‘Sure, Mr. Locke. Guess you might think that. But me and my friends think different.’
‘How long have you been doing this?’ asked Herne, intent on keeping the cowboy talking. From where Burnham leaned from the window of the Concord he couldn’t see Jed all that well. And that was an angle worth concentrating on.
‘Not long. Easy money.’
‘Blame it on Mendez and the Chiricahua?’
Burnham laughed. ‘Yeah. Now drop the gun, Herne. I aim to call my pardners over once the buffalo gun’s hit the dirt.’
‘How come you’re here?’ asked Goddard. ‘You weren’t on the other stages that gotten hit.’
‘No. They didn’t have Mr. Herne the Hunter riding shotgun, did they? I’m just here as a kind of insurance. Figured I’d be needed. I was right. Now, Herne. The long gun. In the dirt. Now!’
‘Do as he says,’ quavered Locke.
‘So he’ll spare us all?’ mocked Roy Goddard, glancing sideways at Herne, trying to second-guess whatever plan the shootist might have.
‘They might.’
‘Ask him,’ suggested Herne.
‘The gun, mister,’ warned Burnham, leaning further out of the window to give himself a clearer view of Herne.
‘Down there?’ pointing to a patch of soft sand among the boulders.
‘Fuckin’ anywhere.’
‘Right.’
‘Now, you son-of-a-bitch. I don’t give a damn ’bout whether you get it now or later.’
‘Sure.’ said the shootist, standing and hefting the big fifty-caliber rifle. Heaving it over the right side of the coach, where Burnham could see it.
And diving off the other side.
Snatching up the Meteor as he did so, thumbing back the hammers before he even hit the ground. Rolling off one shoulder and coming up in a crouch, the heavy shotgun braced against his hip.
Burnham’s head appeared through the window of the coach, his pistol raking the air, searching for Herne.
Seeing him.
Seeing the scattergun pointed right at him.
Mouth opening in what might have been the beginning of a scream. Or a curse. Or a prayer.
It didn’t much matter.
Herne tugged back on both triggers, feeling the gun kick against him, nearly knocking him clean off balance. A burst of smoke from both barrels and the man in the coach disappearing from sight as utterly as if he’d never existed.
Rising behind the noise of the scattergun was an odd squealing sound. As though someone had buried a butcher’s knife in the flank of a prime sow.
Herne dropped the shotgun, starting to move away around the front of the horses, ignoring the sound. He knew that he’d hit Burnham, so the sound wasn’t going to be anything important. The team was bucking and rearing, Goddard standing up on the box, fighting them, holding the reins in both gloved hands.
‘They’re comin’, Jed,’ he yelled. ‘Front … front and back.’
The shootist was concentrating on getting to the Sharps rifle. Knowing that if he was fast enough at powering himself to pick up the heavy rifle he should have time to pick away some of the attackers.
The screaming still flowed on.
The Sharps was where he’d thrown it, flat on its side. Herne had taken care not to drop it muzzle down, so that it risked getting blocked and jamming. Out of the corner of his eye he noticed the cloud of dust as the bandits started to come in at the gallop. The boom of the scattergun telling them that things had gone wrong.
‘Ones behind are closer!’ called Goddard and Herne waved an acknowledgement.
Picking up the Sharps. The familiar weight and balance to the rifle. Flicking back the side hammer and running to the rear of the Concord. Goddard had fought the team and won, holding them steady. As he went past the right side of the coach Herne saw what remained of Job Burnham dangling bloodily from the half-open door. The head had been blasted to shards of splintering bone, the top of the scalp flapping loose as though an Apache had been interrupted at taking the hair. The features were gone, and one arm hung on the shoulder by scraps of gristle.
The noise continued from inside and Herne was now able to place it as being the voice of J.W. Locke. Crouched on the floor of the coach, keening his terror at the way death had blasted from the Arizona morning. Splattering him with brains and gobbets of torn flesh.
Two riders. Closing fast. The nearest whipping furiously at a big grey, less than a hundred paces off.
Jed steadied himself, calming his breathing. Quickly putting a dab of spittle on the sharp foresight from habit. But eighty yards to the fifty-caliber buffalo gun was like shooting at blackboard across a classroom.
Aim, stock firm against the right shoulder. Cheek cradling against the warm wood. Both eyes open, peering along the smooth barrel. Finger tightening …
Tightening . . .
‘Got the fuckin’ whore!’ yelped Goddard, waving his hat around in excitement.
The bullet took the rider through the upper chest.
A safer killing shot at a man galloping towards you than going for the skull. This way you had a spare margin all around. Bullet high and it hits him in the head. Low and it rips the guts from him.
The impact of the big slug was enough to pluck the robber clean out of his saddle, leaving him dying in the dirt. There had been no warning. Through the dust he hadn’t even noticed Herne at the corner of the stage. By the time his eyes registered that there had been a puff of powder smoke it was way too late. He was flat on his back looking up at the sun through misting eyes.
By then Jed had ejected the warm brass case, hearing it tinkle among the pebbles by his feet. Taken another cartridge from his jacket pocket and thumbed it into the rifle. Sighting and firing in a single fluid movement that was his inheritance for the long, painful years of practice.
But the man’s horse had swerved, pulling away, to avoid trampling on the fallen rider, putting Jed off his aim for that vital moment.
‘Missed him,’ shouted Goddard.
‘Start turning the team and shut up!’ yelled Herne, knowing instinctively that his second shot had missed. It was still booming out across the roasted land when he fired a third time. This time making no mistake.
The bullet hitting the second of the trailing men in the center of the throat, angling sideways after it hit the cervical vertebrae of his spine, snapping his neck like a dry twig underfoot. The distorted ball ripped out through the side of his neck, taking the big carotid artery with it. Sending the bandit spinning to the dirt in a wheeling fountain of bright blood.
The pounding of hooves from the other five bandits was getting closer. Goddard had begun the slow process of turning the Concord from a standstill, using his whip on the leaders and cursing them. The cries of distress from inside the coach had gradually faded away to a miserable whimpering.
‘Ain’t goin’ to fuckin’ make it, Jed,’ shouted the driver. ‘Not time.’
‘Then hold ’em there. Side on.’
Herne shuffled quickly around to the further angle of the coach, steadying himself and firing twice in quick succession. Lips peeling back from his teeth like a cornered wolf with the satisfaction of seeing two men fall. One horse also went down and stayed down, shot through the side of the head, its legs stiff and kicking. The rider struggled to his feet and called something out to the three survivors.
Who heeded the cry of warning, reining in with a brutal violence, wheeling their animals around and heading off the main trail towards a side canyon. The bandit on foot started to sprint after them. Head back, arms pumping as if he was running a foot race.
Which he was, competing with the speed and accuracy of Herne’s shooting.
Herne won.
The bandit lost.
~*~
Goddard couldn’t stop talking about it. Knotting the ribbons around the brake, locking it on. Jumping down and pumping Jed’s hand as though he’d just been elected to the United States Senate by an overwhelming majority.
‘Fuckin’ amazing.’
‘Guess they’ll not come after us. Unless they try an ambush.’
But the driver’s ears weren’t hearing him. He was still locked into the devastatingly lethal display that he’d just seen from the shootist.
‘Killed ’em. Fuckin’ killed ’em. Like that. Easy as fallin’ off a fuckin’ bridge. One. Two.’ Sighting an imaginary rifle. ‘Boom. Three down. Boom. That’s fuckin’ four. And the others ran like scared fuckin’ coyotes with their asses drippin’.’
‘Roy,’ interrupted Herne, patiently reloading the rifle. Also ejecting the spent cases from the Meteor and recharging it. ‘They might take us if’n we go on. I figure we should head back to Stow Wells.’
‘Maybe. Maybe so.’
‘Best tell that jelly in there.’
‘Hey, if Job Burnham was one of ’em, and you fuckin’ blew his head all over my rig, then his five hundred comes to us. Don’t it?’
‘Should. Seven hundred and fifty of the best for each of us.’
‘That right?’ called the driver. That right, Mr. Locke?’
A face whiter than the most spotless bridal veil appeared at the window of the blood-speckled Concord. Eyes blinking furiously, tears still glistening on the merchant’s pallid cheeks.
Goddard repeated the question. ‘I was askin’ whether we’d get that fuckin’ money?’
‘Money?’
‘Sure. You promised us fifteen hundred dollars between us for saving your silver,’ said Herne.
‘Yes. Yes, I did. Have they gone?’
‘Those livin’ have gone.’
‘Will they come back?’
‘Don’t rightly know. Be a surprise if’n they do. Mr. Herne here sure took a fuckin’ toll among ’em .’
‘Then let us go.’
‘We are.’
‘Why are we turning, driver?’
‘Goin’ back.’
‘Where? To Stow Wells?’
Goddard nodded. ‘That’s about right. No way of knowin’ if’n there ain’t more of them bastards up yonder. Go on back and maybe make the run in a couple of days with a guard or two out-ridin’.’
‘Oh, very well. But I would greatly appreciate it if one of you would remove this … this carcass from in here.’
Herne looked across at Roy Goddard. ‘Hell, I’ll do it, Jed. This team’s goin’ to be real tuckered out if we don’t make a change.’
‘I’ll get that stray horse,’ suggested the shootist. ‘Ride ahead to the town and warn them you’re coming in. Williamson can arrange an escort for you.’
‘Sure. Damn! White men.’
‘Yeah. Easier to blame Indians, huh? Still kind of strange that scalping and all on the other trip. Not like … Hell, I don’t know.’
He walked out and called in one of the dead bandit’s horses, whistling it to him. It was a fine bay mare and it nuzzled against him, standing still as he stroked it, blowing up its nostrils in the way he’d learned from the Oglala Sioux.
He heard Locke moaning behind him about the mutilated corpse of Burnham, drooped half out of the one window. As Herne looked round he saw that Goddard was struggling to heave the body out of the way, totally unhelped by Locke.
‘Always said he was a mite impulsive, old Job here,’ cackled the driver.
‘Impulsive?’ shouted Herne.
‘Sure. Now he’s nearly lost his fuckin’ head. Get the joke, Mr. Locke?’
But Mr. Locke was too busy throwing up on his hands and knees on the far side of the coach.
Five minutes later everything was organized. The body was stretched out in the hot sand. Goddard was back up on the box of the coach, ribbons ready in his gloved left hand. Whip gripped in his right fist ready to start the team. Mr. J.W. Locke was half-sitting, half-lying on one of the seats, weeping uncontrollably, deep in shock. But he’d agreed between sobs that Herne and Roy Goddard should share the fifteen hundred dollars equally, soon as they were back in Stow Wells again.
‘I’ll get the drinks on the bar ready for you,’ called Herne, setting heels to the mare, giving a wave to the whiskered driver - a man that he’d come to like during the few short hours he’d known him.
It was the last time that he was to see either Locke or Goddard.
Alive.