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, there 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.
‘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.