Herne levered the Winchester and raised it in one fluent movement. Not quite at his shoulder, absolutely steady, from that angle impossible to tell if it was aiming at Nate or at the kneeling shape of Taylor just beyond him,
Nate snarled and whirled round at the double sound of voice and gun. His cheeks were drawn in under high cheek bones: his face as white as death.
‘What the—!’
‘You want to find out, don’t you?’ said Herne clearly. ‘About these rustled steers? You want to know?’ His finger remained quite still on the trigger, feeling the smooth pressure of the metal. ‘ ’Sides, I thought you was agin’ hangin’ dead men. That’s if he needs hangin’.’
Nate’s face was paler than before: the patches of red on his cheek bones burned bright with anger. The remainder of the men were walking or riding in slowly, not wanting to tip Herne into action.
When Nate spoke his voice was so quiet that few other than Herne could hear him, but for him there was no mistaking the scarcely bridled fury that lay under it. ‘Someday, someday soon, you’re goin’ to realize you just made the biggest mistake of your damned fool life!’
The last word hissed out into the air like a snake’s tongue and with it Nate wheeled round and went for Taylor. He grabbed at the front of his shirt and hauled him almost to his feet, clubbing round savagely with the barrel of his pistol and whipping him across the side of the face.
There was a sickening crunch of bone and the sound of tearing skin and the gun sight lashed through Taylor’s cheek a second, then a third time.
Taylor cried out and fell backwards but Nate held him fast and brought the gun up a fourth time. He tilted it back in his hand and clubbed down on the other side of Taylor’s face with the butt end, letting his left hand open and Taylor fall away.
The man slumped to the ground and squirmed his arms about his head, drawing his knees up into his stomach.
Nate moved in close and yelled at the house. ‘Get out here now or I’ll finish him off. Now!’
As Herne watched the door opened and a woman stepped out, holding a child of less than two in her arms. Herne recognized her long fair hair, falling loose on both sides of her shoulders. She wore a red and white gingham dress, the color of the checks faded with age and constant use. The child, fair-haired like herself, appeared to be a boy.
She lifted a hand and touched the child’s cheek, gently. There was little fear in her face. Perhaps she genuinely wasn’t afraid; perhaps she had passed fear and left it behind, knowing that only the final acts could happen now. There was little in her stance or expression which showed feeling for the man who lay wounded and beaten on the dirt before her.
‘That all?’
‘Yes.’ Her voice was soft and calm, resigned.
Nate pointed: ‘Jo-Bob, you check.’
The rifle barrel was still poking through the shutter; a few moments later it disappeared and Jo-Bob came out with it in his hand. He pointed it up at the fading sky and pulled the trigger; the hammer clicked and that was the only sound it made.
‘Whole thing’s empty.’
‘An’ there’s no one else in there?’
‘Uh-uh.’ Jo-Bob grinned and came towards Nate. ‘I did good, though, didn’t I? Real good. You said only to wing ’im and that’s what I done. Got the bastard plumb in the arm!’
Nate advanced on the woman. ‘Where’s the other one? There’s two of ’em, ain’t there?’
She looked back at him, her face showing nothing of her feelings. ‘He went out to fetch some strays.’
‘Damned right he did! Circle D strays!’
‘No!’ She was louder now, suddenly more intense. ‘That ain’t true. We got stock enough of our own.’
‘That ain’t the way we see it.’
She stared at him, her hand ruffling the child’s hair. ‘I guess you see what you want to see.’
‘Tracks lead right here.’
‘What tracks?’
‘My men spotted rustlers this mornin’. Followed ’em to this place.’
‘That’s a lie!’
Nate moved closer to her and Herne thought he was going to strike out at her with the pistol. But he swung it round on his finger and let it fall back into his holster. Then he turned his back.
‘Charlie! Get some water from that trough! Wake him up!’
Charlie hurried over and filled the wooden pail and threw the contents over Taylor’s face. While the injured man was coming round, Nate rounded on the woman.
‘Which one is he anyhow? S’posin’ it makes any difference. Share you, do they? One after the other.’ Nate leered into her face. ‘Or do they give it you both at the same time?’
She flailed at him with her free hand and he pulled his head away.
‘You bastard!’ she cried. ‘If I were a man I’d shut your filthy—’
The howl of laughter from Nate drowned the end of her threat. On the ground, Taylor was sitting up, reaching gingerly towards his shattered arm. Herne reckoned both slugs had gone in above the elbow, more or less pulping the arm apart. He couldn’t see that there would be much left under his clothing other than smashed sinew and blood-soaked flesh, that and the remnants of chipped bone.
It wouldn’t be long before the constant heavy loss of blood caused him to faint away once more.
‘Get him up!’
Cole and Henry hurried forward, their long off-white coats flapping about their legs. They pulled him to his feet by his good arm and his fair hair and held him there.
‘Where’s your brother?’
‘He’s ... he’s up yonder, bringin’ in some—’
‘Rustled stock!’ Nate interrupted.
‘No ... no ... some of our cattle went off—’ His voice, weaker with every word, faded to silence.
‘Wake him up!’ ordered Nate and Cole yanked his head back by the hair while Henry reached round and slapped him in the face, striking him where the blood still ran from the gun-whipping he’d received from Nate.
For the first time the woman screamed; maybe it was the first blow she’d seen struck; maybe before she’d been just sheltering the child, not looking.
Taylor’s eyes flickered, shut, stayed half-open.
‘You an’ your brother rode onto Circle D range this mornin’ and ran off a dozen of our stock and brung ’em back here. Now he’s pushed ‘em back into the hills along with whoever else helped you do your damned rustlin’.’
Taylor’s mouth opened and his tongue moved between his lips; there was a harsh gurgling sound and a gout of blood flew from his mouth and landed directly in front of Nate, splashing onto his boots.
‘Bastard!’ Instantly Nate jumped at Taylor, punching him hard in the stomach, bringing up his knee into the man’s groin.
Taylor’s wife screamed again and this time she carried on screaming.
‘Shut that bitch up!’ Nate called over his shoulder. Before any of the others could move, Herne dug his heels into his horse and went past where Nate was standing and jumped down alongside the woman.
He set one hand on her shoulder, the other firmly over her mouth. Beneath his fingers he could feel the movement of her face muscles, the harsh exhalation of breath. Her eyes stared up at him over the top of his hand, blue and frightened, a mixture of fear and hate. Whatever the source of her former calm, it had gone.
The small form of the child was squashed between them.
Herne felt it struggle and kick out. The child was crying now as well.
‘Be quiet!’ Herne said loudly. ‘Be quiet,’ he repeated softly. ‘Stop screaming or else they’ll kill you too. Think of the child and stop screaming.’
The blue eyes blinked.
‘I’m going to move my hand away and I don’t want you to make another sound.’ Herne looked hard at her. ‘Do you understand me?’
She nodded almost imperceptibly and slowly he released her.
‘Try to quieten the boy.’
He stood beside her, blocking her from the others, listening to her talking to the child. Nate had had another pail of water thrown over Taylor, but it didn’t look as if he had much left in him.
‘Admit it! Admit it, you thievin’ bastard! Just so’s we won’t hang the wrong man.’ Nate shrieked laughter into Taylor’s face and turned his head towards Herne.
‘Okay, you wanted to see we got the right one, how’s this.’
He went close to Taylor and put his pistol to the man’s bleeding head, the end of the barrel pressed to his forehead, directly above and between the eyes.
‘You did it, didn’t you? You an’ that brother of yours. You ran off them cattle of ours?’
Taylor closed his eyes. Nate glanced at Henry, who twisted his arm right up between his shoulder blades. Taylor’s head nodded up and down, pushing against Nate’s gun.
‘See that?’ called Nate to Herne. ‘See that? He done it, right enough.’
Nate flicked the gun away and holstered it. He looked around the land that surrounded the ranch and finally found what he wanted. A tree with a single broad branch which came out at a right angle. Up on the ridge, outlined against the darkening sky.
Nate pointed: That’s the one for us. Right up there where she can see it.’ He turned to Henry and Cole. ‘Set him up on a horse. Get him up there double quick. An’ you, Jo-Bob, let that rope of yorn get a taste of doin’ a rope’s work. Why, son, this time we’ll let you slip the knot round his neck yourself. Time you got to hang yourself a man!’
Herne put his hand to Taylor’s wife’s arm and led her towards the doorway. ‘You don’t have to see this. Get in there with the boy. Lock it behind you.’
Inside the doorway she turned. Herne caught a glimpse of a newly-made chair, a long table with plates set out upon it, a small hand loom.
‘Can’t you do anything to stop them?’ she asked.
Herne shook his head.
She looked aside, then shut the door in his face. He waited until he heard the bolts being slid into place and walked back to his horse.
Taylor was already being led away from the ranch. They had tied him roughly into his saddle and he was slumped forward over the animal’s neck. The horse’s brownish coat was already spotted and smeared with blood. Moans of pain were jolted from Taylor’s open mouth with each step the horse took.
Herne followed on behind the strange procession, thankful that he had saved the woman, at least.
At the top of the hill little time was wasted. Rob and Tom untied Taylor and hauled him down from the saddle, while Jo-Bob shinned up the tree, rope in his hand, a smile of sheer happiness on his face.
When the noose was dangling from the branch, Nate slapped at Taylor’s face, trying to bring him round. The best he could achieve was a mixture of cries and glances, between which the man lapsed into semi-consciousness again.
Nate stepped back: ‘For Christ’s sake, get the bastard back up on that animal – before he dies on us!’
Rob and Tom lifted him back into the saddle, Tom cursing as the side of his face was bloodied with the pulped mess that hung down from Taylor’s left shoulder.
Jo-Bob was lying flat along the branch, arms reaching down. He slipped the noose about Taylor’s neck and wriggled forward a few inches until he was in a better position to tighten it. As the knot slid up over Taylor’s Adam’s apple and began to strain against the skin, a dribble of spit fell in an elongated stream from Jo-Bob’s lips and spilled down onto Taylor’s angled face.
‘You got that rope good and tight now?’
‘Yes, sir! Yes, Nate! Tight as a virgin’s arse! Jo-Bob hollered so loud at his own joke that he came close to losing his balance and falling from the branch.
Take it easy there, son. You see that rope stays good an’ steady when it matters most.’
Nate moved his horse round until it was coming level with the animal on which Taylor sat, his body held by both noose and Tom’s and Rob’s hands.
He took off his hat and held it in his right hand, behind the rump of Taylor’s horse. ‘Here he goes, boys, another damned rustler on his way to Hellfire and perdition!’
And he slapped the animal hard.
It shied up and Taylor’s body bucked sideways: then with a whinny it galloped away down the ridge in the direction of home. Taylor was jerked high and wide, his legs apart, right arm reaching up as if in a desperate attempt to claw the noose away from his neck.
There was a constricted, choking sound and a noise close to tearing of flesh and the body danced and bobbed and above it the freckled face of the kid looked down in wonder and delight.
‘See that old bastard go!’
‘Yeah! Look at him dance!’
‘Reg’lar two-step.’
Through all of the shouts Nate’s high, off-key laugh sounded the loudest. Then the jigging movements stopped. Taylor’s body spun slowly round, describing parts of a circle that became smaller and smaller.
The stench of urine and excrement was growing stronger by the minute.
‘I done it!’ called down Jo-Bob. ‘I done it, didn’t I?’
‘You done it,’ said Herne coldly. ‘You done it and I hope you’re right proud!’ He pulled lightly on the rein and let the horse walk away along the ridge.
‘You want I should cut him down?’ called someone.
‘Hell, no! Why take the trouble? Let him stay where he is. Come mornin’, when that missus of his gets out of the house, or when that brother comes home, they’re gonna see what we done. That’ll serve to stop ‘em from running off Circle D stock.’
Charlie approached Nate, glancing up at the late afternoon sky. ‘We goin’ after them steers now, Nate?’
‘No. Too late. ’Sides, we got the best part of what we come for.’ He raised his voice. ‘Get mounted up an’ into line. We’re movin’ out.’
‘Hey, Nate!’ one of the riders called out when they were half a mile along the ridge. ‘What happened to Billy and One-Eye?’
Nate looked over his shoulder, a grin flashed across his pale face. ‘While we was gettin’ Taylor hanged, I sent ’em back down the hill. Told ’em to pick out anythin’ they fancied out of the stock.’ He laughed. ‘Any kind of stock!’
Herne had a sudden vision of the two Nate had mentioned. One-Eye was just as his name suggested, except that the name didn’t prepare you for the way the empty socket had been shredded down his face by the blade of a bayonet and still showed vivid pink. Billy weighed more than a couple of hundred pounds and boasted that he could stun a steer with a single blow of his fist.
They were the ugliest, most brutal of the bunch and Herne knew that Nate had sent them on purpose, knowing what they would do. He realized too that it was in part Nate’s way of getting back at him for the attention he’d paid to the woman.
Without a word, he swung the horse out of line and set off down the hill, riding diagonally between the single trees and clumps of scrub. It passed through his mind that he was risking a bullet in the back but he thought Nate had other, more elaborate plans for him and that this was just the beginning.
On the level ground that led up to the ranch house, Herne slowed. The two men Nate had sent down were-mounted up and ready to move out. They were coming through the corral gate, each leading one of Taylor’s horses.
‘See Nate sent you for some, too.’ Billy shouted to him.
‘Too bad there ain’t no more decent horses to go round,’ called One-Eye.
‘Yeah, but there’s somethin’ inside that’s waitin’ an’ still warm!’
The pair of them guffawed and it was all that Herne could do to stop himself drawing his Colt and dropping them both there and then. But they could, would, wait.
He ignored them and hurried to the door of the ranch house; it was pushed to, but not shut. Herne swung it slowly open. Stepped inside.
The interior of the room was dark; the window shutters were still fastened tight. Only the dim evening light that showed through the door laid a rectangle across the boards, the pieces of furniture. By the far wall, the loom lay smashed, kicked into small pieces. The long table had been turned onto its side.
Taylor’s wife was huddled into the furthest corner. Herne stood where he was, looking at her, letting his eyes become accustomed to the light.
She was sitting with her knees drawn up into her chest, legs spreading outwards. The bottom of the dress had been torn, a single rent from hem to waist. At the top it had been ripped clear of one shoulder. Her white undergarments were gathered into a screwed-up ball and pushed between her legs; they were white no longer.
Herne moved towards her and she flinched, pressing back against the two sides of the wall. He stopped, thought to speak but there weren’t any words that were suitable.
Memory raped his mind: the winter of eighty-two. Just two short, long years ago. Snow thick on the ground. Footsteps deep within it, marking the way black. Laughter of drunken men. Fists hammering at the locked door, finally splintering it wide. Hands seizing the young woman’s body. Tearing her clothes. Pulling. Clawing. Voices raised in drunken excitement. The plundering of a body that had been so lovely; lovely, young and pregnant.
Herne had not seen it, any of it. Only when he had returned home the next day had his wife, half out of her mind, told him what had happened.
And then she had taken her own life.
She had hanged herself in the barn while he slept.
Louise Ann; nineteen.
For an instant Herne saw the tightening of the rope, the constriction of the throat, the awful lolling of the head.
The picture changed to a woman’s frightened, violated body.
Herne closed his eyes and saw Louise’s face: opened them and saw the face of Taylor’s wife. Looking now he could see the swelling on her left cheek, the trail of dried blood that ran from her nostrils down onto her mouth. Her bottom lip was cut at the corner. Her eyes looked at him, the fear fading from them and a sense of futility replacing it. Futility and resignation.
Herne looked away.
‘The child ... where is he?’
Her eyes flickered, her head moved a little to one side. When her mouth moved no words were spoken. She didn’t know.
Herne began to search the room. He found the child curled up underneath the base of the rocking chair, asleep. Gently he got down onto his knees and lifted the boy out, holding him in his arms and smoothing a patch of dirt from his face.
Neither of the children Louise had carried for him had lived.
He took the child across the room and handed it down to its mother. At first she made no attempt to take it, but when he insisted, she reached out for it and then hugged it to her.
The child began to cry.
There was still nothing that Herne could bring himself to say: nothing that he could do. He walked back over to the door and turned towards Taylor’s wife a last time.
Even in the darkness he could see her face above the child’s head; the eyes that were unable to cry; the accusation that his own sense of guilt made him read in their emptiness.
He shut the door behind him and stalked across the ground to his horse, swinging heavily up into the saddle. Above him, on the hill, the darkness had claimed Taylor’s body where it hung from the branch of the tree.