Hart the Regulator 3

by John B. Harvey

  Hart sidestepped and brought the flat of his right hand down on to Henry’s neck.

  The big man rocked to the wall, crashing against it and cannoning away, almost losing his balance. Hart let him have time to recover before punching him three times - once in the stomach to double him forward, then twice in the face. Blood spurted from Henry’s nose, spotting the sheet, the floorboards. Henry shook his head to clear it and more blood speckled the room.

  Hart waited again and this time he hit the mine manager on the point of the jaw and the man went back on his heels, tottering. Hart went in quickly, following up with a couple of quick blows to the body.

  Henry struck the door and swayed forwards, head hanging down, blood and mucus dripping towards the floor.

  ‘Right, now you can tell me the rest. What I really want to know.’

  Henry shook his head slowly, as if he hadn’t heard Hart properly; as if he didn’t want to hear him, didn’t want to understand.

  Hart moved closer: ‘Who else, Henry? Who else is in on it with you?’

  The bloodied face stared at him, eyes glazed.

  ‘Who?’

  Henry began to shake his head, to look away. Hart took hold of him by his bare shoulders and shook him like a bundle of clothes. Then he slammed him back against the door so viciously that the impact cracked one of the panels of wood.

  ‘All right, you crooked bastard, we’ll do it the hard way.’

  He reached inside his shirt and drew the knife from inside the Apache sheath which hung from his neck?

  Henry stared at the blade in spite of himself; images formed behind his eyes and no matter how hard he tried to shake them clear he could not. He had known fear in his life before but never like this.

  The fear made him rock back against the sides of the door and propel his body forward, straight for Hart, oblivious of the knife now, solely intent upon reaching the gun on the bed. Hart, surprised, pulled the knife aside, jutting out his leg to trip the man as he charged. Henry stumbled to the left, his hand still straining for the Colt in the holster. His left arm banged into the bedpost, his right hand touched the leather of the belt and pulled it inches towards him.

  Hart slashed down with the knife and the point sheered through skin and flesh midway down the forearm. Henry dropped the gunbelt as though it were burning; his arm was burning. For a second he stared at the bright spray of blood against his dark skin, bubbles that sprang out then joined in a line.

  Hart caught hold of him by the scruff of his neck and, heavy as Henry was, hurled him once more against the door.

  ‘All right, you bastard, that was your chance!’

  ‘No! No! I’ll tell you. For Christ’s sake I’ll tell …’

  The shots came close together, ripping through the wood of the door. The second shot sent the door smashing into Henry’s back as his body was kicked forward into Hart’s arms. One slug exited through his neck, deflecting upwards from his ribs, the other wedged itself alongside the spine.

  Hart held the shot man for seconds, taken off guard, numbed. Shouts sounded from below. Hart pushed Jake Henry aside on to the bed and jumped through the door drawing his gun as he did so.

  Men were standing by the bar and beside tables, staring at the stairs, at the swinging bat-wing doors. Hart took the steps three at a time and as his feet touched the boards of the saloon floor, two more shots rang out in the street outside.

  He ran towards the sound, arriving at the door in time to hear the noise of a horse being driven off at a gallop. A body writhed in front of him, half on the boardwalk, half in the street. Hart knew that it was Dan Waterford.

  He stepped past him, untying the grey’s reins from the hitching post and stooping underneath, ready to mount. He got as far as gripping the saddle pommel and lifting his boot towards the stirrup - then he pulled the horse back round and looped the rein around the post once more.

  There were several men bending about Waterford’s body and Hart pushed through them, kneeling down and turning Waterford’s face carefully towards him.

  ‘Anyone sent for the doctor?’

  Mumbles of no.

  ‘Then get movin’ an’ do it!’

  The bystanders glanced at one another before one of them hurried away.

  Waterford’s eyes opened for an instant, flickered, closed. Hart opened the wounded man’s vest and saw the darkly spreading stain covering the left side of his chest. He wondered if he should move him and thought not. Instead he told someone to fetch a lantern.

  In the yellow-orange light Waterford’s face looked younger, paler. A thin trail of blood ran from the corner of his mouth on to his chin, and then curled on to his neck. His eyes were still closed. Hart was listening to the weak beat of his heart, head against his chest, when the doctor arrived.

  A short, stubby man with bushy eyebrows and thin, fine hands, he knelt opposite Hart and opened his black bag. He looked at Hart for a moment, then felt Waterford’s pulse, frowning as he did so.

  ‘Can we move him?’

  The doctor shook his head. ‘No point.’

  Hart looked at him.

  ‘After.’ The doctor leaned up and laid Waterford’s hand across his body. As he did so, a spasm shook the dying man and his head thrashed from side to side until Hart caught it between his hands.

  Dan Waterford opened his eyes and this time they stayed open.

  ‘La ... Lacy .. it was...’

  The voice was little more than a gargling whisper and Hart had to bend low to hear it; speckles of blood burst from the bubbles on Waterford’s lips and broke against the side of Hart’s face. Instinctively, he wiped them away.

  ‘Lacy ... I … tried …’

  ‘I know.’

  Waterford’s eyes closed and his head jerked back against the sidewalk. Hart glanced across at the doctor, who was refastening his bag.

  ‘Can you hear what I’m saying?’ Hart asked.

  There was no response and he repeated the question. This time Waterford nodded, eyes still shut.

  ‘Henry’s already dead. I’ll get Lacy. You don’t worry. I’ll get him. For everythin’. For ... this.’

  Dan Waterford gave no sign of having heard. He was no longer in Tago, no longer stretched up on to the boardwalk, no longer suffering the agony of dying. He was standing on top of a heap of gravel in the Bowery, his face red with anger and pride as hordes of ragged urchins ran from his fury. His coat was torn and ripped, his body was bruised, his head blooded - but he was king. King of Gravel Mountain.

  Hart looked down at the smile that spread slowly over Dan’s face, the lips that parted and the blood that burbled out and ran down on to his shirt, joining the blood already thickly there.

  He stood up and closed his own eyes for a moment, shaking his head. Then he nodded to the doctor. ‘See to him. There’s a couple of graves up on the mountain, by the claim he worked. He’s to be buried there.’

  Hart took a handful of coins from his pocket and handed them over. The redhead in the saloon doorway took a pace towards him and stopped.

  ‘Thanks,’ began on her bruised lips and ended unsaid.

  Hart looked at her and turned away.

  Chapter Thirteen

  The fly circled the sleeping figure, endlessly buzzing. Occasionally, it darted in towards the round, white face, the slack, pale skin. Once it landed for several seconds on the purple lips and hung there, camouflaged.

  Its restless movement seemed to fill the room, to dominate everything except the sweet, sickly smell which permeated all.

  Mason Beaumont woke to it, one eye opening before the other, the lid lazily flapping back down. The round, violet bottle stood on the table beside the white leather chair, the glass next to it empty except for a small cloud of water at the bottom.:

  Suddenly the fly’s buzzing stopped: Beaumont jerked awake, his right arm falling sideways away from the chair, curled, rounded fingers brushing against the pile of the carpet. Beaumont moved his back uneasily, the silk of his shirt
sticking to his skin. He fumbled for the glass and set it to his lips. Finding it empty, he let it fall through his fingers on to chair arm, lap, floor.

  It was dark outside: no light came through the narrow openings left in the shutters. The lamp overhead burned brightly. Charlie must have come stooping in and lit it, in and out again without a sound, without a word.

  Beaumont leaned back again and set his head against the rim of the chair. He closed his eyes and tried to bring back sleep; tried to summon up the dream he’d been immersed in before he’d woken.

  What had woken him?

  The fly came from hiding, unsettled, and the circling, the sound recommenced. The dream returned. Beaumont and his father seated astride stallions whose manes shone and glistened in the brightness of the sunlight. The thrum of hoofs on the hard earth. Changing. The sun extinguished in a single second. Now his father rode at the head of a group of men, anger exciting their faces; their voices shrill with it. Shadows blurring the grass in the aromatic moonlight.

  He was not with them, but watching.

  Caught in the dream, his body shuddered.

  His father took hold of his arm, pulling him, leading him and he did not want to go; he struggled, fought. His father’s voice quietening his pleas: strength of the man’s hand hard against his weak efforts; the stern, black-bearded face glowering down.

  ‘Mason, it is your duty, sir!’

  The boy swung lightly in the breeze, as lightly, almost, as a spray of magnolia. His face, the glistening, black skin, the tight curls of the head, all beautiful - except...

  Except the way one side ol the face was twisted up by the knot, big and clumsy at the side of the neck; strain of the rope against which the boy’s body had bounced, swung, battled.

  Mason Beaumont stared at the face, beautiful face, saw and remembered the same face smiling, laughing, playing close to himself, with himself.

  His father took hold of his shoulders and led him sternly away. ‘A lesson,’ he heard the words over and over: ‘a lesson, a lesson.’

  Beaumont was awake again, without knowing it. Awake and looking at the portrait of his father on the wall, standing there in his military uniform, proud and ready to die for what he held most dear.

  Beaumont almost laughed - he had died. For whatever reason, whatever code, he had died. Mason Beaumont leaned forward in the chair and grabbed at the bottle, catching it at the second attempt. He held it in front of his face, making its way from side to side, side to side.

  Set to his lips the bottle yielded nothing. His tongue tip pushed into the tiny neck of the bottle, tasting the final drops.

  ‘Damnation!’

  He whirled savagely in the chair and threw the bottle towards the door. It struck the wall and bounced sideways, rolling softly over the thick carpet and only stopping when it came to rest against Lacy’s left boot.

  Beaumont jumped, startled; he’d had no idea that Lacy was in the room. He didn’t know how long he’d been there. He watched as Lacy bent down and retrieved the bottle and examined it.

  Lacy was dressed in a grey suit with a thin stripe, his hair brushed neatly, his spectacles in place on his nose. He looked from the violet bottle towards Beaumont, then slowly carried it towards him, passing round behind the chair and setting it down on the table. He picked up the glass and put that alongside it.

  Lacy stood in front of Mason Beaumont, looking down at him. Without knowing why, Beaumont felt nervous, afraid; he glanced away but all he could see was the eyes in the portrait staring at him. He pressed the palms of his hands against the sides of the chair and the sweat stuck them to the leather.

  ‘Henry’s dead.’ Lacy spoke so quietly, calmly, Beaumont didn’t think he’d heard him correctly. Then he realized that he had. But his head was muzzy and he had difficulty in concentrating.

  ‘Why?’ He wasn’t certain if he thought the question only or said it.

  ‘I killed him.’

  Something uncoiled deep in Beaumont’s stomach. He wriggled his body inside his white suit, the white silk of his shirt.

  His mouth was dry, his purplish tongue moving soundlessly inside it like a swollen snake.

  ‘You killed him?’ The words came slowly, Beaumont’s voice no longer high-pitched but lower, more hollow.

  Lacy nodded, otherwise still.

  ‘He ... he was stealing from me wasn’t he? It was him behind the robberies.’

  Again, Lacy nodded - the same economical, neat movement.

  ‘I suspected it all along. That he was ...’ Beaumont hesitated, licking the edges of his mouth, levering his hands from the chair. ‘That was why you killed him? You found out what was going on.’

  A pause, the suggestion of a smile behind the spectacles, and then Lacy’s head moved the other way, side to side, slowly.

  Panic squirmed inside Beaumont. ‘Then I don’t understand.’

  ‘I killed him because he was a coward. A coward.’ The word shuddered off Lacy’s lips. ‘Despicable.’

  Beaumont’s head rolled forward, eyes closed.

  ‘But then you’d know all about that, wouldn’t you, Beaumont? All about how despicable it is to be a coward.’

  Beaumont’s head jerked forward, cheeks swelling, mouth opening, vomit rose to the back of his throat and he coughed, choking, as the bitterness filled his mouth and then slid back down. He didn’t understand, didn’t know why Lacy was talking to him the way that he was. Usually he was so respectful, now he wasn’t even saying Mister, just Beaumont, the name spat out as if it were something vile.

  ‘What’s it like, Beaumont? Spending all of your time inside this house, inside this room? Surrounding yourself with your own sweat, our own stench. How does that feel?’

  Lacy’s voice shouted the last word and he bent forward and took hold of Beaumont’s shoulder, throwing him back against the chair.

  ‘Well, Beaumont? How is it when you’re terrified of daylight? Only able to get through a day or a night dosing yourself with this junk.’

  Lacy swept bottle and glass off the table with a swing of his arm. The crash shook Beaumont and his body leaned sideways from the chair; he closed his eyes tight, set his hands over his ears, waiting, waiting for it all to go away, to stop. Then he would be alone again; he could send for some more laudanum. He could rest in the warm dark of the room and fi..

  Lacy moved to the wall and knocked a number of framed daguerreotypes to the floor. He lifted the saber and scabbard from its place and whirled it around so that the end of the weapon was pointing towards the chair.

  Beaumont peered through lowered lids and slowly withdrew his hands from his face.

  ‘Put … that was my father’s sword ... put it …’

  Lacy flicked the weapon and the scabbard flew off, freeing the polished blade. The gold of the hilt turned about Lacy’s hand, a knotted leather band looping downwards from it; the curve of the saber glinted in the lamplight as Lacy turned it slowly, moving it in a sinuous circle that widened until it was the width of a man’s head.

  ‘What are you doing? Lacy, Lacy! I don’t understand!’

  The point of the saber came to rest against Beaumont’s temple, moving his head upright, forcing him to lean backwards again in the leather chair.

  ‘No, you don’t do you – you don’t understand.’

  Lacy held the blade steady while he removed his spectacles, folding them one-handed and slipping them into his coat pocket. He took a pace backwards and raised his arm, taking the saber above his head. Beaumont threw up an arm in front of his face and let out a choking scream of terror. Lacy whirled the blade through the air, sending it scything inches above Beaumont’s head and then pivoting his whole body round and slashing the saber end diagonally down the portrait of Beaumont’s father.

  Gasping, Beaumont lowered his arm and stared. A slice of canvas folded down, another was beginning slowly to curl upwards. The black-bearded face of Major Orville Beaumont disappeared from view.

  Mason Beaumont levered himself up
from the chair and stood in front of it; his head moved unsteadily, mechanically, jolting this way and that. His fingers opened and closed, His breath was thin and reedy. He lifted a hand and pointed at Lacy as if, in some way, he was no longer afraid.

  Lacy watched him carefully, the saber at his side. He knocked the pointing finger aside contemptuously.

  ‘Lacy, I thought you were my friend.’ The voice was high, anguished, even though the fear had gone.

  The tall, thin figure laughed in Mason Beaumont’s face. ‘Beaumont, I despise you. I loathe and despise you and all you stand for. You brought your family money out here and built this house with it; you bought half that mountain back there and sent men to dig out a fortune in silver; you did all this while you were living underneath that picture of some cruel and stupid old man who was shot to pieces in the war. You stink away in this fetid room and give your orders and expect me to be your friend!’

  Beaumont gulped the thick, sweet sourness of the air. ‘Then why did you pretend?’

  Lacy laughed again. ‘Why? Why do you think? Because as long as I could bleed you white it was worth the pretense, the games. As long as Henry did what I told him and didn’t get out of line, things were fine. But then you had to send for this regulator and things weren’t fine any longer.’

  The saber began to lift towards Beaumont’s body.

  ‘Now things are changed.’

  The tip of the blade ran a line down the center of the silk shirt.

  ‘Now I want the keys to your safe.’ The blade nudged,

  ‘Quickly.’

  The sweat began to run again down Beaumont’s face; it clogged the pits of his arms, his groin. He shook his head and the tip of the sword cut through the material of his shirt and traced a line through the pallor of his skin,

  Beaumont shuddered, shook; he faltered forwards on to the saber end and more blood was drawn before Lacy pulled it back.

  ‘The safe.’

  ‘You can’t.’