Yates holstered his gun, breathing a heavy sigh of relief.
‘Jesus and Mary! That was very close Jed. Why the hell did you wait so God-damned long before taking them?’
Herne felt a passing irritation at Yates’s attitude. In darkness, alone, and with only a knife, he’d silently killed two Apache warriors. Drunk, admittedly, but still Apache bucks.
And all Yates could do was complain about the time he took.
‘I had to make me some coffee first to get in the right kind of mood for it,’ he replied dryly.
The next morning they were clear of the patch of woodland.
They’d led their horses quietly away from the scene of the killing, and met no more Apaches. But Jed had seen flashing mirrors away towards Yuma, and they decided to go down to the small township near the railroad and take the next train in.
Herne went in to ask the agent, a short, curly-haired man, whose name the shingle proclaimed was John Van Haflin, when the next train would be.
He dragged out a thumbed copy of the Southern Pacific Railroad timetable, and flicked through it. ‘Let me see. Today’s the fourteenth of April. Friday schedule. Next one’s at two-ten.’
As Herne strode out into the sun again to tell Yates who was holding the horses, the agent appeared in the doorway and called out after him.
‘Hey! Mister! The telegraph says she’s running a full hour late. So it won’t be the two-ten. It’ll be the three-ten to Yuma.’
Chapter Seven
They reached Fort Yuma round about seven o’clock in the evening and booked themselves into a small hotel close by the livery stable. Herne felt tired and had a meal in a clean little restaurant round the corner, while Yates went out to find where the nearest and noisiest saloon was.
He came lurching back to their room after midnight, disturbing Jed by crashing over a chair and dropping his gun-belt on the floor.
‘Get to bed, Bill. And get sobered up. We got another job to do tomorrow. You find anything about the Reverend Chester Goldsmith?’
Yates giggled, trying to pull off his pants, toppling over on his back with the effort. ‘Hey, that was damned fine liquor they peddle here. And a lovely young lady that I reckon I might see a mite more of. Just as soon as I’ve sat in on the poker game they run in there. She wears a dress of red feathers, and I just can’t wait to get a’ plucking at them?
‘The Reverend!’ said Herne, growing more and more impatient with his partner. In the past he’d seen gunmen, better men than Yates, who couldn’t stand the tensions of living so close to death. Some had found solace in drink, and others with women. Immediately after the Civil War, with its hangover of morphine addicts, some had taken to the new drug being used to combat the morphine addiction.
A new drug called heroin. But all of them had looked outside themselves for strength. And none of them had found it.
‘Yeah. The good old Rev. Goldsmith. God bless him and all who sail with him. I been thinkin’ ’bout all this killing. I reckon we got …what was I saying?’
‘You were telling me about where Goldsmith lived and then you started babbling about killing.’
‘Right, brother Herne. That’s a good old Hunter, Jed my buddy. Good old Herne the Hunter. Wild Bill Yates will look after you. William Butler Yates at your service. Maybe that’s where we can get the Reverend. Day after tomorrow, at his service.’
Herne swung his feet out of bed, feeling the cold linoleum under them, and stalked through the dimly lit room to where Yates lay on his back, making houses with his fingers and grinning at the ceiling.
‘Yates.’ There was a strength and anger in Herne’s voice that brought his partner upright on the bed. ‘Either you cut down on your drinking or we will no longer ride together. I cannot carry a drunk along with me.’
‘Well damn you and your high and mighty manners, Jed Herne! If’n it hadn’t been for me back in Tucson, that rich puppy would have cold-cocked you with his Deringer.’
‘True. And if it hadn’t been for me, you’d have been lying belly-up in the sun somewhere in the middle of the desert with your hair decorating a lodge in an Apache camp. And your damn stupidity is going to get us both killed unless you check it.’
‘Right. That does it. Since we’re both here in Yuma then we’ll kill this minister. After that we might just ride our own trails.’
‘Bill, that would suit me fine. Now where does this Goldsmith live?’
‘Outside of town, with his brother and wife and children. He’s got nine, aged from about fourteen down to one. Wife’s dead and he’s got himself the plainest looking woman I ever seen as a housekeeper. I seen her, and also his brother down the store, collecting supplies with the buckboard. Maybe we hit them Sunday, right in front of everyone.’
‘No. Revenge is mine. That’s what the Good Book says. It doesn’t say nothing about going and glorying in the killing. Tomorrow. At his house.’
Yates flopped back on the pillow, turning his face to the wall, sulking like a spoiled child that’s had his favorite toy taken away from him. ‘Wanted to do it in the church.’
Herne padded back to his own bed, feeling the weight of his Colt under his pillow. ‘Tomorrow, Bill. We do it my way or not at all. All right? Or do you want to argue it?’
‘O.K. Jed. Your way. This time.’
‘Right. Now get some sleep. Goodnight.’
There was no reply. Just a burst of loud snoring from the other bed.
Saturday morning in Yuma was a busy time for the ladies and a quiet time for the men. There was all the week’s provisions to get in, and cooking to do and the washing had to be out of the way before the Sabbath dawned. Friday and Saturday night were the two big drinking times of the week for the men, and all of the saloons did a roaring trade. As did the town sheriff, running in drunks and collecting guns from those who seemed as though they might want to be using them.
The morning saw both men quieter. Yates nursed a hangover and Herne had done some thinking and decided that it would be better so long as Bill could keep his drinking under reasonable control for them to carry on and operate as a team. Not essential, but the word would soon be getting round that there were men out riding the vengeance trail, and those who had been responsible for the raping and killing back in Tucson might start banding together.
They booked out of the hotel, walking to collect Billy and Cleo, paying the cripple boy for one night’s board and feed and grooming. Then they cantered through the town, along the high street, past the front of the stores and saloons, to the road west.
Towards the house of the Reverend Chester Goldsmith.
Number Three.
Yates talked about what he’d been able to find out about the Reverend, apart from his large family. It seemed that Goldsmith had come from the east, Boston it was said, he had been the eldest son of a family of merchants. In his first three years in Fort Yuma he’d been a model priest. Caring for his flock, looking after the sick and the needy, as well as being a devoted husband and father.
Then things had begun to change. His wife had become ill with what the barkeep had told Yates was certainly consumption. Nearly every service she would play the harmonium for him, a supply of handkerchiefs at her side; ready for the coughing fits and the spouting blood.
A year back, in the late Fall, she had been taken from them and the Reverend Goldsmith had been quite shattered by it. But at the same time he had been left a very considerable sum of money on the death of his father.
At this point the bartender had leaned forward and dropped his voice to a whisper. Things weren’t the same out at the rambling house. He’d taken a housekeeper, which was to be expected, with all those wee ones. And a lady so lacking in any kind of beauty that not a tongue could wag among the ladies of the sewing circle. Indeed, the woman seemed to make every attempt she could to make herself ugly, wearing awful shapeless clothes and bonnets that near hid her face.
But, and here the voice of Yates’s informant dropped so low that he had
to crane across the bar to hear him, there were still some mighty strange rumors. Strangers getting off the train and riding out to the Goldsmith place. Lights on in the house all night.
‘Did he mention any names? Any folks calling there that he might have known?’ asked Herne, pulling the bandana up over his mouth to cut out the worst of the red dust.
Yates grinned. Thought that might interest you. I can be useful, you see. Yep, he named a name or two. Like the son of a senator off the west coast. And someone knew the undertaker from a town not all that far to the east of here. Couple of twins that he said were kind of sinister. Red-haired fellow. So red it fair made your eyes pop. And some others.’
And there had been rumors about the housekeeper. Whatever she might look like, there was talk that the inside didn’t match up to the outside. A lady visiting had walked in on her without warning one day and the house had smelled of cigarette smoke! And the washing on the line had once showed some underpinnings that didn’t quite go along with the faded and dirty dresses and down-at-heel shoes.
‘Sounds like the Reverend is playing fast and loose with Yuma,’ commented Herne.
‘One more thing about this woman. Seems someone once trod on the hem of her gown in the store, and ripped it. She turned round and spat out a flaming mouthful of language that was stronger than anything anyone had ever heard. So strong that two other ladies fainted clean away. After that, she only comes in with the Reverend’s brother. Came here couple of months ago. Don’t nobody know nothing about him, except that his name’s Al, and Mrs. Fazackerley, that’s the housekeeper, treats him like a slave. And nobody’s ever heard him answer her back. Mighty strange.’
They reached a clump of cottonwoods on the right of the trail, with a narrow track winding off through it. According to Yates’s instructions, that was the way to the house of Chester Goldsmith.
‘Isn’t he taking a risk living this far out of town? All on his own. What about the Apaches?’
Herne reined in Billy, standing up in the stirrups, looking around them as far as he could through the scattered trees.
‘Twenty miles south across the desert there and you’re over the border in Mexico. Sonora. Most of the hostiles are to the east of here. There might be a few raiders coming up over the border, but the federales are tight on their patrolling. Tight as any Mex can be. No, I figure he should be safe enough out here.’
‘Safe except from folk like us,’ sniggered Yates, taking a pull at a flask he’d mysteriously acquired since leaving Gila Bend. ’
The house loomed up through the cottonwoods, set firm and solid in the centre of an acre or two of cultivated ground. There were cows and some hogs, with a pony galloping skittishly in the pasture. Just under the shadow of the glade, the two men dismounted and tethered their horses, standing together, looking across for any sign of life.
A bunch of children suddenly erupted from the back door, scampering over the dry grass to where a silver thread of water meandered through the fields. Yates counted out loud.
‘Seven. Eight. Damn it! One not there.’
‘Just coming out now,’ said Herne. ‘That makes the full nine. Let’s go in. Like we did at the Doc’s. Straight up to the front door and knock. I doubt the word’s got around those sons-of-bitches yet that we’re after them.’
They felt the sandy soil gritty beneath their boot-heels as they walked together towards the minister’s house, pushing aside a squeaking gate. Through a field, past a barn, with a sign on the next gate that said: ‘Positively No Admittance Without An Appointment. Dog Trained To Attack Trespassers.’
‘Right friendly bastard for a Reverend, ain’t he?’ said Yates, clearing his throat and spitting a dark stream off tobacco juice at the notice.
They could hear children whooping and yelling somewhere around the other side of the spread. Herne swung the iron gate open, nearly catching his hand on a strand of heavy-duty barbed wire wound round the top. Yates shut it behind them, swinging round at the noise of a snarling dog grouching across the yard, tail flattened, teeth bared, was a sharp-muzzled dog. Bigger than any Yates had seen before.
As it saw them looking at it, the tip of its tail started to swing, and it edged closer, keeping up the snarling deep in its throat.
‘What sort of a beast’s that?’ asked Yates, reaching for his gun.
‘Don’t shoot! Bring them all out on us. Try and do it quiet and easy. It’s a German sheep dog. I seen one before. Vicious. Walk slow and careful for that door.’
But the dog wasn’t going to make it easy for them. As they began to walk across the yard towards the back door of the house, it made its move. Jaws gaping, it darted like a streak of brindled lightning, paws scuffing up the dust, jumping for Herne’s throat. Yates took a step back, hand dropping again to his Colt, but he was way too slow.
Instead of trying to dodge or run from the brute, Herne simply waited for it, ignoring its open mouth, and grabbed at its leading front feet. Quicker than Yates could follow, he jerked the dog’s legs apart, hard. There was a snapping noise, like a large log being split with an axe, and the dog gave an almost human cry of pain and shock.
Blood jetted from its jaws as Herne flung it casually from him, letting the corpse drop twitching to the splattered earth. The legs moved spasmodically, as though it was trying to run, and then it was still.
‘God! My God, Jed. That was …I just didn’t see how you did that.’ .
Herne wiped his hands down his trousers, sniffing at the wind that was getting up from over the border. ‘I like dogs. Most dogs. But there’s some, like that, as shouldn’t never have been whelped. Bad ones. Rogues. Just like men. If a beast like that comes at you, either snap it hard on the muzzle, or you can burst its rib-cage by jerking its paws apart hard. Come on.’
Apart from the snarling and that one desperate yelp of despair, the dog had made no noise in its attack. The house still stood silent, its windows blank and heavily curtained. The paint was in excellent order, the roof impeccable.
‘Do the kids go to school in Yuma?’ asked Herne, an odd thought nagging away at him.
‘No. Bartender said they never saw hide nor hair them from one year’s end to the next. Not since their Ma died. And they don’t have no visitors at all. Keep themselves right to themselves.’
‘Well now. I just wonder why that is. You’d think that maybe the Reverend Goldsmith might have something to hide.’
Herne reached up to touch the knocker, and then let his hand drop. The door stood ajar, and he pushed it silently open and both men walked in. The inside of the house was also in perfect shape. The fresh smell of polish, the floor gleaming and clean. From somewhere inside they could catch the scent of frying chicken. They looked at each other wonderingly. This wasn’t the sort of place to find a rapist and murderer. It was the ideal family home that the journals would have been happy to feature for the enlightenment of their Christian readers.
Both men had their guns drawn, looking round, but the house seemed empty. Herne pointed upstairs with his Colt and Yates crept towards the stairs. Suddenly he froze. A man had appeared at the top landing, with his back towards them.
‘His brother! Al!’ mouthed Yates, looking round to Jed for a lead.
‘Come on down real easy,’ said Herne, but the man took no notice at all, merely continuing down the stairs towards them, with his back turned, polishing at the sides of the stair-carpet with a yellow cloth. ·
‘Come on here!’ shouted Yates, but still Al ignored them.
Herne was going to wait, keeping one eye open for anyone else in the house, but Yates grew impatient with the man, and leaped up the stairs towards him.
When he felt a hand on his collar, the brother of Reverend Goldsmith jumped in the air, with a startled cry, struggling to escape from the grasp. With brutal efficiency, Yates clubbed him over the side of the head with the butt of his Colt, peeling off a strip of scalp and hair, and sending the man tumbling down the staircase in a flurry of limbs, ending up stri
king his back against the heavy table near Herne’s feet. He gave a groan and lay still.
‘If that noise doesn’t bring out the Reverend, then we must reckon he ain’t here. That right, Jed?’ said Yates, coming quickly down to join his partner in the hallway.
Herne nodded. The noise had been considerable, but the house now stood silent once more. Outside he heard a cow snorting and the high, carefree voices of the young children at their play.
‘Can I find out from him where his brother’s gone? Can I, Jed?’ The eagerness was dripping like poisoned honey from Yates’s tongue. Herne found it hard to hide his disgust.
‘All right. Make it fast and don’t hurt him more than you need. That’d make us worse than the ones we’re after. I’m going in the kitchen to keep watch.’
He walked slowly along the corridor, pushing open the door of the kitchen, his nostrils filling with the odor of the cooking lunch. Vegetables bubbled on top of the stove, and the fowl was spitting merrily in the oven. Somehow, it didn’t seem right to come and kill a man in such a place. Surrounded by his family. Lunch almost ready. He’d felt that they should have taken off their muddy boots before coming inside the perfect house.
There was little sound from Yates’s activities. Once he heard a voice raised in anger, and several times he could just hear the sickening thud of boot on flesh. He got up and pushed the door shut and, taking a clean cloth to protect his hand, poured himself a fresh cup of coffee from the blue pot bubbling on the hob.
After about ten minutes Yates came in, panting, wiping the sweat from his face. He was flushed, and didn’t seem to know quite what to do with his fingers, tangling them one with the other and cracking his knuckles.
‘He’s the most stubborn bastard I ever did see. I kept telling him that I’ll stop when he tells me where his brother is, and he just grunts at me like he’s trying to make out that I’m a damned fool.’
‘He hasn’t told you? Maybe I ought to come and see if I can…’
Yates waved a hand at him, going over and filling a jug of water from a pail by the back door. ‘No. No bother at all, Jed. He just passed out on me, so I’m going to wash him up a little and then ask him some more. I guess that he’ll be about ready to sing like an angel.’
White Death Page 9
