Charlie had followed him, keeping his body turned in the saddle, the Winchester covering the area of the bunk-house where one of Drummond’s men had been.
He wasn’t there any longer. Herne saw a movement at the other end and Cole came round the edge of the wall, leaning against it, gun held in his left hand, unsteady.
‘Charlie!’
At the same instant that Herne shouted out, Cole fired. With his left hand instead of his right, he was way off target. Not so Charlie. It wasn’t as good a shot as the one he’d put through the back of the man’s head as he ran out of the saloon back in Powderville, but it was pretty good, nonetheless.
It struck the board inches away from Cole’s body and deflected at an angle so that it drove downwards through the right side of his chest, wrenching fibers apart and bursting blood vessels till it exited through the solid flesh above his buttocks.
Cole stared out at Charlie, sitting astride his horse, rifle still at his shoulder, the dark little cigar clamped tight between his lips. He swayed outwards, reaching sideways at the bunkhouse wall and trying to find something to cling onto. There was nothing: not any more.
He hit the ground and pitched over onto his back. Eyes open, he looked up at the grayness of the forbidding sky while pain lanced through him in spasm after spasm.
He was to lie there for some while, slowly dying, ignored.
Herne dropped from the saddle and holstered his gun. He shooed the horse towards the corral and started to walk towards the broad wooden steps which led up to the front of the house.
Charlie was still riding carefully in the same direction, Winchester resting now on the neck of his mount.
Again a door swung open and shut but this time it was in the big house itself. Nate had come out onto the terrace at the right hand side and was walking slowly along it, passing behind the leafless saplings.
Charlie saw him first and signaled to Herne who stopped walking and stood his ground.
A moment later Nate came into sight at the corner of the terrace. He was wearing black pants, white shirt and a black waistcoat. No sign today of the long coat or the Montana peak hat that usually marked him out. Today he was his own man, about to make a play for his own life.
Nate’s Colt, a short-barreled Peacemaker, was holstered by his right leg. Another Colt, which Herne instantly recognized as his own, was tucked into his belt on the left, angled towards that hip.
Nate stood quite still, then leaned insolently against the wooden pillar which supported the upper floor. His white face showed the twin patches of red as clear as if they were spots of blood.
Nate’s eyes flicked from Herne to Charlie and back again.
‘What about him?’ he said, nodding towards Charlie.
‘He’s out of it,’ replied Herne. ‘It’s just you an’ me.’
‘He’s still got that gun, ain’t he? I don’t want to get shot by no Winchester the moment I hit leather.
Without taking his eyes off Nate, Herne said: ‘Put the rifle up, Charlie. Only keep watchin’ them windows up there.’
Charlie took the cigar from his mouth and tugged at a few stray ends of dark tobacco with his teeth. He spat them away and then turned the Winchester round and slid it down into the scabbard.
Nate stood away from the pillar. ‘What’s it to be?’
‘You just go for your gun any time you’ve a mind.’
‘An’ if I don’t?’
‘Then I’ll shoot your legs from under you!’
Nate threw back his head and let out the high-pitched squeal of a laugh. As his head came back down he went for the gun at his right.
He dropped into a crouch as he did so, thin body moving fast as a whip. Fast but not as fast as Herne, whose speed was edged on by the driving need of his revenge.
Herne’s gun came up a fraction of a second ahead of Nate’s and he squeezed back the trigger faster still. He aimed for Nate’s right arm, deep in the flesh below the shoulder, not wanting to kill him straight off.
Nate’s shell cut past his left arm close enough that Herne imagined he could feel its passing; already grazed in that arm once he didn’t take to being hit there a second time.
He thumbed back the hammer for a fresh shot, watching Nate like a hawk. The white-faced man clung onto the pillar, holding himself erect. His right arm hung by his side, shattered and useless.
Herne started to walk slowly towards him. As he got closer he saw the red spots fade on Nate’s face; the gun fell from numb fingers, bounced twice on the edge of the terrace and rolled off onto the ground below. Nate bent at the knees, going down, turning in on himself; his left hand started to slide down the wood of the pillar and as his head came right forward Herne heard a ghost of his laugh.
Almost on the boards, Nate’s body whipped back, the left hand no longer supporting it but dragging Herne’s own Colt from his belt. The speed of it nearly caught Herne by surprise.
He moved fast to his left and brought up the Remington. Angled it at Nate’s left arm and sent a shell ripping through the forearm, immediately below the elbow. He heard the brutal cracking of bone and a shrill whine as the bullet ricocheted away.
Nate stared at the already welling blood as Herne vaulted up onto the terrace and stood less than three feet in front of him. He reached forward and took the Colt .45 from Nate’s failing fingers, reversing it and switching it with the Remington, which he pushed down into his own belt.
With exaggerated precision he pulled back the hammer, enjoying the balance of his own pistol once more. Nate looked at him and his mouth opened: the laugh was muted by the splash and splatter of bright red blood.
Herne took three steps back and stared at him in disgust.
‘For God’s sake! You crippled me already, get it over with!’
Herne shook his head. ‘That’d be too easy. I want you to have some time to think. Think about lynchin’ Taylor and gettin’ his wife raped. Think about stringin’ up that old woman. Think about gunnin’ down a man called Fairfax. You think good about ’em all!’
Herne took another step back and brought up the gun. Nate, seeing where it was aimed, made a final piercing scream for mercy. Herne laughed in his face and shot him low in the belly: the last laugh. Nate would hear it echoing on, all the long agonized time he was lying there dying.
‘Come on, Charlie! Let’s go get Drummond!’
For an instant, one foot on the bottom step, Charlie hesitated. ‘Do we have to, Jed? Ain’t that enough?’
‘Enough, Hell! His greed’s got to answer!’
Herne headed for the front door fast, Charlie moving up close behind him. They stood in the hallway, looking at the staircase, the closed doors; listening to the quiet.
‘I’ll take down here. You try upstairs.’
Herne wrenched open the door to Drummond’s office. It was exactly the same as before except that this time it was empty. He saw a bundle of keys hanging from a peg and pocketed them, not wanting to leave without securing his Sharps from the armory.
The next room he tried was a sitting room; leather armchairs decorated with gold studs, more shelves of leather-bound books, a portrait of Drummond’s wife in oils above the fireplace. By the window a polished rosewood table and on either side of it a pair of high-back rosewood chairs with green leather seats.
Herne turned to leave and then heard a slight noise from the curtained recess past the fire. The Colt was in his hand in a flash, aiming at the center of the curtain.
‘Come out! Slow an’ easy!’
The green velvet material shifted slowly to one side and a frightened face with a bulbous nose and bushy eyebrows over tremulous brown eyes poked round it.
‘Get out here! With your hands up an’ empty.’
The Scotsman did as he was told. Inside his expensive tweed clothes he was trembling fit to fall apart.
‘Where is he?’
The involuntary movement of Fullerton’s eyes provided him with the answer. Herne spun round and raced for the do
or. Upstairs on the first floor, Charlie had just beaten him to it.
The door to the billiard room had been ajar and Charlie had pushed it back with his foot, stepping quickly inside, pistol drawn. Drummond was standing at the far end of the green billiard table facing him. There were three balls on the table, two reds and a white. A billiard cue rested on the green baize.
Confronting him suddenly Charlie was stopped in his tracks. Something about Drummond’s presence froze his muscles, his brain. The aura of power that Drummond had so successfully cultivated held Charlie in awe.
Drummond moved his right hand up from behind the table and showed Charlie the short-barreled double-action Smith and Wesson .32 pistol he had had specially fitted with ivory-plated handles. Then he shot him with it. Twice, the two shots beautifully placed within a couple of inches of one another through Charlie’s heart.
Charlie pitched forward, his own gun unfired. His head slammed against the heavy wooden frame of the billiard table, his knees gave way and he sank to the floor. He was dead before he reached it, too quickly even to hear the scrabbling in his brain accelerate till it burst through the core.
Herne took the stairs three at a time, saw the open doorway and jumped through it. The first thing he saw was Charlie’s body, bending forward, head between his legs, his blood beginning to stain the thick pile of the carpet.
The next thing was a noise to his right and a glimpse of something flashing down through the air. The billiard cue smashed against the top of his right shoulder and left it momentarily numb. Drummond crashed into him on his way out of the door, almost tripping over one of Charlie’s legs as he went.
Herne gritted his teeth and went after him. He got to the top of the stairs by the time Drummond was half way down. Called his name and Drummond turned fast, catching hold of the banister rail. The rancher fired twice more, just as quickly but less accurately.
Herne saw the gun arm come up and dived flat, skidding along the polished floor and stopping himself against the post at the head of the stairs. Both shots had carved the space above his falling body.
He winced and felt for his Colt.
‘Drummond! There’s no way you’re gettin’ out of this. All your hired guns have gone. The only one you got left’s the one in your hand. The one you killed Charlie with.’
Herne jumped up into a crouch and Drummond fired but too fast. The .32 shell splintered one of the wooden railings to Herne’s right.
‘And now you fired your last shot!’
Herne stood up, the Colt pointing at Drummond’s chest, below the bow tie, at the point where the top of the waistcoat met over the freshly laundered white shirt.
The pale gray, nearly colorless eyes looked up at the lank-haired man wearing borrowed clothes and he sneered. ‘You think I believe that?’
‘Seems to me that little thing takes five shells. Now you reckon up how many you fired an’ do your damndest!’
Behind the expressionless eyes Drummond’s mind fought to remember. He lifted the gun and pointed it at Herne.
Exactly as the truth slipped into place he squeezed the trigger. Herne heard the dull click and fired the Colt. Twice. Once for himself and one time for Charlie. Drummond was lifted off the stairs and then hurled backwards, hitting the bottom with a sickening thud.
Across the top of the stair well another door opened and Mrs. Drummond came out. She looked so elegant that it flashed through Herne’s mind that she had been combing her hair, getting herself ready. She had on a black dress, tight at neck and wrists. In place of her pendant a gold cross hung from her neck.
‘If you want your husband,’ Herne said, ‘he’s downstairs.’
He holstered the gun and left her there. When he reached Drummond’s body he knelt beside it and fished out his wallet, taking from the fold of dollar bills enough to cover two months’ pay. One month for himself and one for Charlie. He figured Charlie wouldn’t mind. He dropped the wallet down onto the body but as an afterthought picked it up again, the soft leather already smeared with blood. A hundred dollars would help Taylor’s wife to feed her kid through the winter up in Fort Keogh.
Herne collected his Sharps from the armory below the house, taking a good supply of ammunition while he was about it. He figured he’d used a lot of shells on Drummond’s account, one way or another.
When he found the Scotsman, Fullerton was sitting in the middle of the room Herne had left him in, drinking brandy from a bottle, swallow after swallow. Herne took five dollars from his pocket and pushed them into the man’s hand.
There’s a man upstairs. Bearded. Wearing a yellow waistcoat. Take him into town on that wagon of yours and see that he’s buried proper. You got that?’
Fullerton moved the bottle away from his mouth and nodded.
‘I find out you forgot, I’ll likely be back!’
The Scotsman gulped and hastily swallowed down some more brandy. Herne left the room, left the house. Outside, he could hear the moans of Nate as he got on with the slow business of dying.
Mounted up on his bay horse, Herne could still hear them. It wasn’t a sound he disliked. He rode half a mile back towards town and then stopped. It was snow he could see on those hills. Another few weeks in Powderville and he’d be trapped there all winter. Whereas if he went north he’d likely find work in one of the rail towns the Northern Pacific had opened up.
Herne turned his horse and began to ride north.
HERNE THE HUNTER 10: VIGILANTE
By John J. McLaglen
First Published by Transworld Publishers in 1979
Copyright © 1979, 2014 by John J. McLaglen
Published by Piccadilly Publishing at Smashwords: December 2014
Names, characters and incidents in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons living or dead is purely coincidental.
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each reader.
Cover image © 2014 by Tony Masero
This is a Piccadilly Publishing Book
Series Editor: Mike Stotter
Text © Piccadilly Publishing
Published by Arrangement with the Author.
Books in the Series:
1: WHITE DEATH
2: RIVER OF BLOOD
3: THE BLACK WIDOW
4: SHADOW OF THE VULTURE
5: APACHE SQUAW
6: DEATH IN GOLD
7: DEATH RITES
8: CROSS-DRAW
9: MASSACRE!
Piccadilly Publishing
Piccadilly Publishing is the brainchild of long time Western fans and Amazon Kindle Number One bestselling Western writers Mike Stotter and David Whitehead (a.k.a. Ben Bridges). The company intends to bring back into 'e-print' some of the most popular and best-loved Western and action-adventure series fiction of the last forty years.
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