‘There was little point in prolonging his suffering, you see. Not once we knew. The fact that you’d seen us, well... that was enough. So he died. He had been behaving strangely. Folks will imagine he has run away in his madness and the hills or the Sioux have got him.’
‘Me the same?’
‘Oh, no.’ Eliza bent down by him with a creaking of corsets. ‘We are not fools are we sister?’
‘Indeed not, sister,’ replied Lily. ‘We know that people know you have come here. And why you have come. There might be questions. Now poor Julius is dead, there will be no more suspicions. You will accidentally fall into the Clearwater. So sad. It’s very high at present and nobody who fell into it would have a chance. So sad.’
‘So very sad,’ added Eliza.
‘Who killed Zimmerman?’ he asked, trying to buy a little time.
‘Me. Why?’ said Lily.
‘Just so’s I’d know.’
‘Yes. One of the coiled probes became white hot and it kind of slipped through my hand into a certain part of his body and there he was gone. Off to play with the celestial choirs. I almost envy him.’
‘Very well,’ said Eliza briskly, straightening up again. ‘We must get on. The night is passing and we want you out of the way quickly. Your body should be twenty miles downstream by dawn.’
‘Can I not have a little...’ began Lily, moving in closer, her high-buttoned shoes near to his head. Lifting up one foot and resting it so gently on his throat. ‘Just one quick...’
‘No!’ snapped her sister. ‘There must be no marks on the body that the river didn’t put there. When you take him down, Matthew, you must untie his bonds. They will leave evidence on his wrists. Guard him well.’
‘Sure will, Aunt Eliza,’ laughed Matthew Daley, drawing his pistol and cocking it with a dramatic gesture.
‘One question,’ said Herne.
‘A brief one,’ replied Lily Sowren.
‘The robberies. The mine was failing and you had to cover it up. Or what your Pa did was for nothing and Wild Rose City, your town, was going to die?’
‘Correct, Mr. Herne. What a loss you will be to your profession. It is indeed our town. We have made it and if it is to be destroyed then it is us who will destroy it.’
‘That was why you stole ore? Mixed it in with the help of Zimmerman. Pretended it came from Mount Morgoth. Once smelted down there was no telling where it had come from. Easy. Damned clever.’
A foot hit him in the groin and he doubled up, nearly being sick at the pain. Only half-hearing the prim, outraged voice of Eliza Sowren.
‘No such language in our presence, Mr. Herne, if you please. Remember that we are ladies.’
He heard the soft noise of the shutting door, and knew that the Misses Sowren had gone, without bidding him farewell.
~*~
Matthew Daley relied on his Colt .45 while his brother Marcus carried a weighty old Le Mat pistol. Forty-two caliber nine shot pistol chambered around a smoothbore sixty-three caliber barrel that fired a load of buckshot as lethally as a sawn-down scatter-gun. And with about as much accuracy.
It was a comparatively unusual weapon this long after the ending of the War. Jed noticed that the saloon-keeper carried it with the hammer set for the ordinary pistol bullets.
They cut through the ties around his feet first, letting him struggle upright, leaning against the wall. Then Marcus sliced through the rope round his neck, looking to his brother for reassurance before freeing the gunslinger’s hands.
‘Maybe leave them be ’til we push him in. We’ll bend a gun butt over his head in case he figures on swimmin’ to safety. One bruise more or less won’t concern nobody when they pull him out of the Clearwater in a few days.’
‘Why not leave the cords on his hands? Be safer that way,’ said Marcus, standing away from Herne as though he was terrified of him, even bound, with a gun held at his belly.
The sheriff shook his head. ‘Nope. Better not, little brother. You all heard what Aunt Eliza said about takin’ them off. She’s likely to skin your back if’n she ever found you done got us all in trouble by disobeyin’ her special orders.’
That was enough for Marcus Daley.
The two of them followed Herne out of the mansion and down Main Street The wind was still rising, drowning out the thunder of the river. The ground was slippery and muddy from all the rain that had fallen, and twice Herne came close to toppling over, finding it difficult to maintain his balance in the greasy mud.
‘Don’t go gettin’ those clothes dirty, Mr. Herne,’ laughed Sheriff Daley.
‘They’ll get washed clean soon enough,’ he replied winning a grudging nod from the fatter brother. The moon broke through the scudding clouds at that moment, illuminating the pretty little town like something from a child’s picture book.
‘Guess you ain’t a bad old boy, Jed,’ muttered the lawman. ‘Things could have been different, then you and me might... Hell, no edge in figurin’ on that. Let’s get to it before Gawain and Joab come back from the burnin’.’
‘This been going on for long, Sheriff?’ asked Herne, deliberately slipping and nearly falling, remaining on his knees for a few moments before rising again, with a great staggering and lurching, nearly knocking over Marcus Daley.
‘Hey, careful there, boy,’ the fat man laughed ‘Don’t want you goin’ and bein’ hurt before we kill you.’
They were soon down by the river, the noise of its rushing and crashing over the rocks making it hard to talk. Sheriff Matthew Daley called out to his brother to cut through the rope on Herne’s wrists while he kept him covered. The saloon-keeper hung on to his own pistol while he fumbled for a knife.
‘You asked how long this’s been goin’ on, Jed? Guess my aunts always been kind of strange. Specially Lily. Wow!’ He laughed. ‘Guess all of us could tell you tales about Aunt Lily’d make your hairs curl, boy. Ain’t that right, Marcus?’
The heavily-built brother muttered his agreement while he finally got his blade free of the sheath at the side of his broad leather belt.
‘Sure is, Matt. But it was when the mother lode started to run out on Mount Morgoth that they kind of went up and over the top of the world. We went along ’cause we always did. Nobody ever really stood up to them, so they didn’t get the taste for losin’.’
The sheriff laughed again, standing with his back leaned against the trunk of a big tree, only a couple of paces from the edge of the water.
‘Ain’t that the truth, brother? Ain’t that the God-damned truth. Come on there with that knife!’
‘Nearly done. There!’
Jed felt the binding slip free and he brought his wrists around in front of him, pulling off the last strands of rawhide, wincing at the excruciating pain of the life flowing back into his bruised fingers. Seeing the blood clotted around his nails from the pressure of the ropes. Knowing that now was the moment to try and buy time.
‘That’s it, boy,’ said the sheriff, motioning at him with his pistol.
‘Want me to hit him with Betsy here?’ grinned Marcus, waving the ponderous Le Mat.
‘Guess so. Nothin’ else to be said, Herne. Figure you understand that?’
‘Yeah. I figure that.’ His hands felt as though they were on fire and he rubbed them together, stamping his feet, watching the two Daley brothers carefully for a chance to make his move.
Sheriff Daley was standing back from the water, covering the helpless man with the Colt, waiting for his brother to knock him out and tip him into the Clearwater. The river was foaming and churning away at its banks, carrying enormous quantities of mud and stones as it raced by.
He saw Herne seem to fall, fighting for a foothold in the slippery dirt at the edge of the water. Start to slide, arms flailing, going down to his knees. Watched with a grin as Marcus stepped in to help, the pistol ready in case of a trick.
Both men were on their feet when the shootist appeared to slip again, hanging on the arm of the saloon-keeper like a drunk at cl
osing-time.
‘Get him in, Marcus!’ he called to his brother, glancing around to make sure nobody else was watching the murder.
When he glanced back things had changed.
~*~
As he’d gone down on his knee Herne’s right hand had dived immediately for the hilt of the bayonet, snug inside his boot. Keeping it on the blind side away from the two Daleys. Pretending to have difficulty hi standing up and grabbing at Marcus Daley for support. Once he felt the rough cloth of the man’s coat in his hand there was a rush of exultation, knowing that it was going to work.
The bayonet had been his since he first joined Quantrill and his group of bloody guerillas near the start of the War. He cherished it, keeping it polished and honed. The edge sharp enough to shave with, the point as keen as a needle.
It slithered in between the fourth and fifth ribs on the left side of the man’s chest. Jed gave it a savage twist and pulled it free, dropping it to the ground. It had done what he wanted of it.
Marcus Daley never really knew what had happened, and he slipped away from life, still puzzled. There was the feeling of a slight blow. No sensation of being cut at all. A dull pain in the middle of his body. Wetness and warmth over his stomach and thighs. A great weakness.
Herne took the gun from his relaxing fingers as easily as from a young child, pushing the dying man to one side. Daley’s legs no longer supported him as the blood poured from his burst heart and he fell forwards, landing head-first in the Clearwater.
The body was whirled away, tossing and turning like a hewn log, spinning away on the whirling pools and eddies of the flooded river. Finally becoming caught up with some rubbish several miles downstream and drifting into a backwater.
The rotting corpse was never found.
The last that Matthew Daley saw of his brother was the body flailing into the Clearwater. There wasn’t time for any kind of goodbyes. The lawman’s eyes were held by the big pistol that had miraculously appeared in Herne’s fist. One moment the shootist was helpless, about to be clubbed and drowned. Next moment Matthew’s brother was dead and he was facing the barrel of a pistol.
He didn’t understand it.
Died not understanding it, his flesh ripped apart by four carefully placed shots from the Le Mat, never even having the time to fire back.
Herne threw his body in the river as well, then went on into Wild Rose to wait for the Sowren brothers. It was going well.
Chapter Eleven
There were five shots left in the Le Mat and Herne also had the sheriff’s Colt .45 in his holster. Eleven bullets in all. Plus a dozen that he’d taken from Matthew Daley’s belt before tipping his body into the turbulent waters of the river.
Two Sowren boys left.
Then Eliza and Lily.
Herne figured he had the odds fractionally on his side now. There was the important factor that he knew they were alive and they believed he was dead. But that tipping of the balance wouldn’t last forever.
~*~
Miss Eliza began to suspect it.
When the nephews didn’t return in half an hour from their task of executing the shootist, then she suspected it.
She stood by the window of the great mansion, looking down over the sleeping town, her fingers knotting and tangling with each other. Her mouth a grim line of steel beneath her questing nose. Sighing to herself as she began to realize that the tall man with the graying hair had undone everything that mattered in her life. In her sister’s life. Her father’s, everything.
Eliza turned away to the room, luxurious, the original oil-paintings from Europe on the walls, illuminated by the gentle glow of the lamps. The expensive glass and china on the polished table and the gleaming silver plate and cutlery. ‘Lily,’ she called. ‘Come here, will you. There are some things that we must do.’
~*~
Jed guessed that the noise of the shooting would have been totally muffled by the pounding waters, and he stalked away towards the main trail in from the mine, confident that nobody in the town of Wild Rose knew that he was free and on the scent of bloody vengeance.
The Sowrens must have finished their task of removing Zimmerman’s body. It wouldn’t take long to clear other men from the furnace room at Mount Morgoth. Certainly if you were the sons of Eliza Sowren it would be absurdly simple. Then to open the great doors and slide in the corpse, wincing away from the white heat inside. There might be the momentary stench of roasting flesh in the air above the smelting plant, but the stink of the chemicals would soon overpower it.
The moon still rode high in the Dakota sky, the few scattered clouds disappearing, leaving a cool night with a rising wind that continued to tug at the topmost branches of the trees. Jed stepped cautiously along until he reached a thick grove of bushes, close in to the rutted trail. He crouched down, out of sight, and waited. Knowing that it wasn’t going to take long.
In the house, Lily was getting hastily dressed, while her sister waited impatiently below. Out back, by the wall of the silent graveyard, servants were busy loading cans of liquid into the light rig. A horse, already harnessed, stamped its hooves nervously, scenting a strange tautness in the air.
It was difficult for Herne to catch the noise of movement above the sound of the river and the sighing of the wind, but he finally heard hooves, clattering quickly towards him.
In the darkness among the trees it would be easy to miss a shot at the men. Fatally easy. Moonlight did strange things to angles and distances when you were shooting, and Jed couldn’t afford any mistakes.
It wasn’t a time for being sentimental about animals.
As the two riders came round the nearest bend, moving at a fast trot, he readied himself. A gun in each hand. Herne wasn’t completely ambidextrous, but he was as good with his left hand as most men were with their right.
Joab and Gawain were in high spirits. Now that the dangerously nervous manager was dead and fried to a crisp, and that murdering shootist was bobbing wetly down the Clearwater, the road ahead lay straight and clear for them. Nothing was going to stop them now.
‘Hold it, you sons of bitches!!’ yelled Jedediah Herne, stepping out of the bushes directly in front of them, like an Apache shaman leaping from a cloud of smoke to terrify even the stoutest of hearts.
‘Jesus Christ!!’ screamed Joab Sowren, fumbling for his rifle.
His brother, Gawain didn’t shout anything at all. He was too busy fighting his horse that had reared up in terror at the frightening appearance of the man, right under its hooves.
Calm as if he was at early morning practice, Herne pumped three bullets into each animal, using the Colt in his left hand. Feeling the pistol buck and kick against his wrist. Seeing in the silver light the black splodges of blood that burst but on the chests on both horses, the impact of the bullets knocking them over in the slippery mud.
Joab was so concerned with trying for his Winchester that he was slow in reacting. As his horse rolled under him, he never managed to get his boots clear of the stirrups and was trapped by the leg. A snapping sound and a lance of fiery pain telling him that the bones were crushed by the weight of the animal. From where he lay, he couldn’t reach his gun, and the tossing of the dying creature’s head prevented him even seeing the man that had attacked them.
Gawain was luckier and quicker.
Jumping sideways as the horse fell, landing in a crouch, his hand going for the pistol at his belt. There had been a time when Gawain Sowren had been fast with a hand-gun. As a younger man he’d practiced a whole lot, in the rolling country out beyond the cemetery. But that had been long years back. Though he was only about the same age as Jed, maybe a year or so older, his years had been soft and easy.
Herne’s years had been long and hard. Keeping the edge that Sowren had long lost.
Jed dropped the empty Colt in the dirt by his feet, thumbing back the Le Mat, snapping off a quick shot at the kneeling man. Seeing the effect it had.
Gawain screamed once, high and thin, like a sta
llion being gelded, and his arms flew up and wide as if he’d seen a long-lost friend and was readying himself to greet him. But the expression on his face was one of agony, not greeting. The bullet had hit him in the chest, just above the breastbone, sending him slumping back, rolling in the mud. Trying to scream again but blood from his torn lungs flooded into his throat and mouth, choking him.
He clapped his hands to the wound, pressing as hard as he could, attempting to force the pain away. As he tried to sit up, Herne shot him through the centre of the head, the forty-two ripping away most of his nose, opening the middle of his face like a butcher’s cleaver. Angling up sideways and back, forcing one eye from its socket where it dangled on Sowren’s cheek, still attached by the gristle of the muscle and the optic nerve.
The distorted bullet mangled a chunk from the middle-aged man’s brain before finally stopping its progress. Gawain Sowren died blinded and alone, face down in dirt, his fingers clawing for a handful of earth. That was all the birthright that death left him.
There were three bullets left in the Le Mat, and one son to kill.
Joab Sowren was struggling for his life, his brain threatening to slip away from his control into a helpless hysteria. One moment all had been well and they’d been riding along happily, pushing on to report their success to their mother and to Aunt Lily. Then an appalling horror had erupted among them.
His brother was dead. He knew that. The two bullets, the scream and that awful choking, bubbling sound. And now it was his turn. He could feel his broken leg crushed by the horse. Even see the shattered fragments of white bone sticking through the torn cloth of his trousers. His horse was finally still, blood tumbling from its wounds and pattering on the dirt. Flooding down the slope of the trail, stark in the moonlight, looking like spilled ink.
‘Herne?’ he yelled, voice cracking. ‘That you, Herne? Is it?
There was no answer. Jed was waiting quietly, unable to see beyond the corpse of the horse, whether the man had a gun in his hand or not. In the middle of the action, amid the noise of the bullets and the drifting clouds of powder smoke, he thought he’d heard the clean crack of a bone breaking, but he wasn’t sure. Not sure enough to want to risk his life on it.
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