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

by John J. McLaglen

  Billy grinned. ‘He does, uh? Well, if that ain’t civil.’ He extended his hand towards the Mexican. ‘Maybe comin’ down here won’t be so bad after all.’

  A few moments later Billy and the others were leaning against the low bar waiting for their glasses of tequila and weak, frothy beer.

  ‘Who was that, anyway?’ asked Mason.

  ‘Didn’t say,’ replied Garrett, ‘But I’d guess he was some sort of top man round here. Rancher, maybe.’

  ‘Rancher!’ said Mason in disbelief. ‘What in God’s name they raise round here? ’Cept more dust.’

  Pat Garrett laughed and picked up his tequila, swallowing half of it straight down and enjoying the burning feeling that the rough liquor brought to the back of his throat.

  Further along the bar Herne and Pecos were ordering tortillas and corn. Billy leaned back against the bar and thrust his elbows hard on to the counter, one heel of his boots hooked over the low rail.

  ‘It’s goin’ to be okay,’ he announced to all and sundry. ‘This little trip is goin’ to be okay.’

  With a quick movement of his right arm he hurled his glass across the room so that it shattered against the adobe wall, splinters bouncing back on to the nearest tables.

  The Mexicans who jumped startled from their chairs were greeted by the Kid’s high-pitched laughter ringing round the cantina like the chiming of a cracked bell.

  ~*~

  An hour later Herne stood straight and stretched his arms wide of his body. The beer was beginning to go to his head, the inside of the cantina becoming smoky and short of air.

  ‘Anyone for a walk round town?’ he asked with a half-grin.

  ‘You’re foolin’,’ said Pecos. ‘This place ain’t worth walkin’ round once.’

  ‘Sides,’ put in Mason, ‘it ain’t goin’ t’ take but couple of minutes.’

  ‘Okay,’ said Herne pushing his Stetson down on to his head, ‘I’ll be back.’

  Garrett acknowledged him with a wave of the hand from where he was sitting at another table talking with the Kid. Herne lifted his hand and went out through the door into the street.

  The wind had dropped in earnest, leaving the air still and listless. The cloud cover had broken to reveal a watery, pale sun two-thirds of the way down the sky. The dirt and dust that spread from where Herne stood was ridged like a frozen sea, set where and how the wind had left it.

  Herne stood quite still outside the cantina, taking in all of this as if automatically, his mind noticing it in a secondary way as a backdrop to what had forced itself to the forefront of his attention.

  A single mount was tied to the hitching post outside the livery stable, a dun mare with dirt caked to its legs and a well-worn leather saddle, a Winchester at its left side. Herne’s eyes moved right from the horse to the figure sitting on the steps outside the adobe church.

  The man was leaning back from the top step so that his back rested on the wall beside the tall, wooden door. His shoulders were hunched forwards as if the man were tired; his Stetson was tipped well over his bent head so that it would not have been possible for him to see past it. Herne could just see the ends of his gray beard beneath the twisted brim.

  The man’s leather coat was almost as thickly coated with dust as the legs of his horse; the faded blue pants were stained with sweat on the insides. Despite the covering of dust on the coat, the silver of the U.S. marshal’s badge still showed through, dull and faded but unmistakable.

  Herne looked quickly right and left and saw no one; he considered going back into the cantina and rejected the idea almost at once, though without knowing why. Instead he began to walk softly over the ridges of dirt, his thumb flicking clear the leather thong that held the hammer of the Colt fast.

  He knew it didn’t matter how much noise he made or how little; knew that even though he wasn’t looking at him at that moment, Will Jennings knew that he was there and what he was doing.

  When Herne was mid-way, Jennings proved it by jerking back his head and pushing the Stetson back from his face. The blue eyes were as bright as Herne remembered them.

  ‘Jed.’ The voice was plain, noncommittal,

  ‘Will.’ Herne nodded, taking a few more paces then stopping.

  Jenning’s hands were resting on the tops of his thighs, wrists on the worn leather of his gun belt. A Colt .45 was snug in the holster on the right side.

  ‘Long way off your patch, ain’t you, Will?’

  The marshal nodded. ‘True enough.’

  Herne looked at the badge on Jennings’s leather coat. ‘That don’t count for nothin’ down here.’

  Jennings squinted up at him. ‘I know that… but this does.’ The outside of his little finger brushed the smooth wood of his gun butt.

  ‘You must want the Kid bad,’ said Herne taking a few steps towards the church.

  Jennings pushed his hat back off his head so that it hung down by the cord at his neck. He wiped the fingers of his left hand across his mouth, freeing the coating of dust from the edges of his beard and moustache. When they had moved away it was possible to see the ginger hair above and below his lips.

  When he spoke, the marshal’s voice was low and deliberate. ‘We both known killers enough in our time, you an’ me. Plenty of ’em. But a man who’ll gun down a lawman in the street along with his deputies. Lay up an’ wait for a chance to shoot them in the back without a warnin’.’ Jennings spat on to the church steps. ‘That sort of cowardly scum wants chasin’ off the face of the earth, an’ if I have to cross a few lines to do it that’s the way it’s got to be.’

  Herne rested his foot on the corner of the bottom step; he was close enough to Jennings now to see the tiredness in the man’s eyes, the slackening of the muscles in his short, stocky body. Maybe Jennings had been doing his job for too long: maybe catching up with the Kid was one last mission, one last ride.

  ‘How come you’re ridin’ with trash like the Kid?’ Jennings asked him suddenly.

  Herne shrugged. ‘You know how it is … man can’t always pick an’ choose.’

  ‘Shit! You an’ that albino–what was his name?’

  ‘Whitey. Whitey Coburn.’

  ‘That’s him. I never reckoned either of you for friends, but you was always above this. What you hire out to the Kid for?’

  Herne’s eyes narrowed; he knew the sense in much of what the marshal was saying and he didn’t stand easy under it; he resented what it implied about himself.

  ‘I ain’t workin’ for Billy Bonney. He ain’t payin’ my wages. Chisum an’ McSween—they sent me down along with the rest.’

  Jennings fixed Herne with his stare: ‘Time they backshot Brady in Lincoln. You in on that?’

  ‘Hell, no. Billy made sure I was down the other end of town, by the courthouse. Guess he wanted me out of the way.’

  ‘That the truth?’

  ‘I said it, didn’t I?’

  Jennings gestured with both hands: ‘Sure.’

  Herne looked at him. ‘What does it matter?’

  Jennings picked up a small stone and tossed it out into the street. ‘Leave ‘em. Let the bunch of ’em go hang. You don’t owe trash like that nothin’. Let me deputize you an’ you help me bring the Kid back over the border.’

  Herne thought about it; not for long, but he thought about it just the same. Then he shook his head.

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘You know why - I gave my word. Took my pay. That settles it for me.’

  ‘Even if it means sidin’ with some—’

  ‘Whatever it means, that’s the way it is.’

  Herne backed off from the steps and as he did so Will Jennings pushed his heavy body up into a standing position.

  The two men stared at one another across the packed waves of dirt and dust,

  ‘What’s it to be, Will?’

  For an answer Jennings spread his hand above the butt of his pistol and dropped his body into a gunfighter’s crouch.

  Herne mirrored the movements: �
�I don’t want to have to kill you, Will.’

  Jennings smiled. ‘I wouldn’t want for that either.’

  ‘Then back off and move your hand away from that gun.’

  Jennings shook his head. ‘I don’t think so, Jed.’

  ‘How come?’

  The smile broke again on the marshal’s face. ‘Take a look around.’

  There was one man with a rifle leaning forward from the bell tower, another inside the partly-open doorway of the livery stable. A third leaned against the adobe wall of the second cantina and a fourth poked his rifle barrel around the wall of the church.

  ‘You ain’t leavin’ things to chance,’ said Herne, straightening.

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘But you ain’t about to order me gunned down neither, specially not in the back. That’s not the kind of man you are–is it, Will ? That’s only for trash like the Kid.’

  The smile faded from Jennings’s face as Herne turned and began to walk back towards the cantina, his right hand well clear of his Colt. The four armed men aimed their weapons at Herne’s body, fingers on the triggers, waiting for the word to come. Instead, Jennings waited until Herne was almost at the doorway, then turned heavily away and walked slowly in the direction of the livery stable.

  Holding his breath, Herne pushed open the door to the cantina and stepped inside.

  Chapter Ten

  ‘Hey, you look like you just walked plumb into a ghost!’ called Pat Garrett from the bar where he was standing with glasses of tequila in both hands.

  Herne stepped away from the door fast and shook his head. ‘Weren’t no ghost. No spirit either. Wish it was.’

  Billy turned, half out of his chair. ‘What then?’

  Herne looked directly at the Kid, ‘Jennings,’ he said,

  ‘Jesus!’

  Billy’s small, girlish mouth twitched and twisted; his wide-set eyes blinked and then stared at the still swinging door. Pat Garrett lifted first one, then the other glass to his mouth and swallowed the two shots of tequila fast. His blue-gray eyes were also looking at the doorway and when he set down the glasses, his thumb freed the hammer of his pistol.

  Mason stood away from the table and lifted the double-barreled shotgun to his waist, snapping it open to check the load. Pecos drew his pistol and made a move towards the side window.

  The half-dozen or so Mexicans still inside the cantina were glancing at one another with concern, figuring their chances of getting clear before the shooting started.

  ‘Where was he?’ asked Billy, his voice edgy,

  ‘Over by the church.’

  ‘He see you?’

  ‘He saw me right enough. Spoke to me, too.’

  ‘He did what?’ Billy’s voice rose another octave. He moved his slim-hipped body away from the table and came closer to where Herne was standing.

  ‘What the hell were you doin’ talkin’ to the bastard? Why didn’t you finish him instead?’

  ‘Maybe I couldn’t.’

  ‘Maybe you were cookin’ up some deal?’

  ‘Yeah,’ put in Mason from behind, ‘he knows this Jennings from before. I think the marshal set something up with him.’

  The Kid’s face split into a sneer. ‘What you got to say about that, Herne?’

  ‘Nothin’. You want to believe it, you go ahead.’

  The Kid rocked backwards on his heels, leaning slightly to the left; the fingers of his right hand curled above his pistol and his mouth opened in a snarl.

  ‘He’s okay,’ interrupted Garrett, coming over from the bar. He moved softly but quickly, not wanting to jog the Kid into any sudden action. ‘If he’d made a deal, why’d he come back in? It don’t make sense.’

  Billy glanced over his shoulder. ‘Whose side you on, Pat? I thought you an’ me were friends now.’

  ‘So we are, Billy. But Herne’s all right, he—’

  A volley of rifle fire drowned out the rest of Garrett’s sentence. The cantina door swung open wide as shots hit it and spun it on its hinges. The rear door rocked and finally held on its lock, three holes torn in the woodwork. More slugs came sailing through the bare window and raked the adobe of the wall opposite.

  Garrett and Herne ducked down on either side of the main door, returning fire with their Colts. Mason and the Kid took the back door, Pecos the window. The Mexicans took cover behind tables or at the rear of the bar while bullets continued to fly through the air.

  Glasses and bottles were smashed, fragments of glass moving in jagged somersaults before breaking to tiny pieces on the floor. The shooting continued for two minutes, no more; then it ceased as abruptly as it had begun.

  ‘Billy! Billy Bonney!’ Will Jennings voice filled the vacuum of sound. ‘Billy, you still alive?’

  The Kid hurried towards the front of the cantina, weaving low between the overturned chairs and tables. He pushed his pistol through the gap between wall and door and fired three times, the explosions merging into a single roar of sound.

  ‘That answer you?’ the Kid shouted back.

  ‘You might as well give up, Kid. There ain’t no way out of there but dead.’

  Billy sent off another shot in the direction of the marshal’s voice. ‘That’s what you think.’

  ‘It’s what I know.’

  ‘Get screwed, Jennings!’

  Billy loosed off two more shots, the second covered by a series of thundering volleys of sound as Jennings’s men did their best to blast the cantina apart.

  There was a scream from the middle of the room as a slug pierced the wood of an upturned table and smashed the side of a Mexican’s face apart. The bullet hit him on the corner of his jawbone, splintering it into fragments of needle-sharp bone that tore through his skin and flew through the air tipped with the red of his blood. The cheek above the bone, the eye socket, the side of the mouth were all dispersed by the path of the rifle bullet as it deflected upwards.

  The man threw up an arm as he pitched sideways, the scream continuing to rise from his lips even though his brain had already ceased to function.

  ‘How the fuck are we goin’ to get out of here?’ yelled Mason from the far end of the room.

  ‘Shut up and let me think!’ called Billy, reloading his pistol.

  Herne turned away, moving from door to window. If it was left to the Kid to get them out of there, then likely Jennings was right–the only way they’d be coming out was feet first with dollar pieces over their eyes. ‘What can you see?’ he asked Pecos.

  ‘Couple of men across the way.’ Pecos pointed with the barrel end of his gun.

  Herne caught glimpses of a hat brim being pulled from sight and nothing more. He looked at Pecos’s young face, worried under the mass of dark, curly hair.

  ‘How long d’you reckon we can hole up in here?’ asked Garrett of nobody in particular.

  ‘Hell, there’s food an’ drink enough for days,’ said Mason. ‘All we’re likely to run low on is ammunition.’

  ‘All!’ said Billy mockingly. ‘All! What you aimin’ to do, fire tortillas at ’em? Throw bowls of chili?’

  The Kid laughed at his own joke and stood away from the door. A couple of shots from outside forced him to duck down fast, banging his arm on the floor hard enough to reactivate the pain in his side.

  ‘Jesus Christ!’ he shouted. ‘No man’s goin’ to keep me cooped up in here. No one!’ The Kid glared round the cantina at the others, daring them to contradict him.

  ‘Right,’ he said, triumphantly. ‘It needs a couple of us to get clear and double round on ’em, drop a few and then hit the horses. Then we can all ride clear. You see anything wrong in that?’

  Again he looked from one to another, ending up with Pat Garrett. Garrett shrugged, ‘Sounds fine, Billy. Puttin’ it into practice might be a bit tougher.’

  Billy grinned his lopsided grin. ‘Easy enough for a man like you, Pat. You an’ Herne there should be able to handle it.’

  Garret shook his head slowly, turning to glance at where He
rne was standing towards the window.

  ‘After all,’ Billy went on, ‘Herne’s so friendly with that bastard marshal, he ain’t even goin’ to bother shooting him. If Jennings let him walk back in here without tryin’ to stop him, why shouldn’t he let him walk back out again?’

  Herne stared back at the Kid, without bothering to give him an answer,

  ‘You ready, Pat?’ he said to Garrett.

  ‘Ready enough.’

  Both men checked the loads in their guns and moved carefully down towards the rear door. Mason pointed to the door along the narrow alleyway from which one of Jennings’s men had been firing.

  ‘There’s a couple more down the alley. Ain’t sure just where.’

  Herne nodded. ‘We’ll go right. You keep your eyes skinned on that doorway over there. Minute he shows himself you get him and make sure you don’t miss. You do an’ he’s goin’ to be stickin’ that rifle of his up our asses.’

  ‘Don’t worry.’

  Herne grunted and glanced sideways.

  ‘You ready, Pat?’

  Garrett nodded. ‘As ever.’

  ‘Let’s go!’

  Herne kicked the door open with his left boot, ducking forwards at the same time, forward and into the space, out through it and into the alley. Garrett was after him just as fast, square jaw set in determination, hand on the butt of his pistol.

  A gunshot roared out behind them and they knew it had to be Mason’s covering fire. A dozen yards along the alley and more shooting set up from the far side of the cantina and then a man came into sight at the end of the narrow passage. Herne saw the man’s rifle and lurched sideways without quite stopping running, the Colt coming up in his right hand.

  As the rifle leveled off at the man’s hip, two shots sang out almost simultaneously and Herne realized that both Garrett and himself had fired together.

  A rifle bullet grazed the adobe high above their heads and the man spun round, rifle looping into the air, one slug inches over his heart, the other breaking through the ribs of the left side, lower down. Blood began to pump through two holes almost the size of men’s fists.

  Behind them Mason was still firing, less frequently now but keeping his man pinned down.