‘Keep still.’
‘But I need to know, for Christ’s sake! I mean … my father.’
‘Will you keep still so that I can tie this bandage properly around your arm.’
‘It’s fine.’
The woman sniffed as though he’d broken wind at a social tea. ‘It most certainly is not fine, Mr. Herne.’
‘It’s …’
Miss Lily Abernathy favored him with her most steely glare. ‘I say that it is not better. I have nearly done with bandaging you. A great deal of blood was lost, Mr. Herne.’
‘Happens when someone sticks a knife in you, Miss Abernathy.’
‘And I do not wish to experience your trail-drive, drifter attempts at sarcasm, if you would be so kind as to cease them.’
Yes, ma’am.’
‘There. It’s done.’
‘Thank you. Can I talk some now?’
Miss Lily Abernathy was a poem in black bombazine. Hat of black feathers nodding as she moved around the cluttered parlor where Herne had been taken. She washed the blood off her hands in a white porcelain basin and dried them on a spotless linen towel.
‘You may. You say that we are at some risk from an attack from that rapscallion, Mendez?’
‘Yes. I killed three of his young bucks. I figure they was scoutin’ this way to …’
‘Were,’ she interrupted.
‘What?’
‘I said they were.’
‘Were what, ma’am?’ Herne was becoming thoroughly confused. It was like meeting the head-mistress of some awesome girls’ finishing school. Again, for a fleeting moment, his thoughts returned to dead Becky.
‘You said they was. I was merely attempting to improve your abysmal grammar.’
‘Well, I surely thank you for that, Miss Abernathy. Mendez and his gang of Chiricahua are comin’ this way. I figure for them gettin’ here around sundown.’
The woman came and sat down on an over-stuffed sofa across from him. She crossed her ankles and tapped one finger on her perfect teeth. She was certainly every bit as handsome up close.
‘We have time to get into town?’
Herne nodded. ‘Sure. But I don’t …’
‘Because all of the able-bodied men have gone off on a wild-goose chase after those robbers.’
She was also very quick on the uptake. ‘That’s correct.’
‘I know it is, Mr. Herne. There is no point in wasting precious time on idle chatter.’
The shootist felt like he’d just been rapped over the knuckles with the edge of a steel rule.
‘We’re better here.’
‘Perhaps. They said in Stow Wells that you had not gone because you were scared.’ She looked across at him with a calm, level gaze. ‘I see from meeting you that they were quite, quite wrong.’
‘Idle chatter, Miss Abernathy,’ he warned, smiling slightly.
‘Touché, Mr. Herne.’
‘I have to ask about my father.’
‘Albert Carson. One of the saddest cases among so many …’
‘Carson? Carson, like the Pass?’
‘Yes. Why?’
‘I was born in Carson Pass.’
‘Would you recognize …?’
Herne shook his head. ‘Ma died bearing me. I never even saw my father that I recall. He disappeared into Indian country in the fall of forty-four.’
‘And then?’
‘Nothing, Ma’am. Not a word. Nothing. I always figured him for dead.’
‘Perhaps he is. Albert Carson is not … how shall I say? Not entirely reliable as far as matters of the memory go.’
‘Ninety cents in the dollar?’
‘Perhaps no more than fifty cents, and that on one of his better days. He has been with us now for some four years. A delightful man.’
‘And he says he’s my Pa.’
‘He does. Always has. It is, perhaps the one consistent detail in his blurred past. He is very proud to be the progenitor of such a notorious killer, Mr. Herne. Very proud.’
Herne was used to that kind of bitterness. A town asked you in to rid them of some scum that was terrorizing the community. You did it for them and they drew away when the blood started spraying around. After that all they wanted was to throw your money in the dirt and watch you ride away out of their lives.
That was the way of it.
‘I’d best get started on organizing some sort of defense.’
‘Defense, Mr. Herne! I don’t. Come in, my dear.’
Andreanna Abernathy was still wearing the same clothes that Herne had seen when the couple had come into Stow Wells. The simple black jacket in soft leather, over a pleated, divided skirt in plain black material. And the same riding boots with tiny silver spurs. That jingled as she walked across the room and shook Jed by the hand, firm and strong as most men.
‘You’re Herne the Hunter.’
‘Miss Andreanna.’
‘Your father is waiting for the chance to talk to you. We can arrange a private room for them, can we not, Mama? In the visitors’ wing.’
‘Be glad to talk, ma’am, and find out whether this old guy is really …’ He found that he couldn’t bring himself to say the words. Not after so many years of total certainty that his father must be dead. Things to do first, less’n we all aim to end up deader than beaver hats.’
The daughter smiled at him. ‘Oh, the Indians. You believe they will attack us.’
‘I surely do. They’ll come this way. And when they come for town they’ll stop off and take us first. Figure us for a fine fat steer to have its throat opened up.’
‘They would attack a charitable institution like this one and risk harming such sweet old men and two utterly defenseless women?’ asked Miss Lily.
Herne wouldn’t have called either of them ‘defenseless’ but he let that pass.
‘Sure would. I guess Chiricahua language doesn’t have much to do with charitable institutions. Fact they’re old men makes them easier to kill. Fact you think you’re defenseless makes it a whole lot easier to strip you and rape you and then take you in as servants for the rest of the tribe.’
‘Servants!’ exclaimed Andreanna. That would be just intolerable, Mama.’
‘I’d have figured the rapin’ was worse, but that’s just my point of view,’ said Herne. ‘Fact is, I’d best get up and about.’
‘Should we not try and get everyone into town with the rest of the folks?’ asked the mother.
Herne shook his head. Standing up, feeling that he was a whole lot weaker from loss of blood than he’d expected to be. There’s no men there worth a damn. Frame houses. Burn easy. No good place to try and defend. This is different. Built a mite like a fortress.’
Lily smiled at him, reaching out and touching him on the shoulder. ‘That was the intention of my dear late husband. Colonel Roderick Abernathy. When he decided to found this Home for the poor lost souls who wander this great land of ours.’
‘Colonel?’ asked Herne.
‘In the Confederate States Army, Mr. Herne. He rode with … Who is it?’ there had been a soft knocking on the door, like a small animal trying to get in.
‘Only me, Miss Lily,’ It was the old-timer whose memory had given out on him.
‘What do you want? Are the Apaches coming?’
‘Are they? By God but we’ll …’
‘No, Angus. No. I asked whether they were coming. I see they are not.’
‘No. No, Miss Lily. Just wanted Mr. Herne here to know I recalled what I done. Led the wagons to the sea. That’s what I done. Independence, Missouri. To the sea. That’s what I done.’
He stood, eyes bird-bright, waiting for Jed to reply. The shootist nodded at him. ‘That’s good. Real good.’
‘Knowed you’d appreciate that. Knowed you would.’ Without another word he turned and shuffled out, forgetting to close the door behind him.
‘You think we can defend this place with men like that?’ asked Andreanna, mockingly.
‘That or nothing. You got guns?’
‘Not many. My daughter and I each carry a small over-and-under derringer for our own protection. A hunting rifle. That is all.’
‘Jesus!’ exclaimed Herne, disgusted. With no guns his idea collapsed. His immediate reaction was to head for town, get his horse and move on south as fast as he was able.
‘There’s Papa’s collection,’ said Andreanna.
‘Ah, that is true. My dear late and much loved husband was something of a collector.’
‘What kind?’
‘Muskets. Entirely muskets.’
‘Powder and ball?’
‘Ample supplies. He used to fire them for sport.’
‘That’ll do it. With old men like this there couldn’t be better than muskets.’
‘There is also a brace of flintlock pistols.’
‘Better than nothin’. Then let’s to it.’
It was like the Widow Abernathy had said. Her late husband, the dear Colonel Roderick, had built up a fine collection of muskets. Concentrating exclusively on the 1835 Model. There were five dozen, neatly chained in polished beech racks, every gun gleaming and oiled and ready to fire.
‘Pretty, Ma’am. But I’d have traded them all in for a half dozen Winchesters.’
‘The men can use them, surely?’ But the question showed her own doubt.
‘Should be. Most of ’em must have fired muskets like this when they were younger.’
There was a card pinned to the end of the long rack of weapons. In a trim hand that Herne guessed must have been the late Colonel’s was written the basic specifications for the guns.
The Model 1835 Flintlock Musket. The caliber is .690 minimum bore. The barrel is precisely forty and two inches in length. The average weight is nine pounds and nine and a half ounces. The trigger guard is of iron with finger ridges on the trigger plate at the rear side of the guard. The stock of the musket is of polished black walnut. The length is fifty and four and three-quarters of an inch and the model has a high, unfluted comb.
‘Mighty accurate, your late husband,’ said Herne. ‘Powder and ball?’
‘Locked in that room there. Here is the key.’
It was a properly constructed magazine, with stone walls and no windows. The powder in canvas bags and the ball in brass-bound oak boxes. Another of the Colonel’s notices was on the white-painted wall.
For the muskets a bullet weight of four hundred and twelve grains is ideal. Powder charge of one hundred and ten grains. Flints are already in place in the goosenecks of the muskets. A brace of Kentucky smoothbore pistols is to be found in the armory, locked in a side cupboard.
‘That’s all we need, ma’am. Best get all the men together and bring the stock in out of the fields around. I’ll walk about with your daughter, if I might, and make arrangements where we can defend best.’
Lily Abernathy nodded her agreement. ‘Very well. I see that you have military training, Mr. Herne. Were you in the War?’
‘Yes, ma’am, but I don’t care to talk of it.’
‘I understand. I’ll busy myself. Yes, Ben, what is it?’
The old man had his Walker Colt tucked in his belt and he was spluttering with excitement at the prospect of being able to use it.
‘They’re comin’, Miss Lily. I seen dust, maybe five, eight miles off.’
‘You got good eyes, Ben,’ said Herne.
‘I can see an eagle shit at a mile, Mr. Herne … beggin’ your pardon, Miss Lily and Miss Andreanna. Just don’t see so good close up.’
‘That’ll be Mendez,’ sighed Herne. ‘Way faster than I figured. They’ll be here in a half hour or so. We sure got to get moving, ladies.
Lily ran out, hoicking her skirts up to the middle of her shapely calves, calling some of the old men to help her arrange some sort of defense and move the animals.
‘I’ll come with you, Mr. Herne,’ said Andreanna. Jed noticed that her voice was trembling and that she was biting her lip with the tension. She was holding a scrap of handkerchief, fingers white, almost tearing it to shreds.
‘Sure. I want some windows sealed and shuttered where possible.’
‘Yes.’
‘The guns broken out and handed around to any man you think capable of firing it. But no powder or ball. I want to talk to them all first and try and get it done by numbers. Safer that way.’
One of the old men suddenly appeared around the corner of the corridor, standing still in front of them, waiting as if he had something to say. Herne wondered whether it might be a report that Mendez was closer.
‘Mr. Herne?’ he began, hesitantly.
‘Yeah. What is it?’
‘Jedediah Herne? Jedediah Travis Herne?’
‘Sure. Are …?’
He looked more carefully at the old-timer. The man was skinny, wasted, a long scar seaming his forehead and running down across the side of his temple towards his ear. The hair was thin, silvered. The body inside the standard Home’s uniform of dark blue breeches and cream loose-sleeved shirts was frail.
The old man’s eyes were dark, brown, set deep in hollowed sockets. Fixed on Herne’s face with a desperate longing.
‘Yeah. Jedediah … I’m … I’m …’ and he began to weep.