Hart the Regulator 3

by John B. Harvey

  In the daytime it was women and broken men and boys too young and weak to help shift rock; it was wagons carrying in supplies and lines of mules and every now and again a man riding through with a haunted look in his eye and a pistol hung low from his hip. When darkness began to fall it was different: the men were drinking hard or already drunk; the gamblers were hunched over their cards praying for the next deal to bring them the straight flush that life had denied; the women were painted and brazen, their eyes staring boldly into men’s faces counting the money they saw there; the wives sat alone listening to the turn and cry of the kids and twisting their fingers hard in their laps until they hurt.

  Hart had walked round Tago in the light and nothing had happened: now he was stepping out into the dark.

  He drew the Colt easily from its holster and spun the chamber against the palm of his left hand, hearing the rolling click and sliding the gun back down into the greased leather. He secured the thong about his leg, leaving the one which held the hammer free. He picked up the sawn-off Remington and broke the fourteen-inch barrels, checking the load. The weapon snapped back with a loud metallic crack.

  Hart set the shotgun on the bed while he unfolded the Indian blanket and draped it over his left shoulder. He picked up the shotgun with his left hand, concealing it under the colored patterns of the blanket.

  He had his leather vest on over his new blue shirt; grey pants outside worn boots, worn and easy. Hart scooped up his flat-crowned black hat and fixed it on his head, angling the front downwards so that it almost shielded his eyes.

  He touched the palm of his right hand once again, momentarily, to the butt of his Colt then left the room. Down the stairs and out into the street.

  It was passing from dusk to night. The air was thickening and cold. Lights glowed muzzily. The sound of voices drifted from the square. Hart walked out into the middle of Silver Street and set off towards the source of the noise, stepping purposefully.

  There was a wagon hitched up outside the Silver Star and on either side of it some dozen horses. More were tethered at points round the square. A shadow moved on the edge of the boardwalk and instantly Hart halted, his body dipped, hand hovering over his gun.

  The shadow became a shape, became a man. Medium height, wearing a grubby Stetson and a wool coat. He stared at Hart and shook his head, uncertainly. Then he carried on towards the saloon doors.

  Hart straightened and followed him. Over the top of the still swinging doors he could see most of the long room. The same bartender was behind the same greasy counter, only this time he had two others helping him out. A line of men stood facing them, glasses by their hands. Around half of the tables were occupied, some playing cards, others just talking, drinking. The red-head he’d seen on the balcony the day he’d arrived was standing on the stairs to the left of the room, one arm snaked round the bannister.

  Hart pushed the doors open and went in; he paused for a moment before pushing his way to the bar. The barkeep recognized him and came forward, ‘Whiskey?’

  ‘Sure.’

  Men who’d been there when Hart had dealt with Dan Waterford, others who’d only heard about it, began looking at Hart, pointing, talking. The man next to him, a rangy miner with dirt engrained into face and hands, offered to shake his hand and buy him a drink. A bearded man to the other side spat down at the floor and cursed him for not letting the Irishman go ahead and kill Jake Henry when he had the chance.

  Hart half-turned, his face cold with controlled anger. ‘Maybe I’d’ve left him to it if I’d thought the kid had any kind of chance. As it stood the only thing he was goin’ to get for himself was a couple of slugs in the chest.’

  The bearded man looked up at Hart with a scowl. ‘An’ now?’

  ‘Now I got a job to do. Now I’d’ve stopped it no matter who was goin’ to get shot.’

  The man moved back a few feet along the bar, elbowing someone else out of the way. ‘A job? What the hell kind of job is that?’

  ‘Regulator.’

  The bearded man’s tongue showed for a moment between his lips and he blinked. ‘You don’t say. Beaumont’s regulator, eh?’

  The line of Hart’s mouth tightened. That was what I didn’t say. I don’t belong to Beaumont, nor anyone else.’

  ‘Yeah? Who the hell pays your wages?’

  ‘That don’t mean he owns me.’

  The man barely turned his head before spitting. ‘Shit! Mason Beaumont owns this town and everythin’ in it.’ He stared at Hart pointedly. ‘Everyone!’

  Hart took half a pace back, as if moving away. Then he swung his right arm, fist bunched, leaning all the weight of his body behind the punch. The fist struck the bearded man on the side of the jaw and jolted him back hard, slamming him into the pair behind. There were shouts and curses and then the sound of Hart’s fist hammering home again into the man’s face. Bone gave under the force of the blow and the crunch was accompanied by a jet of blood from the man’s broken nose.

  Several others jumped wide, throwing their glasses down, some starting to reach for the guns at their hips.

  Hart spun so that his back was to the bar and his hand moved in a blurring movement that only stopped when the Colt .45 was steady and raised, hammer cocked.

  ‘Jesus Christ!’

  Everyone close stopped as if frozen. Further back into the saloon conversations continued, fading now as heads turned round realizing what was going down.

  The bearded man rolled over on the floor until his body pressed against the foot of the bar. He was covered in spilt beer and spit and his own blood. One arm was cradled about his head.

  Five others stood watching Hart, fear clear and easy in their eyes.

  A glass tinkled – a laugh caught and broke: the saloon was still.

  Hart ran his eyes around the room, making sure that he saw everyone, that everyone saw him.

  When he spoke his voice was taut like steel.

  ‘I’ll say this once an’ I hope I don’t have to spell it out again. I don’t want to have to beat it into every one of you, but I will if I have to. I’m Wes Hart. I’m regulator here in Tago. Since now. That means I’m keepin’ the law. But I ain’t doin’ it with no badge. I’m doin’ it with this– ’ he lifted the Colt Peacemaker so that everyone could see ‘– that’s my law.’

  Hart paused, letting his words sink in.

  ‘One more thing – this man here suggested that the law I was keepin’ was Beaumont’s law.’ He glanced down. ‘You can see what happened to him. Sure, Beaumont’s payin’ my wages, but that’s as far as it goes. I run things my way, no one else’s.’

  He looked over the crowd again.

  ‘Any of you doubt that he’d better step out here and say it now.’

  Nobody moved.

  Hart reached round on to the bar and lifted his glass, downing the whiskey at a swallow. Slowly he walked towards the doors, men stepping aside to let him pass.

  The dog growled and whined at the corner of the alley, hair bristling. Deeper into the darkness something, someone, moved. Hart stepped back out of the light.

  He heard footsteps, unsteady; a voice, low and unclear. Towards the end of the street, two men appeared, riding their horses slowly towards where Hart was standing. In the alley, the dog growled louder and began to bark. The man swung his foot at it and missed, cursing. The dog snapped at his heels and he kicked again, the thump of boot on flesh testifying to his success. As the dog ran off into the shadow, the man saw Hart for the first time.

  Swaying slightly, he looked at him, not able to get his face into focus. The two riders came closer. Finally the man gave up the attempt and lurched towards the door of the small saloon.

  The two men reined in their mounts and dismounted. Hart followed them through the door. The interior was thick with smoke and loud with voices braying and talking. A few leaned round at the tables and glanced at Hart, but not too many paid him much attention. It wasn’t the kind of place where it paid to stare at a man for too long.
>
  ‘Whiskey.’

  The bartender sniffed and wiped the edge of his hand under his nose before reaching for the bottle; wiped the hand down his vest before picking up a glass. The men who’d come in ahead of Hart were talking to a group of miners further along the bar.

  The light from three hurricane lamps positioned down the center of the room sent some men into sharp relief and left others in shadow.

  ‘Seen you around?’ asked the bartender.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Thought not.’ He sniffed a few more times and moved away to serve someone else.

  Hart tried the whiskey and it was as sharp and sour as he’d thought it would be. When he put the glass down he realized that one of the group of men along the bar was saying something about him and pointing at the blanket draped over Hart’s left shoulder.

  Hart waited, knowing the man would allow himself to be encouraged by his companions and would grow louder as he went on.

  ‘What’s the matter, stranger? White man’s clothes not good enough for you?’

  He was young, maybe a couple of years over twenty, his face already flushed with drink. A black leather gunbelt was buckled at his hips and a pistol hung low in the holster. Dark, curly hair showed under the brim of his hat; his eyes shifted as he spoke.

  ‘Hear me? You hear me?’

  Hart stood away from the bar. ‘I hear you.’

  The two who’d come in ahead of Hart were at the kid’s right, a few paces behind him. One of them was an older man, lines carved into his face and etched out by the shadow and line of the light. A pistol was tucked down into his belt, angling across his body. His companion was around thirty, clean shaven, a gun holstered for a left-hand draw.

  There were three more to the bar side and Hart counted three more weapons.

  ‘I asked if you was an Indian lover.’

  ‘An’ I heard.’

  ‘So how come you ain’t answerin’?’ The kid curled his lip.

  Hart said it loud and clear so that almost everyone in the saloon could hear. ‘I don’t talk to drunks. ’Specially drunken kids.’

  The lip curled again into a snarl; the youngster’s hand was closer to his gun butt; he was breathing through his open mouth, loudly.

  ‘Mister, you’re goin’ to regret that.’

  ‘I doubt it’

  Only one man continued to talk, somewhere towards the far side of the smoky room. Everyone else was waiting, watching, a few standing on tables to get a better view.

  ‘You damned Indian-lovin’ bas—’

  The kid went for his gun and as he did so Hart brought up his left arm, jerking the blanket clear. Suddenly, his fingers beginning to tighten around the butt of his pistol, the kid was staring down the barrels of a sawn-off shotgun.

  His mouth fell open, jaw slackened; breath came harshly as his hand jerked away from his gun. The older man’s face frowned with surprise and his own movement towards the pistol angled into his belt stopped short. None of the others moved, spoke. They were too intent upon the shotgun and the man standing behind it.

  ‘Okay, boy, you got some apologizin’ to do.’

  The youngster struggled for words but they stuck in his throat; he couldn’t drag his eyes away from the way Hart’s finger was curled inside the trigger guard. He knew that it would only need the merest movement to blast both barrels of shot through his body.

  ‘Now who ain’t hearin’?’ Hart’s voice was the only thing to be heard in the small saloon - apart from the kid’s scraping, frightened breath.

  ‘I …I …‘

  Hart prodded the shotgun towards him and his eyes closed, face twisting sideways.

  ‘You what? I ain’t got all night.’

  ‘I’m ... sorry. Real sorry, mister I never ... never meant nothin’ by it. Honest, I …’

  ‘Honest, shit! The only honest thing is that you didn’t know I had this Remington stashed away under this blanket an’ you’d gotten yourself enough whiskey inside to show off some in front of your friends. Ain’t that it, boy? Prove yourself a man? Huh?’

  The kid looked away from the gun and down at the soiled floor.

  ‘Yeah.’ His voice was so soft that it could hardly be heard.

  ‘Louder, boy!’

  ‘Yeah.’

  Hart stepped forward. ‘That still ain’t loud enough. I want you to shout it out. Sing it!’

  The end of the barrels of the shotgun were hard against the youngster’s chest and his body was shaking so strongly that it vibrated against the metal.

  ‘Yeah!’

  ‘Yeah, what?’

  ‘Yeah, I was lookin’ to show off. Bein’ stupid. Stupid drunk.’

  Hart stepped away and lowered the shotgun. All eyes were still on him, from the light or from the shadow. A few men had begun to talk quietly, whispering about what they’d seen, but as soon as Hart spoke they fell silent.

  ‘I’m the regulator here now! I aim to keep things as law-abidin’ as can be.’ He raised the shotgun again, holding it high. ‘If I need to use this to do it, then I will.’

  Hart kept the shotgun where it was and looked slowly around the room. ‘I hope you all understand that.’

  He scooped up the blanket and draped it back over his left shoulder, hiding the shotgun from sight. Carefully he backed towards the door, saving his last glance for the kid close by the bar – the youngster quickly turned away. His hand reached towards the whiskey glass on the counter and it was shaking like an aspen in the wind.

  Hart untied his horse and set his boot inside the stirrup, pulling himself up into the saddle. He’d made himself known enough for one night. Word would travel and travel fast and that was what he wanted. He swung the grey around and set off back to the boarding-house. There was a bottle in his room and he’d pour himself a shot or two before turning in.

  At first light he was going to ride up into the hills and take a look around - if he was going to find out who was systematically plundering Beaumont’s gold that seemed as good a place to start as any.

  Chapter Eight

  The sun was still low in the sky, its brightness hooded by cloud. The wind blew freely from the east, turning the branches of the pines which edged the hill. Below, the water moved a slow, muted blue. Hart reined in the mare and looked down towards the Beaumont mine.

  Around the main entrance of the shaft heavy timbers pushed upwards, black and clumsy. A number of men moved about, not in any apparent pattern. There were two long wagons waiting, unloaded past the entrance. Half a dozen mules were tied to a long line; as many horses stood in a rough corral. There was one single-story building with smoke rising from a hole cut in its roof and three smaller cabins close to its left.

  Hart touched the mare’s sides with his spurs and set her into a walk. The top surface of the ground was firm and ridged and where hoofmarks broke it through they exposed a darker, softer soil underneath.

  He was eighty yards away from the mine when a shout made him turn, reining in.

  ‘Where you headin’, mister?’

  The man was on a curved ledge of rock to Hart’s right, the sun coming up over his shoulder so that his head and shoulders appeared in silhouette. He might be good and keeping quiet and out of sight but he was presenting too easy a target of himself.

  Hart saw the rifle raised to the man’s shoulder, took his time before answering. ‘Just goin’ into the mine. Lookin’ around.’

  ‘We don’t take to no visitors.’

  Hart still couldn’t make out the features of the man’s face, only the outline.

  ‘You tell Jake Henry I’m here. Wes Hart. He’ll clear me.’

  The man shook his head quickly. ‘I can’t do that. You ain’t got no proper business, you ride back.’

  ‘Ride in an’ ask him.’ An edge of temper was beginning to show underneath the flat tone of Hart’s voice.

  ‘I can’t leave my post.’

  ‘Then we’re stuck here all morning, cause I ain’t turnin’ round. Not now.’
>
  The rifle was pulled into the shoulder. Hart touched the tip of his tongue to his dry lips. He freed his boots from the stirrups, ready to throw himself from the saddle.

  The sound of voices rose from the mine. Hart glanced round to see three men leading mounts from the corral.

  ‘Guess we’re gettin’ company,’ he said.

  The man on the rock didn’t reply; waited. Hart picked out Jake Henry right off, riding in the middle of the three and slightly ahead. A Winchester lay across the front of his saddle, held fast.

  Henry acknowledged Hart with a nod and called to the guard. ‘What’s up?’

  The man pointed his rifle. ‘He come by sayin’ he was ridin’ down to the mine. Didn’t know him so I told him he wasn’t.’

  Jake Henry moved his horse nearer to Hart. His bearded face scowled. ‘Seems to me your business is back down in town. That was what you was hired for. Up here I handle things an’ I don’t need no regulator to help me do it.’

  The face reddened as the harsh voice grew louder.

  Hart looked at the mine manager evenly. ‘You listen to me. First off, I don’t recall you bein’ around when I was hired so I don’t see how you know more about what I’m supposed to be doin’ than I do myself. Then again, what I hear, handlin’ things up here is where you’re fallin’ down on your ass.’