Alone with the two horses, higher up the side of the valley, Becky had waited for Jed to return. Every now and again she looked across through the snow flurries at Mount Abora, hanging on the edge of the mountain like a flying buttress on a cathedral wall. Wondering where Jed was and what he was doing.
She found it hard to consider the possibility - the probability - that the house beyond the lake was the home of the last two members of that snowbound train. The last two men who’d done that thing to her mother. And then killed her. She thought for a moment about what it was they’d actually done. Becky was old enough, and had lived on a homestead long enough, to have a fair idea of the basic facts of life. But she found it almost impossible to reconcile the idea of a stallion or a bull, servicing their mates, with the fading memory of her parents. And the idea of vengeance for something that had happened nearly a year ago still seemed strange.
Yet the idea of the killing was oddly exciting. She had always been frightened of Jedediah Herne, seeing him as a mystic figure. A man whose name had once been on everyone’s lips and whose guns once lay wrapped in oiled cloths in the locked drawers of a bureau. Now she rode alongside him, and helped him. And watched him kill.
Becky was conscious of a peculiar fluttering at the pit of her stomach, and she pressed her hand through the layers of warming cloth. Squeezing her firm young thighs together.
Smoke from the small fire drifted around her and she coughed, looking up at the heavy sky, wondering what she should do if it started to snow and it made the fire smoke even more. Jed hadn’t told her.
Then she heard shooting. Muffled and dim as distant drums, but shooting. She’d heard enough in the last few months to never ever mistake it again for anything else. She stood up and ran to the edge of the bluff, shading her hand against the whiteness, staring towards the house. It seemed still and quiet, and, in fact, she could have sworn that the noise of the gunfire had come from the nearer side of the lake.
How many shots had there been? Becky tried to remember, still listening for a clue as to what might be happening, the warmth in her stomach turning to a chill of bitter fear. It had sounded like three or four, but close together, as though there had been an ambush. And after that, silence. So if there had been an ambush then it had been successful.
‘Coburn!’ she breathed.
The memory of that lean hank of wind-washed bone with his sunken red eyes and his silky white hair had stayed with her ever since she first saw him, clouding her waking hours and haunting her nights. When she woke sweating, fingernails dug into her palms from the nightmare, it was Isaiah Coburn who peopled her dark world.
Only the previous night she had been shaken awake by Jed, shocked by the cold of the night air, eyes staring at him as though she had never seen him before. He told her she’d been starting to cry out. She hadn’t told him why. The nightmare was too present to talk it away.
There’d been a vast, rambling mansion, like ones she’d seen in engravings in books, with long dusty corridors, lined with dark oil paintings. She’d been in a white dress, speckled with the webs of spiders, and she’d been running. Running as if her life depended on it, along corners, past guttering lamps. Then she’d been at the top of a flight of wide stairs, with moldering banisters along a landing. She’d paused and had looked down over the balustrade, and had seen the thing that pursued her.
It was tall, wrapped in a long gown, with a hood that covered its face, drowning the features in a pool of black shadow. Becky remembered trying to flee, but her feet wouldn’t function properly, and she had struggled on as though she was trapped in a river of molasses, while the creature glided easily up the stairs after her.
By turning her head to one side she was able to watch it between the banisters, its face still hidden. Her heel had caught in a loop of the rotting carpet and she had fallen full-length, in a dreadful slow-motion flailing, ending up with her face pressed close to the bars of the staircase, only inches away from her pursuer.
Slowly, like a dry leaf caught over a campfire, it moved towards her. Its hand, with long yellow fingernails, went to the front of the hood, and in a sudden sharp movement, tugged it off. The memory, even in the cold gray light of the fall afternoon, made Becky draw her breath.
A face stripped of solid flesh, just covered in white parchment skin. The eyes set in hollows of fire, blazing at her with a blind hatred. The mouth a scar torn in the face, the teeth stained fangs of jagged bone. Hollow caverns of nostrils, enveloping her with the heavy odor of a charnel-house.
And the hair!
Spinning and tumbling around that midnight face like a halo of silver wire, moving with a strange life of its own.
Becky shuddered. The face had been that of Whitey Coburn. Once Jed’s closest friend, now his sworn enemy.
Minutes passed and there was still no sound from deeper in the valley forest. No more shots. No shouts. A vast silence, shrouded by the snow that was now falling with real purpose, spitting on the sticks of the fire, and coating her clothes in a dappled covering.
For the first time, the young girl tried to imagine what would happen to her if Jed never returned. It had always been a possibility. She knew that, though he had never ever mentioned it to her. She somehow felt that he thought that to admit the chance of death was in some way to increase the chances of it happening.
Perhaps she could find a position teaching school in some growing border township. Or maybe a job in a saloon. The idea of wearing those silk dresses and flouncy underskirts, net stockings and red garters, excited her, and she almost forgot what such a prospect might really mean.
The wind was rising, and it began to howl among the tops of the trees, showering snow in her face, bringing her back to the reality of her present situation, to the terror of being alone among the high Sierras; the only man who’d ever seemed to care for her gone. Vanished. Lost somewhere in the swirling blizzard in the valley.
There was a gun in the saddle-bags on her mare. A little pocket derringer. Becky decided that if nobody came in two or three minutes, then she’d have to go and look for Jed. The idea frightened her.
But when those minutes had slipped emptily by, the fear didn’t stop her.
The fire was gone, already buried under an inch of snow. Becky was used to snow, remembering the deep falls that closed them in back at Tucson, but she’d never come across the speed and violence of this sort of blizzard. She could hear the horses snickering, and she stumbled towards them, hands stretched out against the skimming flakes of snow.
She guessed she was nearby where they’d tethered them, when something caught her hands, pulling her forwards so that she lost her balance and nearly fell. The girl opened her mouth to scream in terror at her unseen attacker when a hand went across her mouth, clamping the cry dead in her throat.
‘Hold still, little girl.’ The voice was soft. The words clear in her ears despite the storm.
The hands tugged her into the lee of the forest, where the snow was less violent, and she was able to wriggle her head round and see who’d caught her. At that moment he reached up and tugged his hat loose, revealing his face.
Becky looked in disbelief.
And fainted.
It was the face of her nightmare. Dead-white face, with glowing coals set in the eye-sockets, above cheeks chiseled from ivory, and teeth bared in a sinister smile. Topped by the mane of white hair, floating about the broad shoulders like a spectral veil.
Whitey Coburn.
‘I was only going to tell you Jed was close behind me and for you not to take fright. Didn’t do too well at that, I guess.’
Coburn laughed, and Becky huddled deeper in her clothes, trying not to show the fear she still felt for the albino. As soon as Jed had appeared, Whitey had handed her over to him, bundled up in his arms like a bag of dirty laundry. She had blushed to the roots of her hair with shame at the way Coburn treated her like a little girl, and she now sat silent while the two men talked.
Although the earth was hard as stone, Herne and Whitey had succeeded in gouging out enough for a primitive wickiup, along similar lines to the one used by the Apaches. Setting the shelter against the bole of the largest tree and tethering the horses by it. Coburn’s own stallion was still down near the lake, in a small cave that they’d found. There was little point in trying to move in the present weather conditions, and they had decided to stay put until the next day.
The hut, of stone and branches, was surprisingly snug, and Becky actually felt warm for the first time in days. The fire blazed away in the entrance, safely shielded from any prying eyes across the valley. Not that anyone would be fool enough to be out in the blizzard. Coburn had brought up more jerky and their food supply, unappetizing though it was, was now ample for the next few days.
‘Guess the boys down there won’t be needing any of this,’ was the albino’s only comment.
Jed had told the girl the story of what had happened, omitting nothing. Letting her know just what the position was between Coburn and himself.
‘Whitey’s got his job to do, same as I have. And you to help me. I see that, and I don’t hold it against him. Time’ll come, if’n we both get through this, when he and me are going to have to face up to it, and there’s goin’ to be but one of us rides on.’
Coburn nodded, the firelight catching his eyes, making them even redder. ‘That’s right, Rebecca. Me and Jedediah both play the same games, and we play the same sort of rules. When we’re for each other, then there’s nothing we wouldn’t do for each other. When we’re out huntin’, like I’m after him, then there isn’t nothin’ at all we wouldn’t do against each other. You see that?’
She nodded. ‘Yes. I think so, Mister Coburn. But why are you going to help him now?’
‘Well. That’s a real fair question. I’m hired out to take Jed in. And that’s still what I aim to do. But he’s got him a plateful of trouble with these Stanwycks, and when I took on this job I didn’t rightly know what lay back of it. Now I know, and it makes me sick to my guts that I’m on the wrong side. So I aim to help old Jed out, and try and get us a couple of brothers. That’ll finish his contract, if that’s what you like to call it. And then he and me’ll carry on our own private argument.’
‘You can’t just forget what this Senator Nolan’s paying you and help us and then all ride away friends ?’
‘No, little lady. That’s not the way it goes, is it, Jed?’
Herne looked up. ‘No. That’s right, Whitey.’
Coburn leaned nearer to Becky who steeled herself not to recoil from him. It almost seemed as though he was aware of that and he smiled at her.
‘Things like this are for menfolk, Rebecca, and me and Jed wouldn’t rightly expect a woman to understand that.’
She sniffed. She understood a lot more than they might think. Content with this thought, Becky prepared to wrap herself in a couple of blankets and get to sleep. The wind seemed to be dropping and she guessed that the men might want to make a good early start in the morning. The girl now saw herself with the responsibilities of having two men to look after.
‘Bed down, Becky. Whitey and me’ll be doing some talking for a while yet. Shouldn’t concern you.’
‘Good night, Mister Coburn.’
‘Call me “Whitey”, Miss Rebecca. The world’s divided into those that I’d kill to hear call me that, and those that I really like to use the name. And it’s not too equal a division, neither.’
‘All right, Whitey, and you must call me “Becky”, like Jed does. Now we’re friends. Good night.’
‘Good night, Becky.’
Herne kissed her gently on the cheek. With the protection of the shelter, it was no longer necessary to cover up one’s head and face against the cold, and she looked unbelievably young and vulnerable lying there, eyes closed as his lips brushed her cheek.
‘Night, Jed.’
‘Sleep tight, Becky. Wake bright.’
She closed her eyes, intending to lie there and listen in to the men talking, trying to learn a little more about life. And a little more about Jed Herne.
Although it was only a little past seven at night, she was asleep within a couple of minutes.
‘Spunky little bitch,’ said Coburn, expertly making a roll-up in one hand, running his pale tongue along the edge of the paper to seal it.
‘Yeah. She’s seen a lot of death. Worries me, Whitey. I tell you that. It’s not right a girl just turned fifteen should be faced with all this.’
‘Not right neither a girl like her should have her Ma screwed and then butchered by a gang of sons of bitches. Nor have her Pa gunned down in the back in the puke and sawdust of a bar.’
Jed had filled his friend in with what had been happening since March, and Coburn had listened quietly, occasionally nodding his head. A couple of times asking a question.
‘Not surprised you’re finding the punks comin’ out the woodwork once they hear Herne the Hunter’s back on the road spitting death around. We both been around too long for that. Each one wanting to be the kid who laid Whitey Coburn or Jed Herne up there in Boot Hill. I’m tired of it, I tell you that. I’m about ready to quit and get a spread like you did.’
‘How come you never came visitin’ me and Louise up there? I was kind of hurt.’
‘Jed...’ Coburn passed him the cigarette, thin as a straw, and paused for a moment while he took a draw and handed it back. ‘From what I hear that young lady married you and saved you from dyin’ in the dust. You was goin’ too long, and takin’ too many chances. I reckon you’d sort of outlived your life. Isn’t that right?’
Herne nodded, poking the fire with the toe of his boot. ‘Maybe. You see so many good men gunned down that you begin to wonder why not you as well. And that’s just the first step along a road. Once you lose faith in your own skill, then you’re finished. That was when Louise came along and showed me how to live different.’
‘That’s it. That’s why I didn’t come. I was, and still am, a gunman. I never went away like you. Maybe I never will. But if I’d ridden by, some poor bastard’s blood all over my hands, you reckon your little lady’d have made me welcome? No. She’d have given me water for my horse and a bite to eat for myself, and she’d only have been happy when my ass vanished round the next bend in the trail. Then she’d have been able to sit back and know that you hadn’t taken a hankerin’ to go and follow me.’
‘Guess you’re right, Whitey. Louise could never take to violence. That’s why it was so much worse for her ... what happened that day ... was so bad ...you know?’
There was a long silence, broken by Coburn putting a few more sticks on the fire as it sank low,
‘Jed? When I caught young Becky, and she got a touch of the vapors, first thing she said, before you even turned up out the snow like a white Wendigo, she told me that she was on her way to come and help you. Seems she’s got a little derringer in her saddle. On her way to tackle Whitey Coburn and his gang of desperadoes. And the whole Stanwyck army if need be.’
Herne laughed quietly, the noise penetrating to the girl’s dreams, making her stir, and roll over, still locked fast in sleep.
‘She’s got the guts of her Ma. Her Pa was different. There was something rotten about Bill Yates. I’d wondered about it, but he wasn’t a bad neighbor, and he kept it buried. Now and again it’d sort of spark through. On top he wasn’t bad, but there was nothing to back it up.’
Coburn chuckled. ‘Puts me in mind of that vigilante marshal in Durango. Back in the early seventies. Posted us both out of town, with his white affidavits.’
Herne smiled too at one of the host of shared memories. ‘Thought those damned affidavits were some kind of magic potion to scare us away.’
‘Posted the whole damned town. Every damned door and wall. “Whereby by the decision of the good and upright citizens of Durango the below-named are declared hereby posted on this white affidavit as being not welcome. Isaiah Coburn and Jedediah Herne. And if I catch them in town I shall crap my damned britches!” Yeah!’
‘Remember his face when we rode in that morning, and took him for a walk with us? Your rope round his neck, and made him take down every one of his posters with his bare hands.’
‘Then we got that Chinee cook out the saloon and got him to boil them all down into a kind of thick sludge. Got a table from the saloon there and sat the poor son of a bitch marshal down in the middle of his own main street in front of those fine brave vigilantes and helped him eat the whole shooting-match.’
Both of them laughed at the memory, until Herne’s face hardened. ‘That was an easy one, Whitey. What about that Mount Abora place?’
For the next hour and more they talked about the target, pooling what little information they had. Herne summed it up.
‘Twelve men. Some of them double as servants and guns. There’s two who are just servants. All the way from London, England, they say. Butler and a housekeeper. The mother, who they reckon eats horseshoes and spits out the nails. And the two boys.’
Coburn nodded. ‘That’s what I hear. That’s the bad news, but the good news is that I reckon not many of their men are worth a candle in a hurricane. Mostly young punks like we took down the valley this afternoon. They shouldn’t be the real problem. No, that’s gettin’ in the place. Like a fortress, they say.’
Gradually, as they sketched in the plans of the house, a sort of a possibility appeared. The trouble was there were so many blank areas in their map, where they had no idea what they’d find in there. But that would come later.
‘So that’ll be it,’ said Whitey, leaning back, and stretching his boots out to the fire which was now smoldering down to a few glowing cinders.
‘Yeah. Let’s get us some sleep. I’m going out for a leak.’
Herne climbed stiffly across the small shelter, pulling up his coat collar as he went outside, but the snow had miraculously stopped. The night was as cold as charity, but clear and sharp. The stars points of glittering light. A sliver of moon hung low down over the hills.
When he came back, still buttoning up his trousers, Coburn lay out by the fire, half asleep.
Pulling a blanket from the roll, Jed threw it to his old friend. ‘Get turned in, Whitey.’
‘Jed?’
‘Yes?’
“The girl?’
‘What about her?’
‘You heard what the kids said. Nolan’s got a contract out on her too. But not with me. As long as Nolan’s alive then it’s not just you he’s after. You’ve got to get her somewheres well away from his arm. And it’s a mighty long arm.’
‘I been doin’ me some thinkin’ along just those lines Whitey. I heard there’s some good places out in Europe. A place called Berkshire near London, England. Damn pricey, but I reckon it might be worth it. Keep her away a year or so, until things blow over. Or... ’
The options he left dangling involved the both of them too closely for either of them to want to discuss them. Within a day either or both of them might be dead. Lying under the snow like the five young men only a half mile or so from where they camped. And even if they survived against the Stanwycks, then what?
‘Good night, Whitey.’
‘Night, Jed. Good to be out on the trail again with you. Real good.’
There was a silence for a few moments, then Herne sat up.
‘What in the name of God’s that smell? Someone set fire to your feet?’
Coburn also sat up, moving a little further from the dying fire. In the pale light, they both saw the wisps of smoke curling up from the soles of his boots where he’d left them too near the ashes.
‘Damned cold tonight.’
‘That smell, put you in mind of anything, Jed? That and a fire?’
‘Not of anything I care to recall. Though we could do with that sort of heat right now.’
‘Went back to that part of Kansas, near where Lawrence used to be. Brought it all back. Must be near on twenty years ago we took that place apart.’
Jed counted on his fingers. ‘Nineteen. We were a fine couple of soldiers back then. Both wet behind the ears. Full of fire, and reckonin’ that old W. G. Quantrill was the finest damn officer anyone could have.’
‘Cole and the Youngers. Frank and Jesse. Not many of us left above ground now that rode with Quantrill in them hot summer days.’
‘I feel ashamed to think back on some of the things I done back in them days. And Lawrence was one of the worst.’
Whitey lay back again, wrapping himself in the blanket, the mane of silver spread out around him like the hair of a drowned man. ‘Close to two hundred men, women and children we slaughtered that August day. Burned the town down to ashes. They were bad days in the War, Jed. Worst in Kansas and Missouri than anywhere else. Brother killing brother, while the father waited to kill whoever lived.’
The smell of burning leather faded from the shelter, and with it the scent of the memories of their fighting days in the Civil War.
Herne felt himself slipping into sleep when Coburn interrupted him again.
‘Jed?’
‘What is it, Whitey? We got to be up early tomorrow, you know.’
“Yeah. But I was just thinkin’. Why the Hell is it that we old men keep thinkin’ so much about the past?’
Herne lay silent for a while before replying. ‘I guess it’s because we don’t have a lot of future.’