The badge on Jed Herne’s shirt showed clearly as he pushed open the bat-wing doors of The Five Aces. A hurricane lamp hung from a hook close to the center of the ceiling, moving slightly in the wind. Underneath it, two men knelt on the floor, busy replacing those boards that had got burnt up the night before.
One of the men was wearing a sweat-stained stetson, the other bare-headed and mosdy bald. They looked at Herne for several moments before the bald one picked up his hammer and went back to work.
‘You sure done a good job,’ said the second man, the sarcasm clearly evident in his voice. ‘Sorry ’bout your place.’
‘I just bet you are.’
The bald man took a nail from his mouth and set its point against the floor. ‘Take it easy, Ed. Don’t rile him any.’
‘Why the hell shouldn’t I? What reason he have for burning this place of mine down?’
The bald man struck the nail, gently at first, then hard three times until only the rounded end showed in the board. ‘It didn’t burn down, for one thing. For another, things could have bin a whole lot worse if it had been left to others to try and get them bums out of here.’
‘Those bums are my living,’ said the saloon owner acidly.
‘And you chose it,’ put in Herne.
The man with the hat stood up. ‘Anythin’ wrong with that?’
Herne shook his head. ‘Not a thing.’ He raised his right hand briefly in salute. ‘Be seein’ you gents.’
As soon as the doors were swinging to behind Herne, the saloon owner grabbed up a hammer and flung it across the room, where it cannoned off one of the walk and into a pile of stacked chairs.
‘Damn him! Comin’ in here to gloat.’
‘He weren’t necessarily gloatin’, Ed. Just checkin’ us out on his rounds. Don’t get so all-fired het up about it. We may be glad he’s here afore long.’
‘Only way I’ll be glad to see him stay here is up in the cemetery.’
The bald man hammered another nail. ‘Double C boys have their way you might be able to take along a wreath yet.’
An hour later Herne paused outside the saddlers and leant against the door, checking it. As he did so he heard a sound from directly across the street—someone trying to walk soft.
‘Hold it!’
He was round and in a crouch, both hands extended, one holding the Colt. In the shadows opposite, the figure moved, came forward to the end of boardwalk.
‘It’s okay, Jed. Only me.’
Herne recognized Dan Stewart and put up his gun with relief. The two men met in the middle of the street.
‘Seen anythin’?’ Stewart asked.
‘Nothin’ to trouble us.’
‘Good. Thought we might get a visit.’
‘Yep. That Tolly alone in the jail?’
‘For now. But there’s three locks between him and the street and no back way in. He’ll rest easy.’
‘I reckon. What’s it like up at The Cattlemen’s House?’
‘More crowded than usual. On account of The Five Aces being temporarily out of business, I guess. You could take a look.’
I’ll do that. See you, Dan.’
‘Jed.’
Light spilled out from the windows and doors; sounds of laughter and talk; clink and clatter of glass; jangly, off-key notes from an upright piano.
When Herne went in not too many people noticed; they were too preoccupied with their own evening’s entertainment. Not that Jed minded—it was better that way.
He walked round the big room, stopping every now and then to look at the spin of the faro wheel, the deal of the cards at blackjack, the bidding of the poker players. Faulkner saw him, but gave no sign of recognition.
Whatever arguments Dan Stewart had used on the town council to get him the post of deputy, they must have been pretty persuasive.
Finally Herne made his way towards the curved bar, leaning one elbow against it and looking towards the rear of the room while waiting for one of the bartenders to serve him.
There were six or seven saloon girls scattered about the place. All of them wore identical emerald green dresses with layers of black petticoat showing underneath and black edging at the sleeves and across the bodice. Black fishnet stockings and high heeled shoes.
Herne paid for his shot of bourbon.
Two brunettes, three blondes, one with hair that was jet black and one redhead—none of them anything like as attractive as the girl from the kitchen. What was her name? Josie?
He turned back to the bar, disappointed that she wasn’t there and annoyed with himself for feeling that way. He had the best part of a hundred dollars in his pocket and any one—or two—of those girls in green would keep him company for as much of the night as he wanted.
Maybe, Herne thought, maybe ...
He saw the bunch come through the door out of the corner of one eye. Five, six, no, seven men. Keeping close together in the way that such gangs always did. Seeking shelter in their own noise, boosting one another’s courage. They pushed and elbowed people out of the way until they had cleared a space for themselves at the bar and began calling out for whisky and beer.
Herne glanced round to see if he could see Faulkner, but the owner had slipped out of sight. Probably, thought Jed, sheltering in his office and guarding his precious safe.
Herne swallowed back his drink and moved back from the bar, putting space between himself and the group at the counter. He didn’t want to make what they’d come for too easy for them—and he was certain he knew what they were after: himself.
He wondered where Dan Stewart was, whether he should just walk out and leave them to it. Before he could make up his mind, it was made up for him.
‘Anyone seen that new lawman you got in this town?’
The voice was harsh, rough; even so not too many folk heard it. The first time. After the second faces began to look round, assess the situation and move away. The speaker stepped forward into the space that had cleared around him.
Herne stood alongside the blackjack table and took a good look at him. Well over six foot, a couple of inches taller than Herne himself, and built like a prize bull. His face was a mass of black stubble and thick hair fell forward over his forehead in unkempt clumps. He had a riding quirt fastened round his right wrist; a gun holstered at his left side.
Herne guessed that he was the ramrod of the Double C.
‘I said, anyone seen this new marshal you got here in town?’
To Herne’s left, the blackjack dealer stopped pushing forward the cards. One by one the customers forgot about their stakes, eased back their chairs and moved back into the crowd.
The redhead in emerald green picked up her skirt over one arm and hurried for safety. The piano player had stopped: the last notes hung discordantly on the thick, smoky air.
‘Well, now, boys,’ said the ramrod, turning his head part way to the other cowboys, ‘look what we got us here. It ain’t a real marshal at all—just some crumblin’ old man they dressed up in a badge.’
‘Tea,’ said one of the others, stepping away from the bar, ‘that can’t be the one as took Tolly in and killed Shay an’ the rest. All he’s good fer is standin’ guard over his own coffin.’
The Double C men laughed and Herne gave the speaker the once over. Little more than a kid, five eight or nine, spiky brown hair and an attempt at growing a moustache that was nothing but a joke. Two guns strapped to his sides and worn too low to get an even draw. He looked down the room at Herne and Jed saw that there was a cast in his right eye.
The one with the quirt took a step along the floor: ‘That right you’re the new deputy?’
‘That’s right,’ answered Herne in even tones.
‘You’re this Herne the Hunter we bin hearin’ about?’
‘Some folk call me that.’
The kid stepped forward: ‘That ain’t what I’d call you. Not me. I’d call you a washed-up old man who don’t know when he’s over the hill and rollin’ down the other side.’
Herne bit down on his lower lip. The crowd moved even further back, hugging the walls. Behind the horseshoe bar, the three bartenders were quietly lifting as many of the liquor bottles below the counter as they could.
‘You hear me, old man?’
‘I hear you,’ answered Herne, a tinge of weariness in his voice.
I hear you now, he thought, and I’ve heard you for the past ten years, ever since this hair of mine started to go grey and the lines came to my face. Heard you in every street and saloon between the Mississippi and the Rio Grande. Nights when I’ve slept bad I’ve heard you in my dreams.
‘What you aimin’ to do about it?’
Herne shrugged his broad shoulders. ‘Not a damned thing,’ he said and turning his back, started to walk slowly along the room, real, real slow.
The kid jumped forward, grabbed a chair and hurled it across the floor. ‘You see that?’ he shouted. ‘You all see that? That no-account deputy crawlin’ off with his tail between his legs like the mangy dog he is.’
Herne stopped: turned, hands well clear of his gun belt. The kid was standing in a gunfighter’s crouch, the tips of each set of fingers inches above the polished butts of his guns. Behind him to his left, the other Double C cowboys were lined up against the bar, passing a bottle silently between them. The ramrod of the outfit stood back to the kid’s right, hand close to his pistol.
Around sixty people in the saloon and every one of them watching Herne and the kid, eyes flicking nervously from one to the other.
‘Right, son, you had your say. Now I’m goin’ t’ have mine. You run off at the mouth any more an’ I’m goin’t’ come down there an’ take them guns away from you and ram the barrels down that stupid throat of yours.’
The kid shifted his stance, blinked, the cast in his eye more evident than ever. The men at the bar started to spread out; the bottle came to rest on the counter.
‘Old man, you ain’t about to do nothin’. Unless it’s to crawl out of this place an’ find some old kennel for the night.’
Herne drew breath and started to walk back down the room, all the way keeping his hand curved above the butt of his Colt, all the way fixing the kid with his eyes and staring at him hard.
‘I’m warnin’ you, old man. Don’t you come one step closer or I’ll drop you fer dead!’
Herne kept going.
The kid held his breath, clenched and unclenched his fingers, became aware of the sweat that was running down both sides of his face and of the nerve that ticked away at his temple. The next pace the lawman took he’d go for his guns ... the next... the ...
‘Don’t you ...’
But Herne was upon him. A grip like a vice clamped down on his right arm and something that felt like falling rock thudded against his jaw. A fire shot through him as a knee was rammed between his legs and he knew he was falling backwards, knew his mouth was open wide and that what he could hear was the sound of himself screaming. Screaming with pain like some fool kid.
Herne let the boy fall away from him and, just before he hit the floor, he kicked out with his boot and caught him in the kidneys. The slight body shifted several feet in the air before it crashed against a table. Herne ducked down with both hands reaching for the twin guns at the kid’s belt.
Silence in the saloon and then everyone began talking at once. Everyone except for the cowboys from the Double C. They stood there stunned. The only one of them making any sound was the whimpering shape on the floor.
Herne’s Colt .45 was still in its holster.
He turned to face the man with the quirt. ‘You boss of this outfit?’
‘Scott Miller. I ramrod for the Double C, sure.’
‘Well, next time you or any of your boys come into town lookin’ to pick a fight I reckon you’d better give it a long, hard thought first. An’ ...’ He pointed to the ground, ‘... don’t try to use some punk like that ‘cause he’s still wet behind the ears. Now drink up an’ get him out of here. Throw him over his horse and take him back to your ranch.’
Miller looked Herne steadily in the face. He didn’t like being talked to like that—not in front of a saloon full of people, especially not in front of his own men. But at that moment he didn’t see what he was going to do about it. Herne had showed that his reputation wasn’t built on rumors; had proved that what had happened back in The Five Aces hadn’t been any kind of fluke.
‘That understood?’ asked Herne.
‘Understood,’ said Miller with a scowl on his dark face. ‘For now.’
‘What about the kid’s guns?’ asked one of the cowboys.
‘He wants these back,’ said Herne, ‘he’s goin’ t’ have t’ come to me real nice and polite an’ ask fer ’em. Now when he comes to, you be sure to tell him that.’
‘Come on, boys, let’s get out of here.’
Scott Miller shouldered his way towards the door, leaving the others to lift up the still moaning kid and carry him out into the street.
Herne stood his ground, watching in case any one of them should try something at the last moment. But they didn’t. Behind him the piano started to play again and soon there was the sound of a group of horses galloping away.
Only then did Jed Herne turn round.
Only then did he spot Dan Stewart on the stairs to the back, his Remington shotgun over one arm and a smile on his face nearly as wide as a house.
Herne walked over towards him.
‘How long you bin there?’
‘Just before you started that walk of yorn. Snuck through the crowd when they was all watchin’ you an’ that fool kid.’
Herne nodded.
‘Not that I thought it was anythin’ you couldn’t handle. I mean, they was only half a dozen.’
‘This time,’ said Herne.
‘Yep, this time.’ Stewart slapped Herne on the arm. ‘Come on, I’ll buy you a drink. My badge pulls thirty a month more than yours.’
The girl with the red hair and the green dress came over to their table and tried to draw them into conversation, but Herne shook his head and Stewart gave her his best smile and sent her on her way.
‘Think you an’ me’ll take us a ride early tomorrow,’ Dan said.
Herne lifted his glass. ‘Where to?’
Stewart’s smile was back on his handsome face. ‘Double C,’ he said.