Drummond's vigilantes - an evil cloud passing over the ranch land of Montana, and killing all who stood in their way.
At first Jed Herne strung along, needing the money. But one day they went too far ...
And from then on it was war!
CONTENTS
Dedication
One ~ Two ~Three ~Four ~ Five
Six ~ Seven ~ Eight ~ Nine
Ten ~ Eleven ~Twelve ~ Thirteen
Books in the Series
Copyright ~ About the Author
About Piccadilly Publishing
This is for Gill Davies and Sam Fuller
Chapter One
Jed Herne squatted on his haunches. The collar of his heavy wool coat was pulled up at the back of his neck and strands of lank black hair fell about it haphazardly. Already, at the temples, that hair was streaked with gray.
Herne had moved off the trail he’d been following, seeking shelter while he gave himself and his horse a chance to rest up. He’d ridden eastwards along the rising land that led to a ridge dotted with patches of scrub and looked down. Little more than a hundred yards off there was a small hollow, room enough to build a fire and heat some coffee. He’d watered the horse from the big canteen tied to the saddle pommel.
He hadn’t built too big a fire. Out in open country it wasn’t too wise to draw more attention to yourself than was necessary. The way Herne had heard it; strangers weren’t any too welcome this side of the Yellowstone. Not with the big ranchers getting jumpy the way they were.
The Colt .45 nestled in its holster, its grip shiny with use. The leather thong which normally kept the bottom of the holster tight against Herne’s leg had been loosened, so that the gun sat easy while he crouched. The loop that hooked around the hammer when he was riding had been freed too – the pistol could be snug in Herne’s right hand before a man could get out his last gasp.
Herne had skirted round the Badlands, riding west through the Dakotas and on towards eastern Montana. The last time he’d stopped for more than a few minutes had been that morning in Willard. A few eggs and a piece of stringy ham with cornbread to mop it up. All the while he sat at the back of the saloon eating, this old timer with one eye gouged out and the other beady like a bird’s just kept watching him. Leaning over on the end of his broom, watching him. Herne had swallowed down the last few mouthfuls fast and lit out.
Now he chewed on the ends of a piece of jerky and swilled the remaining drops of coffee around in his tin mug. Another day coming towards its close. If he didn’t find a way of earning some dollars before long, he wouldn’t even be able to replenish his supplies.
Herne drained the mug, letting the dark grains of coffee run against and between his teeth. He bit down into them, liking the bitter taste. The hand that held the mug was veined and weathered; the fingers and edges of the palm were calloused. Herne frowned: it was getting to be an old man’s hand.
That wasn’t surprising. The back of his hand had looked like a man’s as soon as he was ten. Just as well. Him with his ma dead giving him birth, trapped in the Sierras by the snow. Early in ’Forty-Four, that had been. Come fall of that same year, his pa had ridden out alone into Indian country and never been seen again.
Not that Herne could ever recall having seen him anyway. He’d been brought up by his ma’s unmarried sister and she’d been so weak that had meant he’d been fending largely for himself from the time he could walk.
He was fifteen before he killed his first man.
Herne set the tin mug on the ground close to the dying embers of the fire. Spring of forty-four, Hell! It was eighty-four now and coming powerful close to the end of that.
Herne shook his head. He didn’t need to count the years to know his age. He could read it clearly enough in the faces of men who stared at him as if he should have already been dead; men who heard his name when they were enquiring about a gun for hire and let it pass, reckoning him too far over the hill, too slow; men who earned themselves drinks telling tales of the legend that was Herne the Hunter and ignored the living fact.
The image of the old timer back in Willard passed across his mind and Herne shuddered.
It was getting colder.
He stood up and began to push earth over the fire with his boot. It was then that he heard the sound. Immediately his senses were alert; he quickly finished covering the fire, careful not to break any still brittle wood at its edges. Sounded like a wagon, probably two horses.
Herne went to his horse and pulled the long-barreled single-shot Sharps from its scabbard that ran under the saddle fender. He went back up to the ridge at a loping run, keeping his body low as he neared the top.
The trail was clear. Wheels and hoofs had beaten the grass flat and now there was more dirt and dust than anything. To the west the prairie ran free, one fold of land falling gradually into another.
The wagon was travelling at a steady pace, the pair of horses trotting easily. There were two men on the raised board seat at the front. Herne could see the plaid shirts underneath their coats, flat-brimmed black hats pulled low at the front. There was someone else in the back. As the wagon came nearer, Herne saw that it was a woman. A head of fair hair that seemed to reach well past her shoulders, her arms stretched outwards as if she were holding something in them. Whatever that was, Herne couldn’t tell.
He moved a yard or so back, lying flat so that most of his body was behind the ridge. There wasn’t any point in being spotted.
As Herne’s eyes followed the movement of the wagon, he brought up his left hand and set it over his forehead, shielding his face from the last red rays of the sun.
On the far side of the trail, the tall grass shone dully and moved in swathes with the wind.
He could see the woman distinctly now: could see that the object she held was a child.
Herne began to hitch himself back and then stopped. A fresh noise broke in on the first. Deeper, louder, spreading. His ear close to the earth, Herne could feel as well as hear the drumming of hoofs.
Riders.
As he looked to the south-west, the first of them broke the skyline at the point where the trail disappeared from sight. Men riding in pairs, in a column, like a troop of cavalry.
A dark shadow passed over the land, over the grass, draining its color: shadow of a cloud moving across the sun.
On the trail the wagon had stopped. Herne saw one of the men lean sideways as if reaching for a gun, but his companion said something to him and he stopped.
The lines of men were almost upon them now, the sound of their horses driving up through the air, filling it, threatening to tear it apart.
Ten, twelve, sixteen – Herne counted nineteen men as they galloped past on either side of the wagon, passing so close that those sitting in it must have been almost deafened. A thick cloud of dust rose up in their wake and after the last of them had passed the wagon was lost in a pall of gray.
Herne let his finger relax inside the guard of his Sharps, sliding the barrel back from the ridge until it lay beside him. As the dust cleared he could see the woman clutching the child to her chest, head bent low over it. She had made no attempt to move. At the front, both men were sitting round, staring after the lines of riders. Their faces were pale; Herne could see the mouths opening but not hear what was being said.
He looked to the right. The trail was clear again. All that remained of the horsemen was a smudge of dust to the northeast.
Herne thought fast. They’d looked like army but they hadn’t been no soldiers. Been something, though. All wearing the same long coats, the same grayish cattlemen’s coats he’d seen before on some of the bigger spreads. The same Montana peak hats with the curled-up brim and the tall crown. All with rifles on their mounts that looked to be new Winchesters.
Not regular army – but they rode like someone’s army sure enough.
The wagon had set off again, continuing southeast towards Powderville. Herne thought for a moment that he would ride down and catch it up, ask the folks about the men who’d just ridden by. But almost immediately he decided against it.
For one thing, they’d likely be shook up and wouldn’t take too well to talking with strangers. For another, he’d be certain to find out soon enough anyway. With a bunch of armed riders like that in the territory, they sure weren’t going to be a secret.
They could even, Herne mused as he walked back down to the hollow, be the outfit he was looking for.
As he slid the Sharps back into its scabbard he hoped that they weren’t.
He dropped the stirrups back down from the seat of his Denver saddle and tightened the cinch. The mug and coffee pot he pushed back down into the nearest of his saddlebags. Taking hold of the saddle horn he set one boot in the stirrup and hauled himself up.
When he reached the ridge again, the trail was empty. The sun he faced was round and deep red, split through by splinters of black cloud. The grass stirred in the light breeze and shone and no shadow rode over it.
Herne touched his horse with his heels and rode down to rejoin the trail.
Chapter Two
Powderville looked more or less the same as any other small cow town in the north-west. It didn’t have the railroad running through it so there hadn’t been any major boom in business, but the Northern Pacific ran its rails west from the Mississippi and passed close enough to ensure a share of prosperity.
The railway came out of the Dakotas and followed the valley of the Yellowstone until it met up with the Bozeman Trail, close by Virginia City. The nearest it got to Powderville was the point where it bridged the Powder River, just south of where that river ran into the Yellowstone. That was close on eighty miles due north.
It was dusk when Herne reined in his bay horse on the hill above the town and gazed down. Here and there, the lights of kerosene lanterns picked out scenes of activity. Some shone close to the edge of town, shining through the canvas of tents that had been set up there by folk who couldn’t afford better. Families with men who were likely looking for work.
Like himself, Herne thought, ’cept that he didn’t have no family. A memory twisted inside his mind, tight like a noose. He shook his head, as though that would free him from it. Below, the wail of a young child set up and was followed by an adult shout and the sound of someone being hit; Silence for several seconds and then the child’s cry once more, louder and more agitated than ever.
Herne looked along the length of the main street, picked out easily by the line of lights that he guessed to be the saloons and shops, likely a restaurant and some kind of hotel. Beyond these and to the right, raised up, the sails of a windmill were outlined starkly against the violet of the sky.
Herne shook the reins and spoke softly to the horse and it started off down the hill.
There was a boardwalk on either side of the wide street; hitching posts that began and ended apparently at random. Herne passed a barber’s with its owner standing close to the plate glass window, white apron tied over his belly, forlornly looking for custom. His eyes held Herne’s for a moment in the half-light and then looked away. Next door was a building with a sign outside that read: Funeral Parlor. Herne hazarded a guess that they were both run by one and the same man.
He smiled sourly at a tale he’d heard one time about just such a man who, whenever the burying side of his business was getting slack, let the open razor slip a little in his hand when he was shaving a customer. True or not, it was a good story.
Another sign on the other side of the street announced The Cattleman’s House. The wide bat-wing doors were pushed open as Herne watched and a man hurried out into the early evening, walking briskly up the street. A lantern hung from an iron bracket to the right of the doors, lighting up both the entrance and the sign that had been painted above it.
Thirst tugged at Herne’s throat: it would have to wait.
He rode on past and found the livery stable, a small corral out front and a high barn set back from the street. Herne rode the bay through the open doors and dismounted. The man who came towards him, pitchfork in hand, favored his left leg. He was a foot shorter than Herne and squinted up at him for a few moments before speaking.
‘Got a free stall down to the back.’ His voice was thin and reedy.
Herne looked past him and could see at least four stalls that were empty, but he didn’t argue the point.
‘See he’s well watered and fed. And give him a rub down. He’s come a good way.’
The liveryman looked up at him with narrowed eyes. ‘Think I can’t see that? I know my job, mister. Likely better than you know yours.’ He looked Herne over, taking in the patches on the wool coat and in his loose-legged pants, the scuffed leather of his boots. ‘That is, if’n you got a job.’
Herne was about to reply but decided it wasn’t worth it. What difference did some old man’s fool talk make?
‘You’ll be wantin’ him in the mornin’?’
‘Most likely.’
The man nodded, then scratched at his cheek, rubbing at the stubble of his beard. ‘I’m here an hour before sun-up. Every day of the year. Rain or shine, I – ’
But Herne had already turned away and was walking back towards the street, leaving the old man’s mumblings behind him like so many fall leaves.
The bat-wing doors swung easy. Herne went through them fast and stepped to one side; stood still. The usual half-silence fell; faces turned towards him.
Herne let them look, scanning the interior of the saloon himself. The bar was at the back of the room; beside it to the left a flight of stairs led up to the first storey. Tables were scattered around the bare boards before the bar, only a third of them occupied. Lined up along the wall to the right were a faro wheel and a high table that looked to be for dealing black jack. Neither were in use. The opposite wall was fitted out with three large, rectangular windows. There were four lanterns: a small pair at either end of the bar; two larger ones hanging from the ceiling close to the center of the room.
Herne surveyed the faces, letting his eyes rest on them just long enough to make them turn away, back to their glasses of beer, their cards.
Cowboys, mostly, in their twenties and early thirties; a couple of older men sitting by one of the windows playing dominoes. There’s wasn’t a woman in the place.
Herne unbuttoned his coat and walked through the tables towards the bar, taking his time, letting the shape of his holster tied to his leg be clearly seen.
‘Beer.’
There were two men tending bar, one thin, the other fat, both under six foot by four or five inches. They exchanged a quick glance and then the fat one came forward and poured Herne’s beer, wiping the glass on the striped towel he kept over his shoulder before he did so. When he went back to his place leaning against the shelves of bottles and glasses Herne noticed that the man’s stomach wobbled as he walked.
Herne sank the beer in a succession of fast swallows and without drawing breath.
‘Whiskey.’
The pair exchanged the same hasty glance and this time the thin one reached behind him and took a bottle from the shelf. He picked up a small glass, wiped it with a cloth that hung over his left arm, and poured a good shot into it.
Herne threw back his head and emptied the glass. The whiskey was raw and rough and burnt the back of his throat. When it reached his stomach it was warming, good. He tipped some coins onto the bar counter.
‘Can I get some food here?’
‘Steak and potatoes – ’ offered the fat man.
‘Ham and eggs – .’ said the thin.
‘Meat pie and beans – ’
‘Chicken – ’
Herne raised his hands, palms open, stopping the alternating list of suggestions. ‘Fine, get me steak and potatoes with a couple of eggs on top of the steak. A w
hiskey now and another beer when the food’s ready. Okay?’
He glanced from one to the other; both nodded. The fat one’s stomach heaved, maybe at the thought of Herne’s order.
Herne pointed down to the coins: ‘Take what it costs from that.’
When he settled himself at a table by the right hand wall, Herne had two dollars and fifteen cents left. He’d likely get a room for the night with breakfast thrown in for a dollar; seventy-five cents for his horse; twenty-five for a bath and shave. That left him fifteen cents this side of poverty.
The steak tasted as good as Herne-could remember eating in the last couple of years and he thought that was as well – it might be a Hell of a time before he sank his teeth into another.
He was mopping up the remains of egg yolk and slightly bloody gravy when two more men came into the saloon. Young, neither of them more than eighteen; could have been brothers. They nodded and called out to a few of the other cowboys on their way through to the bar. One of them, the one with a shock of sandy hair, looked hard at Herne and there was a tenseness about the eyes when he did so. A tightening of the muscles.
The cowboy who had ignored Herne leaned with one elbow on the bar and ordered a couple of drinks. He was still wearing narrow shotgun chaps, fringed at the sides with leather. His gun belt was worn high and the holster was reversed on the left side; it could have been for a reverse draw with that hand, but since he was resting on the left elbow and not bothering to keep it free, Herne guessed he would make a cross-draw from the right.
Sandy had his holster too high for a speedy draw as well, the butt of the pistol closer to his elbow than his hand. Like most cowboys, slick gunplay wasn’t a part of their lives. They were more likely to keep handguns for rattlers or jackrabbits. A man wore one because other men did; because not to do so was a sign of weakness.
The air inside the saloon was thickening as coils of cigarette smoke drifted up towards the ceiling and lay there like a misplaced gray carpet.
Vigilante! Page 1
