Herne had been hunted by the best. Civil War guerillas with eyes like stone chips and brains smaller than a sheep who could still take the leg off of a bobcat at four hundred paces with one of their long muskets. There’d been all kinds of Indian tribes. Cheyenne and Arapaho. Mimbreños and Pawnee. Sauk and Blackfoot. Creek and Navaho. Chiricahua and Kiowa. Comanche and Shoshoni. Warriors who would wait with an infinity of patience to take their enemies. And there had been Mexican bandits, crude and excitable. Mountain men after bounties.
After that a sixteen-year-old girl from Baton Rouge was never really in there with much of a chance.
Herne saw the signs a full half mile before he came on her. There was a pair of hawks, hanging evening-dappled, wind-hovering. Occasionally swooping lower with a harsh cry towards the dome of dark trees, then rising again. There was something there that had scared them away, probably keeping them from their eyrie.
It could just be that the two fugitives had stopped to rest a blown horse. Or to snatch a meal. But Herne’s first and most pressing thought was that they were lying for him in ambush.
They’d have heard the boom of the Sharps and the flatter sound of the pistol. They’d know he’d be closing in on them. So, if they couldn’t outrun him, then they’d have to turn and fight.
Some time.
Soon.
The hawks had disappeared, vanishing towards the snow-capped peaks to the west, where the sun was already out of sight. Bringing a new bite to the wind, turning the dust-coated water in the trail ruts to thin ice that cracked under the hooves of the big stallion.
Apart from the sound the forest was totally quiet. And that alone was enough to worry Herne.
‘When the animals are silent there are men about.’ Who had said that? Was it the tall Apache warrior, Cuchillo Oro? Old Golden Knife himself? Herne couldn’t exactly recall.
But whoever had first said it, there wasn’t a shred of doubt about the truth of it. Somewheres ahead of him they were waiting.
He left his horse again. It was so close to night with ill weather threatening that he doubted the robbers would go much further anyway. So it would be good to make the best use of the blackness and try and get in close to kill them both.
Herne rarely went after enemies with the plan to take them prisoner. It was all about getting there firstest with the mostest. That generally meant blowing people away the first chance you got.
Among the thick trees to the right of the main trail it didn’t seem so cold. Out of the teeth of the biting wind that still swept southwards, carrying sleet and hail on its breath.
He’d left the Sharps behind. Whatever happened it was likely to be close fighting.
Gradually he circled away from the track, wanting to come in from behind. Using his instinctive woodcraft to keep going among the maze of ice-slick trees, managing to hold a position parallel to the trail. He had his Colt out and cocked. Despite the cold he’d taken off his heavy gauntlets, wanting to feel the action of the filed-down trigger.
He cut back on the trail with the light almost totally gone. Bending, head turning around for a sign of trouble, checking the marks. One horse. Only one.
The girl or the man?
From the depth and span of the tracks it was obvious to the shootist that it must be the man on his large stallion who’d gone ahead, leaving the young woman behind.
‘Nice. That’s real nice, George,’ whispered Jed to himself.
Despite her age and the fact that she was a woman, Joey had tried. Tried really hard, better than a lot of men could have done.
She’d dug herself a small hide, using broken branches and twigs, building a nest for herself in among the piled greenery. From a distance it was impossible to see her. But Herne knew she was there.
One thing that she’d forgotten was that it was so cold. Though Joey was well wrapped in layers of clothes her body heat was disappearing. Rising in a barely visible veil of steam above the hide. Already Herne could make out ice glistening around the edges of the branches she’d cut and tugged to cover herself.
He was in among the trees, while Joey was facing the other way. Not knowing that he’d circled around her and was closing in from the back.
It crossed his mind to empty the pistol in among the greenery, but there was always the odd chance that he might not kill her or wound her sufficiently and then he might be in trouble.
If it hadn’t been for the poor light Herne would have gone back and fetched the Sharps. And fired into the hide until he’d killed her safely from cover.
Not very chivalrous.
Then again, Jedediah Travis Herne had never been in the chivalry business.
But night was on him. And George Wright was still somewhere out in the darkness. Probably trying to make himself a camp quite close. Herne’s guess was that the leader of the bank robbers couldn’t be more than four or five miles off from him.
‘Leave her or kill her?’ He said to himself.
He could go on around her. Track her horse and slit its throat. The odds were then that Joey would die in the wilderness, if one of the posses on the trail didn’t get to her first and hang her.
There was a movement among the branches and he saw the white of a face. Hands gripping a rifle that glinted a little in the last of the day.
He was a long way off for a pistol shot but he took a chance.
‘Hold it there, Joey!’
The reply was two shots, levered off quickly and snapped in his direction, one coming within a couple of yards of his head. He responded with three pistol shots, hearing the squeal of pain. Seeing the rifle falling among the branches while the girl staggered to her left, toppling over. Trying to stand again. Falling.
Lying still.
‘Don’t move, you stupid bitch!’ He came cautiously out from the cover of the tree, holding the handgun on Joey.
‘You hit my leg. I’m crippled, you fuckin’ dirty bastard! Jesus, my leg’s broke.’
‘Get your clothes off.’
‘What?’
‘Your nigra friend tried to bushwhack me. I don’t want to come closer.’
‘Go fuck yourself up the ass, mister!’
‘I’ll kill you from here if you don’t.’
‘All my clothes?’
‘Yeah. Every damned stitch, and throw them over here to me.’
‘You goin’ to rape me?’
Herne hadn’t really thought much about that as a possibility. ‘I might.’
‘You’re Herne?’
‘Yeah.’
‘The real Herne the Hunter?’
‘Right.’
‘God, this leg… You’d really shoot me like a dog, Mr. Herne?’
‘That’s all you are, Joey. That your real name?’
‘Yeah. Short for Josephine. Joey Cash.’
‘Clothes off, girl.’
Slowly, wriggling around, obviously in a lot of pain, she did as he ordered. Pulling off the long duster coat and the jacket. The layers peeling away from her like skins from an onion. Revealing her small, fire-tipped breasts.
‘And the boots and pants. All.’
‘I’ll freeze you son of a fuckin’ bitch, Herne. You want me dead?’
‘Yeah. But maybe not now.’
‘Want to see me hang?’
‘I don’t like watching hangings, girl. But I want the money you’ll bring in. And you can help me clear my name. There’s flyers out on me.’
She laughed, stopping and gasping as pain bit at her.
‘That … That was George’s idea. Real good at ideas, George.’
‘Like him runnin’ and you stayin’?’
‘It was my idea.’
‘Oh. Come on. The boots and pants.’
‘You want me to throw them all to you?’
Herne nodded. Going through the pockets of the coat and the shirts. Finding a razor in the jacket. And a derringer in the pants. She sat still, shivering with the cold, hugging her arms around herself. Watching him without saying a word. He felt inside the boots and shook her thin cotton drawers.
‘You gettin’ excited at that, mister?’
‘No.’
‘I used to be a whore in Dallas, Mr. Herne. Good one. Turned plenty of tricks. You sure you don’t want me?’
‘I might.’
The truth was that her pale, unwashed body repelled him. She was poorly developed for her age, with small breasts, narrow thighs and her ribs protruding as though she hadn’t eaten in weeks. There was blood leaking steadily from the bullet wound at the back of her right calf.
‘That forty-five still in the leg?’
‘No. Gone clean on through. Doesn’t hurt so bad now.’
‘Get dressed again. No. Stand up first and move away a little. Hands where I can see them.’
‘I can’t stand. Come help me.’
‘No.’
‘Come on,’ wheedling like a child who wants to be allowed an extra ten minutes before being sent off to bed.
‘Get up.’
‘Come and help. I’ll be real nice to you. Honest I will. You can keep my drawers if’n you want. Some of my clientele liked that.’ She used the word “clientele” as though she was very proud of it.
‘I don’t want them.’
‘Then what would you like, Herne?’
‘Nothin’, Joey. Nothin’.’
‘How ‘bout if I washed your cock for you?’
‘No.’
‘I could walk over your bare body in my boots. Lots of fellers like that, Herne. Or I could bend you over and use—’
‘Shut your damned mouth, Joey.’
She grinned at him. A thin, mean little smile, just like the murderous young whore she was at heart. Jed motioned to her with the barrel of the pistol and she reluctantly struggled to her feet. Stepping from where she’d been as he waved the gun.
Herne wasn’t surprised to find a small knife where she’d been lying. It had a silver, engraved blade and a contoured hilt of mother-of-pearl. A lethal weapon that could have opened up Jed’s throat from ear to ear. He threw the knife as far away as he could in among the trees, where it disappeared in the night.
‘How ’bout gettin’ dressed now, Joey? Before you catch cold.’
He leaned against a tree, watching her as she quickly tugged her clothes back on again. She winced a couple of times and cried out with pain as she pulled on her boots over the wounded leg. Herne figured it was all right to leave it for the time being. Maybe take a look at it in the morning.
The pale body vanished. The skinny breasts and the dark vee of stubbly hair at the junction of her thighs. Jed was glad to see her covered, finding the sight of her naked body strangely affecting.
‘Now what, Mr. Herne?’
‘Now we rest up for the night. Your horse near?’
‘It’s fine for the time. Be all right until the morning.’
‘Then you stay here. I’ll tie you.’
‘What about tomorrow?’
‘We go after George.’
Suddenly, shocking him, the girl dropped to her knees and started to cry. Not the imitation tears of an actress but real sobbing. Her body shaking, tears plowing through the trail dirt on her face, making her seem very young and innocent. The former she was. The latter she wasn’t.
‘Stop it, Joey.’
‘I can’t. I don’t want to be taken back, Herne.’
‘That doesn’t signify.’
‘I’d do anything for you, Herne.’
‘Come on, girl.’
‘Anything. I couldn’t face a lynching. Or a life in a federal penitentiary. It’d send me mad. Please, please.’
‘No. Say another word and I’ll gag you, Joey. You been runnin’ up a good long debt. No point whimpering now it’s payin’ time.’
She stood patiently and watched while he prepared a camp site for them. There was always the possibility that George might show up in the middle of the night, so the shootist didn’t light a fire. Simply collecting blankets and gathering together some dry leaves to help fend off the bitter cold.
‘You’re really goin’ to take me in.’
‘Yeah.’
She came and stood close to him. ‘I never really loved with a man like you. You ain’t one of them sick, fumblin’ half-cocked old bastard with dirty ways. Can I … with you? Now.’
It was totally dark and he could barely see her face, a pale circle in front of him. The eyes looking down, the mouth trembling.
‘You want to lay with me?’
‘Yes. Please. It’d keep us both warm.’
That was true enough. Jed had bundled up with Whitey Coburn on several occasions to save both their lives. But with a girl like this … someone he knew to be a cold-blooded killer…
‘Yeah,’ he said.
She was very good.
It was like tangling with a rabid coyote in a sack. She was all over him, biting and scratching, turning him on like Herne hadn’t been roused for a long time. Stirring base instincts in himself that he’d hardly suspected were even there.
After it she kissed him on the lips and then lay quiet in his arms, crying again. This time like a young girl frightened of the dark. Once she begged him to let her go, saying she couldn’t face what the future held for her. When he refused her again, she didn’t argue.
They made love once more as the false dawn was lightening the sky. Gentle, moving love and after it she rose and dressed quietly, waiting for him to pack away the blankets.
‘I have to tie you, Joey.’
‘You can trust me, Jed.’
‘No. That’s just what I can’t do.’
‘After last night you…’
He shook his head. ‘Last night was then. Tying you is now.’
‘We’re going after George?’
‘Sure. He’ll take the high trail. Go into the mountains. Take a chance on the snow savin’ him from me.’
The girl stood quietly while he tied her wrists behind her. Not so that she was desperately uncomfortable, but firmly and immovably. Lifting her into the saddle of the bay, throwing the Meteor shotgun down into the dirt and leaving it there. The shootist set her boots snugly into the stirrups, looping the reins up over the neck of the horse, so that he could lead it. ‘Hang on, Joey.’
‘Sure. All the way back to the gallows.’
The shootist didn’t reply. There wasn’t a thing he could say.