‘Again,’ said Harvey.
Again. This time at the nearer man, Quincannon, carrying Dorothy Harvey.
Herne saw the second puff of smoke, knowing what a gamble someone was taking. Ahead of him, the Irish sergeant’s bay mare stumbled, hit in the near shoulder, the bullet knocking it down in the dusty earth. The woman was flung off like a discarded rag-doll, rolling over several times. Lying still.
Everyone held their breath, watching in stillness.
She sat up, shaking her head, holding her left wrist as though it might be broken. Apart from that, from what they could see through the dust, the woman was all right.
A ragged cheer went up.
Checked as the huge figure of Quincannon came looming from the spiraling dust, holding his pistol in his right hand. The horse had also clambered again to its feet, standing trembling. Its training stopping it from trying to gallop away.
Herne reined in for a moment, wondering which way the cards had fallen. Seeing that what had appeared to be a red ace now looked no better than a deuce. The soldier still had the threat of pistoling his captive, and it would only take moments for him to remount and take her with him.
In the distance, Darke was still pounding on at full speed, heading due west, not even bothering to look over his shoulder at the fallen sergeant.
Just beyond the circle of Conestogas, confusion ruled. Half of them were shouting for more shots at the dismounted Cavalryman. While others yelled for them not to fire and risk the woman.
It was the unfrocked Jansenist priest, Patrick Smith, who broke the momentary stalemate. He was standing near the back of his own wagon, his sixteen-shot Winchester ’73 in his hands, five rounds remaining. The one thing that he knew was that the tall soldier would never be able to get away without his horse. So he took careful aim, steadying the carbine on the rear of the rig, and blasted off all five rounds.
Whooping his pleasure as he saw the horse topple over in a flailing heap of kicking legs and sprayed, blinding dirt.
It took everyone else by surprise.
But most of all it took Jed Herne by surprise. He was coming in fast towards Quincannon, his pistol out and cocked. The woman was a little way to his left, the tall Irishman on his right. And the bay mare was straight ahead of him.
Until it toppled, vanishing in a shroud of dust.
‘God damn it to …!’ began the shootist, frantically trying to wrench his stallion’s head around, away from the other horse. But there was too little room for the maneuver and he felt himself going out the front door, hurtling through the air. Landing with a crash that shook all the breath from his body. He vaguely heard a sickly crack, somewhere between neck and shoulder, and he realized that the Colt had gone from his hand.
‘You brainless bastard,’ yelled Austin Nick, looking along the line of wagons to Patrick Smith, who was still holding his smoking carbine.
Dorothy Harvey was on her feet, using her good hand to try and straighten her hair. Quincannon was a dozen feet from her, looking towards where Herne was struggling to his hands and knees, some way to the north. The Cavalry horse was down and dying, and Herne’s own stallion was also on its side, whinnying in pain and shock at its sudden fall.
The Irishman stared at the shootist, who was now crouched, holding his leg as though he’d injured it. ‘Sure and it’s bad luck you brought us, you bastard,’ he called. ‘Let her go. That way you got a chance.’
The sergeant shook his head. ‘The rest of the boyos have gone down to the ’paches. More of your work, I see. And those good folks in the wagons would likely string me up from the nearest tree.’
‘I can get you a trial. Fair as you deserve.’
Quincannon’s laugh came booming out. ‘All I deserve, friend, is six feet of earth piled high to keep the buzzards off me corpse. And a letter to me dear old mother back home in Galway say in’ I died brave and true.’
Herne had the bayonet free from its sheath in his right boot. A Civil War blade, honed to a keen edge, its point sharp as a needle. It was a long throw, but he had to try it. To save the helpless woman.
‘Let me go,’ called Dorothy Harvey.
The sergeant turned to face her, and his homely face wrinkled into a creased grin. ‘It’s all I got now, little lady. And it looks like the race is run.’
‘Spare me.’
‘Lady,’ said the Irishman. ‘I don’t have the time.’
And he shot the pregnant woman between the eyes. The .45 leaving a neat, trim hole, oozing blood from her temple. The exit hole was smashed out as large as a saucer, spilling her brains in the sand.
Herne threw the bayonet, watching it spin through the calm air, its silver blade glittering like an exotic insect. It hit the big man through the throat, sending him staggering backwards, blood fountaining bright and far.
‘You didn’t … didn’t…’ Quincannon began, sitting down, letting his gun fall.
Herne stood slowly, aware of the pain from his broken collar bone. ‘When you got revenge or nothin’, then I’ll always pick revenge,’ he said.
Knowing how empty that was.
Chapter Fifteen
Teresa Harknett and Agatha Wells bound up Herne’s injured shoulder, twittering about his courage, and the terrible death of Mrs. Harvey. And her full with child and all. And that other poor lady that was in the same way and her being taken off by the blackguard soldier to the Lord in His Wisdom knows what fearsome fate.
Teresa had worked as an auxiliary helper in a hospital back East, and she made a fine job of the bandage, but it still pained Jed. Rendering his whole left arm virtually useless, making riding both difficult and painful. The only light spot in the whole affair was that his own horse was uninjured, the fall having shaken it.
Three-quarters of an hour had gone since the death of Sergeant Quincannon. Within five short minutes of his passing, the Apaches had fulfilled their part in the bargain. Many of the warriors had been killed or injured in the brief, bloody battle, but Nahche seemed to feel the day had been well spent.
While the surviving Chiricahua took their trophies of the fight, their chief rode in, passing through the silently watching whites, to see how Herne Hunter had fared.
Jed had shaken the stocky Indian by the hand.
‘I thank you for your help.’
‘It was a debt between us. Now it is paid.’
‘You will go home?’
Nahche nodded. ‘Aye. What of the pony soldier with the sun on his shoulders?’
‘Captain Darke? He has taken one of the squaws from these people.’
‘She was carrying a small one. It is bad that a man does that. Do you wish that we ride with you on his trail, Herne Hunter?’
The shootist had shaken his head, wincing as Teresa pulled the knot tight on the torn strip of white linen bandage.
‘No, friend. That trail I ride alone.’
Nahche had stooped and looked deep into his eyes. ‘The riding has been long, friend. I do not see a second moon rising for you.’
Herne grinned through his pain. ‘If that is so, my brother, then surely it will be a good day to die.’
‘Hiya, that is so, brother.’
With a final wave the Chiricahua leader had walked away, ignoring the boggling travelers, calling to his men. In less than ten minutes, even the dust of their passing had ceased.
Austin Nick had been with Herne when the Apache had come in. ‘Come like the wind, and like the wind they go. But they done good for us. So did you.’
‘I’m real sorry ’bout that lady, Nick.’
‘Sure. You figure there’s any hope for Christina Nolan?’
‘Maybe. That Darke is surely one of the most evil men I ever met. Seems to take some pleasure in hurtin’. I figure he’ll ride far as he can ’fore the horse gets blown. Then he’ll rest up and then he’ll use the woman.’
‘Then?’
Herne simply shook his head. There was no need to paint a picture for a man who’d already guessed the ending
.
‘What did the ‘pache mean about you not seeing a second moon rising?’
‘Didn’t know you spoke his tongue.’
‘Some. Sounded like he was tellin’ you that you don’t have a lot of time.’
‘Who does, Nick? Days, weeks. Years. All comes down to the same. I lived me some good times and some bad. When my name gets called, then I won’t be sorry to go.’
It was a couple of minutes over the hour since Darke had vanished over the edge of the western horizon. Jed’s shoulder was set and tied tight, and he had carefully reloaded his weapons, checking them all. Going through the routine cleaning and stripping each gun, almost as though it were a religious ritual.
Austin Nick and a couple of the senior men on the train watched, with Jack Nolan. Bart Harvey had collapsed and insisted on being alone in his wagon with his young wife’s corpse.
Herne stood up, breathing deep, testing the range of movement that the injury had given him. Biting his lip at a sudden stab of pain as he bent and dipped to his left.
‘What now, Jed?’
‘Now?’
‘Yeah. Should we tell the authorities?’
Herne was puzzled. ‘Tell ’em what? About Darke and his deserters? And Nahche?’
‘Yeah. That … Sure, of course. I meant about Mrs. Nolan being kidnapped by Darke?’
‘Can do. Be like arrangin’ to have an obituary printed in a periodical.’
Nolan stepped forward to face the gunman. ‘What does that mean, Mr. Herne?’
‘It means that if your lady isn’t rescued within the next … Oh, I guess about day and a half ... then she’s dead as a beaver hat. And tellin’ all the lawmen in the whole of the South-West won’t alter that by one single inch.’
‘There’s nobody to rescue her. So … so, Chrissie is as good as dead. And our little babe, unborn.’ He was on the very edge of breaking down.
‘Who said nobody was going after Darke?’ asked Herne, reaching down to check that the narrow strip of leather cord was snugly over the hammer of his pistol.
‘You ... I didn’t …’ began Nolan, but Nick Pilch stepped forward and interrupted him.
‘Jed. You mean you’re thinkin’ of going after that bastard?’
‘Not thinking, Nick. I’m going.’
‘He’s got a full hour start. He could be anywhere in the land.’
‘You know better than that. Scout like you. True what the Oglala Sioux say.’
‘What’s that?’
‘Only man leaves no trace of his passing is a dead man. Darke is ridin’ two-up. Tired horse. No way he can’t leave a trail.’
‘But an hour. And you’ve got a busted shoulder, Jed. Is it …?’
‘Is it worth it? Don’t rightly know, Nick.’ He turned to speak to the sharp-faced, small, worried Nolan. ‘I recall something your wife said to me. When we met.’
‘What’s that?’
‘She said that she looked on this journey as being a chance to do something right and leave something good behind.’
‘I remember that,’ replied the other man.
‘So. I guess there’s no more to say. Good luck to you all. Best thing to do is you to maybe send a couple of men out tomorrow, and ride north and west in a loop. That way, if anything happens, and she’s still out there, they’ll likely pick her up.’
Herne didn’t know why he said that. Maybe it was the ominous words of the Chiricahua chief.
Maybe it was.
The tracking started off easily.
As the day wore on, the wind began to rise, pushing the crystals of sand, one over the other, with infinite slowness. Making trailing Darke that touch more difficult. Herne’s stallion pushed on at a good, steady pace, moving in a sweeping curve towards the north and west. Heading for the tumbled area of jagged buttes and deep ravines that would eventually open onto higher, flatter land, near the Verde River.
The marks of the big bay mare were deep in the sand, clear to see. But Jed knew that the renegade officer was deliberately pushing on as fast as he could - as fast as he dared - hoping to reach the stonier ground of the rough foothills, where tracking would be that much harder.
Once he dismounted. Seeing that Darke had stopped. Herne stooped over the trampled marks, trying to read from them the story of what had happened. Darke’s feet, leaving distinctive impressions, the earth so soft that even the tips of the spurs showed in places. And the much smaller, lighter boots of Christina Nolan.
He guessed that the woman had become increasingly difficult to handle. Darke had reined in’.
‘She stood here,’ muttered the shootist, oblivious to everything except the scuffs and indentations in the orange soil. ‘He hit her. Blood. Spots here, on this stone. She falls… . here. Ah.’ There was a small length of whipcord in the dirt. ‘Tied her hands to quiet her. Goes over this way. Why?’
The answer was a patch of earth showing a small hollow, with tiny circular marks about it. Where the Cavalryman had gone to pass water.
‘Back again. Hefts the girl. Maybe astride now. Deep marks where he did that. Back in the saddle.’
And away again.
The pause had only held him up for a couple of minutes. It was obvious that the stop had delayed Captain James Darke and his captive for a while longer than that.
The gap was closing all the time.
Herne’s shadow was stretching far behind him as the sun began to set in the direction of the far-off Sierras. The sky was becoming crimson, like an inverted bowl of blood. Holding the promise of a fine day on the morrow. Jed knew that if he failed to rescue the woman in the next day and a half, then he could give up and go home.
Wherever home was.
By the time the light had faded away to a dim glow in the far west, Jed had trailed Darke for many miles. Into the narrow sequence of winding arroyos, occasionally across bare stone. But Darke had never deviated. Once there was a chunk of gnawed jerky, spat out, probably by the woman. That and the horse’s hooves, moving inexorably onwards.
The officer didn’t stop again, throughout that whole afternoon, into the evening. It was only as the light was almost gone that Jed came upon the first clear proof of how he was closing the gap.
With the hunter’s moon soaring silver and untroubled over the ravaged landscape, Jed saw the pile of horse droppings, in the center of the trail. He quickly swung down and checked them, crushing them between his fingers to feel the warmth of them. The temperature of the evening had dropped quickly, and it was easy to hold them and feel the residual heat.
‘Less than an hour. Maybe a half hour.’
There was a temptation to carry on after the soldier and the woman. Hoping to come on them during the hours of blackness, and kill him. But Darke had already shown himself a man of peculiar and vicious cunning. He would guess there was a danger of his being pursued. And he would likely go himself a little into the night, and then take a spur trail, hoping that anyone following would over-run the tracks in the darkness, and lose him.
Despite the pressure to go on a little while further, Jed resisted. Darke had the woman. But she was his only card to play if anyone should catch up with him. He would keep her safe, at least for this one night. By the time the next moon appeared, then Darke would know whether he was safe or not. And he could use Christina Nolan as he wanted.
And kill her.
The moon was fitful, sometimes beaming down with a bright light. Sometimes obscured by tattered shreds of high cloud, blown across its face by the rising wind. The wind was a cold blue norther, hissing down from the direction where Darke had disappeared.
Jed tasted the breeze a few times, wondering whether the officer would be foolish enough to light a fire. The scent of smoke would have been enough for the shootist to have tracked him down.
But there was nothing.
Nothing but for an odd occurrence. Once, in a period of particularly strong gusts, Herne was sure that he heard voices. Singing. Singing “Bringing In The Sheaves”. A man and
a woman.
But he couldn’t be totally certain whether he heard it. Or whether he dreamed it.
It was close to midnight before Jedediah Travis Herne finally slipped into sleep.
Chapter Sixteen
He slept badly. Tossing under the single blanket, moving fitfully. The specters of his past came gibbering up to haunt him. Faces of men that he’d killed. Faces that came sweeping up over the hills of years gone by. Like the faded faces in old daguerreotypes, blurred. Faces that he recognized, and yet seemed like the faces of strangers.
And women.
Women that he’d killed.
Some women that he’d loved.
Gentle Louise, his wife. She had finally persuaded him to wrap his shooting irons in oiled cloth and lay them away at the back of a drawer. She had promised him a new life. And she had been carrying what would have been their first-born when men came out of the snow.
In his dreams, Herne shivered. Feeling the bitter cold, like iron on the tongue, when he had walked from an empty bed. Making that walk again, in his tormented sleep. To the bam. The creaking of the rope as it rasped over the beam. Her tongue, blackened, protruding from her swollen lips.
‘No, my love,’ he whispered.
Becky. The teenage daughter of their friend. Jed had done what he could for her, but she too had died. Died in a snow-driven city, far to the east.
So many deaths.
So few living.
Even Whitey, dead now these several years. Not out in the open, facing a setting sun, like a man should go. A squalid, pointless death.
Whitey Coburn had been the nearest to a friend that Jed Herne had ever known. A shootist and bounty-hunter couldn’t afford the luxury of too many friends. Friends were the ones who got close enough to be able to stab you from behind.
The dreams were fragmented, pointless. Peopled by folks he nearly knew, in places that he almost seemed to recognize.
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