It was only when he had gone out again, closing the door behind him, that Jed noticed that Yates had left a trail of boot-marks all over the white, stone floor. Faint, red marks
He finished the cup and was standing by the stove, pouring another, when the back door swung open. His reflexes acting for him, Herne dropped the mug and the pot, feeling some of the scalding coffee splash across his trousers, but his mind was more concerned with drawing fast. The hands slipped easily down, butt nestling against the open palm.
Thumb cocking the Colt even as the fingers tightened and lifted. By the time the pot crashed on the stones, the gun was out, cocked and aimed, his finger tensed ready to apply that fraction more pressure that would release the hammer.
‘My God! Jedediah Herne! I thought you were dead, you old bastard!
‘Eliza!’ The finger relaxed and the thumb took the pressure off the hammer, letting it gently down to rest against the cartridge. With an action that he’d performed hundreds and hundreds of times before, Herne slid the heavy gun back into its greased leather holster.
The woman smiled, putting down a basket of groceries. Through the open door he could see a mule, and realized that the noise of the things cooking had drowned out the sound of her arrival.
‘I hope you’re going to help me clear up all that coffee off my clean floor, Jedediah.’
‘By all . . . Eliza Barrell. Where was it? Back in Denver? You were with the Dutchman in them days. And now look at you out here, all respectable, and the housekeeper to a real minister.’
Just for the moment, he almost forgot that it was that minister that they’d travelled here to kill. But Eliza Barrell, of all women! She’d been one of the brightest of the fallen women on the frontier back in the middle seventies, and he’d once spent a whole month’s wages just for a night with her.
But, he reflected, it had been worth it. She’d taken a shine to the young man with the awesome reputation, and there’d been several other nights, when he didn’t have to pay at all for her favors.
But in those days she’d dressed differently. Then it had been a bright red corset. Silk with dangling black ribbons. Her breasts nestling in. the top like two smooth eggs. Silk stockings with red silk garters, and a lacy pair of unmentionables.
Now it was a different lady. A torn and patched dress of printed cotton, tied loosely round a spreading waist. Men’s shoes, scuffed and down-at-heel. And a poke bonnet that looked as though it had been used for baling out the sump of an old pump. It was difficult to see her face, and it had been mainly the voice that had given her away. Plus the fact that Eliza had been one of the few women who had ever called him Jedediah.
‘How about you, Jedediah? I heard that Herne the Hunter had got himself saddled by a young girl. Tucson, was it?’ Herne nodded. ‘And that you settled down. There’s lots of young kids, looking for a name, who were sorry about that. And here you are, wearing a gun. Bit more grey in the hair. A half inch round the middle. Apart from that, still a damned fine-looking figure of a man. If’n you weren’t tied up, I’d be mighty tempted to settle your boots under my bed again.’
While she talked Eliza was bustling about, cleaning up the floor. Herne sat down again, straining his ears to the rest of the house, trying to catch any sound from Yates. But it was as still as a tomb.
‘I’m blessed. This is just … Anyway, Jedediah; come on tell me about life as a settled old farmer. How’s the wife and what about any little Hernes?’
‘My wife’s dead, Eliza. She was attacked by some men and she killed herself about a month back. She was carrying our first'
The scrubbing stopped, then restarted again, reaching out beyond the spilled coffee to the rest of the floor. While Herne watched her, she reached the first of the bloody boot-marks, rubbing at it, then suddenly stopping and sitting back on her heels, looking up at him. Her face was drained and pale, ageing ten years as he met her gaze.
‘Chester?’ Her voice wasn’t above a whisper.
‘Yes. He was one of them. We know it was him, Eliza. We’ve got proof. Absolute and …’
‘Don’t.’ She got up, wearily leaning her hand on the table.
‘I should have guessed. Herne the Hunter wasn’t ever much for social calls. That’s blood on the floor there. Isn’t it? Yeah, I cleaned enough blood off enough floors in my time to know what it looks like.’
Before she could go on, Herne interrupted her. ‘Why? Why here? Why the Mrs. Fazackerley disguise?’
‘I’m getting on, Jedediah. Oh, I know that I could still turn a trick or two with the best, but I want something mite more respectable for my old age. And I met Chester. His wife had died, and he’d come into some money, all about the same time. I know what he is now, Jedediah. But that’s what the money’s done. Everyone in Fort Yuma’ll tell you that he used to be a good man. Fine kids. They love me. But after his angel of a wife — and I’m not being nasty — she really was a wonderful woman … After she died, things started to go sour. When he met me I was in Denver, doing a show there. He paid me well, and after a couple of nights he persuaded me to come and live here. Said after a year or so we’d move somewhere else and we’d wed.’
‘So what went wrong?’
‘He did, Jedediah. I seen a lot of wicked men in my time, and you could just take a look at them and see that they were evil. Right through and through. But Chester’s different. It’s like he’s got a devil inside him, digging its claws into him, making him do bad things. Every now and then he breaks out. We have gambling parties with some of the worst. All smelling of money and corruption. Used to make me shiver to look on some of them. One was a mortician. Another the son of a Congressman or something. Out west. A pair of twins that were so creepy it was like they just come from out of a graveyard.’
‘Nolan’s dead. The Senator’s son. And the mortician. The others will be. They were all in on it.’
‘I’m so sorry, Jedediah. I know that you men all believe that you’ve got to do what you’ve got to do, and all that kind of thing. But . . . I’ve got a nice life at last, and Chester isn’t all bad. I reckon I can change him, once he’s away from the bad company. I’m asking you, Jedediah, to ride on by this one time. Killing Chester isn’t going to bring back … what was your wife’s name?’
‘Louise.’
‘It won’t bring Louise back. And there’s all those little children. If you ride on, I’ll swear to you that I’ll keep Chester from any more harm. And then I can marry him and we’ll be happy ever after.’
Herne shook his head. ‘I’m still a kind of believer in the Bible, Eliza. That eye for an eye sort of stuff seems to make sense to me. I let him live, maybe some other woman’ll suffer like Louise did. It’s got to be. I’m truly sorry.’
‘But if you kill him, then I won’t be able to touch any of his money, ’cos we aren’t wed. That means the County’ll take all the children, and I’ll be back where I was. Only a couple of years older. Please, Jedediah. I’m down on my bended knees, asking you.’
She came and knelt in front of him, resting her hands on his thighs. Eliza was still a lovely woman, though Herne could see the cracks appearing. Cracks that she would find harder and harder to paper over with every month that passed.
‘No.’
The word was flat and final, and she recognized it as such.
Yet she still made one last attempt, rising as he stood up, and standing near him, putting her arms round him and tugging down his head. Kissing him hard on the lips, her tongue sweet and sinuous, probing between his lips. ‘
‘I’d do anything for you, Jedediah. Anything if you’ll spare my man. Please.’
Gently, but firmly, Herne took her by the shoulders and stood away from her. Eliza didn’t cry, but just stood there, hands dropping to her sides, eyes dead, looking only at the half-clean floor.
‘That blood. Jedediah, I didn’t realize when we … whose blood is it? Not Chester, he’s not here. One of the children?
Her voice rose almost to a scr
eam. Herne shook his head.
‘No. Not any of the kids. I thought you knew me better than that, Eliza.’
It was her turn to shake her head. ‘Jedediah, I’ve known you for a long time, and I know how you earned the name of Hunter. By killing. And I know that nothing would stand between you and what you thought was right. If Jesus Christ himself came and said to spare that man, you’d just ride through him as though he wasn’t there.’
‘Maybe he isn’t, Eliza.’
‘Then whose blood? Al’s?’
A new voice from the door made her turn round with a gasp. ‘Yes, ma’am. Al’s blood.’
‘Who the … ?’
‘His name’s Bill Yates, Eliza. And his wife was actually butchered by the men we’re after. Bill, this is Eliza Barrell. The lady you know as Mrs. Fazackerley.’
Eliza nodded at him, looking at the blood on his fists, smearing the dusty leather round the toes of his boots. Clotting on his spurs.
Yates ignored her, wrinkling up his nose; looking only at Herne. ‘He was tougher than I thought, Jed. It seems like he ain’t gonna tell us where the Reverend is. Not no more he ain’t.’
‘He’s in church of course. He always goes there on a Saturday morning. What have you done to poor Al?’
‘I guess you might say that he should have talked a little sooner, ma’am. Seems like he’s died.’
Eliza closed her eyes. ‘You bastards! You damned bastards. Of course he didn’t tell you. Al was deaf and dumb.’
Chapter Eight
Their horses cropped contentedly in the shade of the trees looking up with no more than a passing interest as the two men returned to them. Herne and Yates had walked back in silence from the Goldsmith house, leaving Eliza Barrell weeping over the hideously battered body of Al, brother of the Reverend.
Jed had tried to explain to her. To apologies to her, but it had happened, and the wheel had turned too many times ever to be brought back. Behind them, they could still hear the children playing happily down by the stream.
Yates hadn’t spoken once after the revelation that he had been trying to get information from a deaf-mute and had beaten and kicked the man to death in his ignorance and anger. Only when they were cantering back towards Yuma did he speak.
‘How the Hell was I to know?’
Herne didn’t answer, riding on thin—lipped and viciously cold. Yates heeled his horse ahead of Herne, then reined it in, swinging across the path, forcing Jed to pull up.
‘Damn it, Jed! We ain’t playing some kind of baby, kiss-your-hand game! My wife was killed and your wife done killed herself. And we gotta get the dogs that done it!’
‘I’m not forgetting that, Bill.’ Herne’s voice was deceptively calm. ‘But I reckon that killing that fellow there makes you as bad — maybe worse — than the men we’re chasing. So I’m doing what I said last night. If’n you want, then come along with me while we do what we got to do with the Reverend, then we’ll go our own ways. I aim to get the rest of them, and maybe you feel the same. Well, I’m sorry.’
Yates swung Cleo back on the path, muttering angrily to himself. Loud enough for Herne to hear it. ‘Finds some two-bit whore he once screwed, and gets all soft. Damned if he ain’t turning yellow.’
‘Get down.’
‘What?’
‘I said for you to get down.’
Yates shivered despite the heat of the day at the icy menace in his partner’s voice. He turned in the saddle, trying to get a grin in place, but finding that it didn’t hold on top of all that fear.
‘Now, Jed. I didn’t mean nothing by that. I was just funning a mite and . . . ’
‘If you don’t get down and face me, Yates, then I’ll shoot you in the back like the dog you are. And that’s the only kind of death you merit.’
There was a sudden flash of heat lightning, far away to the south, followed several seconds later by the distant rumbling of thunder. Both horses shied, rearing up, fighting for freedom. It took Yates and Herne a minute or so to get then back under control, and by then the tension had eased away.
‘Jed. Jed? I’m right sorry for saying that. I reckon that it’s better if we stick together. At least till this whole thing’s over. Then . . . well, maybe we’ll see. What do you think, Jed? Well?’
Herne set his horse’s face towards town again, keeping one eye on the dark thunderclouds toppling blackly over each other to their right. ‘Right. One more word like that, and I’ll gun you down, Bill. Think on that. The days when I was just a good neighbor are gone. Maybe gone forever. That one night back on the spread done changed all that. I’m not the man I was once, and don’t you forget it. I think I’m going back to the way I was when I was younger. Maybe not so nice, but I don’t have a Hell of a lot of choice. When we get to Yuma., then we do things my way. Quick clean. Right?’
‘Right.’
They didn’t exchange another word all the way into to each deep with his own thoughts.
They tethered their horses again outside a saloon on the very edge of town, ready for a quick getaway if it turned out to be necessary. And walked, side by side, through Yuma until they reached the small church, with the minister’s name on a board outside, neatly picked out in gold on a black background. And a hand-lettered text: ‘Come Unto Me All Ye Who Are Heavy-Laden And I Shall Give Ye Rest.’
It was getting dark, the thunder crumbling the still air about them, and an occasional Hash of lightning rending the day apart.
‘Look at that big black cloud a’ comin’ on down,’ said Yates. ‘And us going in to church. I ain’t been in since we had Becky christened. All this makes me feel like I’m knockin’ right on heaven’s door.’
‘I hope they let you in,’ said Herne, turning the heavy handle and walking into the church.
Inside it was cool, with that odd, damp darkness that so many churches have. The light had faded so fast with the impending storm that someone had lit an oil-lamp and placed it on the altar. A large Bible, open and with a red velvet cord marking the place, stood next to the lamp.
‘Reverend Goldsmith? called Herne, finding that he instinctively lowered his voice.
A rumbling from outside drowned any sound of movement, but they both saw a figure edge from behind the small harmonium near the window.
‘Yes? What can I do for you? I’m expecting a couple in here in a few minutes to discuss their marriage ceremony, so unless it’s important, then I’d be most grateful if you could call back in about an hour.’
The two men walked forward through the dusty stillness, the jingling of their spurs sounding surprisingly loud. Goldsmith stood still by the organ, resting a hand on the ivory keyboard. ‘D. W. Karn & Co., Woodstock, Canada’ said the maker’s name, emblazoned on the dark wood in ornate gold lettering.
‘Pretty instrument, Reverend,’ commented Yates, positioning himself ready to block of the avenue of escape to the main door.
‘Yes. My late wife played it for me, until she passed on some years back.’
Herne looked at the minister, trying to imagine him laying with Louise. Straining in the dim light of the single oil lamp to see the man’s face. A great flash of lightning made them all jump, seeming to come right on top of the church, followed by a peal of thunder that seemed to shake the foundations of the building. It actually set the small bell in the tower over the front entrance to jingling softly in protest at the noise and vibration.
Goldsmith’s face was clearly illuminated in that great sheet of silver light and Herne recognized the signs of everything they had been told about him. A soft face, pink-cheeked. A halo of silvery hair, and long sideburns, neatly trimmed. Dark suit, expensively-cut. At first glance the image that any town would be glad to see in its minister. But even that bright Hash, etching the details into Herne’s memory, was enough to show the other, darker side of the coin.
Weak eyes that blinked and shifted too much. Thick lips, constantly moistened by a large, pink tongue. Jaw line spreading and sagging. The face of a good m
an that had somehow been touched by corruption.
‘Doesn’t Miss Barrell play at all?’
‘Who?’
‘Eliza! The lady the town calls Mrs. Fazackerley. Eliza Barrell, Reverend?
Yates laughed. A course, rasping sound that was at odds with the shadowy church. ‘Yeah. I figure that little lady has played on a whole heap of organs in her time. What you say, Jed?’
Herne didn’t answer, watching the man they had to kill, as he stood quite still in front of them, fingers tugging at a loose button on his waistcoat.
When Goldsmith finally spoke, they had to strain to hear his quiet words. ‘I think that you must have come from Tucson. Am I right?’
‘Damn right!’ Yates took a step forward, his lip curling with anger, fist clenching, but Herne held him back.
‘I . . . I have been expecting you I . . . shall we sit down, I fear my legs do not seem able to support me?’ Together the three men walked slowly across the aisle and sat down in the front row of the carved wooden pews.
The Reverend buried his face in his hands, as though was at prayer. When he spoke his voice came from immense distance, and it was the voice of a tired and beaten man.
‘I did expect you. There is little that I feel able to say. I was there while it went on. I was drunk, as most of them were. I even . . . I did it, as the others did. But I was outside when the killing was done. I think it was one of the Stanwyck boys, but I don’t know. They are a most Godless couple.’
‘You don’t seem all that close to God yourself, Reverend said Herne quietly.
‘No. Yet I shall walk with him and all the Saints in that blessed peace that comes with true repentance, I have sinned most grievously, and I do repent of it with all my heart.’ His voice grew stronger, filling out as though he was preaching a sermon to a packed congregation, instead of talking to the men come to kill him.
White Death Page 10
