Hart the Regulator 3

by John B. Harvey

  Hart sighed and stood up, picking up his hat from the chair back and pushing it down on to his head. Then he walked unhurriedly back to his room to fetch the shotgun.

  The saloon the men had picked was the one where Hart had done his blanket and gun trick before - this time he left the blanket behind.

  They were already kicking up a din when Hart got to the door. Yelling at the bartender and swallowing down glasses of frothy beer as fast as they could manage. The beer splashed down their faces on to their hide coats and then became puddles on the bare boards of the floor. Perhaps half a dozen others were in the saloon - two drunk, one so fast asleep he would have slept through hell never mind eight men creating a ruckus, three more heading quietly towards the door when Hart stepped fast through it.

  ‘Hold it right there!’

  The three who’d been trying to get out gulped, stopped and stared. Those of the eight that heard Hart’s words clear spun round. The one nearest to Hart had a Remington .44 tucked down into his belt and as he turned his hand grabbed at the wooden butt. Hart gave him a couple of seconds grace and then made his own draw.

  He shot the man through the fleshy part of the upper arm, the impact of the bullet whipping him round and back against the bar, the Remington dropping away in front of him.

  Hart lifted his left arm and the double-barrels of the shotgun covered the remainder.

  Blood was slowly staining the sleeve of the wounded man’s coat, seeping through the thick grease and dirt. More blood dripped to the floor.

  ‘Blast you, feller!’ shouted a one-eyed man.

  ‘He shot Vinnie in the arm!’

  ‘Never give him no more chance’n a critter in a trap.’

  Hart nodded at the three on his left, jerking his head back towards the door. They scuttled through without a word. Over towards the rear of the room, one of the drunks was rubbing his eyes with his arms and trying to work out if it was the whiskey working or if it was real.

  ‘When you finished mouthin’ off, you can spread yourselves away from the bar.’ Hart motioned to the left with the shotgun and a couple of the men began to move, the remainder staying put.

  The wounded man clutched his shattered arm, face clemmed up with pain, ‘You didn’t have no call to do that,’ he said through tight lips.

  ‘No? What was you aimin’ on doin’ with that pistol? Pickin’ your nose with it?’

  The man scowled, then winced. The fall of blood to the floor quickened.

  ‘That arm of Vinnie’s ought to be bound up,’ complained someone at the end of the bar.

  ‘It’ll keep,’ snapped Hart. ‘Now do you get away from there and over in front of me or do I have to use another bullet to get some sense into them thick skulls of yours?’

  They looked hesitantly at one another but began to move.

  ‘That’s it, right across there an’ make sure you keep your hands where I can see ’em. Okay. Now, one at a time, from the end, you take out any weapons you got and throw ’em down in front of you.’

  ‘In a mule’s ass!’

  ‘There ain’t no way …’

  ‘Fuck yourself, mister!’ called one-eye.

  The tall, bent man with the Sharps slung over his back chanced a step forward and Hart covered him with the Colt. ‘I said it afore - you ain’t got no right doin’ this. We just rode into town lookin’ for a drink an’—’

  ‘He ain’t no marshal,’ one of the others interrupted.

  ‘You can get your drink. As much as you like. I’m just fixin’ to see no one gets hurt while you’re doin’ it.’

  ‘How ’bout Vinnie?’ a man called angrily.

  ‘Vinnie’s lucky he didn’t stop that slug in his belly an’ start in dyin’ real slow.’

  ‘You mean bastard!’

  Hart nodded: ‘That’s right. Now start liftin’ them guns an’ knives clear. Steady now! One at a time. Anyone moves a finger out of turn an’ the only other movin’ he’s goin’ to be doing is up the hill towards the cemetery in the back of a wagon.’

  The first man fingered out his skinning knife and threw it at the floor. The point stuck into the board and the blade vibrated. A pistol and another, shorter, knife followed it. When it came to his turn, the one-eyed man pointed a scarred hand at Hart. ‘No man ever took my gun off me before. Knife neither.’

  ‘Well, someone’s doin’ it now.’

  ‘That’s right,’ replied the man. ‘An’ I’m goin’ to kill him for it. I ain’t just goin’ to kill him, I’m goin’ to skin him alive!’

  ‘I doubt it. Now drop ’em down.’

  The man did as he was ordered, hatred clear in his face, in the dark pupil of his single eye.

  The tall man lowered his head and pulled the Sharps from his back, stepping forward and laying it carefully on the ground.

  ‘I had that rifle a long time,’ he said. ‘Don’t want nothin’ to happen to it.’ He jerked a finger at Hart. ‘You understand that?

  Hart nodded. ‘Seems to me you men got a lot of threats for folk who ain’t holdin’ no cards.’ He looked over to the bar, where the barkeep was watching carefully. ‘Come out from there and collect these together. Take ’em over to my place.’

  While the weapons were being collected, the trappers stared at Hart, waiting for his attention to drift long enough for one of them to charge the space between them. But neither the Colt nor the shotgun faltered.

  ‘Right, let’s get this clear. You drink, spend money all you want but you keep out of trouble. When you’re ready to move on come an’ find me an’ you can get your things back. That understood?’

  One or two of them nodded.

  ‘Okay.’

  Hart released the hammer on the Colt and slid it back down into his holster, keeping the men covered with the barrels of the Remington. He pushed his way backwards on to the street, turned and began to walk away.

  ‘Look out!’

  The scream of warning in his ears, Hart spun fast, swiveling on the ball of his left foot, right foot off the ground, body folding into a crouch. The shotgun was already in his left hand, fingers of the right hand reaching across to meet it, shortened barrels coming up as the body turned.

  The one-eyed trapper was a couple of feet on to the sidewalk, his right arm high above his head, mid-way through its swing, Light flickered from the thin blade of the knife he’d kept hidden. His mouth was open, his face strained and lean, the single eye fixed on Hart’s whirling, steadying body.

  Hart squeezed back the triggers of the shotgun.

  The blast rocked the air.

  The trapper leapt backwards, kicking; the force of the charge took him mostly in the chest. He was hurled backwards against the wall of the saloon, slammed against it so that the boards shook; he rolled sideways, leaving a slanting smear of blood. His right arm and right leg thrust forwards, towards the sidewalk, never quite touching. Before they did, he had toppled down, head meeting the planking with a crack that echoed sharply. He pitched flat, twitched a few times, one arm catching at butterflies in the dying afternoon. Fingers extending, grasping, out and out and out.

  Faces in the doorway of the saloon stared. Across the street the figure of Dan Waterford watched quietly, controlling his breathing, still amazed by the speed and power of what he’d seen.

  Men were running along the street towards the sound of the shooting - pulling up short when they could see enough to tell them what had happened - some of them inching closer after that, eager to know more, the manner and horror of dying.

  Hart broke the shotgun and pushed fresh loads into place. He pointed towards the doorway. ‘Out here. Now!’

  The seven men trooped into the street, stepping over the slaughtered body of their friend, pausing to look then turning away. Blood dribbled down on to the packed earth of the street from the stained planks of the sidewalk. The front of the trapper’s body looked like a field after plowing and the seed was blood.

  ‘Waterford?’

  ‘Yeah?’

 
; ‘I appreciated your shout. How ’bout one thing more?’

  Dan hesitated, uncertain.

  ‘Search ’em. I don’t want to turn my back on another stashed weapon.’

  Waterford nodded and moved into the street. Hart kept the men covered while the youngster ran his hands down their bodies. He pulled out one more knife and nothing more. The bartender from the saloon was waiting at the back of the small crowd that had gathered. Hart sent him back down to fetch the weapons he’d just carried.

  ‘You lost your chance of even a drink. You get your gear together an’ ride them wagons back out of town. I’ll come a ways with you an’ give you your guns an’ such. And understand this – any one of you comes back inside Tago I’ll shoot him dead without a word.’

  Hart stared at one man after another, making sure the message sank in. Then he told one of the bystanders to scuttle down to the livery stable and fetch his horse.

  A while later he was leaning up against the bar in the Silver Star, buying Dan Waterford a drink. Evening was settling over the town and the kerosene lamps in the saloon were starting to glow with more brightness. A handful of men were drinking, a couple sitting at a table by the side window over a game of checkers.

  ‘You in town for anythin’ special?’

  Waterford shook his head.

  ‘Just that I hadn’t seen you around for a few days.’

  ‘That’s right.’

  Hart took down some of his beer. ‘What you fixin’ to do? You stayin’ around and tryin’ to work that claim on your own?’

  Waterford’s brown eyes flicked away. ‘You know what I’m aimin’ to do.’

  ‘Still settled on seem’ it out with Henry an’ Lacy?’

  Waterford swallowed down the rest of his beer and set the glass on to the counter, lines of froth sinking down the inside, You know it.’

  ‘An’ you know what happened down the street don’t make no difference to the way I act.’

  ‘Me neither. I figured maybe I owed you that one. Now we’re even.?

  Hart straightened up as the youngster gave him a final look and turned on his heels, heading for the door. For a moment, Hart felt like going after him, trying to calm him down, but he reasoned that it wouldn’t do any good. Would only make him worse, in fact. He just hoped Waterford didn’t run into either of the men he was looking for - not feeling as he did.

  ‘Buy me a drink?’ The red-head was tall for a woman, a couple of inches less than six foot. Her fingers touched Hart’s arm for a second, then pulled away. He faced her, looking at the smile that lived in the red mouth and died in the eyes. Her hennaed hair was in curls that looked brittle; as if they might snap off at a touch. Her shoulders and the tops of her breasts were white above the stained green of her dress.

  ‘Buy me a drink?’

  Hart fingered a coin from his pocket and flipped it down on to the counter. He called to the bartender. ‘Buy the lady a drink.’

  Setting his back to her he walked out of the saloon. A couple of riders moved slowly past. A man stepped around him on the sidewalk. In the sky the nearly perfect round of moon was sharpening. Across the square the lights in the bank were still shining, although its doors were locked. A couple of customers came out of the Beaumont Dry Goods and Suttlers store.

  Hart stared through the half light at the figure moving along by the side of the bank. He hesitated a moment or two, nodded, and began to walk across the square.

  The figure half turned towards him and hurried to the mount tied to the end of the hitching posts

  ‘What’s the hurry, Henry?’

  The big, bearded man turned fully now, standing close by his horse. ‘Hart. What do you want?’

  ‘What’s your all-fired hurry?’

  ‘Nothing special.’

  Hart moved in a little closer. ‘You seemed mighty anxious to get away,’

  ‘From you? I didn’t see you.’

  Hart smiled, not believing. ‘Been making a business call?’ he asked, nodding in the direction of the bank.

  ‘Why d’you ask?’

  ‘Late for business, ain’t it? The bank’s all locked up.’

  ‘Crompton’s still there. He knew I was coming in.’

  ‘Huh-huh.’ Hart looked up at the light which now showed from the upstairs window. ‘Minin’ business, was it?’

  Jake Henry started to answer, paused, then: ‘Yes. I’m heading back there right now.’

  Hart nodded and moved away. When the bearded man was in the saddle, Hart turned back. ‘You’d better keep your eyes open. Dan Waterford’s round town.’

  ‘What’s that to me?’

  ‘He seems anxious to finish what he started the other night.’

  Henry wheeled his horse around, ‘Without you to protect him, he doesn’t stand a chance.’

  Hart watched as the mine manager flicked the reins and set his mount into a trot. When horse and rider were out of sight, he went back into the Silver Star and bought himself a bottle of whiskey. If anything happened he’d hear soon enough. What he wanted right then was a little of his own company, a little whiskey bright and warm at the back of his throat, maybe even a few memories that didn’t carry their sting in the tail

  Two-thirds of the way up the stairs something stopped him. Nothing he could pin down, but something that made the hair on the back of his hands lift and crackle, which sent a cold scoop of air around his stomach, which dried the inside of his mouth.

  He flicked the safety loop from the hammer of his Colt and trod softly up the remaining stairs, waiting outside the door.

  Chapter Ten

  Sound of someone whistling along the street outside, further back a horse neighing restlessly, from downstairs the noise of pans being used in the kitchen. Hart worked to close those from his mind, concentrated on the room before him, on the far side of the door.

  He thought he heard a slight movement, like the weight of a man shifting balance in a chair, possibly the rub of material as one trouser leg was crossed over another. Breathing? Hart could not distinguish it from his own. Outside the whistling stopped abruptly. Hart’s fingers found the mother-of-pearl grip of his Colt ,45, tightened round it, drew it smoothly up from the holster.

  A pan clanked against the stove.

  Hart set his left hand on the round, brass door handle and held his breath, face muscles taut, body leaning backwards. He turned the handle and threw the door back, going in fast, gun raised, swiveling to cover the entire room in a fast arc.

  Lacy was sitting in the one comfortable chair, the lamp lit on the bedside table behind him, so that his face was in shadow. All Hart could distinguish was an oval paleness, the metallic glint from one corner of his spectacle frames. One suited leg folded over the other, right over left. The vest of his grey suit buttoned through neatly.

  Hart stared at him, keeping the Colt steady. The door was open wide behind.

  ‘I thought we might talk.’ Lacy’s voice was clipped, precise.

  Hart continued to stare, features of Lacy’s face taking shape gradually.

  ‘Without being disturbed.’

  Hart stepped back into the doorway and bent down, scooping up the bottle of whiskey and then pushing the door shut with his boot. He gave Lacy a quick glance, slipped the Colt back down into its holster and pulled at the top of the bottle.

  There were a couple of glasses on the chest of drawers. He poured whiskey into both of them and handed one to Lacy, who nodded thanks and took it, perching the glass on his knee and making no move to drink.

  Hart took a swallow and wiped the back of his hand over his mouth. ‘What d’you want to talk about?’

  ‘You.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘There were things you didn’t tell me. Things you held back.’

  ‘Yeah.?

  ‘You didn’t say anything about killing Carter and the others.’

  ‘I told you. I deal with the man who pays me.’

  ‘And I told you – Mr. Beaumont doesn’t concern h
imself with such things. He pays me to handle them for him.’

  Hart moved towards the window and glanced out; three riders were heading slowly towards the square, coat collars pulled up.

  ‘He seemed interested enough.’

  Lacy blinked behind his spectacles, once.

  Hart drank some more of the whiskey. ‘Anythin? else?’

  ‘Jake Henry.’

  ‘What about him?’

  ‘You’ve been riding him hard. He doesn’t like it – makes him nervous.’ Lacy uncrossed his legs. ‘D’you have any reason for wanting to do that?’

  Hart thought a few moments. ‘A lot of silver’s bein’ lost … one way or another.’

  ‘And you think Henry’s behind it?’

  Hart looked at him evenly. ‘I think someone is.’

  Lacy coughed into the back of his hand, a sharp, dry cough. ‘You have any proof?’

  ‘I ain’t accusin’ no one. Not yet.’

  Lacy stood up, the glass of whiskey in his left hand. ‘When you do, come to me first.’

  Hart moved away from the window. ‘Lacy, for a clever man you’re awful slow at pickin’ some things up. If I need to talk to anyone it’ll be to Beaumont, direct.’

  Lacy put down the glass, whiskey untouched ‘And you know what I’ve said before. I run those kind of things for Mr. Beaumont. Now is that clear?’

  Hart shook his head. It’s clear but I’ll tell you, you ain’t runnin’ me.’

  Lacy’s face tightened. ‘We’ll see?

  He was in the doorway when the sound of an explosion shook the room. Hart whipped round, throwing open the window. Whatever had happened, the noise had come from the square. Lacy glanced at Hart and then turned fast, hurrying down the stairs. Hart picked up the Remington, breaking the barrels as he ran and checking the load. He passed Lacy inside the boarding-house door, pushing past him and out into the street.

  Men were running in the direction of the square and Hart raced between them, the sharp crack of pistol fire ahead of him. As he neared the center of the noise he slowed, crossing on to the boardwalk.

  A rider turned into the street, bending low over his saddle, boots kicking, his arm rising and falling as he lashed the horse into a gallop. Hart steadied himself, turning and drawing his Colt as he swung round to follow the speed of the man’s escape. He squeezed back on the trigger, trying to ignore the blurred shapes of men that moved across his vision.