Billy the Kid (A Herne the Hunter Western Book 13)

by John J. McLaglen

  ~*~

  Herne stirred as soon as Garrett touched a hand to his shoulder; was wide awake instantly, throwing off the blanket and sitting up.

  ‘Quiet as can be,’ said Garrett.

  Herne stood up and nodded, scratching at his belly and then rubbing at the corners of his eyes. ‘Lend me that Winchester, will you?’

  Garrett threw him the rifle and waved his hand as Herne stepped close past the Kid and made his way up on to the rock. He sat cross-legged, his back resting against the ridged hardness of sandstone, Stetson angled down and blanket draped over his shoulders.

  The occasional movements of creatures beyond the hollow disturbed him, the rustle of something darting after its prey and the sudden shriek and scuffle of a creature dying.

  Whitey Coburn.

  He was as close to being a friend as any that Herne could claim. Had been ever since the two of them had ridden in the war when little more than kids, much like Billy down there except … except they hadn’t loved killing in the same way as Billy did.

  They hadn’t but there’d been others: like a series of specters from his past the bloodied, burning corpses of Lawrence lifted themselves into his mind’s eye. William Clarke Quantrill. Jesse James,

  Herne shook his head, clearing the images as fast as he could– it wasn’t a time he cared to recall. Instead he tried to figure out what Whitey might be doing–working as sheriff in some cattle town close by the Kansas border, riding shotgun for some stage company or railroad guard on a westbound train. Hell, he could even be wearing the badge of a U.S. Marshal!

  Herne shook his head. He didn’t dread much in life but maybe that was something that came close - the idea of Whitey coming after him, riding hard, tracking him down the way only very few could. No: he didn’t take to the thought but he realized it was the way things sometimes went when you lived that kind of life.

  Why, any two men who reckoned themselves friends one day might be facing each other across a bare, dusty street the next, each one waiting for the other to hit leather.

  Whitey Coburn and himself,

  Pat Garrett and Billy the Kid–Anyone.

  Herne huddled into the blanket and wiped a hand over his face, trying to ward off sleep and the images that came when it approached.

  Dawn came slowly, a ring of muffled light that spread low to the eastern horizon and eventually darkened a purplish-orange at the center. When that orange filtered upwards and lightened into yellow, Herne climbed down and woke Garrett and the Kid.

  The sun wasn’t too high up in the sky when they came in sight of the Rio Grande, horses anxious at the smell of fresh water. The approach from the north was flat, green fading to brown, brown to the reddish-gray of stones that were covered by the water in winter but which now lay basking in the warmth of the spring day. At the far side, the land rose in layers, colors darkening as the hills became steeper, clambering on top of one another to form the final ramparts in the distance.

  There were trails between the rocks, narrow arroyos and canyons that were as yet hidden from sight.

  Billy brought the other two to a halt a couple of hundred yards short of the river, head flicking in either direction, nervous, snake-like.

  ‘I don’t like it.’

  ‘I don’t see no trouble, Billy,’ answered Garrett.

  ‘Yeah, that’s what’s wrong. Jennings should be here, either that or he should have taken us by now. He’s as good as you reckon, he must’ve done.’

  Herne scanned the curve of the river, sunlight making the rippling movement of the water glisten and sparkle. At the other side reeds and some kind of green scrub grew along several hundred yards of shore. The jagged hills thrust their crumbled surfaces out anonymously, blankly. Herne looked from ridge to ridge, crest to crest–nothing.

  ‘What d’you reckon?’ asked Garrett.

  Herne shook his head, shrugged. ‘What Billy says makes sense, only ...’

  ‘Only?’

  ‘We ain’t goin’ to gain nothin’ sittin’ here–’cept sunstroke.’ He wiped the end of his red bandana over his forehead and round his neck. The back of his shirt was dark with sweat and sticking to his back. Deep circles of sweat hung from under his arms.

  ‘Let’s go.’

  The Kid set off first, reins in his left hand, right never far from his pistol; Garrett and Herne came behind, ten yards to either side, Garrett sliding the Winchester free as he rode and laying it across his saddle.

  The animals wanted to stop and drink but spurs and boots urged them on. The water splashed about the horses’ legs and up on to the riders as they neared the center of the shallow, wide river.

  Something flashed across Herne’s vision, high and to the left and as recognition dawned he shouted a warning and dropped fast to the right, down alongside his mount.

  The ringing sound of a rifle echoed along the river valley and immediately it was filled in with other firing, three, four, weapons being used at once.

  The three men dug their spurs in hard and yelled loud, Garrett turning right and galloping along the river, his rifle unused in his hand, his body ducked low over the animal’s neck.

  Billy went forward as fast as he could, cursing and pulling the pistol from its holster. Bullets splattered the water on either side of him and his horse reared up suddenly; Billy’s feet came out of the stirrups and he fought to keep control.

  Herne fired twice from the side of his horse and spurred on towards the Kid, seeing the trouble he was in. As he got closer, Billy was unseated and went sideways into the water with a loud splash.

  Herne’s head spun upwards, staring at the flashes of gunfire from the rock. He snapped off a shot with his Colt and slid the gun down into its holster.

  ‘Jesus Christ!’ Billy shouted from the river. ‘The bastards are over on the wrong fuckin’ side!’

  He tried to push himself up and winced with pain as the wound in his side was torn by the effort. He slipped back down and Herne leaned low from the saddle, arm cradling out towards him.

  ‘Catch ahold!’

  Billy did his best to grab at Herne’s arm, hit it and nothing more. Down river Garrett had dived from his saddle and was struggling towards the bank, leading his horse by the reins. Most of the shooting was concentrated on Herne and the Kid.

  At the second attempt Billy got both of his arms over one of Herne’s and was lifted out of the water, gasping for air, gasping from pain as his side was stretched even further. The water that ran down his shirt was pink with blood.

  ‘Easy now.’ Herne straightened, lifting the Kid across the pommel of the saddle. He pulled his arm clear and as he did so the animal bucked underneath him and immediately started to fold at the front legs.

  ‘Jump, Billy!’

  Herne’s shout was too late. Both of them were hurled into the river as the horse went down, Herne managing to free his boot and so not be dragged down and trapped underneath.

  Billy’s head went under and broke surface seconds later, already cursing wildly. Herne saw the rifle wound in the animal’s neck, raw and bloody, hair and skin ragged with torn tissue. Blood ran out freely and when the wound was covered by water the water ran red.

  Herne grabbed Billy’s arm and started to pull him through the water towards the shore, bullets singing into the river around them.

  It was some little time before Herne realized that the firing had increased and that now some of it was coming from along the bank to his left.

  ‘Looks like ... someone’s chippin’ in … on our account.’ He struggled to haul Billy through the water and into the weeds on the Mexican side, gasping for breath. In the river the shot horse flailed its legs in a series of dying tremors.

  Herne knelt on the soft earth and drew his Colt, emptying the chamber and bending to reload. The Kid lay on his side, mud splashed across his face, anger wild in his eyes.

  After a few moments from along the river there was a shout that they recognized as belonging to Mason.

  ‘That’
s where they got to,’ said Herne, lifting the Colt and steadying his aim with the left hand holding the right wrist.

  ‘Yeah,’ said Billy bitterly, spitting, wincing, firing his gun at the rock and hearing the slug go ricocheting away.

  ‘I’m going further in,’ called Herne. ‘You’ll be okay there. There’s cover enough.’

  He sprinted fifteen yards and slid to a halt behind the beginnings of a spur of sandstone. A bullet grazed the rock a couple of feet above him and he ducked instinctively, swerving to one side and firing fast. There was a flash of light as a rifle was hurled away from the cliff and caught the sun; an arm flopped into sight and then a man’s body slowly toppled over the edge and plummeted towards the ground.

  ‘That’s one of ’em.’

  Garrett was some twenty feet higher up than Herne, grinning down at him.

  ‘Yeah, let’s see if we can’t see to some more.’

  Herne clambered up towards him, accepting an offered hand and being pulled the last feet of the way. He lay alongside Garret on a ledge, looking for signs of the men who’d ambushed them.

  ‘Guess they gave us some of our own medicine,’ said Garrett.

  ‘Jennings, then?’

  Garrett looked at him, levering a fresh shell into the chamber of his gun. ‘Has to be.’

  Herne shook his head. ‘Didn’t think he’d cross the border. Not for this.’

  ‘No. Depends how badly he wants the Kid, don’t it?’

  ‘I guess.’

  It had been some time since anyone had fired on them; there was neither sight nor sound of their attackers. Garrett moved back along the ledge and sat down, resting his back.

  ‘You think that’s it?’

  Herne nodded: ‘For now.’

  Pecos, then Mason, appeared from down river, moving warily still, uncertain that the attackers had really gone. But their advance met with no response.

  Herne and Garrett went back down to where Billy had levered himself to his feet. He was standing close by a rock, one hand steadying himself against it, the other pressed to his side.

  Pecos pushed his hat back from his head and combed his fingers through his hair. ‘Good thing we turned up when we did.’

  His only answer was a glare from Billy that took the grin from Pecos’s face.

  ‘You stupid bastards …’ Billy began.

  ‘The hell you say!’ Mason interrupted, coming fast towards him, sweat glistening on his head. ‘We hadn’t been there you’d be so much dead meat floatin’ up that river.’

  Billy folded forwards suddenly, clutching his side hard, When he straightened again his eyes were wide with rage. ‘If one of you two hadn’t opened fire back in that canyon there wouldn’t have been no trouble here ’cause those bastards would’ve been dead.’

  Pecos rubbed the palms of his hands down the sides of his pants. ‘Jesus, Billy, they was ridin’ right through without …’ His eyes blinked fast, nervously. ‘I only thought...’

  He broke off as Billy lurched away from the rock, letting go of his side. The material of his shirt was dark with blood; his hand stained with it. He reeled sharply, almost losing his balance, Garrett hurrying towards him from behind.

  ‘You thought,’ yelled Billy scathingly. ‘You thought! Who the hell told you to think? All you need to do is follow orders. My orders. Instead you nearly got us all killed, you miserable fuckin’...’

  The Kid steadied himself with his left arm outspread and his right swung towards his holster, fingers grasping at the pistol butt. Pecos saw the action and jumped back, starting to move for his own gun. Billy swayed at the last moment, missing his draw, fingers striking the edge of the butt and not grasping it.

  Garrett caught hold of the Kid’s shoulders and Herne set himself between the Kid and Pecos.

  ‘No.’ Herne shook his head and Pecos slowly let his hand fall away from his gun belt.

  ‘I’ll kill that stupid bastard!’ Billy shouted, struggling to free himself from Garrett’s grip. ‘I’ll kill him!’

  ‘Kid, take it easy!’

  ‘Easy! Like hell!’

  Garrett held him fast until he’d stopped struggling and simply stood there, staring at Pecos from under lowered lids, splashes of saliva around his mouth.

  ‘We’re goin’ to need every gun we’ve got,’ said Herne. ‘If Jennings has crossed the border with that damn posse, he means business an’ he ain’t about to give it up after one shake of the dice.’

  ‘Herne’s right,’ agreed Garrett, letting go of Billy’s arms and stepping away to one side.

  Billy said nothing, made no gesture; he stood there for several seconds, looking past Pecos and Mason, not apparently focusing on anything. Then he wiped his sleeve across his mouth and walked slowly away, back down towards the river. As he went he unbuttoned his shirt and took it off, letting it fall on the green reeds.

  Pat Garrett moved after him. ‘That wound’ll need lookin’ at,’ he said. ‘Redressing.’

  Herne nodded towards Mason. ‘How ’bout your mounts?’

  The big man pointed along the river. ‘Got ’em tied up down a ways.’

  ‘Good. That means we’re one light. I’ll double up a while till we can buy a new horse. It ain’t the best, slowin’ us down the way it will, but we ain’t got no choice.’

  Mason swatted at a pair of flies playing tag around his head. ‘You think they’ll try and wait up for us again?’

  Herne thought a moment, rubbing his chin. ‘Doubt it. What little I know of Jennings, he ain’t about to do the expected. That’s all you can expect of him–that an’ that he won’t give up easy.’

  Chapter Nine

  The wind whipped dust into their eyes, blinding them. Bandanas were tied tight over mouths and nostrils, hat brims pulled low. Still the yellow and white dust bit at the flesh about their eyes like particles of pale fire. Billy cursed and spat, pulling the checkered bandana clear a moment as the ball of phlegm left his cracked lips. As soon as it hit the ground it was smothered and lost.

  ‘Billy!’ called Herne. ‘Looks like it over there.’

  The Kid spurred his horse over to where Herne was standing close by Mason’s mount, pointing with his right arm through the swirl of dust.

  ‘Hell! I can’t see a damned thing.’

  But then he could, slowly taking shape as the wind lessened and made one of its sporadic changes of direction. Adobe buildings a shadowy gray in the middle distance, like the outlines of some ghost town.

  ‘You sure it ain’t some mirage?’ asked Mason, his bulky body caked in dust, voice muffled by the scarf over his face.

  Herne shook his head. ‘Looks real enough to me. Only one way to find out for sure, though.’

  ‘Okay,’ agreed Billy. He looked round, straining to see. ‘Where are Pat an’ Pecos?’

  As he spoke the two riders came through the shroud of dust.

  ‘You found the place we’re lookin’ for?’ asked Garrett wearily.

  ‘Herne here reckons it is.’

  Garrett coughed and wiped the dirt from the corners of his eyes. Pecos looked at Billy warily, still unsure how the Kid’s temper might turn him at any moment. But all Billy did was to move his horse away in the direction of the adobes, waving the rest of them after him. Herne climbed up behind Mason and the party set off in the Kid’s wake.

  The buildings were real enough, though in places the adobe was crumbling and the roofs were beginning to yield to the wind. There were perhaps thirty adobes, mostly small and gathered in a rough circle around a two story church with a square bell tower at the front. There was a wide clearing before the church and to its right a couple of cantinas separated by a store. On the other side of the clearing was a livery stable and barn, the only place in sight built from wood.

  Herne wondered where in hell’s name they’d fetch it from–he’d hardly seen a tree since they’d crossed the Rio Grande.

  The buildings gave the men some shelter from the excesses of the wind, though you could still hea
r it whistling between the adobes and slashing from sheer corner to corner. Herne dropped from the back of Mason’s horse and brushed his hands down the sides of his vest and shirt. He loosened the knot of his bandana and let it fall to his neck; cleared his throat and spat down into the dust.

  ‘Pecos, take the horses over to the livery. We’ll see you in the cantina,’ ordered Billy.

  Pecos leaned sideways from his saddle and took the Kid’s reins. ‘Which one?’ he asked.

  ‘The first one we come to,’ Billy replied, turning away.

  The Kid scuffed his boots across the clearing and pushed open the door of the cantina with his left hand, right hand close by his holster.

  A dozen pairs of eyes turned towards the doorway as Billy stepped quickly through. A few hands moved quickly then stopped as first Pat Garrett, then Herne came into the low-ceilinged room. At the rear of the cantina a man stood up slowly and reached for the sombrero hanging from the back of his chair. He set the hat on his head and walked between the tables towards the door.

  The Kid waited until the man was fifteen feet away from him. ‘What’s the matter? You don’t like my company?’

  The man hesitated, looking into the Kid’s face, not seeming to understand.

  ‘I said, don’t you like my company?’

  The man gestured with both hands and shrugged his shoulders. Billy’s face twitched and his fingers closed and opened over the butt of his gun.

  Pat Garrett stepped alongside the Kid and repeated the question in Spanish. The man’s face relaxed as he listened, then answered.

  ‘What’s he say?’ The Kid knew a little Spanish but not a great deal; he couldn’t understand what the man had said beyond a few odd words.

  ‘He says he was leaving anyway. He has business to attend to. He means no insult.’

  The Mexican came closer and spoke to Garrett, gesturing towards the bar.

  Garrett nodded and said thanks. He held out his hand and the Mexican shook it firmly.

  ‘He wants to buy us all a drink,’ Garrett said. ‘All we have to do is step over to the bar and ask for what we want. He hopes we enjoy our stay in Banderas.’