Rose bent over the stove and lifted the lid; the stew bubbled lightly against the sides of the pan, chunks of once dried meat bubbling up through the thick juice, the pieces of vegetable. Earlier that day she’d baked bread and now it was proving, wrapped in a blanket. There was a pot waiting near the stove in which she would make Johnny’s favorite tea, dark and hot, almost black and so strong that it seemed to bite your lip as it entered your mouth. She began to sing to herself, a strange flat chant remembered from that part of her childhood she had spent with her mother’s people.
Coiled up on the road
on a long stick
At the water’s edge
coiled up
Around a branch
coiled up
Inside a tree
coiled up
Waiting Hissing
Coiled up
Making a noise
Coiled on a long stick
Coiled there
Waiting
Making a noise
In the sun
Round a branch
Inside a tree
Waiting
Hissing
HissSSSisssHissSSS
She lifted the lid again when she reached the final hissing sound, the sigh of steam joining with her voice. Rose was unaware that Waco had soft-footed his way back into the cabin and was leaning against the rough wood wall, watching her. Listening. He was around thirty years and looked older; a scar sustained in a knife fight fifteen years earlier ran diagonally down his left cheek and finished at the corner of his mouth. It was three days since he had shaved. His hair was dark and cut raggedly close. His eyes were strangely light and they watched the woman endlessly. Now he stared at the plump curve of her buttocks as she bent over the stove, the swell of flesh around her hip. In the closeness of the cabin he could smell the food and he could smell her.
He wanted her.
She turned and gave a quick start when she saw that he was looking at her.
‘What’s the matter?’ Waco smiled and when he did so his face was suddenly handsome in a way it had not been before.
‘I didn’t hear you enter.’
‘Something I learned from you,’ he said, still smiling, still wanting her. ‘You taught me how to move without letting anyone hear you.’
Rose smiled too. ‘I learned it from my people.’
‘And the song?’
‘Song?’
‘The one you were singing.’
‘Oh, yes, that too.’
Waco was staring at her blouse, at the swollen nipples that pressed against it; he remembered how they were dark and wide. ‘What’s it about?’ he asked.
‘About? It is ...’ She saw him looking at her breasts and was pleased and proud, yet she folded her arms over her chest just the same. ‘... a song for toothache.’
‘The song give you toothache?’
‘Cures toothache.’ She laughed like a girl, knowing he was teasing her and not caring.
Waco came closer to the stove, closer to her. ‘Smells good,’ he said, ‘the stew.’
‘Yes.’
‘It’ll keep a while, won’t it?’
‘I thought you were hungry.’
He couldn’t stop looking at her, the dark fuzz of hair down the side of her face, across her upper lip where it was damp with sweat. Again, he could smell her. ‘I am,’ he said.
‘I mean, I thought you wanted to eat.’
‘I do.’
She looked into his eyes, making sure that he wanted her; glanced at the crotch of his pants.
‘We got time,’ he said.
‘All right’
Waco took hold of her by the arm and she went with him to the mattress that lay on the floor beside the wall.
‘Toothache, huh?’
He began to undress her and she him.
Herne read the slim filter of blue smoke against the shifting background of a sky with a wind from the northeast. He’d hobbled the gelding lower down and left it out of sight. Three times he’d checked to see if anyone had been following him but had seen nothing. After that he’d concentrated on finding the place that Tex had spoken of. He’d had to negotiate a warren of small and narrow canyons; steep sided and spotted on their western slopes with coarse bracken and shrub. Elsewhere the rock broke through the thin layer of soil and grazed the surface with brittle gray.
It was the smoke that led him finally, before that markings so faint that only a practiced tracker could have read them; two horses, both laden quite heavily had traveled by. Herne followed in their wake, the long-barreled Sharps in his left hand, pockets of his coat stuffed with shells.
When he came upon the shack it was sudden, a sharp turn almost against the contours of the land and he was at the entrance to another canyon. The building was at the furthest end, backed against a sheer cliff face. The sides of the canyon were scooped out at that end so that it was impossible to make an approach from above and get within easy range. Easy enough for a shot through the window or door. If a man stood out front, he could be picked off by a good shot with a rifle, but then an experienced man like Waco John Young wasn’t about to be so stupid.
A weapon like the Sharps had the extra range to get the man from further back and amidst better cover. All Herne had to do was clamber up one side or the other and lay low. Sooner or later Waco or the woman would have to come out and relieve themselves, fetch water from the barrel at the end, just look at the sun and sky. With the Sharps it was possible to kill either of them without the victim being aware that he’d even been shot at, never mind by whom.
Herne knew all this, but he wasn’t about to do it. There were situations when he’d use the rifle, times when it was the best, the only possible alternative. But it was an anonymous kind of killing, like sneaking up behind a man in the dark. It stuck in Herne’s craw.
He surveyed the lay out of the canyon and guessed that if Marshal Rawlings moved in with his eight deputies, he was as likely to lose at least half of them before they could do any damage. If Waco had supplies enough, water enough, Rawlings wouldn’t drive him out without burning him out. And to do that he had the same difficulty – he had to get close. A hell of a lot closer than Waco was going to allow him.
Herne spat the clove from his mouth; his tooth had nearly ceased to ache altogether.
He reckoned he could get within fifty to sixty yards if he crawled along the right hand side of the canyon, get that far without showing too much of himself to whoever might be looking out from the shack. There was a hump of rock there and a ragged line of scrub that snaked down from the upper levels of ground.
Waco and the woman: Waco John Young and Rose. What kind of a woman was it who’d cut the throat of another to get a letter? Who’d slash another woman’s throat out of spite? He remembered meeting Nadine in the entrance to the hotel, all airs and graces and a fancy hair style but in spite of it so damned good-looking that it nearly took a man’s breath away. Was that part of it, Herne wondered? Had Waco slipped into town to see Rose and seen Nadine instead? If he’d known Edwards, as he dearly had, then he’d have known about his wayward, beautiful wife. What had Tex Blakely said, describing her? He’d called her high rent. Herne nodded. Waco was the kind of man who would have been able to pay Nadine’s kind of price.
He had no way of knowing whether what he thought was true. As far as Nadine was concerned it no longer mattered. Nor did it for him. What mattered was the reward money. Six hundred dollars would see him right for some little time. Enough to let him ride unfettered for a while longer.
Herne dropped down back of the hunched rock and shucked his Stetson to the ground at back of him. He made no move for the best part of half an hour, watching and waiting, listening. Whatever was going on inside it was awful quiet, only the steady drift of smoke to suggest that anyone was there at all. He supposed their horses were tethered at the rear, but couldn’t see. The space between the back wall and the sheer rise of rock must be little enough, but a couple of animals could stay there if they weren’t allowed to stray around.
Herne’s mind began to drift, against his own will, and suddenly it was yanked back by a high, winding shout, close to a scream, a woman’s voice shrill and in pain. Herne’s hand brought the Colt up against the upper edge of rock.
No, he thought, it wasn’t pain, not a cry of pain. He knew then what Waco and the woman had been doing, why they had been so quiet. He lowered the Colt and decided to give them five minutes more. He didn’t see the reason for hurry.
His mind went to Rose, his memory of her in the dining rooms back at Cimaron Falls, the resentful eyes and the strong body that suggested strength and power held barely in check. In his head, she lay on a cot bed, naked. He could almost taste her; smell her skin and the residue of sweat that coated it. It was a long time since Herne had had a woman like her. He shook his head as if that would dislodge the thought, the desire from his mind.
With six hundred dollars riding free, he could buy himself a lot of women.
‘Waco!’
Herne’s voice echoed back to him from the far side of the canyon. The last tones of his shout f ell away and he set both hands to his mouth again.
‘Waco!’
Inside the shack, Waco John Young rolled the woman away from himself and swung his legs over the side of the mattress. He motioned to Rose to stay where she was and reached for his pants, leaving his long Johns where they lay in a heap on the floor. He knelt up and buckled on his gun belt as the voice rang out for a third time.
Rose looked at him, dark-eyed, anxious and questioning.
‘It’s one of the boys,’ she said, not quite believing it.
Waco shook his head; the voice was wrong and besides none of them would have announced themselves that way. He moved to the window and slowly peered out, down the canyon. At first there was nothing different, no sign of anyone being there. Except for the voice.
‘You hear me, Waco?’
It was off to the side. Waco’s eyes tracked it down, eyes following ears; he saw the rock and guessed.
‘Who is it?’ asked Rose, her voice low, although they could not have been heard.
‘I don’t know.’
‘It isn’t that marshal?’
Waco hesitated. ‘I don’t think so. I think it’s one man.’
A shadow crossed Rose’s face. One man? She sidled off the bed and got dressed hastily, glancing at Waco from time to time, watching to see what he would do.
Herne eased the muscles in his legs, shifting his weight from one side to the other; he knew that in that position there was a danger of getting cramp, which would limit him if he needed to move quickly.
‘Waco, you want to talk?’
The no was positive, scornful even, but at least it was a reply.
‘Waco, maybe you’d best talk to me while you got a chance.’
Waco wanted to laugh at that but something prevented him. Rose pushed up alongside him and he felt her warmth as a distraction now and used his arm to move her further off.
‘Find out who he is?’ Rose hissed.
‘Who are you?’ Waco called through the glassless window.
‘Herne.’
‘Jed Herne?’
‘Yeah.’
Rose’s eyes fixed on Waco’s face and read the beginnings of anxiety there.
‘I heard of you, Herne. You haul men off and get the money on their pelts like they was vermin.’
‘Some men are, Waco,’ Herne shouted back.
Waco moved his gun up onto the window frame and squatted down behind it. He had the upper ridge of the rock in his sights and wanted only one blur of color above it to give himself a target.
‘Don’t waste your time with threats, Herne. Ride back down the canyon while you can.’
‘Not before I get what I come for.’
This time Waco did laugh, a rich sound that rang down the space between the two men. ‘You ain’t never gettin’ me.’
‘It ain’t you I want, Waco.’
As the voice echoed about them, Waco and Rose looked at one another. If it was true, then what was he after? Who? Had someone put a bounty on Rose’s head for killing Nadine?
Waco turned again to the window. ‘Whatever you want, Herne, you’re leavin’ empty handed.’
Herne changed his position again, careful not to expose himself to what he knew must be Waco’s waiting gun. ‘It’s the money I want,’ he called.
‘What money?’
‘The railroad money.’
‘I haven’t got it.’
‘You’re lying. You and the woman took it from Fallen Lake. You killed an old man to get it. One of you did. You or Rose.’ He paused but there was no response. He checked back down the canyon but there was no sign of anyone approaching – nor did he expect there to be. Without the information that he’d got himself from the wounded Tex, Marshal Rawlings and his posse would be trailing from hill to hill and arroyo to arroyo for days before they came upon this place. Unless they were heading in the right direction, even the thin trail of smoke wouldn’t lead them, too quickly broken up by the wind.
‘I don’t care about that,’ Herne shouted. ‘There’s a reward for returning the money and I want that. Aim to get it. Toss it out and I’ll ride back the way I came, leave you both in peace.’
‘Go to Hell!’
Herne put a shot through the side of the window frame and splinters sped through the air inside the shack, narrowly missing both Waco and Rose. As Waco pulled back and Rose ducked low, sheltering under her arms, Herne fired twice more, once through the open window and the next shot deflecting off the heavy wood of the door, away over the flat roof. Herne took careful aim and sent a slug close to where the first one had struck, taking out a large chunk of planking, setting free more splinters inside the shack. The bullet lodged in the ceiling.
Herne smoothly, quickly reloaded.
‘The money, Waco!’ he called.
‘I told you, go to Hell!’
‘I can sit here and shoot that place of yours to pieces, bit by bit.’
Waco laughed. ‘You haven’t got the ammunition to do it’
‘When I run out, I’ll go fetch the marshal and those riflemen of his, they’ve got bullets enough to ventilate the place, you know that.’
‘What are we going to do?’ asked Rose, crouching on the floor.
Waco was trying to figure out the answer to just that question. So far he hadn’t come up with a lot that seemed reasonable. ‘I ain’t sure,’ he told her, ‘but we’re not letting go of that money.’
‘When you goin’ to stop hiding, Waco?’
Waco spun round, anger beginning to flush his face. Anger and frustration. ‘I ain’t hiding, Herne!’
‘Like Hell you ain’t! Sneakin’ around up there behind a woman’s skirts!’
Waco fired twice through the window, cursing at the same time. ‘I never hid in my life. And for sure never back of no woman!’
Rose looked up at him, thinking about what he was saying, realizing that whoever that was outside knew exactly the right things to say to goad him into losing his temper.
‘Show yourself, then. Let’s see you.’
‘Walk out there and get shot down while you keep that rock between us? What’s that if it ain’t hiding?’
Herne’s voice sang out louder than ever. ‘You come out and we’ll face up one to one.’
‘Man to man!’ Rose snorted inside the shack.
‘What’s wrong with that?’ demanded Waco.
‘He’s tricking you,’ she said. ‘Using words to make you go out there and get shot.’
‘You want me to stay cooped up in here?’
‘Coming here was your idea! They’ll never find us, you said.’
‘They shouldn’t have.’
Rose pointed through the window. ‘He did!’ the words all but spat from her mouth.
‘I know. That’s why I’m going out to face him.’
‘He’ll shoot you down the minute you step through the door.’
Waco shook his head. ‘I don’t think so.’
She turned her back to him. ‘Then you’re a fool!’
‘Because I trust a man?’ He set his hand, none too gently, upon her shoulder.
She turned to face him, shrugging his fingers away. ‘You trust a man who wants to shoot you?’
‘I know that man down there. His reputation anyway. He’s straight enough. He’ll give me an even shake.’
Rose shook her head. ‘You stupid men and your honor!’
Waco began to say something but thought better of it. He reloaded his pistol and slid it up and down in his holster several times, the action unhampered and free.
‘Rose,’ he said, holding her by the arms, ‘I can take him. Don’t worry. He ain’t so young no more. He won’t be so fast. I can take him.’
The dark eyes looked up at him and she shook a little in his grasp. ‘Johnny,’ she said, soft-voiced, ‘for my sake, don’t step out there.’
‘You’re askin’ me to be a coward.’
‘For my sake, I’m saying don’t go.’
He shook his head. ‘I have to.’
‘Why?’ Her voice now almost a scream.
Waco set his back to her, tried the gun in its holster several more times.
‘Why, Johnny?’ Almost a whisper.
He knew the answers inside his head. Knew that however many times he told her she would likely never come to understand. Because he believed Herne would give him a fair chance, he had to go. To prove himself. To answer the challenge. One to one. Yes, man to man. Had to. It was his way of life. Herne’s too. That was why he knew it would be fair.
‘Johnny.’
Waco swung away from the door and his arms were tight about her and he was kissing her hard. Her teeth bit down into the flesh inside his lower lip and for a few seconds he tasted blood.
‘Waco!’
He straightened and Rose released him.
‘I’m comin’ through,’ he called. ‘And my gun’s holstered.’
‘Okay.’
The door pushed back and Herne saw that it was true. Waco hesitated a moment once in the open, then started to walk slowly, letting his eyes get accustomed to the extra light. The wind lifted one of the lapels of his shirt and pushed it up against his face. Herne stood clear of the rock, making sure Waco could see that his hands were well clear of his gun belt. Then he moved to his left until the two men were facing one another and maybe forty yards apart. They looked at one another and, at the same beat, began to walk forward.
From the window, Rose, watching, counted the paces beneath her breath.
Twelve, thirteen …
The men’s eyes caught and locked. Both right hands hovered above the butts of their pistols, curved, fingers hooked.
The first shot drove Waco back as if he’d been kicked, the second swung him midway round, the third hammered into His side and sent him staggering back towards the cabin.
Herne’s hand went through the motion of the draw, pulling the Colt up as he slid his body to see who had fired the shots, somewhere behind him, three different weapons. As his head curved round he saw the riflemen on the slopes at either side, well back down the canyon. Well back yet within range.
He saw two more prepare to shoot: Waco didn’t. All that Waco saw was the cabin, the door opening and Rose in the doorway. Running towards him. Helplessly towards him. A slug drove into the small of his back and kicked him forwards. His face hit the dirt and grazed along the ground. Rose was still running. She was close. He tried to lift his head and as he did so a last bullet tore into his back, high up, between the shoulder blades.
Rose!
She bent over him and again he tried to look at her, to speak. His mouth opened and a gout of blood flew out onto the hem of her skirt. It splashed up over her.
They were standing now, four on each side of the canyon, no longer any need for cover,
Rose grabbed at Waco’s pistol, forcing it from his fingers, where they were trapped’ about it. She stood up, breath coming fast and loud; her thumb prized the hammer back and she lifted the gun in front of her chest. A hail of bullets smacked into her, jolting her this way and that, arms and legs dancing akimbo. She bucked and folded and there was another volley of shots. Abruptly she fell headlong, her chest and belly, arms and legs littered with bullet wounds. She was adrift in blood.
Still her arm stretched and her hand sought. Waco was two yards away and it could have been two miles. She tried to lever herself closer but she could scarcely breathe and her brain seemed to be swimming in something that was sticky and thick, clinging. Cloying. Her limbs were on fire; in her belly she felt as if she might be giving birth. Her hand was almost touching him.
Inches from his hand, the one that had held the gun. She arched her back and twisted and her hand grabbed for Waco’s and held a palmful of dirt and dust. Her eyes closed and as the hand fell back the dirt trickled through her fingers.
Herne was already walking away, back in the direction from which US Marshal Rawlings was riding, clean and ordered on his horse, straight backed and legal. The light catching all six points of the star on his vest.
Rawlings reined in as Herne drew nearer. The deputies stood on higher ground and watched, Winchesters at the ready.
‘Figured you was holding out on us,’ said Rawlings, his tone conversational, almost friendly. ‘Sort of tagged along behind. Got to thank you for flushing him out for us. I guess we could throw a little more in with your share of the reward money.’
‘To Hell with the money!’ Herne stood his ground, staring bitterly at the peace officer, hand awful close to the butt of his Colt.
Rawlings knew but he just stared back down at him. ‘Don’t take it that way, Herne. You did us a favor is all.’
Still staring at the marshal, Herne cleared his throat and spat on the ground in front of the horse.
‘Didn’t I say I could do with you for a deputy?’ said Rawlings, ignoring the gesture. ‘Weren’t I right?’
Herne pointed back towards the shack. ‘Don’t get me messed up with this, Rawlings. I don’t want any part of it. Not the money, not the reward, not the killings. None of it.’
A smile flickered onto the marshal’s face as he leaned down from his saddle. ‘You’re riled up about nothing. What happened? A couple of killers got what was coming to them, that’s all.’
Herne was shaking his head. ‘I gave my word. He trusted me. I gave my word and you broke it for me.’
Rawlings sat back, angry. ‘One man’s word! What the Hell’s that to me? I’ve got the law to uphold, that’s what matters.’
‘To you,’ said Herne quietly, walking on past. ‘To you.’
Rawlings swung round in the saddle to watch him go. Herne made himself walk on, struggling with the desire to go back and make the marshal realize – but he knew it would be useless. Useless and stupid.
Up ahead, blood still ran from the two bodies and their hands were no closer to each other. Rose still had her happiness in a handful of dust. The money was in a sack close by the stove inside the shack. George Rawlings paused briefly to glance down at Waco and Rose. Then he rode on past towards the building.
Herne reached the gelding and prepared to ride out. There was food in his saddle bags, five dollars in his pocket and his tooth was beginning to ache yet again. Without wanting to he could see Waco’s eyes at that final second and he knew they would stay with him for a long time – that and the woman’s body being torn apart by those shiny, lawful guns. He kicked the horse and started to ride slowly south.