It was hard to figure out what might be best. The weather surely wasn’t going to get any better over the next few days. That meant more snow all round. But it shouldn’t make the path up through the woods any harder for them. The men inside wouldn’t know about that hidden trail, and they’d see the deepening snow as a way of keeping them safe. So, they’d start to relax.
It was that thought that decided Herne. He cracked a small twig across his knee and threw it on the fire. ‘We’ll wait. Wait for a week. By then they’ll reckon that we’ve gone and that’ll be the time. They can’t get out, but in a week we’ll be able to get in.’
Coburn nodded. The girl stopped her work and looked up at him. ‘That mean we all stay here for a week? In this place? All of us?’
She stressed the word ‘all’, staring deliberately at the bound figure of the young gunman. Coburn caught the inference and glanced sideways at Herne, shaking his head negatively. Jed felt the same. To try and keep Tarrant a prisoner for seven days was too great a risk. Left to his own decision, he’d just as soon have taken the boy outside and shot him behind a tree.
‘All of us, Jed? Or are you going to kill him after stabbing him like that?’
‘There wasn’t any other way to do it, Becky. He knew something we wanted to know.’
‘Now you know it. What about him?’
Coburn opened his mouth as though he was going to speak, then changed his mind and shut it again. Tarrant looked up, his emotions locked away in shock, hardly seeming to realize that they were discussing his life.
‘All right.’ Herne made the decision, even though it was one he didn’t really like. ‘We’ll keep him. But he stays tied and if he tries anything, I’ll kill him.’
‘It’s only for a week,’ Becky said, flashing him a smile of thanks.
But it wasn’t.
It was three days.
Three days of continuous snow, the wind gusting up towards gale force, driving drifts of deep white against the base of the trees, piling snow along branches until they snapped under the weight.
Mel Tarrant sat quiet and patient, only speaking when he was spoken to, huddled up inside a blanket that Becky had sewn into a poncho. He was fed by the girl, and the men took it in turns to go with him and watch him with a drawn pistol when he wanted to answer a call of nature.
Whitey and Jed spent a large amount of time either locked in deep reminiscences or planning the attack on Mount Abora. Trying to cover every detail of what might happen and what they’d do if it did. But there came a point when further planning became absurd, and they stopped working out all the angles on the third day, when they just didn’t have any angles left to work on.
Inevitably, they had all come to accept the presence of the captured boy, and he played his part perfectly, appearing cowed and humble. Grateful for the gift of his life. Ironically, it was the suspicious Whitey Coburn who gave him the half-chance he’d been waiting for.
Late on the afternoon of the third day, with the blizzard easing down to a more modest fall, the albino was smoking and Tarrant asked him for a draw. Coburn leaned right across him to put the roll-up in the boy’s mouth, and found the muzzle of his own pistol digging into his ribs. The gunman had slipped it from the holster, gripping it in his bound hands, using the folds of the blanket as a cover.
‘Make a move and I blast you through the belly, you white-face bastard. Move back, slow and easy, and keep your hands open and your mouth shut.’
Herne and Becky were both out collecting wood during the lull in the gales, and would be back at any moment.
‘Just sit there good and quiet, and wait. Then I’ll be moving on.’
‘We would have let you go, you stupid son of a bitch! Now we’ll have to kill you.’
Tarrant smiled, the barrel of the gun tilting to point directly at Coburn’s face from six feet away. ‘Any killing round here, Whitey, and it’ll be me that does it.’
‘Kill me and who unties you? I’m your card, boy, so let’s not be even more fuckin’ foolish. It’s something of a standoff, boy, so let’s play it that way.’
Tarrant snarled at Coburn. ‘Don’t call me “boy”, old man!’
Minutes trickled past while Coburn sat still, his emotionless face reflecting nothing of the seething anger. Anger that was directed more at himself than at Tarrant. In the boy’s place he might have tried the same sort of thing. But there was no admiration in him. No sense of reluctantly congratulating his younger adversary. If he had been given the way of shooting Tarrant in the back, Coburn would gladly have taken it. But he was well caught, and could do nothing but sit there and wait to see how Herne played the hand he was going to find waiting for him when he and the girl returned to the shelter.
Barely a quarter of an hour later they both heard the crunching of feet in the snow, and the boy made a warning gesture with the gun. ‘One noise, that’s all, and I’ll fuckin’ blast you.’
‘I should watch your tongue when Herne gets back here, otherwise he’ll break that gun over your head for using foul language in front of Rebecca.’
‘Here comes the fire service!’ called out Herne, stooping to enter under the low roof. ‘We went a ways along the trail by the lake and it’s still clear and the... Ah!’
The unnatural silence at last penetrated to him and he dropped the pile of branches on the floor, standing quite still. Becky bumped into him from behind, laughing and pushing a strand of hair back from her face.
‘Why are we all ... Oh, no!’
Nobody moved, like a tableau vivant at the vaudeville halls, frozen. Tarrant sneered at the way the gun in his bound hands had tipped the balance in his favor. Herne glanced at Coburn, who shrugged his shoulders apologetically.
‘Grabbed it when I was givin’ him a smoke. Never thought he’d do something that stupid when he was that close to makin’ it away.’
‘Mel! Why?’
The boy grinned at the girl, his eyes never leaving Whitey. ‘Guess I was tired of waitin’, Becky.’
‘What happens next, son?’ asked Herne, looking at Tarrant, his hand hanging loose and easy by his side.
‘She cuts me loose and then I get on a horse and ride away.’
‘No.’ The word was quietly spoken, yet it dominated the silence in the little shelter. ‘No, son. If’n we let you do that, then maybe you’ll ride away to Mount Abora, and that’ll shoot all our chances of gettin’ in, and you’re able to lead them right to us. I don’t favor that idea, son. Not at all.’
‘Don’t call me “son” you stinkin’ old bastard! I’ll fuckin’ kill you all!’
Herne shook his head gently. ‘You got the ace there. You just play it the way you want, and we’ll think about it.’
‘What? What do you mean?’ There was a dear note of uncertainty in Tarrant’s voice.
You got a gun, there. Now what do you aim to do with it,’ said Herne patiently.
‘Oh. Yeah. You give that knife of yourn to the girl and she’ll cut the ropes round my hands and feet.’
‘Suppose I say not?’
‘I kill him. Sure, I know that’ll give you time to draw and kill me, but that ain’t the way you’d act. You fuckin’ old-timers with your ideas of being loyal to a friend. You’d not risk his life.’
‘If’n it was me, son,’ interrupted Coburn, ‘I want you to know I’d gun you down like a dog, even if you had a gun to my mother’s breast.’
The boy’s nostrils flared with anger and they all saw, in the ruddy firelight, his knuckles whiten on the butt of the Colt Herne’s own hand trembled and he tensed ready for the quick draw to save his own life, but the girl saved the moment for them all.
‘Give me the knife, Jed,’ she said, stepping forward to come between Herne and the boy.
‘Take it,’ he said, not wanting to risk reaching down with his gun-hand.
‘Don’t get in the way of the gun,’ said Tarrant, as she sliced through the ropes round his ankles. Becky went to cut the ropes on his wrists, but he stopp
ed her. ‘No. Take their guns and throw them out in the snow. Then we’ll go out there and you can cut them.’
‘You don’t get my gun, boy.’ Herne shook his head. ‘Right now we can talk a deal, but if’n our guns both go out there, then there’s no deal to talk. You let her cut the ropes and we’ll give you a head start.’
Finally Tarrant nodded, arranging his hands so that she could free him with the bayonet without coming between him and Coburn. The moment the ropes dropped away Tarrant made his play, grabbing Becky round the neck with his left arm and digging the barrel of the cocked Colt into the back of her skull.
‘Right Now that does it, boy,’ said Herne. You try and take her with you and you’re deader than a beaver hat.’
‘You try and stop me, old man, and she’s dead. Now she and me’s goin’ out there to the horses and we’re goin’ for a ride. I’m takin’ your horses too, and I’ll be watchin’ this shelter. Any sign of either of you tryin’ anything, and I squeeze the trigger, and this pretty little lady gets her head spread all over the fuckin’ Sierras. Come on!’
Coburn sat silent, with Jed at his side, while the boy inched his way from the shelter, keeping the gun rammed into Becky’s neck, always keeping her body between himself and them.
They could hear their feet scuffling through the packed snow, heading towards where the horses snickered uncertainly. By bending down, Herne could see them as they moved away, Tarrant carefully holding Becky tight so that he himself presented no target.
‘Clever young bastard, ain’t he?’ said Coburn.
‘Maybe,’ said Herne, keeping his eyes on the couple outside. ‘Maybe.’
‘You goin’ to let him get away with it?’ asked Coburn, stretching out his right hand for the Winchester, quietly thumbing back the hammer.
‘Let’s sit this one out, Whitey.’
‘You reckon the girl’s in it? Maybe playin’ along with him, on account of she feels sorry for the son of a stinkin’ bitch? Maybe?’
‘Maybe.’
They were at the horses, Tarrant standing close to Becky while she adjusted the straps on the saddle-bags and the girths. He took little notice of her, still raking the opening of the shelter.
‘Should have unsaddled them when you came in,’ said Coburn quietly.
‘I was figurin’ on tryin’ to get up through the woods with her. See if we could get close to the house on horseback. Make the way out that much easier.’
‘I could hit him easy from here, Jed. Is it worth a try?’
‘You kill him, and he still squeezes the trigger on the way down and kills Becky. I guess that little girl’s about all I got left in the world, Whitey. If I’m going to try and pick up some of the broken pieces, I can use her help.’
‘Kickin’ yourself in there, old men?’ called Tarrant, from the other side of the clearing. ‘I’m takin’ the girl with me.’
‘No!’ That was Becky. Sounding more angry than frightened. ‘I’m not goin’ with you, Mel Tarrant!’
‘Then I might as well kill you now. Mount up or else I’ll put a... Oh.’
The last syllable was a quiet, polite exclamation, following on the muffled noise of a small caliber pistol shot. Jed and Whitey exploded from the shelter, both holding guns, to be met with a strange scene.
Tarrant was hanging on the bridle of Jed’s stallion, one boot already in the stirrup, his blanket poncho flapping in the wind. The gun was still gripped in his right hand, but it pointed down at the earth. His mouth hung open, and he was staring, not at Herne and Coburn, but at Rebecca.
She stood three paces away from him, her left hand to her mouth, the right holding the small derringer that Herne had insisted she carry in the saddle-bags of her mare. Largely, he thought, as a useful back-up weapon for him. But he’d taught her to use it.
Taught her well.
Smoke trickled from the one barrel, being whipped away by the cold breeze.
The horse skittered sideways, putting Tarrant directly behind her, in line of a clear shot from either of the men, making the boy hop awkwardly on one leg. Herne saw the muzzle of the Colt swinging up again, towards the girl.
‘Again, Becky. Again!’
This time the crack of the gun was louder, as the second bullet found its mark, sending Tarrant tumbling to the snow, his gun dropping from his nerveless fingers. He shook his head like he couldn’t believe what had happened to him, struggling to his knees, fumbling for the fallen weapon. After his gasp of shock as the first bullet hit him, Tarrant never said another word.
There was the heavy snap of the Winchester at Herne’s side as Whitey fired. The bullet hit Tarrant through the chest, pitching him on his face, right at Becky’s feet, his hand reaching vainly up to her, as though he sought her help. His fingers closed on the dark material of her skirt, and she stood quite still, looking down at the dying boy.
Even as his life-blood pumped sluggishly across the rutted ice, his fingers didn’t relax their grip, nor did she make any effort to move away.
Finally, it was Coburn who stepped forward and kicked the body on its side, tearing the hand from its death-grip. Whitey bent down and picked up his own gun, holstering it again.
Becky didn’t speak, simply placing the little hand-gun, its over-and-under barrels still warm, into Herne’s pocket as she walked unsteadily past him into the shelter.
As the two men dragged the stiffening corpse out of sight among the trees, burying it under several feet of snow to try and keep the animals from it, Coburn grunted to Jed: ‘Don’t worry about her. Like I said. She’s got grit, that one.’
‘Maybe,’ was all Herne replied.
During that night, Becky woke three times, finally crying herself to sleep.
Four days later they were ready to make their move.
Chapter Eight
Ruth Stanwyck stood naked in front of the long mirror in her bedroom. The chubby figures of grinning cherubs carved round the dark oak frame flickered as the light from the three brass oil lamps played over them. The yellow light also threw shadows across her body. Highlighting the firm breasts, and the peaking nipples, erect in the cold air.
She half-closed her hooded eyes, admiring herself, appraising what little damage time had done to her. Smoothing her fingers over the flat stomach, stroking the silken mat of hair in the pit of shadow at the junction of her thighs. Half-turning, tightening her gluteal muscles, watching her buttocks in the mirror. Deciding that she would still be considered a desirable and attractive woman.
It had been a long time, she remembered, letting her fingers roam absently, pretending that they did it without her agreement. Licking her lips, and tossing the light blonde curls. Perhaps it might be time, after this winter was finished, to move back out of the hills to the coast. Re-enter society in San Francisco and perhaps even marry again.
But that would mean having a man touch her again. And do ‘that’ to her. She shuddered at the memory. Far better to stay with her beautiful, unspoilt sons. Even though they were sometimes rather high-spirited, they were still her boys. Far better to stay with them. It was so good to have them with her. Gentle Mark, who she loved so much. Loved to have him spend the night with her in the padded bed, secure in the certainty that he would never try to do ‘that’ to her. Not Mark.
Nor Luke. She had made sure that his love was as safe as that of his twin. Ruth smiled to herself, her hand moving faster at the happy thought of what she’d managed to make of her two lovely boys. And in six days time they’d be twenty-one. Grown men.
Her eyes glazing with pleasure; her panting breath making her breasts rise and fall, faster and faster, Ruth Stanwyck locked herself deeper into her own private world of dreams.
Or nightmares.
Either Jed or Whitey had been on patrol towards the house across the valley, morning and afternoon, every day since Tarrant’s death. And they had seen the pattern of the sentries alter each day.
At first, immediately after their ambush and the blocking of the road, ther
e had only been one patrol, with four men, heavily-armed, nervously circling Mount Abora, keeping close to the walls.
Tarrant had told them the truth. The door in the tower was there. And the checking was done in the way that he’d said. For the first couple of days it was done properly, then boredom set in again, and the guards got more and more slack, clearly imagining that the massive drifts of snow across the valley and mountains around would deter any potential attackers.
It had been damnably cold, the blue waters of the lake being covered a little more each day by the white veil of ice, until by the seventh day it was frozen over solid. Even the lacy spray of the great waterfall, breaking over the jagged edge of the northern plateau, was showing signs of icing-up as winter’s claws became more and more deeply buried.
From four at a time, the patrols dropped to two, and on the sixth day to a single man moving round the house, while another stayed on more or less permanent guard near the main gates.
It was getting more and more possible.
And on that seventh day, they began their attack.
Becky was to stay in the shelter, to feed the fire, and to prepare to leave at a moment’s notice. The horses were saddled up, tethered under the trees to keep the worst of the cold wind off them. She was left the derringer to look after herself, and Coburn at the last moment decided to leave her his Winchester.
‘There’ve been tracks around that I don’t much like,’ he explained to Herne. ‘If’n they’re bear, like I reckon, then she ain’t goin’ to do much stoppin’ with that toy. Needs a gun with weight.’
Herne agreed. Telling the girl to keep close to the shelter, and watch the horses. If there was a bear around, then it might go for the animals. He’d seen a whole corral of horses butchered by a family of bears in a single night.
‘When will you be back?’ she asked, standing near the entrance, arms folded across her chest, hair tucked under a thick scarf. Face pale and pinched with the long spell of freezing weather.
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