Death in Gold

by John J. McLaglen

  “Yep. I got somethin’ to do first. It ain’t goin’ to take long.”

  He bent over Larry’s body and straightened it, resting it gently down on to one of the straw bales. He picked the dirt from around his neck and laid the man’s hands across his chest.

  “Thanks, Larry,” he said quietly. “Thanks for both times.”

  He turned quickly and walked out of the stables, heading back up the street.

  Rosie Ross didn’t take any too kindly to being woken early from her sleep, but when Jed told her what had happened she softened some. He gave her enough money to pay for a decent burial and turned away.

  “This ain’t like you,” she said to his back.

  Herne’s face was drawn and lean. “He was a friend of mine.”

  Rode spoke again when he was some way away. “That’s likely what got him killed,” she said.

  If Jed Herne heard her he gave no sign.

  “Seems to me they must know we’re goin’ to come ridin’ after ‘em.”

  “Yep.”

  “An’ good and angry, too.”

  “Yep.”

  “Angry enough to ride slap into an ambush.”

  “Yep.”

  The terrain was uneven, stretches of open plain broken up by runnels and canyons. Thick valleys of woodland that spread themselves more thinly up the slopes. Woods whose trees were now mostly showing bare branches, their floors a mass of multi-colored leaves.

  Herne rode steadily between a line of tall alders, the bottom of his wool coat hitched up above the butt of his Colt.

  Coburn came fifteen yards behind him, eyes flickering from left to right and back again, his own gun transferred from its holster to his belt. The handle stuck through the gap between the buttonholes of his coat. His right hand rested on the saddle pommel, reins between his middle fingers.

  They had followed the tracks of the wagon, taking it slow and careful, waiting for the ambush both were certain Thursby would have set up.

  It was the only way it made any sense;

  Herne turned the upper half of his body in the saddle, looking quickly behind, A single leaf, golden brown, tumbled lazily down through the air and settled on the side of Coburn’s white hair, clinging there.

  The albino put up his hand and brushed it away.

  Above them a flight of birds headed for warmer lands,

  Herne moved round and looked at the trail ahead.

  A quarter of a mile further on the trees finished suddenly and the horizon seemed to dip away. The sky was a dull grey filling the space before them.

  Herne yawned and stretched his left arm out sideways, holding his body taut and straining it backwards against the rear of his saddle.

  The crack of the rifle shot exploded into the middle of the yawn and Herne’s horse stumbled to one side as though kicked hard. Almost instantly, he felt the warm pump of blood on to his thigh. The shell had missed him by an inch or less and had struck his mount through its side.

  Behind him he heard Coburn shout and then there was a great crash as two trees fell to the ground, cutting off their path at both ends. Herne’s horse went down on to its front legs.

  He grabbed at the rifle and leapt clear before it keeled over completely, looking about him for signs of the ambushers. Another shot whistled close by him, kicking up the dirt just beyond and spraying it high in the air. He tucked himself in alongside the horse as two more bullets smacked into its flesh.

  Coburn had jumped down and whipped his horse towards the trees at the side. His Winchester in his left hand, he had fired three shots with his Colt, covering himself before straddling the tree that had scarcely finished quivering behind him. A bullet rang out in answer and skidded off the trunk, tearing away a strip of bark as it went.

  Coburn dived for the far side of the tree and pushed three fresh shells into his gun.

  Herne, meanwhile, had picked out .where some of the shots were coming from. A sniper, high up on a tree opposite, was standing on a stout branch, his rifle leaning on another.

  Herne watched again for the flash, peering over the palpitating, bleeding body of his horse. He rested his right wrist on his left arm and fired. Once was enough.

  There was a startled cry then the man came crashing down, bouncing off several branches before being buried in a welter of leaves at the bottom.

  Herne guessed that left three or four more, at least. His thoughts were interrupted by firing from behind. So, they were both sides of the trail.

  “Whitey!”

  His shout was loud in the sudden silence of the wood.

  “Yeah?”

  “I’m shiftin’ out of here.”

  “Okay.”

  Five seconds later Herne was on the move, ducking low and running for the group of trees that had concealed the sniper. The way he saw it, they would only have left one man on that side.

  For the second time in two days he was wrong.

  As Whitey’s covering fire sang out behind him, he rushed in between two of the alders and put up his hand to shield his eyes from a low-hanging bough. Instantly, a short man with a pistol in his left hand sprang up in front of him as if from nowhere. Herne fired as he ran and the face disappeared as quickly as it had materialized. But not so quickly that the man did not get off one shot.

  A line of pain cut across the top of Herne’s right arm as the shell lanced through the skin and flesh at his left shoulder, grazing the bone.

  He gasped and threw himself to the floor, rolling through the yellow and brown leaves to the shelter of a massive trunk.

  Coburn was still firing and Herne could hear the differing tones of Colt and Winchester alternating. He tried to judge where the rest of the firing was coming from. He thought there were three different weapons being used on the other side of the trail, one of them a carbine.

  There was also a gunman through the trees to his left.

  Herne began to circle round behind him, taking care not to warn of his approach. He guessed their attackers were thrown into confusion by the immediate failure of their plan.

  The intention was obvious: drop the trees, thereby hemming the two riders in. The distance Herne and Coburn had kept between them had made that difficult and probably widened their firing angle too greatly. The sniper was meant to take out the front man and had only marginally failed. Maybe that had made those who aimed at Coburn nervous.

  Herne stopped. The head of his target showed a couple of inches of thick reddish hair above a broken stump of tree, then bobbed down again.

  Beyond him, there was a flash of white as Coburn glanced from his own shelter and snapped off a shot at the far side of the woods. It was returned threefold.

  Herne moved forward, shifting the Colt to his left hand and levering the bayonet up from his boot. His boots trod down-the leaves evenly, softly.

  At the final moment the man whirled round: they usually. did.

  He met the end of the blade as it went in under the rib cage and pushed upwards for the lungs: Herne’s favorite target. The other hand clubbed down, the corner of the gun butt, driving into the top of the man’s skull. His shout was cut off by the speed with which that blow jammed his mouth closed,

  Herne extracted the blade which came out with a soft sighing sound. He wiped it on the man’s pants and pushed him out of the way with his boot. From behind the Stump he could see past Coburn into the trees on the other side of the trail.

  As he readied himself a shot from Whitey’s Colt produced a scream of pain and the sound of falling from that direction. Two remaining. He whistled their double note signal to let Coburn know where he was and listened to the reply.

  Coburn began to fire more steadily and Herne watched as one of the attackers shifted his position backwards, edging out from behind a tree trunk, exposing himself to a danger he was unaware existed.

  Herne showed him better.

  The shot hit him low in the back and felled him as easily as a sapling.

  The last man shouted out to his frien
ds. His friend. There was no reply.

  A moment later Herne and Coburn heard running, crashing sounds going deeper into the wood.

  Coburn showed himself warily, then more boldly: “I don’t see him comin’ back for more. He’s goin’ through them woods like a buck on heat.”

  Herne got up and walked over to where Coburn was waiting, “If we take a look around I think we’ll find their horses tied somewhere close. Then we’ll catch us up with Thursby.”

  An evil smile appeared on Coburn’s face. “Now that’s a meetin’ I’m surely goin’ to enjoy.”

  “And one. he won’t be expectin’.”

  They reached their quarry less than two hours later. It had been simple to pick out Thursby’s route from his trail and to circle round in front of him.

  Herne dismounted and lay along the upper slope of a bluff that overlooked the track the wagon was taking. Coburn waited further down and out of sight, mounted on his own horse and holding the reins of the grey they had chosen for Jed.

  Herne’s Sharps was nestled into his cheek and shoulder and he was watching with care the group riding eastwards; Thursby was sitting on the front of the wagon, alongside the driver. One rider was some twenty yards further ahead, an off-white hat pulled down over his eyes, a rifle diagonally across his saddle.

  There were two men at the back, one of whom Herne recognized as Charlie Whitten.

  The grey snickered and Coburn leaned across, placing his gloved hand to its mouth and murmuring gently. Herne focused on the white hat; it was a good target. From that angle the .55 caliber shell would smash through the top of the skull and drive through to the upper spine.

  The finger on the trigger squeezed evenly: the hat was flattened at its crown: the horse shied sideways and reared up as first the man’s rifle, then the man himself, crashed to the ground,

  Herne pushed another shell up into the breech and trained the Sharps on the wagon driver.

  Thursby shouted out in panic, then turned and yelled at the man next to him to get the horses moving fast. The driver raised his long whip and dropped it almost immediately as a bullet tore into the flesh between shoulder and side.

  Herne sprang up and mounted his already moving horse.

  As they rode down from the bluff, Whitten and his companion were alongside the wagon, shouting recriminations back and forth at the terrified Thursby.

  The man to the right wheeled his mount round as he saw Herne and Coburn heading towards them. When he came out of the circle his pistol was drawn and up in front of his chest.

  Coburn fired once and hit him in die hip; a second time and took him in the right forearm.

  Whitten made no attempt to go for his gun. Thursby was not obviously armed. The two of them stared at their attackers tight-lipped.

  Herne nodded at the driver and the wounded rider. “You both had enough of this?”

  They had.

  “Get off that wagon and get over there. Make sure you ain’t takin’ any guns with you. You,” he gestured at the man who was swaying in his saddle, both hands to his shattered hip, “you pull that rifle out of its bucket an’ drop it to the ground. Then ride off out of here. One sight of you again an’ we’ll take your head right off your shoulders.”

  The man glanced up the trail at the still form, beside the white Stetson. He knew that the man with graying hair wasn’t fooling. He did just as he was told and rode slowly away.

  ‘Mr. Herne, I…”

  “You shut your lyin’ mouth, you half-breed bastard!” said Coburn, hatred clear in every line of his face. You just arranged for us to have us bushwhacked and backshot.”

  “Gentlemen, I ne…”

  Coburn was down from his horse in seconds. He jumped on to the wagon and his hands grabbed at Thursby’s expensively tailored coat. He lifted him up and shook him as a dog would a rat. Then he threw him sideways to the ground and leapt down, legs straddling the small, frightened body.

  Charlie Whitten sat motionless on his horse, his heart beating fast underneath his all-black garb, his gun untouched in its holster. The way he wanted it to stay. His left hand stayed well within Herne’s sight – he didn’t want to give the man a chance to kill him if he could avoid it.

  “Pick him up, Whitey.”

  Coburn did exactly that, pushing Thursby back against the side of the wagon. Thursby reached up with his right hand and steadied himself against the wooden planking. His dark eyes flickered from Herne to Coburn. It was the albino who terrified him most; he was the one he thought might take his life,

  He was mistaken: he did not know that the man he had ordered killed back in the Laredo livery stable had been a friend of Herne’s.

  Not that it was possible to do anything about that now.

  Herne moved his grey horse round so that his right side was nearest to the half-breed.

  “The livery stable. Man worked there. Got himself killed. He get in your way?”

  Thursby’s mouth opened but no words, came out. Herne repeated the question. Still no reply. Coburn took a pace towards him and raised his hand. Thursby blinked and spluttered.

  “We ain’t waitin’ much longer.”

  “He…it was his fault…we were driving the wagon out peaceful…there was no reason…he drew a gun…seized him and…” Thursby gulped in air,” …there was no way to keep him quiet…I didn’t do it…one of the others…you’ve already killed him…it’s over…you’ve…”

  “You told him to do it?”

  “No, I never…”

  “You told him!” Herne’s voice was more powerful, no longer questioning, but stating fact.

  “I swear!” Thursby slumped down to his knees, hands raised in front of his chest as though in prayer; “I swear to you I never ordered it done. I didn’t want him killed, I…”

  Words broke into a series of sobs and convulsions. The clasped hands shook wildly, the tears ran down the dark face. Thursby’s whole body was torn by fear.

  “I…I. No…no!”

  “You’re a lying, thievin’ bastard!”

  Herne drew his gun deliberately and shot the half-breed through the center of his forehead. The skin stretched open and the bone splintered and split. Blood sprang suddenly outwards, as from a well.

  As Thursby’s body fell slowly sideways. Herne holstered his Colt. “The man you had killed was a friend of mine.”

  Charlie Whitten still hadn’t moved. But he knew that his chances of getting away were getting more remote every second. If they’d been for letting him go, he would have been sent off with the others.

  “What you aimin’ to do with me?” he asked.

  Coburn looked at him sharply. “Depends on you.”

  “Oh, I’ll ride on out of here and never say nothin’, you can depend on that.” His voice came fast and flustered.

  Coburn only grinned. “That weren’t how I meant it. Not exactly.”

  Whitten said nothing, just watched and waited.

  Coburn stepped round him. “That gun of yourn. Reckon you’re really somethin’ with that, huh?”

  Whitten shrugged his shoulders. “Maybe. I mean, I handle myself pretty well. I...”

  “Get down off that horse.”

  “But...”

  “Get down!”

  Whitten did as he was told. Herne had moved to the rear of the wagon, watching Coburn arrange his play. He had no intention of interfering.

  “Now get yourself back down the trail a piece.”

  Whitten’s face twisted up to one side. “What for? What you gonna do?”

  Coburn smiled “Call yourself a gunfighter don’t you?”

  Whitten mumbled something neither Coburn nor Herne could hear.

  “If you ain’t, what you doin’ goin’ round totin’ a gun that way and sellin’ yourself to slime like that?” Coburn jerked a finger down at Thursby’s dead body.

  Herne came forward. “Better do like he says. Seems to me you’re gettin’ a better chance than most.”

  Charlie Whitten raised
a hand to his cheek in an attempt to quell his nerves. He began to back away, eyes fixed on Whitey Coburn all the time. Longer strides now, left arm pushed out at an angle. A tall man in a black shirt and black pants who knew that if he could get the gun at his side up and into action fast enough he might save his life.

  If he were fast enough.

  “That’s far enough, Charlie!”

  Coburn was braced ready; legs apart, the rest of his body dropped forward into a gunfighter’s crouch, right hand hovering above the butt of his Colt. His pink eyes watching the movement of Whitten’s left arm, waiting for the dive downwards and into the arc of death.

  Whitten was drenched in sweat, drops of it running down both sides of his face, glistening on the bridge of his nose. He flexed the fingers of his gun hand, praying that something would happen to make it all unnecessary. Knowing that it wouldn’t.

  A watch ticked off seconds deep inside his head, delaying what could no longer be delayed. He knew he had to make his play first to have any chance at all.

  Now!

  Coburn licked up at his top lip as his mouth opened slightly and his right hand went into action. Whitten’s fear gave him an extra inch of speed. His pistol was pulled clear of its holster and began to come level.

  That was when the first shot hit him plumb in the center of the chest He leapt back several feet but managed to keep his balance. His arm faltered then tried once more.

  Coburn levered back the hammer of his .45 and took his time.

  This time the shell went in higher and to the right, close to the heart. Whitten spun through a full circle, dropping to his knees at the end of it Miraculously the fingers of his left hand kept their grip on the gun.

  Dimly he heard the triple click through the waves of mist that befogged his brain. He lifted his head and saw the figure of the man with long white hair; a figure that appeared to be moving from side to side, swaying, swaying...

  There was the sound of a single shot: fingers loosed their hold; life also.

  Coburn holstered his Colt and turned to Jed. Tor a no account bastard, he weren’t too bad when it came to it.”

  Herne nodded. “Guess we’ll check the load some, then move on our way. Sooner I see New Orleans the better.”