Kevin pulled him away, his father’s scalp a bloodied mess of hair and torn skin, and the two of them ran to the barn and took horses.
Less than a week later they met up with Lon. That was the only name he acknowledged, the only name he went by. Whenever either of the cousins asked him about his folks or where he came from, Lon would give them a warning look that shut them up till the next time their curiosity threatened to overcome them.
Lon was a couple of years older and had a Colt Frontier that he claimed to have taken single-handed from a deputy sheriff in north Kansas. Neither Kevin nor Danny said anything to doubt it
It was Lon who said they should ride down into the Indian Territories. Rustling down there was easy, he assured them. There wasn’t no law to speak of. They could cut out steers just as they liked.
To Kevin and Danny it had sounded good. Better than watching year after year of dying, fading crops and thinning, emaciated milk cows. Better than chewing on the sleeve of your coat to bite back the overwhelming hunger.
Now, with Danny astride the rump of Kevin’s horse, his saddle heavy on his own back, bumping against it as they rode, neither of them were so sure. Somewhere behind them, someone was coming after them and no matter how much Lon might curse and tell them if the no-good bastard was unlucky enough to catch up with them he’d earn a slug in his belly, they were scared.
Suddenly there was a movement through the line of trees to the left and a mounted man broke cover less than twenty yards ahead.
‘Hold it there!’
Kevin nearly lost the reins, trying to haul them in. Lon cursed and swerved his horse to one side. The man had a hat low over his face and an Indian blanket draped from his right shoulder. A sawn-off shotgun was steady in his right hand, angled over the neck of the dapple gray he was riding.
‘Jesus!’
Danny let go his grip on the saddle and it fell awkwardly behind him. Lon swung his horse sideways, trying to maneuver himself so that he could make a move for his pistol without being seen.
Kevin stared, open-mouthed, seeing the barrels of the shotgun discharging into him, blasting him apart.
‘You’ll be dead, boy! Do it and you’ll be dead.’
Lon turned his head angrily, but he kept his hand where it lay, on the butt of the gun, not pulling it clear. Hart ignored the other two and edged his horse closer. The gray threw back her head and let out a snicker. Lon eased the gun a couple of inches.
‘I mean it.’
Kevin and Danny were staring at him, half wanting him to go through with the draw, half hoping that he wouldn’t. Once bullets began to fly they could see themselves ending up dead.
‘Get down and keep your right hand high all the way.’
Lon scowled, not wanting to lose face in front of the others. But the Remington was awful close, too close.
‘Now lift it out with your left hand, finger and thumb.’
Lon did as he was told, picking the gun from the holster and holding it out in front of his body,
‘Toss it over here.’
Lon scowled again, hesitated, threw the pistol through a looping curve so that it bounced on the end of the barrel and came to rest on its side between himself and Hart.
‘Now back off, boy,’
Lon went back a couple of paces and Hart moved towards the gun. As he stooped to scoop it up, Lon charged, head down shoulders thrust forward, coming like a young bull. He was fast -so fast that Kevin and Danny thought he might make it.
Hart arched his body backwards and swung the shotgun round on its trigger guard. His right arm went up and as Lon came in hard underneath its swing, he brought the stock of the weapon down into the side of his head. The heavy wood smashed against Lon’s cheekbone, splintering it beneath the skin. The skin itself broke back like a flower peeling into bloom. Blood ran down his face and on to his neck. He hit the ground with a thump and rolled over; tried to push himself back to his feet and failed, falling away again.
Hart grabbed him by the front of his shirt and hauled him to his feet. He shook him like an angry dog shakes a rabbit.
‘I knew it. I knew you weren’t goin’ to listen to reason without I gave you a good beating.’
Lon winced as the pain from the side of his face shot through him. He was breathing heavily, open-mouthed, blood was still trickling from the torn skin.
‘You ain’t…you ain’t…tellin’ me nothin’…who you think…you are…ain’t no law…anythin’...’
Hart looked at the boy with a hint of despair in his eyes; still holding him with his left hand he hit him with his right, the fist bunched hard. Lon’s head jerked back and his eyes closed fast, arms dropping away at either side. Hart let him go and he toppled down in a mess of arms and legs, near shapeless.
Hart turned to the other two.
‘How many head you changed brands on round here T
‘N...’ Kevin began, then floundered.
‘None.’ Blurted Danny. ‘We was just fixin’ that calf when someone happened along. We lit out. That was all.’
His dark eyes spoke the truth of what he’d said.
‘Land either side of Turkey Creek belongs to Fredericks. That makes it my responsibility. I catch sight of any of you boys again I’m not going to be usin’ the butt end of this.’ He lifted up the shotgun and patted its twin barrels with his other hand. ‘You sure you understand that?’
‘Yes...’
‘We got it. Honest, mister. We won’t even stay round these parts. We’ll...’
Hart waved him silent. ‘Okay. When he wakes up, you see he understand the same. An’ if he’s too stubborn to see sense, you pair keep movin’, you understand me? Get down as far as Fort Reno, you might find some sort of work, stables or somethin’.’
Danny nodded his head; Kevin gulped and mumbled thanks. On the ground, Lon still hadn’t budged. Hart went over to his horse and mounted up, sliding the shotgun down into its special saddle holster. He gave the boys a final warning glance then turned the gray towards the east.
Moving ahead of him, in his mind’s eye, was the slender figure of a fourteen year old sitting astride an old plough horse, blue eyes still bright and not yet faded by twenty years of living.
Chapter Ten
‘While you were tanning a few fool kids, fifty head of cattle were being run off north of here. You understand what I’m saying? Fifty head! While you were wasting your time over one miserable calf.’
The words resonated round the room. Fredericks stood upright, his breath coming noisily through his nostrils, cheeks florid and lips white with anger.
His fist struck the table. ‘You understand me?’
Hart stared back at him unflinching: ‘Sure I understand you.’
‘Then what the hell you got to say about it?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Nothing! What kind of answer is that? Fifty head of cattle rustled and you got nothing to say about it.’
‘Talkin’ won’t get ’em back.’
Fredericks rubbed the knuckles of his right hand inside his left. ‘Oh, you do intend to get them back?’
‘What do you think?’
‘I was beginning to wonder. I thought perhaps you weren’t so hot at tackling grown men as you like to make out.’
Hart’s eyes narrowed and he flexed the fingers of his right hand. Fredericks saw the movement and wondered if he had gone too far. His own hand moved towards his coat pocket where he kept the derringer.
‘T.C. reckoned he knew which way they was headed, didn’t he?’
Fredericks released a pent-up breath, stilled his hand. ‘Yes.’
The map was rolled up in the centre of the table; Fredericks pulled it out, holding down one corner while Hart kept the other side from flapping back.
‘He said they drove them east, this trail along here.’
Fredericks traced a path with his finger, moving away from Turkey Creek across the Cherokee Outlet, over in the direction of Stillwater. A range of hills pushed up bet
ween.
Hart looked at the map, not so much at what Fredericks was showing him, but at a series of dotted red lines that had been carefully drawn in.
‘What are these?’
‘What?’ Fredericks leaned back, looking across at Hart.
The lines went east and south, encircling a wide area of the Unassigned Lands and the Outlet, reaching as far over as area occupied by the Pawnees.
‘They must be there for somethin’. You wasn’t just doodlin’ when you put those little bits of red ink round that land.’
Fredericks went round the table, pulling at the bottom of his coat, the cuff of his sleeve. ‘There’s room for a man to carve out for himself one of the biggest spreads in the whole frontier. By the time this territory gets statehood, whoever that is is going to be in a pretty powerful position.’
Hart looked at him with a trace of amusement. ‘And that someone’s going to be you?’
‘Why not?’ Fredericks moved again, away from the table and towards the window. He paused for a moment and leaned against the glass, peering down. When he turned away his breath had left a misted smear on the pane.
‘It needs a man of vision to get this territory on its feet. Someone to get hold of it by the scruff of the neck and shake it into shape.’ Fredericks’ face was flushed with excitement; his voice loud and growing louder. Both hands were clasped tightly before him.
‘We need to impress law and order on it. Stamp down hard.’
‘Clear the Indians out?’ asked Hart, interrupting.
Fredericks coughed, adjusted his tie. ‘I didn’t say that.’
‘Settlers, then? Sodbusters? Small ranchers?’
Fredericks shrugged, irritated.
‘Someone’s got to move out so that you can, what was it? Carve out one of the biggest spreads on the frontier?’
‘There’s hundreds of miles of open range...’
‘An’ these damned settlers dropped all over it – not to mention the Indians.’
Fredericks went back to the table and began to roll up the map; Hart jabbed a finger down and kept it where it was. Around Stillwater.
‘How were you plannin’ to get this land? Just take it?’
‘It’s free land.’
Fredericks’ eyes, beginning to turn watery, a skein of dull yellow showing below one pupil.
‘And the people already on it?’
‘Why does it matter?’
‘Because it does.’
Fredericks held his breath then exhaled slowly: it carried the smell of whisky strongly.
They’ll be made an offer. A fair one.’
Hart let his finger slip off the edge of the map and it sprang back together and rolled a little.
‘Will be or have been already?’
‘I don’t see...’
Hart’s hand was on Fredericks’ arm before he realized what was happening; the grip wasn’t strong, almost gentle; the tone of his voice was soft. Still there was no mistaking the menace in Hart’s manner. Fredericks didn’t understand why Hart was so interested, why he was interested at all. But he didn’t like the way things were going. Not for the first time he wondered at the wisdom of taking Hart on as regulator. If it would be justified by the uses he was putting it to.
‘You’ve already made an offer.’ It was no longer a question.
‘Yes.’
‘How long ago?’
‘Not long. Weeks.’
Hart released Fredericks’ arm and automatically Fredericks brushed his hand down the sleeve.
‘You satisfied now?’
Hart gave a wry smile and backed away from the table. ‘I’ll likely be away a couple of days. Maybe three.’
At the door, he turned his head. ‘Those new guns you gave to them Cheyenne who came with the agent. Sign of good faith, I suppose you’d call it. You wouldn’t have been handing them out in greater numbers than that, would you?’
For a second, Fredericks hesitated, taken aback. Then he did his favorite trick of thumping the table with his fist. ‘That’s a damn fool question! Do you think I’d run the risk of letting large numbers of guns get into the hands of mindless savages like that? What sort of fool d’you take me for?’
Hart smiled and turned away. He answered the question to the wrong side of the door. ‘A clever one,’ he said. ‘A clever one.’
The grass became shorter, tougher; patches of reddish earth poked through. The first oaks tracked along the creek flowing like silver from the north-east. Hart pulled his gloved hands back on the reins. A black bird crawked its way from their midst with a glint of light-colored beak as it passed across the dipping sun,
The cattle were grazing on the far side of the slope, straggling out into a thinning line to the north. Around fifty head. At the creek edge a group of half a dozen, detached from the rest, drank lazily. Hart let the gray move forward a few yards and one steer lifted up its head from the water and turned as if to face him, long horns cleaving the cold air.
Hart steadied the mare; the steer went back to its drinking.
There was no one apparently watching over the cattle. Hart didn’t like that; he didn’t understand it. He touched his spurs to the gray’s flanks and started to move carefully forward, edging down in the direction of the creek.
When they reached the water, the horse dipped its head to drink and Hart loosed his grip on the reins. The cattle were maybe a hundred and fifty yards away. Stars glimmered on the ridges of running water as their movements caught the sun.
‘C’mon, Clay.’
The words were so soft that at first the mare didn’t seem to have heard them. When she shook her head, drops of moisture fell away.
‘C’mon.’
Ten yards past the creek, a sudden gust of wind shifted Hart’s Stetson on his head. As he turned his face away from the wind he realized why no one was watching the cattle – they were watching him instead.
Two men close together, mounted, on the hill from which he had first seen the rustled steers. A third man further round, closer to the trees.
Hart stopped his horse, tongue pushing his upper lip. He could make a break for it – Clay would likely be able to outrun any of their mounts with ease. He could turn and wade into them, drop one, maybe two before much shooting got underway.
First one, then a second and a third of the men slipped their rifles from beside their saddles.
‘You ain’t plannin’ on stealing them cows, are you?’
At first he didn’t recognize the voice, not really until she rode out from between two oaks and even then he had the wild idea that it was Fredericks’ wife involved in some absurd plan against her husband. But nothing about them was the same – and when she spoke a second time, Hart knew full well who she was.
‘ ’Cause if you are we just might have to take you up the hill an’ let you swing in the wind a little.’
Belle Starr was wearing dark green pants cut from velvet and a light green shirt that might have been silk. Over that she wore a wool vest without sleeves and a gun belt across her breasts. She had on shiny boots and a brown hat with a single feather sticking from the band. As usual Belle rode side-saddle, a riding crop hanging from her wrist.
Her face was strong, handsome rather than beautiful.
When she opened her mouth her teeth showed stained and uneven.
‘That was what you did for them two you picked off from the gang, wasn’t it. One of ’em no more than a fool kid. You flashed your deputy badge an’ that Colt of yours an’ run ’em off to Fort Smith so’s that bastard Parker could add two more to his list.’ She spat at the ground. ‘Murderous bastard!’
Hart sighed. ‘Belle, I didn’t like that any more’n you did.’
‘Maybe. You did it, though, didn’t you?’
‘Yeah, an’ I throwed in my badge after.’
Belle snorted: ‘After! Well, Jesus Christ, I sure hope them two poor strangled bastards appreciated the sacrifice you made.’
She let her horse come right up
to Clay, looking into Hart’s face with a mixture of pride and contempt and something that was less easy to define.
‘Venus!’
She reined in the mare when the two animals were head to head. Hart was close enough to be able to reach out and touch her. Close enough to smell her body.
‘It was you let me take ’em.’
‘I knew you’d throw that in my face sometime.’ She glared at him, the riding crop slapping against the polished leather of her boot. ‘You think I didn’t recall that when I heard how they went – how long it took that kid to die?’
Her eyes burned into him.
‘And now?’ he asked.
She pulled away a little. ‘You heard what I said. I want to know what you’re doin’ sniffin’ round these cattle.’
‘I ain’t about to change their brands, that’s for sure.’
‘Meanin’?’
Hart pulled his horse away, wheeling it round in a tight circle. One of the men on the hill let his mount ride down some twenty yards, bringing his rifle close to his shoulder.
‘Don’t waste times playin’ games with me, Belle. These steers are here ’cause you rustled ’em.’
‘And you?’ She came towards him again, the outline of her breasts clear against her shirt, nipples hard and cold.
‘I’m workin’ for Fredericks.’
The side of her mouth twitched sharply, making her face suddenly ugly. He could smell her body again: flesh that he had never touched.
‘Regulator?’
Hart nodded, glancing beyond her at the three men on the hill – a second had moved now, coming round as if to circle the valley.
‘I asked you this once before...’ Belle Starr’s voice was softer 3 she moved a hand till it touched, for a second, his leg.’... you aimin’ to do anythin’ ‘bout you an’ me?’
Hart’s eyes held hers for several moments. He wanted her: there, then; in the cold; in the trees.
‘No, Belle,’ he said.
She raised her riding crop fast and brought it slashing down against his right arm; pain bit through him and he swayed sideways in the saddle. She used the crop again, but this time on the black mare. The instant she had cleared him, two rifle shots ploughed the ground close by the legs of Hart’s horse.
Hart the Regulator 2 Page 9
