The Hanging (Herne the Hunter Western Book #17)

by John J. McLaglen

  But Herne was safe on the heights, behind a series of jagged spears of rock, watching the bandits as they heeled their animals in towards the town. He noticed that all of the horses were moving easily. George Wright was in the lead on his own black stallion. The little figure of Joey was second. Then the negro and finally, slumped over his saddle, was scar-faced Sean.

  It was a little after ten.

  There were only a couple of people bustling along the main street of the settlement. Women with heavy baskets on their arms, heads tucked well down into the turned-up collars of their long coats, faces shrill with the cold that bit at their cheeks.

  Herne heeled the horse down the side-trail, coming on to it a couple of hundred paces behind the robbers. Waiting at the edge of town until he’d seen Beech take the animals and walk them out of sight around the corner. The other three disappeared inside the imposing doors of the bank.

  The shootist came in closer.

  Ready.

  ‘Good afternoon, gentlemen,’ said one of the clerks, not really bothering to look up. He was near the bottom of adding a long column of figures and he didn’t want to break off.

  ‘Like to make a withdrawal, son,’ said George Wright, waving his pistol at the young man.

  Who, unfortunately, didn’t look up. Still locked in. Buried in figures. ‘Fourteen hundred and thirty-eight dollars and seventeen. Fourteen hundred and seventy-nine dollars and eleven cents.’

  Wright couldn’t believe it. There was nobody else in the bank, except for himself, Joey in his droop-brimmed hat, and Sean. The Irishman was standing near the door, as though he was just waiting for the chance to kill someone. Anyone.

  ‘I’m a regular customer. Made a large withdrawal only ’bout seven weeks ago.’

  ‘Be with you in just a moment, sir. Crave your kind indulgence in waiting patiently. Fifteen hundred and ninety … no, ninety-one dollars and four cents. Nearly done.’

  ‘Now, son,’ snapped George Wright, ‘or I’ll put a bullet through your damned clacking mouth.’

  ‘Oh, Jesus, no. No. No …’ The young man finally looked up from his spidery column of cribbed numbers and stared down the barrel of a forty-five, hammer drawn clear back.

  And he fainted.

  ‘Christ! You!’ called the robber, banging the butt of his pistol on the counter.

  ‘Comin’, Sir,’ replied the second of the clerks, turning round with a bright, professional smile pasted on his face. Seeing his friend unconscious, or dead, and the three same men who’d robbed them before, grouped in a circle the other side of the protective grille.

  ‘You know me, boy.’

  ‘I do. ... I do, sir. Please don’t kill me, mister. I got a widowed Ma to support.’

  ‘Then get that door open.’

  ‘I can’t.’

  The pistol was leveled at his head and he almost started crying. Breathing like a child who’s just been badly shocked. Shallow and fast.

  ‘The manager, mister …’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Mr. Kitchener, the acting-manager.’

  ‘Figured the last one wouldn’t be back from the hospital yet,’ grinned Wright.

  But the grin didn’t get close to the pale blue eyes.

  ‘Should I get him?’

  ‘You do that, boy. And you be quick. Joey.’

  ‘Yeah, George?’

  ‘Watch him. Don’t actually go in that office. Just stand out here and talk loud and clear so that Mr. Kitchener can hear you.’

  ‘Hey, George. There’s a man on a big black come in town. Tethered the horse yonder.’

  ‘What’s he like, Sean?’

  ‘Tall. Black coat. Looks kind of old.’

  ‘On his ownsome?’

  ‘Yeah. Nobody else in sight at all.’

  The leader of the gang grinned again. ‘Then I guess we don’t have a thing to worry about, huh?’

  ‘Guess not, George. Just that the way Dermot gotten hisself killed in—’

  ‘Sure. Sure. We know it. Could have been Herne. It’s true, it could have. Could have isn’t the same as is.’

  Back to the clerk: ‘You got yourself frozen to the floor, son?’

  ‘No. No, I didn’t.’

  ‘Then get on. Now.’

  Jed Herne found himself a nice, sheltered position where he could watch the door of the bank. Sitting down on a long wooden seat, brushing off some of the pale coating of ice. Holding the long fifty-five caliber Sharps across his lap. He was in shadow and about sixty yards from the main door of the Cold Christmas branch of the First National.

  ‘Shouldn’t be long,’ he said, to himself.

  Kitchener found himself facing the situation that he’d heard about. It was as though time had somehow looped itself around in a circle and he was trapped in it, like a hornet in a pool of spilled honey. The tall figure of the bandit, Herne, with his minions. Four of them. No, three. There was supposed to be a negro somewheres outside who minded the animals.

  ‘You’ve come back,’ he said.

  George Wright laughed. ‘You sure got sharp eyes, Mr. Kitchener. It’s us, right enough.’

  ‘You can’t do this again.’

  ‘Well, that’s … ’

  ‘Let me bust him, George.’

  Wright turned to face Sean. ‘No names, friend. You did it before. Remember that. No names. Now…’ he allowed the word to remain suspended in the still air of the bank.

  Kitchener had the chance of being a hero or of being sensible. There was a Winchester, always loaded and cocked, hanging on pegs just under the counter. During the previous raid it had been untouched. He could see it as he stood there. If he reached down his sweating hands would grip the cool wood of the stock.

  The assistant-manager wasn’t a brave man. His wife, Joanne, had reminded him only the morning before as he tucked into his ham and grits. ‘Matt,’ she’d said. ‘I’d rather have a husband who lives on his knees rather than one who dies on his feet. Remember that, my dear one.’

  Joanne Kitchener spent too much time reading improving tracts full of homilies like that.

  ‘I’ll open the vault, Mr. Herne,’ he said.

  ‘That’s good. Real good. Joey. In and collect it. Only large bills, if you please, Mr. Kitchener. Joey’s only little.’

  Sean looked again through the front window of the bank. Seeing the street was completely deserted. ‘George, that man in black’s disappeared,’ he said. Forgetting and calling the leader by his name again. Now he’d gone and done that it meant they’d have to kill all of the people in the building. Still, that didn’t worry Sean O’Sullivan very much.

  He touched the hideous scar beneath his chin where a crazed man had once taken a hatchet to him when he’d caught Sean raping his wife in the cellar of their home. In bitter cold the scar pained him.

  The small robber scurried behind the counter with a couple of gunny sacks, and held them out to Kitchener to fill. With the great thick steel doors hanging open, they could all see row upon row of neat metal boxes, and shelves to the left. Each shelf seeming to creak under white sacks, and rows of notes.

  ‘My sweet Lord. Will you look at that,’ breathed Wright. ‘That’s more than I’ve seen in a whole life of stealin’. Makes me feel kind of religious.’

  ‘There’s several hundred thousand dollars there. We’re holding it as a reserve against the bank in Denver’s needs. It’s our monthly—’

  Wright interrupted him. ‘I don’t give a shit ’bout that, mister. Just fill them bags with the biggest pile of bank notes you can see.’

  Herne quietly levered back the big claw hammer on the Sharps. Brought his finger to his lips and touched it with his tongue. Applying the dab of spittle to the front sight to make it stand out better. But the range for the long buffalo rifle was absurdly easy. If they came out the front, he’d hit them.

  There were three shots from inside the bank. Two close together as Wright calmly put a bullet through the forehead of each of the clerks. Killing them ins
tantly, kicking them over backwards, eyes blanking out as they stared at the ceiling.

  Matt Kitchener saw them die, watching unbelieving at the callous killing. His mind hardly able to take in the fact that the men were dead. Two young boys, both of them from Cold Christmas, who’d joined the First National only a few months back. Now they were both dead.

  And that had to mean that….

  ‘Please don’t,’ he begged, falling to his knees in front of the littlest of the robbers, Joey. Holding him round the legs, pressing his face down. Kissing the mud-caked boots of the bandit, tears coursing down his cheeks.

  ‘Jesus, mister,’ said Sean O’Sullivan, by the door, holding the sacks. ‘Don’t waste our fuckin’ time.’

  ‘I got a family, so please don’t …’ raising his face, level with the brass buckle on Joey’s belt, dirt and weeping coating his mouth, hanging in the neat little moustache.

  ‘Put him away,’ said George, also holding a sack in his right hand. Hearing the clatter of hooves that meant Beech was coming in right on time. As always.

  ‘Oh, shit,’ said Kitchener, suddenly disgusted and calm. Realizing he was going to go anyway. Lunging up at the throat of the small man, clawing for his eyes.

  Joey tried to club him down with the butt of the Meteor, half-hitting. A glancing blow on the temple that drew an instant thread of blood, bright against the paleness of the manager’s face. His fingers caught in the duster, locking on the shirt underneath.

  ‘Bastard,’ yelled Joey, voice thin with excitement and anger.

  The bandit hit him again, knocking him back to his knees, but his hands were strong and the heavy material of the shirt tore clear across and down.

  Exposing a fine pair of breasts, the nipples erect with the tension.

  That was when George Wright shot Kitchener through the throat from five paces away, sending him toppling to the polished floor of the bank, choking and gasping as he began to drown in his own blood.

  ‘Come on. Get the fuck out of here!’ yelled Wright, motioning at Joey to cover up her naked body.

  ‘That son of a bitch,’ screamed the girl, kicking out at the dying man and catching him a jarring blow to the ribs with her right foot. Drawing her boot back for another kick and then changing her mind, heading for the door behind George.

  Sean tugged it open and stepped outside.

  Taking a fifty-five caliber bullet clean through the scar under his chin.

  Chapter Ten

  It was an easy shot for Herne.

  Lowering the rifle and quickly waving smoke away so that he could see the success of his opening bullet. Looking across the square of Cold Christmas and breathing in calmly as he saw O’Sullivan lying on the boardwalk outside the First National, hands to his neck, a pair of gunny bags fallen near him. Opening as they fell, the bitter wind ripping at them, scattering the beginnings of a dollar snowstorm about the town.

  The negro had the horses at the corner of the building, freezing with shock at the sudden crack of the Sharps, staring around to try and locate the marksman. Seeing Herne still sitting on a porch along the street.

  Wright and Joey were framed in the doorway, peering out of the darkness into the bright light of the day. Each of them holding a sack like the two that were blowing along the sidewalk.

  Herne levered in another round, bringing the heavy rifle to his shoulder. Ready to take out the black. Knowing that the two inside the bank couldn’t go far without their horses.

  When a group of a half dozen young children came scampering around the side of the bank, playing a game of chase-and-catch. Boys and girls together, squealing in their excitement.

  ‘Damn it,’ breathed the shootist, holding his aim, but unable to fire as they were now between him and his target.

  The shot had brought out more of the people of the township, standing in doorways or calling from suddenly open windows.

  ‘What do we do?’ yelled Beech, panic trembling on the edge of his voice. Holding on for dear life to the four bridles, fighting to control the terrified animals as they kicked and reared, nearly jerking him off his feet.

  The leader of the gang called out in reply, but Herne couldn’t catch the words. The tall shootist stood, moving a few paces further along the street to try and get himself a shot at the negro. But the children were still in the way. Their game now forgotten, standing all stock-still, gazing slack-jawed at the dying man and the fluttering mound of bank-notes.

  Mothers were crying out at the little group, but the kids took no notice at all, fascinated by the horror show being played out right in front of them.

  Herne finally reached a position where he could get in a clear line of fire at the bandit holding the horses. Wright and Joey had disappeared inside again for a moment, but he could see movement inside the bank. The shootist guessed that they were readying themselves for a run to the horses, shielded by the children.

  The Sharps was at his shoulder again, drawing a steady bead on the negro.

  ‘No; no you don’t young man,’ snapped a waspish, querulous voice at his elbow, and a bony hand reached out and gripped the barrel of the buffalo rifle, jerking it downwards.

  His finger tightened on the trigger and the gun exploded, the bullet ripping up a chunk of the street twenty yards in front of him.

  ‘You stupid bitch,’ he snarled, trying to pull the Sharps back from her grip, turning to confront the woman.

  She was close to seventy, but built like a whaleboned frigate. Wiry, without an ounce of spare flesh on her. Her face was narrow, with gold-rimmed glasses perched perilously on the rim of her nose, looking as though they were poised to slide their way to freedom. Her hair was iron-grey, tugged unmercifully into a bun. A style so rock-like that it looked like you could use it to break toffee. She was dressed in a black dress, frilled with black lace and wore high black button boots. The only touch of color was a cream cameo brooch pinned to her tight bosom.

  ‘Give me the gun, young man.’

  ‘Let go.’

  He heard another woman’s voice from behind him calling out with a nervous stutter. ‘Aunt Lou. Aunt Lou! Don’t get … get yourself all aerated.’

  ‘I’m not, child,’ snapped the old woman, fingers still tight on the barrel of the Sharps.

  ‘Let go.’

  ‘No. I’m an old lady, but I won’t be pushed round by a tarry-hootin’ varmint like you. Stealin’ folks’ hard-earned money.’

  ‘I’m not one of them, you damned old fool! I’m try in’ to stop them.’

  Not even a glimmer of doubt entered those steely eyes. ‘We’ll let the law see to that.’

  There was a crackle of shots from over her shoulder, outside the bank, immediately followed by a jagged burst of screams. Herne saw that Wright and the small figure of Joey had made their break for the horses, covering themselves with an indiscriminate volley of fire into the group of watching children. Joey snapped off both barrels of the shotgun, the heavy boom of the discharge echoing around the square of Cold Christmas.

  The children fell like little puppets, some of them lying still in their own blood, others crawling away, while adults all about started to yell, a few of them returning the shots of the bandits.

  ‘Let go!’ shouted Herne to the old woman.

  ‘No. The law’s the—’

  He swung his left fist at her body, punching as hard as he could into the midriff. Though she grunted with the blow, she didn’t relax her hold for a moment, and the shootist was left nursing bruised knuckles from her solid corsets.

  ‘Damn it!’ he shouted, feeling red anger creep up on him at her unrelenting stupidity.

  ‘Let him go, Aunt Lou,’ called the voice from inside the house.

  ‘Pesky young—’ began the old woman, but Herne had given her enough chances.

  He hit her again, with the edge of his left hand, hard as a board. Sharply up under the nose, hearing the crack of bone. Blood started and she staggered back, finally releasing the gun.

  ‘Wer
en’t no call for that,’ she said, voice muffled by blood.

  ‘You God-damned brainless bitch,’ he swore, pushing her out of the way, trying to reload the Sharps, seeing that the bandits had killed at least four of the children and were now returning some of the brisk fire from the folk of the town. Joey was up in the saddle, fumbling with the shotgun, finally sliding it into the holster. Drawing a pistol and snapping off three shots at a man standing in front of the telegraph office. Whooping with delight as he clutched at his thigh and fell, a dark stain spreading over the legs of his pants.

  George Wright was finally mounted, waving his black hat in his left hand, whooping out orders to the other two. Beech was on his bay mare, leaning forward over the neck of the animal, ducking as a bullet hissed through the hem of his duster coat.

  Herne tried again to find a place for a clear shot, but the angered citizens of Cold Christmas were pouring from their homes like enraged hornets from a nest, all shouting and calling to each other.

  ‘There’s one!’ yelled someone and the shootist realized, to his dismay, that others were making the same mistake that the old woman had made. Recognizing a stranger carrying a gun and assuming right off that he must be one of the bandits.

  Heads turned, seeing the tall man with cold eyes, holding a cocked Sharps fifty-five. And leaning against the wall of the house near to him with the blood-spattered figure of Miss Louisa Montfitchet, hand clapped to her broken nose, looking like she was about to pass clean away.

  Herne had a round ready in the rifle and he turned a last time towards the bank. Seeing the three men ready to flee. But in the excitement all of them had dropped the brown sacks of money and dollars were flying everywhere. To the great distraction of many of the men around whose attention was divided between civic outrage and simple greed.

  ‘Get him!’ yelled someone and a bullet smacked into the wall of the building, just beyond Herne’s shoulder, missing the old lady by less than three inches.

  The street was a shambles of dead and dying, with the long coats of the three raiders flapping as they started to gallop towards where Herne stood.

  There was just time for one snatched shot from the Sharps. Jed saw the negro clutch at his shoulder as they galloped towards him. But his attention was caught by something else.