The thin strand of light that filtered through the gap between the heavy curtains slanted at an angle across the bed. Over the patchwork cover, the yellow blanket, the skin of Herne’s muscular forearm, the bristle of his cheek, his left eye-lid.
His eye opened: blinked. Herne’s left hand reached towards it, the end of his finger probing the sleep from its corner. He rolled slowly onto his back and did the same for the other eye.
Beside him, where he had not lain, the mattress was cold.
Outside the room everything was quiet.
Herne pushed back the bedding and swung his feet round and down to the floor. That was cold, too. He stood up and pulled one of the curtains aside. The sun didn’t appear to have risen above the horizon, yet the sky had started to lighten to the east.
He let the curtain fall back and poured cold water from the jug on the floor into a chipped bowl. He washed face and hands, between his legs and under his arms as quickly as possible, wiping himself dry on one of the blankets. He pulled on his long Johns, pushing his big toe through the same damned hole and making it bigger than ever. He cursed and made a sour face and reached for his two pairs of socks. The pants he wore were dark brown wool, his shirt and vest woolen also, both faded red. He slipped on a tight leather waistcoat and did up two of the buttons.
His gun belt was hanging from the bedpost with the butt of the Colt close to where his right hand had lain. He reached across for it, buckling it fast and then tying the leather thong to his leg. He lifted the gun from its holster and balanced it in his hand, spinning it round on his index finger a few times, whirling the chamber against the palm of his left hand and enjoying the click of the action.
He dropped the Colt down into the holster again and looped the narrow piece of leather over the hammer.
Herne moved the chair away from the door, where he had set it before going to sleep, jammed up under the handle. He opened the door and stepped out onto the landing. Whoever was occupying the other three rooms didn’t appear to be stirring. Downstairs there wasn’t any sign of life either. The small dining room was laid up for breakfast but food was obviously going to be some time.
Herne went out into the street.
The sun had made its first movement up the side of the sky. The east burned with a dull orange glow and high around that there was a spreading whiteness. The air was chilled and the wind whipped it across the main street, cutting into Herne’s face as he walked.
Down the street dogs were barking and there were lights to be seen behind a number of upstairs windows. Somewhere a cock crowed. Herne stepped off the boardwalk and set off for the livery stable. A hundred yards off, he stopped. Something beyond it had caught his attention. At the furthest edge of town, raised up over the last single storey buildings.
Something that was hanging from the lowest of the windmill’s sails.
Herne walked on more quickly, eyes fixed on the object; he was yet some way off when he recognized what it was.
What, not who.
Though he could guess that.
The rope had been run through the space between sail frame and sail proper and there it had been knotted fast. There was only a short section between knot and knot: between sail and neck. Sandy’s body hung down, arms at its sides, both hands curved inwards with palms together and fingers bent. Herne guessed that the body had been there long enough for it to stiffen; the only way anyone would straighten out those fingers would be to break them. Like twigs.
Fingers, face, every part of visible flesh had started to turn purple, a vivid blotched purple shot through here and there with high yellow. Blood caked one side of his pants, one side of his coat and shirt where the rifle wounds had bled and bled again. It had dried brown on the cloth, brown and ridged.
There was deeper brown about the crotch of the pants.
The face was to one side, as it had been in the saloon. The sandy hair seemed somehow to have lost much of its brightness of color – perhaps it was the early light. He seemed even younger now, little more than a boy.
But not a boy in the way he had tried to escape, closer to becoming a man. As close as he was ever to get. For a second Herne was taunted by the thought that he should have taken a hand in the play and helped him. But the answer came back the same: and what would have been the point in his getting taken as well? Likely shot. Or stretched at the end of a rope.
Herne glanced up at the three sails which were free of any extra burden. Any one of those would have done for him. Without thinking what he was doing, Herne felt the skin of his own neck. More than any other way of dying, it was lynching that he feared the most.
Whenever he thought about it – whensoever he considered death at all.
Strange that, but this fortieth year, the thought had crossed his mind more and more frequently. Swung, unbidden, across it.
There was a notice pinned to the front of Sandy’s shirt. A single sheet of paper with thick penciled writing made by a hand that didn’t take to writing too easily. Even so, it was possible to read what it said.
WARNING! THIS IS WHAT ANY GODDAM RUSTLER KIN EXPECT
Herne’s eyes moved back up to the youth’s face and looked more closely. A small train of red ants had somehow climbed to his face and were journeying busily, hungrily into the bare, bloodied socket of his left eye.
The eye itself had long since been taken, pecked out by the same bird which had left a long, black feather laced through his pale red hair.
Flies were buzzing about the gashed entry wounds in his body and along the rough surface of the rope where it had torn the skin from the neck immediately underneath the chin.
Herne rubbed his hands together and wished that he’d worn his coat. The day seemed to be getting colder instead of warmer and the wind was biting more deeply. Soon it would be strong enough to shift the heavy sails of the windmill, shift and turn them, hoisting their macabre warning high over the town.
Over and over: round and round.
Herne hawked up phlegm and spat onto the hard ground. He turned away from the corpse and walked back to the main street.
The old timer was out front of the livery stable and said something that Herne didn’t rightly hear. Herne waved a hand and kept on walking. At that moment he didn’t feel any too much like talking – especially to some garrulous old man.
He walked around the boardwalk outside The Cattleman’s House, avoiding the stream of soapy water that the fat bar-keep had thrown over it for the thin one to scrub clean.
On up the street to the rooming house, where there were a couple of men sitting at separate tables in the dining room. Herne hesitated, not feeling like food at all. Half way up the stairs his common sense got the better of him. The breakfast was paid for and he wasn’t in any position to be able to let it go to waste.
Herne took a seat opposite the door, his left side close to a window. That way he could see both anyone who came into the room as well as anybody who approached the house. Not that he was expecting anything particular to happen, it was simply a matter of careful habit.
The other two men in the dining room were both ten or so years younger than Herne. The one in the corner, wearing a neat brown suit with high, winged lapels and pants that had obviously been pressed flat under the mattress all night, appeared to be some kind of travelling salesman. Likely a whiskey drummer. His face was bright and alert, the eyes blue and with a shine in them as they returned Herne’s gaze.
‘Morning,’ the man said immediately. ‘Not the best of mornings, I fear.’
Herne nodded agreement and looked away, not wanting to get drawn into conversation, certainly not with someone who did it for a living.
The second man was reading a tattered copy of a newspaper which looked as if it had been read and reread many times. Herne caught sight of the words ‘St Louis’ along the top of the folded page.
The man realized that Herne was looking at him and peered over the edge of the paper, hastily disappearing behind it once more. Herne had a glimpse of bushy eyebrows and large, brown eyes; the beginnings of a bulbous nose – nothing more. He was wearing a dark blue coat and gray pants over expensive looking boots which he had taken the trouble to shine. If it hadn’t been for his manner, Herne would have put him down for a salesman, too.
‘It’s ham an’ eggs, fresh bread an’ coffee,’ explained the woman from the doorway. ‘Least,’ she added with a quick smile, ‘that’s what it usually is.’
Herne’s stomach gave a half-turn. ‘Hold the eggs,’ he said with a grimace.
‘Stomach ain’t co-operatin’, eh?’ she grinned, showing a dimple in her right cheek. ‘Too much drinkin’ down at The Cattleman’s House, I reckon.’
‘Too much of somethin’ down there,’ Herne replied quietly. ‘But it weren’t drink.’
The woman tucked the empty tray under one arm and looked at him thoughtfully; the drummer was staring openly; the newspaper had been lowered fractionally and a pair of worried brown eyes peered from under bushy eyebrows.
Finally, the woman turned away. ‘I’ll let a slice more ham fall into the pan. Make up for the eggs.’
Herne sat in silence waiting for her to return. Out in the street there was increased activity as the day got underway. A couple of horses were led out of the livery stable. A wagon, loaded with sacks of grain, drove slowly up from the far end of town. Someone came running from the direction of the windmill, shouting loud, the words unclear but Herne already knew what they would be.
Windows were thrown up, doors opened. Other men began to run, shout. The drummer stepped out of the rooming house and tried to stop someone and find out what was going on. The newspaper rustled.
The woman came back with Herne’s breakfast on a tray. He looked up at her as she leaned over the table. Last night she hadn’t made any great impression on him, but this morning there was a warmth and friendliness about her that he found himself responding to.
‘Hope that’s all right,’ she said, nodding at the two thick slices of fried ham. ‘I drained the fat off as much as I could. Made your coffee good and strong. I—’
‘Would you believe that?’ exclaimed the drummer, now standing in the doorway, one hand pointing into the room, the other in the side pocket of his brown suit. ‘They say there’s a feller been hanged. Up on the mill!’
He looked from one face to another, waiting for his news to have the desired effect.
‘Well, I’ll be ... On the windmill? Are you sure?’
Herne chewed on dry bread, cut a piece from the ham and forked it up.
‘They say he was caught rustlin’. Caught up on him last night in the saloon.’
The woman glanced down at Herne, who ate on, unconcerned.
‘I guess that’s only right,’ the drummer went on. ‘I mean, for a rustler. Folk say it’s the worst form of stealing and I suppose they’re right. Man works hard to rear stock he don’t want someone coming along an’ taking what’s his before he gets to profit from it.’
The woman moved one of her hands around the edges of her tray. There’s rustlin’ an’ rustlin’.’
‘But surely, whoever did this? The law—’
‘Ain’t no law in Powderville. None but Drummond’s law.’ She stalked out of the room, scarcely giving the drummer enough time to get out of her way.
‘Really, I don’t see what … I mean … Drummond? Who is this Drummond? Do either of you two gentlemen know?’
‘No.’ Herne put another piece of ham into his mouth. It was tasting a whole lot better than he had feared.
‘No.’ The voice from behind the newspaper was tentative, worried. The accent was one that Herne failed to recognize.
‘Well,’ said the drummer as he resumed his seat, ‘I suppose I’ll find out soon enough. If he’s a man of importance I shall naturally see him in the course of my business.’ He looked at Herne and the other man, neither of whom seemed in the least bit interested. That did nothing to deter him. ‘This territory’s new to me, you see. I’ve been working out of Minneapolis and St Paul. But with the spread of the railroad.’ He made a broad gesture with his hands. ‘Where the rails go that’s where there’s fresh business to be found. And that’s what makes this country great. What’s going to make it greater. Selling and buying, selling and buying.’
He stopped again and stood up. ‘My main line is in spirits; that and a little wine. Not too much call for that this far west as yet, of course. Though I do also have on my wagon other items I’m happy to hold a franchise for. Patent medicines. Perfumes, especially for the ladies. Shirts, some in the finest silk for the special occasion. Soft leather—’
Herne clanged his knife and fork down onto his plate and glared round, cutting the salesman short.
‘Sorry, if I—’
‘Mister, if n we want to buy anythin’ of yours we’ll let you know. Right now I reckon the only thing we want you to do is to stop runnin’ off at the mouth.’
Herne stood up, lifting his cup of coffee from the table: ‘You got any corks in that load of yours? Big enough to stuff in that mouth you can’t seem to get shut.’
Herne went out through the door, taking his coffee with him, leaving the drummer’s mouth still wide open, but strangely speechless.
The rooming house keeper was bending forward over a sink, washing dishes when Herne went into the kitchen. Before she turned round he was able to see the outline of her buttocks firm against the material of her plaid dress. It was a sight that gave him considerable pleasure.
She looked over her shoulder, a strand of light brown hair falling loose. Seeing the cup in Herne’s hand she nodded towards the side. Tot’s over there.’
Thanks. It wasn’t really what I came for.’ He went across and refilled his cup nevertheless.
‘You didn’t change your mind about the eggs, I hope?’
‘No.’
She leaned sideways on the sink, her hip just above its edge. With her right hand she pushed the piece of hair back into place. There was a patch of wet now at the side of her head, that and a trace of white lather. Somehow, for Herne, it made her seem all the more appealing.
That whiskey drummer in there, he goes off at the mouth too much for my liking.’
‘Yes.’ She smiled and let her hand slide back into the water. ‘You should have heard him last evening at dinner ... But then you were in the saloon.’
Herne drank some coffee, simply looking at her over the rim of the cup, saying nothing.
‘What happened?’
He told her.
‘And at the windmill?’
He told her that as well.
Her hand was no longer in the water; it was clenched inside its partner, both in front of her. ‘I would say how could they? But the answer’s too easy – they’re animals, men like that.’
‘Men like what, ma’am?’
‘Men who put up their guns for hire. Men who kill for money. And enjoy it.’
Herne shifted his weight from one foot to the other: ‘Maybe all men who sell their gun don’t enjoy havin’ to kill with it.’
‘Then why else would they do it?’ The answer was spat back at him across the kitchen.
‘If there were no other way—’
‘Of course there’s another way! There has to be. How else can this country grow up if the gun’s the answer to everythin’?’
She was no longer the smiling, cheerful woman who dished up ham and coffee with a friendly word; her green-tinged eyes were bright and strong and whatever force made them burn was a passion as powerful as Herne had ever seen,
He quickly finished his coffee, thinking what might have happened in her past to cause such anger and resentment.
‘Thanks, ma’am.’ He set the cup on the side and went towards the door.
‘Mister!’
When he turned half-round she had stepped away from the sink; the strand of hair had come loose and hung down beside her cheek. Her hands were bunched tight at her sides: she was staring at the Colt .45 in Herne’s holster as if seeing it for the first time. Reading the meaning in the way it was tied down, the closeness of the polished butt to his hand as he stood there.
‘What you doin’ in Powderville?’
Herne shrugged, coming round to face her fully. ‘Ridin’ through.’
‘Liar!’ She came another couple of paces to him and her hand moved out, fingers opening as if she were about to slap him. ‘Liar!’
The second time a fleck of spittle flew from her lips and landed on the front of Herne’s waistcoat. Another hung from her bottom lip, by the corner of her mouth.
‘You come to sell that gun to Drummond!’
‘I don’t know no Drummond.’
‘You were with his men last night in the saloon.’
‘That don’t mean—’
‘It means enough to me.’
She swung her arm and he caught it, tight above the wrist. She swayed a little then stood firm. Herne could feel the warmth of her uneven breath on his face; see the movement of her bosom. Her lips were white.
Herne let go of her arm and she brought it back to her side.
‘You’re a hired gun.’ It was a statement, not a question. Herne put his back to her and opened the kitchen door. The man with bushy eyebrows was standing outside in the corridor, obviously listening. When the door opened he blushed and hustled away out of sight.
‘Aren’t you?’ she shouted from the middle of the kitchen.
Herne looked over his shoulder: ‘Yes.’
He was almost at his room when she came running up the stairs taking them two at a time. Her eyes were as bright as before. She pushed past him and threw open the bedroom door, grabbing his coat from the end of the bed and throwing it at him as he entered.
‘Take it! Take it all an’ get out!’
‘Ma’am, I’m—’
He was interrupted by one of his saddle bags landing plumb in his midriff. ‘You’re paid up, now get out! An’ don’t never let me see you round here again !’
There wasn’t anything else for Herne to do or say. He collected the rest of his things hastily with the woman looking at him as though he was something that had crawled in under the back door in a storm.
She watched him all the way down the stairs, along the corridor and out into the street. Finally she slammed the door behind him making it reverberate inside its frame.
Herne lifted his bags onto his shoulder and draped his coat over the other; the sun had risen over the roofs of the houses to the east of the street but it sure didn’t feel any warmer.
None at all.