Geronimo! (Herne the Hunter Western

by John J. McLaglen

Herne shook his head. ‘Not a whisper. But I feel he’s around.’

  ‘Yes. The old frontier ‘feeling’,’ mocked Corso. ‘We were taught to beware of that.’

  ‘Sure. Be like Custer and go your own way. Finish up wearing Satan’s jeweled crown ‘stead of your General’s stars.’

  ‘What of the bandits? I’ve seen a body of mounted white men at a distance. We gave pursuit but they disappeared into a defile. About a dozen, including, I think, some Apache scout deserters.’

  ‘That’s El Poco. The dwarf who leads a gang of Mex and breed killers. Had a run in with three of them.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Dead.’

  ‘All three? You took them by surprise?’

  Carola spoke. ‘No, Lieutenant. They had us captured and Mr. Herne killed them all.’

  Corso laughed disbelievingly. ‘Just like that? Three to one. Come now, Ma’am, please don’t take me for a fool.’

  ‘No. Don’t take the officer for a fool, Carola,’ said Herne. ‘I don’t. But if’n you want a word or two of advice before you go, Lieutenant, then …’

  But the officer was already standing, ignoring Herne’s words, calling out for his men to remount.

  ‘Let him go, Jed,’ warned Carola, seeing the fire of rage blaze suddenly in Herne’s face at the insult, laying her hand on his arm to stop him going after the young soldier.

  The shootist stood slowly, flexing the fingers of his right hand, gradually relaxing from the anger. Herne had never suffered fools gladly. Never suffered them at all. And it pained him to see this arrogant coxcomb about to lead a half dozen troopers into certain danger and possible defeat.

  Corso took off his hat, running gloved fingers through his long, yellow hair. Herne saw the gesture and was reminded again of Autie Custer. Same hair, same arrogance. The thought stayed with him for some time after the patrol had ridden off in the opposite direction.

  ~*~

  It was Nachez who made the incision, deep in along the line of the temples, then hacking back both sides of the head, above the ears. Tugging with a noise like tearing silk, pulling back the scalp, pressing the skull forward with his left hand. Cutting the hair free.

  The thick yellow hair.

  It was the same evening.

  Chapter Eight

  Isaac Ray was drunk. During the few minutes that Herne had been talking to the officer, he’d managed to sneak among the Troopers and had offered five dollars for a half bottle of whiskey, certain that out of any six soldiers at least one of them would have been carrying some illegal liquor. The man concerned had held out for ten dollars but the bottle had been three-quarters full. While Jed led the way, turning off southwards, away from where he thought El Poco might be, Isaac had been bringing up the rear of the party, taking slug after slug of whiskey until the bottle was empty.

  Herne discovered it when they stopped for the noon break, seeing the way that Isaac Ray swayed when he tried to climb down from the saddle, catching his boot heel in the stirrup, toppling over and falling on his back, lying in the sand, giggling helplessly.

  Jed stepped over arid stared down at him, face set like iron. ‘You got the liquor from the blue-bellies? And you drunk it all?’

  ‘Surely, surely did, Jedediah, my old uncle. Good ol’ Jedediah. Surely … Ooooh!’

  The toe of the shootist’s boot hit him under the jaw, knocking his teeth together with a splintering click. Isaac came close to biting off the tip of his tongue, and three of his remaining teeth broke under the impact. Herne had kicked him so hard that the back of the photographer’s head cracked against the stone behind him and he slumped sideways, unconscious, blood worming from his open mouth, staining his moustache and trickling down over the collar of his shirt.

  ‘Herne!’ cried Thaddeus Ray, more in shock than in anger. ‘What the—?’

  ‘He’s drunk.’

  ‘Ike?’

  ‘Yeah. Son of a bitch. I ought to gut-shoot the bastard and leave him.’

  Carola hadn’t heard any of the conversation, turning in time to see her brother-in-law sprawled unconscious in the dirt, bleeding.

  ‘Thaddeus?’ she said, questioningly.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘What’s happening here? Did Mr. Herne strike your brother?’

  ‘Fuckin’ did.’

  ‘Language.’

  ‘He shouldn’t have.’

  ‘The bastard was drunk. Damned drunk. I warned him of it,’ said Herne, disgusted with the whole business. Convinced by now that they were unlikely to ever find any tracks of the small Chiricahua party. Eager to quit the Rays and get away from the baking heat of the mountains, moving north and west to cooler country.

  ‘He did warn him, husband,’ said Carola.

  ‘But he kicked him in the face.’ Stepping to look down at Isaac. ‘Look. Broke his teeth. Lost the end off of his tongue. Bleeding.’

  ‘He’ll live.’

  Carola looked across at the shootist and there was considerable sympathy in her eyes. She’d suffered from Ike’s drinking habits ever since her marriage to Thaddeus, and it gave her great pleasure to finally see him punished for it.

  ‘But he can’t travel like that.’

  ‘Could tie his wrists to his ankles over the back of the mule,’ said Herne. ‘Maybe sober him up real quick. Once traveled eighty miles like that myself and it’s not the best way to ride.’

  Thaddeus shook his head. ‘You said we shouldn’t stop moving.’

  ‘Sure. I’ve got to scout on ahead.’

  Carola looked across at him. ‘I could ride with you and Thad and him can follow on after us.’

  It was an interesting suggestion. Interesting in more ways than one.

  ‘What do you think?’ the shootist asked Thaddeus Ray. ‘Makes sense. That way I can keep an eye on the lady and still not get slowed down waitin’ for you and Ike.’

  The journalist was clearly not happy at the idea. It may be that he was suspicious of allowing his wife to go off with the hard-eyed killer, but he was too frightened to express it. So, in the end, like all cowards the world round, he said nothing, nodding sheepishly and bending over his brother, who was groaning and showing signs of coming round.

  ‘Fine. I’ll go about a half mile on this trail and then fork right, south. If’n I go off that trail towards Sonora, I’ll wait. You don’t see me or hear nothing, then keep pressing. Hear one shot, stop where you are. Two or more and come on fastest you can. Same applies to us. We hear a shot and we’ll stop. If’n there’s trouble I guess you’ll be shooting anyway.’

  ‘I understand. Goodbye, Carola.’

  ‘Thaddeus. Take care, my dear. I shall look forward to meeting again later in the day.’

  ‘Sure!’ For a moment Herne thought that Ray was going to pluck up the courage and protest, but he reconsidered and said nothing.

  Leaving his wife to ride off with the shootist.

  ~*~

  ‘Trail’s fresh,’ Herne commented, standing up, rubbing at the small of his back where he was suffering from stiffness.

  ‘How recent, Jed?’ asked Carola.

  ‘Day. Two. Difficult to tell. After the rain here, though.’

  ‘You think we’re safe, going on like this? Shouldn’t we perhaps remain here and wait for Thaddeus and Isaac to catch up with us?’

  He swung up in the saddle. ‘No. Should be clear, less’n the bandits have swung around north to try and cut in on the trail behind us.’

  ‘What if they have?’

  He looked at her. ‘Then they have. You have to see, Carola, that bein’ out here’s not a question of easy answers. There aren’t any easy answers. Hardly ever a right answer. Just do what seems best. Might be wrong. El Poco could be in front. Could be up among those rocks yonder. Could be behind. My guess is that he’s goin’ on towards the east.’

  She was staring past him, to the mountains that rose like giant steps ahead of them, their jagged peaks red in the bright sun.

  ‘Could Geronimo be
up there?’

  He nodded. ‘Might be. Not too high. Apaches don’t like real high country. Stick to the foothills of the Sierra Madre. But I got the feeling they’re close. Maybe watching us right now.’

  ‘Can we go up there?’

  ‘Over the tops? No. Man on foot might make it if’n the weather was kind. Otherwise his bones’d be bleachin’ away inside three days. We go for the passes. But, up on the left there ... See?’

  ‘That flat bit?’

  ‘Yeah. We can get up there with the horses. Walk them on the steep part. And take a rest. Like a big bowl up there, and you can see a long ways.’

  ‘That’d be good, Jed,’ said Carola. ‘Jolly good.’

  ~*~

  The sun was unrelentingly hot, but the cliff had a slight overhang and the close edge of the small plateau was in shade. Rolling away below them the lower hills shimmered in the waves of heat, with the distant desert barely visible as a grey haze. Herne stood very still for long minutes, turning his head slowly, a few degrees at a time, scanning the whole horizon in every direction.

  ‘Nothing.’

  The woman looked up. She had been sitting back, legs curled under her, the dusty boots and her knees just visible beneath her tattered skirt. Her husband hadn’t been the only one to lose clothes in the flash flood.

  ‘No Apaches?’

  Herne shook his head, turning to sit down by her. Not close enough to reach out and touch.

  Not quite close enough for that.

  ‘Nope. No bandits. No Cavalry. Not a damned soul moving anywhere.’

  ‘Should we not have seen Thad?’

  ‘From here?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Doubt it. They’re coming along that defile down there. It’s on bare rock so we’d not see much sign of dust from them. Maybe hear them when they get closer to us.’

  ‘How long will they be?’

  Herne sniffed, glancing around the flat area, seeing smoke marks on the underside of the ledge behind them and shuffling over to investigate it.

  ‘How long, Carola?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Guess around two to three hours. Dependin’ on how long it takes Ike to sober up.’

  ‘And put his mouth back together again, Jed. That was a fearsome blow.’

  ‘Bastard had it comin’.’

  ‘Would you truly have shot him for something as nugatory as that.’

  ‘If I knew what that meant I’d likely be able to tell ...’

  ‘It means not very important.’

  ‘Then you’re a fool, Carola. Nugatory. Hell, it’s not very nugatory to wake up with the point of a Mex knife grating under your ear because some son of a bitch has gotten himself drunk while on watch. Yeah, I’d surely have killed him.’

  ‘What are you looking at?’

  ‘Been a fire here.’

  Carola Ray sighed and stood up, walking to join him, her heels clicking on the bare stone Kneeling by his side.

  Close enough to reach out and touch.

  Herne was preoccupied, breathing slowly, rubbing his fingers through the small pile of ashes, leaning right down and sniffing at the area around where the fire had been. Picking up what looked like small crumbs and tasting them on the tip of his tongue.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Blue cornmeal and pumpkins. That’s not the kind of stuff El Poco and his men would eat. Must be the Chiricahua, and not long ago.’

  ‘The ashes of the fire are still warm, are they?’ she asked.

  Herne laughed ‘Hell, no. You track someone and find warm ashes, he’s so close that you’re likely the wrong end of his rifle sights. But you can tell. These ashes are protected from the rain, so I guess Geronimo was here around two days back. Could be last night. Either way it’s the best sign we’ve had.’

  For the first time the shootist wondered whether they actually might track Geronimo down successfully. The Apache would almost certainly have been watching them for some days, seeing as he was in the area. Since he hadn’t attacked them, it must mean he was holding off and keeping out of the way. Herne thought about the last time he’d seen the middle-aged warrior, and whether the Indian would still recognize him. Apaches often said that all whites looked the same to them.

  ‘Jed?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  He looked round, realizing how close they were too each other and how far away Thaddeus Ray must be. She was staring straight at him, her hands tangling with each other as if she was nervous.

  ‘I have never met a man who has impressed me the way you have.’

  ‘You’re quite a lady, Carola, and that’s the honest truth.’

  Her hand fluttered out as though she couldn’t control it and touched him on the arm, her fingers tightening. She eased in closer, until her face was only inches from his and when she spoke in a whisper her breath moved the long hair that hung to his shoulders.

  ‘I would like, Jed ...’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Do I have to say it?’

  ‘No. But I guess I’d like to hear it. Tell me what it is.’

  ‘Will you lie with me?’ It was quaintly put, and Herne felt himself oddly moved by the gentle English voice.

  The shootist had learned something about women during his forty years of life, and had seen precious few marriages that he would have called happy. His own love for Louise Ann Harvey, with their wedding on March 20th, 1879, had been an idyll for him. One that should have culminated in the birth of their first child. But one that ended at the creaking end of a hemp noose when she hanged herself after being brutally raped in the middle of March. Just three years after their marriage.

  In the subsequent years Herne had kept himself mainly away from women. Oh, there’d been whores, but they didn’t count. They were there to do a job and be paid for it. And that was all they were any good for. Apart from them, there had been one or two others.

  Now there was Carola Ray.

  A tough-spirited woman with a mind of her own and a husband who didn’t seem that interested in her. Though she was pushing on in years, she was still an attractive lady, and she was immensely available.

  If there wasn’t a real good reason for saying ‘no’ to something...

  ‘Yes,’ said Herne.

  ~*~

  Coupling with her was like wrestling a panther in a thunderstorm.

  The first time he had to fight hard to prevent her scratching and biting him all over his body, locking his fingers in her hair and pulling back, slapping her firmly across the face to calm her. Setting her teeth rattling at the blow. Then laying her down and forcing a knee between her thighs. Setting himself ready, waiting a dozen heartbeats while she moaned softly, then jamming himself into her, driving as hard as he could. So that Carola cried out at the pain, gasping that he was too big for her. That he’d split her apart. Almost screaming that she was bleeding from him.

  But Herne ignored her, carrying on thrusting his hips down, feeling her responding. Her body lifting to meet him. Head tossing from side to side, eyes squeezed shut, the tip of her tongue red between her parted lips.

  He came before she was ready and she clung desperately to him, pumping herself against him until she reached her own climax with a juddering cry that was part anguish and part love.

  The second time she was little better. Weeping about her infidelity while clamping her strong horse-woman’s legs about his waist, shuffling lower so that she could lift her thighs higher and lock them round Herne’s neck, squeezing him tightly. Sighing as the changed angle meant the deepest possible penetration for her.

  ~*~

  Herne was lying back, resting, feeling the heat of the sun on his naked chest. He had pulled on his breeches, making sure his Colt was buckled in place, checking that the Sharps was to hand. Carola was also naked above the waist, her firm breasts, fire-tipped. There were the marks of his fingers, red against her pale skin. Her eyes were shut and she was nearly asleep.

  ‘Thaddeus’ll be along shortly, Carola,
’ said Herne, his voice disturbing her rest.

  ‘Again, then, my dear man,’ she suggested, propping herself up on an elbow, licking her lips suggestively at him.

  ‘Lady,’ he said, standing, ‘I don’t have the time. Let’s go.

  ‘Very well. But if there is another opportunity I shall seize it with both hands. Perhaps I shall seize you now and ... What’s that?’

  ‘Shots. Come on.’ Snatching his shirt in one hand, running to his waiting horse, sliding the Sharps into the bucket on the right side of the saddle. Carola was close behind him, trying to finish dressing herself as she went, muttering an unladylike curse as she tripped and nearly fell over some loose stones near the edge of the plateau.

  ‘How many guns?’ she asked.

  ‘Four or five. Maybe more.’ Pausing a second or two, head on one side. ‘Winchesters. Repeaters. Not many of the Chiricahua would have them. Anyways, the Cavalry’d have taken them off the Apaches.’

  ‘El Poco?’

  The shootist nodded. ‘For want of a better guess, it has to be. Let’s go. Try and stick close.’

  By the time they’d gotten down off the sloping trail, the shooting had stopped. Herne reined in savagely, looking at the maze of arroyos around them, biting his lip in anger.

  ‘What have we stopped for, Jed?’

  ‘Because we don’t damned know where to go,’ he replied, swallowing the anger against the question. ‘I’m going up there, on that ridge. Chance I might see somethin’ from the height.’

  ‘I’ll come.’

  ‘No.’ Not bothering to argue. ‘Tether both the horses first.’

  He was away, long legs powering him up the rugged slope, vanishing above her, only showering pebbles and dirt rolling down to tell her that he was still moving. It took her nearly four minutes to reach the top of the hill, seeing that the trail back beyond them was now visible. There was some dust rising in a lazy column, around a half-mile north, and among the sandy veil Carola was just able to make out figures, riding fast away from them.

  Panting she lay down by Herne, who had the long fifty-five caliber Sharps at his shoulder, squinting down the barrel of the buffalo rifle.

  ‘Bandits?’

  ‘Yeah. Got Ike and Thaddeus with ’em. No point in chasing after them now. Watch and see what direction they go in. Give you an idea.’