Up through the trees yellow light stretched out in both directions and the circle of orange sun was lifting itself clear of the mountain crests beyond. It could have been an idyllic scene -except for the rifle in the Apache’s hands which was pointing at Herne’s head – except for the pistol that pressed against Mary Anne Marie’s breasts.
‘What d’you want?’ she asked, looking directly into the Mexican’s eyes. If she was afraid, then she did a good job of not showing it.
Almazan laughed and released the pressure of the pistol barrel a fraction.
A couple of his men laughed also and one of them made a gesture with his fingers that left the answer in no doubt.
‘What do we want, señorita?’ said Almazan with mock politeness. ‘With your very gracious permission, we would like the pleasure of your beautiful companionship.’ His face leered closer, a fleck of spittle glistening at the side of his long moustache. ‘If you have no objections, of course.’
Mary Anne Marie stared back at him and held her ground, saying nothing.
One of the two Americans lurched over towards her, sliding a thin knife from a sheath behind his back as he did so. Herne tensed, glanced over his shoulder. The Apache was watching him, not what was happening further over to the fire – the Winchester was still aimed at the base of his skull and a second’s squeeze would blast the bones of his head apart.
The knife passed slowly in front of Mary Anne Marie’s face, the man grinning behind it.
Herne knew that his bayonet blade was inside his boot and that his boots were laying just inches from the end of his blanket. He also knew that as things were he’d never even reach its haft.
‘Juan, here,’ the man with the knife said, ‘he’s too damned polite. What he means is this – what we want from you an’ your lady friends here is a piece of ass!’
Almazan frowned, a couple of the others shouted agreement.
The blade came to rest on Mary Anne Marie’s cheek.
‘Cut her!’ called the second American. ‘Cut the bitch!’
His eyes shone and he rubbed the palm of his hand hard against the butt of his holstered gun.
‘Yeah! A piece of your whore’s ass!’
The blade started to turn so that the edge pressed into the skin along the cheekbone. Herne tensed, held his breath. Just ten feet away, Stephanie was grinding her hands together, tears in the corners of her eyes.
Almazan moved his pistol so that it rested alongside the man’s temple.
‘What the hell you doin’, Juan?’
‘The knife, Leroy. Move the knife.’
‘I’m goin’ to cut the bitch!’ Leroy hissed.
‘Yeah, cut her!’ called his friend, stepping a few paces towards them as though he might be about to interfere.
The half-breed Mexican with the scalps dangling from his belt took a few paces to intercept him.
Herne figured if there was time enough the whole damned bunch of them would shoot one another to pieces.
‘Move the knife!’ repeated Almazan, and this time he thumbed back the hammer of his gun.
In the clearing the triple click seemed unnaturally loud.
Leroy moved the knife. He did it slowly, grudgingly, sliding the blade down the woman’s skin and nicking the edge of her upper lip at the last moment. He turned fast to face the Mexican and his eyes were bright with anger. ‘You best not chance your luck too far, Juan. You best remember you’re only runnin’ this show just as long as we allow it.’
Almazan’s eyes narrowed and then widened again as he set back his head and laughed his harsh, cracked laugh.
‘It ain’t funny, Juan.’
The laughter stopped as abruptly as it had begun.
‘No,’ agreed Almazan, ‘it is not funny.’
‘An’ don’t you ever pull a gun on me again. Cause if you do then I’m goin’ to have to kill you.’ Leroy turned away and walked fast towards the edge of the clearing, the other American following after him.
Almazan nodded to the two breeds to keep an eye on them as they talked, heads close together.
Herne shifted his balance and stretched his arm. He was no more than three feet now away from the bayonet and he might almost as well have been thirty. Christiane was still laying on her side, a blanket pulled up to her shoulders. The other girls were on their feet, standing, the three of them, close by the embers of the fire. Mary Anne Marie turned her head casually and caught Herne’s eye. He sensed that she wanted to mouth a message but saw the Apache was watching her and so she contented herself with a shrug of the shoulders and a quick sigh.
‘What’s it to be, Leroy?’ called the Mexican.
‘That sort of depends what you got in mind?’ Leroy was leaning back against one of the cedars. His lean body was relaxed now, thin lips close together and grey eyes almost laughing at the Mexican, taunting him. Herne guessed it was a power game they were constantly playing between them, testing each other’s strengths to the point where each would come close to making a positive move against the other but always be held in check at the final moment.
Close by him, his partner stood with his thumbs hooked down into his gun belt, a satisfied grin on his face.
‘Me, I was thinking we would enjoy these ladies’ hospitality.’
‘Hospitality, horse-shit!’ retorted Leroy.
Almazan gestured towards the wagons. ‘There must be plenty food here. How long since we ate a good meal? A good breakfast? What need is there to hurry away before we take what we can?’
‘Him?’ said Leroy, pointing at Herne.
Almazan laughed and shook his head. ‘Sanchez has his gun. If he tries anything we kill him.’ He grinned at Herne. ‘You understand that, señor?’
‘Yeah,’ said Herne, ‘I understand.’
‘You see; he will be no trouble.’
‘Because he says so?’ said Leroy incredulously.
‘Because we have a gun to his head.’
‘Juan,’ warned Leroy, ‘one day you’re goin’ to play these fancy games of yours too often and end up gettin’ that fat neck of yours slit from ear to ear.’
Almazan laughed: ‘Maybe, my friend. Maybe what you say is true. But I know one more thing that is true – you will not be the one to do it.’
‘We’ll see about that!’ retorted Leroy.
‘Yeah, we’ll see,’ echoed his friend.
Almazan shook his head and turned his back, secure in the knowledge that two others were covering him. For now.
Herne had seen groups of men like this so many times. Drifters and small-time outlaws, trash that lived close to the border and close to the law. They were as likely to turn their guns on one another as upon an enemy and it didn’t take a lot to make it happen. Whisky. Gold. A woman. Any of those were enough. Even a card played out of turn.
Well, here there were five women and Herne couldn’t help but think that if he played his cards right they’d manage to get out of this in one piece.
Almazan was giving his orders and Mary Anne Marie was passing them on to the women. He wanted fresh wood brought for the fire and then he wanted food cooked and lots of it. Coffee and more coffee. It was going to be a feast instead of a meal. And after that they would get to know one another better.
‘What the hell you think you’re dealin’ with here, Juan?’ called Leroy. ‘Some princess? Some mother superior takin’ a bunch o’ novices to the convent?’
He moved away from the trees, caught Ilsa by the arm and swung her round towards him. ‘Look at this!’ he cried. ‘Just take a look at this, will you?’ He grabbed at Ilsa’s blouse with his other hand, ripping the cotton with a quick twist of his fingers. ‘Look at this Goddamn nun we got here! She’s a whore, that’s what she is. A Goddamn dollar whore!’
Leroy pointed his thin finger towards Almazan. ‘You know what whores are for, don’t you, Juan? Or are you still havin’ trouble in that department?’
Almazan flushed angrily and the others laughed, even the Mexican’s comrades –everyone except the Apache.
Ilsa tried to cover herself with the torn flaps of her blouse and they stared at her, lust stirring in them, all of them. Herne knew that at any moment they would forget everything else and take her one by one while the rest stood around and waited their turn, cheering on the action.
Quietly, deliberately, he stood up.
The Apache’s rifle followed the movement, his finger honing back against the trigger.
‘What the hell you doin’?’ called Leroy.
‘Yes, what?’ asked Almazan.
‘You want wood for the fire, don’t you? We won’t get it standin’ here gawpin’. I want some food in my belly even if you fellers don’t.’
Almazan rubbed his swelling stomach sympathetically. ‘You are right, my friend, there are some things more urgent than others. But I think it would be best if you did not move from where you are.’
‘Why the hell not?’
‘Let us say, I prefer it that you do not. You might take it into your head to do something to save your friends here and that would be most unfortunate.’
Herne shook his head. ‘Why should I risk my neck doin’ that?’
‘Some brave bastard you hired to protect you,’ said Leroy, talking to Mary Anne Marie.
‘We didn’t hire him to protect us. He’s paid to guide us an’ look after the horses an’ wagons, that’s all.’
‘Even so,’ said Almazan, ‘you will stay where you are, señor. You will please sit back down where we can all see you. The horses and wagons, they will look after themselves for now.’
~*~
In a short time, the fire was aglow and there were two wide pans of beans and bacon bubbling and sizzling on its edges. A tall, black coffee pot stood close by, simmering. The Mex with the scalps hanging from the side of his belt had gone through one of the wagons and Leroy’s partner had gone through the other, taking out whatever they fancied might be of value. Almazan had found Herne’s Sharps and was almost beside himself with pleasure. It wasn’t every day you came upon a prize like that. Leroy himself had gone from woman to woman, leering and making the most suggestive remarks he could think of as he took from them whatever rings and trinkets they were wearing.
Only the Apache didn’t move. The rifle was no longer pointed at Herne’s head but it rested against his knees and his hand was still laid on the stock.
Herne still rated his chances at less than even.
‘How much longer’s this damned food goin’ to be?’ called Leroy as he tossed a bracelet from one hand to the other. ‘Wastin’ time ain’t goin’ to save you from anythin’ you know.’
‘You want to eat bacon half-cooked,’ said Ilsa, ‘come and get it.’
‘Don’t talk to me like that, you bitch!’
‘Easy, Leroy. Easy.’ Almazan spread his hands towards him in a calming gesture. ‘You’ll get what you want soon enough.’
‘Yeah,’ Leroy agreed, rubbing one hand down the side of his pants, ‘you’re damned right I will. And when I get through with you, bitch, you’re goin’ to be screamin’ for mercy!’
Ilsa looked at him as though she’d heard enough men boasting that in her time to know that a boast was usually all that it was.
Almazan shrugged his shoulders and came over close to where Herne was squatting. He looked down at Herne for several moments and when he spoke his voice was quieter than before, as though he wanted it to be a conversation for the two of them and no one else.
‘Is it true what she says?’
‘What’s that?’
‘That you are a guide for them and no more? A wrangler?’
‘Sure is.’
‘They are nothing to you?’
‘No more than money in the bank.’
‘They pay you well?’
‘Well enough.’
‘But not as much as if you come in with me.’
Herne looked around slowly. ‘You seem pretty strong-handed already.’
Almazan leaned a little closer. ‘There are men and men, señor. You understand my meaning?’
‘You mean if you could put a slug in that Leroy’s back you’d do it and not lose too much sleep.’
Almazan grinned and showed gold in several of his teeth. ‘He is trash. Gringo trash.’
‘How d’you know I ain’t the same?’
‘I do not think trash like Leroy would have a weapon such as your Sharps. He would not look after it as you have done. No, señor, I think a man who has a weapon such as that is more of a man than that gringo pig!’
‘So what’re you suggestin’?’ asked Herne. ‘I mean, exactly?’
‘You could leave these whores and ride with me.’
Herne nodded slowly. ‘An’ Leroy?’
‘I will take care of Leroy in my own time.’
‘Uh-huh. I bet you will.’
Almazan smiled and his fingers stroked the ends of his moustache. ‘What will it be, señor?’
‘I’ll think about it.’
‘You mean you will try to save your neck as best you can.’
‘I mean I’ll think about it.’
‘Do not think until it is too late. It would be a shame to lose a good man because he thought for too long.’ Almazan’s eyes flicked over Herne’s head. ‘Or because he thought he would play the hero and got a bullet in his back for his troubles.’
Leroy and his friend had finished taking whatever valuables they could find and now they were squatting over them, examining them and dividing them up. Ilsa and Irma were stirring the beans in the pot, pushing the slices of bacon round in the wide pan. They made an odd pair, one tall and angular, the other short and round; neither one spoke as they got on with their task. Mary Anne Marie bent down alongside Christiane and asked her how she was. The side of the girl’s face was still badly bruised and swollen and her right eye was still almost totally closed. Stephanie was over by the wagon, sorting through one of their boxes to find as many forks and knives and battered tin plates as she could.
‘When the hell’s this food goin’ to be ready?’ snarled Leroy, jumping up from the ground.
‘Yeah, you,’ said the man with him, reaching out for Stephanie’s arm and tugging her towards him. ‘When we eatin’?’
Several tin plates rattled to the ground, one of them rolling awkwardly until it came to a halt against Leroy’s boot.
‘Get her movin’, Mitch,’ Leroy encouraged.
Mitch laughed and blinked an eye and lifted his hand to slap the blonde girl around the face. Stephanie ducked her head away and called out in an anticipation of pain. Mitch’s face twisted into a grin and he brought his arm back round.
The hand never reached its target.
Mary Anne Marie caught Mitch’s wrist and held fast, both of her hands digging into his flesh.
‘What d’you think you’re doin’, you bitch?’
‘Stoppin’ you from beatin’ up my girls for no good reason.’
‘I got reason enough!’
‘What’s that?’
‘Lady, I felt like it,’ he snarled.
‘Then you just better stop feelin’ like it. You want this food an’ coffee, how’re we supposed to get it ready if you keep foolin’ around?’
Mitch bared his teeth and for a moment Mary Anne Marie thought he was going to spit full in her face. Instead he snatched his arm away and turned sharp on his heel.
Mary Anne Marie whispered to Stephanie, touching for a moment the side of her blonde hair with the back of her hand. Then she went over to the fire and spoke quickly with Irma and Ilsa; turning away from them her eyes caught Herne’s and she gave him a look which set him on the alert.
‘Ladies! Ladies!’ called Almazan. ‘Surely you are ready to serve us now?’
Mary Anne Marie was between the Mexican and the fire. Leroy and Mitch stood off to the right, nearer to the wagons than the trees. The breed with the scalps was at the opposite side of the fire to the two girls; the one who had Herne’s Colt sat off on his own, leaning back against a cedar wood trunk. The Apache still hadn’t moved and the rifle was still resting across his knees.
‘Okay, girls?’ called Mary Anne Marie, striking a match against the side of her boot and cupping her hands to light one of her cheroots.
By way of an answer Stephanie went over to Leroy and Mitch and gave them plates, careful to step back deftly out of Mitch’s way. Ilsa lifted the bubbling pot of beans off the stove with both hands and set off towards the pair of them.
The breed with the scalps hanging from his belt grinned at Irma, who blushed and pointed down at the sizzling strips of bacon. The breed nooded greedily and walked round the edges of the fire.
Mary Anne Marie turned her head aside to exhale smoke and again, for an instant, her eye caught Herne’s.
This time there wasn’t any room for doubt.
Mary Anne Marie transferred the cheroot to her left hand and slid her right through the slit at the side of her skirt. When it came back out she had a small derringer tight in her fist. Almazan had just sufficient time to recognize what it was before she fired. He was no more than six feet away and she aimed for the breadth of his chest. The .38 slug struck him close to the breastbone and sent him lurching back.
Ilsa’s strong arms swung the pot of hot beans fast, lashing the steaming contents deep into Leroy’s lap and across Mitch’s face. Both men shouted, screamed, swung their fists out towards her but she was too fast for either of them.
At the same time that Ilsa had been serving the beans, the rosy-cheeked and blushing Irma had brought the frying pan up fast into the breed’s hungry face. Burning hot fat bit into his eyes, blinding him as he flailed both arms and screamed. The edge of the pan followed through and cut deep into the side of his mouth, fetching blood.
Herne had dived sideways as soon as he saw Mary Anne Marie’s hand start to emerge from the folds of her skirt. He ducked his head low and threw up his arms, going into a quick rolling motion that brought him close to his boots, his right hand already snatching at the hilt of the bayonet in its interior sheath.
The Apache was up into a crouch, the rifle at his shoulder.
Herne drew the bayonet and arched himself backwards, arm high over his head.
The rifle swung round, seeking him out.
Herne hurled himself forwards, seeking to flatten himself on the ground; his right arm whipped over fast and his fingers opened; the heavy bayonet sped through the air and the blade struck the Apache immediately below the Adam’s apple. The rifle jerked upwards from his hands and a bullet fired harmlessly at the lightening sky. The Apache thudded hard against the ground, both hands grasping the end of the bayonet blade and struggling to pull it from his throat while blood welled around it. Three or four inches were buried inside him and air choked and hissed and burbled with the pink, threshing blood.
The Apache’s feet kicked high into the air and his legs danced.
Herne pushed himself up with both hands and turned fast.
Mary Anne Marie levered the catch on the derringer with the thumb of her right hand and used the forefinger and thumb of the left to turn the barrels over. She held out both arms at full stretch in front of her, pointing down at the writhing figure of Juan Miguel Jesus Almazan.
Ilsa let Leroy have the rest of the beans in his eyes and swung the heavy-bottomed pot sideways so that it caught Mitch on the corner of the chin. He yelled and kicked out and she hooked one of her large feet beneath his ankle and yanked backwards. Mitch landed on his back with a groan and she hurled the pot at his face before she turned and ran.
Irma was standing with her legs spread wide enough to straddle the half-breed Mexican, ladling the underside of the broad frying pan down onto his face and head again and again and again.
Herne was on his hands and knees staring at the man who’d taken his gun. Only now the Colt wasn’t pushed down into his belt; now it was tight in his hand and the hammer was being cocked back. The man was steadying himself against the cedar, squinting along the barrel.
Herne levered his body forward fast and rushed him.
As he did so, Stephanie let fly with the rifle she’d taken from the wagon. She was aiming at the breed and she didn’t allow for the gun’s recoil. The slug went several feet above the man’s head and ricocheted off the trunk of the tree with a high-pitched whine.
It didn’t hit him but it was enough to still his finger, enough to make him turn his head.
Herne crashed into him, driving him backwards and forcing the wind from his body. As the breed cannoned back from the tree he swung the Colt down towards Herne’s head. At the last moment Herne ducked his head away and the barrel hammered hard against the top of his left shoulder, making his arm suddenly numb. The pistol went up for a second blow and Herne drove his right fist, short and hard, under the man’s heart. He lurched back, mouth open, eyes glazed. The Colt was up above his head. Herne punched him twice – one time in the belly and again around the heart. He caught the Colt as it fell from between the man’s fingers.
‘Look out!’
He heard the girl’s scream and swung low and fast to his left. Somehow Leroy had struggled clear enough to get his own gun in his hand and was facing Herne in a crouch. Herne fired as he was still turning, fired again as he stilled, again a split second later.
The first shot had torn at the sleeve of Leroy’s left arm and plucked it outwards without even scratching his skin.
The second had ripped through the soft flesh between his right arm and chest, immediately below the bone.
The third had splintered his breastbone into tiny fragments and driven them across into his heart, down into his liver, they had pierced several arteries and at least one major vein.
Leroy was kicked away by that last bullet and he hopped half a dozen yards before cracking the back of his head against one of the trees and pitching forward, mouth open.
No blood showed at the mouth; just a little trickled from the ears and nose; a fraction more discolored the front of his shirt; more still darkened the back. To see him bent forward at the base of that tree would not be to see a man who was inches from death.
Most of Leroy’s bleeding was internal.
As soon as the impact of the last slug made itself felt and the minute and sharp particles of bone did their work, massive hemorrhaging had occurred. The inside of his upper body, the chest cavity and the stomach were flooded with blood.
Leroy’s fingers scratched at the earth on which he slumped, scratching like a dog anxious to bury his own bones.
Herne clicked back the hammer on the Colt and straightened up. Looked around. Stephanie had hurried after her abortive attempt to shoot the breed to where Christiane was laying under her blanket, her hands close to her mouth in excitement and fear. The blonde girl stood behind her, the rifle stretched out to offer her protection.
Irma had ceased hammering the other half-breed’s head with the frying pan for the sole reason that he was now very bloody and unconscious.
Mitch staggered to his feet, wiping the mess of beans and thick sauce from his face. He saw Ilsa and immediately started for her with his hands raised: that was when he noticed Herne with the gun. He stopped in his tracks and slowly let his arms slide back down to his sides. Ilsa smiled with something close to triumph.
Mary Anne Marie got up from checking the pulse at the side of Almazan’s neck. There was no movement, no beat whatsoever. One side of his face was creased in a grim smile, the other seemed remarkably calm and peaceful save for the slight splashing of blood that stained his drooping moustache.
Herne heard the man back of him beginning to move again.
Without looking round he swung his arm and heard the barrel of the Colt connect with the breed’s temple. Then the shout and clumsy fall.
He went down to Mary Anne Marie and handed her the Colt.
‘Watch him,’ he said, nodding towards Mitch.
Herne went up onto the higher ground and set one foot across the top of the Apache’s chest, gripping both hands about the haft of the bayonet and pulling it from his throat. It came free with difficulty, with a loud slow sucking sound.
Herne wiped the long blade clean on the soiled white pants of the dead Indian and retrieved his pistol.
Taking it back his hand touched that of the woman for an instant.
‘You were good,’ he said, shaking his head in something close to wonder. ‘You were damned good!’
Mary Anne Marie looked back at him straight-faced. ‘You sound surprised.’
~*~
They held guns on Mitch and the two breeds while the three of them dug graves for their former comrades -not that they’d really been that. When Almazan and the other two were buried, they stripped the survivors of their gun belts, boots and saddles. They left them three mounts to ride bare-backed and tied the three surplus horses on behind the rear wagon.
Herne stood and listened while Mary Anne Marie told them exactly what would happen to them if they harbored any thoughts of revenge for what had gone down. Not one of them looked as if he had the stomach for facing up to that particular bunch of women again – not even armed with a Gatling gun.
When they were well out of sight and hearing, Herne climbed into the saddle and Mary Anne Marie raised her whip.
‘Ready?’ he called.
She nodded and cracked the whip through the air.
Herne flicked his reins and touched his spurs to the animal’s flanks. ‘Move ’em out!’