The two men rode in on Hart’s gun. When he motioned with it for them to stop, they stopped. They got down from their mounts and shucked their weapons and told Hart, in outline, what had taken place. Hart could see plainly enough, without having to ask, that the dead man folded and roped across one of the stolen horses was Frank Escort.
‘I’m worried, you see.’
He could tell it was Escort from the thickness of his shoulders as they hung, lifeless, down, the brown hair cut close.
‘I don’t like Frank riding with men like that. He isn’t a fighting man, he doesn’t like to use a gun. Not against other men.’
‘They comin’ back in?’ Hart asked, finally.
The men looked quickly at one another before answering.
‘Said there was one more…’
‘…one more call to make.’
Both men looked aside, maybe recalling two bodies strung up and swinging, wondering how many more. They had followed Jakes into something they were unused to, ridden along on the coat tails of his fever and now that fever was beginning to wear off under the cold stare of Hart’s gun.
‘But they’ll be back?’ Hart confirmed.
The men nodded.
‘Jose,’ said Hart, turning and then pointing to Escort’s body. ‘Cut him down. Careful. And when you’ve done that, get clear. All of you get clear and stay that way. I want Jakes and the three as ride with him. That’s enough. You ain’t got no need to go buttin’ in — none of you.’
The faded blue eyes looked at the Mexican, at Stoddard, at the other hands. There was no argument.
Dink had found a bottle of whiskey at the last ranch and now the men were passing it from hand to hand, throwing it from saddle to saddle, swallowing the raw liquor and wiping their sleeves across their mouths and passing it on some more.
Matthew Jakes leaned sideways towards Andy Donaldson and pointed a finger in his face. ‘That dumb bastard back there. Near to wet hisself soon as we rode up. Never mind when we showed him that length of rope.’
Donaldson nodded and grinned and when Jakes poked the same finger closer to him, the grin broke into a laugh which was automatically taken up by Angus at the other side.
‘How ‘bout,’ called Dink from a few places off, ‘how ‘bout that skinny little girl of his?’ Spittle flew from the mouth and his young eyes were red-veined and blurry. ‘Way she squealed when I come after her. Like a…’ He wiped his mouth with his hand and wiped the hand down one leg of his pants. ‘Like a stuck pig, that’s what. Huh, Jakes, like some skinny stuck…’
‘Pig?’
‘Yeah, sure, Dink. That’s right.’ Jakes’ mouth opened red in a roar of laughter. ‘Any girl would at the thought of bein’ stuck by you.’
Jakes slapped his thigh and the dun mare took it as a signal to break into a trot till he hauled her back.
‘Take it easy, you bitch. Ain’t no call to go runnin’. We’re all but there.’ He looked around. ‘Hey! You! Pass me that goddam bottle while there’s still whiskey left.’
The bottle was on its way, hand to hand, till it got to Angus Donaldson. There it stopped.
‘Jakes,’ Angus said quietly, staring straight ahead.
‘What the hell you doin’ hoggin’ that bottle, boy? Give it here!’
‘Jakes.’ Angus was looking towards the ranch, towards the dirt space between corral and barns.
Something in the softness of his voice stopped Jakes’ shouting, turned his head around.
‘Well, I’ll be...’
Wes Hart was sitting astride his grey, alone. The black, flat-brimmed hat was angled across his forehead; the blue, red and white Indian blanket hung from his right shoulder across his body, trailing past his left knee. He sat tall and easy: and alone.
Jakes wet his mouth with his tongue, feeling the ragged roughness of his beard. ‘I’ll be damned.’
Alongside him, the Donaldson brothers said nothing. Neither did Dink, whose grip of the reins was tighter now, his pulse beat beginning to race. The other men gulped air, glanced around, wanted to be anywhere other than where they were.
Jakes and the rest kept going in until there was perhaps fifty yards between themselves and Hart. Only then did Jakes raise his hand awkwardly and bring them to a halt.
He leaned forward in the saddle and grinned. The taste of whiskey was still strong in his mouth and throat. ‘I owe you,’ he shouted towards Hart. ‘I owe you good.’
Hart looked back at him and said nothing.
‘You and that fancy gun of yours.’ Jakes stuck his arm out, finger jabbing the dull air. ‘I’m goin’ to take that like I should have done when first I saw it. But before I do, I’m goin’ to take you.’ He sat back in his saddle and the mare shifted under him uneasily. ‘You hear that, regulator? I’m riding right through you as if you weren’t there!’
The Donaldsons glanced at him anxiously; Dink wiped his mouth with his sleeve although his mouth was already dry as dirt. The other men shifted in their saddles, let their horses step this way and that.
Hart spoke, his voice clear and direct: ‘Rest of you men, ride off. Jakes and them as are with him, that’s all I want.’
Jakes cleared his throat and spat to the ground. ‘Go to hell! They’re all stayin’ here.’
Their faces suggested otherwise.
‘That ain’t for you to say,’ called Hart. He raised his voice. ‘Get clear and mind your own business an’ you won’t get hurt. But do it fast ‘cause I ain’t waitin’ around.’
One man, then another, pulled on his reins, looked quickly and anxiously at the big, bearded man at their center. They were scared of him, sure, but there was something even more frightening about the gunman with the Indian blanket draped across him — something about his stillness and certainty. One man, then another, shifted away.
There were four of them left: the same four who had ridden up to Wes Hart’s shack down on the border. Like Jakes himself said, it should have happened then. Both Jakes and Hart regretted that it hadn’t.
Hart touched his spurs to the grey’s sides.
Jakes swept the tall hat from his head, hollered, slapped the hat down on the dun mare’s flanks and threw it into the windless air. He set off towards Hart in a wild charge, head and body leaning forward and to the left side of the animal’s neck, right hand pulling for his Colt while the left gripped the reins tight.
The other three were taken by surprise and floundered, Dink’s horse shying from Jakes’ shout. The bearded man was fifteen yards on before they set off in his wake.
The grey kept moving forward at the same pace, slow and steady, Hart guiding and controlling her with his knees, left arm hidden beneath the blanket, fingers of the right hand tightening around the grip of the Peacemaker and sliding it up from the leather holster.
He could see the flare of Jakes’ beard, the red and black of his wide mouth as he yelled defiance and perdition.
Hart brought his gun level and began to squeeze back on the trigger.
Twenty yards.
Less.
Less.
Matthew Jakes fired and rolled his body low down the side of his mount, his right leg clinging to the saddle, his left buckled in two. As his own shot skimmed close enough to Hart’s head for the wind of it to be felt, a bullet from Hart’s Peacemaker ripped through the flailing back of his shirt and scored a line down his back that seared him like passing flame.
His left hand almost lost its grip — almost.
Hart steered the grey aside, letting Jakes pass as close to him as a matador does a charging bull. The remaining three were almost upon him, closing fast. Hart jerked his left hand and the flap of blanket flew aside. The shortened barrels of the Remington ten-gauge came up and the triggers slid back hard.
Angus Donaldson and Dink rode into the spread of shot and it lifted them out of their saddles. They went sprawling back in a sudden welter of tissue and blood and pulped flesh. Hart had already turned sideways in his saddle and brought the Colt round into a line that followed the crouching shape of Andy Donaldson until the line was right.
Hart shot him through the side of the head.
He called to the grey and turned her once again, through a tighter circle this time, thumb bringing back the hammer of the Colt. Jakes was rushing him once more, crying out his damnation, both boots kicking hard into his mount as he strove to get close enough to drive a bullet through Hart from a range which wouldn’t allow him to miss.
‘Damn bastard!’
Hart heard the words and fired into their center.
The final ‘d’ rolled on, resounded even through the roar of Hart’s gun. Jakes kept going too, staying in the saddle by God knew what strength, what force. He was near enough for Hart to see the hole his bullet had torn in Jakes’ chest; see the beginning of recognition in his eyes; see the knowledge of death fire through him.
The dun mare reached the corral wall before she lost her rider. Jakes toppled forwards against the animal’s neck, then slowly fell sideways against the fence. For several seconds the big man was held there until the mare shifted away and he fell the rest of the way to the ground.
Hart slipped from the saddle and broke the barrels of the shotgun, reloading and snapping them shut before he went to where Jakes was lying. He knew that some of Shire’s men were beginning to show themselves now, but he was unconcerned with them. When he stood over Jakes’ body he nodded with satisfaction: the slug had taken the man close by the heart. A sliver of blood issued from one side of Jakes’ mouth and ran through the wild tangle of his beard. Blood ran in a slow trickle from both nostrils. Blood pulsed from one ear.
The right side of his face was twisted up in anger or scorn.
Hart bent down and picked Jakes’ Colt .45 from the ground.
It seemed only right.
Then he looked at the rest. Andy Donaldson had died before he left the saddle. The top half of his head had been all but blown away.
His twin brother was still alive though it was little more than tenuous. The faded blue of his shirt was streaked with tiny red pearls, as if some careful, loving hand had stitched them there for decoration. His right leg was twisted up under him at an angle that could not be real.
Dink no longer looked young — he just looked dead.
‘That see the end to it?’
Hart turned to face Stoddard, the expression on the ranch foreman’s face telling him that he hoped it was.
‘Almost.’
‘But Clancy ain’t goin’ to…’
‘I know.’
‘Then…?’
‘There’s business in town. Man I got to see.’
Stoddard thought a while, the question and then, possibly, the answer passing behind his eyes. ‘Yeah,’ he said after a few moments. ‘Yeah, I understand.’
‘Can you take care of this?’ asked Hart, looking round.
Stoddard nodded, yes.
That man they brought in. Name’s Frank Escort. Got a farm south of town. Wife an’ couple of kids. Can you…?’
‘I’ll see his body gets back,’ said Stoddard, interrupting.
‘Fine. I guess that’s it, then.’
‘Yeah.’
The two men shook hands. Hart raised his hand towards the Mexican and went to where his horse was waiting, reins trailing to the ground.
It was cold. The moon was no more than a shadow of itself against the blue-black of the sky. Faint stars broke cover and then were gone. Only at night had the wind found itself. Hart shifted his body inside the blanket and stretched the muscles in his arms and legs; he wanted to stamp his feet to keep the circulation flowing but instead he contented himself with kicking them out into the air.
He stepped further back into the shadows of the alley and pulled the small bottle of whiskey from his pocket. Two quick swallows and he was back in position.
Come on, he thought. After what’s happened you can’t be that confident, you’ve got to move. And soon.
It wasn’t soon. It was another two hours before a light showed through the window upstairs in the house. Fifteen minutes further before a door opened with a slight swing and creak and a shape materialized against the dark by the side wall.
Hart waited until his man had gone around back and saddled a horse, then led it back into the street, one hand over its nose to keep it quiet. Hart watched as the man mounted slowly, glanced up and down the street, back at the house and then started to move away.
Only when he was certain of the direction being taken did Hart duck back along the alley and untether Clay. He knew that he would have to follow carefully and at a distance; he had to give his quarry enough room to ensure that he wasn’t picked up following, yet not so much that the man could lose him.
A cloud slid over the moon.
Hart patted the grey’s neck and rocked a little in the saddle. Before long the buildings of the town were not even shapes bulking out the darkness. Occasionally the rise or fall of land allowed the rider in front of him to appear silhouetted against a sky that was scarcely lighter than the land.
The man was in no hurry now that he had set off, letting his mount find its own pace, take the trail towards the border in its own way. Hart asked himself how many times the man had made a similar journey and for a similar purpose.
The moon reappeared and Hart went west of the trail, cutting wide. It had to be soon.
This time it was.
The rider rose up as if out of a mist except that there was no mist. The legs of his horse seemed to be swallowed up within the wind-turned swathes of night grass; only his long coat picked out what light there was from the moon and reflected it dimly back.
Hart watched as the two men talked, heads close together. Behind them he could vaguely see the beginnings of barbed wire and behind it what he imagined to be winter wheat.
The two rode eastwards from the trail, following the slope of the land down towards a river bed. The shapes of trees showed themselves as Hart followed a good distance behind. When he got nearer there was the faint flicker of a fire.
Hart dismounted and led the grey. The shotgun was out of sight beneath the Indian blanket; the leather thong had been freed from the hammer of his Colt.
The light from the fire was clearer, the lines of individual trees sharp. He could hear the murmur of voices but was not yet close enough to pick out words.
Hart slowed till he was almost still yet moving forwards inch by inch. Words formed; men’s faces. He could see the sacks of money on the ground by the fire. A slim case with its lid thrown back. A laugh, guarded.
He looped Clay’s reins over a branch and threw the blanket clear of the Remington. The acuteness of Walker’s ears made him show himself sooner than he’d intended. He saw the Negro step back, lift his head, eyes swivel in his direction; saw the hand move towards the gun holstered at the man’s left hip.
‘Don’t!’
Hart fired as he shouted, aiming for the ground close by Walker’s feet. Dirt spurted into the air. Walker’s fingers froze to the grip of his Colt. Hart went forward fast but steady and stopped inside the small clearing.
The flames from the fire flickered up and cast shadows over the faces of the four men standing around it. Black and grey, wood smoke drifted upwards. There was a battered pan set to one side of the fire and what smelt like coffee simmering inside it.
‘Mite early for breakfast,’ Hart said and covered a movement of Waite’s arm with a thrust of the shotgun. The movement ceased.
For the first time since he had known him, there was not a trace of color on Caleb Deignton’s face.
‘Looks like,’ Hart said to Deignton, ‘there was one or two things you forgot to tell me.’
Walker sniggered. Waite stared angrily at Deignton, the sunken eyes darker than ever, fingers of his right hand clenching and relaxing, clenching and relaxing.
‘You pull a double-cross on us,’ he said to Deignton, ‘and you are dead.’
‘It ain’t you that’s bein’ double-crossed,’ said Hart. ‘It’s the rest of the town council, it’s half the town … and it’s me.’
Walker shook his head, smiling. ‘Seems to me,’ he said, looking at Deignton. ‘You have not been exactly straight in your affairs. Not for a man of probity and business such as yourself.’ The Negro chuckled and willed his body to relax. If he could switch attention on to Deignton long enough, he might be able to draw against the stranger and get in a shot before either of those weapons of his went off. It wasn’t a good chance, but he didn’t see any others around.
Weston pressed his fingers to his temple; his head was aching fit to burst open, the veins hammering against his skin. He knew his Winchester was too far out of reach to be any good – back with his saddle ten yards off.
Waite was still staring at Caleb Deignton, still not trusting him. If he’d been able, he’d have drawn his Smith & Wesson Schofield and emptied it into Deignton with great pleasure.
‘When you tried to gun me down in town the other night,’ said Hart to Deignton, ‘you should never have missed. This time you’re goin’ to have to try with me watchin’.’
Deignton’s eyes blinked and he glanced at the three outlaws in their long coats; glanced down at the money on the ground; finally looked Hart straight in the face.
‘A thousand dollars,’ he said.
Hart smiled.
Deignton took a step towards the money and bent down, almost on one knee. ‘Here. I’ll count it out.’
The others watched him as he did so, fingers fumbling only a little. Two hundred. Two hundred and twenty-five. Two hundred and fifty. Three hundred. Three hundred and fifty. Four hundred. Five hundred. Bill followed bill. Seven hundred and seventy-five. Eight hundred. Eight hundred and fifty. Nine hundred and fifty. He looked up at Hart and the color was coming back to his cheeks. ‘One thousand. A thousand dollars. Here.’
He stood up and held the money out towards Hart. Hart ignored it
‘Here.’
Hart swung the Colt and knocked the pile of bills from Deignton’s hands. The man staggered back, fingers smarting, bleeding. Money fluttered through the air and fell casually, haphazardly down. As soon as Hart had made his move with the pistol, both Waite and Walker had made their own moves. Both had drawn their guns a little more than half-way from their holsters. They stopped when they saw that the sawn-off was preparing to tear them apart.
Deignton swayed back towards Hart, one hand clutching the other. ‘What the hell d’you do that for? A thousand ought to be enough.’ He looked in desperation at the others. ‘Didn’t it? A thousand dollars.’
Hart moved his right hand until the barrel of the Colt was aligned with Deignton’s breast bone. ‘Two hundred would have been enough if you’d been straight with me. But you took me on when the rest of the council agreed because it kept you in the clear. If ever I got close enough to get in your way, you figured either you’d back shoot me or you’d pay someone else to do it for you.’ Hart glanced at the three men watching. ‘I’m not sure why you’re doing all this double-dealing except that there’s money back of it and it wouldn’t surprise me to find out that you’re holding off the Santa F6 Railroad, not because you want to keep the Texans out and turn your grazin’ land over to farming, but because you’ve made some deal with the Kansas City Railroad to let them be the ones to build through to town.’
Caleb Deignton simply looked back at him, a slow drip of blood coming away from the back of his hand, his face revealing nothing.
‘You certainly set these three up to take the subsidy money and the bank an’ I figured that when you heard I’d been out to see Shire an’ what happened there, well, you’d be wantin’ to meet up and stake out a cut.’
Walker set his head to one side. ‘For a man who’s that good with a gun, you sure been doin’ a lot of thinkin’.’
‘Yeah,’ said Hart ruefully. ‘An’ most of it too late.’
‘So what,’ said Waite angrily, ‘happens now?’
‘Lot of that depends on you.’
‘Go ahead.’
Hart turned his attention to Deignton. ‘How much of this money’s yours? Money you had in the bank, for instance?’
Deignton shrugged. ‘Two thousand dollars, more or…’
‘Okay. I’ll take five hundred. What I’m owed and some more for the way you tried to two-time me. You three take five hundred each and ride out. There ain’t goin’ to be no more deals with Deignton here so you’d as well light out over the border and into the Territory.’
The three men exchanged glances.
‘Sounds pretty good to me,’ said Walker after a few moments. ‘How ‘bout you two?’
Weston wanted to nod but he was sure the pain would send him to his knees. ‘Sure,’ he said quietly. ‘Sure, let’s do it.’
‘Waite?’ asked Walker.
Waite growled something that might have been yes and shuffled back from the fire. ‘Get the money,’ he called over his shoulder to Walker and Weston, and went towards the horses.
‘Don’t make a play for the rest,’ Hart warned. ‘I’ll kill the first one of you as tries and maybe two. If I were any of you I wouldn’t want to be taking bets on who might be lucky enough to be the third.’
Walker laughed and stopped counting. ‘What happens to the rest?’
‘It goes back to the bank, the railroad company.’
‘An’ him?’ nodding towards Deignton.
‘He goes back to town and if they can summon up a judge he can stand trial. Unless he tries to get away. Then I’ll put a bullet through his brain.’
Walker clucked his tongue against his teeth. ‘I bet you will. I bet you will at that.’
Hart watched the three off-white coats move towards the trees and saw the men climb into their saddles. He waited until he could no longer hear the sound of their horses and then he waited a while longer so he was sure they weren’t turning round and heading back.
He tied Deignton’s hands behind him and took him back to Caldwell at gunpoint.
Hart persuaded the town council to elect Jay Cambridge to the post of marshal in Harry Miller’s place; Seth Walker was to be his deputy and until his leg mended he could do the paperwork in the office and feed the prisoners. The prisoner, Caleb Deignton, didn’t take well to jailhouse chow, a fact which endeared Seth to his job all the more.
Hart waited in town a couple more days, half-expecting that Waite and his two friends might change their minds and show, but they didn’t so he played a few hands of poker, dallied a while in the whorehouse and finally he couldn’t put it off any longer. He saddled up and started off for the Escort place, not knowing what he’d say when he got there, nor why he was heading there except that he knew it would keep crawling under his skin if he didn’t.
The day he rode down there the wind had dropped again and the sun was up and the tops of the hard winter wheat shone as they stood; in the corner of the yard out front of the house there were flowers set against the newly humped patch of earth.