The second had hit him in the right leg, smashing the femur, not passing through, as far as he could tell. The third had hit him in the chest, high on the right, breaking ribs. A fourth bullet had delved into his stomach, rending flesh and intestines, leaving him with a sensation of burning cold in his guts.
The fifth ball had also hit him in the chest, close to the center. There had been a brittle, snapping sound inside his body, and he could feel his life seeping away, even as he lay there.
The Colt was eight feet from Herne’s spread fingers.
With the greatest effort of will that he had ever made in his life, Jed rolled on his side, reaching out for the pistol.
‘You can’t!’ yelped Darke. ‘You’re fuckin’ dead, Herne.’
Jed’s voice was low and painful, from gritted teeth. ‘Nearly, friend, nearly.’
The butt was four feet away from his clawing, desperate fingers.
Christina Nolan had stopped screaming, seeing that the deserter was going to finish the job. She tried to kick and put him off his aim, but he dodged her easily, grinning wolfishly.
‘Nearly is not fuckin’ good enough,’ pulling the trigger of his pistol.
The dry click of a discharged round.
Again.
The Colt was only two feet away as Herne crawled the immeasurable distance towards it, through time that had stopped.
‘You fuckin’ …’ began Darke, seeing that his own life stood suddenly in jeopardy. Beginning to power his way across the short distance that separated him from the prostrate shootist.
He charged at Herne, mouth open, straining to kick out at the hand that groped for the gun.
Jed could feel himself bleeding, inside, and the numbness of his wounds was already fading away. Pain was swamping his mind.
But he had the gun, still cocked.
Darke was on top of him, like a looming juggernaut, blotting out the light, his mouth an open cave.
Herne shot him between the lips.
The bullet passed through the white, even teeth, shattering them, angling up through the soft palate. On into the roof of the man’s mouth, breaking through bone. The bullet becoming twisted and distorted, exploding into the crazed center of Darke’s skull. And there it stayed, floating in a sea of mangled blood and torn brain.
Christina Nolan saw Darke towering over the grievously wounded Jed Herne, then there was the flash of fire and the muffled crack of gunfire. And the soldier was staggering backwards, arms flailing, tripping over his own feet, crashing like a hewn log, close to the edge of the pool.
She began to cry from relief at being alive, and from the cumulative effects of the shocks of the last day and a half.
Oddly, with the death of James Darke, Jed Herne’s own pain seemed to lessen.
The bullets that had stricken him no longer hurt at all. Paradoxically, it was the flesh wound along his ribs that caused him most discomfort.
The woman dropped to her knees, at his side, her hands still bound behind her.
‘Mr. Herne … Oh, God, you … How is everyone? The Indians! My dear, dear …’
‘No time,’ he said slowly.
‘I can’t hear you,’ she whispered.
He’d thought he’d been speaking loudly and clearly. So he tried again.
‘No time to talk.’
‘You’ll be okay.’
‘No,’ shaking his head.
Christina Nolan hadn’t much experience of life and death, but she could see that the passing was not going to be long. Blood wormed from the grey corners of the shootist’s lips, and she longed to be able to wipe it away.
‘Knife in boot. Cut yourself … free.’
‘Yes. But can I do nothing for you?’
‘Sure.’
‘What? Anything? Some water?’
‘No. Just get out and live. Have the baby. Have it … for me.’
‘I will.’ She was crying, great gobbets of salt tears dropping to the dry dirt.
‘My horse … back in draw, a … Oh … around a quarter mile.’
His voice was fading away. With an effort he managed to. struggle to a more comfortable position, lying with his back against a large, smooth boulder. The exertion made a fresh gout of blood come seeping through his shirt.
‘Yes. I’ll get it.’
‘Men out lookin’ … for… for you.’
Away to the west the gathering clouds lifted for a few moments and the whole great bowl above the canyon was flooded with brilliant crimson, lighting the face of the dying man.
‘Go now. I’m … done.’
She stooped and kissed him on the stubbled cheek, feeling how cold he had already become. He felt the wetness of her tears and he half-smiled.
‘Thank you, Jed. I’ll never ever forget. Nor will my children. Nor their children. Not ever.’
But he didn’t hear her words. His mind still heard her saying: ‘Just a chance to do something right and leave something good behind. You know what I mean, Mr. Herne?’
He smiled again, and nodded. His lips moving, but no sound coming for her to catch.
‘Yeah,’ he breathed.
Behind him, the sun was sinking far beyond the snow-tipped Sierras.
The sky was flame-red, offering the promise of a fine, new day.
‘Keep your dreams as clean as silver, This may be the last hurrah.’
John Stewart
About the Author
John J. McLaglen is the pseudonym for the writing team of Laurence James and John Harvey.
Laurence James began his writing career in 1974 when he published his first novel in the science-fiction series SIMON RACK: EARTH LIES SLEEPING. He worked in publishing for ten years off and on till about 1970, when he went to “New English Library and ran the editorial side of NEL for three years.” In addition, around 1974, James published the fantasy saga of Hells Angels in England & Wales in the early 1990s under the name Mick Norman.
While the name of Laurence James is not synonymous with Westerns, those of John J. McLaglen, William M. James and James W. Marvin, to name but a few, are.
John Harvey, a former English and drama school teacher began his contribution to the Herne the Hunter series with the second book, River of Blood. “In the Western,” says John, “I’m interested in finding a balance between the myth of the West (as it comes through American literature and film) and the historical reality. Increasingly, I’m concerned to attempt to make a stronger place for women in the Western, which is traditionally a refuge of masculinity and male fantasy.”
The character of Jed Herne is like a blunt instrument moving through the West. He never achieves happiness, nor riches. Laurence James said, “There is no such thing as a happy western hero. Never. They can’t be. They’ve got to be men alone. They’ve got to be heroes.”
Also by John J. McLaglen
White Death
River of Blood
The Black Widow
Shadow of the Vulture
Apache Squaw
Death in Gold
Death Rites
Cross-Draw
Massacre!
Vigilante!
Silver Threads
Sun Dance
Billy the Kid
Death School
Till Death
Geronimo
The Hanging
Dying Ways
Bloodline
Hearts of Gold
Pony Express
Wild Blood
Texas Massacre
The Last Hurrah
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