The other boarders had finished their breakfasts and left the dining room. Herne and Charlie sat where they were, lazily enjoying their third or fourth cup of coffee. Cold like it was out, there didn’t seem to be any call to rush outside. If they were playing a waiting game, they’d best wait warm.
Rachel came in to clear away the used dishes, apparently happy to see Herne still sitting there. ‘I saw Joanne Taylor yesterday,’ she said over her shoulder. ‘Along with her little boy.’
Herne set down his cup and looked over at her enquiringly.
‘They were catching the weekly coach up north. Thinking to winter at Fort Keogh. After that she’ll maybe take the boy back east. She’s got kin still living there.’
‘Good,’ said Herne. ‘I was wonderin’.’
The woman went back to collecting the dishes and piling them on a tray. Herne stood up and went over towards her. ‘Here, let me take that,’ he said.
Behind him Charlie scraped his chair back. ‘I’ll take a walk round. See if anyone’s drifted in.’
‘Okay, Charlie.’
Herne took the tray and carried it out of the dining room and down towards the kitchen.
‘You remember the last time we was in here?’ he asked when he’d placed the tray on the draining board beside the deep sink.
She came and stood close in front of him; close enough for Herne to feel the slight pressure of her rounded breasts against the front of her former husband’s shirt, feel the warmth of her breath on his neck and face.
‘I’m sorry about that,’ she said softly. ‘I lost my temper, It … it—’
There were traces of tears at the corners of her green eyes. Herne reached up and took hold of her arms, the warmth of her skin good on his fingers.
‘Maybe,’ he said, ‘maybe what I’m goin’ to do will take part of the hurt away.’
Around an hour later, Herne was sitting on the back step cleaning the Remington. Charlie came round the side of the house, out of breath from running. The expression on his face made it clear that something important had happened.
He leaned against the wall, panting, trying to talk.
Herne pulled the piece of cloth through the barrel and stood up. ‘Let’s have it. Nice an’ easy.’
‘I saw it down the street. A buckboard.’ He pointed behind him. ‘From the ranch. He must’ve brung Mrs. Drummond into town.’
Herne’s eyes shone. ‘Who, Charlie? Who?’
Charlie gulped: ‘Jo-Bob.’
Herne spun the chamber of the pistol and slapped it down into the holster, bending to tie the leather round the inside of his thigh.
‘He alone?’
‘Uh-uh. They sent in two of the others in case there was any trouble. They’re over in the Cattleman’s House gettin’ a drink.’
Herne straightened up. ‘That’s fine. Where’s the kid?’
‘Sittin’ in the buckboard. Outside the general store.’
‘He didn’t see you?’
Charlie shook his head.
‘You sure on that?’
‘Yeah, I’m sure.’
‘An’ Mrs. Drummond?’
‘She’s inside the store. Least, she was a couple of minutes ago. But you don’t have to worry. I brung her in once. She spends a coon’s age lookin’ at lengths of calico an’ such. There ain’t no hurry on her account.’
Herne picked up the Stetson he’d got from Rachel and set it on his head. ‘You think maybe you can keep those other two pinned down in the saloon till I get done?’
Charlie grinned. ‘Just leave me time to get my Winchester an’ I reckon I can hold them boys all day if needs be.’
‘All right. Only watch out for the pair behind the bar. They might seem like some kind of joke, but the big one, he’s got a sawn-off stashed under the counter somewhere. I’d hate to see you peppered to pieces.’
‘Me too. Give me a couple of minutes start an’ then that bastard kid’s all yours.’
Herne nodded and flexed the fingers of his right hand; they were still stiffer than he’d have liked, but he thought they were supple enough. For Jo-Bob.
The kid was sitting right where Charlie had said, up on the seat of the buckboard, the pair of horses turned and ready to head back out to the Drummond ranch. Every now and then, Jo-Bob would glance round nervously or peer through the plate glass window of the store, anxious for Drummond’s wife to be finished with her shopping.
Herne watched Charlie go in through the doors of The Cattleman’s House, then slipped round behind the line of buildings which made up the main street. He hurried along, not wishing to draw attention to himself too soon. There were a few folk about and he didn’t want the kid to have any more warning than was necessary.
Herne went quietly along the alleyway that would take him back onto the street just two buildings above the store. It was the closest he could get.
From the corner he looked out. There were a couple of old timers sitting on the side of the boardwalk more or less opposite, smoking on thin-stemmed pipes and jawing away. A woman was walking towards Herne, a shopping bag in her hand. Further down, a tall wagon was turning into the front of the livery stable.
Herne thumbed the loop away from the hammer of the Remington. The woman was standing outside the General Store, making up her mind whether or not to go inside. Jo-Bob turned his head suddenly and Herne ducked back, just in time.
Come on! he screamed at the woman inside his head.
Come on, damn you!
Finally she turned away from the window and started to walk along the boards towards him. Herne flattened himself back inside the alley and waited for her to pass.
At the intersection, she paused and looked into the alley. As soon as she saw Herne pressed back against the wall, she started and a shout came to her lips. She tried to stifle the cry with her hand, but only half succeeded.
That was it.
Herne jumped out past her, almost knocking her flying. Jo-Bob had heard her too and was rising from the seat, turning as he did so, his hand going down for the gun strapped to his leg.
Herne straddled the boardwalk, legs spread and body bowed in a gunfighter’s crouch. His right hand moved in a blur of speed and the pistol was in it, thumb bringing back the hammer, eye judging the angle, watching Jo-Bob’s mouth open. He aimed for the back of the seat beside where the kid now stood and the wood splintered up into the air like needles.
Jo-Bob’s gun was barely half way from its holster.
‘Get down!’
Jo-Bob froze. Behind Herne the woman he had knocked aside was sobbing convulsively, also unable to move.
‘Get down!’
Jo-Bob moved slowly, keeping his hand on the butt of his gun, his eyes firmly fixed on Herne whose pistol was still smoking in his hand.
Herne saw from the corner of his eye the severe face of Mrs. Drummond at the window of the store. On the other side of the street the two old timers had stood up and backed away to the wall.
‘Out in the street! Now!’ Herne gestured with the gun.
Jo-Bob did as he was told, his own gun half cleared, not daring to pull it all the way.
When he was in the middle of the street he stopped moving. Herne looked at him with disgust, looked down at his legs. His pants were tucked inside a pair of boots Herne recognized as his own.
Thought you were man enough for them, did you, kid? Big enough to step into ‘em after they’d bin stole from me.’ Herne’s face became a snarl. ‘I’ll tell you, you ain’t fit to wear no man’s boots, least of all mine. All you’re fit for is six feet of dirt. Sooner the better afore you get some more innocent men or old women to drop a lynch noose around.’
Jo-Bob’s hand was starting to shake. Underneath his freckles his face was whiter than new-milled flour. ‘You ... you already got your gun on me. There ain’t no way I can go agin that.’
Herne spun the pistol over his finger and let it fall back into the holster.
‘Okay, kid. That’s all the chance you’re goin’ to get.’
A rifle shot sounded from up the street, followed quickly by another. Herne let his head turn a fraction and in that second Jo-Bob made his play. Herne saw the kid’s gun begin to come up and his own hand dived for the Remington. Out of the middle of the arc flame spurted and Jo-Bob spun round in a half-turn, staggering back on already faltering legs. He fought to bring his right arm back round but it was a losing battle. He got it level from the elbow but there was nothing he could do to stop his fingers from gradually parting and the pistol slipping away to the ground.
The young eyes flickered as he tried to focus on Herne’s face but there was a dark mist which closed over his vision, clouding his brain to anything but the pain that ate into him like a burning fire. He could feel the blood pulsing out from his body, steady, unquenchable. He glanced down and looked at the spreading redness that came from the bullet wound in the center of his chest. His left leg gave under him and he sank down onto his side. The fingers of his left hand crawled slowly across his chest and touched the warm stickiness of the blood; gently he pushed the finger ends inside his shirt, into the hole that had caved in on his chest. Sharp ends of bone bit at it. The kid’s head jerked sideways, once, twice, three times. He doubled over and folded onto the hard ground of the street, face to the dirt. His legs twitched and then were still.
Herne looked round for the first time since the shot had been fired. No one had come out of The Cattleman’s House so he guessed that Charlie was handling things well enough.
He looked back around and noticed that Mrs. Drummond had stepped out onto the boardwalk. She was standing there with both hands clenched together in front of her sharp bosom. Herne ignored her and holstered his gun. He walked slowly forward to where Jo-Bob lay and bent down; carefully he pulled off his boots and picked them up. He swung them over his left shoulder and walked over to the buck-board.
‘Looks like you’ll be drivin’ yourself back home, Mrs. Drummond.’
Her dark eyes blazed hatred upon him. She stood straight, hands now to her sides; her hair as usual combed tight to her head and parted at the center. There was a pendant hanging from her neck again only Herne didn’t think it was the same one. Not that it – or she – mattered one way or the other.
‘Did you have to kill him?’
Herne nodded. ‘Yes, ma’am. Yes, I did.’
‘He was a boy. You’re nothing but a cold-blooded killer!’
Herne stared at her hard. ‘I may be a killer, but so was he. An’ if bein’ cold-blooded means you don’t get laughs out of lynchin’ folks as don’t deserve it, then I guess I’m that as well. If all I done was stop that boy growin’, then I reckon I done a good thing.’
Her eyes moved from Herne’s face and looked down the street. ‘And the men in the saloon?’ she asked.
Herne shook his head. ‘I think maybe they’ll be staying here.’
She stepped off the boards and into the buckboard, sitting down by the splintered seat.
‘One thing you can do for me, ma’am ... tell that husband of yours that I’ll be ridin’ in to see him. In a while.’
Mrs. Drummond’s face showed its first traces of fear. ‘But he ... he didn’t … he—’
Herne interrupted. ‘They’re his men. Carryin’ out his orders.’
‘But—’
‘You just tell him!’ Herne spat out, then turned and left her sitting there. Jo-Bob’s body was still stretched out in the middle of the street. His feet showed through the ends of his socks at both toes and heels.
Herne looked over the bat-wing doors of The Cattleman’s House. Charlie was sitting at a table to the right, between door and wall. The Winchester was in his hand and pointed at two men who stood in the center of the room. One of them was trying to nurse a gunshot wound, high on his right leg, from which blood splayed over his fingers and ran down to a pool that was widening on the floor.
There were a handful of other men in the room, all of them sitting very still and minding their own business. At the far end of the saloon, both bartenders were cleaning and polishing glasses for all they were worth.
‘You did all right?’ Charlie asked.
‘I did all right,’ Herne replied. ‘Heard some shootin’ up here.’
‘Uh-huh. He didn’t listen to what I said. Tried to run,’ Charlie chuckled. ‘I stopped him.’
‘So it seems.’ Herne pushed open the doors and went in, letting them swing to behind him.
‘Heard somethin’ real interestin’,’ said Charlie.
‘Yeah?’
‘Bunch of the boys gone on down to Broadus, by the Little Powder River. Drummond got news of some fellers tryin’ to sell stock with his brand showin’ through. Seems like they’re plannin’ to stop by here on their way back tonight. Get themselves a little entertainment.’
Herne liked the idea. ‘That’s fine. We’ll see what we can arrange by way of a good surprise.’
Charlie turned his head towards Herne and laughed. It was the best chance the Circle D men were going to get and they knew it. The one with the wounded leg made a grab for the gun that was on the floor maybe three feet in front of him, while the other took a running leap at Charlie.
Herne took a pace back and drew, sliding the Remington out before the man’s hand had reached the pistol on the floor. From the corner of his eye he saw Charlie swing the barrel of the Winchester and catch his attacker crack across the side of the head.
‘Don’t!’
The man crouched by the floor looked up and found himself staring into the barrel of Herne’s gun. He pulled his hand back and slowly stood up. Kicked the gun across the scuffed boards without Herne even having to tell him. His friend was lying on the floor, cradling his head in both hands and moaning loudly.
‘We’ll tie you up till sunset,’ said Herne. ‘After that you can get the Hell out of here. Course there ain’t nothin’ to stop you ridin’ back to Drummond but I wouldn’t advise it. If I ever see either of you again I’ll kill you without so much as a prayer!’
Herne called along the bar for one of the men to fetch him a good length of rope.
‘Think yourself lucky,’ he said to the two a while later as Charlie was tying their arms tight behind them, ‘that we ain’t givin’ you a taste of your own medicine.’
When they got back out into the street someone had dragged Jo-Bob’s body out of sight. The town barber had got his undertaker’s black on in double-quick time. Herne had half a mind to go down and tell him to leave it on a while longer.
Herne and Charlie talked earnestly to the two bartenders for the best part of five minutes. The pair listened very carefully, from time to time nodding or putting in the occasional, alternating word. Having seen Herne in action more than once now they were going to be careful to remain on the right side of him. Since the Drummond boys used the place whenever they were in town, the barkeeps’ loyalties were somewhat torn. But from the way the tall man with the graying hair was acting, Drummond’s gun-hands weren’t going to be around a whole lot longer.
‘All you got to do,’ said Herne finally, ‘is to stay out of anything unless someone makes a play through any of them windows. You got that?’
‘Yes, Mr. Herne,’ said the fat one.
‘Yes, Mr. Herne,’ repeated the thin one.
‘Okay. Now you’re sure that shotgun of yours is ready loaded?’
‘Yes.’
‘And the handgun?’
‘Yes.’
‘Good. Let’s get us a drink, Charlie.’
‘Mr. Herne! Mr. Herne!’ It was the drummer, there could be no mistaking his voice. The neat little man came bustling up towards the bar, a leather case tucked under one arm.
‘Mr. Herne, I’ve found out a whole lot of things about you. Things you’ve been holding back. Why, you’re a famous man. That is, a notorious one.’ He looked at the men behind the bar. ‘Did you know that this man was Herne the Hunter? Why, there are stories about him that make the blood run cold!’
Herne reached out a hand and lifted the salesman off the floor by the lapels of his coat. He struggled like a fish out of water, his mouth opening and closing, gasping for air.
‘You’re overworkin’ that mouth of yours again!’
‘But ... but—’ Herne let him drop to the ground. ‘But I just wanted to say how proud I was to meet a man like yourself. Real proud!’
And he insisted on shaking Herne’s hand, much to the amusement of Charlie who looked on from further along the bar.
‘Now, here,’ said the drummer, opening his case. ‘I want you to take a bottle of this. It’s the very best tequila. See, Cuervo Gold. Why, this tequila has been being made for nearly a hundred years and—’
‘Seems a blasted long time to make one little bottle of that stuff!’ interrupted Charlie with a laugh.
‘No! No! I mean they have been making bottles like this for almost a hundred years!’
‘Oh,’ said Charlie. ‘Why didn’t you say so?’
The drummer turned back to Herne in exasperation. ‘You will take it, won’t you? As my gift, of course. If I can tell folk it’s the brand used by Herne the Hunter sales will shoot up!’
He placed the bottle in Herne’s hand, snapped the case shut, brushed down the creased lapels of his suit and hurried away.
Herne shook his head in wonder. ‘Come on, Charlie, grab a couple of glasses and a deck of cards. Let’s get ourselves ready.’
They chose a table two-thirds of the way into the saloon, smack in the center with the bar behind them. When it was dark enough for the lamps to be shining strong, Herne got the fat barkeep to put out the one to his right, towards the windows.
‘An’ dim down those by the bar,’ he ordered.
By this time nearly everyone else had quit the saloon. The only folk in Powderville who didn’t know what was going to happen were the five Circle D gunmen who rode in weary from Broadus and led their horses directly to The Cattleman’s House.
They tied them to the hitching pole outside and pushed their way into the saloon, anxious to slake their thirst. They were fifteen feet inside before Billy looked up and saw the two men by the table. Even then he didn’t recognize them at first, only used to seeing them in Drummond uniform.
‘Jesus! It’s—
He stopped short, his large frame blocking the way for the rest. His hand made a move for his gun but Charlie lifted the Winchester clear of the table and pointed it directly at his vast belly.
Billy forgot about going for his gun.
‘Evening Billy! One-Eye, boys,’ said Herne pleasantly. ‘You look like you’ve been doin’ a lot of ridin’.
‘Yeah,’ said Charlie. Take the weight off your feet and have a drink on us. Bartender!’ he yelled back. ‘Fetch us five beers!’
The men stood there, uncertain, not knowing what was going on. One at the back took a couple of steps towards the door, but the movement of Charlie’s rifle stopped him.
‘Sit down,’ offered Herne encouragingly.
Only One-Eye moved and then slowly.
‘Sit down!’ Herne kicked out under the table, sending one of the chairs bouncing over the floor towards the men.
One-Eye snarled, making the livid scar that ran across his face pucker and twist. But he picked up the chair and moved it closer to the table, sitting on it grudgingly.
‘That’s fine. Now how about the rest of you boys?’
When they were all sitting down, the bartender arrived with the glasses of beer on a tray.
‘Drink up!’ called Charlie, obviously enjoying himself, a smile on his face, his new bowler hat tilted down over his forehead. As the fat barkeep went back past him, Charlie touched him on the arm. ‘Fetch me one of them cigars, will you?’
Herne waited while the men drank their beer, looking at one another as they did so and wondering what was going to happen. Or, rather, when. There were five of them against two and although Charlie was keeping them quiet for now with that Winchester of his, it could only be a matter of time.
‘How ’bout some cards?’ suggested Herne. ‘Pass the time.’
‘Hell,’ stormed Billy. ‘We don’t want to pass no time with you. We’ll drink these beers and get on out of here!’
Herne pulled the deck from his pocket and threw it onto the center of the table. ‘Cards!’
Billy wiped the froth from round his mouth, his eyes flickering dangerously. ‘If that bastard weren’t sittin’ there with that rifle, you wouldn’t push me that way.’
Herne smiled thinly and snapped the seal on the deck.
‘Set the gun down, Charlie. It’s makin’ ’em nervous.’
Charlie pushed his chair back until it was behind Herne and to his right. Then he carefully laid the rifle on the floor close to his feet.
Herne shuffled the cards. ‘Draw or stud?’
No one answered him. Beads of sweat were visible on Billy’s round face. The scar that zigzagged across One-Eye’s face was standing out pinkly from his sallow skin.
Behind Herne, Charlie eased himself back in the chair; with his right hand he freed the ties on his holster so that the gun remained angled downwards. He was wondering how long it would be before the Drummond men would break.
‘Draw, then.’
The faces stared. Bodies jerked.
Herne began to deal the cards. ‘I mean, draw poker.’
He went round the table five times, laying the cards face down in neat piles. He picked up his own hand and rearranged the cards, choosing which ones to discard.
‘How about it? Anyone ready to make a bid?’
‘Damn you!’
Billy and the one-eyed gunman next to him went for their guns at the same time. Herne jumped to his feet, body falling into a crouch as he clawed his own pistol clear of leather. His first shot drove into the huge barrel chest in front of him and a second later One-Eye snapped off a shot which seared through the skin of his left arm. Herne heard another gun explode close behind him and fired into One-Eye’s face which instantly became a mask of blood.
Charlie had leaned back and fired his Starr .44 through the bottom of his holster, killing the man to Billy’s left. Billy himself was staggering backwards, blood welling from a wound several inches to the right of his heart. The remaining pair were making a dash for the door.
Herne leveled the Remington and fired twice at the man closest to him. The first shot took him high in the back of the neck, sending him sideways against the wall. The second struck him as he folded away from it, passing clear through the center of his body and embedding itself in the plaster of the wall behind.
Charlie let his man get as far as the bat-wing doors. Then as he pushed them open, he shot him through the back of the head. It was the best shot Charlie had ever made. The Circle D man’s head seemed to explode, shards of bone and fragments of gray matter flying in all directions.
On the floor in the middle of the saloon, Billy was still swaying, fighting against the effect of the shell that was buried somewhere inside his massive body. Herne holstered his gun and bent lower, lifting the bayonet out of its sheath inside his boot. He balanced the handle in the palm of his hand, kicking the overturned table out of his way.
‘You remember Taylor’s wife,’ he said grimly. ‘Well, this is for her!’
His fingers tightened about the hilt and he leaped forwards, dipping his hand across to the left and whipping it across the front of Billy’s body at vicious speed. The honed blade sliced diagonally through his skin, his flesh, opening him up from belly to shoulder. Eyes wide with amazement, Billy tried to pull at the folds as if to close them again. Blood pumped over his hands, his wrists; he was steeped in it.
Finally Herne slashed the bayonet beneath the huge head and a red line appeared from one side of his cheekbone to the other.
‘Christ!’ said Charlie. ‘Jesus Christ!’
Herne watched Billy fall, the impact making the room shake. Then he turned to One-Eye, but One-Eye was already dead. Underneath the wash of blood, his other eye had been torn from its socket by Herne’s bullet which had ripped upwards through his face, impacting the back of the skull outwards.
Herne reached down with his left hand and picked up the bottle of tequila, half of the contents of which had spilled out onto the floor. He wiped the neck against his red shirt and sent it to his mouth, swallowing hard.
‘Jesus Christ!’ Charlie kept saying, quietly, wonderingly, over and over. ‘Jesus Christ!’