Hart the Regulator 3

by John B. Harvey

  Hart leaped to the front of the window, both hands, clutching for the bottom of the frame and pulling himself up, vaulting through. As he landed in the musty shadow, his right hand sped to his holster and the Colt seemed to spring to meet it.

  He swung through an arc, quick, then slow. Dust rose up from below him, separating and drifting back down. The sound of his boots echoed dully. The cabin was empty.

  Hart pushed his tongue against the roof of his mouth: it was dry. He released the hammer of the Colt and let it fall back into the holster.

  Outside again, he examined the wagon. It was in pretty fair condition and from the track marks around it had been moved recently, though not necessarily in the last couple of days. He tried to figure out if it was the same as the trappers had used, but there was no way of being certain.

  He lifted his rifle away from the wall and moved back up the track to where he’d left his horse.

  ‘Hey, Clay.’ He patted her warm neck as he freed the reins, turning her and slotting his left boot into the stirrup.

  ‘Let’s go.’

  The mare began moving as his weight lowered down on to her, right foot searching for the second stirrup. The crack of a rifle merged with a jolt that hammered into his body and he went backwards, clutching at air. One second he was almost mounted, the next the ground had come crashing to meet him and all of the breath was knocked out of his body. His head slammed against an outcrop of rock beside the track.

  The grey shied and bolted yards up the path before she turned and looked back.

  Hart lay still. His right leg was forked from his body, the other straight out. One arm seemed somehow trapped behind his back; the fingers of the other stretched towards the place between chest and shoulder where the bullet had entered. Pain screeched through to his brain, sharp and raw. He fought to keep his eyes open but they were closing, closing, the lids like weights pressing down. He was breathing harshly through his mouth. His head was on fire.

  There were so many things: he knew he had to keep awake, to move; he had to get to some cover; clear his own weapon from its holster and … had to … had …

  Hart came awake slowly. Eyes closed, he struggled to remember where he was. Something solid pressed against his back and arms, He was sitting up, leaning. The crack of rifle fire jolted him and for a second he was uncertain if it was real or a memory. The jerk of pain across his chest assured him. He remembered falling from his horse, striking …

  It was later, he had no way of knowing how long. He’d suddenly lost consciousness again and now he’d come round. Still the back of his head, his shoulder-blades rested on something solid and hard. His wound ... he saw Kate Stein behind his closed eyes, walking towards him, bringing something for him, Her hair fell about her shoulders in long, dark tresses and she was wearing silver things like rings and …

  His eyes were open and he was inside a bare cabin, bare now except for a bundle of things stacked in the far corner. A fire burned beneath the smokestack and a pan was set close by it. As Hart winced and tried to move away from the wall he’d been propped against, the door swung open.

  ‘Hey!’

  Dan Waterford stood with a bundle of logs in both arms, looking across at him.

  ‘I was beginning to wonder if you were goin’ to come round at all.’

  Hart blinked, turned his head. ‘How long …’

  ‘Some hours.’

  Waterford lowered the logs down in front of the fire, throwing a few on to the back of the blaze and stacking the rest to one side.

  ‘Mind you,’ he said, turning towards Hart, ‘I was glad enough you were out cold when I was cleanin’ that wound of yours.’

  Hart looked down at the improvised bandage wound tightly about his left shoulder and his chest. His vest and shirt had been removed and the bandage strapped tight before the shirt had been draped back over his shoulders. The center of the bandage was stained dark reddish-brown.

  ‘You were lucky. The bullet went through without hitting a bone. Clean as a whistle. Almost. I boiled some water and dressed it best I could. It’ll heal.’

  Hart looked puzzled. ‘But how come I was laid out for so long?’

  Waterford pointed: ‘You hit your head on a chunk of rock. There’s a lump there the size of a man’s fist.’

  Hart tried to move, reaching up to feel the back of his head. The effort made him wince with pain.

  ‘You’ll not be moving too far for a few days.’

  Hart frowned. ‘We’ll see.’

  Dan Waterford said nothing more for the moment. He pulled a muslin bag from the pile of things in the corner and took out a chunk of dried meat. He cut off a piece and handed it to Hart.

  ‘When I was lookin’ at that wound of yours, I noticed another one, recent, along your back.’

  Hart chewed slowly on the meat, nodded. ‘Yeah. I was lucky.’

  ‘Like today?’

  Hart shrugged. ‘Maybe.’

  Waterford sat alongside the fire, resting on the wall. ‘Why d’you do it?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Sell your gun.’

  Hart spat out a piece of gristle. ‘Maybe there isn’t anything else to sell.’

  Waterford let it ride until he’d made coffee in the pan and poured both of them a mugful. ‘Then it means you keep movin’ around, is that it?’

  ‘Pretty much.’

  ‘Until someone gets luckier than you are.’

  Hart drank some of the coffee; it was too sour, too strong. He didn’t answer.

  ‘Don’t you never want to settle down? Make a place of your own?’ Hart turned away and the movement sent a fresh stroke of pain lancing through him.

  ‘Not ever?’ Waterford persisted.

  It had been a long time since Hart had thought about her, about Kathy. He’d almost convinced himself that he wasn’t going to think about her again. Especially since he’d been spending time with Kate. But now: now there was nothing to prevent glimpses of her taunting his mind, his body. A picture of a face turning, hair falling against a bare shoulder, a yellow dress …

  ‘Once,’ Hart said bitterly. ‘I thought about it once.’

  ‘And …’

  But Hart wanted no more of it, no more conversation He set down the mug, most of the coffee remaining, leaned back on to the wall and closed his eyes. For a while he was undisturbed, then he heard Dan Waterford shifting around. After that he heard nothing.

  A rattle on the cabin roof woke him and his hand went towards the pistol close by his side. Small movements like a bird. Inside the cabin it was dark, cracks of light starting to show from door and windows. At the other side of the fire, the form of Dan Waterford stirred, turned.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Nothin’.’

  Waterford threw off his blanket and sat up, wiping sleep from the corners of his eyes. He yawned and wiped at his eyes some more; got up and opened the door.

  ‘It’s past dawn.’

  ‘Yeah.’

  Hart was able to get up with the help of floor and wall. He gritted his teeth against the tight throbbing from the rifle wound and moved towards the door. Waterford was bringing water from the stream thirty yards below.

  He touched the back of his head gingerly; the bump had gone down somewhat but the end of it was tender, the skin scabbed and broken. He tried to move his left arm but it was stiff at the shoulder and sore.

  ‘It’s goin’ to take a few days, I told you.’

  ‘I don’t have a few days.’

  ‘I don’t see …’

  ‘Somebody shot at me. Tried to kill me. Can’t you understand that?’

  Waterford stood his ground, stared at him. ‘Like you understood about my brothers?’

  Hart started to reply, but shook his head instead. Neither of them spoke until they were eating stale cornbread and drinking coffee.

  ‘How come you took me in? Looked after me?’

  Waterford looked at him, a trace of a smile in his brown eyes. ‘You know the story
about the Good Samaritan?’

  ‘Uh-uh.’

  Waterford looked away: ‘Just somethin’ my ma taught me.’’

  Hart chewed on the bread and swilled it down with the bitter coffee, trying all the while to forget the ache in his chest and shoulder.

  ‘You got an idea who it was?’ Waterford asked after a few moments.

  ‘Could be it sets you an’ I in line.’

  ‘How would that be?’

  Hart told him about the raid on the bank and his suspicions concerning Jake Henry.

  ‘Surely strange for him not to be at the mine. You don’t think maybe he’s run out?’

  Hart shook his head. ‘If he’s at what I think he is, then he’ll stick as long as he can. There’s too much money involved to throw it in if there are ways of gettin’ round it.’

  ‘Like?’

  ‘Like my hunch is that was Henry up there with a rifle an? lookin’ for me just like I was lookin’ for him.’

  Waterford rubbed the faint stubble of his chin. ‘You’re goin’ after him then?’

  Hart stood up, wincing despite himself. ‘I’d sure like to find him. Ask one or two questions he might not want to answer.’

  He reached for his gunbelt, biting the flesh inside his lower lip to prevent himself from calling out. Thoughtfully, he buckled on the belt and bent to tie the thin leather thong at the inside of his leg. Yes, he wanted to ask Jake Henry a couple of questions at least.

  Chapter Twelve

  ‘You going to take all night about it? ‘

  ‘Shut up!’

  ‘I only–’

  ‘I said, shut up!’

  The redhead pouted and sat higher up in the bed, pulling the sheet up over her breasts; she absent-mindedly combed a hand through one side of her curled hair and shivered with a cold that was inside her only.

  Jake Henry sat on the side of her bed, head bent forwards, shirt opened to the waist and spreading over his hips and on to the sheet. His pants and coat were folded over a chair that stood by the window; a pair of long Johns lay in a heap on the floor by the chair legs. His boots stood alongside the chair.

  Henry wiped his hand over his bearded face and lurched up from the bed, making it rock. He fumbled in the pockets of his coat and finally came out with the silver flask. He slumped back on to the bed and unscrewed the top.

  The woman made a noise, not a word, just a noise that was midway between resignation and disgust.

  ‘What the hell’s the matter with you?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Then what was that row about?’

  ‘It doesn’t matter. Just let’s … let’s get on with it. I could be earning money.’

  Henry pulled the flask away from his mouth, brandy spilling down his chest. He leaned towards her and threw a punch that never came near her face.

  ‘You fuckin’ whore! You’re getting money. I already paid more’n your worth twice over.’

  She glared back at him, back pressed hard against the bedhead. ‘You paid me all right and you’ve already taken more than your time.’

  ‘To hell with that!’

  Henry stood up and took another swallow at the flask, the brandy singing through his brain, warming the back of his throat.

  ‘You’ll take what’s coming to you!’

  The redhead turned her face aside and laughed – a harsh brittle laugh that made Jake Henry’s temper flare again. He jumped across the bed at her, the flask falling from his hand and bouncing from bed to floor. His right hand grabbed at her wrist, missed, caught her arm. She struggled away, lifting her legs from the sheet and letting fly.

  Henry grunted as one of her feet landed in his stomach and a flailing hand hit him on the side of his face. He rocked sideways off the bed, catching hold of the sheet and taking it down with him.

  Naked, the woman ran for the door. Her hand was on the handle when Henry flung his arm round her neck and dragged her back into the room. He spun her round and shook his head; slapped her face twice at close range, his thick fingers going back and forth, jerking her head from side to side.

  ‘Christ, you ...!’

  Henry got hold of her shoulders and forced her back towards the bed.

  ‘Don’t you think …’

  He threw her down and as she bounced from the mattress he jumped on top of her, knee driving hard down into her thigh. She screamed and scratched and tried to bite his arm, her mouth snapping tight shut with scrapings of skin between her teeth.

  Henry rammed his elbow down against her breast and she jerked to one side, certain that she was about to vomit.

  She didn’t.

  Henry prised her legs wider apart with his knees and pushed himself inside her: even then it was difficult,

  She lay there, blood running from her nose, one side of her mouth, trying to think of anything other than what was happening. Sweat slid from Henry’s body on to her own, his weight rocked heavily against her, arms pressing her down. Muffled groans came from his open mouth; eyes closed tight; breath harsh through his nostrils.

  ‘Come on,’ she said inside her head. ‘Come on, you useless bastard. Finish it! Finish! Finish!’

  The last two words sounded out loud and he moved his face aside and stared into her eyes and there was no mistaking the loathing and shame that lived inside him.

  He thrust deep again and again but nothing could prevent the strength slipping away from his body, the beginnings of humiliation. Again and again.

  The door opened so quietly that he failed to hear it. It closed the same way. The woman gazed over Jake Henry’s shoulder at the man in the half-light. Her eyes widened and her mouth began to open into a shout of warning.

  Hart raised his hand towards her and she let her mouth close soundlessly.

  He drew the Colt and moved closer to the bed, stepping softly. When he was near enough, he pressed the end of the barrel into the center of Henry’s back.

  Jake Henry jerked sideways, a wordless shout cutting short as he saw Hart standing over him, the pistol in his hand.

  ‘Get up.’

  Henry pulled away from the woman’s legs and she drew her knees up tight in front of her chest.

  ‘Get up an’ over there!’

  Mouth open, Henry scrambled away from the bed. He began to stretch for his clothes but a word from Hart stopped him.

  ‘The wall. Rat against the wall.’

  Hart glanced at the redhead. ‘Are you okay?’

  She nodded, scarcely moving her head.

  ‘Get dressed and get out.’

  She slid from the bed and hurried to the wardrobe. Hart ignored her, concentrating on the frightened man before him.

  ‘Okay, I’ll tell you why you’re so damned surprised. It’s ‘cause you thought the only time you’d see me again was when someone came on my body up by that abandoned mine and brought it back down into town.’

  ‘No, I … that ain’t true ... I don’t know what you’re talkin’ about.’

  The woman let herself out of the room, leaving the door on the jar. Hart backed towards it and kicked it shut with his boot. Henry was figuring his chances of getting to the gun that was in his holster, the gunbelt hanging from the end post of the bed. Hart saw his glance and smiled.

  ‘Why don’t you? I’ll put a slug in that spreading gut of yours that’ll leave you alive long enough to tell me what I want to know an’ then you’ll die in a lot of pain. Slow pain.’

  Jake Henry shivered. ‘Can I …my clothes?’

  ‘That can wait.’

  The sweat was drying on his body, cold and clammy.

  ‘It was you, wasn’t it?’

  Henry shook his head; Hart brought up the Colt until it was level with the bearded man’s face. He held his arm straight and began, slowly, to squeeze back on the trigger.

  ‘Oh, God, yes! All … all right, yes.’

  ‘And the bank?’

  Henry twitched, his eyes blinking fast.

  ‘You an’ the banker, you set it up between
you. With me around fixin’ to rob the silver shipments wasn’t goin’ to be so easy, so you thought you’d get the money another way. Just for a change. Anythin’ so long as you could keep your fingers dippin’ into that pile of money that Mason Beaumont reckons is his.’

  Jake Henry stared back at him, saying nothing; his lower lip hung down and his arms and legs were trembling.

  ‘Funny thing, while he sits in that fine house of his tryin’ to pretend the South’s risen again out here, there’s folk takin’ him for every cent they can.’

  Henry turned his head a little, guttural sounds coming from his throat. He coughed into the palm of his hand. ‘What do you care? What does it matter to you what happens to Beaumont’s money?’

  ‘It matters because he’s payin’ me for it to matter.’

  Henry moved a few inches away from the wall. ‘We’ll pay you more. Whatever you’re gettin’ we’ll double it, treble it. Anythin’ you want.’ His dark eyes looked at Hart with a vestige of hope. ‘What d’you say?’

  ‘I say you’re steeped in shit!’

  Jake Henry flushed red and he moved towards the edge of the bed, fists held down by his sides and bunched. ‘Who the hell are you to talk to me like that? You’re nothin’ but a hired gun, a nothin’!’

  ‘That’s right,’ Hart sneered, ‘An’ you’re a somethin’ who’ll murder and rob to get what he wants.’

  Henry raised his fist. It’s easy for you to shelter behind that gun of yours an’ say that. If you–’

  Hart released the hammer on the Colt and slid it down into the holster. He untied the thong at his thigh and slipped the end of the belt through the buckle, laying the gunbelt on the bed.

  ‘Okay, Henry, now I don’t have nothin’ special keepin’ you back an’ I’ll say it again. You’re a liar an’ a thief an’ a murderer. Now what you goin ‘to do about it?’

  Jake Henry moved around the end of the bed, fists up in front of his chest. He got to within four feet of where Hart was standing and swung a wild punch at Hart’s head. Hart pulled his face back and let the fist sail wide. He changed position and crouched waiting for the next two blows, which he evaded just as easily. Henry waited, breathing heavily through his mouth, moving round Hart and looking for an opening. He thrust out his left hand, palm open, and ducked in underneath it, head aiming for Hart’s chest.