Herne left instructions with Jollye that some of the money was to be given to Ellie-May Mitchell to pay for the funeral of the old man.
He slept well, rising early to get ready for the journey up into the Mountains. He had told the owner of the livery stable that he wanted Jubal watered and saddled for a start before dawn, and the man had done what he asked. The bay stallion was brushed down and tethered in his stall when Jed arrived, giving him a whinny of recognition.
The wind had dropped, but the town was dusted with another fall of snow. Just enough to bear the hoof-marks as Herne walked the horse along the deserted main street of Tucson, passing the place where Scott Mitchell had died. The broken door had been boarded up, and there was a solitary light gleaming yellow in an upstairs window.
It took Jed Herne a long, hard day’s riding to get near the point where the trail vanished off north towards the towering peaks of the Pinal mountain range. Heeling Jubal along through the massive saguaro cactuses, the horse’s hooves raising a cloud of red-orange dust.
This was Apache country. Mescaleros.
There hadn’t been a lot of trouble in that territory for some time, but that didn’t mean that it would stay that way. Salt River Canyon and Turret Butte were only ten years back, and the dances and the rituals were still performed in the lonely fastnesses among the silent mountains of the Southwest.
Jed prepared his camp with great care, choosing a spot overlooking a dry stream-bed, high enough up to be safe in case of a winter flash-flood. He would have appreciated a fire to keep out the biting cold, but he was only a few miles from the old mining-camp of Norwich Hills, and in the clear light a red glow would be seen for a long, long way.
He wrapped himself in a pair of blankets, huddling down against the freezing wind, hoping the weather wouldn’t get any worse. Snow in the high country came fast and stayed long.
Few people appreciated that better than Jedediah Travis Herne. Several times in his life snow had left its mark on him.
It had been indirectly responsible for his birth, and for the death of his mother. Albert Jedediah Herne was a leading map-maker and an associate of the famous explorer, J. C. Fremont. Jed’s mother, Elizabeth Julia, was with her husband on the Fremont expedition that was surveying over the high Sierras in the early part of 1844. Although heavy with child, she had believed that they would have been able to return to the safety of civilization well before her time came.
The snow changed all that.
A blizzard had trapped the entire party up in Carson Pass, keeping them there for day after day. The delay meant that the expected child was born far from any of the comforts of home and doctor. The rough campsite was cold and desolate, and the delivery a difficult one.
The last day of February 1844, a leap year, saw the birth day of Jed Herne. A squalling, sturdy child, he survived until the snow cleared and they could all come down in safety.
All except his mother, Elizabeth Herne, whose bones would lie forever in that barren wilderness.
Christened Jedediah after his father, and Travis after the defender of the Alamo, the baby was immediately given into the care of his father’s unmarried sister, Rosemary, who had lived in Boston.
The shock of his wife’s death disturbed Albert Herne, and he never saw the child again, vanishing in Indian country while on a solitary expedition in the Fall of that same year of 1844.
The gentle, weak, and mildly alcoholic old lady in Boston was no match for the wild young Jed and he ran away from home several times, finding both bad company and the wrong side of the law.
At the age of fifteen Jed Herne killed his first man.
To escape retribution from the dead man’s friends, he headed west, finding that the Pony Express was just setting up in business on the dangerous run from Fort Bridger westwards and was seeking young riders.
It was the perfect job and by the time he was sixteen Jed Herne was one of their top men. The winter of 1860 was a bitter one. The Paiutes had risen but the Pony Express must get through.
Sitting shivering in the windy darkness of the Pinaleño foothills, Herne chewed on a piece of jerky and thought back to those days.
Back to the spunky young boy, a year younger than Jed, who had ridden with him. Traveling together on one occasion better than three hundred and fifty miles with no sleep. The boy’s name had been Bill Cody.
Last Jed heard of Bill Cody he’d been making a name massacring huge numbers of buffalo for the railroad companies.
Jed remembered those days. The pain, with the mind forcing the exhausted body on. There had been snow then. Deep drifts over the Sierras that had risen to the bellies of their horses.
The memories of the past vanished as he heard a noise out in the brush. A light sound, that might have been the wind rolling a dry twig along over the rocks. Or might have been the scuffling of a soft leather boot.
The moon was a thin sliver of silver lurking behind driven clouds, giving barely enough light to see the dim shape of Jubal standing patiently on the far side of the small clearing.
One man traveling alone would stand out to the eyes of the Apaches like a rat in a bowl of flour. Since it was unlikely that a white man carrying anything worthwhile would be traveling alone then it was also unlikely that the local Mescalero would bother to attack him.
But you never knew with the Indians. Especially Apaches.
Taking no chances, Jed drew the Colt and rolled out of the folds of the blankets, crouching, trying to see who or what was close.
Mountain lion? Maybe even a bear.
Still the best bet was that it was a man.
Moving in slow, silent steps, Jed crept to the edge of the clearing away from the stallion. That way he wouldn’t disturb Jubal and give away his own position. And he was ready for anyone coming in that side.
As he waited, he strained his ears. Suddenly aware that the hillside around him was alive with men. Maybe as many as twenty. Although the white man feared the strange cunning of Indians, claiming that they could ghost through stone walls and out again, Herne knew that they were simply skilled craftsmen in tracking and hunting. But that didn’t make them perfect. An Apache could no more move in total silence over dry grass and sticks than a white man could.
The Mescaleros were closing in. There was no doubt about it. Against that many, Herne knew that he had two chances: very slim and none at all.
Why so many should be out just after him was a puzzle. The first time he caught the sound he wondered if it was either Cal Ryder or Luke Barrell hedging their bets by watching the trail.
There was the faint cry of a wild bird. Echoing around him. Mournful in the vast cold space of the mountains. A cry that was repeated from” both sides of the clearing. A third time from very close to him. They must be within a few dozen paces of him, circling steadily in.
He peered out to where his blankets still lay, hoping that they resembled a sleeping man. If they made a final charge, then his slim chance would be that they might pass him by in the blackness and give him a hope of heading for higher ground.
In his travels, Jed had picked up a little of the Indian’s language. Enough to get by in the basics with either Plains Indians or the smaller men from the mountains. With so many Apaches around him, calling their signals to each other, there was a chance that there might be talking, and he could then know what was happening.
He flattened himself to the ground, oblivious now to the cold and the wind. All of his senses concentrating on the job of survival. Shielding the weapon under his coat to muffle the sound, Herne cocked the pistol, holding it in his right hand. Considering whether to draw the knife from his boot, and deciding that it was better on balance to leave it where it was as a last resort.
Another spate of bird cries.
Closer.
There was a towering cactus behind him, its stark prickly limbs crucified black against the faint light of the sky. All around was low brush and spear-grass. Giving good cover among the stunted trees, but leaving dry leaves beneath, so that total silence wasn’t possible.
Absolutely still, Herne lay and waited.
Only a couple of yards away, there was the harsh whisper of two men talking. One ordering the other to a course of action. Herne couldn’t make it all out.
There was another splutter of chatter. It seemed to be an older man telling a much younger one to go in and kill. That much was clear. It seemed almost to be some sort of a test.
If it was a warrior being prepared in such a way, then it would make sense of attacking a lone white man. And other braves would have come along as well to witness how the young warrior bore himself.
Herne tried desperately to see where the nearest of the Apaches was, wondering if it might be as well to try a break now while they weren’t prepared. Then he heard something that gave him a glimmer of an idea.
“Go and kill as son of chief should,” was the nearest he could get in translation.
So. It was the son of a local tribal chief, being blooded in front of all the warriors. With Herne as his target.
Jed slid forwards into a crouch, the gun still gripped in his fist. Listening for the sound of the attacker coming in towards him.
Hearing the faint scrape of the leather boots, and then the whisper of strained breathing. To have to kill an enemy in the darkness like this, even a man you thought was sleeping, would put great pressure on a boy, and his nerves would be stretched to breaking point.
There!
The silhouette of a slim figure, against the sky, stepping with feet raised high, putting them down each time with exaggerated care. Walking past the crouching man close enough to touch, unaware that the white man was even there.
All around was silence. Herne was conscious of the remainder of the Apaches waiting, hoping for success, ready to move in case of trouble. The wind had eased, but the clouds were building up, promising worse weather to come soon.
The boy was past him, focusing all his attention on the dark shadow of the blankets. Herne caught the gleam of light off the broad-bladed knife in his right hand. Held point downwards ready for the stabbing thrust to the heart.
Keeping low, so that none of the other Indians would see him, Jed began to creep in behind the young warrior, easing the hammer forwards silently so that the pin rested on the cartridge. Making sure that his grip on the butt was firm and safe.
Jubal whinnied suddenly, and skittered sideways, possibly scenting the Apaches all around him in the brush. Covered by the noise, Herne closed right in behind the Mescalero boy.
Who had checked his advance at the horse’s movement, pausing on the edge of the clearing, bracing himself for the final charge.
Herne judged the moment to perfection, raising the heavy pistol and bringing it down in a solid arc, hitting the young man at the base of the skull. The crunching blow was softened a little by the mane of black hair that tumbled to his shoulders, but it was still hard enough to knock him instantly unconscious.
As the body slumped forwards, Jed caught it under the arms, holding it upright, pressing the muzzle of the Colt to the boy’s head, supporting him with the left hand. The knife dropped with a light tinkle to the stones, and Herne tensed himself ready for the next few seconds.
They would determine whether he lived or died.
From behind him in the darkness came a whisper. Asking the young man what had happened.
Racking his brain for the right words, Herne replied in a loud clear voice.
“Keep men quiet or boy dies. I have him with gun.”
There was an instant babble of voices from all around him, drowned out by a loud shout for silence from the man that Jed guessed was the chief. The father of the young boy he held at gun-point.
“You speak Apache tongue?”
“Not well. Do you speak English?”
A pause. “Some. You are clever white man.”
“Clever enough not to send a boy on a job for a man.”
“He lives?”
“He lives. Do you want him to go on living?”
“Yes. What is the price?”
Herne hesitated. Despite the white man’s mistrust of the honesty of some Indians, he knew enough of the code of honor of the Apaches to be prepared to take a gamble on trusting them. Not that there was an awful lot of choice for him.
“Who are you?”
“I am what you call Man Runs On Air. I am chief of Mescalero tribe of Apache nation.”
Herne knew the name. Man Runs On Air had won his name when he and three other braves had been captured several years back on one side of a knife-edge canyon. The cavalry had them surrounded and called on the four Apaches to surrender.
Although there was a great yawning chasm between them and safety, the Indians chose to try and leap it. Three of the four fell screaming to a mangling death. Only one man survived the jump. Man Runs On Air.
“I am Jedediah Herne, called Herne the Hunter.”
Though he rarely used his nickname, he knew that it might help to impress the Apaches.
“I know of you. You have taken prisoner of my son. He was to kill you as test for warrior.”
“I can kill him.”
“Yes. Then we kill you, and you will not die quick.”
“I know that also. If I spare his life, then you will also let me go freely on my way? You will not try and have me followed?”
“I must talk with others. Wait and do not harm boy. Can he speak?”
“I laid him out cold with the butt of my pistol, but he’s still breathing well. Don’t take too long over the talking, chief.”
The boy was showing signs of recovering consciousness, beginning to struggle feebly. Herne tightened the grip around his throat, pressing the barrel of the Colt hard into the side of his head.
“Don’t move, boy. Just stay quiet and easy and maybe we both go on living.”
Despite the chill of the night, Jed was sweating, feeling droplets running down the small of his back, soaking through his shirt. He kept moving around, changing the direction, in case Man Runs On Air decided to send in a warrior to try and beat the finger on the trigger with a snap shot. In the darkness it wasn’t likely, but it wasn’t a risk worth the taking.
There was the sound of movement in the brush around the clearing and Herne called out again. “Anyone comes any nearer and your son loses his head, chief.”
“We have spoken. My son has been wrong to be trapped by you. But we know of Herne the Hunter and he must not pay too much price for foolishness. If you release him then you go free.”
“Not just for tonight, Man Runs On Air. Your word that no warrior of your people will harm me while I remain in these mountains.”
“Wait.”
The boy made an attempt to wriggle free and knee Herne in the groin. With no effort at all Jed half-turned, bracing his hip into the lad’s back, croaking the elbow into his windpipe and nearly strangling him. There was a gurgling moan and then he went limp in Herne’s arms.
“What was that, Herne the Hunter?”
“The cub tried to bite.”
There was a note of anxiety in the voice of the Mescalero leader. “You have harmed him?”
“He sleeps.”
“What?” There was a depth of anger in the cry that made Herne tighten his finger on the trigger.
“He sleeps and soon he will wake. But he fights me and it is hard not to hurt him. I would have your word of my safety here.”
“How many days do you stay?”
“I seek two men who are thieves.”
“Apache?”
“White men.”
Suddenly there was an easing of the tension.
“One in the clothes of a God-man? The other tall and in black? Three horses?”
“Could be.”
“They are in old mine.”
“Norwich Hills?”
“Yes.”
“Guessed so, but I’m still obliged to you for that. They still there?”
There was a quick exchange between the unseen chief and one of his warriors.
“They are there. There was two men also. They have gone two days back. They also bad men?”
“Not any more. I killed them yesterday. So I am free to go?”
“For ... five days. After that I cannot give my word. You know what young men are?”
Herne grinned at the resignation in the voice of Man Runs On Air.
“Yes. I know. Five days will be fine. Should let me do what I need. Thanks.”
“My son?”
“Just waking up again. You want me to leave him here, or will you come in and get him?”
There was no hesitation this time. “He is my son, Herne the Hunter. I will come and get him. Stand there.”
Someone called out from the blackness, and Man Runs On Air replied angrily. Herne guessed that it had been a warning of possible treachery.
There was a darkening of the night at his elbow, and he smelled the oil on the skin of the chief. The two older men stood together in silence, until Herne released the boy, steadying him when he nearly fell. Feeling as exposed as he ever had in his life, Jed holstered the Colt, and stood there, aware of the cold again.
Man Runs On Air said something to the young man who slunk away into the blackness of the hillside. Then the chief called out to the rest of his warriors, who responded to the shout.
“You are safe, Herne the Hunter. May you hunt well.”
“I thank you. It has been good to know such a great warrior, Man Runs On Air.”
There was the briefest clasp of hands and then the Apache vanished into the chill night, taking his men with him.
In a couple of minutes the clearing and the brush around it were as empty as if the incident had never happened. Jed squinted at his watch, reading the time with difficulty. From beginning to end it could not have taken more than twenty minutes.
Five minutes later he was asleep again.