Shadow of the Vulture

by John J. McLaglen

  The blue eyes fixed on Herne, icicle-cold.

  ‘If you move a finger to touch him, I’ll blast your damned brains out, you bastard. You were the one who did this to him, so what the hell do you want helping out now?’

  Herne answered quietly, ‘I don’t see how I had any choice, Tom.’

  ‘Shit! You didn’t have to do what you did. He’s just a harmless old man.’

  Herne stood up. ‘He was a harmless old man with a double-barreled shotgun in his hand and a mind to use it. That’s how harmless he was.’

  Tom Newman raised his father’s body up slowly and looked again at Herne. ‘You still didn’t have to do this to him. You didn’t have to shoot him where you did.’

  ‘I aimed to stop him running and stop him firing.’

  ‘I reckon as how you did a sight more than that!’

  Tom Newman turned away and walked down to the homestead, his father cradled in his arms. Herne waited a while then followed after him, watching the drip, drip of blood that fell from the old man’s body.

  Two hours later, the sky outside had darkened. Within the small ranch house, things were darker too.

  Herne had paced around the room, watching while Tom Newman washed and dressed his father’s wounds as best as he could in the poor light. He had made one further offer of help, but this had been refused with such ferocity that Herne had not thought to make another.

  The old man had come round in the middle of his son’s attentions.

  The mixture of pain and understanding of what had happened to him had unloosed a sobbing, choking stream of cusses and moans. Finally, he had lapsed into semi-consciousness.

  Tom Newman spoke. He did not look at Herne, but there was no one else in the room that he could have been speaking to. ‘If he lives through this, then he’s going to wish he hadn’t. What use is an old man with only one good leg and one arm? What damn use is he? Specially without a place to live.’

  Then Tom turned and set to work on his other task. He fetched a shovel and walked around to the back of the buildings.

  He dug downwards, pushing with all of his strength. The ground was frozen solid beneath the soft snow covering. It was going to be a hard, difficult task. Tom kept digging till the exertion of his efforts brought sweat to his forehead and tears to his eyes. He stopped and leaned forward over the handle of the shovel, breathing unevenly. He was exhausted.

  He looked up and saw Jed Herne standing opposite him holding a spade he had fetched from the barn. Tom wanted to shout, to tell him to go away, to leave him alone with the job of burying his mother. He didn’t even have the strength left to do that.

  So Herne began to dig, slowly lifting and turning back the clods of dark earth. Tom Newman joined him after a while. The two men worked on in a strange atmosphere of extreme cold and extreme heat. There were times when their sweat turned to frozen beads on their faces.

  Eventually the grave was ready, a six-foot deep hole of cold, forbidding earth.

  Tom went into the house and lifted back the sheet that masked his mother’s body. He picked her up as easily as if she had been a child’s plaything and carried her outside. He laid her down in the snow. Jed walked back into the house and returned a moment later with a blanket. He offered it to the kneeling youngster.

  ‘It’s better,’ he said softly.

  Tom Newman stood up, accepted the blanket, then bent forwards and wrapped his mother’s body inside it. He lifted the bundle up and took it over to the grave. He lowered it slowly into the hole in the ground then picked himself up off his knees and stood for several silent minutes looking down on the huddled shape.

  New flakes, of snow began to fall on the dark material of the blanket.

  Tom picked up one of the shovels and started to throw the earth back down into the hole. Herne decided that it was better if he didn’t help him. Not now.

  As he stood watching, something caused him to turn his head. At the comer of the ranch buildings was the figure of the father, leaning unsteadily against the wooden wall, observing the burial of his wife by his son.

  And all around them and over them the snow tumbled down in ever-thickening sheets.

  And it was Christmas Day.

  Jed Herne stood in the doorway, watching as Tom Newman put another couple of logs on the fire. Now was the time.

  ‘What’s it goin’ to be, Tom?’ he said quietly, an edge to his voice.

  The young man turned slowly, conscious of the fact that the big man he had sought to take for a friend had made his decision. Behind him, hungry flames licked around the new wood, seeking to consume.

  ‘There’s only one way it can be, Jed. I ain’t goin’ to move from here. Not now. Not ever. Unless you make me.’

  ‘That’s what I bin paid to do, son.’

  ‘I know it.’

  Neither man spoke for several moments. They could hear the uneasy breathing of the old man in the next room.

  ‘Where’s it to be,’ asked Herne, ‘in here?’

  Tom shook his head. Herne turned and stepped outside into the open. The snow was still falling but that hadn’t deterred the vultures, who were swarming around the open belly of the horse that lay on the hill. They pushed at one another with their wings, jostling for space, hopping the length of the carcass in an ungainly way, beaks wrenching at the exposed entrails and still-warm flesh. Eager to take what they could before it froze into a solid mass.

  Herne ignored them; walked away to his right; waited to see what the youngster would do. The least he could do was allow Tom to call things his way.

  Unless… ‘Tom. Why don’t you let me help you shift out of here, I...’

  ‘No! My ma died here and I reckon my pa’s goin’ to. This place is all we got. All they ever had. All I ever had. I reckon it’s a good enough place for me to go in, if that’s what’s meant to happen.’

  Herne nodded stiffly. ‘You said your piece, Tom. Now make your play.’

  The young man held his rifle across his body, level with his waist. Herne guessed he would either try to bring it up to his shoulder or chance a snap shot from the hip. Jed pulled off his right glove and flexed his fingers slowly, worried about the intense cold that was already spreading through them. Hoping it would not be too long before the affair was over.

  A large snowflake broke damply above his left cheek. He instinctively raised his gloved hand to brush it away, at which moment Tom Newman chose to go into action.

  He swung the rifle towards Herne and squeezed off a shot. And missed. The youngster fired again, stabbing clumsily at the trigger in his haste. And missed again. Herne stood his ground.

  Tom lifted the rifle up towards his shoulder.

  As he did so Herne shouted out his name. Tom hesitated, just fractionally, then continued to level the sights in front of one of his clear blue eyes.

  Herne drew smoothly, effortlessly. He was not going to make a mistake. He took aim at a point above Tom’s rifle and fixed.

  The youngster’s body jerked backwards, both feet momentarily raised from the ground. The rifle was thrown upwards, spinning uselessly away. At the center of his clean, unlined forehead a crimson star had burst forth, the only bright thing in the entire landscape. The body lay completely still. Tom Newman was dead. The snow was still cascading down, quickly covering the corpse in a fine white powder.

  Herne holstered his Colt, pulled his glove from out of his belt and slipped it back on his hand. Then he walked into the house and went over to where the old man lay on his bed.

  He was awake with his head turned towards the door. His watery eyes showed no surprise at seeing Herne. It was almost as though he was expecting him.

  The voice was so weak that Herne had to bend low over the bed to hear what the old man was saying. ‘You killed him, didn’t you?’

  ‘Yes,’ Herne said, then stood up straight.

  The old man seemed to nod to himself, then his eyes closed.

  Herne bent forward again. ‘When I ride back into town I’l
l get someone to come out and see to you. Look after you; move you into Charity. You just hang on here while I’m gone.’

  The man’s hand pushed up out of the covers, the swollen knuckles bulging prominently. The fingers pointed past Herne towards the pistol that rested on the shelf above the fire.

  Herne followed the gesture, got up and fetched the gun over to the bed. He checked that it was loaded and laid it alongside the old man’s head.

  ‘That’ll keep you safe enough till someone gets out here. The doc will have you patched up and right in no time.’

  He moved away and slipped quietly out of the door. Outside the snow seemed to be easing, but the sky was still dark and the clouds were low over the horizon.

  Herne looked across at Tom’s body, lying upturned on the ground. Two vultures were sitting astride either shoulder, pecking down at his eyes. Herne rushed at them, waving his Stetson. They fluttered with a noisy beating of strong wings upwards to their perch on the tree.

  Tom Newman’s face stared vacantly up at him from eyeless sockets, blood coursing down his cheeks.

  Herne quickly saddled one of the ranch horses and rode away up the slope, past the ravaged guts of the animal he had come in on, to the top of the hill overlooking the Newman homestead.

  He looked back down. The vultures were gathering once more around Tom Newman’s corpse. A single shot rang out from inside the ranch house.

  The birds rose upwards, flapping heavily into the leaden gray sky. Harbingers of death celebrating a feast day. Herne turned his horse’s head and rode slowly away across the crisp white expanse of land that seemed to stretch forever.

  Chapter Seven

  Two days had passed. Jed Herne had been busy. Swatting more flies. News of what had happened out at the Newman place had spread like wildfire. He didn’t have any more trouble collecting back payments or moving folk off property that was no longer theirs. Nobody else was as brave as the Newmans—or as stupid.

  In Charity itself, people walked over to the other side of the street to avoid him. He still sat alone at his table in the saloon, but now nobody talked about him openly.

  Rosie had made it clear that as long as he used her place he could expect to get served; but nothing more.

  None of this upset Herne in the least. He was used to it.

  Well, thought Herne, now my job’s done here. And tomorrow I can make my way west.

  He climbed down from his horse and tied it to the hitching post outside the bank. He walked in through the doors and went over to the teller, a nervous-looking man with a green eye-shade and a stammer whenever he was agitated. He was agitated right now. It took him several minutes to ask Herne what he wanted and several more minutes to explain that Mr. Mellor was out of the bank. He had taken a good customer over to The Queen of the West for a drink.

  Herne nodded and strode out. He’d finished his work. He had no intention of waiting to be paid for it.

  Mellor was sitting close to the piano, talking earnestly to a cattle buyer who was wearing a long button-through coat which had once been white. Herne went over and stood a couple of feet back from their table.

  The banker looked up apprehensively. ‘What is it, Herne?’

  ‘I finished.’

  ‘Well, that’s dandy. My congratulations on doing such a fine job in such little time.’

  ‘It ain’t your thanks I want,’ said Herne sharply, ‘it’s my money.’

  ‘Won’t that wait until I’ve finished?’ flustered Mellors.

  ‘No,’ replied Herne. ‘It won’t.’

  ‘But I’m conducting my business and...’

  ‘And nothing. You been havin’ me throw folks off their land ‘cause they didn’t pay you in time. Our agreement was that you paid me when I’d done. Well, I’ve done and here I am.’

  The cattle buyer had been watching Herne closely. Now he spoke. ‘Your name’s Herne. Does that make you the feller they call Herne the Hunter?’

  Herne nodded. ‘Some folks tag me that.’

  ‘Heard a lot about you. Been hearing it for years now. Wasn’t sure you were around anymore. Specially not round these parts.’

  ‘I shan’t be for long,’ Herne told him. ‘Soon as I get my money and I’ve got my supplies, I’ll be moving out.’

  The cattle man stood up and offered Herne his hand. ‘I’m proud to meet a man with your reputation.’

  Herne shook the offered hand.

  ‘And now,’ continued the man in the long coat, ‘I’ll be content to wait a while. I guess Mellor will be going over to his bank to pay you your dues.’

  The banker stood up, a scowl on his face, and brushed past Herne on his way to the door.

  Ten minutes later, Herne was marching into Joe Brodie’s general store. The short, fat owner backed away along the counter. The gunfighter’s presence obviously disturbed him.

  ‘Get back here, Brodie!’ ordered Herne. ‘I ain’t about to hurt you. Not unless you try short changin’ me. I need a whole mess of things. Got a journey to make. A long one.’

  Joe Brodie moved back to serve him with a smile playing around his lips. Anything that he could do which would get the man out of Charity he would do with pleasure, even as far as throwing in a few things at a special discount.

  ‘You quittin’ today?’ Brodie asked as he busied himself with Herne’s order.

  ‘Sunup tomorrow most likely,’ Herne told him. ‘I’m not going to get far enough with what’s left of daylight for it to be worth moving sooner. Sorry to disappoint you, Brodie.’

  ‘No, no, sir. No, sir, I didn’t mean that at all. Not at all.’ His fingers fumbled with the boxes of cartridges and a number of shells bounced down on to the floor. Brodie climbed down and scrabbled about, picking them up.

  ‘Damn me, Brodie! You were making like a pretty big man the first time I ever saw you. What’s made you so all-fired nervous?’

  ‘Nothing, sir. Nothing at all.’

  ‘Get a move on then!’

  The storekeeper did as he was commanded and when most of the things were tied and ready, Herne reached down one of the rifles from the wall behind the counter. A single shot .55 Sharps.

  It didn’t have the fast repeating action of some of its rivals, but it was more accurate over a greater distance. Besides, Herne was a man who only usually needed one shot.

  He paid for his purchases and carried them back to the hotel. His intention was to make the journey to San Francisco partly by train, partly on horseback. He had bought a good mount which would travel with him, using one of the box cars.

  Herne looked at the sky anxiously. It would soon be dark. Good. That meant it would be light again all the more quickly, He could hardly wait to be away.

  Since Christmas Day the weather had held fast. It was getting warmer and there hadn’t been any more snow. He hoped he would have a good ride across Kansas.

  But that was tomorrow–what of tonight?

  Always a man of action, Herne hated those times when he was forced to wait to make the next move. He left the small hotel and wandered down to the saloon.

  The usual crowd of men were sitting around and they hushed their voices and looked away almost as soon as Herne entered. He ordered a whisky and stayed by the bar to drink it. As he leaned forward, eyes carefully checking each new customer through the long mirror as they came in, he began to wonder how long it would be before Rosie made her entrance.

  With that in mind he called the bartender over and asked for a bottle. He took the familiar bottle and glass over to what had become, even in that short space of time, his usual table. No one else had used it since that first night he had sat there.

  Herne stayed seated and drank steadily. He could hold his liquor better than most. It didn’t seem to dull his reflexes or make him boisterous. The only effect drinking had on him was to make him somewhat maudlin, bringing back memories of a past which could never be recaptured.

  Night set in and more customers came with it. But there was no Rosie at the head
of the stairs. No Rosie looking down upon her faithful and preparing to make her descent amongst them.

  Herne sighed, sank down the whisky that was in the glass, took the rest of the bottle back to the bar, settled his account and pushed his way out through the batwing doors, back to his hotel.

  Outside his room something made him stop. He didn’t know what. Just a prickling sensation at the back of his neck that made him momentarily uneasy. He listened, but could hear nothing. He tested the door of his room; it was still locked.

  Shaking his head, putting the experience down to the whisky he had drunk, Herne took out his key and unlocked the door. He pushed it open and stepped inside. The interior was dark. He could only just make out the shadowy shape sitting in the chair.

  His gun was in his hand in a split second. The shape made no attempt to move.

  ‘Who the hell is it?’

  There was silence.

  Herne eased back the hammer of his Colt with his thumb. In the stillness of the room the action sounded remarkably loud.

  ‘I’m givin’ you three seconds to say who you are and what you’re doin’ here. Then I’m going to shoot.’

  The shape in the chair stirred. ‘Now, Jed, that isn’t the warmest welcome I’ve been given.’

  Herne holstered the gun as swiftly as he had drawn it, then moved across to the lamp. He struck a match against the heel of his boot and turned up the wick. The oil caught fire and an orange glow spread round the room.

  He looked at Rosie as she sat in the chair. Her red hair shone in the light. She was wearing the same green gown that she had worn that first evening. She looked even more attractive, inviting, than she had then.

  ‘How did you get in here? The room was locked.’

  Rosie shrugged an elegant shoulder. ‘Who can say? Maybe I smiled at the clerk by the desk. Does it matter?’

  ‘It just might.’

  ‘Why’s that, Jed?’

  ‘It depends why you’ve come.’

  By way of an answer, she got up slowly and walked the short distance between them. She slid her arms around his neck and pushed her face up to his. Herne lowered his mouth on to hers and kissed her. She was warm and yielding; the soft flesh of her pouting lips moved over him like velvet.