The Hanging (Herne the Hunter Western Book #17)

by John J. McLaglen

  He was a long way off for a pistol shot but he took a chance.

  ‘Hold it there, Joey!’

  The reply was two shots, levered off quickly and snapped in his direction, one coming within a couple of yards of his head. He responded with three pistol shots, hearing the squeal of pain. Seeing the rifle falling among the branches while the girl staggered to her left, toppling over. Trying to stand again. Falling.

  Lying still.

  ‘Don’t move, you stupid bitch!’ He came cautiously out from the cover of the tree, holding the handgun on Joey.

  ‘You hit my leg. I’m crippled, you fuckin’ dirty bastard! Jesus, my leg’s broke.’

  ‘Get your clothes off.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Your nigra friend tried to bushwhack me. I don’t want to come closer.’

  ‘Go fuck yourself up the ass, mister!’

  ‘I’ll kill you from here if you don’t.’

  ‘All my clothes?’

  ‘Yeah. Every damned stitch, and throw them over here to me.’

  ‘You goin’ to rape me?’

  Herne hadn’t really thought much about that as a possibility. ‘I might.’

  ‘You’re Herne?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘The real Herne the Hunter?’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘God, this leg… You’d really shoot me like a dog, Mr. Herne?’

  ‘That’s all you are, Joey. That your real name?’

  ‘Yeah. Short for Josephine. Joey Cash.’

  ‘Clothes off, girl.’

  Slowly, wriggling around, obviously in a lot of pain, she did as he ordered. Pulling off the long duster coat and the jacket. The layers peeling away from her like skins from an onion. Revealing her small, fire-tipped breasts.

  ‘And the boots and pants. All.’

  ‘I’ll freeze you son of a fuckin’ bitch, Herne. You want me dead?’

  ‘Yeah. But maybe not now.’

  ‘Want to see me hang?’

  ‘I don’t like watching hangings, girl. But I want the money you’ll bring in. And you can help me clear my name. There’s flyers out on me.’

  She laughed, stopping and gasping as pain bit at her.

  ‘That … That was George’s idea. Real good at ideas, George.’

  ‘Like him runnin’ and you stayin’?’

  ‘It was my idea.’

  ‘Oh. Come on. The boots and pants.’

  ‘You want me to throw them all to you?’

  Herne nodded. Going through the pockets of the coat and the shirts. Finding a razor in the jacket. And a derringer in the pants. She sat still, shivering with the cold, hugging her arms around herself. Watching him without saying a word. He felt inside the boots and shook her thin cotton drawers.

  ‘You gettin’ excited at that, mister?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I used to be a whore in Dallas, Mr. Herne. Good one. Turned plenty of tricks. You sure you don’t want me?’

  ‘I might.’

  The truth was that her pale, unwashed body repelled him. She was poorly developed for her age, with small breasts, narrow thighs and her ribs protruding as though she hadn’t eaten in weeks. There was blood leaking steadily from the bullet wound at the back of her right calf.

  ‘That forty-five still in the leg?’

  ‘No. Gone clean on through. Doesn’t hurt so bad now.’

  ‘Get dressed again. No. Stand up first and move away a little. Hands where I can see them.’

  ‘I can’t stand. Come help me.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Come on,’ wheedling like a child who wants to be allowed an extra ten minutes before being sent off to bed.

  ‘Get up.’

  ‘Come and help. I’ll be real nice to you. Honest I will. You can keep my drawers if’n you want. Some of my clientele liked that.’ She used the word “clientele” as though she was very proud of it.

  ‘I don’t want them.’

  ‘Then what would you like, Herne?’

  ‘Nothin’, Joey. Nothin’.’

  ‘How ‘bout if I washed your cock for you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I could walk over your bare body in my boots. Lots of fellers like that, Herne. Or I could bend you over and use—’

  ‘Shut your damned mouth, Joey.’

  She grinned at him. A thin, mean little smile, just like the murderous young whore she was at heart. Jed motioned to her with the barrel of the pistol and she reluctantly struggled to her feet. Stepping from where she’d been as he waved the gun.

  Herne wasn’t surprised to find a small knife where she’d been lying. It had a silver, engraved blade and a contoured hilt of mother-of-pearl. A lethal weapon that could have opened up Jed’s throat from ear to ear. He threw the knife as far away as he could in among the trees, where it disappeared in the night.

  ‘How ’bout gettin’ dressed now, Joey? Before you catch cold.’

  He leaned against a tree, watching her as she quickly tugged her clothes back on again. She winced a couple of times and cried out with pain as she pulled on her boots over the wounded leg. Herne figured it was all right to leave it for the time being. Maybe take a look at it in the morning.

  The pale body vanished. The skinny breasts and the dark vee of stubbly hair at the junction of her thighs. Jed was glad to see her covered, finding the sight of her naked body strangely affecting.

  ‘Now what, Mr. Herne?’

  ‘Now we rest up for the night. Your horse near?’

  ‘It’s fine for the time. Be all right until the morning.’

  ‘Then you stay here. I’ll tie you.’

  ‘What about tomorrow?’

  ‘We go after George.’

  Suddenly, shocking him, the girl dropped to her knees and started to cry. Not the imitation tears of an actress but real sobbing. Her body shaking, tears plowing through the trail dirt on her face, making her seem very young and innocent. The former she was. The latter she wasn’t.

  ‘Stop it, Joey.’

  ‘I can’t. I don’t want to be taken back, Herne.’

  ‘That doesn’t signify.’

  ‘I’d do anything for you, Herne.’

  ‘Come on, girl.’

  ‘Anything. I couldn’t face a lynching. Or a life in a federal penitentiary. It’d send me mad. Please, please.’

  ‘No. Say another word and I’ll gag you, Joey. You been runnin’ up a good long debt. No point whimpering now it’s payin’ time.’

  She stood patiently and watched while he prepared a camp site for them. There was always the possibility that George might show up in the middle of the night, so the shootist didn’t light a fire. Simply collecting blankets and gathering together some dry leaves to help fend off the bitter cold.

  ‘You’re really goin’ to take me in.’

  ‘Yeah.’

  She came and stood close to him. ‘I never really loved with a man like you. You ain’t one of them sick, fumblin’ half-cocked old bastard with dirty ways. Can I … with you? Now.’

  It was totally dark and he could barely see her face, a pale circle in front of him. The eyes looking down, the mouth trembling.

  ‘You want to lay with me?’

  ‘Yes. Please. It’d keep us both warm.’

  That was true enough. Jed had bundled up with Whitey Coburn on several occasions to save both their lives. But with a girl like this … someone he knew to be a cold-blooded killer…

  ‘Yeah,’ he said.

  She was very good.

  It was like tangling with a rabid coyote in a sack. She was all over him, biting and scratching, turning him on like Herne hadn’t been roused for a long time. Stirring base instincts in himself that he’d hardly suspected were even there.

  After it she kissed him on the lips and then lay quiet in his arms, crying again. This time like a young girl frightened of the dark. Once she begged him to let her go, saying she couldn’t face what the future held for her. When he refused her again, she didn’t argue.<
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  They made love once more as the false dawn was lightening the sky. Gentle, moving love and after it she rose and dressed quietly, waiting for him to pack away the blankets.

  ‘I have to tie you, Joey.’

  ‘You can trust me, Jed.’

  ‘No. That’s just what I can’t do.’

  ‘After last night you…’

  He shook his head. ‘Last night was then. Tying you is now.’

  ‘We’re going after George?’

  ‘Sure. He’ll take the high trail. Go into the mountains. Take a chance on the snow savin’ him from me.’

  The girl stood quietly while he tied her wrists behind her. Not so that she was desperately uncomfortable, but firmly and immovably. Lifting her into the saddle of the bay, throwing the Meteor shotgun down into the dirt and leaving it there. The shootist set her boots snugly into the stirrups, looping the reins up over the neck of the horse, so that he could lead it. ‘Hang on, Joey.’

  ‘Sure. All the way back to the gallows.’

  The shootist didn’t reply. There wasn’t a thing he could say.

  Chapter Thirteen

  It was a beautiful day. It had been snowing higher up and, as they followed on the trail of George Wright, they ran into places where it lay.

  Gleaming white in the bright Colorado sun, the temperature low enough to keep it from melting. The horses picked their way through it, leaving a double set of tracks to overlie the single set from the fleeing man.

  ‘He’s still pushin’ on real hard,’ said Herne, slipping from his saddle, holding on the rein of the lead horse, stooping over the trail.

  ‘He would.’

  Herne looked up at the girl, sitting hunched over, hat tugged down over the straggling hair. Face pinched and white. She shrugged her shoulders when she realized he was staring at her.

  ‘What the Hell you lookin’ at, Jed?’

  ‘Nothing, girl.’

  ‘Jesus, but you are a cold-hearted son of a bitch, Jedediah Herne.’

  He nodded. ‘Heard that said before, Joey. Plenty of times.’

  ‘Couldn’t you maybe let…?’

  ‘No.’ He interrupted her with the single, flat word. ‘No. I know and so do you.’

  ‘They’ll hang me.’

  ‘Maybe. Guess you’re more than likely goin’ to the penitentiary.’

  ‘Oh, God.’ She was almost crying again. That’d kill me sure as a bullet, Jed.’

  ‘Folks buried all across Colorado and eastwards on account of you and George and the others. Seems a fair accountin’ to me.’

  They rode higher.

  Reaching up close to the tree line where the horses labored and every breath was a struggle, the cold, thin air seeming to burn the throat.

  ‘Guess we can walk a spell,’ the shootist said. Reining in and lifting Joey down from her mare, marveling at her lightness.

  ‘Will you untie me?’

  ‘I guess so.’

  ‘I won’t hurt you, Jed. I swear that.’

  He half-smiled. ‘I’ll take that chance.’

  They walked in silence. Coming across a pile of fresh horse-droppings in the middle of the expanse of whiteness. Herne stopped to examine them, rising again and looking ahead.

  ‘His stallion’s near blown. We’re closing in on him and we’re on foot.’

  ‘George always was one for more of the haste and not so much of the damned speed,’ replied the girl, her voice quiet and bitter, looking over to the right where the ground fell sharply away towards a river.

  ‘Be on him within a couple of hours. This trail gets higher still, then goes over the crest. Mile High Point. Supposed to be that far straight on down. I don’t know anyone ever measured it.’

  He knew that the man ahead of them had been riding too far too fast. His horse, once it was exhausted, would take hours to recover. Herne, by going on at a steady, gentler pace, was closing inexorably with his prey.

  It was a struggle for them all. The sun blazed down, giving them no heat, and the mountains around seemed to be sucking all the life out of the air, so that each breath pained and made their throats raw and their eyes to water. The snow grew thicker until they were wading through it above their knees.

  ‘Can’t we ride, Jed?’ gasped the girl

  ‘No. Kill the horses in this snow to have to bear us as well.’

  He could see from the wavering in the tracks how severe Wright’s stallion was finding the long, long climb.

  The girl fought on, impressing him with her relentless stamina. Battling towards the crest of the trail, now less than a quarter mile ahead. Panting, falling twice to her knees as she tried to breathe.

  There was little conversation. A couple of times Joey tried again to persuade the shootist to let her go. Kill Wright, then free her. But she could as well have been talking to one of the granite walls around them.

  ‘Here’s the top,’ he said, finally.

  The wind had blown it clear of snow and she collapsed against a large, smooth boulder, closing her eyes, chest heaving. He tethered the horses for a five minute break, walking and staring down the other side of the trail, seeing it worming away, clinging to the side of the mountain. For a moment he saw a small, dark figure, riding around a sharp turn. Less than a half mile ahead.

  ‘Soon, George,’ he said. ‘Soon.’

  ‘Jesus,’ she said quietly. That sure is real beautiful. Ain’t it?’

  Herne looked up. She was standing very close to the edge of the sheer drop. Better than four thousand feet, clean down to the turbulent waters of the river. The sound of the tumbling waters carried away from them by the height and the wind.

  ‘Watch the wind, Joey,’ he called. She was so near the brink that a strong gust could easily have plucked her from the cliff and dashed her to a certain doom.

  ‘I’m fine, Jed. Thanks for caring. Not a whole lot of men have ever cared a fuck for me.’

  ‘Yeah,’ he replied. Walking again and staring down the trail, both ways. Guessing it wouldn’t be long before they ran into another posse.

  Wright had disappeared from sight, but Herne stood for several seconds, shading his eyes with his gloved hand against the brightness of the sun off the snow. Trying to decide whether or not he could see a body of men moving through trees. Three or four miles away, near where the trail snaked down to the river. But the light was too dazzling for him to be sure.

  ‘Jed?’

  He turned to face the girl. ‘What is it, Joey?’

  ‘Nothing’ll change your mind, will it?’

  ‘No. Nothing.’

  ‘I truly couldn’t live through goin’ back, you know. I just couldn’t.’

  ‘You can do what you have to do, girl.’

  She nodded and smiled at him. Seeming somehow years younger.

  ‘That’s right, Jed.’

  Then he guessed, but he was too far away to do anything. Even if he’d wanted to.

  ‘Wish I’d met you long years back, Jed. Fare thee well.’

  Joey stepped off the edge of the world, vanishing in the white, swirling void, falling silently to her death.

  Chapter Fourteen

  He didn’t go the edge and look down.

  Nobody fell that far and made it.

  The body didn’t make any sound that he could hear. He left the bay, not wanting to slow himself at all with an extra animal. Stripping off the saddle, going quickly through the bags. Nothing to keep there. Spare clothes. Socks. Drawers. A shirt with a tear clumsily mended. Five ready mades for the Meteor. A twin to the pearl-handled knife he’d thrown away the night previous.

  And a small bundle. A child’s rag doll, the face worn away into smoothness, one leg missing. And a picture. A faded, pale brown daguerreotype. A slim woman in a doorway. Hand up to her forehead as though she had been caught by the camera trying to arrange her hair for the picture. On the back, in a large, babyish hand, was the word “Mama”. An address in Baton Rouge.

  And nothing more.

 
Twice on the way down the far side of Mile High Point Herne saw clear evidence that Wright’s horse was near the end of the road. Twice it had fallen in the frozen snow, once sliding within a yard of the edge of the trail.

  He saw his target three times, each time closer. The tall man was riding hunched over against the cold, and Herne watched him beat at the flagging animal with a crop. Not once did he look around to see whether he was being followed.

  Jed was close to three-quarters of the way to the bottom of the trail when he saw that the black horse was down again. Lying in the trampled snow, whinnying its distress. Head lifted, froth lathering its dull coat, red-rimmed eyes rolling helplessly. Wright was standing over the exhausted animal. The whip was still in his hand, but it dangled at his side, as though he saw the futility of using it any further.

  Herne stopped his own horse, breathing more easily now the altitude had lessened. Tying it quickly to a spur of rock and unbucketing the Sharps. Cocking the long rifle and resting it on a large boulder at the edge of the trail. Sighting in on the tableau of man and beast, two hundred yards below him.

  It’s never easy to aim downhill. The angles are wrong and tend to throw out even the most experienced of marksmen. Jed took in a long, slow breath, firing with both eyes open, like most great shots. Drawing a bead on his target.

  Finger caressing the trigger as gently as a surgeon seeking the core of ah illness.

  Wright was bending down, talking to the stallion when the shootist fired.

  The fifty-five bullet hit the horse just above the ear, the heavy ball ripping through its brain, smashing out the far side in a welter of blood and bone. It kicked out, trying desperately to get up, then crashed down again, legs kicking at the crimson snow.

  George Wright threw himself to the side, starting to draw his pistol, then changing his mind and hastily wriggling to the side of his dying stallion. Pulling out his Winchester repeater.

  Herne reloaded the rifle without any haste. Keeping back out of sight.

  ‘That you, Herne?’

  The voice echoed around, chasing after the bouncing sounds of the shot. Jed said nothing, knowing that he now held most of the cards. A full house with aces up, against Wright’s hand. A pair of fours, at the best.