In fact, Hart felt pretty good. The whisky had been okay, the bed wide and high and even and his dreams hadn’t bothered him a damn. He’d woken early and taken a walk down to the livery stable almost before the sun had pushed over the edge of the horizon. Clay looked to be almost as well fed as himself.
Now he was waiting on a plate of breakfast in Eileen McMurty’s dining room and having trouble in keeping his patience under control. When the food arrived, he grinned at Mrs. McMurty like a kid.
‘You all right?’
Hart gazed at the mess of eggs, the pork steak and bacon, mushrooms and a pile of buttered wheat cakes.
‘Sure,’ he said, still smiling. ‘Sure, I’m fine.’
‘You drinking last night?’
‘Some.’
‘Huh!’ The landlady turned away, happier now she’d discovered a reason for his strange behavior. There had to be something wrong for a grown man to be grinning like an idiot over his breakfast.
‘You want coffee?’ The turkey neck wobbled as she swung her head back towards him.
Hart shook his head. ‘No, ma’am.’
‘No?’ The steel-rimmed spectacles twitched a little.
‘No coffee, thanks.’
Eileen McMurty went off to the kitchen, shaking her head from side to side and leaving Hart to his meal. He was wiping a piece of wheat cake round the edge of the plate and mopping up egg yolk and pork juice when the door opened and the mulatto came in.
There were no other customers.
The men stared at one another for a few moments before the mulatto came stiffly over and stood by Hart’s table.
‘You know a man name of Fredericks?’
Hart looked full into the mulatto’s face, at the dark skin and the broad nose, the dark eyes that were never quite still. ‘No.’
‘He’s a big man. North-west of here/
‘So?’
Eileen McMurty had come back into the room and was hovering in the background. The mulatto turned towards her and she asked him what he wanted.
‘I’m here to talk.’
‘This isn’t a meeting hall,’ she bristled.
‘I’ll have coffee.’
The woman glanced past him to Hart, who returned her look without expression. She went away to get the coffee; the mulatto sat down.
‘Name’s Jefferson.’
‘Hart. Wes Hart.’
‘Feller at the livery stable, he passed the word. Said you might be interested in hirin’ on. Said you looked right handy with that Colt there.’
‘Depends.’
‘This Fredericks, he’s a big man. He...’
‘You keep sayin’ that. Get to the point.’
Jefferson started in again but broke off when Mrs. McMurty arrived with the coffee.
The mulatto drank some and made a face. ‘He owns a lot of land north of the Cimarron, either side of Turkey Creek. You know that way?’
‘Chisholm Trail runs through there, don’t it?’
Jefferson nodded.
‘Ain’t that up into the Outlet? Into Cherokee territory?’
Jefferson set down his cup. ‘Some. Mostly it’s to the south of there. Strays over a little, though.’
‘Him bein’ such a big man.’
Jefferson looked into Hart’s face for some change of expression to go with the sarcasm of his voice, but there wasn’t any. Just the same blue eyes showing the same mistrust.
‘Fredericks, he’s been gettin’ trouble. Indians, all kinds. Hell of a lot of rustlers. Law comes by maybe once in every few months an’ don’t do a damn. He wants some law of his own. Somebody good.’
‘Send you out looking, did he?’
The mulatto moved his chair and scratched at the front of his plaid shirt. ‘That’s right.’
Hart looked at the man’s face; he didn’t believe him, not exactly. But what he said made a kind of sense. He knew there were men making money from selling grazing land to the Texans driving their cattle north to the railheads; he knew that as soon as they left their stock to fatten every rustlin’ son-of-a-bitch in the territory would be hummin’ round like flies to raw meat; he knew about the Indians,
‘What d’you think?’
Hart was thinking that all rustlers weren’t necessarily sons of bitches; some of them were daughters. He was thinking of Belle Starr; thinking of her so strongly that he could almost smell her, remember the smell of her body as she stood up close to him and leaned against him.
He said: ‘Turkey Creek way?’
Jefferson nodded. ‘You interested?’
‘Might take a ride up an’ see.’
‘Good.’ Jefferson swung his legs out from under the table and stood up. ‘How ‘bout today?’
‘Hold on now. What’s the all-fired hurry?’
Jefferson shrugged. ‘Sooner you get up there, sooner you get on the pay roll. I’m ridin’ this morning. We could go up together.’
Hart wasn’t sure. It was the first thing that had come along and it wasn’t nothing like definite. What if he rode up to see Fredericks and nothing came of it? Well, what of it? Guthrie wasn’t the most welcoming place around – except for Eileen McMurty’s food.
‘Okay, What time you leavin’?’
‘Soon as you’re ready,’
Hart nodded. ‘Got to pick up a few things in town. I’ll be at the livery stable in an hour.’
‘Right.’
The mulatto turned and went out. Hart picked at the inside of his mouth with one finger, pushing a piece of meat down from between his teeth. He was wondering if Mrs. McMurty had any apple pie ready in the oven: amongst other things.
The water was gray-blue and the current moved swiftly, bunching choppy waves against the bank. The sun flickered on the white tops of the waves like sudden stars. Higher up the river a blue-winged bird with a yellow beak flew up from a batch of cottonwoods with a raucous screech.
The ferryman had spotted Hart and Jefferson from his hut on the opposite bank and started the ferry over to meet them. Water splashed over on to the flat boards and lay in puddles, glistening.
The preacher’s son hauled at the rope, a broad smile crossing his face every time he flexed his muscles. Hart and the mulatto stood alongside their mounts, waiting. As the ferry neared the bank, the ferryman jumped off and half-ran with the tie-rope, looping it fast about a spliced cottonwood trunk. The end of the ferry drove up on to the bank and skewed round.
‘Leavin’ sooner’n you figured.’
The ferryman stared at Hart, his left shoulder more hunched than ever. ‘Didn’t take much t’ Guthrie, huh?’
Hart nodded and led his horse on to the wet planking, Jefferson following. Jonah watched them closely, the sun reflecting from the sweat that glistened on his arms and across the tops of his shoulders. Hart thought about the youngster’s father back in the saloon; thought about that time before, on the kitchen table; the knife...
The fair-haired kid he’d seen back at the livery stable – maybe it had happened at around that age. How in hell’s name could a man...?
Hart pulled at Clay’s rein: how in God’s name?
‘We got us maybe a day’s ride if we keep movin’.’
He realized that Jefferson had said something and that he’d half heard it.
‘I say we.. .’
‘Yeah, sure.’
Hart nodded and watched as the ferryman unwound the rope. ‘Don’t seem we’re goin’ to get no more custom.’ He put back his head and chuckled, the unruly sides of his beard and whiskers shaking. He coiled the rope deftly, walking back on board.
‘Let’s get across, boy.’
The preacher’s son secured his hands about the thick rope and braced his legs against the deck for the first pull. Going back they’d be fighting the current part way and it was going to take all of his strength.
The ferry rocked and dipped and for a moment Hart thought it wasn’t going to move, but then the end slid further into water and Jonah was hauling hard, hand crossing over hand.
For a time Hart watched him. He put him at around seventeen, maybe a year or so either way. Under his short brown hair his face was round and wide and strangely untroubled. The muscles of his arms and legs were well developed; no pound surplus on his body.
‘You two travelin’ together?’ asked the ferryman, the coiled tie-rope held in his right hand.
‘Yeah.’ Jefferson answered, turning towards him.
‘Goin’ far?’
‘No.’
The ferryman laughed and hooked the rope over his hunched shoulder so that he could use his right hand to scratch at his neck. ‘Talkative couple, ain’t you?’
He moved back to by where the boy was working the ferry across. The river was moving swiftly, trying to break the ferry’s passage and take it downstream; every few moments the back of it would start to swivel round and Jonah would have to grit his teeth and check the movement with his weight.
Hart stood alongside his horse, holding the reins just below the neck, every now and then reaching over to pat her on her long, smooth nose. Jefferson was a few feet to his right, staring across the river.
They were midway and a sudden jerk to the side sent a wave of water splashing across Hart’s boots. Automatically he stepped back and as he did so his body moved slightly round.
It was enough.
In the corner of his right eye he saw the ferryman, closer behind him than he’d thought, hand pulling something out from inside his coat. Immediately he knew it was a gun.
The ferry slewed viciously and Hart lost his footing; the pistol was in the ferryman’s hand and Hart dived flat, calling a warning to Jefferson.
A bullet flew through the space where he’d been seconds before and he heard the ferryman laugh and Jefferson curse and then there was another shot and someone let out a scream of pain.
Hart rolled wide of his horse’s legs and pushed himself up into a crouch. The ferryman was steadying his gun with both hands, swaying some as the planking shifted beneath his spread legs. He chuckled, squinted along the barrel of the gun and fired.
Hart threw himself to his left, hand arching downwards towards his Colt. As his left shoulder and hip hit the boards his fingers touched the grip and tightened; he rolled fast and pulled the Colt clear of its holster. Straightening, steadying himself with left hand hard against the planking, he thumbed back the hammer and squeezed the smooth metal of the trigger back against the guard.
There was a double explosion and one shot was his.
The ferryman was hurled back through the air as if he’d been punched in the chest by a steel fist. His feet left the deck and he cannoned into the rump of Hart’s mare, which shied and stamped her hoofs. The ferryman sank forwards on to his knees and stared at Hart, who worked the hammer for another shot.
Blood trickled from the edges of the ferryman’s mouth and ran through his gray whiskers, staining them bright red. He tried to hold onto his pistol but it fell away and bounced into a shallow puddle, spinning through a slow circle. Hunched, humped, the man gazed at Hart, blinked then coughed. His head went back and he opened his mouth wide; the chuckling laugh was drowned in a splutter of blood.
His head lurched forwards and down and hit the boards with a crack.
Hart swung his gun to the side – Jefferson was lying on his side, both hands pressed to his stomach, legs drawn up close. Like he was sleeping.
And the boy…? The boy...
Hart turned again but not fast enough. A bunched fist hammered down on to his gun arm and the pain shot from bone to brain and back. His hand opened and the Colt fell away. The same fist moved fast and caught Hart under the ribs. He went backwards and lost his footing, sliding on the wet, rocking surface. Jonah jumped, knee angled and driving for Hart’s groin. Hart moved fast but not fast enough. The knee drove down into the inside of his thigh and his eyes closed tight with the sharpness of the pain.
His leg went numb.
Hands were at his throat and he flung up both arms and tried to knock them away. The grip was loosened but still held fast. Through Hart’s mind flashed the image of the boy’s hands tight about the ferry rope. He swung his head sideways and sank his teeth into the boy’s wrist. Jonah shouted and let go his grip, swinging a punch with his right hand. Hart ducked inside it and the fist smashed into the deck.
Hart moved his head again and rammed it hard into the boy’s face. There was a crunch of bone and Jonah staggered back, blood streaming from his nose. Hart dived. Head and hand sank into Jonah’s belly and the two of them landed in a heap by the far side of the ferry.
Hart stepped on the boy’s arm and jumped back; the deck moved sideways underneath him and he was almost thrown off balance again. He caught sight of his Colt wedged against Jefferson’s curved neck and turned towards it. An arm wound about his neck and something – a knee or a fist – hammered into the small of his back.
He was thrown round and away; saw the side of the deck and the chopping waves of the river beyond; one leg gave underneath him and he threw out his arms. A line before his eyes, blurred and indistinct and then the thick rope was tearing at his throat: tearing: burning.
Hart’s body slid through underneath the rope and for seconds he was hanging on it, fibers biting into his neck, the skin under his jaw. The rope burnt his face like fire as he grazed past in, down into the water. The side of the deck thumped into his head. Hart let himself go beneath the surface, drifting down with the current.
When he splashed clear and gasped in air, the ferry was ten yards to his left and moving in the direction of the opposite bank. The preacher’s son was yanking on the rope as fast as he could, hand over hand over hand.
Hart shook his head again, gulped in more air and started to swim, fighting the current as it tried to drive him with it.
The heavy ferry was finding the going more difficult than he was. From time to time Jonah would glance round but it needed all his energies to reach the shore.
Hart came level with the back of the deck and struck out more strongly, swimming along the far side away from the rope.
He reached up a hand and clung on: the end of the ferry ground against the bank. Jonah jumped clear with the tie-rope and slithered through the first few feet of mud until he had the thing secured. When he turned Hart was out of the water.
The two stood facing one another. The boy’s eyes widened in his round, smooth face and his mouth opened; he made a choked, guttural sound and charged. The strongly muscled body gleamed. On the end of the ferry, Hart braced himself, hands curved open and outstretched.
As Jonah closed fast, Hart grabbed across for his right arm with his own right hand and swiveled low, throwing his hip into the boy’s stomach. There was a crunch of bone and the side of Hart’s body jarred; the boy was falling, trying to bring Hart down with him.
Hart evaded one flailing arm and aimed a punch at Jonah’s head. The blow landed and it was like hitting rock. A boot kicked into Hart’s belly and he went back fast; Jonah rolled and sprang after him. Hart found himself thrown against his own horse and turned so that his face struck the leather of the saddle and cannoned away. Again, the arm slid round his neck and tightened. Sweat and heat. Through the flesh and muscle, the hardness of bone. Choking, grinding back against the skin where the rope had burnt it. Tight. Tight. Tight.
Hart’s fingers fumbled blindly for the saddle pommel; closed about the haft of the knife.
He swung his elbow hard into his attacker’s stomach and wrenched his neck sideways – the arm tightened further. Hart’s mouth gasped vainly for air. His head throbbed. He struck back again and brought the knife against the arm. The blade sliced through flesh, touching bone. As the elbow moved and the grip loosened, Hart twisted inside it.
He saw the big, open eyes, the staring, uncomprehending face and drove the knife with all his strength, going upwards in a short swing, up between the ribs.
Jonah was jolted backwards and Hart pulled the knife clear. The blade, the front of the boy’s shirt, were fresh with blood. Jonah stared at it, unable to believe. He tossed his head and came for Hart again, but Hart sidestepped and struck out with the end of the bone handle clenched tight. The boy went sprawling across the deck and landed on his face. Hart pushed the knife down into his belt and picked up his gun from where it had become wedged under Jefferson’s body.
He turned the boy over. Where he had been laying, puddles on the deck had reddened.
‘Why? Why d’you do it? Who paid you to do it?’
Jonah shook his head then looked at the body of the ferryman.
Hart knelt in front of him, catching hold of the bloodied front of his shirt. ‘Who the hell was it? Who?’
The preacher’s son opened his mouth and deep in the red, dark space Hart could glimpse the root of tongue moving vainly. The sounds that emerged were nothing more than that; rehearsals of words which would never be heard.
Hart stood up.
He bent down by Jefferson. The shell had gone in close to the heart and the front of his coat and shirt were matted with blood. Jagged edges of skin and material stuck to one another around the exit wound in his back. Likely he’d been dead before hitting the boards. Hart went through his pockets and found a faded letter he didn’t bother to read and a handful of dollar bills. He pushed the bills into his own pocket.
The ferryman had a piece of gold inside a tobacco sack in his pocket. Hart weighed it in the palm of his hand, guessing that what he was doing was weighing the value of his own life. He couldn’t put it at more than a hundred dollars. That didn’t seem too much to him.
He stood on the ferry, throwing the gold up and down and looking from body to body to body. The preacher’s son was stretched out on his back and his eyes were closed; the knife wound in his chest was still seeping blood. Hart thought he was still alive but didn’t know how long for.
Hell, he’d made his choice!
He untethered Clay and led the dapple gray up on to the bank. The gold piece was deep in his own pocket. Hart reached out and cut the tie-rope, slipping the knife back into the Indian sheath hanging from the saddle.
Somewhere to the north-west was a man who might give him a job; somewhere also was someone who was willing to pay to see him dead, someone who would kill him himself if he got the chance.
Hart climbed into the saddle and swiveled round: the ferry had started slowly to drift downstream, the sun still picking out the crested heads of waves as the current bore it along.