Herne the Hunter 20

by John J. McLaglen

  Ollie wiped the remaining lather off onto the towel. ‘Can’t be that. Old Jim ain’t got no more interest in women than a gelding in springtime.’

  Herne shrugged his shoulders and kept his own counsel; he wasn’t so sure.

  ~*~

  Jim Wickens pushed some papers around on his desk for as much as fifteen minutes before he knew that he wasn’t about to get any work done that day. He stripped down his spare pistol and cleaned it thoroughly, oiling each piece before reassembling it and slipping five shells down into the chamber. He opened the desk drawer, put the gun back beneath a pile of fliers and slammed the door shut. There were two cells out back empty, one housing an old drunk called Mose who generally spent three nights in any seven vomiting over the marshal’s jailhouse floor.

  Wickens unlocked the cell door, kicked the underside of Mose’s worn boots to wake him, lifted him by the scruff of the neck like a mangy old cat and lurched him towards the back door.

  He pitched him out onto the dirt and wiped his hands down the side of his pants.

  His throat was dry but he knew a drink wasn’t going to make any difference.

  He went to the livery and got his horse out of the stall, saddled up and rode hard for fully half an hour, never allowing the animal to let up. He reined in close to the edge of a bluff that over looked the bright, mirror-like blue of a small lake surrounded on three sides by tall spruce and pine. Occasionally a dark-crested Steller’s Jay would launch itself from one of the higher branches and swoop and swerve over the water, calling its perfect imitation of a hawk.

  Jim Wickens was thinking of another bluff, this one overlooking a different kind of water, this one set close to the ocean. For the first time ever he was seeing it as a place for more than one person and it scared the shit out of him. It was hot enough to raise a sweat, especially after the ride out there, but the beads that lined the marshal’s forehead were cold as drops of ice.

  How the hell could he be such a darned old fool?

  Thinkin’ that way ’bout a girl who was likely young enough to have been his own daughter even if she didn’t exactly look like it. What was it about a woman he’d spent no more than half an hour talking with that made him want to include her in his dreams? Damn it! She weren’t even beautiful!

  Homely, that’s what she was.

  Homely.

  Despite what she was doing now, she was a homebody, Irma. Hands that looked to have worked on the land, worked in the hay barns, the hog pens, the kitchen.

  Apple cheeks and apple pies.

  In his head Jim Wickens saw her step through the porch door of the house that weren’t yet built and shake crumbs out of her gingham apron for the hens that came squawking and scuttling around her feet.

  He made his hand into a fist and punched it down against his thigh. It should have made him wake up, but it didn’t. Fifty years old and struck stupid like one of them kids he’d read about in romances shipped in from the east. Fifty years old and a fool.

  He hung his head and listened as the false call of the jay echoed up from the lake. The horse swung its head and snickered and he set his hand on its broad, warm nose. The animal pushed hard against him, playful. Jim tried to ignore the hollow feeling he had in the pit of his stomach; it wasn’t just this business with Irma. There was something else getting to him and he was angry with himself for not knowing what it could be.

  He thought that it had something to do with Irma, with Irma and himself-there he was, thinking about him and her in that kind of way already and he’d not as much as done more than pass the time of day with her.

  Riding out here into the middle of nowhere, sure wasn’t going to solve that problem either -wasn’t about to solve anything.

  Jim Wickens hauled on the reins and swung the animal round, setting off back for Banning at a steady trot.

  ~*~

  Mary Anne Marie Delaney was sitting on top of a barrel beside the wagon while Stephanie fixed her hair. She was wearing a white petticoat with lace edging round the bottom, a beige chemise and very little else. The marshal backed off and began to make his excuses but Mary Anne Marie would hear nothing of it. She sent Stephanie after him to grasp his arm and lead him back.

  She crossed one leg over the other in a most unlady-like posture and set a cheroot between her lips. Jim Wickens fidgeted a match from behind his badge in the small pocket of his vest, struck it against the butt of his pistol and held it to the end of her cheroot.

  He got close enough to know that she was smelling up a storm and it wasn’t lily-of-the-valley either.

  ‘What can I do for you, marshal?’ asked Mary Anne Marie, letting a small cloud of smoke escape from her nostrils and the corner of her mouth.

  ‘Somethin’ I wanted to talk to you about, Miss Delaney.’

  ‘Mary Anne Marie, marshal. Why don’t you call me that? There ain’t no need for you to be so respectful.’

  ‘Sure, Miss … sure, Mary Anne

  ‘Marie.’

  ‘Mary Anne Marie, yeah, got it. Nice names. Nice names all of them. Real nice.’

  Jim Wickens made a small dance step with his feet, his tongue toying with the edges of his mouth; the center of his palms itched and all in all he felt like he had as a raw kid of eighteen when he’d called on Louisa Deighton’s folks to ask if he could take their daughter in the family buggy to the Fourth of July picnic.

  Stephanie whispered something in Mary Anne Marie’s ear and giggled.

  The marshal felt himself flushing to the roots of his hair.

  ‘Stephanie, why don’t you go fetch the marshal a glass of that lemonade we made this afternoon. It sure is a warm day.’

  Stephanie giggled some more and bustled away from sight with an added instruction not to be too quick in hurrying back.

  Mary Anne Marie looked at the marshal for a few long moments before exhaling slowly, the cheroot slim and dark between her fingers.

  ‘Marshal, I ain’t done so well in this business by bein’ a poor judge of men. Nor by pussy-footin’ around when plain speakin’ll serve best.’

  ‘No, I guess you ain’t at that.’

  ‘Best spit it out then.’

  ‘Well, I …’

  ‘You wouldn’t be so tongue-tied if I was some desperado intent upon holdin’ up the bank now, would you?’

  ‘I would not.’

  ‘Then don’t waste time. We’re both of us busy folk, I guess.’

  Jim Wickens opened his mouth and closed it again. His heel dug a small trench into the ground beneath where he stood.

  ‘It’s Irma, isn’t it?’

  Jim Wickens’ stomach was as tight as a stone. ‘How come you knew that?’

  Mary Anne Marie smiled indulgently. ‘One thing you get to be in my business and that’s observant. I was watchin’ your face when you come by earlier, saw you walk a ways with her and the way you talked, sometimes that’s enough.’ She smiled. ‘Feels foolish in a man your age, I’ll bet. Don’t it?’

  Jim didn’t look at her direct. ‘Sure does,’ he said.

  Stephanie came back with the glass of lemonade and the marshal thanked her and took it, holding it against his chest, not attempting to drink it. A look from Mary Anne Marie sent Stephanie on her way again.

  ‘I want to tell you about Irma,’ she said, drawing hard on the cheroot. ‘Might help you with what you’re thinkin’.’

  Jim Wickens nodded: ‘Sure, go ahead.’

  ‘When I come upon her she was working for a man who ran a way station for a stage line down in New Mexico. Her hands were covered with calluses and blisters, her face was smeared with dirt and her whole body stunk of the pig fat they was burnin’ in the lamps. Feller who ran the place was a one-eyed drunkard with a liking for young cowboys and the occasional sheep. Well, that’s all right, I ain’t never been one to criticize others for their little peculiarities and besides it kept his attentions away from Irma. Only things was, whenever folk stopped over he’d try to hire out Irma to ’em for a night’s war
mth an’ times they’d be hard-up enough to accept.’

  She saw the anger rising in the marshal’s face and waved him quiet with her hand.

  ‘You don’t get me wrong now, marshal, I wouldn’t hear a word said against Irma, not now. Only back then she was about as appetizin’ as a hog got stuck in a muddy hollow for the best part of a week.

  ‘Only reason I had anythin’ to do with her, I was makin’ a stop on the stage, headin’ down towards the border as I remember. Irma had gone round the barn with this thick-skulled mule-skinner and for some reason or other he’d started beatin’ up on her and she run out screamin’, blood runnin’ down the side of her head, thick in her greasy hair. Old one-eye he shouted at her to get back and do like she’d been paid for and she just hollered at him right out and said he was the one who’d been paid, not her, an’ if he wanted to stretch his legs for a bastard mule-skinner why didn’t he get right in there, pull his drawers off, and do it!’

  Mary Anne Marie threw back her head and laughed at the memory. She leaned over and took hold of a fresh cheroot and the marshal struck a match for her, cupping his hands about it and then shaking it out, flicking it away with finger and thumb.

  ‘None of this went down too good, ’cept with me and some of the others watching. It was like a free show. One-eye come round from back of his counter flailin’ away at her with a skillet, an’ all the while this damned old mule-skinner is cussin’ and bawlin’ about wantin’ his money back and doin’ his best to kick at Irma as she run round the room.’

  She let smoke drift slowly from her mouth and nostrils.

  ‘What happened?’ Wickens asked.

  ‘Cuttin’ it short, I paid the mule-skinner what he reckoned was comin’ to him, told one-eye if he didn’t stop wavin’ that skillet round his head I’d plug him with my little derringer, an’ told Irma to get together whatever she reckoned was her’s ’cause we was leavin’ inside fifteen minutes.’ Mary Anne Marie laughed again. ‘Rest of the passengers insisted she ride up top with the baggage on account of the smell. Soon’s we got to a fair-sized place I stuck her in the tub and near bust my arms scrubbin’ her clean. Burnt her clothes an’ bought new ones. Said to her, look, you can walk out of here now an’ you don’t owe me a thing ’cept maybe a word of thanks. Or you can come along with me an’ be a whore. She’s been a whore ever since.’

  She looked at the marshal with something like finality. Wickens set his head to one side and pursed his lips.

  ‘Don’t change anythin’,’ he said after a few moments. ‘What you just said. I know she’s a whore now, don’t care what she’s been afore. I just

  Mary Anne Marie touched her fingers to the marshal’s lips and stopped him. ‘You hold it there before you tell me what you’re aimin’ to do. You bide your time and listen to the rest of it. Irma didn’t walk into that way station with no reason. She went there on account of she’d been bust so low she was almost searchin’ for the most miserable way of life she could find. It was either that or killin’ herself, I reckon.

  ‘She’d been brought up in East Virginia, decent folk who never had a lot of money but never starved neither. Irma was quiet and obedient and did like her folks said. When this feller name of Jay Springer come callin’ from one of the other farms, her ma and pa asked all the usual questions, didn’t want to push Irma into anythin’ just to make one less mouth to feed, but by that time she was smitten with this Jay and all too ready to do whatever he wanted. He claimed kin down near New Orleans who were extending their cotton business and wanted him to come and work with them. Soon as he an’ Irma were married, that was where they went. Only Jay Springer was less of a partner, more a dogsbody. Never earned enough to pay for the fine clothes he liked to be seen in or the gamblin’ he liked to enjoy till the early hours. First few times he got into debt he persuaded Irma to write back to her folks for money. When it happened again, she refused and he told her she’d have to earn the money some other way. A few nights later he brought back some of his gambling friends and proceeded to drink more than any of them could hold. Irma had gone to bed at the first sound of their return, but that didn’t stop Jay from directing a couple of his friends to the bedroom. In the morning, there were five dollar bills poking out from under the pillow.’

  Jim Wickens cursed and screwed his fists tight and didn’t want to hear any more: but he knew that he was going to.

  ‘Irma stuck this for six months, Jay bringing men back all the time. First off they were men that he knew, after that he’d pick them up in the gaming places he frequented, in saloons and hotels, outside on the street. Finally, she held back enough money to buy a riverboat ticket and run off up the Mississippi and didn’t stop till she reached St Louis. She’d come friendly on board with a man in his early forties who was travelling west, wanting to try his luck at mining, silver or gold. Irma strung along with him. To all accounts he was quiet and considerate and she soon convinced herself that she loved him. Likely she did. Somewhere travelling across that land they got married. By the time they reached California, she was with child. He was near out of his mind with excitement, wanted a child more than anything all his life, he told her. More than any silver and gold.’

  Mary Anne Marie drew on the cheroot, let the smoke slide away, fixed Jim Wickens with her eyes and wouldn’t. ‘Labor pains come early. Couldn’t get to no midwife, certainly no doctor. Irma was sweatin’ an’ screamin’ for near sixteen hours. The baby’s head was turned the wrong way and wouldn’t hardly budge. When he finally managed to tug the child clear it was blue and dead. Irma fell unconscious and when she come to, the dead baby was like a misformed little statue at the foot of the bed. She called for her husband but he didn’t come. It took her a long time and a lot of pain to drag herself off the bed and go look for him. She found him in the privy with an empty bottle of rotgut whisky an’ a rough-edged knife. Blood had dried on the walls like streaks of paint.’

  Jim Wickens looked away; he was finding it difficult to breathe. He didn’t seem to be focusing on things right.

  Mary Anne Marie lightly touched his arm. ‘She don’t want to go through all that again, Jim. Whyn’t you leave her be. She’s best as she is.’

  Nine

  The marshal headed back towards his office, passing several men he knew and normally acknowledged on the way and passing them without as much as a nod of the head or a wave of the hand. Inside, he bolted the door and reached inside his desk drawer for the bottle he kept there for entertaining. It was a prime scotch whisky that he’d taken from a drummer in payment of a fine and most of it was still intact. He had it to his lips when he remembered the part of Mary Anne Marie’s story about Irma’s husband in the privy. He restoppered the bottle, returned it to the drawer, kicked off his boots and sat back in his chair, legs on the desktop.

  He wanted to think clearly and he might just as well have wanted the moon.

  Why after all that time had he changed his dream to include a smiling, red-cheeked woman at the kitchen window?

  Why was Mary Anne Marie so certain that Irma was better off remaining a whore rather than becoming a wife?

  His wife.

  He sat there till the hardness of the chair pressed uncomfortably against his buttocks and his spine, until the light outside the window was beginning to fade fast and the sound of voices was heady on the street.

  He didn’t move.

  ~*~

  Down at the edge of town, at the wagon, the girls had built a fire and it was blazing brightly, crackling and sparking high into the air. Tortillas were cooking and there were pitchers of rough, red wine. Christiane sat propped up against some cushions close to the wagon wheel, a blanket wrapped round her. She had a squeeze-box in her hands and was playing a dance tune, bright and lively. The rest had put on their best clothes, brightly colored shawls and strings of beads, boots with high heels and skirts that swished and swayed in rhythm to the music.

  Mary Anne Marie sat on the wagon steps, like she had the first time Herne h
ad set eyes on her, smoking and watching and from time to time collecting the money.

  When a youngster with a little too much liquor inside him pulled a gun and started firing off shots into the air like they was fire crackers, Herne took it away from him as peaceable as he could. He carried the kid out of the light from the fire and lay him down easy, so’s he could wake up in his own good time.

  Stephanie was taking more customers into the wagon than the other two girls together, giggling before and after and especially during.

  Irma glanced round from time to time, wondering why the marshal hadn’t showed because from the way he’d been looking at her and talking to her earlier, she’d been pretty sure he’d come along. But there were other folk to attend to and, besides, he had a kind of serious look about him that likely meant trouble - sooner or later. She relaxed and danced a few steps to the polka Christiane was playing and received a whoop and a shout of applause from the men gathered round the fire. Her face shone like molten gold.

  Herne leaned over Mary Anne Marie’s shoulder and said quietly: ‘You don’t ever get up there in the wagon yourself, I guess?’

  She widened her eyes a fraction. ‘That depends.’

  ‘On who’s askin’?’

  ‘Uh-uh. On how much they’re payin’.’

  ‘I didn’t figure it had to be that way.’

  She angled her face sharply towards him. ‘You thought I was goin’ to do it for pleasure, maybe, or you askin’ for a little on account?’

  He dragged his foot off the wagon steps and stood clear. ‘Forget it!’ he snapped. ‘I ain’t askin’ for anythin’.’

  As he walked off into the comparative darkness of the street, he could hear her laughter following him.

  ~*~

  Jim Wickens still didn’t know what he was going to do. The only thing he did wish was that the damned wagons had never come to town, that he’d never gone out to meet ’em, never set eyes on Irma, never spoke to her, never thought one damned thing about her.

  He heard horses in the street and glanced towards the window but couldn’t see who they belonged to.