Jedediah Herne only wanted to play checkers but a fool-hardy youth wanted to draw him into a gunfight. The kid didn’t know he was facing Herne the Hunter. For Herne, it brought back memories of another time; another kid …
New Mexico Territory 1878: The murder of local rancher John Tunstall lit the fuse for a bloody conflict that will be forever known as The Lincoln County War. Standing shoulder-to-shoulder is a legend and one in the making–Herne the Hunter and Billy the Kid. Luckily they are on the same side. Not so for the opposition. Herne hires out his Colt .45 to the Tunstall/McSween supporters against the Dolan/Murphy faction and thus The Regulators are born. The Kid’s gunning down of Lincoln County Sheriff Brady changed the playing field. Soon Herne and the Kid are pitched against lawmen and desperately fighting for their lives.
A fast-paced adventure featuring notable figures of the Old West, including Sheriff Pat Garrett, John Chisum, Alexander McSween, Dick Brewer, Lawrence Murphy and the most famous of them all–Billy the Kid.
HERNE THE HUNTER 13: BILLY THE KID
By John J. McLaglen
First Published by Transworld Publishers in 1980
Copyright © 1980, 2015 by John J. McLaglen
First Smashwords Edition: October 2015
Names, characters and incidents in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons living or dead is purely coincidental.
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each reader.
Cover image © 2014 by Tony Masero
This is a Piccadilly Publishing Book
Series Editor: Mike Stotter * Text © Piccadilly Publishing
Published by Arrangement with the Author.
Chapter One
Conata lay in the shadow of the Badlands, a huddle of buildings in the center of the broad plain that swept south to the White River. Only a plantation of ponderosa pine sheltered the settlement from the north-westerlies which lashed it for much of the year; only the twin springs that some first settler had discovered gave it a reason for existing. Now the place was a depot for the local stage line; it stocked supplies for the surrounding ranches and was a watering hole for any rider coming down out of the buttes and arid caverns to the north.
It had been two days since Jed Herne had done just that. He’d ridden into Conata on a morning that had gray clouds scudding across a gray spring sky, the wind driving him along, plucking at the material of his wool coat and at the greasy Stetson tied to his head. Herne had forty dollars in his pocket and he was nursing a hunger that would only be satisfied by a two-inch thick steak with potatoes and all the trimmings, a bottomless pot of coffee and a bottle of good whisky to wash it all down. It was a feeling Herne had often known in his forty odd years of living–it wasn’t one he’d always been able to do something about.
Right now he could and now he wanted other things, too. Like a bath and a shave, feed and water for his horse, an honest bed that wasn’t a home for ticks and bugs and such.
Nobody had paid him much call when he’d drifted along the main street, just another cowboy passing through. He’d glanced at the saloon and the general store, the barber shop and the saddler’s, the eating house and the livery stable. He’d seen to his horse first off, only then brushing the dust from his clothes with a slap of his hat and hauling his saddle bags and rifle off in search of a beer to slake his thirst before he did anything else.
He’d shared the saloon with a drunk who was stretched out on the floor, one arm hooked round the leg of a table for company, a fat, black cat curled up on the end of the bar, and a sallow barkeep with a shifty left eye and a way of welcoming strangers that made them feel they should move on as soon as they could.
Herne hadn’t taken to any of them–except, maybe, for the cat. He’d been around too long to care about anything other than his own peace of mind and that was something you took with you; it didn’t have anything to do with towns like Conata or drunks or barkeeps who didn’t like their customers. If anything, Herne thought, it had more to do with cats.
When he’d gone to the bar for his second beer, the animal had peered at him, one green eye showing above the soft curl of fur, making sure that his approach offered no danger. If it did, the cat would spring to life in a second; as it was, the eye slid from sight and the animal resumed its curiously wakeful sleep.
It hadn’t occurred to Herne before, but he thought he liked cats–admired them for their self-sufficiency. He’d downed his second glass without bothering to sit down, picked up his belongings and gone out into the street in search of a room and a meal.
Finding both, Herne had spent the next couple of days resting up, slowly restocking his supplies and generally enjoying doing nothing much. He reckoned in a while he’d move on out of the Dakotas, maybe drift south and see what was going on down there in the way of work.
Work for Jed Herne not being what it was to most men. It wasn’t a matter of herding cattle, nor breaking broncs, it wasn’t driving a team of four with a supply wagon and it wasn’t searching out a living growing crops. Work was holstered to his right leg, slung low, snug against his thigh. It was a Colt .45 with a smooth butt and a fast action and way of finding his callused hand and fitting into it as if it’d been born there.
Jed Herne was a shootist: a man who lived by the gun: he was Herne the Hunter.
~*~
‘Fancy a game, mister ?’
Herne pushed the brim of his Stetson up from his eyes and looked up. The sun was strong for the first time in weeks and Herne was sitting out on the sidewalk close by the doors of the saloon, catnapping.
‘Game of checkers?’
The old timer had a wisp of gingery beard, a moustache that was already traced with white, a wizened face that told of a life of work and trouble and a whole lot more besides.
Herne nodded: ‘Sure. Why not?’
The old man set his head to one side. ‘Damned right, feller. Only wished a few more thought the same way.’
There was a rickety old table pushed to the back of the sidewalk and the old timer pulled it out and dragged one of the saloon chairs next to it. Then he went into the saloon and came back out with the board and pieces.
Herne watched as the old man’s fingers set the pieces carefully in place, the knuckle joints swollen and purple. Twice a piece slipped from his hand and the man cursed and picked it up again, shaking his head.
‘Damned fingers! Can’t hold a thing right. Not no more. Try an’ hold a razor an’ I got the best chance in hell of cuttin’ my own throat.’
He chuckled and looked at Herne, eyeing his green wool shirt and patched leather vest, brown pants over scuffed boots, the Colt in its holster, safety thong slipped over the curve of the hammer.
‘Thank God your hands ain’t never gone like mine.’ He set the last piece down and squinted across the table. ‘You’d better hope they never do–you ’specially.’
Herne swiveled his chair round towards the table. ‘Why’s that?’
The old timer grinned and pointed a bent hand towards the gun at Herne’s hip. ‘You ain’t wearin’ that for fun.’
‘Not many men do.’
‘That ain’t what I meant. You don’t look anythin’ fancy, but that don’t matter none. I seen enough gunfighters in my time to know one when I see one.’
Herne looked back at the old man, saying nothing.
‘I’m right, ain’t I?’
‘Could be.’
‘Thought so.’
He leaned forward. ‘What’s the name you go by?’
‘Jed Herne.’
The man’s face screwed up. ‘That wouldn’t be the same as Herne the Hunter, would it?’
Herne nodded,
‘Jesus, an’ I reckoned as how you must be dead.’
Herne smiled quickly. ‘How’s that?’
The old man shook his head, fingering his scrubby beard. ‘Didn’t hear too much about you for a good while. Years, I reckon.’ He gazed at Herne. ‘You drop out of sight? Get in trouble with the law?’
‘No. Stopped workin’ for a while a few years back. Since then I’ve been traveling doin’ things here an’ there. Man gets to my age, folk think he ain’t so good any more, ain’t so fast.’
‘Huh!’ The old timer looked at Herne’s black hair, long and lank but graying strongly at the temples. ‘How old are you anyway?’
Herne shrugged. ‘I won’t see forty again.’
‘Forty! Hell, boy, that but makes you half my age.’
Herne grinned. ‘In that case, I ain’t got a deal to worry about.’ He reached out to the board and took one of the checkers in his hand. ‘You want to play or are we goin’ to sit out here all mornin’ ratlin’ on like two empty old men?’
‘Hell, no, we’re playin’. You just make your move an’ I’ll follow faster’n you think.’
Herne nodded and set the piece down on the board.
They were fifteen minutes into the game, and Herne was starting to realize his chances of winning were slimmer than a polar bear in the desert, when the sound of horses cut through their thoughts. Both men looked up, exchanging a quick glance as they did so. The hoof beats were joined by hollers of alarm and the stage appeared at the end of the street, its driver leaning forward in the seat and using the long whip for all he was worth. Only as the depot got nearer did he slow the team down, hauling in on the reins and beginning to apply the brake.
Men came running into the street from the saloon and the store; more hurried from the livery stable and the stage depot itself. A couple of women stood in the doorway of the draper’s talking excitedly to one another. Half a dozen small boys with bare feet and no seat to their trousers raced from one of the alleyways and skidded to a halt near the edge of the sidewalk.
The driver sat forward in the box, the stage still vibrating, horses tossing their heads. ‘A mile back. We was held up, Robbed. Bastards shot Pete an’...’
He broke off in mid-sentence, jerking straight, right arm grabbing the air. His head went to one side and he plummeted forwards, hitting the front of the box and rolling sideways. A couple of men hustled to the coach and caught the driver’s body as it fell.
Others hurried round to the side of the stage and opened the door, jumping back as the upper half of a body slid out, upside down, head and mouth agape, eyes staring and seeing nothing. The side of his shirt and vest were dark with blood. Hands lifted the dead man clear and laid him down in the street.
On the sidewalk, the depot manager knelt beside his driver, hand under his head as blood ran slowly from one corner of his mouth.
‘Doc! Somebody fetch the doc!’
‘He’s comin’! I seen him comin’!’
More people gathered around, kicking up dust and talking excitedly about what had happened, exchanging stories when no one knew for sure what had taken place.
The stage door stayed open and, ignored, the figure of a girl appeared, crouching, peering out. Hesitantly, she stepped down and gazed around. A cold shudder swept through Herne as he sat opposite, watching. For a second he thought, impossibly, that it was Becky. Pale face framed by dark hair, deep-set, bewildered eyes: hung on the edge of being grown. She stood there alone for several moments, the body of the dead man a couple of feet in front of her. Then a group of women swept forward and gathered her up, taking her away.
‘Know her?’ The old timer leaned forward, searching Herne’s face.
Herne shook his head.
‘Way you looked, I thought—’
‘Knew someone like her once. That’s all.’
The old man sat back again, nodded. ‘Time an’ memory. Gets so they play funny tricks.’
Herne thought of Becky Yates. Her ma and Herne’s wife had died at near enough the same time and on account of the same men. Men that Herne had hunted down and killed one by one, no matter how long it had taken, no matter what obstacles had been set in his way. For a while he’d tried to look after Becky as well, but it hadn’t been possible; he’d sent her off to England to school. When he stood on the dock to meet her a year later things had changed. Becky had grown up, blossomed–and something had blossomed inside her that …
He remembered her face, pale and searching on the deck of the ship as it came into the harbor, pale like that of the girl who’d just stepped from the stage. He remembered …
His hand squeezed on the checker until the edges of it dug sharply into his palm, the inside of his fingers. Finally he dropped it on the board and drove the memory from his mind. The old man watched the checker bounce and roll and said nothing.
‘OK, folks, just be quiet here and listen. Listen!’ The speaker stood in the box at the front of the stage, arms outspread. He was a tall man, thin like whipcord, his face tanned and long; fair hair fell almost to his shoulders; a Colt .45 was holstered low on his left side–maybe too low.
‘The stage was jumped just a mile back up the trail. Bunch of five or six men. The bastards shot the guard dead before they even showed themselves. His body’s back up there still. You can all see what happened to the driver. Doc says he may pull through but it’s no more than fifty-fifty.’
There were shouts and cries from the crowd, sounds of anger.
The fair-haired man raised his arms for silence.
‘That ain’t all. One of the passengers was killed tryin’ to fight them off an’ his daughter fair scared to death. An’ they took the strong box with close to eight hundred dollars in it.’
Voices rose up around him once more: once more he demanded silence and got it.
‘I’m lookin’ for a posse to ride out along of me and hunt them thievin’, murderin’ bastards down. They won’t have got that much of a start an’ if we move fast we’ll likely have ’em strung up by nightfall.’
This remark was greeted by a loud cheer and some waving of hands and hats.
‘We’re leavin’ soon as you get your horses.’
Another holler. A second man jumped up on to the coach, standing in the open doorway, one hand clinging to the rack on the roof.
‘Like Turner says, we’re goin’ to teach those bastards they can’t mess around with us an’ get away with it. Yeah!’
Men hurried away, talking loudly, going for guns, ammunition, mounts. The youngster who’d leaped up on to the stage stayed there for a moment, gazing at Turner as if wanting some kind of approval, recognition. Finally the fair-haired man looked down at him and nodded. ‘OK, kid, let’s go.’
The kid grinned lopsidedly, only the left side of his face moving, the right frozen and unchanging. Then he jumped back down and into the street and began to run in the direction of the livery stable.
‘You goin’?’ asked the old timer.
Herne shook his head. ‘They got men enough.’
The old man scratched at his beard. ‘In that case, I reckon it’s your move.’
Herne was thinking how not to lose the game too soon when a horse came up close, snorting and pawing the ground. He turned his head to see the kid who’d been up on the stage jerking at the reins and wheeling his mount around in the middle of the street.
‘Damn young fool,’ said the old man under his breath.
Herne shook his head and looked back at the board.
‘Mister! Hey, mister, how ’bout you?’
Herne ignored the question, set down the piece and as soon as he’d lifted his fingers from it, realized that he’d not done the most sensible of things.
‘Mister, you deaf?’
Herne d
rew breath slowly; he glanced across the table at the old man and then moved his body round in the chair. The kid had settled the animal down now and was sitting astride it, right side angled towards Herne, the side on which his gun was holstered close by his right hand.
Herne stared at his face, realizing that the one side of it never moved, even the eye seemed set, alive but fixed as if it could only ever look out in the same direction. The way the head was turned, that direction aimed straight at Herne.
‘You’re old but you ain’t that old an’ you’re wearin’ a gun. Why don’t you get off your ass and get your horse. We’re leavin’.’
‘That’s fine.’ said Herne coldly. ‘You go ahead an’ leave.’
The kid moved his horse from side to side while other riders came along behind, most of them looking over to see what was going on.
‘What’s the matter with you, mister? Didn’t you hear three men got shot?’
Herne nodded slowly. ‘I heard.’
‘An’ you’re not man enough to do anythin’ about it–is that it?’
Herne’s mouth tightened. ‘You’re shootin’ off your mouth enough for two men. You get to it.’
One half of the kid’s face sneered. ‘Why, you’re yeller, that’s it. You’re stinkin’ yeller!’
Herne shrugged and pushed back his chair as he slowly got to his feet; the old timer eased his own chair further away from the table. At the far side of the street the thin, fair man stepped out of the stage office with a rifle crooked over his arm. He paused, took in what was going on, and started to push his way through the crowd.
Herne stood on the edge of the sidewalk, looking at the youngster in the saddle. His right hand was curved above the smooth butt of his Colt, the fingers arched, claw-like.
‘You like to say that again?’
The voice was firm, clear, not loud. The kid made a sudden jerking motion with his head and his right arm twitched. Herne’s fingers eased an inch closer to his gun and his body dropped into a crouch.
‘Easy, boy!’
The fair-haired man stood to the side, rifle in both hands now.
The kid glanced in the direction of the voice. ‘It’s okay, Turner, you keep out of this.’
Billy the Kid (A Herne the Hunter Western Book 13) Page 1
