Hart the Regulator 3

by John B. Harvey

  Jake Henry turned his horse away, then pulled it back. His eyes blazed dangerously and the rifle was no longer across his saddle, but by his side. The two miners who’d ridden up with him had their hands close by the pistols at their belts.

  ‘You sure do believe in takin’ risks!’

  Hart shook his head. ‘Uh-uh. You ain’t plannin’ to do anythin’ foolish, are you? Besides, like I say, I just rode up to talk. Nothin’ to get steamed up about,.. not unless there are things you got reason not to want to talk about.’

  ‘What the hell does that mean?’

  Hart shrugged, enjoying the man’s evident discomfort. ‘Means what it says. That’s all.’ He glanced up at the guard on the rock, whose rifle was now lowered to his hip. ‘We goin’ to hang around up here all mornin’ or can we ride down and talk proper?’

  Henry nodded and pulled on the rein. ‘Let’s go.’

  He rode ahead, driving the horse harder than was necessary, taking his temper out with each kick of his boots and slap of the reins. Hart rode easily behind, taking his own time. Something was biting at Jake Henry and he didn’t think it was just what had been said, nor his memory of the other night. There had to be more to it than that.

  Henry waited for him outside the long shack. ‘Come on in,’ he said grudgingly.

  The building was divided into two and this half was evidently Henry’s office. A desk angled out from the back wall; piles of papers, assayer’s reports and the like covered most of its surface. Over to the side an iron stove burned, smoke going up through a badly joined pipe leading to the roof. Two maps and a drawing of the interior of the mine were fastened to the left-hand wall. More papers stood in heaps on the floor.

  Jake Henry leaned his rifle against the desk and pulled back a chair. He pointed over towards a second chair and sat down himself. Hart preferred to remain standing.

  ‘You’re a mighty pushy man,’ said Henry. ‘It ain’t good.’

  ‘Maybe I’m the best judge of that.’

  Henry drew in one side of his face, started to reply, changed his mind, said something else instead. ‘What was the meanin’ of that remark about me not bein’ able to handle things up here?’

  Hart shrugged and set one foot on the seat of the chair. ‘Maybe nothin’ much... just somethin’ Beaumont said.’

  Henry flushed and pressed both hands down on the arms of his chair. ‘What did that sneaky bastard say?’

  Hart allowed himself a thin smile. ‘That ain’t no way to talk ?bout your employer.’

  One of Henry’s hands bunched and hammered down on to the desk top, shifting some of the papers sideways. ‘What did the bastard say?’

  ‘Just about the trouble you been havin’ keepin’ much of the silver you been diggin’ out. Seems as soon as you gotten it out the rock someone comes along and says thanks very much an’ takes it for his own. Beaumont seemed awful tired of that.’

  Henry, stood up and glared across the room at Hart. ‘None of that’s my responsibility. I’m paid to make sure the silver’s mined efficiently and that’s all.’

  Hart paused a few seconds before speaking, his voice quiet and almost hiding his sarcasm. ‘Then it’s a shame Beaumont don’t see it that way.’

  Jake Henry kicked at the leg of the desk, and stepped past it. A sheaf of papers began sliding towards the floor, slowly, a few at a time. Henry reached into his pocket and pulled out a silver flask. He unscrewed the cap and set the flask to his mouth, swallowing quickly.

  ‘You arrange shipments, don’t you? Ore shipments.’

  ‘Of course, that’s—’ Henry stopped abruptly, eyes widening. ‘Are you …’

  ‘I’m not sayin’ nothin’. Just askin’ questions. Gettin’ a few things clears

  ‘If you think I had anything to do with—’

  Hart stopped him with a gesture of his outstretched hand. ‘Take it easy. I said, all I want is information.’

  Jake Henry was sweating. He took another swig from his flask and walked towards the window, trying to calm himself down.

  Hart waited a few moments, taking his foot from the chair and going towards the stove.

  ‘From what Beaumont said, whoever’s been raiding these shipments had a pretty good idea of when they were being made.’

  Henry turned from the window. ‘That’s nothing. Nothing. A lot of people could know that. In a place like this, a lot of men working, it’s difficult to keep things like that secret.’

  Hart said nothing: stared.

  ‘What the hell does Beaumont want from me??

  ‘Ask him.’

  ‘Jesus!’

  Jake Henry turned his face to one side, momentarily closing his eyes. Someone knocked at the door and opened it without waiting for an answer. Henry blistered into him and the door closed fast.

  ‘You don’t have any ideas, then?’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘Who might be behind these silver robberies.’

  ‘I told you – no!’ Henry’s voice was a loud rasp. He glared at Hart hard before going back to his desk. ‘Is that all you wanted?’

  ‘Maybe.’ Hart looked at the manager keenly, unsettling him still further. ‘It’ll do for now.’

  Henry unbuttoned his coat, easing the flap back over his holster with his arm. ‘If you’ve got ideas of coming back and snoopin’ around, forget ’em.’

  ‘You got secrets, Henry?’

  ‘I got a job to do. You saw that guard up there with a rifle. Next time there’ll be more of them – and they’ll have orders to shoot first and ask after.’

  Hart shook his head in a half-smile. ‘Henry, you’re actin’ plenty strange for a man who’s only doin’ a job.’

  The bearded man let his hand fall nearer to his pistol. Hart moved in fast, his face less than an arm’s length away. ‘You’re wastin’ your breath threatenin’ me an’ after the other night you should know it. I’ve got a job to do too an’ if you get in my way I’ll knock you aside without thinkin’ on it. You understand that?’

  The blue eyes stared hard at Henry, continuing until the manager looked away, down at the jumble of papers on his desk.

  ‘Be seein’ you.’

  Hart backed to the door, opened it and stepped outside. Jake Henry made no attempt to move. Only when he heard Hart’s horse going away did he unscrew the top of the flask and swallow some more brandy.

  Dan Waterford stood below the crest of the hill, the cabin that he and his brothers had built together further down to his right. Yards in front of him were their graves. Jimmy and Frank. Wooden markers leaned backwards behind heaps of rounded earth. The names had been scratched into the wood with the point of Dan’s knife. The knife his father had given him one winter’s night, not long before his body was hauled out of the water, dead. ‘You take it, son?’ he’d said. ‘It’s sharp, strong. Use it well.’

  Dan shook his head and stared at the names etched on to the markers. He had used it well enough. Jimmy Waterford. Frank Waterford. Tall, slanting letters. The only one of the family who’d ever really learned to write. Hour after hour in the kitchen, his mother fussing and prodding and leaving him every few minutes to look at the stew bubbling on the stove - half of it vegetables that had been left rotting at the market - or the bread rising alongside it.

  Underneath each name the same legend – murdered in cold blood.

  Dan didn’t know for certain which of Beaumont’s men had done it, but he was certain that was who it had been. They’d been snapping at their heels ever since the brothers had arrived as if Tago wasn’t big enough for all comers. That day Jimmy and Frank had been gunned down, the manager of Beaumont’s bank had refused him another loan. And when he’d ridden back to break the news ...

  He didn’t know whose word it had been – Jake Henry or Lacy – but whoever it was they were as good as dead. He vowed it.

  Dan Waterford closed his eyes and his hands automatically joined before his chest. His lips began to move but the words wouldn’t come; words of a prayer
he’d known by heart since childhood. Words of any prayer. He couldn’t pray while it weighed down on him the way it did.

  Tears formed behind his eyes and he turned his head aside. Soon, he said to himself, soon, and then you can rest.

  The sound of a rider approaching broke his thoughts. He looked quickly up towards the hill and then broke into a run, heading down towards the cabin. Whoever it might be, he wasn’t taking any chances. His boots slithered on the uneven surface and twice he had to steady himself with a hand pushed down against the ground.

  Hastily he threw open the door and jumped inside. There was a rifle alongside the fireplace and he grabbed at it, working the lever and hurrying to the window. He eased the sacking aside and waited, watching the crest of the hill.

  The fact that he’d only heard a single rider made him easier, though until he saw who it was there was no taking chances. Jake Henry wouldn’t let the other evening’s business in the Silver Star rest, Dan was certain of that. And probably Lacy wouldn’t either.

  But it was neither man who rode into sight. Instead it was the tall figure of the man who’d knocked him down in the saloon, his black hat outlined for a moment against the light blue of the sky before horse and rider began to move down the hill.

  Waterford’s finger began to tighten on the trigger. The man’s chest was fast in his sights. The trigger started to move back, fractionally.

  Hart saw the barrel of the gun poking past the window edge and threw himself sideways, body bunching as he fell. A shot sang out, the bullet cleaving the air above the grey’s saddle. Hart rolled and straightened, hand clawing the Colt from his holster.

  ‘Hold it there!’

  ‘Shit!’

  Hart fired at the window, twice, aiming high; he began to run towards the cabin, zig-zagging at first. A second rifle shot tried to find him and missed. Hart fired a third time and gave up any attempt at avoidance. He sprinted hard for the door, crashing into it with his left shoulder and following fast.

  Waterford swung the rifle through an arc and Hart barely had time to parry; the barrel struck him high on the left arm and he almost lost his balance, the sudden pain ringing through him.

  The younger man tried to use the weapon as a club a second time, but Hart closed fast, ducking under the swing and driving his head into Waterford’s chest.

  Dan Waterford went back against the wall, trying to kick Hart clear. Hart followed through, punching his left fist into Waterford’s stomach and then lifting the Colt. This time he brought the underside of the butt down on to the corner of

  Waterford’s head; it was only a short-swung blow but enough to send him down to the floor.

  Hart took half a pace back and cocked the hammer.

  Waterford’s round face looked up past the gun; his brown eyes were confused but not afraid. Blood showed through a patch of curly, brown hair.

  ‘Why in hell’s name am I always pistol whippin’ you?’

  Dan Waterford continued to look at him, making no reply.

  ‘’Cause, one time I’m goin’ to turn this gun round and use the other end an’ you’re goin’ to end up with more than a little blood lost and an achin’ head.’

  Waterford still didn’t say anything, but slowly he looked away. Hart released the hammer of the Colt and stepped further back. He picked up the rifle and ejected the remaining shells on to the floor.

  ‘You always take shots at people ridin’ by?’

  Waterford stood up, rubbing his elbow. ‘You wasn’t ridin’ by – you was ridin’ in. And besides, there’s the business of the other night.’

  Hart half-smiled. ‘You take pot shots at a man who saved your life?’

  ‘Did you, hell! I was fixin’ to finish that Jake Henry for good.’

  ‘Your chances of doin’ that were as good as a man who goes fishin’ without a line.’ Hart shook his head. ‘You couldn’t even shoot me when you had a straight chance.’

  ‘Yeah.’

  Waterford wiped at the wetness on his cheek and seemed surprised when he looked at his hand and saw that it was blood.

  ‘You really think one of them killed your brothers?’

  That or had them killed – it don’t make a whole lot of difference.

  ‘Maybe it’s Beaumont you should be after then. Ain’t he back of everything round here?’

  ‘I don’t know, he never leaves that fancy place of his. The way I see it, he leaves most things to Lacy and Henry.’

  Hart nodded at Waterford’s head. ‘I should see to that cut. Clean it up.’

  Waterford sighed, nodded, turned away He swung back fast, his left arm coming up high, bunched fist aiming at Hart’s head. Hart leaned back and threw up his own left hand, catching the arm at the wrist. His fingers tightened hard, enough for Waterford to wince.

  ‘I admire a trier, but I wish I knew just what you were tryin’ so damned hard for.’

  ‘I don’t like being shot at and slapped round the head in my own place.’

  ‘Then, son, you better make sure next time that when you squeeze the trigger on that Winchester you don’t make no mistake. Otherwise you’re goin’ to end up like them brothers of yours.’

  Waterford looked for a moment as if he might take another swing with his fist, but instead he went over to the side of the room and poured water from a bucket into a tin bowl and began to wash the blood away from the side of his head.

  ‘You know a gunman name of Carter?’ Hart asked, as Waterford was dabbing at his head with a towel.

  ‘Crazy John Carter. Sure. Works for Beaumont. Why, did—’

  ‘Used to;

  Waterford turned round, towel by his side. ‘How’d you mean by that - used to?’

  ‘Last time I saw him he was sprawled all over a store window lookin’ pretty dead.’

  ‘You killed him, didn’t you?’

  Hart nodded.

  ‘Then you done folk a favor.’

  ‘That was the way I figured it.’

  ‘How ‘bout Noonan and Moody?’

  Hart smiled with his eyes. ‘They gotten pretty burned up about it.’

  Waterford looked at him questioningly, but let it ride. ‘I reckon on brewin’ some tea. You want some?’

  ‘Got any coffee?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then you go ahead.’

  When the tea was sitting in a pan at the side of the fire, Hart said, ‘It wouldn’t surprise me if Carter didn’t shoot down your brothers. Sounds the sort of thing he’d do.’

  ‘I heard he was out of town.’

  ‘He could have slipped back. I think he did.’

  Again Waterford nearly questioned him further, but didn’t. He poured the tea into a tin cup, strong smelling and black.

  ‘Even if he did it, he was still followin’ orders.’

  ‘You don’t know that.’

  ‘I know how Jake Henry thought of us. You heard what he said down in the saloon.’ Waterford’s eyes narrowed. ‘I’ll kill him sure as I sit here.’

  Hart nodded. ‘You know I’m the regulator round here.’

  The tea in Waterford’s cup slipped over the edge, ‘Since when?’

  ‘Since yesterday.’

  Waterford set down the cup. ‘Does that mean you’ll stop me?’

  ‘I did before. If you try to gun Henry down you might have to go past me to do it.’

  Dan Waterford stood up. ‘Maybe you should have taken your chance when you had it.’

  Hart nodded and faced him across the table. ‘So should you.’

  He rode back up the hill, pausing only to look for a moment at the inscription on the grave markers. Shaking his head, he flicked at the reins and passed on out of sight of the cabin. He didn’t want to kill Dan Waterford - he was trying hard not to -and he hoped the youngster’s temper and pride didn’t force him into a situation where there was no alternative.

  The sun had slid behind a veil of grey clouds and the wind had gotten up from the east, sharper than before. Hart reached round and free
d his Indian blanket from behind the saddle, slipping it round his body. He angled his hat down over his eyes and swung the dapple grey back towards town.

  Chapter Nine

  In the week that followed Wes Hart earned his money easy. The show he’d put on that first couple of nights served to keep most of the regulars within bounds and strangers who rode in looking to stir up hell soon got told the new facts of life in Tago. They drank quickly and rode back out, casting furtive glances over their shoulders for the tall regulator with the fast draw and the sawn-off shotgun under the Indian blanket.

  Jake Henry sent in a message saying that he was sending a silver shipment east along with four armed guards. Hart met the wagon and rode with it a day’s journey out of town. There wasn’t any trouble then, nor, as far as they’d heard, for the rest of the trip.

  Of Lacy he didn’t see anything. Hart presumed he was out at the Beaumont place keeping Mason Beaumont company – whatever that meant. Everything was as peaceful and law-abiding as a busy mining town could ever be.

  It couldn’t last.

  They were travelling south-west, heading by some roundabout route to California. San Francisco. A party of trappers and grafters who were determined to reach the coast and sign up on board ship. Eight of them in a couple of covered wagons drawn by half a dozen mules all told. They’d set out with two pairs for each wagon but the winter had been long and they’d been out of food and hungry fit to eat any damned thing.

  They rolled into Tago, stinking and dirty, patched pants and fur coats, most of them with fur hats as well. A few wore guns, all of them long skinning knives. One man, tall and thin like bent whipcord, carried a long-barreled Sharps rifle strapped across his back. They drew the wagons up into the yard alongside the livery stable and headed for the nearest saloon to see about getting drunk.

  Hart had seen them ride in and nodded to himself, knowing that nothing in the way of rumor or reputation was ever going to do a thing. He was sitting out on the boardwalk as they went past, enjoying the heat of the sun and stretching his legs. The warmth of the air took the stink of the men and carried it across the street.