Some nodded their heads again, a few said ‘Yeah,’ aloud.
‘Right, you tell Latham I’m in town and I’m waiting for him. Tell him there’s a thousand dollars on his head an’ I aim to collect.’
While the men were still open-mouthed, Herne turned his horse and rode off down the street.
Chapter Seven
Pierce Latham rolled off the woman and on to his side. He pulled his left arm out from underneath the folds of her stomach and slapped her on the buttocks, laughing as the flesh shook. He slapped her again and laughed louder when she cried out and then some more when he saw the marks of his hand on her loose skin.
‘Damn!’ he said with feeling. ‘Damn, that was good!’
A sound came from the woman’s mouth against the soiled pillow and Pierce Latham looked down at the tousled brown hair and shook his head.
Damn!’ he shouted, swinging back his arm. ‘Weren’t that the best you had since you first started?’
The woman shifted awkwardly on the bed, trying to avoid the blow she sensed was coming. She succeeded in making Latham miss her behind and strike her hip instead. She called out nonetheless.
Latham grinned and reached for his pants that were lying crumpled on the floor. The woman turned on to her side and looked at him. Rouge was smudged across her face and the pillow both. One breast sagged across the other and folded on to her right arm. There were dark marks under her eyes, lines spreading away from the corners of her mouth. She looked the wrong side of forty and she was twenty-seven.
Latham lit a cigar and tossed the match on to the floor after the chewed-off end.
‘Pierce!’
The shout came from the alleyway alongside the house and Latham flinched, then grabbed at the Smith and Wesson sitting in the black leather holster that hung from the bed end.
‘Hey, Pierce!’
He moved alongside the window fast and eased back the ragged length of sacking that hung down from a piece of string.
‘Pierce!’
When he saw who it was, Latham cursed and yanked his shirt from where it was trapped under one side of the pillow.
‘Come up here,’ he called through the window and hurriedly finished dressing.
When Cole came in the woman had made no attempt to cover herself. Cole spoke to Latham with both eyes on the woman on the bed.
‘What the hell you mean, he’s fixin’ to collect the thousand dollars on my head?’
Cole was beginning to feel decidedly uncomfortable and he hoped that it wasn’t starting to show.
‘That was all he said, Pierce, to tell you he was gonna wait till you showed and he’d collect that—’
‘He a lawman? United States marshal, somethin’ like that?’
‘No. He …’ Cole blanched as the woman turned full on to her back and slightly spread her legs.
‘Get on with what you’re sayin’ and get your eyes unstuck from that goddamn whore!’
‘Yes, Pierce. Sure. Only—’
Latham hit him round the side of the head and he staggered back against the side wall. He caught his breath and ducked as Latham moved closer as if he was going to hit him a second time.
Instead he grabbed hold of Cole’s shirt and twisted it tight to his neck. ‘Now. Say what you got to say and say it clear.’
‘Sure. Sure, Pierce. Like I told you, he don’t seem to be no ... to be no kind of marshal. He’s a bounty hunter I guess.’
‘Bounty hunter,’ exclaimed Latham in disgust, ‘that trash!’
‘Goes by the name of Herne the . . .’
Latham let go of Cole’s shirt and stepped back as if the material had suddenly caught fire.
‘Herne? Jed Herne?’
‘I guess so. Herne the Hunter, they said.’
Pierce Latham shifted over to the window and finished getting dressed. The look in his eyes was hardening, his movements were cold and precise.
‘You … know him?’ asked Cole softly.
‘Yeah.’
‘Then you’ll be …?’
Latham spun the chamber of his pistol against the palm of his left hand. ‘I’ll be looking for him. You can see him an’ tell him that.’
The naked woman on the bed forgotten, Cole grabbed at the handle of the door, missed, tried again and finally scrambled out of the room.
Latham leant over the woman and pressed the end of the gun barrel against one of her breasts. “You make sure you ain’t busy later on tonight. I’m goin’ to have somethin’ big to celebrate.’ He laughed in her face and a thin line of spittle escaped from his mouth and ran down on to her neck. ‘I’m gonna be the man who finally took care of Herne the Hunter!’
~*~
Herne cleaned his Colt thoroughly, piece by piece, and put the pistol back together again with a great deal of care. He loaded the chambers and set the gun back in its holster and stood straight. Then he dropped into a gunfighter’s crouch and his right arm whirled and suddenly the Colt was back in his hand and ready to fire.
He went through the same practice draw half a dozen times before going down the street to the place called the Swados House. There were some twenty men inside, most of them crowded round the bar at the back of the room, but as soon as Herne entered a hush fell over the place and they parted to let him walk between them.
Herne recognized one man from the days they’d both worked for the railroad company and went over and shook his hand and got a slap on the shoulder and a few words of encouragement in return.
The rest were sullen and silent: Herne was the intruder and he plain as day wasn’t welcome but none of them was about to say so himself or attempt to do anything about it.
That was up to Pierce Latham.
Herne had given his intention plain, there was that much to be said for him. He hadn’t gone sneaking around back doors the way some bounty hunters would, maybe getting up behind Latham while he was laying with one of the whores he spent so much time with. He’d called Latham out and the man would either have to face up to Herne or ride out and face up to having done that. There wasn’t room for doubt in the mind of any person there which of those it would be.
After fifteen minutes the half-breed Mex slid in through the door and Herne’s adrenalin began to flow a little faster and he shifted his chair in the far corner of the room so as to be able to watch what the Mex got up to.
Smoke was beginning to thicken but men’s voices were still hushed, eager and anxious about what they were sure was going to happen. A group at one of the rickety tables made a gesture towards playing poker but it was little more than that.
Herne called over the Swados and the fat man waddled along behind the trestle table and set his belly against the end barrel.
Herne asked for a whiskey: one shot.
‘On the house,’ said Swados in his thin little voice. ‘Didn’t know who you was before.’
Herne nodded curtly and took the glass, ripe with the fat man’s thumb print.
‘You think he’ll come here, Pierce?’ Beads of sweat ran easily along the almost bald skull.
Herne gave the fat man a quick look and sat back down.
During the next hour men drifted, slowly, in and out. The air grew more and more congested, until Swados propped the door wide to the street. Herne wondered how close Marshal Sheperd was, waiting to salvage what he could from the pieces. If Herne got hit fatally and maybe Latham, too, then Sheperd would doubtless step in and claim the reward.
Louise.
Herne was angry with himself for thinking of her.
Now.
It was the first time that anything had infiltrated into his mind when he was waiting for a showdown. Herne didn’t like it: didn’t trust it. The pale face and the dark hair and the turn of her body clung to him. He ordered another whiskey and took it down fast, knowing it was the last he could allow himself. Men thought they got faster after a good deal of drink but that was an illusion: a fatal one.
There were others, equally fatal: like young women.
‘He
rne!’
Conversation in the saloon cut off like someone dashing out a light. Heads swung towards the open doorway, towards the rear corner of the room.
‘Herne, you want to see me?’
Herne wiped the palms of both hands down the tops of his pants and stared at the doorway. He knew that the Mex was half-way back down the right side of the room and that he was wearing a pistol holstered high on his left hip, a knife sheathed at the other side.
He tried to figure out what Latham would be carrying. The time he’d seen him out at the Bosque Redondo, he’d worn a Smith and Wesson Schofield .45 in a cutaway holster to the right side and he’d been hefting a sawn-off American Arms shotgun as back-up.
He wondered if it was still the same: he’d find out.
‘You want me, Herne, you come out here an’ face me man to man. I ain’t walkin’ into no trap.’
Herne smiled to himself and touched the smooth butt of his Colt .45 as if for luck.
Something – a bottle? – crashed against the adobe wall of the Swados House and Pierce Latham’s angry voice roared after it, uttering threat upon threat.
It sounded as if Latham had been drinking plenty and Herne was both surprised and glad.
‘You want that thousand dollars, feller, you’re goin’ to have to come get it.’
Herne stood up.
Chairs and boots scraped out of his path towards the door.
Herne gave the Mex a hard stare, warning him to keep to his own business, and began to walk towards the door, but keeping clear of a direct line.
He stopped against the wall next to the open doorway. There seemed to be but little light in the street. Fading rectangles from windows and doors, the dull glow of kerosene lamps hung between tents, a three-part full moon and a sprinkling of stars.
Herne knew why Latham wanted him to go out on to the street, he’d be moving out of the light, through it, targeting himself to someone standing back in darkness.
‘I ain’t goin’ out there,’ called Herne. ‘Not so’s you can gun me down the minute I show.’
There was a pause and then Latham’s voice, slurred and cocky. ‘That’s not it, Herne. You come out an’ I’ll face you fair an’ square. I ain’t got no cause to be scared of you.’ He laughed. ‘You’re an old man past your time!’
Herne’s hand was on the grip of his gun.
‘You was makin’ a awful lot of noise when I wasn’t around, old man. You ain’t so damned noisy now.’ Latham laughed and another bottle smashed against the wall close enough to the door for pieces of glass to drop down into the light.
‘I told you.’ said Herne firmly, ‘you come in here. I ain’t steppin’ out.’
Latham laughed mockingly and into the middle of the laugh Herne leapt, ducking low through the doorway, diving across it, hand bringing up his gun as he went. He hit the dirt with his left shoulder and leg and propelled himself forwards. Latham’s shotgun roared, orange flared and shot tore at the adobe on either side of the door, flew through the doorway and wounded three men who were standing too close. Herne came up from his rolling motion and into a crouch, his Colt was steady in his hand, Latham was little more than a silhouette in the center of the street, but a silhouette that was lit with the afterglow of the shotgun burst.
Pierce Latham’s hand clawed for the pistol at his leg.
Herne shot him twice, aiming for the bulk of the upper body.
Latham’s finger ends knocked against the tip of his pistol butt and he buckled back, staggered three, four steps, folded forward arms jerking to the sides. His head made a strange and unnatural upward turn.
Herne had the hammer of the Colt cocked and his eyes were searching the darkness for any sign of back-up. He watched the doorway of the Swados House but the only thing to emerge was a moan of pain.
Latham was taking a long time getting to his knees.
Herne started, slowly, to walk towards him and, as he did so, Latham pitched forwards, his face slapping against the packed dirt of the street. Herne waited a few moments, then turned him over with his boot.
‘Bring a lamp,’ he called back towards the saloon.
After a short while, one of the men came out holding a kerosene lantern high. Latham had two wounds in his chest, one a few inches above the heart, the other lower down, towards the stomach. He was bleeding a good deal. Herne bent over him: his breath stank of blood and bad whiskey and death.
A footfall spun Herne up and round.
‘Easy now.’ Marshal Sheperd stepped from shadow.
‘I thought,’ said Herne, ‘you wouldn’t be far away.’
‘He done?’
‘Yeah.’
Seth Sheperd peered down at Latham and nodded. ‘In this light that ain’t bad shootin’. ’course, he was drunk an’ angry as a bull in a blazin’ barn.’
‘Marshal,’ said Herne, ‘those are his problems.’
Sheperd shook his head. ‘No more. No more.’
~*~
After Mesa, Hondo looked a town with a lot of good points in its favor. Herne dismounted by Harding’s store and went in. A couple of women wearing black dresses that swept the sawdust from the floor, looked up from examining dress patterns and gave Herne a haughty look. He didn’t blame them: he hadn’t bathed or changed his clothes for longer than he cared to recall. But now there was money in the saddle bags slung over his shoulder and a few things he was intending to change.
At first he didn’t see Harding hidden behind a couple of flour sacks.
‘Well,’ the little man said with considerable degree of surprise, ‘you haven’t come back to lose the rest of your dollars, I suppose.’
Not these, thought Herne, not after what I did to get them.
‘No, when you finished attendin’ to these ladies, there’s a few things I want to buy.’
‘Yes, sir!’ Harding grinned up at the tall gunman and hustled over to where the women in black were mulling and musing.
Ten minutes later he was able to give Herne his undivided attention. Herne bought a new pair of pants, two shirts, long Johns for the winter months just ahead, a new pair of boots and a couple of bandannas. Harding hopped from packet to packet, from bundle to bundle looking happier and happier with each fresh purchase. Usually if folk wanted to buy so much they took the drive into Lincoln or else used one of the mail order catalogues. The little man was almost as happy as if he’d won Herne’s money in a game of five-card stud.
‘Now,’ said Herne, looking at Harding over the top of his pile of packages, ‘what I want is some information.’
‘Go ahead.’
‘First off I need a bath and a shave, then somewhere to eat, and then ... then I shall be needing somewhere to stay.’
Harding gulped. ‘Stay?’
‘Sure. Why not?’
‘Well …’ Harding’s eyes, bird-like, flicked towards the Colt .45 at Herne’s hip. ‘… Hondo don’t seem the sort of place for a man who lives … who lives …’
‘By this?’ said Herne, patting the butt of the Colt.
‘Yes.’ Harding flinched as if expecting something to happen.
Nothing did.
‘You goin’ to tell me what I want to know?’
The little man hurried back around his shop counter and moved to the door. ‘Mose Baker’s got a barber shop down the street, almost at the end of town. He’s got a bath out back, twenty-five cents, all the hot water and soap you can use. He’ll give you a good shave and -’ Harding glanced up at the lank strands of dark hair that fell across the top of Herne’s broad shoulders - ‘and trim your hair. Then as for a place to stay, I don’t know what you’d think to it, but trade ain’t so good here as you can imagine and there’s this room out back here that I’ve been using …’
Herne shook his head. ‘I ain’t sharin’.’
‘No. No, indeed. That wasn’t what … you see, I can sleep out here in the store. There ain’t much of me to stow away and, well, I sure could use a little extra income. Like you said yoursel
f winter’s starting to close in and business’ll get worse before it gets better.’
‘Let me see it,’ said Herne.
He saw the room and took it.
‘We can agree to keep the stakes the lowest we can, maybe we can get in a little stud every now and again,’ said Herne. ‘I’m lookin’ to have just a mite of time on my hands.’
Harding jumped up and down at the prospect.
Herne left him to it and went off in search of a bath.
~*~
‘That preacher,’ said Herne one evening, between hands, ‘the one with the fancy black suit and hat?’
‘That Baptist,’ said Harding, making the word sound like a description of something much less than pleasant.
‘I guess so.’
‘What about him?’
‘He lives round here, don’t he?’
‘That’s right. Had a place built to the eastern edge of town, close down to the river. Uses it as a church till he can get enough money to get a proper one built. Takes himself a deal too seriously for my liking.’
Herne wasn’t considering liking the preacher.
‘How’s he call himself?’
Harding started to deal. ‘You mean reverend or some such?’
‘Just his name.’
‘Harvey. William, I heard tell.’
Herne picked up the cards and looked at them interestedly. ‘That girl of his, she’s called Louise, ain’t she?’
Harding nodded, yes. He thought for the first time he was beginning to understand what Herne was up to, but he was holding a good hand and he wasn’t about to risk it by opening his mouth at the wrong moment. He simply pushed a dollar piece into the center of the table and smiled quietly.
Chapter Eight
The day was cold and clear and the tips of the Sierra Blanco were white with snow. Louise rode her horse at a brisk trot over the hard, unbroken ground. Down to her left the flat water of the river was swollen from two weeks of almost constant rain. Now the air was fresh and clean and the land had dried out and it was good to have the freedom to ride wherever she had wanted.
Louise reached out and ran her hand down the animal’s hot neck. She smiled and whispered to him, touching her spurs to his flanks and taking him into a gallop.
Till Death (A Herne the Hunter western. Book 15) Page 8
