Hart the Regulator 3

by John B. Harvey

  Issuing classic fiction from Yesterday and Today!

  Appointed regulator in the silver-mining town of Tago, Hart had his work cut out—there was Crazy John Carter, cold-blooded murderer of two kids. But when he tried to burn Hart alive, he didn’t bank on getting a gutful of lead in the bargain …

  Then there was silver thief and rapist Jake Henry … Dan Waterford, out to blow the brains out of the punk who killed his brothers … and scheming Lacey, whose last wish was to see a big red hole in Hart’s head.

  Tago was really one hell of a town …

  TAGO

  HART THE REGULATOR 3

  First published in the U.K. in 1980 by Pan Books

  Copyright © 1980, 2014 by John B. Harvey

  Published by Piccadilly Publishing at Smashwords: January 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 Edward Martin

  edwrd984.deviantart.com

  This is a Piccadilly Publishing Book

  Published by Arrangement with the Author.

  This is for Bonney, Kevin and Big Dave: the Gang of Three

  Chapter One

  The gunbelt hung from the foot of the bed. It had been looped over the ornamented brass post and then buckled. The belt itself was of strong, dark leather; the buckle square, a less yellow brass than the bed. The gun sat snug in the holster, a Colt Peacemaker .45 with a mother-of-pearl grip. Carved on to the grip were the figures of an eagle and a snake. The eagle, wings out, perched on the body of a snake, as on a branch, its talons gripped tight. The bird’s powerful head was turned sideways, its curved beak biting down into the snake’s neck. Above that head, the snake twisted sideways, mouth open, fangs drawn but useless. If snakes screamed with fear, with anger, with the coming of death, then that snake would have screamed.

  But the scream which cut through the room was human and it was not a sign of pain, hardly of pain at all. The girl threw her arm back so that it hit the thin rail of the bedhead and then the plaster wall behind. She twisted her head to one side, then the other. Her hips thrust forwards and up and when she moved her head again and bit down into the soft flesh at the top of his shoulder it was the man who cried out.

  He shook her free and raised himself up with his right arm, straightening it from the elbow. He saw her face and knew that the time had almost come. He closed his eyes as he sank back down and her legs spread wider and caught him tight and hard, at the final moment calling a name that was not his.

  They lay there and after a while he rolled off her and on to his side, quieting his breathing. The girl reached out her hand cautiously towards him, as if he might knock it away. He didn’t. She traced a line down his chest with her middle finger, pushing it through the curls of dark hair, making small circles. He lay there, listening to the horses passing up and down the street outside, occasionally a wagon. Men’s voices drifted up to the first floor room, becoming louder and harsher. Soon they would be drunken voices and there would be punches being thrown, threats and maybe shooting. But that was later.

  For now it was getting dark and the lines in the room were becoming less distinct. His pants were hanging from the back of a chair, dark brown that now looked black. A blue shirt was thrown down on the floor, a light leather vest close by it. Underneath the window were his boots; scuffed, plain leather, one of them folding forwards as it stood there. Inside the other, the right one, it was just possible to pick out the tip of the hilt of the knife he carried there. Well-honed and double bladed, it was usually with him, either inside the boot or hanging from his saddle horn inside its Apache sheath.

  ‘What you thinking?’

  He turned towards her: ‘Nothin’.’

  ‘You’re awful quiet.’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Then you must be thinkin’.’

  He closed his eyes for a second then swung his legs off the bed; the mattress had slipped sideways and his thighs rested on the edge of the iron frame.

  ‘Look ...’ She touched his back with the flat of her hand and it was warm to him. ‘You ain’t mad at me, are you?’

  He stood up. ‘No.’

  She looked at him with earnest eyes. ‘I mean on account of when I ... when ... I called someone else’s name.’

  She looked away, down at the rumpled sheet.

  ‘It don’t matter.’

  He started to get dressed, not hurrying, looking from time to time through the window. The lights of the saloon down the street were beginning to stand out more clearly. Soon it would be possible to see the stars in the night sky; the moon glowed dully like a shadow of itself.

  Hart unbuckled his gunbelt and set it round his body, the leather resting on his hips. Automatically he slid the Colt .45 from the greased holster and spun the chamber, enjoying the purring roll of sound and the exactly balanced weight in his hand. He let the gun fall back and turned towards the bed.

  ‘Be seein’ you, maybe.’

  She looked at him with small, dark eyes. A small pile of coins was stacked on the round table alongside the head of her bed.

  ‘’Bye.’

  Hart closed the door on her voice. The stairway was lit with a paraffin lamp fixed to a polished brass bracket; other, similar, lights lined both sides of the room below. Upholstered easy chairs and settees, rosewood tables and clean cuspidors. There was a small bar in one corner, a Negro wearing a striped apron standing behind it polishing a glass with a linen cloth. Several girls sat around the room, colored robes over their underthings, blues and pinks and fern green. A couple of men sat together, smoking cigars and eyeing the women and talking about them in hushed tones.

  When Hart reached the foot of the stairs and began to walk towards the door a voice stopped him and made him look over his shoulder.

  ‘You’re not going without saying good-bye, Wes?’

  The tone was half-mocking, half-scolding; the speaker tall, her black hair swept back about her fine head and held by a clip which sparkled in the orange-yellow light. She was wearing a long gown with a trim of fur at the bottom which swept along the polished wood floor as she walked. The dark blue of the gown contrasted with the soft white skin of her breasts as they showed at the deep fall of the bodice.

  ‘Kate.’

  She laid a gloved hand upon his arm. ‘Surely you’ll buy a lady a drink first?’ her dark eyes smiled at him, teasingly.

  ‘Sure, why not?’

  Kate Stein glanced over at the bartender and signaled with her left hand. She and Hart went over to a side booth and sat facing one another.

  ‘Have a good time?’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘Evie’s a nice girl.’

  ‘Uh-huh.’ Hart drank some whiskey and leaned back, looking at her, aware of the expensive perfume she was wearing.

  Kate toyed with her glass. ‘It’s been good since you’ve been around, Wes.’ She glanced at him. ‘Someone to talk to ... to depend on.’

  He set down his glass harder than was necessary. ‘Kate, don’t play with me. You don’t depend on anyone an’ you know it, least of all no man.’

  ‘Wes.’ Her hand reached for him but he shifted his arm clear.

  ‘I bought you a drink, what more d’you want?’

  She set her head back and looked at him, staring at the high cheekbones in his lean face, at the stubble around his jaw, the brown hair that fell past his ears and folded over against his shirt
collar - at the faded blue of his eyes. He was, Kate would have admitted if forced to it, a handsome man.

  ‘Just a few minutes talk, Wes, that’s all.’

  He nodded and finished his whiskey. ‘That’s it, then.’

  He was standing by the side of the booth when Kate leaned towards him. ‘One thing, Wes?

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Some men are in town, asking for you.’

  A nerve began ticking at the side of Hart’s temple, the familiar hollow rolled over inside his stomach; his eyes narrowed to little more than slits.

  ‘What men?’

  ‘I don’t know. They rode in half an hour back. Three of them. Tied up their mounts outside the saloon and began asking for you right off. Charlie, there, he was over there when they come in. Told me soon as he got back.’

  Hart glanced at the bartender and nodded. ‘Thanks, Kate. I’ll talk to him on the way out.’

  Half a dozen paces into the room, she called after him: ‘Take care, Wes.’

  Hart barely hesitated, carrying on until he came to the bar. Charlie was a light-toned Negro who’d been working for Kate since she’d brought her girls up the Mississippi half a dozen years before. Most of the girls had changed since then – they’d caught a dose of the clap, made a mess of themselves trying to handle their own abortion; they’d gotten married or simply gotten too old and tired-looking to do the work any longer – but Charlie was still there.

  He smoothed his fine-skinned hands down the sides of his apron and looked at Hart. ‘Yes, sir?’

  ‘Kate says there’s some men lookin’ for me. Says you seen ’em.’

  Charlie nodded. ‘That’s right. Over at the saloon. Come in askin’ for you straight off. Sort of loud about it. Let folk know that if they found you they should tell you to get to the saloon an’ talk to ’em.’

  ‘What sort of men are they, Charlie?’

  The Negro took a half pace back and looked at Hart carefully. ‘Sort of like yourself, I’d say. ’Cept.’

  ‘’Cept what??

  ‘They didn’t look so dangerous. Not to me, anyhow.’

  ‘Thanks, Charlie.’

  Hart moved to the door and turned the brass handle. He glanced over his shoulder towards the booths, but Kate Stein was no longer to be seen. He closed the door behind him and stepped into the dark street.

  Music spilled from the saloon, a jumble of notes from a piano that needed tuning and a banjo that lacked a musician with more fingers than thumbs. Light hit the boardwalk in leaning rectangles of yellow. Hart stood close by the nearest window and looked in.

  The bar ran most of the way down the right-hand side of the room, long and high with a mirror that covered the wall for half of that length. An artist had painted a naked woman on to the mirror, stretched out on a chaise-longue with feathers in her hair. The painting was mostly thin, black outline with occasional features picked out in color. Below the two red splodges of her breasts two barmen stood talking to one another, ignoring the calls of several customers to be served. From where he was standing, Hart could see the butt of the sawn-off he knew they kept stashed amongst the bottles beneath the bar.

  Hart looked over the crowd, pretty big for what was still early in the evening. A line by the bar and then three-quarters of the tables were occupied. There was a game of poker going on near the rear of the room and a couple of men playing black jack in the furthest corner. A few girls were scattered here and there, but mostly it was the usual mixture of cowhands and miners and men who didn’t know where the price of their next drink was coming from.

  The piano player had his head bent over the keys, a bald spot on top reflecting under the light above him. He was just starting up a slow Irish ballad with lots of trills that sounded strange on account of the notes that were missing or stuck down. The banjo man sat cradling the base of his instrument into his stomach, no longer playing along but watching.

  The three men Hart was interested in were midway between the bar and the piano. One had his back to the window, but the other two were faced towards the front of the room.

  Hart didn’t recognize either of them, but they seemed familiar enough. Their faces were hard and humorless, eyes mean and narrow. When they spoke to one another it was in short harsh sentences, spitting the words from their mouths. The man on the right had a nose like the back of an ax blade, dark curly hair and a black hat pushed well back on to his head. The one to his side was round-faced, stubbly, his hat hanging down on to his back from a cord about his neck. Both wore rough wool shirts under dark vests, while the third man had on a black broadcloth coat that fitted tightly across his broad shoulders.

  Hart couldn’t see any of their weapons but he didn’t doubt they were there. He left the window and pushed one side of the batwing doors open and walked in quietly. Hardly anyone turned round.

  Hart threaded his way to the bar and set one hand flat upon the stained surface.

  ‘Whiskey.’

  The shorter and fatter of the two barmen came towards him, lifting an opened bottle from the shelf beneath the mirror. Beyond the bartender’s head Hart could see the three in the middle of the room. He didn’t think they’d picked him out yet.

  ‘There’s three fellers here wantin’…’ the barman began.

  Hart nodded. ‘I know. I see ’em.’

  He tipped a dollar on to the counter and watched as the podgy fingers fumbled his change from a broad pocket at the front of the apron.

  ‘You know who they are?’ Hart asked.

  The round face moved from side to side. ‘No. Never seen ’em here before. They wasn’t sayin’ either.’

  ‘Okay.’

  As Hart lifted back his head to drink the whiskey, he noticed the man with the hatchet face lean towards the one with the broadcloth coat and nod his head in the direction of where Hart was standing. Through the mirror Hart watched the man turn slowly round. He saw the high forehead, the pockmarked cheeks and the thin, wide line of the mouth; the suggestion of a cast in the left eye.

  Crazy John Carter.

  Ten years ago, it had to be, maybe more. Hart had been working as a deputy in a place name of Bandera, down south in Texas. Crazy John had been working as ramrod for one of the spreads close by. Every once in a while he’d ride into town and set about getting as drunk as he could without falling off his feet and throwing up all over himself. Though Hart had seen him do both of those, too.

  Just like he’d seen him do other things...

  Hart threw back the rest of the whiskey and turned fast, his right hand spreading out along the edge of the bar, hips pushed forwards so that the butt of the Colt in its holster was well clear of obstruction. The thong at the bottom of the holster was tied tight about Hart’s leg. The safety loop by the top was dangling free from the hammer.

  There were perhaps a dozen people between Hart and the men who’d come to find him, but he could see their faces clearly enough. They knew who he was now, right enough.

  ‘You lookin’ for me?’

  Hart’s voice wasn’t loud, but it was clear and strong. Men at his end of the bar stopped talking abruptly and looked round. The thinner of the bartenders set down a glass carefully and glanced at the sawn-off under the bar. Crazy John Carter turned further round in his chair and Hart could see the black butt of the Colt at his right hip, the white movement of his hand swinging past it, close past it.

  ‘Lookin’ for me, John!’

  Now more people were conscious of something happening; something about to happen. There was a low murmur of voices, the sound of chairs being hastily pushed back, a clink of glasses. At the other side of the room, the pianist, oblivious, stopped after the final arpeggio of the waltz, cracked his knuckles and went into a piece of fast ragtime.

  Crazy John Carter stood up, pushing the right side of his broadcloth coat back with his elbow.

  The banjo player gulped in air, set his instrument aside and nudged the pianist’s arm. The piano player lost the beat, carried on for several bars,
cursed and slammed down the lid. A discordant echo rang out over the room and when it faded it was into silence.

  Carter’s right hand made a claw that hovered inches above his gun butt. His disfigured eye twitched.

  ‘That’s right, Hart. An’ now I’ve found you.’

  Chapter Two

  Wes Hart stood clear from the bar, his body dropping naturally into a gunfighter’s crouch. His faded blue eyes narrowed on to the figure of Carter, seeing both the snarl on the man’s face and the hand close by the gun.

  Near the rear of the saloon a chair overbalanced as a man tried to wriggle past into a safer vantage point. One of the girls began to cough, short insistent coughs into the palm of her hand. Somewhere liquid dripped from wood on to wood, the beat of it increasing steadily.

  The two who’d been sitting with Carter had moved away from the table, one to either side. Hart could see enough of them to be aware of what they were doing; neither man at the moment making an obvious move towards his weapon, watching closely, waiting.

  ‘It’s been a long time, John.’ said Hart. Carter stared back at him, one side of his mouth still pulled back in a snarl.

  ‘Didn’t know you was holdin’ any grudge,’ said Hart, his voice even, controlled.

  Carter’s right hand moved slightly, the finger’s flexing. Hart’s own hand dropped inches nearer to his gun. It was almost touching the pearl handle of the Colt now, his thumb pushed out ready to bring back the hammer.

  ‘What’s it to be, John?’

  The girl’s dry coughs rasped on. Someone started to whisper, stopping abruptly when he realized how loud his voice seemed. Crazy John Carter’s face muscles relaxed, the fingers of his right hand flexed again but this time they moved higher and wide. His mouth played with the beginnings of a grin; his crazy grey eyes flickered a smile.

  ‘Came to talk, Hart. That’s it.’

  Hart moved his tongue along the inside of his lower lip. ‘Strange way of goin’ about it, John.’

  Carter let the smile broaden and his head nodded; the smile became a laugh and he lifted both hands midway into the air. ‘You know they call me Crazy, guess they don’t do that for nothin’.’