Everything went well. By nine half of the old men were asleep, while their comrades stood by the shutters, occasionally checking out into the darkness. Herne had ordered most of the lamps in the building extinguished, or turned down low. That way the defenders could keep their night-sight a little better.

  Jed walked around, uneasy at the calm outside. Wondering what the Apaches were planning. Unable to believe that they would give up this easily. Maybe they’d try to sneak in through a window, or attempt to break in through one of the doors. But there were guards all round. Even Josiah Fisher was still awake in his chair by the more isolated rear door.

  Albert Carson ... or Albert Herne if that was his given name, was asleep, lying on his back in the bed where Herne had left him. The shootist stepped in and looked down at the old, old man for several minutes. Seeing the way sleep and rest calmed out some of the lines of pain and age. The scar no longer throbbed as it had before and the hands were folded across the scrawny chest.

  The blanket had fallen away and Herne stooped and pulled it up, tucking it in under the old man’s armpits. The movement disturbed him and the eyes blinked open. Seeing Herne and then closing again. The lips moved and the shootist caught the words.

  ‘Good to have you back, son. So many years.’

  It was a little after midnight. The building had been quiet for some time. Every few minutes the Apaches would fire off a couple of rounds, the bullets rattling the walls or banging on doors or shutters. But it hardly disturbed the sleeping old men. Herne had allowed most of them to stand down. Since there was little chance of Mendez breaking the doors he’d also permitted the two old-timers guarding them to lie down where they were to rest. Josiah Fisher was wrapped in a blanket, cocooned like an Egyptian mummy, by the back door.

  Andreanna Abernathy was tossing and turning in a fitful slumber in the kitchen, on a mattress that lay in front of the fire. Her mother had been walking around, some of the time sitting with Herne. Neither of them able - or wanting - to sleep. For some time they’d stood together by the shutters that covered the extreme south-eastern corner of the building, furthest away from the fires of the Apaches.

  They’d talked quietly, not wanting to disturb the dozing oldsters around them. Chatting of places they’d been. Matters of no real consequence. Jed found that he liked the woman. Was attracted to her, very strongly.

  Wanted her.

  But neither of them mentioned the idea of their making love. The only clear hint that she felt the same as he did was when they parted. Lily raised herself on tip-toe and brushed her lips softly against his stubbled cheek.

  ‘I’m going to secure a little rest for myself, Jedediah.’

  ‘I’ll wait on through until after dawn.’

  ‘You don’t need the sleep?’

  ‘Not so much.’

  ‘On the way I’ll look in the rear hall and make sure Josiah is safe.’

  The shootist nodded. ‘Sure, ma’am. I hope you sleep well.’

  ‘Thank you, Jed. Thank you.’

  He stayed where he was for a few seconds, then decided to follow Lily Abernathy along the corridor, to the silent back of the house.

  Suddenly he heard what sounded like the creak of a bolt being drawn and a cool draught of night air whispered past him.

  For a frozen moment Herne stood where he was, unbelieving.

  Then he started to run.

  Knowing that he would be way too slow and way too late.

  He was.

  Fourteen

  There were six of the Apaches already in the house, holding rifles and knives.

  Herne’s eyes raked across the hall, taking in the terrifying tableau. Mendez wasn’t among the Chiricahua warriors.

  Josiah Fisher still actually had his hand on the main catch of the door, leaning against it. Eyes turned to look towards Herne. Mouth sagging open. Jed saw then that the old man wasn’t leaning on the door. He was hanging on it for support. Trying to keep himself upright against the gaping wound in his chest where one of the braves had knifed him.

  Lily Abernathy stood in the hall, only a few paces from Herne, eyes staring at the silent group of watching Indians.

  Josiah drew in a sighing breath, coughing once, still watching the shootist.

  ‘Fuckin’ sorry, Mr. Herne … Really … I heard them at the door. Like faint knockin’ … Woke me … Woke me up.’ Herne realized the Apaches were watching the old man and he slipped his right hand down to free the thong off of the Colt’s hammer at his belt. ‘Heard knockin’ so I opened up and let ’em in. I’m real …’

  His hand slipped and he fell, his frail body making no sound on the stone flags of the hall. Herne tensed himself for the play that had to come. When Miss Lily Abernathy chose to make her move.

  Stepping forwards, face white, twin spots of hectic red high on her cheekbones. Heels clicking on the floor. The Indians all backing off a step at the anger blazing in her eyes. She stopped before the nearest of the young warriors and slapped him with all her strength across the face.

  ‘Jesus,’ breathed the shootist.

  The Apache staggered under the force of the blow, a trickle of blood immediately appearing in the dark shadows under his broad nose. Lily Abernathy began to turn away from him when the man jerked on the trigger of his carbine. The sound of the shot was deafening in the low hallway.

  The woman was knocked sideways as though she’d been kicked, hands going out to try and break her fall. The bullet had hit her in the chest, forcing the breath from her. She hit the flagstones in a clumsy, kneeling position, head turned towards the shootist, eyes open and staring in the dim light.

  Nobody else was looking at the white man and Herne was able to draw with a fluent ease, hammering five shots into the packed group of young Indians. Seeing three of them fall, one catching a bullet through the skull as he was already falling, the other two gut shot and down. Out of any action there might be still to come.

  But the other three were alive and, beyond them, through the open doorway, Herne glimpsed movement. Mendez and the remainder of his war party. There was no way the Home could now be saved. Herne saw that in a flash of realization.

  He turned and sprinted back along the corridor, yelling at the top of his voice to try and rouse as many of the old men as possible. Knowing as he did so that for many of them it wouldn’t be enough time. It took too long to waken men of that age, and the Apaches would be in among them before they were properly warned.

  The house was built in such a way that it was possible to get around it by a variety of routes, with rooms that connected with each other in three different directions.

  At times of great danger Herne’s philosophy for most of his life had been to put his own personal safety above all other considerations.

  Not this time.

  This time he headed towards the room where his father was sleeping. Not the man who thought he might be Herne’s father. In the tension of the Apache attack, Jed realized that it had to be true. Everything was right. There wasn’t any reason for any of it to be anything else.

  He hurdled across one of the i
nmates of the Home who was struggling to pull up his breeches, stumbling over a pile of muskets. Dashing into the bedroom and seeing Albert Herne standing in the corner, dressed, holding a broad-bladed butcher’s knife in his fist.

  ‘They got in, son?’

  ‘Yeah. Only hope’s to get out and away in the darkness yonder.’

  ‘Stay and fight?’

  ‘No. There’s around a dozen in the house by now. Can only be a matter of time.’

  ‘I’ll slow you down.’

  ‘Don’t be so damned foolish. Come on, Pa.’

  The old man took a step towards him and then stopped still.

  ‘What’d you say, Jed?’

  ‘I said for you to come on, Pa.’

  His father smiled. ‘Never figured I’d hear you say that, Jed. Never. Sounds good to my ears and that’s a fact.’

  Along the corridor Herne could hear the noises of bloody fighting. As he’d feared, the Indians were too swift for the old-timers, who were mostly caught cold and butchered where they sat or lay.

  Occasionally there was the sound of a musket being discharged but mostly it was just the yelling. Screaming.

  Dying.

  ‘Fire,’

  ‘What?’ said his father.

  ‘Fire. I can smell smoke. Sure is time we was goin’ out of here.’

  His father followed him as he cautiously pushed his head out of the room, seeing that part of the corridor was deserted. Herne quickly finished reloading his pistol and drew the bayonet from his boot, gripping it ready in his left hand.

  ‘Not that way!’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Other way. There’s a cupboard. Leads to a stair. Then the roof.’

  ‘How the Hell do you know ’bout that, Pa?’ asked the shootist.

  ‘Old man like me gets a mite nosey, son. But we’d best move out.’

  The cupboard was built into an angle of the Home and Herne reached for the handle, finding it was stuck. Pulling harder to try and free it. Finally setting his shoulder to it so that it splintered inwards, sending him flying to his knees in the pitch blackness.

  It was one of the biggest shocks in his life when he heard a muffled scream and realized that there was someone hiding inside. A shock that was compounded by receiving a violent kick in the face from a silver-spurred riding boot.