Herne turned away himself and began to walk back to the Red River Saloon. He wondered why the boy chose to drink elsewhere than in his own father’s place. But even as the thought formed in his mind, he realized that he knew the answer.
Dave Bronson was standing in front of the bar when Herne entered, talking animatedly to a group of customers. Yet he still managed to notice Herne’s arrival and to call across to him.
Herne waved his hand in acknowledgement and carried on through and up the stairs.
Outside Becky’s room he hesitated an instant, wondering if he should look in to make sure that she was all right. But he dismissed the idea and went on by into his own room.
Another night: another day.
The sky was dull in the morning and it looked as though the good weather which had befriended them for the first stages of their journey might be about to desert them. As he shaved, Herne decided that alter breakfast he would go and buy some slickers and a tarpaulin for the gig in case of storms.
He knew this part of the country well. A sudden downpour of rain could hit you when you were stranded and there would be nothing you could do about it if you weren’t prepared. Why, at times a storm would fill the rising rivers so full that a gulley that had been dry one minute could be a raging torrent of water the next. Men who had never seen it would never believe it: those who had kept well out of the way
Herne had once known a rider called James — Gabby James, the girls from the saloon called him, and that sure wasn’t because he talked well! One day he and Gabby had been out together and a storm had brewed up suddenly. Gabby had taken cover in a river-bed canyon and would not listen to Herne when Jed had warned him of the dangers.
‘You stay up there without shelter,’ Gabby had called, ‘else ride for the nearest cover and get soaked on the way. I’m staying down here under this overhang of rock. Next time see you you’l1 be plumb wet through and I’ll be dry as a bone.’
Herne rode away and as he did so the loud and sudden rumbling of water moving fast came rushing into his ears through the downpour.
Gabby had been right. Sure enough, the next time Herne saw him he was dry as a bone —dry as his own bones. The water in the canyon subsided and left him stranded on the side of the rock like a fish thrown up out of water. The buzzards must have found Gabby’s meat as sweet as the girls in the saloon. By the time Herne found him, there was little flesh left on the skeleton of his body.
Herne humped the tarpaulin and other new supplies on to the back of the rig in the corral behind the stables. The sound of two lowered voices caused him to look inside the stables. Becky was standing in front of one of the stalls, gently stroking the nose of a black horse. Beside her, a young man stood with one foot resting on the wooden rail, one hand on the horse’s neck.
It was Matt Bronson.
Herne felt something freeze within himself He stood quite still and listened to their voices until he could pick out what they were saying.
‘. . . then Jed left me in this school in Phoenix. It was horrible. This old woman there, she . . . she beat me because I was trying to run away. Jed, he came and rescued me. Then we started out across country for Memphis.’
Matt looked down at her. ‘That time in the school. What did he leave you there for, if the woman was like that? Didn’t he find out anything about the place before sticking you in there?’
Becky continued to run her hand up and down the animal’s head.
‘I guess he had no way of knowing,’ she said after a short while, ‘besides, he was anxious to be moving on . . . and he didn’t want to take me with him.’
Herne watched as the boy moved his hand on to the horse’s head, so that it was within an inch or two of Becky’s.
‘If I were looking after you, then I wouldn’t leave you in some stupid school. I wouldn’t leave you anywhere. I’d want to have you with me.’
Their fingers seemed to touch for a moment, then Becky withdrew her hand hastily.
Herne stepped noisily into the stable. Becky whirled round guiltily, covered in confusion. As for Matt, his one action was to stand upright- and in so doing ensured that his balance was correct. His father had warned him late the previous night about the rather secretive tall stranger. Men said that he was called Herne —Herne the Hunter. He had a reputation with a gun second to none.
Matt Bronson’s pulse had quickened when he had heard that. And now, standing beside the girl Herne was traveling with, he wondered if this would be the moment when he could try and take over the big man’s reputation for his own.
Killing Mexes didn’t really count; it was taking men like Herne that got you known and made men step out of your way in the street. That was the kind of name that Matt wanted. He didn’t want to have to paint his name all over town for people to know who he was —not like his father. He wanted to be known by his actions.
Herne took in the shift of stance and admired it for its coolness; at the same time burning up in resentment for the criticism in what Matt had been saying.
‘Collect your things from the hotel, Becky,’ Herne said in a voice that was flatter and colder than usual. ‘We’re moving on.’
Becky was surprised and showed it in her expression. ‘But, Jed . . .. ’
He cut her short. ‘I said we’re leaving. In a quarter of an hour. Get going.’
Becky was amazed by his tone. She had never heard him like that before. Yet she turned quickly and left the stable, heading back for her room to pack her things. If he said they must go, then she supposed there was a good reason for it. Maybe he had heard something about the man in Memphis that meant they needed to move on quickly.
While she was thinking about this, Herne and the boy were still facing one another in the narrowness of the stable.
‘Any more to say, son?’ asked Herne after several moments of silence had elapsed.
Matt Bronson shook his head: ‘Nothing . . . for now.’
Herne looked at him searchingly. ‘That’s the way I advise you to keep it. The way I should like it always to be —understood?’
Matt said nothing, neither did he move. Herne turned round and walked out; he did not think the boy would draw on him with his back turned. That wasn’t the sort of light he would want: if he wanted one at all.
Dave Bronson was full of surprise at their leaving so soon and anxious to make sure that it was nothing to do with the comforts of his rooms that was leading to their premature departure.
Herne laid his mind to rest on that account and paid the bill. As he led Becky out to the waiting rig, Herne saw Matt Bronson sitting astride his black horse across the street.
Becky hesitated for an instant, wanting to wave at him, yet somehow knowing that this action would displease Herne. She climbed in and took the reins.
Herne waited until the gig was rolling down the main street, heading east once more, before he used his heels to set his own mount into motion.
Down the street, he turned. Matt Bronson still sat on his horse, not moving, just staring after them, after Becky.
Four
Herne had been wrong about the weather breaking up. The next day was as fine, as warm as most of the others had been. He could not remember many years beginning so well. Not long ago, the ground had been covered with snow . . .
‘Jed?’ Becky called to him from her seat in the gig and he reined in his horse, so that she came level with him.
‘Yep?’
‘Back there in Amarillo. Why were you so cross?’
Herne wiped the back of his arm across his forehead, then down the front of his shirt.
‘Cross? Was I cross?’
Becky smiled: ‘You know you were.’
Herne did not smile back.
The girl persisted. ‘But why?
Herne swung mount away to the side of the trail. "Darn it, child, don’t ask so many fool questions!’
‘Were you annoyed ’cause I was talking to that boy, that Matt?’
But Herne had alread
y ridden on ahead and if he heard her question he gave no sign. Becky hung her head resignedly; there were so many things that she didn’t understand. So many things it would be good to discuss with another female; one who was older and more experienced in the ways of men. They surely were funny creatures!
Becky noticed that the valley was narrowing again and where the surrounding land had been fairly flat, there were hills beginning to crowd in on each side.
They began to ride down into a canyon and the girl was reminded of what Herne had told her about that canyon miles back; the one where there had been an Indian attack. But they had not seen Indians for a long while, though Herne had grudgingly told; her when she had asked that it was possible for them to run into either Kiowas or Comanche.
Herne, himself, was not thinking of Indians: but he was thinking of the possibilities of an attack. It still worried him that Whitey Coburn had yet to make move. And this canyon would make an ideal place.
Palo Duro Canyon.
Still, he mused, things never did happen when you expected them to. He dropped back again to see if Becky was all right, conscious that he had been unpleasant to her earlier.
In answer to his query she said that she was fine, even though she did say it in rather a Hat and unconvincing voice. Women! Herne thought. They surely were funny creatures!
He pulled away again and decided to take a ride along the canyon bottom; just to make sure that everything was all right.
Eighty yards ahead of the gig his horse was shot from under him.
Herne heard the shot and felt the animal’s body brake and begin to dip almost simultaneously. He pushed himself out of his stirrups and free from the saddle, not wanting to be trapped underneath the horse when it landed on the ground.
Flat on the hard earth, he wriggled close to the back of the animal. Two more shots came in swift succession, both ripping into the horse’s dark brown coat and causing blood to run freely from its side.
He didn’t know who they were but he was sure glad that they weren’t that good.
All the shooting so far had come from the right hand side. Surely they had posted men on both sides, though? Unless it was a single gunman.
No. This time the bullet raked a pattern in the ground some six or so inches from his left leg. There was somebody on both sides;
He reached up, cautiously and felt for the Sharps. A slug sped into the thick leather of his saddle and he heard it whistle close by his outstretched hand. They weren’t that bad, either.
At least they’d stopped him getting his rifle. For now. Herne rested his Colt on the horse’s still quivering body and wondered what had happened to Becky.
As soon as the first shot had rung out, the girl had pulled the gig to a standstill. She knew that if there was danger down there, further into the canyon, it would be no help at all if, she carried on riding in. On the other hand, she was not sure what the best alternative would be. After more firing, Becky got down from the seat and ran across to the ridge that climbed up from the canyon floor. Keeping her head well down, she started to climb.
Meanwhile, Herne had been trying to assess how many men he was up against and exactly where they were positioned.
There were certainly at least two on the right hand side and they seemed to have got down behind an outcrop of bare rock which jutted upwards from the canyon wall. That gave them a cover it would be difficult either to penetrate or get round.
He thought there was only one man on the other side, much higher up, but not as well protected. From time to time, the barrel of a rifle appeared from behind a large boulder, then went out of sight again. In order to get in a shot at Herne, the man would have to show a lot more of himself. And that would be too much.
The thing is, Herne thought, if these are Coburn’s men — where the hell is Coburn himself?
Had he been taking early pot-shots, then it wouldn’t have been the horse that was lying dying at the canyon bottom — it would have been Herne. So that must mean that Whitey was waiting somewhere in reserve; probably somewhere that gave him a good view of what was going on. That would be the way he would play it, Herne decided.
And he still wondered what had happened to Becky. At least she had had the sense not to drive on down any further; when the shooting had started up.
He shifted the position of his body so that he could get a good shot at the man behind the boulder. He didn’t like being under fire from two sides at once: and he was sure getting fed up with lying there with only a dying animal for company.
Herne sent a shot high above the boulder and waited. Sure enough, the rifle appeared. He held fire and waited for the arm, the section of head peering round, eye opened over the, sight of the Winchester.
‘Time to go!
He squeezed off a shot with precise aim and allowed himself a brief grin of satisfaction as the hand holding the rifle opened, allowing it to tall, clattering down the canyon side. As for the head, there was something pleasing about the way in which it jerked back out of sight, only to reappear a moment later as the man staggered into view. The eye which had been looking at Herne along the barrel of the Winchester was never going to look at anything again. The man’s hands were raised to his face and the blood was already covering them in brilliant crimson.
His two comrades across the canyon must have been startled by the sight also, for there was no warning shot this time when Herne grabbed for his Sharps rifle. He fired at the outcrop of rock and ran hard for the side of the canyon wall that was directly beneath it.
From there it would be impossible for them to fire at him from the safety of their position. They would have to move. And Herne was banking on the fact that they were both careless and impatient. Whatever else they might be, there was little indication that they were professionals.
If these were Coburn’s men then he sure had scooped the bottom of the barrel to find them.
When he had flattened himself against the rock and was listening eagerly for a sound from above, he caught sight of Becky.
She was away to the other side, climbing on her hands and knees along a ledge that was about a third of the way up the canyon wall. He realized that if he could see her, then the men above him must be able to see her too.
He waved his arm at her to go back, but she didn’t see him at first and when she did she seemed not to understand.
Still, they were not shooting at her — yet. They were still more interested in getting Herne himself.
He heard movements from higher up the rock. They had decided to come out of their hole and look for him. Or — he listened again — one of them had. Well, Herne thought, they did have some sense, anyway.
Still, he didn’t reckon things would be too difficult. Wait a little longer for the one who was moving to get more out into the open. After that the one left behind the rock shouldn’t be impossible to get around.
Then he saw the men at the top of the canyon, almost directly above where Becky was now kneeling, pressed backwards as tightly as she could. So there were at least five of them - and Coburn possibly waiting somewhere as well.
Shit! thought Herne.
If he waited where he was much longer they would pick him off from the far side. If he moved out, the two men on his side of the canyon would get him easily.
A small piece of rock bounced past his head and down onto the earth. The one who was moving around must be directly above him, but still moving. Across the canyon, one of the two men was pointing, beginning to take aim.
‘Shit!’ said Herne again.
He lifted his Sharps to his shoulder and aimed high over Becky’s still-kneeling body. The shot echoed away as the man slumped forward, then toppled head first downwards. The body crashed on to the ledge only some ten feet away from Becky, who let out a sharp scream which mingled with the dying echo of Herne’s rifle shot. The body seemed to hang there for a long time, arms spread-eagled, legs flapping loose over the edge; then it tipped and continued its journey to the ground.
> A dying fall.
Becky screamed again — and pointed. .
Herne took his rifle into his left hand, drawing his Colt with his right. He ducked low and swung his body round so that he was looking above and to the right: to where the girl seemed to be pointing.
When he saw the man, he also saw that he was looking down the barrel of his pistol; An instant during which all time seemed to stop. He saw the man’s finger tighten on the trigger.
His own shot was quick and higher than intended. It took the man in the left shoulder, spinning him sideways, while his gun went off harmlessly into open space. Yet something ripped into the back of Herne’s leg and stung it like fire.
He jerked his head upwards. The man behind the outcrop stood clear, the top half of his body well in view. In Herne’s sights. This time he did not aim wrongly. lf he had been in a position to place a bet on it, he would have wagered that he hit him fairly and squarely between the eyebrows, plumb centre.
But this was no time for idle thoughts. The wounded gunman, one hand to his shoulder, was bending over to retrieve his weapon. Normally, Herne didn’t care to shoot men in the back, but that was all the target there was going to be. Unless he waited until the man had turned round. And that would be foolish: never look down the same man’s gun barrel twice.
Herne couldn’t correctly recall whether someone had actually said that to him or whether he’d invented the maxim himself
When the man was lying face down and dead, Herne still couldn’t be certain. But he decided that it didn’t much matter.
He combed the top of the opposite ridge, Sharps jammed tight to his shoulder, but there was no sign of the other man.
I guess he didn’t reckon it was his lucky day, Herne thought. Besides, if Coburn isn’t around, he’ll have gone back to give him the news. Which means that next time Whitey will come and do his work himself.
Herne walked slowly and easily across the canyon floor and called out to Becky to make her way down. When she had done so, she held on to his arm tightly and cried silently.
After a little while, he put his other arm gently round her and gave her still shaking body a hug.
River of Blood Page 5
