Peters and Chavez were riding along behind the supply wagon; T.C. was sitting up behind the team of two, sacks and barrels and boxes stacked high at his rear.
Hart rode in to meet them, his path due to cross theirs where the trail flattened out after descending a long hill. He came easily, not wanting anything to panic the three men or warn them into flight.
T.C. hauled in on the reins when he saw Hart coming and Chavez raised his arm in greeting. Peters carried on riding, only stopping when he had gone past Hart and turned back round.
‘Fredericks has been gettin’ pretty mad waitin’ for you to show,’ said T.C., holding the reins between the three fingers of his left hand.
‘He’ll see me soon enough.’
‘Where you been?’ asked Chavez.
‘Down the Cheyenne agency.’
Chavez moved his horse. ‘Family of sodbusters got…’
‘I know,’ interrupted Hart, his voice tight and hard. ‘I seen ’em.’ He looked from one man to another, finally letting his gaze rest on Peters. ‘They was shot up with brand-new Winchesters, Whisky an’ guns.’
Peters held his stare for a few moments, then turned his head aside and hawked up spit from the back of his throat.
‘You wouldn’t know anything about that?’
T.C. and Chavez exchanged nervous glances: Peters spat at the ground.
‘Weren’t just odd families. Small place called Stillwater, east of here, whole town got wiped out. Women and kids, too.’
T.C. and Chavez glanced at one another again. Peters let his horse turn through a half circle. There were two to Hart’s left, one to his right. He thought T.C. might stay out of it, but couldn’t be sure.
‘I’m pretty damned sure it’s Fredericks supplyin’ arms. Only…’ His voice slowed. ‘…I don’t reckon he’s carting rifles down to the Cheyenne himself. Which means someone else is doin’ it for him.’
Hart looked from one to another.
‘Wouldn’t you say?’
Peters pulled at his greasy Stetson, taking it off and wiping his gloved hand round the inside of the crown. ‘You go talk to Fredericks about it.’
‘I will. But I’m takin’ account of you boys first.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘It means I’d like my feelin’s made a little more definite. About the movin’ of these arms, that is.’
One of the wagon horses lifted its head and snickered, shifting to one side. T.C. called to it to settle down.
Peters let his own mount move again; now he was sideways on to Hart and less than a dozen feet away.
‘I told you,’ he said, ‘you go talk to Fredericks.’
Hart faced him. ‘And I told you that I want an answer.’
Peters mouth moved inside the drooping moustache. Hart knew none of them was about to talk without a little persuasion.
He leaned back in the saddle and without warning his right hand blurred with speed. The next thing Peters realized was that he was staring down the barrel of a Colt .45.
‘Talk!’
‘Go to hell!’
Hart worked the hammer.
‘You ain’t goin’ to use that. An’ I’m not goin’ for no gun. ‘
A smile edged on to Hart’s face. ‘An’ you’re not talkin’ either?’
‘That’s right.’
Hart squeezed the trigger and Peters rocked backwards, clutching his right shoulder where the shell had torn through the skin and a good inch of flesh. His face went white; blood ran over and between his ringers.
‘Jesus Christ!’ exclaimed T.C. softly, shaking his head in astonishment.
Chavez stared from under his sombrero, thinking how fast he could get his knife from its sheath and hope to throw it.
‘Now talk!’
Peters shook his head slowly, mouth shut tight.
Hart thumbed back the hammer and the triple click was loud in Peters’ head.
‘The next one’s goin’ to break that arm.’
Sweat ran down Peters’ face.
‘Tell him,’ said T.C. ‘For God’s sake tell him.’
Peters told him. They’d been making deliveries to the Indians for several months – rifles, ammunition, a few handguns, lately bottles of whisky. Fredericks hadn’t helped with the deliveries but he had talked with some of the chiefs. He’d told them the more whites that were enabled to settle, the faster the Indians would lose the last of the lands ceded to them. Fight back, he’d advised them. Fight for what’s yours.
And all the while he waited for the Cheyenne to go so far that the government would be forced to act – and when they did, Fredericks would take what he thought was his.
Peters finished talking and it was quiet. Hart released the hammer on the Colt and slipped the gun back into the holster.
‘What you aimin’ to do?’ asked T.C. after a few moments.
‘I’m goin’ in to see Fredericks. Right now.’
‘And us?’
Hart looked at him. ‘That’s up to you. But if you get in the way, or do anything to stop me, you’re dead.’
T.C. swallowed hard and nodded. Hart touched Clay’s sides with his spurs and set off north. The Fredericks place was a little over an hour away.
A mile on Peters suddenly lashed his horse into a gallop and rode ahead. Hart lifted the Henry clear, thought better of it, put it back. If he warned Fredericks and he ran, he wasn’t going to get far.
Not far enough.
Bonney Fredericks’ face was whiter than ever: white as the silk of the blouse she was wearing. She sat astride her horse on a rise to the right of the trail and the sun caught the sheen of her black hair as she inclined her head.
Hart pulled away from the wagon and rode up to meet her.
Close to, her face was strained; fear edged the corners of her dark eyes. There was no make-up on her mouth and her lips were the pale color of dead skin. She was beautiful like a snake is beautiful: and cold.
She stared at Hart until he was forced to blink and look away.
‘You’re going to kill my husband, aren’t you?’
Then he looked at her. ‘Yes.’
‘Because of selling guns to the Indians?’
‘Partly.’
‘Because he tried to make a fool of you?’
‘Partly that, too.’
‘Why else?’
‘I don’t know.’
Her fingers round the reins were tight and the knuckles white against the dark brown of the leather.
‘But you’ll kill him anyway?’
‘Yes.’
‘Whatever I say?’
‘Yes.’
Hart started to turn his horse away but she came after him, closing the distance between them. Her hand on his wrist was like glass.
‘There’s a lot of money, I expect you know that.’
‘I don’t want the money, only what’s due to me.’
She raised her eyebrows. ‘You’re an honest killer.’
Hart looked away and the ends of her nails pressed hard and brittle against his skin.
‘When it’s done, take me with you.’
For a few moments he didn’t react, didn’t answer. The pressure on his wrist increased. He looked at her pale face, at the slight rise and fall of her breasts beneath the silk of her blouse, at the intensity of her eyes.
He shook his head. ‘No.’
The nails bit into his flesh and when he pulled his arm away there were spots of blood on the broken surface of his skin.
‘No.’
He wheeled the gray round and clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth, touching her with his spurs to bring her into a trot, then a canter. He didn’t want to look back and when he did, once, she was sitting in the same position staring after him.
‘C’mon.’ Hart picked up the pace and tried to clear his mind of anything but Fredericks.
As soon as the place came in sight he slowed the horse again, approaching carefully. There was no sign of the loaded wagon and he guessed that T.C. and Chavez had kept on going, taking the goods with them. There wouldn’t have been any point in getting involved any more than they were already.
But Peters...
His horse was in the corral, saddle still on its back. There was another horse, saddled, tied up near the front of the house. Maybe Fredericks was planning to make a run for it and something had stopped him, held him up.
Hart got down from the saddle and looped the reins over the corral fence. He lifted the sawn-off shotgun from its holster and automatically checked the load. That in his left hand he flicked off the thong from the Colt’s hammer and began to walk towards the house.
He saw the movement of the rifle in the upstairs window and stopped dead, drawing his Colt and firing in a fluid movement. Glass shattered and the rifle barrel withdrew. A second shot cracked out in the fading echoes of his own and Hart spun round, facing the barn. He snapped off a covering shot and ran diagonally, heading for the bunkhouse. Another rifle shot followed him as he ducked low and swiveled fast. Peters had come too far round the barn door.
Hart sighted and squeezed down on the trigger.
There was only the right arm to aim at and this time he did smash the bone. Peters fell sideways, almost dropping the rifle but finally clutching on to it. He landed awkwardly and shouted out with pain, rocking on to his back.
Still no further movement from the house.
The rifle hadn’t reappeared.
Hart watched as Peters got on to his knees and tried to lift the rifle, but his arm wouldn’t function and he knew he couldn’t use it with his left hand.
‘Throw the gun clear and stand up!’
Peters hesitated, then did as he was told. The metal of the barrel flashed in the sun as it spun through the air. Peters stood up slowly, wincing.
‘Get over here.’
He was a dozen feet away from the bunk house when a shot rang out from the upstairs of the house and he stumbled forwards, a bullet low in his back.
Hart fired twice, fast, without hitting anything more than wood and glass.
Peters was face down in the dirt. The fingers of his left hand twitched and formed a claw, pulling on the earth.
Hart reloaded the Colt; the movements of Peters hand ceased.
There was no more movement from inside the house; no more shooting. Hart watched as the blood from Peters’ body started to spread across the ground on either side of his chest.
Maybe Fredericks had killed him for giving up – maybe he was at the end of his tether and acting without reason. Perhaps he could see the empire he had schemed and struggled to build up disintegrating before his eyes.
The voice came from the other upper window, edgy and harsh. ‘What do you want, Hart? What in hell’s name do you want?’
Hart made no reply; waited to see if Fredericks would show enough of himself for it to be worth taking a shot.
‘Answer me!’
A few moments later an object was hurled through the window and landed on the ground not too far from Peters’ dead body. When it fell, the cord around the top of the leather bag loosened and coins spilled out on to the dirt.
‘There’s three hundred dollars there. Take it. Take it and go.’
Hart still said nothing.
Minutes passed.
A second bag followed the first and landed with the chink of coins.
‘It’s you I want, Fredericks. You.’
‘There’s five hun…’
‘Come out!’
‘I’m never coming out.’
Hart fired once at each of the upstairs windows and sprinted across the open space. Two thirds of the way there a shot gouged the ground close by his feet and he leaped sideways, rolling, firing, running again. He rammed his shoulder against the front door and it held fast. Two bullets cracked through the wood a foot to the left of his head.
He stood back and leveled the shotgun at the lock. The blast ripped the door apart and he dived in, hitting the floor and rolling away to the wall.
Another shot came from the top of the stairs.
Hart fired as he was pushing himself to his feet and heard footsteps running. He went after them, taking the stairs two at a time. Three closed doors.
‘Fredericks!’
Hart kicked the nearest door open and jumped through. A wardrobe, a four-poster bed, dressing table with a mirror and countless small bottles and boxes. An ornamented water jug standing inside a bowl.
Nothing else.
‘Fredericks!’
Hart moved to the second door and lifted his right leg.
A door opened behind him and the explosion of a gun from close range boomed in his ears. He was already falling when the shell grazed across the top of his back, drawing a line from shoulder blade to shoulder blade.
Hart fired his Colt as he hit the floor and the impact jarred his elbow, sending the shot wide. He saw Fredericks lower the pistol towards him and fired again, snatching at the shot. The slug slammed high into Fredericks’ left leg and knocked him back against the door jamb.
The gun fell away from Fredericks’ fingers.
He stared at his leg, unbelieving. The entry wound was raw, blood came from it in a steady stream, thick and bright as it ran down his pants leg.
Hart stood straight and thumbed back the hammer on his Colt.
‘That’s nothing,’ he said bitterly. ‘Nothing to what you’ve done.’
‘I haven’t…I’ve never…’
Hart lashed out with his right arm, the sight at the barrel end tearing a bloody line down the side of Fredericks’ face. The man went back against the wall and shrieked with pain.
‘All that happened was you didn’t see. You didn’t see the bodies. What happened to them. What was done in your name. So that you could own so much land, so much wealth. Power.’
He came close and Fredericks flinched, turning his head aside.
‘Power,’ Hart repeated. ‘Your money and other people’s guns. Well, when you tried to buy mine you bought the wrong one.’
There was a footfall on the stairs.
Bonney Fredericks was three steps from the landing. She stared at her husband’s face, at the wound deep into his leg; her face was expressionless, stone, white stone. She glanced at the Colt in Hart’s hand then turned away and walked back downstairs.
Fredericks watched her go. His mouth faltered: ‘Bonney,’ he said. ‘Bonney!’
The blood from his leg was running into his boot; he reached down his hand gingerly towards the hole in his leg – his fingers sank through the soft, shattered flesh.
Hart stepped away, keeping the gun level.
‘You hired me as your regulator, well…’
He turned and went to the top of the stairs and Fredericks’ mouth gaped, relief showing in his eyes.
Hart turned fast and fired twice: head and heart.
Fredericks was hurled back against the corner of the wall then bounced towards the stairs, folding over the banister and swinging like a life-size doll.
Hart walked down the stairs. Bonney Fredericks was sitting in front of the bookshelves; she made no attempt to look up when Hart went into the room. He left and stepped towards the ruined door. Blood fell from the top of the stairs down on to the floor with a steady splashing sound: dark, red rain.
In the sky the sun was thickening towards dusk and clouds shifted heavily across it. Hart untied his horse. The two bags of money were still on the ground, coins scattered loose. Hart picked them up, pushing them down into his saddle bags. He climbed into the saddle. When he looked back at the house he half thought he might see Bonney Fredericks’ pale face at one of the windows: there was nothing.
He pulled at the reins and moved the gray past the corral fence. The graze across his back made him shift uneasily in the saddle and he could feel the shirt sticking to his back with the blood.
He didn’t know for sure where he was going except that it had to be away. Dusk gathered about him and within a short while only the sound of his horse’s hoofs picked him out. The fall of blood from Fredericks’ body had slowed, but not stopped.