Silver Threads

by John J. McLaglen

  ‘Yes. Yes ... Of course ... I was thinking of precisely that, sister dear.’

  ‘We have servants here and Mr. Herne is somewhat different to the man we had expected, so I can see no harm in it.’

  ‘How true, how true, Eliza,’ said Lily, the color returning to her cheeks.

  ‘Well, Mr. Herne? What do you think of the idea? Will you join us?’

  He wondered just what was going on. The suggestion had clearly shaken Lily Sowren to the core of her ample being, but why? It seemed a sensible idea. There had to be something behind it.

  ‘Don’t see why not. I’m clean in thought, word and deed and I don’t walk in my sleep or spit on the best carpets. Can I stable my horse up here as well?’

  ‘Of course, Mr. Herne.’ A momentary hesitation from the distinguished-looking old lady. ‘Would you like to go down now to the tavern and remove your possessions? I am sure our nephew Matthew will be in town to help you. He has a wagon you could borrow for your trunks.’

  Herne laughed. Genuinely amused at how out of touch with reality the Misses Sowren were.

  ‘Have I said something droll, Mr. Herne?’ snapped Eliza Sowren, mouth a narrow line of ice hanging beneath the cornice of her nose.

  ‘No, Ma’am. Not exactly. But the idea of a man like me having a trunk, never mind a whole load of ’em! I travel light, Miss Sowren. Very light. One change of clothes. Slicker in case of rain. Ammunition for the pistol and the Sharps. And that’s about all. Canteen of water and some jerky if’n I’m off on a journey. Nothing more.’

  ‘What about soap?’ asked Lily, standing up from the piano, lowering the lid quietly over the keys.

  ‘Water in the streams, Miss Lily. I got me a razor I hone on my belt. Best I can do. Man riding for his life doesn’t worry over much about smellin’ of violets. More likely stinkin’ of fear.’

  ‘Mr. Herne!’ gasped Eliza.

  ‘Sorry, Ma’am. But you asked me and I told you. If that offends you maybe you better choose your questions with a mite more care.’

  This time it was Lily who gasped. Eyes so wide in the dumpling of a face that they seemed as if they were going to pop from their sockets.

  ‘Nobody speaks to my sister like that, Herne.’

  ‘I do. You don’t like it then I can go and report back and someone else’ll come along.’

  With a tremendous effort Eliza Sowren regained her self-control. Breathing hard and speaking through tight lips to him.

  ‘Very well, Mr. Herne. Let us accept that you are a rough diamond, unlike most of the decent people here in Wild Rose City.’

  ‘Decent folks don’t kill, Miss Sowren. They just pay men like me to do it for ’em so they can keep their hands clean and their consciences whiter than white.’

  He was deliberately pushing at the elderly woman. Trying to rile her into being indiscreet. Into letting slip some clue to help him understand what was happening.

  But she was clever. Too wise to be angered by his goading.

  ‘I think we must agree to differ somewhat on that, Mr. Herne. But our offer still stands. Will you join us here until this business is sorted out?’

  ‘Sure. Doesn’t affect my pay.’

  ‘No. My sister and I will make sure that you receive everything that you have earned.’

  As he walked down the hill towards the saloon to collect his things, Herne reflected that what Eliza had just said could have been either a promise.

  Or a threat.

  ~*~

  Wild Rose seemed virtually deserted.

  It was close to noon and even the sheriff’s office was locked up. The battered rocker deserted outside the barred door. The saloon was empty, except for a young boy, still in his teens, at the far end of the bar.

  He was drinking a glass of beer, standing sideways on to the door. Jed noticed him immediately, registering several other facts at the same time.

  First off was the gun.

  A .45 like Jed’s own. Worn very low on the right hip. The retaining thong slipped clear of the hammer ready for a fast draw. The rig tied to the thigh. Lower than Herne would have thought advisable. It meant the kid would have to reach that couple of inches further than necessary. When two closely matched shootists met, a couple of inches meant the difference between the free drinks and the free burial.

  The other thing that set the short hairs at the nape of Jed’s neck prickling was that the saloon was totally empty. Not even the barkeep was there. Just Herne.

  And the kid.

  He half-turned and reached down to his own hip, flicking off the narrow cord that held his pistol in its holster. Just in case it was needed.

  ‘You Herne?’

  The voice was confident. Cocky. The sort of voice that he’d heard a thousand times before. In saloons and brothels and streets all the way from the Rio Grande to the Canadian border.

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Herne the Hunter.’

  ‘Some say so.’

  The boy was turned to face him, already slipping into a half-crouch. The beginnings of the gunfighter’s classic stance. Presenting the left side of your body to your enemy, giving him a smaller target.

  ‘You’re a hell of an old man for such a big name. Looks likely you’re livin’ on a few things years back. Maybe you once shot a marshal in the back, and men’ve been feared of you since. What do you say to that?’

  Herne felt tired. Scenting death on the young boy.

  Knowing that this one was going to have to be played all the way through to the end.

  Wondering what had brought a punk killer like this into The Rich Nugget at the same time as himself. Considering whether to begin to add two and two.

  His arithmetic interrupted by the boy’s voice. Harsh, and amused by something he thought was going to be easy.

  ‘I’m goin’ out, old man. Less’n you’re a dirty yellow bastard, you’ll face me. What do you say?’

  Herne shook his head slowly, speaking low. ‘I say that next time I want some shit I’ll just need to squeeze your head.’

  Chapter Four

  For a moment Herne had thought the boy was going to lose his self-control and make a play against him right there in the saloon. It didn’t matter much to Jed if he had. An angry gunfighter was a bad gunfighter, and it never hurt to edge the odds your way.

  There’d been a lot of times that Jed had faced men ready to draw against him, and he was still alive. Most all of them were dead.

  But that didn’t make him any less careful. He’d seen too many friends get to buy the farm from being careless.

  And he knew well enough what a waste of time it was to try the soft answer. Nine times out of ten you still had to fight, and all you did was give the other man confidence. It just came down to being firstest with the mostest.

  ‘You son of a...’

  ‘Talk’s cheap son. Let’s go out in the street where the action is. See what price you want to pay.’

  They faced each other, Herne wondering whether the boy would try it there and then. Knowing that he’d take him out. Seeing the glimmer of uncertainty as he realized that Herne looked very big and very mean. And that Herne didn’t seem worried by the challenge. Or frightened by it.

  ‘All right, old man. You go first.’

  ‘Let you shoot me in the back? I’m full of that kind of trick, son. Come on over and we walk out slow and easy. Together.’

  The sun was almost directly overhead as they stepped out of the cool of the saloon onto the boardwalk along the street. The kid edgy and tense. Herne calm and relaxed.

  On the outside he was calm and relaxed.

  Inside he was tightened up to a hair-trigger readiness. Looking around for the sign of movement or the glitter of light off a gun that would mean he was being set up by the kid for friends in the street.

  Suddenly the town was full of people.

  Every window had its crowd of faces; every door was partly open with a person in the shadows. Just for a terrifying moment Jed thought they were a
ll out to get him and he almost began the draw, knowing it was over but determining to go down blasting.

  Then he realized that they were just spectators. Out to watch the killing as if they were going to a picnic or a barn raising.

  So they’d known.

  Known the young boy was in there, and knowing what was going to happen.

  Wild Rose City, so pretty and clean on the outside, was beginning to smell like a week dead horse when you got closer.

  ‘I’ll walk that way, son,’ said Herne, starting to pace off to the left, down the hill.

  ‘You’ll get the sun in my eyes, damn you!’ snarled the kid.

  ‘Sun’s clean overhead,’ replied Jed, calmly. ‘But if’n you want the lower end, you take it. No concern to me.’

  ‘Hell! You’re tryin’ to fuckin’ trick me, you stinkin’ old bastard.’

  ‘You think what you want, boy. I’m givin’ you the choice.’ He kept his voice loud so that everyone watching would hear. Would know that he wasn’t trying to railroad the young man into the fight. When you got to be a top shootist, then you had to take a lot of care. Otherwise you won the fight and still ended up dead. Choking out your life on the end of a vigilante rope.

  ‘You go down the hill, old-timer,’ shouted the boy, starting to walk, stiff-legged away from Jed.

  Who turned and walked a dozen paces down. That was what he’d wanted all along. It was easier to aim up a hill rather than down. If you missed your chest shot you had a good chance of at least taking the man in the legs. Miss when you were shooting down a hill, and the odds were that you’d miss high and the bullet would go whining harmlessly by.

  There was the rattling of a wagon in the small alley that ran along the back of Main Street, and Herne saw a cloud of dust drifting across the rear of the buildings. Wondering who was in such a hurry to come and see the fight. Having a sneaking suspicion of the answer to his own question. Seeing the answer when the Misses Sowren appeared around the corner of the bank, joining the manager, their oldest son, Joab, by the front door. Watching eagerly.

  Two and two started to add up to four.

  ~*~

  The kid was around eighteen. Maybe nineteen. He had grown a drooping moustache to try and make himself look older, and his hair hung across his narrow shoulders. He was wearing a light colored jacket and a blue shirt, open almost to his stomach.

  His face was thin and foxy, eyes slitted in a pale face. Herne didn’t recognize him as a top gun, though shootists were always springing up and getting themselves a reputation for a few months in any town along the border or in the north where the mines were. Then the day came along when they met someone that inch faster or luckier, and their reputation didn’t shield them from lead.

  ‘Right Mr. Herne. You ready now, you spit-suckin’ old bastard?’

  ‘Ready as I’ll ever be, boy,’ replied Herne, flexing his shoulders, feeling the coat across his back. Moving the fingers of his right hand to ease away any stiffness.

  ‘Don’t fuckin’ call me “boy”, you son of a damned bitch, Herne. Don’t you want to know my name?’

  ‘Never concerned myself with the name of a man I’m goin’ to kill, son. Let’s get to it.’

  The crowd was edging out into the open. The saloon was suddenly filled with folks, including Marcus Daley, a white towel across his arm. Herne wondered which of the Sowren’s brood ran the morticians’ parlor.

  The dry goods store was at his back, the clerk, Hempstead, peering out from the front window, behind a display of cracker biscuits. The ladies gathered by the bank.

  The sheriff hadn’t put in an appearance yet. That surprised Herne.

  The two men faced each other. One young, coiled like a spring. The other grizzled and relaxed. Hands hanging loose at his side.

  The shot made everyone jump. Booming out from the side of Main Street.

  Herne began to turn, seeing the burst of powder smoke, even before he’d registered the crack of the shot. Then easing off again as he saw it was Sheriff Daley, putting in a belated word for law and order in the town.

  ‘You men better back off there,’ he shouted, holding his smoking pistol in his hand. It wasn’t much of a threat from better than fifty yards off but Herne watched him cautiously, trying to figure out the rules that this game was being played under. Careful not to make any sort of move that could be interpreted as menacing the lawman.

  ‘Leave us be, Sheriff,’ called the boy, his voice cracking with the tension, wobbling from foot to foot as if he was about to dive for cover.

  ‘I said back off. Can’t kill around here.’

  ‘Fair fight, Sheriff Daley,’ shouted someone from the crowd by the livery stables.

  A voice that Herne would have sworn came from Gawain Sowren, Eliza’s youngest son.

  ‘Don’t allow no fightin’ in this town. Not fair fights and not unfair ones.’

  ‘Stand back, Sheriff!’ shouted the kid. ‘Me and this old man got us some shootin’ to do.’

  ‘Now you both...’

  ‘Matt. Leave them be.’

  The sheriff turned round as though someone had just nudged him with a branding iron, staring across at where his aunt stood with her sister.

  ‘But we said...’

  ‘Let it be, Matthew,’ replied Eliza Sowren. ‘They wish to have a fair fight, then let them. I can see no harm in it Unless Mr. Herne wishes to back down from it.’

  Jed didn’t. But it was interesting that she should suggest it. Almost as if she was able to control the kid and the way he acted. Like she controlled her own kin.

  Almost.

  ‘Well, I don’t rightly…’

  ‘I do, Matthew. Do as I tell you and let them get on with it. I’m sure that Mr. Herne will uphold the right for Wild Rose City against young... this boy.’

  For a moment it was as though she knew the kid’s name and then remembered she didn’t. But that didn’t worry Herne right at that moment. His eyes were locked with those of the young boy in the light jacket. Wondering if he would be one of those that stood still or one that powered himself off to the side as he opened fire.

  ‘Very well,’ shouted the sheriff, trying to salvage a remnant of his lost pride from the situation, ‘You fight fair-now. And I figure maybe it’s better if’n I give you the signal to...’

  ‘Sheriff,’ shouted the boy, coming close to winning a touch of respect from Herne. ‘You and men like you don’t understand what’s going down here between me and this old man. Just leave it alone or...’

  The threat dangled in the dirt of the street, lying there among the short black shadows of the two men. The old and the young.

  Jed watched Daley out of the corner of his eye, seeing him looking in his turn to his aunts, standing close together. One lean and tall, the other round and short.

  ‘All right. But it’d better be fair. Man tries to draw unfair and I’ll gun him down in the dirt, so help me, God.’

  ‘Matthew,’ warned Eliza Sowren, thin-lipped at the blasphemy.

  The buzz of conversation in the crowd died slowly down, leaving the two of them facing each other, around twenty paces apart. Waiting.

  ‘Make your play, old man.’

  Herne shook his head. ‘Never drawn first on a man or a boy in my life, son. You can get started and I’ll kind of catch you up.’

  It wasn’t true. There had been times when Jed had shot first. Times even when he’d shot men in the back. If it was your life there on the line, and the cards were stacked against you, then there was no point in giving it up.

  But faced with a kid, and a kid whose holster was slung way too low, Herne figured he could afford to be that bit generous. It wasn’t as though as he was facing Billy Bonney. He had once. Years back. Hell, the Kid was dead and buried these four years. He’d been about the fastest, had Billy. Runty son of a bitch. Laughed when he ate. Laughed when he made love. Laughed when he stole. Laughed when he killed men. Jed had always wondered whether Billy had laughed when Pat gunned him dow
n at Pete Maxwell’s.

  Top shootists hardly ever faced each other like this in a high noon pistol duel. They always knew how fast they were. And how tiny was the margin between the best and the second. So small that nobody could ever swear that it even existed.

  So there wasn’t any point. Maybe you’d get the first bullet off and kill the other. But it was a better than even wager he’d have had enough time to squeeze his own trigger and you could be dead or critically wounded at the same time.

  It wasn’t worth it.

  ~*~

  ‘Come on, Herne!’

  It was a beautiful day. The fresh spring air of the Dakotas and the foaming waters of the river as a backdrop to the town. The hills all around it. The only cloud against the blue sky to the west where the Mount Morgoth refinery belched out filthy smoke.

  ‘Draw, damn you!’

  ‘Told you before, sonny. You wanted me out here so you get on with it. Or take out your gun and throw it down. Walk away and you stay alive, son.’

  ‘Draw!!’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Bastard!!!’

  The kid screamed at the top of his voice, hand slapping down, body ducking and beginning to twist, knees bending. Herne reacting like a prairie rattler. Hand blurring for the butt of the .45. So much faster than the boy.

  Three fingers around the polished wood, drawing the gun easily from the greased leather. Thumb pulling back on the hammer, triple clicking into place. Index finger snug and tight around the thin trigger of the pistol.

  All happening by habit. His brain not even aware that it was going on. An instinctive movement, all worked in with the drawing and leveling of the gun. The movement of the body, the left arm balancing the right.

  The kid wasn’t that bad. Herne had killed plenty slower. Not bad for a small town hidden away in the middle of the Black Hills. But he wouldn’t have lasted an hour in Tucson or Tombstone against real gunmen.

  In the background, just before he squeezed the trigger, Herne was aware of a sound he’d heard a lot of times before. The gasp of a crowd seeing a man draw a gun faster than any of them could have believed possible. Herne wasn’t just good. Not just fast.