Pinter’s Ferry was at the curve in the river, hunched on a flat of land that was visible miles across the plain. The hills glowered at the back of it and only now were the highest beginning to be clear of snow. The river took advantage of the level of the land and spread itself a good fifty yards from bank to bank. Higher up, the current pulled strongly and crossing was dangerous. Much lower down and the shore suddenly became a treacherous morass of near swamp. If a man wanted to avoid riding round maybe ten miles or more then he took the ferry.
Harry Pinter had built the original craft more or less single-handed: that on account of an Osage arrow having pierced the palm of his right hand and left three fingers paralyzed. His old lady had pitched in as best she could, in between tending to the vegetable garden and milking the cows and the goat and seeing that young Harry Junior didn’t get into too much mischief.
It had been wide enough to take a wagon with the team unhitched and had served for more than ten years before a bunch of renegades and ne’er-do-wells failed to take kindly to Pinter’s charges and set fire to the thing while Pinter and his wife and son were held helpless at gun point.
Pinter never seemed to get over it. He’d been talkative enough before, but after his ferry got burnt he lapsed into strange silences, uttering a few words every now and again, not even sentences really, not a lot that other folk could understand. Harry Junior built a replacement, again with the woman’s help, and this was stronger and more substantial than the original. Gradually, Harry took on more and more of the work of running the ferry, ordering supplies for the post, keeping the whole thing ticking over. Pinter’s wife tended to what was growing and living off the land and did the cooking and the mending. Old Pinter he sat out front in a rocker most weathers and plucked at the rug across his knees and let what little of the world rode up pass right on by.
Each day he’d eat three good meals and every night he’d climb on top of his wife and make like a bramah bull.
He was sitting before the long, single story building when Herne hit the plain down river, a small, solitary figure rocking slow and gentle. Herne recalled seeing Pinter a year or more back, exactly the same spot, same motion. He wondered what went on in the old man’s mind, if anything did, sitting and quietly rocking, rocking.
Herne touched the gelding with his boots and the bay broke into a trot. There were three horses tied to the hitching rail, another couple in a corral off to the side. A flatbed wagon, empty and unharnessed, stood away to the left. The ferry had been hauled into the near bank and fastened to the post by a stout rope. Herne was aware of the fast running of the water and the shimmering of light that flicked from the crests of small, breaking waves as they tumbled against one another.
He stopped himself touching his bad tooth with his tongue, pressed instead the palm of his hand against the smooth butt of his Colt .45. Whoever was inside, chances were they could be trouble. Waco and the girl – Zac and Savannah – maybe all four. Herne’s mouth was dry and the ache from his tooth and gum more intense. He swerved the bay round into a curve, not wanting to give whoever might be inside too much warning. The slowly shifting shape of old man Pinter was beginning to take on features, thicken out. No sign of anyone else moving. Smoke drifted up from the tin chimney that had been fitted in the roof. After twenty feet or so, it dispersed into a largely blue sky. Herne slowed the animal to a walk and kept his eyes skinned for any sign of movement.
Inside the post, Harry Junior was polishing glasses and stacking them back of the long wooden table that served for a bar. It was nothing more than three broad planks nailed together and balanced upon four empty barrels. Shelves rose up the entire height of the long wall behind and the end wall to the left. At the opposite end of the building, a thick partition wall closed off the Pinter’s living quarters, though even that section was stacked and piled with sacks and bags and tins of goods there was insufficient room to display.
The center of the room was dominated by a long trestle table, which was where folk sat down to eat. There was a stove towards the partition that served to heat the whole building. Chairs were set close around this, mostly straight backed but with one or two of the fancier, padded variety. Three small round tables, which had been heading for Denver by wagon but somehow didn’t pass beyond the ferry were arranged at the left side of the main room.
Right at that moment, Zac Peters was sitting at the most central of these tables, practicing dealing five card stud off the bottom of the deck. He’d been doing it for the best part of half an hour now, occasionally allowing himself to be interrupted for a snatch of conversation. Zac was serious about his card play and had in mind to set himself up as a gambler on one of the Mississippi river boats once this present matter had been concluded. He’d change his long, cream coat for a dark blue tailcoat and his red bandanna for a fancy embroidered waistcoat with small, elegant pearl buttons. His black boots would shine even more than they did now. And the women!
Savannah sat at the long, center table, holding a piece of mirror glass in his left hand and a pair of borrowed scissors in his right. He squinted into the mirror and trimmed at the sides of his pointed beard, balancing one against the other. His short-barreled Colt Peacemaker was snug in his shoulder holster, the inside of his left arm resting against it as it held the mirror.
From back of the bar, Harry Junior made a few remarks about personal vanity, but Savannah largely ignored them. He knew what was important. As soon as he got his share of the take from the train robbery he was intent upon catching another train, but this one as a Chicago-bound passenger. It was time he got to see the big city and he was certain that it was necessary to look as well turned out as possible once he got there. There was nothing like keeping in practice in the meanwhile.
Pinter’s wife shuffled in and out of the kitchen space, rattling pots and pans and swearing that she’d never seen two ruffians so concerned about their own appearances. It was as if they were expecting someone to come along and make a picture of them at any moment.
‘Think he’ll be here tomorrow?’ asked Savannah, peering closely into the mirror.
There was a long enough pause for Harry Junior to wipe another two glasses, before Zac replied, ‘Who?’
Savannah snipped at an offending length of whisker. ‘Waco, of course!’
Zac turned up the hand opposite him, naming four of the five cards successfully before he did so. ‘Maybe, unless …’
‘Unless what?’
‘He comes today.’
There was a football outside the trading post door and both men’s heads swung round. Harry began to lower the glass and cloth away from his chest. Mrs Pinter clattered to a halt before the stove. Faster than any of them thought possible, the door swung back.
Herne jumped inside, glimpsing Zac Peters’ red bandanna and dropping his body into a gunfighter’s natural crouch. His right hand blurred and the big Colt came sliding up from the greased holster, thumb taking the hammer back as the barrel came level. Zac had thrust the table away in front of him and begun to stand, fingers seeking the grip of the Smith & Wesson at his right hip. Playing cards fluttered up in front of him like a flock of startled birds.
As Herne’s finger squeezed back against the trigger he was made aware of another movement at his right side, the harsh scraping of chair legs against worn boards as Savannah dropped scissors and mirror with a crash against the table.
The Colt in Herne’s hand exploded as Zac’s gun was beginning to leave the holster. Disturbed in his fast aim, Herne drilled him through the fleshy upper arm, the slug not even grazing the bone. Instinct kept Zac’s arm rising, the fingers opened and the pistol tumbled out of their grasp and fell towards the floor.
Before it had struck, Herne had ducked low, swiveled round and seen the throwing knife already in Savannah’s hand. Hand and knife already above his head. Herne hurled himself to his right, snapping off a shot as he went down. The bullet sailed close enough to Savannah’s face for him to feel the wind of its passage, not close enough to do damage. With a fierce whine it ricocheted off the bottom edge of one of Mrs Pinter’s copper-bottomed stew pans and made a neat hole in a wide iron skillet before embedding itself in the end wall.
Savannah’s knife vibrated from the side of one of the barrels supporting the bar. Savannah himself was down on all fours and scuffling backwards, keeping as much of the long table between Herne and himself as he could.
Herne had rolled over twice and used the flat of his left hand and his feet to push his body back up into a crouch. Zac had pulled one of the round tables down in front of him and was sheltering behind it, the second Smith & Wesson gripped tight. As Herne appeared within his eye line, Zac fired twice, both times snatching at the trigger. A slug grooved its way along the floor six inches to Herne’s right and the other sailed harmlessly until it struck the front wall of the building and lodged there.
Herne knew the second man was still armed at back of him and that he couldn’t take chances. He aimed the Colt a couple of inches above the center of the table and figured one good shot would be enough. If the wood was thick enough to deflect the path of the .45 it wasn’t by very much. The slug tore its way through and rocked the table round at a steep angle. Zac Peters was hurled back by the impact, his legs jerking up into the air like the stuffed legs of an oversize doll. As his body somersaulted into the wall, Herne turned and took two quick steps towards the stove. A shot screamed off the stovepipe chimney piece and Herne spotted Savannah wedged between a couple of flour sacks and a crate stood on end and piled high with blankets.
‘Throw it down!’
Savannah blinked, his eyes wide, beard jutting out.
‘Now!’
Herne saw Savannah gulp down a breath and watched as his eyes narrowed, fingers gripping the short-barreled Colt tighter than ever. He nodded to himself and straightened his pistol; he remembered the alley back in Cimaron Falls, the ambush at Fallen Lake, the scabbed old man tumbling down across his brother’s makeshift grave. He squeezed the trigger home.
Savannah jolted forwards, head coming down; jerked back, head rising open-mouthed. His eyes were wide now and dark. He threshed out with both arms and his gun careened away; one of the flour sacks toppled to the boards and several folded blankets followed them. Savannah was slowly sitting down, a splash of blood lancing across the front of his shirt, darkening the blue. When his behind struck the floor, head and chest slumped suddenly forward and his legs twitched strongly, boot heels drumming a tattoo upon the wood.
Herne went over and examined Zac Peters. The bullet that burst through the table had smashed its passage through the lower section of his throat, below the Adam’s apple, and exited at the base of the skull, splintering away fragment after fragment of bone. One end of the red bandanna had caught against his bottom lip; blood was splashed across his cream coat, shirt and black pants. His fine black boots were freckled with it.
Herne leaned down and closed the staring eyes with finger and thumb. From the spreading stench he knew that Peters had evacuated his bowels in the moment of death. Coughing, Herne turned away. He realized that he hadn’t felt his toothache since dismounting from his horse. The thought brought back the sharp, nagging pain.
Harry Junior was standing in the self-same position behind the bar counter as he had been when the shooting had started. There was still a glass in one hand, a cloth in the other. Slowly, watching Herne, he applied one to the other and began to polish.
Mrs Pinter coughed and shuffled and wondered whether the gunfire had disturbed her husband. But when she moved to the window, she could see him still moving gently backwards and forwards on his rocker.
Herne stood close to the center of the room, sliding fresh cartridges down into his Colt .45.
‘Guess you knew ’em,’ said Harry after a while.
‘Uh-huh. Could say that.’
‘Knew they’d be here?’
Herne shrugged. ‘It was likely.’
Harry nodded at Zac’s body over by the side wall, at Savannah lying between sacks and crates at the opposite end. ‘Waco’s boys, ain’t they?’
Herne looked at him with renewed interest. ‘You know Waco?’
Harry almost smiled. ‘Sure do. He was by here less’n a day back.’
Herne approached the counter; his Colt recharged, he slipped it down into the holster, automatically settled the small thong over the hammer. ‘Woman with him?’
‘Rose?’ asked Harry. ‘Sure, she was here. Just the pair of ’em.’
‘They didn’t wait for these?’ Herne jerked his head backwards.
‘Didn’t wait for anyone much. Bought a whole mess of supplies like they was headin’ on some journey. Lit out quicker’n a snake’s tail through a crack in the rock.’
‘Didn’t say where to?’
Harry laughed. ‘Waco? He’s closer than my uncle Becket’s eyes.’
‘Yeah,’ breathed Herne. ‘Okay.’ Then, ‘Hey, you got anythin’ for a bad tooth?’
‘Length of string an’ a door handle.’
‘Maybe later.’
Harry pointed along one of the shelves. ‘Patent medicine. Cure anythin’ if you believe the label.’
Herne shook his head.
‘Got some pretty good whiskey, that’ll keep it quiet for a time.’
‘Okay,’ Herne agreed. ‘Let me have a shot an’ then I’ll drag these two outside before they stink up the place so much all your food gets contaminated.’
Harry poured the whiskey slow and careful and held it out for Herne to take. He looked at Herne’s face quizzically and asked: ‘Them cuts an’ such, these boys have anything to do with that?’
Herne nodded and swallowed down half of the whiskey. When he’d finished coughing Harry asked him his name. Herne told him and drank some more with a little caution.
‘Herne the Hunter?’ Harry checked.
‘Yeah.’
‘My pa used to talk ’bout you. Back in the days when he used to talk at all. Said you was pretty quick!’ Harry stood back and nodded. ‘I’d say you was quick still, the way you took them two at different sides of the room. I figured one of ’em would get you for sure.’
‘You wasn’t about to interfere?’
‘Me? I like to keep neutral if I can. Only annoys the customers if you start cuttin’ loose and takin’ sides. Anyway,’ he smiled confidentially, ‘I can’t shoot worth a lick.’
Herne drained the glass, asked for some ham and eggs to be set cooking on the stove, borrowed a long-handled shovel and set to hauling the two dead men out through the door. He lugged them round past the rocking chair, skirted the corral and found the place Harry Junior had mentioned, the Ferry’s own graveyard, small but select, and surrounded by a picket fence.
Herne was still planting the second one when the Marshal’s posse came across on the ferry, west to east.
The silver of the belt buckle, silver of the star, took the light from the sun and sent it shining into Herne’s eyes. Eight men in a semi-circle, all of them well armed and none had bothered to unholster a single weapon. Herne noted the Negro at the right of the curving line, another man with a head wound towards the center. The only other one that stood out was George Rawlings himself. Herne wondered where he’d managed to get himself such a good shave that particular morning, how his shirt gave the impression of being freshly laundered when it surely hadn’t. For the first time in a long while, his own appearance got to him. He felt unkempt, disheveled, dirty. At least his tooth had seen fit to quiet down again.
‘I’d like to say you’re lookin’ good,’ said the marshal, eyeing Herne speculatively, ‘Only I ain’t that good a liar.’
Herne smarted a little under the insult. Shrugged, covering his feelings. ‘Been a long time, George,’ he said quietly.
‘That’s right. Seven or eight years back, the last time we met. I was looking for a feller who’d robbed the Wells Fargo stage of some payroll money and you were after the same man on account of the bounty.’
Herne nodded, remembering. He’d come up upon the man in a tent selling cheap liquor in some fairground in the back end of Kansas. He’d called for him to come out nice and peaceful, but of course the man hadn’t and it had been a messy business, bottles and beer and blood and one or two others who’d been inside had stopped some slugs too. At the end of it Herne had got his bounty and Rawlings, who’d arrived in time to hear the last echoes of the shooting, had ridden back empty-handed.
Herne tried to recall the outlaw’s name but it escaped him, unlike the man himself.
‘Sort of reminds me of it,’ Rawlings said. ‘Us gettin’ here just as you’re doin’ the honors. Except that this time you’re covering ’em over instead of tyin’ ’em over your saddle and sellin’ ’em like meat.’
Herne shrugged again, sensing eight pairs of hostile eyes on him, not accounting for the marshal’s, which were probably the most hostile of all.
‘Way it goes,’ Herne said, partly leaning on the shovel.
‘Still trigger happy,’ said Rawlings.
Herne shook his head quickly. ‘You know better’n that.’
Rawlings pointed at the ground. ‘They’re dead, ain’t they, and it weren’t natural causes.’
‘Soon as I walked in there,’ replied Herne, looking over towards the trading post, ‘they both went for the guns. You can ask the feller inside.’
‘Yeah,’ said Rawlings, ‘I ain’t disbelieving you. What might interest me is exactly why the sight of you should get ’em hitting leather.’
Herne stood there, saying nothing. The Negro deputy shifted his weight from one foot to another, loosened momentarily his grip on the Winchester that was angled across his chest.
‘They wouldn’t be the fellers as let into you back in Cimaron Falls, would they?’ asked the marshal. ‘Them as fooled you into stepping into an alley that was dark enough to keep ’em hidden.’ Rawlings grinned meanly and looked obviously at the mess that was Herne’s face. ‘Shame ’bout what happened.’
Herne hesitated, then said: ‘You always did know a lot more than most folk. Wonder you ain’t turned in that star for being a Pinkerton. Then you could have gone sneakin’ around with a fancy suit on an’ a bowler hat. Might be more fittin’ for a man with your looks.’
Rawlings knew that Herne was trying to rile him and let it wash off. One or two of his men, though, didn’t take it so philosophically. They looked as if they’d gladly give Herne’s face another going over given half the chance,
Rawlings pointed down at the two fresh graves. ‘One of them wouldn’t be Waco Johnny Young, would he?’
Herne half-laughed. ‘I ain’t doin’ your work for you this time, George.’
‘Not Waco, then?’
‘No. Two of his men, though. Least, I reckon so.’
Rawlings looked interested. ‘Names?’
‘Zac, one of ’em.’
‘That’d be Zac Peters. The other one?’
‘I ain’t sure.’
‘One way to be sure.’
‘Yeah?’
‘Dig ’em back up.’
Herne looked at Rawlings levelly, then at the curve of deputies. He swung up the shovel and tossed it towards the bandaged man, who caught it awkwardly, encumbered by his rifle.
‘You want to see ’em,’ said Herne, ‘you get your men to do it. I done my diggin’ for today.’
George Rawlings let his hand stray a little closer to the bolstered Remington. ‘Now that might be seen as refusing to help an officer of the United States government.’
‘So complain to your senator about it,’ said Herne and started to move away. Seven rifles shifted to cover him but he didn’t hesitate an instant. He walked past Rawlings close enough to brush his shoulder, directly at the line of deputies so that they were forced to part and let him through. By the time Herne had reached the side of the building, one of Rawlings’ men was throwing loose soil over his shoulder and most of the rest were standing around and watching. Not Rawlings, though, Herne noticed; he was watching him.
When Rawlings came back to the post, Herne was packing a few extra supplies into his saddle bags. The two men looked long at one another and finally the marshal asked, ‘Leavin’?’
Herne shook his head. ‘Not till I ate.’
‘Fair enough. I could use some coffee and it won’t hurt the boys to stretch a while longer.’
Herne finished what he was doing, refastened the straps and followed Rawllings inside. His plate of ham and eggs was warming on top of the stove, a chunk of cornbread was sitting on the table and a mug of hot coffee close by it. Herne watched as Mrs Pinter used a cloth to carry the plate from stove to table, mumbled thanks, and sat down and began to eat. The marshal poured himself a mug of coffee and sat across from Herne, leaning back against his chair.
For a while Herne ate in silence, hungry and enjoying the salt taste of the ham. Over enthusiastic, he forgot to keep his serious chewing to one side and bit down on his bad tooth. The jolt of pain was sharp enough to make him shout out.
‘Trouble?’ asked Rawlings.
‘Damned tooth!’
The marshal nodded. ‘Why ain’t you using cloves?’
‘Huh?’
‘Cloves. Rub some oil of cloves over the gum, round the tooth. If you can’t get that, just stick a clove in there and hold it fast with your tongue a while. That’ll fix it.’
Herne didn’t look at all persuaded.
‘Try it,’ Rawlings shrugged. ‘Nothin’ to lose. Except that ache.’
Herne called over to Pinter. ‘You got any oil of cloves?’
Harry Junior considered for a few moments, then shook his head.
‘I got some cloves in the kitchen here,’ called Mrs Pinter. ‘Use ’em in my apple pie.’
A little while later she shuffled towards the center table with a small jar, shook one of the cloves out and gave it to Herne in the middle of her palm. ‘Take that. I always give one to my Harry when he has the toothache. It works.’ She shook free half a dozen more and dropped them down onto the table. ‘You’d best take those with you.’
‘Thanks,’ Herne said, leaving the clove on one side until he’d finished his plate of food.
‘Never understood why you didn’t take to being a law officer,’ said Rawlings a few minutes later, setting his coffee down close by his elbow. ‘You could’ve been a United States marshal by this time. Good enough money and a Hell of a sight more respect.’
Herne glanced across. ‘I wore a badge. More’n once.’
‘Yeah. And took it off again soon as you could.’
‘Didn’t feel right.’
Rawlings pointed at him, voice hardening. ‘You feel right like you are, do you? Couple of notches higher than a saddle tramp.’
‘You saw what I done here,’ blazed Herne, pushing the plate away from himself. ‘No tramp could’ve done that. I can use this Colt as well as I ever could.’
‘Hell! You don’t think I know that? You know it. That ain’t the point. Point is: who else does? I heard how they turned you down for that badge in Cimaron and took on that kid Yester instead. He might grow into the job given time, but right now he ain’t got the balls to walk down the same side of the street with you when it comes to trouble.’
Herne broke off a chunk of bread and pulled the plate back towards him far enough to be able to wipe the bread around the egg and ham juices. He chewed it on the left side of his face, silent.
‘You looking for Waco Johnny next?’ asked Rawlings, arms folded.
‘Me? What for? I ain’t got nothin’ against him.’
‘His men beat you up pretty bad.’
‘And they paid for it.’
‘More of ’em?’
Herne told him about the gunfight up at Fallen Lake. Rawlings listened with more than a touch of admiration. If he had a man like Herne for a deputy, then he wouldn’t need eight men riding with him, just a couple would do the job as well. He glanced towards the far end of the room, where one of his deputies was leaning back against the wall, his boots standing amidst the fresh stain of blood. Another was outside the door; one more would be watching the approach across the plain. But if he had Herne – Jed Herne could outdraw and outshoot the lot of them and when it came to tracking a man down ...
But he knew that his thoughts were idle ones. Herne had ideas about remaining his own man that he likely didn’t understand himself even, but that didn’t stop them keeping him from riding with any outfit for too long. No, Herne would no more serve as his deputy than Waco John Young himself.
‘There is a reward,’ Rawlings said easily, pushing the chair back on its hind legs.
Herne looked at him without a deal of interest. ‘For Waco?’
‘Uh-huh. And more for the return of the money. The train money.’
‘How much?’ asked Herne, convincing himself that he didn’t really care.
‘Five hundred for Waco. Hundred for the money.’
‘That ain’t so much.’
‘Depends how much you already got, don’t it?’
Herne nodded, chewed on the last of the bread. He pushed the plate away a final time and scraped back the chair, standing up.
‘You ain’t interested?’ checked Rawlings.
‘No.’
‘Too bad. You an’ me.’
Herne shook his head quickly. ‘You’ll get there, sooner or later.’
‘Yeah,’ Rawlings agreed.
A while later, Herne was in the saddle and the gelding was ready to go. George Rawlings leaned across the hitching rail and looked up at him. ‘Course,’ he said, ‘you ain’t got no idea exactly where Waco might have gone?’
Herne shook his head. ‘No. None.’ He pushed the clove back against his gum and held it there with the tip of his tongue; flicked the reins, rocked a little in the saddle. The gelding set off across the plain, leaving them all watching, Rawlings, the deputies, even old pain Pinter still gently rocking.