The Black Widow

by John J. McLaglen

  ‘We’ll be up near there in a couple of hours. Then we got to watch our moment. Take out the men on guard, and get inside in their places. After that, it’ll be over, one way or another, in another hour or so.’

  That ‘one way or another’ haunted her after the two men had walked out into the still falling snow and vanished down the hill towards the lake. And towards that gaunt pile of stone across the valley. In between the storms, she’d looked across at the golden lights that seemed to speckle its walls, and wondered about it. And about the two young men inside.

  She was cold, so she walked back to the shelter, crouching to scramble inside, moving Whitey’s Winchester out of the way. Herne had kissed her on the cheek before he left, and Coburn had touched her on the shoulder, giving her a reassuring squeeze.

  Becky closed her eyes, lying back by the fire, thinking about Jedediah Herne. And rubbing her face where the bristles of his sprouting beard had scratched her, remembering the silver hairs that gleamed amid its blackness. Like the gray that streaked his long hair.

  Wondering if she loved him.

  It was a hard time going.

  Once into the forest it was quieter, with just the soft squeak of their boots among the white snow. Enough fell each day to cover up their tracks from each previous trip.

  ‘Glad this is the end?’

  ‘It’s never really the end, is it, Whitey? You turn what you think is the final corner. And find it’s just another beginning.’

  Whitey laughed, the noise sudden in the hush. ‘Like I heard a bartender in Kentucky, called Roy Bean, once say: one man’s floor is another man’s ceiling. Comes to the same thing in the end, I guess.’

  At last, like a monstrous tombstone, the gray walls of the house appeared through the branches of the thinning trees. The path faded away, narrowing to nothing, and the two men stepped as quietly as they knew how, ducking right down to avoid the snow-weighted limbs of the pines.

  It wasn’t a time for long guns, and Jed had left his Sharps back with Becky, wrapped safely in its greased cloth. He and Whitey each wore a pair of matched Colts, the holsters tied to their thighs to stop them swinging and bumping as they walked.

  ‘There.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Right. Coming round the corner of the house. Only one of them.’

  ‘Got him.’

  ‘That’s the walker. And there’s the one on the gate. If he’s reached this corner, then he’s due back at the door in the tower in … let’s see … ’bout twenty minutes, give or take a mite. That right with you?’

  Herne checked his own watch, then tucked it safely away in his vest pocket, tugging the layers of warm clothing back into place. Taking off his gloves, ready for the action to begin, feeling the cold smarting in a scratch on his right hand where he’d caught it breaking wood for the fire.

  ‘That’s about right, Whitey. Looks like this is it. I’ll take the walker and you go for the man by the gate. Meet you back by that door in twenty minutes from now.’

  ‘Good luck, partner.’

  ‘Good luck, Whitey.’

  They touched hands briefly, then Coburn was gone, ghosting away through the trees, heading round the house in the opposite direction to the sentry, keeping under the dark curtain of the trees.

  Jed’s target was still in sight, walking slowly, picking his way among the ruts of ice, frozen hard as iron. For some reason he was wearing long, ornamental spurs, and Herne hunted him by the silvery jingling, moving fast and silent, stopping to draw the bayonet from its sheath inside his right boot. Clasping his fingers round the warm hilt. Pausing to take several deep breaths, steadying himself. Most of the windows of the house were blank and shuttered, but on that side of the house, overlooking the finest view, some were still clear. The sentry carried a carbine, finger on the trigger, looking efficient. But Herne noticed that the man didn’t once bother to look back over his shoulder, and took little care of his flanks. He was asking to be hit.

  There was a point where a thick green bush intruded clear on to the path, and Jed reached it first, standing poised on the balls of his feet, knife held low, waiting for the guard to walk right into him.

  The jingling got nearer and nearer.

  And stopped.

  Just the other side of the bush, so close that Herne could actually see the man’s breath smoking in the freezing air. Then he heard the tapping, and the noise of a window opening. And a man’s voice. But a voice so soft and high that it could almost have been a girl’s.

  ‘Take care how you go, won’t you, dear Anthony. I should hate one of those assassins to take away my favorite guard from me.’

  ‘Don’t worry, Master Mark,’ called out the man loudly, adding to himself: ‘Unnatural creepin’ bastard.’

  The window slammed shut above Herne’s head, and he tensed again.

  The guard only had to take two steps to get round the other side of the snow-capped bushes. He’d scarcely had time even to get into his stride before he walked full into Herne. They stood for a second, chest to chest, the carbine touching Jed’s jacket.

  The man’s mouth dropped open in purest shock, and his eyes stared at Herne as though he was a demon who’d sprung from the earth. He had time for a whispered, barely audible, gasp before he was taken.

  ‘Hello, Anthony,’ said Herne softly, reaching up from his greater height to grab the man by the back of his neck, pulling him forwards hard, off balance, so that he pitched forwards on to the point of the knife that Herne held braced against himself.

  ‘Goodbye, Anthony,’ said Herne, equally softly, feeling the life draining from the man, spilling warm over the back of his right hand from the burst arteries of the heart, soaking through the coat, and dripping, steaming on to the ice. Forming a bright scarlet pool.

  He watched the eyes roll backwards and carefully dragged the corpse off the path, laying it behind the bush, leaving the carbine still gripped in the dead fingers. He didn’t need it and Anthony wasn’t going to be using it ever again.

  Then it was back along the side of the house, past the windows which reflected the gray sky, leaden and threatening, packed with the sullen promise of yet more snow later in the day. It was tempting to put his gloves back on, and relieve the numbness that endangered his fingers, but there was always the possibility of running into a random patrol, and needing to be quick on the draw.

  There was the faint distant sound of someone playing a harmonium in one of the rooms. Waiting for a moment, Herne was able to recognize the tune. An old hymn. ‘Guide Me O Thou Great Redeemer.’

  The irony of that didn’t escape Jed. He made his way towards the guarded tower door, still grinning. He ferreted among his clothes with numb hands and managed to tug out his silver watch. Still nine minutes to go. Plenty of time for Whitey to waste his man and get back. They’d agreed that Whitey should take the man by the gate. It was the easier killing. Jed had always been the better stalker.

  While he crouched behind one of the trees nearest the house, Herne took a chance and slipped the gloves back on, reveling in the warmth they provided.

  Four minutes. There was a strip of path, out from the trees to the door, of about fifteen yards. If anyone was looking out of any of the windows during those fifteen yards, then they were dead. None of the guards was near as tall as either Whitey or Jed.

  One minute and a half.

  He heard a whisper of movement behind him in the darkness, and spun round, Colt out and cocked, to stare into the eyes of Coburn. He raised his eyebrows in a question, and the albino split his mouth in a broad smile.

  ‘Like stifling a babe in its cot, Jed. Never even knew what happened. When I cut his throat, he made a little noise like when you put your hands in water that’s a mite too hot for you. Started to turn when he saw his own lifeblood gushin’ out all over his hands. Then just fell down all of a heap and I eased him out of sight. You got yours all right. I saw the body when I come past.’

  Herne took off the gloves again, tucking
them safely in an inside pocket. Drew the handgun, and cocked it with his thumb. ‘Ready?’

  ‘As ever will be. The odds is gettin’ better all the time. Only four of their guns left. I guess you and me should be able to deal with four.’

  Nobody looked out of the windows as they ran as silently as possible over the snowy path, to pause by the door. It was massively thick, studded with bolts of iron, and had a barred grill in its top quarter. Using the barrel of the Colt, Jed knocked, waiting to be let into Mount Abora, for the last two steps on his vengeance trail.

  Chapter Nine

  Three close together.

  Then a pause.

  Then two more.

  Then a wait.

  If the grill opened, they were going to have to risk shoving a gun barrel in and try to force the guard to open up for them.

  The grill didn’t open. Dimly, through the thickness, they heard a chair scraping back on a stone floor, and a voice, muffled. ‘Who’s that?’

  ‘Anthony,’ answered Herne, quickly, winking at Coburn, who was looking at him in amazement.

  There was the rattling of a bolt and a chain being withdrawn, and the door started to swing open.

  Herne hit it hard with his shoulder, praying there wasn’t a catch-chain on the inside. But the door gave in to his pressure, cannoning back on its hinges with a screech of protest. Whitey was right behind him, going straight for the mail, like in the old times.

  The guard was a portly young man, wearing a brocade waistcoat, half-turning from the door to try and reach his scatter-gun, propped uselessly against an inner door across the small hall.

  Whitey was on him like a lean panther, swinging the pistol like a club at the back of the boy’s head, catching him a solid blow. The sentry crumpled to his hands and knees, mewing in pain, barely conscious. As Jed kicked the outer door shut, shooting the main bolt across, he heard the sickening crack, like a ripe apple being trodden underfoot, as Whitey swung his gun a second time, smashing the top of the guard’s skull to a bloody pulp.

  Ignoring the body that lay still twitching at his feet, the albino bent and wiped blood and matted hair from the foresight of his Colt on the fancy waistcoat, adding a macabre layer to the decorations.

  ‘Leaves us three,’ he said.

  The door opened on a narrow corridor. From what Tarrant had told them, they knew that they were in the basement of the mansion, close to the kitchens and servants’ quarters. Where the butler and the housekeeper lived. And where the remainder of the guards would be resting off-duty.

  So far it was going to plan.

  The next stage was to wipe out the rest of the armed men, so that they would have the place to themselves, and the Stanwycks.

  Directly in front of them, so close that Jed could have touched him, a man stepped out of an open door, calling out to someone inside the room.

  ‘Keep them warm, Ben. I’ll be right back.’

  Acting instinctively, Jed pushed the man hard in the back, sending him staggering away from him. He noticed that he carried a gun at his hip, which made it that bit easier with his conscience. Although even if he hadn’t been, he’d still have gunned him down.

  It wasn’t, and never would be, a game.

  The young gunman half-turned, hand leaping for his gun. He’d not cleared leather when Herne started his play, drawing, cocking, aiming and firing all in one blur of action. The bullet hit the boy in the chest, throwing him against the far wall. As he slid slowly down, the hole in his back left a smear of blood all down the white paint.

  From behind him, he heard Whitey jump into the doorway, and shoot twice through the opening at the men inside. There was no return of fire.

  ‘That’s the lot,’ he said, quickly reloading.

  ‘No,’ said Whitey, emerging, doing the same with his Colt. ‘There was only one in there. Sitting at a table.’

  ‘Two shots?’ grinned Herne.

  ‘First one hit the mug he was holding. Second one killed him. So there’s still a guard around.’

  ‘We’ll worry about him when we meet him. I make it the odds now lie with us. Let’s go see these servants of the Stanwycks. I wonder if we’ll find them upstairs or downstairs?’

  Downstairs.

  ‘Lawks, Mister Jackson!’

  ‘Whatever is it, Mrs. Bellamy? Has your cock-a-leekie caught on the hob or has … My goodness! Excuse me, gentlemen, but can I be of any assistance?’

  The butler’s composure amazed Herne and Coburn. They had burst into the kitchen, guns in hand, unshaven and dirty, and the Englishman simply stood there and greeted them as calmly as if they were guests at a Leicestershire Hunt Ball.

  Rubbing his white gloved hands together, peering deferentially over gold-rimmed spectacles, Jackson repeated his question.

  ‘Can I be of assistance to you? If I may say so, I would have expected you to enter in a somewhat different manner. Without those pistols in your hands.’

  Herne grinned. Taking off his battered hat and bowing to the middle-aged cook, who stood, flustered and not a little frightened, by the long pine table. Her hands were covered in flour and she tangled her fingers nervously together.

  ‘I’m truly sorry to have come in on you all unannounced like this. You must be Jackson, the Stanwycks’ butler? And you’re Mrs. Bellamy, the cook here?’

  ‘Housekeeper and cook, if you don’t mind, sir. Not that there’s many hereabouts to know what’s what.’

  The butler was edging towards a large bell-pull set in the kitchen wall, close by the fire. But stopped when Coburn took a step in his direction.

  ‘Hold it there, buddy. We got nothing against you. We’ve come to see your employers.’

  ‘Beg pardon, sir. But even in this barbarous country, I had not thought that it was the custom for guests to come calling brandishing firearms.’

  ‘Your folks upstairs?’

  ‘Of course, sir. You would surely not expect to find either Mrs. Stanwyck or either of the young masters spending their afternoons below stairs.’

  ‘Lawks, no. The very idea of such a thing makes me blood run cold!’ exclaimed the cook, adjusting her mob cap.

  ‘Don’t get fresh with me, Limey,’ said Coburn, not sure whether to join his partner in laughter or get angry with the extraordinary couple.

  ‘Now, Whitey. These folks are just doing their best. I guess you’d do well not to talk much more, if’n you take my advice.’

  Both servants fell-silent, exchanging glances that made it clear what they thought of Americans in general and of Mister Coburn and Mister Herne in particular.

  ‘What shall we do with them?’ asked Whitey.

  Herne walked round the room, picking up a small iced cake from the table and popping it in his mouth. ‘Mmm. Very good, Mrs. Bellamy, if I may say so.’

  She bridled with pleasure. ‘Of course you may, sir. And welcome. Why, when we were back in England my scones were the talk of...’

  ‘Mrs. Bellamy!’ snapped Jackson. ‘Kindly keep quiet if you please.’

  There was a large stone pantry off the kitchen, with a stout door and a lock on the outside. It had no window.

  ‘In there, if you please, folks. Just for a few minutes till we finish what we came to do.’

  Under the threats of the two gunmen, the butler and cook dutifully filed into the pantry, both keeping grimly silent, though Jackson turned as the door was shut on him.

  ‘I trust that you will wipe that snow and mud off your boots before entering the rest of the house. I would not want to incur the anger of either of the young masters for being remiss after your departure.’

  ‘I don’t reckon you got much to worry about from either of them, Mister Jackson, so set your mind at rest.’

  As he locked the door, Herne heard the butler say something to Mrs. Bellamy. Coburn also heard it and asked his partner what he’d said.

  ‘Something ’bout it not being like this back in Seeton Place. Wherever the Hell that is.’

  The corridor up fr
om the kitchen was narrow, and quite silent. Both men walked cautiously, guns cocked in their hands. Eyes and ears alert for danger. At the top of a flight of stairs, there was a heavy door, lined in green baize.

  ‘Guess that’s the door between the downstairs part and the rest of the house,’ muttered Coburn, pushing gently against it.

  It wasn’t secured by any kind of catch, presumably to make it easier for servants carrying loaded trays to negotiate. Whitey stuck his head round, standing motionless as he listened for any sound of movement. But Mount Abora was quite silent.

  ‘Maybe they’re sleeping off their lunch?’ whispered Jed.

  ‘Could be. Only one way to find out.’

  Herne covered Whitey as he stepped out into a cavernous hall, covered with Italian tiles and terra-cotta sculptures. The walls were hung with dull oil paintings of European landscapes and heavy-featured nobles. To the right several doors turned their blank faces to them, and a flight of wide stairs wound upwards across the hall.

  ‘Take the ground floor first, then move along upstairs? Or try up there first?’

  Herne moved out to join Coburn, rubbing the stubble on his chin with the barrel of the Colt. It was a tricky one. As far as they knew there was only one of the gunmen left alive, and he might be anywhere. Then there were the two boys. And their mother.

  The decision was made for them by a woman’s voice, floating down from the rooms above them. ‘Mark. Would you tell Luke that I shall be ringing for tea in a short time? I wish to retire early tonight. I feel somewhat fatigued.’

  Muffled, as though it came from behind a closed door, they heard someone call out agreement. In a voice that sounded oddly high-pitched. A voice that Herne recognized as the same one that he’d heard call from the open window.

  It wasn’t necessary for further talk. Stepping as lightly as if he were walking on rows of eggs, Coburn made his way towards the bottom of the stairs, pausing with his left hand on the ornate banister, taking a quick look above him, checking that the landing was clear. Herne joined him, and they started to climb up through the echoing silence, their boot-heels sinking into the thick-pile carpet.