It was an easy shot for Herne.
Lowering the rifle and quickly waving smoke away so that he could see the success of his opening bullet. Looking across the square of Cold Christmas and breathing in calmly as he saw O’Sullivan lying on the boardwalk outside the First National, hands to his neck, a pair of gunny bags fallen near him. Opening as they fell, the bitter wind ripping at them, scattering the beginnings of a dollar snowstorm about the town.
The negro had the horses at the corner of the building, freezing with shock at the sudden crack of the Sharps, staring around to try and locate the marksman. Seeing Herne still sitting on a porch along the street.
Wright and Joey were framed in the doorway, peering out of the darkness into the bright light of the day. Each of them holding a sack like the two that were blowing along the sidewalk.
Herne levered in another round, bringing the heavy rifle to his shoulder. Ready to take out the black. Knowing that the two inside the bank couldn’t go far without their horses.
When a group of a half dozen young children came scampering around the side of the bank, playing a game of chase-and-catch. Boys and girls together, squealing in their excitement.
‘Damn it,’ breathed the shootist, holding his aim, but unable to fire as they were now between him and his target.
The shot had brought out more of the people of the township, standing in doorways or calling from suddenly open windows.
‘What do we do?’ yelled Beech, panic trembling on the edge of his voice. Holding on for dear life to the four bridles, fighting to control the terrified animals as they kicked and reared, nearly jerking him off his feet.
The leader of the gang called out in reply, but Herne couldn’t catch the words. The tall shootist stood, moving a few paces further along the street to try and get himself a shot at the negro. But the children were still in the way. Their game now forgotten, standing all stock-still, gazing slack-jawed at the dying man and the fluttering mound of bank-notes.
Mothers were crying out at the little group, but the kids took no notice at all, fascinated by the horror show being played out right in front of them.
Herne finally reached a position where he could get in a clear line of fire at the bandit holding the horses. Wright and Joey had disappeared inside again for a moment, but he could see movement inside the bank. The shootist guessed that they were readying themselves for a run to the horses, shielded by the children.
The Sharps was at his shoulder again, drawing a steady bead on the negro.
‘No; no you don’t young man,’ snapped a waspish, querulous voice at his elbow, and a bony hand reached out and gripped the barrel of the buffalo rifle, jerking it downwards.
His finger tightened on the trigger and the gun exploded, the bullet ripping up a chunk of the street twenty yards in front of him.
‘You stupid bitch,’ he snarled, trying to pull the Sharps back from her grip, turning to confront the woman.
She was close to seventy, but built like a whaleboned frigate. Wiry, without an ounce of spare flesh on her. Her face was narrow, with gold-rimmed glasses perched perilously on the rim of her nose, looking as though they were poised to slide their way to freedom. Her hair was iron-grey, tugged unmercifully into a bun. A style so rock-like that it looked like you could use it to break toffee. She was dressed in a black dress, frilled with black lace and wore high black button boots. The only touch of color was a cream cameo brooch pinned to her tight bosom.
‘Give me the gun, young man.’
‘Let go.’
He heard another woman’s voice from behind him calling out with a nervous stutter. ‘Aunt Lou. Aunt Lou! Don’t get … get yourself all aerated.’
‘I’m not, child,’ snapped the old woman, fingers still tight on the barrel of the Sharps.
‘Let go.’
‘No. I’m an old lady, but I won’t be pushed round by a tarry-hootin’ varmint like you. Stealin’ folks’ hard-earned money.’
‘I’m not one of them, you damned old fool! I’m try in’ to stop them.’
Not even a glimmer of doubt entered those steely eyes. ‘We’ll let the law see to that.’
There was a crackle of shots from over her shoulder, outside the bank, immediately followed by a jagged burst of screams. Herne saw that Wright and the small figure of Joey had made their break for the horses, covering themselves with an indiscriminate volley of fire into the group of watching children. Joey snapped off both barrels of the shotgun, the heavy boom of the discharge echoing around the square of Cold Christmas.
The children fell like little puppets, some of them lying still in their own blood, others crawling away, while adults all about started to yell, a few of them returning the shots of the bandits.
‘Let go!’ shouted Herne to the old woman.
‘No. The law’s the—’
He swung his left fist at her body, punching as hard as he could into the midriff. Though she grunted with the blow, she didn’t relax her hold for a moment, and the shootist was left nursing bruised knuckles from her solid corsets.
‘Damn it!’ he shouted, feeling red anger creep up on him at her unrelenting stupidity.
‘Let him go, Aunt Lou,’ called the voice from inside the house.
‘Pesky young—’ began the old woman, but Herne had given her enough chances.
He hit her again, with the edge of his left hand, hard as a board. Sharply up under the nose, hearing the crack of bone. Blood started and she staggered back, finally releasing the gun.
‘Weren’t no call for that,’ she said, voice muffled by blood.
‘You God-damned brainless bitch,’ he swore, pushing her out of the way, trying to reload the Sharps, seeing that the bandits had killed at least four of the children and were now returning some of the brisk fire from the folk of the town. Joey was up in the saddle, fumbling with the shotgun, finally sliding it into the holster. Drawing a pistol and snapping off three shots at a man standing in front of the telegraph office. Whooping with delight as he clutched at his thigh and fell, a dark stain spreading over the legs of his pants.
George Wright was finally mounted, waving his black hat in his left hand, whooping out orders to the other two. Beech was on his bay mare, leaning forward over the neck of the animal, ducking as a bullet hissed through the hem of his duster coat.
Herne tried again to find a place for a clear shot, but the angered citizens of Cold Christmas were pouring from their homes like enraged hornets from a nest, all shouting and calling to each other.
‘There’s one!’ yelled someone and the shootist realized, to his dismay, that others were making the same mistake that the old woman had made. Recognizing a stranger carrying a gun and assuming right off that he must be one of the bandits.
Heads turned, seeing the tall man with cold eyes, holding a cocked Sharps fifty-five. And leaning against the wall of the house near to him with the blood-spattered figure of Miss Louisa Montfitchet, hand clapped to her broken nose, looking like she was about to pass clean away.
Herne had a round ready in the rifle and he turned a last time towards the bank. Seeing the three men ready to flee. But in the excitement all of them had dropped the brown sacks of money and dollars were flying everywhere. To the great distraction of many of the men around whose attention was divided between civic outrage and simple greed.
‘Get him!’ yelled someone and a bullet smacked into the wall of the building, just beyond Herne’s shoulder, missing the old lady by less than three inches.
The street was a shambles of dead and dying, with the long coats of the three raiders flapping as they started to gallop towards where Herne stood.
There was just time for one snatched shot from the Sharps. Jed saw the negro clutch at his shoulder as they galloped towards him. But his attention was caught by something else.
Something so amazing that he could hardly believe what he saw.
The small man that he knew as Joey was crouched low over the neck of his horse giving all of his energy to the escape. Someone had torn the bandit’s shirt and Herne, and the rest of the township, saw that Joey was a woman. A secret that Matt Kitchener had taken with him to his grave.
In the confusion and panic, with George Wright coming last, raking the street with bullets, Herne turned and slipped through the building behind him, past a startled young woman with thick, pebbled spectacles. Out into a draw that ran behind the main street of Cold Christmas, sprinting away from the noise and the dying.
Heading for his own horse.
Finding the black stallion tied just where he’d left it, in a small grove of sycamores on the outskirts of the settlement.
Herne vaulted into the saddle, bucketing the Sharps, setting his heels to the animal’s flanks, pushing it away from the buildings.
The shootist figured that Cold Christmas would take some time to get itself a posse together, giving the three surviving robbers a couple of hours’ start. But this time he was right on their trail. Eating their dust as they charged frantically away, back west towards the high mountains.
He rode on after them, towards the sun, moving at a fast canter, not wanting to tire his stallion out too soon. Knowing that this time the tracking would be easy, and there was little risk of anyone else interfering in the final drama.
Among the tracks of the three horses he noticed there were occasional spots of blood.