Vigilante!

by John J. McLaglen

  ‘We’ll tie you up till sunset,’ said Herne. ‘After that you can get the Hell out of here. Course there ain’t nothin’ to stop you ridin’ back to Drummond but I wouldn’t advise it. If I ever see either of you again I’ll kill you without so much as a prayer!’

  Herne called along the bar for one of the men to fetch him a good length of rope.

  ‘Think yourself lucky,’ he said to the two a while later as Charlie was tying their arms tight behind them, ‘that we ain’t givin’ you a taste of your own medicine.’

  When they got back out into the street someone had dragged Jo-Bob’s body out of sight. The town barber had got his undertaker’s black on in double-quick time. Herne had half a mind to go down and tell him to leave it on a while longer.

  Herne and Charlie talked earnestly to the two bartenders for the best part of five minutes. The pair listened very carefully, from time to time nodding or putting in the occasional, alternating word. Having seen Herne in action more than once now they were going to be careful to remain on the right side of him. Since the Drummond boys used the place whenever they were in town, the barkeeps’ loyalties were somewhat torn. But from the way the tall man with the graying hair was acting, Drummond’s gun-hands weren’t going to be around a whole lot longer.

  ‘All you got to do,’ said Herne finally, ‘is to stay out of anything unless someone makes a play through any of them windows. You got that?’

  ‘Yes, Mr. Herne,’ said the fat one.

  ‘Yes, Mr. Herne,’ repeated the thin one.

  ‘Okay. Now you’re sure that shotgun of yours is ready loaded?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And the handgun?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Good. Let’s get us a drink, Charlie.’

  ‘Mr. Herne! Mr. Herne!’ It was the drummer, there could be no mistaking his voice. The neat little man came bustling up towards the bar, a leather case tucked under one arm.

  ‘Mr. Herne, I’ve found out a whole lot of things about you. Things you’ve been holding back. Why, you’re a famous man. That is, a notorious one.’ He looked at the men behind the bar. ‘Did you know that this man was Herne the Hunter? Why, there are stories about him that make the blood run cold!’

  Herne reached out a hand and lifted the salesman off the floor by the lapels of his coat. He struggled like a fish out of water, his mouth opening and closing, gasping for air.

  ‘You’re overworkin’ that mouth of yours again!’

  ‘But ... but—’ Herne let him drop to the ground. ‘But I just wanted to say how proud I was to meet a man like yourself. Real proud!’

  And he insisted on shaking Herne’s hand, much to the amusement of Charlie who looked on from further along the bar.

  ‘Now, here,’ said the drummer, opening his case. ‘I want you to take a bottle of this. It’s the very best tequila. See, Cuervo Gold. Why, this tequila has been being made for nearly a hundred years and—’

  ‘Seems a blasted long time to make one little bottle of that stuff!’ interrupted Charlie with a laugh.

  ‘No! No! I mean they have been making bottles like this for almost a hundred years!’

  ‘Oh,’ said Charlie. ‘Why didn’t you say so?’

  The drummer turned back to Herne in exasperation. ‘You will take it, won’t you? As my gift, of course. If I can tell folk it’s the brand used by Herne the Hunter sales will shoot up!’

  He placed the bottle in Herne’s hand, snapped the case shut, brushed down the creased lapels of his suit and hurried away.

  Herne shook his head in wonder. ‘Come on, Charlie, grab a couple of glasses and a deck of cards. Let’s get ourselves ready.’

  They chose a table two-thirds of the way into the saloon, smack in the center with the bar behind them. When it was dark enough for the lamps to be shining strong, Herne got the fat barkeep to put out the one to his right, towards the windows.

  ‘An’ dim down those by the bar,’ he ordered.

  By this time nearly everyone else had quit the saloon. The only folk in Powderville who didn’t know what was going to happen were the five Circle D gunmen who rode in weary from Broadus and led their horses directly to The Cattleman’s House.

  They tied them to the hitching pole outside and pushed their way into the saloon, anxious to slake their thirst. They were fifteen feet inside before Billy looked up and saw the two men by the table. Even then he didn’t recognize them at first, only used to seeing them in Drummond uniform.

  ‘Jesus! It’s—

  He stopped short, his large frame blocking the way for the rest. His hand made a move for his gun but Charlie lifted the Winchester clear of the table and pointed it directly at his vast belly.

  Billy forgot about going for his gun.

  ‘Evening Billy! One-Eye, boys,’ said Herne pleasantly. ‘You look like you’ve been doin’ a lot of ridin’.

  ‘Yeah,’ said Charlie. Take the weight off your feet and have a drink on us. Bartender!’ he yelled back. ‘Fetch us five beers!’

  The men stood there, uncertain, not knowing what was going on. One at the back took a couple of steps towards the door, but the movement of Charlie’s rifle stopped him.

  ‘Sit down,’ offered Herne encouragingly.

  Only One-Eye moved and then slowly.

  ‘Sit down!’ Herne kicked out under the table, sending one of the chairs bouncing over the floor towards the men.

  One-Eye snarled, making the livid scar that ran across his face pucker and twist. But he picked up the chair and moved it closer to the table, sitting on it grudgingly.

  ‘That’s fine. Now how about the rest of you boys?’

  When they were all sitting down, the bartender arrived with the glasses of beer on a tray.

  ‘Drink up!’ called Charlie, obviously enjoying himself, a smile on his face, his new bowler hat tilted down over his forehead. As the fat barkeep went back past him, Charlie touched him on the arm. ‘Fetch me one of them cigars, will you?’

  Herne waited while the men drank their beer, looking at one another as they did so and wondering what was going to happen. Or, rather, when. There were five of them against two and although Charlie was keeping them quiet for now with that Winchester of his, it could only be a matter of time.

  ‘How ’bout some cards?’ suggested Herne. ‘Pass the time.’

  ‘Hell,’ stormed Billy. ‘We don’t want to pass no time with you. We’ll drink these beers and get on out of here!’

  Herne pulled the deck from his pocket and threw it onto the center of the table. ‘Cards!’

  Billy wiped the froth from round his mouth, his eyes flickering dangerously. ‘If that bastard weren’t sittin’ there with that rifle, you wouldn’t push me that way.’

  Herne smiled thinly and snapped the seal on the deck.

  ‘Set the gun down, Charlie. It’s makin’ ’em nervous.’

  Charlie pushed his chair back until it was behind Herne and to his right. Then he carefully laid the rifle on the floor close to his feet.

  Herne shuffled the cards. ‘Draw or stud?’

  No one answered him. Beads of sweat were visible on Billy’s round face. The scar that zigzagged across One-Eye’s face was standing out pinkly from his sallow skin.

  Behind Herne, Charlie eased himself back in the chair; with his right hand he freed the ties on his holster so that the gun remained angled downwards. He was wondering how long it would be before the Drummond men would break.

  ‘Draw, then.’

  The faces stared. Bodies jerked.

  Herne began to deal the cards. ‘I mean, draw poker.’

  He went round the table five times, laying the cards face down in neat piles. He picked up his own hand and rearranged the cards, choosing which ones to discard.

  ‘How about it? Anyone ready to make a bid?’

  ‘Damn you!’

  Billy and the one-eyed gunman next to him went for their guns at the same time. Herne jumped to his feet, body falling into a crouch as he clawed his ow
n pistol clear of leather. His first shot drove into the huge barrel chest in front of him and a second later One-Eye snapped off a shot which seared through the skin of his left arm. Herne heard another gun explode close behind him and fired into One-Eye’s face which instantly became a mask of blood.

  Charlie had leaned back and fired his Starr .44 through the bottom of his holster, killing the man to Billy’s left. Billy himself was staggering backwards, blood welling from a wound several inches to the right of his heart. The remaining pair were making a dash for the door.

  Herne leveled the Remington and fired twice at the man closest to him. The first shot took him high in the back of the neck, sending him sideways against the wall. The second struck him as he folded away from it, passing clear through the center of his body and embedding itself in the plaster of the wall behind.

  Charlie let his man get as far as the bat-wing doors. Then as he pushed them open, he shot him through the back of the head. It was the best shot Charlie had ever made. The Circle D man’s head seemed to explode, shards of bone and fragments of gray matter flying in all directions.

  On the floor in the middle of the saloon, Billy was still swaying, fighting against the effect of the shell that was buried somewhere inside his massive body. Herne holstered his gun and bent lower, lifting the bayonet out of its sheath inside his boot. He balanced the handle in the palm of his hand, kicking the overturned table out of his way.

  ‘You remember Taylor’s wife,’ he said grimly. ‘Well, this is for her!’

  His fingers tightened about the hilt and he leaped forwards, dipping his hand across to the left and whipping it across the front of Billy’s body at vicious speed. The honed blade sliced diagonally through his skin, his flesh, opening him up from belly to shoulder. Eyes wide with amazement, Billy tried to pull at the folds as if to close them again. Blood pumped over his hands, his wrists; he was steeped in it.

  Finally Herne slashed the bayonet beneath the huge head and a red line appeared from one side of his cheekbone to the other.

  ‘Christ!’ said Charlie. ‘Jesus Christ!’

  Herne watched Billy fall, the impact making the room shake. Then he turned to One-Eye, but One-Eye was already dead. Underneath the wash of blood, his other eye had been torn from its socket by Herne’s bullet which had ripped upwards through his face, impacting the back of the skull outwards.

  Herne reached down with his left hand and picked up the bottle of tequila, half of the contents of which had spilled out onto the floor. He wiped the neck against his red shirt and sent it to his mouth, swallowing hard.

  ‘Jesus Christ!’ Charlie kept saying, quietly, wonderingly, over and over. ‘Jesus Christ!’

  Chapter Thirteen

  Herne and Charlie rode past the sign that told them they were entering Drummond territory and scarcely gave it a second glance. Ever since leaving town they had hardly spoken, each one taken up with his own thoughts. So far they had been successful. Drummond’s army of twenty men had been whittled down to three. Nate himself, a squat-looking near-Mex known as Pecos and Cole – and Cole was still likely to be nursing a wounded gun arm. The odds didn’t seem so bad now.

  Yet neither man thought their task was going to be easy. There was something brooding about the day that flat-tended their spirits. The sky was low and gray without a trace of sun. The wind sailed over the flat land down by the Powder River and cut into them as they rode north. Earlier that day when Herne had looked at the hills beyond Powderville, in the direction of Medicine Rocks and Chalk Buttes, he had thought he’d seen white on the highest peaks. It could have been a trick of the light: or it could have been the first falls of snow.

  ‘Remember what I said, Charlie?’ Herne’s voice was as flat and dull as the sky.

  ‘Sure. You told me enough times. Leave Nate alone. An’ Drummond. They’re yours. I got it.’

  Charlie was on edge, anxious. Something nagged away at the back of his brain, tugging at his attention. He wasn’t any way sure what it was.

  The first sight of the Drummond place was the same as ever. One minute all that a man could see in front of him was fold after fold of range and the next there were the tops of brick chimneys and the tower with its iron frame and flag fluttering eastwards in the wind.

  Herne drew breath, hawked from the back of his throat, spat. A hundred yards on he reined in the horse he was riding and unbuttoned the top coat that Rachel had taken from her husband’s wardrobe.

  ‘Unless you wear this,’ she had said, ‘you’re like to freeze to death before you get there. It’s good and heavy even if it doesn’t look much.’

  He’d taken it and put it on, thanking her. At the door she had touched his arm, her fingers gripping him through the thick wool.

  ‘Take care,’ she had whispered.

  Herne had looked down at her face and seen the traces of fear in the green of her eyes. He’d wanted her to smile, wanted to see the dimple appear, as if by magic. But there was nothing in Rachel that morning to make her smile. The grip on Herne’s arm had tightened and he had known she wanted him to kiss her before leaving.

  Instead he had moved away and she had loosed her grasp, letting him go. When he’d glanced back half way down the street, she had still been standing outside the house, looking after him.

  Now Herne took off the coat and tied it behind his saddle. From here on in the cold wasn’t going to matter, but anything that inhibited his freedom of action would.

  He slipped the Remington from its holster and checked the load, seeing that Charlie was doing the same with his double-action Starr and his Winchester.

  Herne nodded. ‘Make ’em count, Charlie. Just make ’em count.’

  Charlie didn’t reply, just pushed the rifle back down under his saddle and nudged his horse forwards. Time enough for talking when it was all over.

  They reached the perimeter of the corral. Herne easily picked out his big bay amongst the others. The L-shaped bunkhouse off to the right looked deserted, but neither could he see anyone at the windows of the massive square house.

  He didn’t believe the place was deserted. Far from it. If Mrs. Drummond had delivered his message, and he was sure that she had, then the rancher wouldn’t be taking any chances. He would have kept whatever men remained close about him.

  There was a small wagon at the side of the house, Mrs. Drummond’s buckboard behind it. Herne didn’t recognize the wagon and thought it possible that Drummond had company.

  ‘What d’you reckon?’ asked Charlie quietly.

  ‘I don’t know. They’re around somewhere. Maybe we’d best ride on in and draw out.’

  ‘Okay. You’re callin’ the shots.’

  Herne licked his dry lips, chapped raw by the cold and the wind which was ruffling the sleeves of his shirt.

  ‘You ride a few yards back of me. Best get that Winchester out where you can use it.’

  ‘Hold up a minute.’

  Charlie pulled a thin cigar from out of his top pocket and stuck it in his mouth; he bit off the end and spat it out. Then he found a match and struck it against the butt of his gun. He lit the cigar and drew hard on it.

  ‘Anythin’ happens to me—’ he began.

  Herne glanced sideways: ‘Nothin’s goin’ to happen to you. Just keep your eyes skinned.’

  ‘Yeah.’

  Charlie levered the Winchester and looked about him. Nothing Herne could say or do could get rid of the pestering at the back of Charlie’s mind, like some dark, furry creature burrowing into his brain with its claws.

  ‘Let’s go!’

  The two men rode slowly in towards the house, passing the corral fence on their left. A few of the horses moved, jostling against one another, but apart from that their advance didn’t cause any discernible movement.

  ‘You reckon the bunkhouse?’ asked Charlie, pointing the barrel of his rifle.

  ‘Could be.’

  ‘You want me to check it out?’

  Herne thought, shook his head. ‘No sense in
walkin’ smack into ’em. Don’t want to let anyone in there get an angle on our backs, neither.’

  Herne prodded his horse forward another few paces, then reined it to a halt. He put his left hand to his mouth and hollered: ‘Nate! Nate! Stop skulkin’ behind closed doors an’ get out here like a man!’

  A couple of chickens squawked and scrabbled in the dirt over by the bunk house. Somewhere out of sight a cock crowed loudly, as if taking on Herne’s threatening voice.

  ‘Nate! You yeller bastard!’

  Charlie puffed at the cigar, small wafts of dark smoke moving up into the cold air. Herne could smell the acrid aroma of cheap tobacco.

  ‘You comin’ out or d’you want burnin’ out? Like you done to that old woman you murdered.’

  Back of the bunk house and out of sight a door swung on noisy hinges and slammed against a wall. Charlie lifted his rifle to his shoulder; Herne’s right hand moved down to the top of his holster.

  It could have been nothing; could have been the wind.

  ‘Nate! You yeller scum!’

  Something moved at the far end of the bunk house and this time it wasn’t the wind for sure. Both men saw the dull color of gun metal, the blue of a shirt, flesh color of a hand. A second later there was a solid thump as one of the heavy doors underneath the terrace of the house was flung back.

  ‘Now, Charlie!’

  Herne drew the Remington fast and squinted at the open doorway. He saw a shape move inside the cellar darkness and fired fast. The shape continued to move and with a spurt of flame a rifle cracked out, the shot going wide to his left.

  Behind him, Charlie had fired twice, each time tearing away pieces of board. Whoever was behind the wall hadn’t got off a shot himself.

  ‘I’m goin’ in closer!’

  Herne touched his heels to the horse’s sides, putting most of its body between himself and the cellar door. As he got nearer a couple of shots winged over his head and he could see the outline of the man more clearly. He angled his arm and fired for the center of the shadowed figure.

  As his mount sped towards the bottom fence of the corral he saw the man pitch forward and topple out into the light. It wasn’t Nate.