Jed didn’t count the seconds, but it took a long time for the noises to stop. First, a wet thud as the corpse bounced off a ledge. Then another, deeper and quieter. Followed by the crash of stones and debris as they dragged on down after the falling body. Then smaller pebbles that clattered and tinkled on long after the rest of the noise had stopped.
Only when it was quite silent did he take the final steps forward and peer down into the blackness. Not that he expected to see anything, but he felt he had to do something.
A little fine dust, like smoke, came drifting sullenly up from the damp chasm, until the wind picked it apart and scattered it across the Pinaleño Mountains.
Herne holstered his pistol and began picking his way through the treacherous heap of distorted metal, until he was right on the edge of the Norwich Hills shaft. Far, far below there was the faint sound of something shifting in the blackness. Something settling.
He bent and picked up a lump of stone. Flicking the powdery snow from it. Lobbing it into the hole. Waiting until he heard the dull thunk as it hit the bottom. It was so far down that there wasn’t any point in trying to climb down, even if he’d had the means to get there and back on his own.
“Either bring the plates back or see they’re safely destroyed” had been his mission. They couldn’t be much safer than they were down the shaft, thought Herne. But to make even more sure he levered several of the larger chunks of debris down the pit. Iron and rotting wood in a cascade that stirred the echoes for nearly a full minute.
“Anyone gets them out, then by God but they’re damned welcome to them,” he muttered, turning away.
On the walk back down the steep slope into the tottering remnants of the township, Herne picked up the rifle and the pendant. Putting the tiny necklace safely away in an inside pocket, having made sure that none of the jewels had been disturbed; that it was still perfect.
It was all right. The rubies still glistened in their heart-shaped setting, reflecting the pale light of the winter’s day like watered-down blood.
The ride back to Tucson was easy. He saw nobody. Nobody except for the shadowy figures that haunted the further edges of the hills, occasionally silhouetted against the dull sky. Man Runs On Air was making sure that Herne left his territory safely.
The snow that had threatened never came, and the sun was shining brightly as he cantered down the main street of Tucson two days later. The eating-house was closed up, with boards across the smashed front door. His room had been kept for him, and after a steaming hot bath he went straight to bed, leaving instructions that he wasn’t to be interrupted by anybody. And not by Mr. Jollye especially.
When he woke it was well into the afternoon. The sky was still blue and clear with visibility as far as the eye could see in every direction. It was a good day to be alive.
He considered calling in on the sheriff to put in a claim for the bounty on Barrell and Ryder, but decided against it. He hadn’t fancied dragging Luke’s corpse all the way back to town, and bounties were rarely paid on missing bodies.
Not even their horses had been worth keeping. Spavined nags with ribs sticking through their faded coats. Herne had released them from the Norwich Hills mine and let them go free, figuring that the Apaches would find some kind of use for them.
As he came down the stairs of the rooming-house, freshly shaved, with his cleaned Colt swinging on his hip, the Government agent leaped to his feet from the lobby where he’d been waiting.
“Herne! They wouldn’t let me up to see you!”
“Right. Told them I’d take them off at the knees if they let anyone up.”
“Well?”
“Fine.”
Jollye’s face lit up with relief and pleasure. “You killed them all?”
“That’s right. I shot them all dead. You want a description of where each bullet went?”
“No. Of course not. But they are all dead?”
“And cold.”
The agent stood off a couple of steps and looked up at him. “Where are the plates? In your room? Dangerous to leave them there, Mr. Herne. Maybe we should go up and get them?”
“The girl got the money?”
“What?”
“The money. Ellie-May Mitchell. For buryin’ her Grandpa. She get it?”
“Yes. Of course. I am a man of my word, Mr. Herne. I say precisely what I mean and I stand by that. Now, the printing plates.”
“I don’t have them.”
If he’d unbuttoned his trousers and relieved himself over the agent’s boots he couldn’t have got a more dramatic result. All the blood drained from the little man’s face and he swayed. For a moment Herne thought he was going to faint but with a great effort he recovered.
“Wh ...” He cleared his throat and tried once more. “What do you mean?”
“I mean, I don’t have them.”
“Who does?”
“Nobody.”
“Don’t try jokes on with me, Herne. It is a matter of the greatest gravity.”
“Well, if anyone has them then Cal Ryder does.”
“You said that he was …”
“Dead. He is. Very. He’s at the bottom of a mine shaft high in the Pinaleños.”
“But …”
“With a few tons of old timber and rusty iron holding him down. And four bullets for company. He’s got the plates. He took them with him when he fell.”
He could almost feel the relief from Jollye. In a nervous gesture the agent turned to a large gilt mirror at his elbow, decorated at the edges with fat cherubs, and adjusted his necktie, drawing deep breaths as he recovered his composure. When he faced Herne again there was a foxy smile on his lips. A smile that stopped a long way short of his eyes.
“So there is no chance of them ever being reached?”
“Absolutely none at all.”
“They are safe there?”
“Sure.”
“I have your word on that?”
“Sure. I give you my word that nobody will ever be able to get those plates. Only you and me know where they are, and I’m not going back.”
Jollye nodded. “Excellent. I have been making enquiries about you, Mr. Herne. All say that you are a man of total violence. And total honesty. I believe you.”
“Good. I’ll be having the three thousand dollars. I got things to do this afternoon, and then I want to be moving on.”
“Ah.”
“What the Hell does that mean?”
“It means that I merely wish to see your proof that the plates have been effectively destroyed.”
“I told you, and you said you believed me.”
“Yes. If I recall my words, and I am a careful man with words, I said that I would pay you two thousand dollars to go and three thousand dollars for the return of the plates. Or irrefutable evidence that you have destroyed them.”
Herne stood very still, feeling his fingers itching for the butt of the Colt. He knew men of Jollye’s type. Men who would send others to do the dirty work and then complain that not all of the “I’s had been dotted and some of the “t’s weren’t crossed.
“I am sorry. I personally believe you. But in the work of Government one has to be careful what one does. That is the first rule of business and it is as clear as the nose on my face. I am grateful to you for your efforts, Mr. Herne and I bid you good-day.”
“Wait on.”
“What?”
Jed Herne had learned long ago that there were times when it was as well to cut your losses and move on. Maybe if he wrangled long enough he might get some of that three thousand dollars back. Maybe. But he wanted satisfaction, and there was a better, quicker way.
“Plain as the nose on your face, Mr. Jollye?” he said.
“Yes.”
“Took at your nose in that mirror, Mr. Jollye,” he went on. “Look good. And say good-day to it.”
“Why?”
“I’m about to make it a mite plainer.”
Herne seized the back of the agent’s head in both hands, locking his fingers tightly into the greasy hair. And rammed Jollye’s face as hard as he was able into the gilt-framed mirror. The glass split into a hundred razor-edged fragments, and Jollye’s nose cracked. Grunting with the effort, Jed tugged back and then ground the man’s face into the remains of the glass, knocking out most of his front teeth, snapping them off at the roots. Spreading the broken nose halfway across his cheeks, and cutting his face to ribbons on the splintered shards of the mirror.
Jollye tried to scream once, but the impact of the second blow knocked him out. He hung limply in Herne’s hands, until the big shootist dropped him to the carpet of the lobby, stepping back to avoid getting the streams of blood on his boots.
The owner of the rooming-house watched the scene in frozen horror, recoiling when Jed turned to him.
“You see what happened?”
“No, Sir. Yes, Sir. I mean ...”
“Saw him trip and bang into that mirror?”
The hand dropped to the Colt, and the man whitened. “I guess I did.”
Jollye was still being sewed up at the doctor’s when Herne rode Jubal out of Tucson with the remnants of the money in his saddle-bag. The sheriff had stared hard at him, and Jed had stared right back.
The sun was sinking far down in the west when he finally reached the three mounds near the stream. He had thought about replacing the pendant in the coffin, but had pulled back from the idea, wanting to try and keep a memory of how Becky had been and not what she would now have become.
So he scraped a hole in the small grave, a foot or so deep, and placed the pendant in it, patting the earth back down over it. Standing up and sighing with the effort.
Looking down at all that was now left of his past life. Trying to think of something to say. The words freezing in his throat.
“So long, Becky. Mrs. Yates. So long, Louise. I’ll never forget what …”
But there was still a long way to go and time was running short.
He swung easily up into the saddle and heeled the stallion forwards. Away towards the setting sun.
At the top of the nearest ridge he paused, seeing the trail winding away below him. If he looked back he would be able to see the shadows of the three graves.
Keeping his face to the golden sky in the west, Jed Herne rode on.
Alone.