It was not only during the nights that San Francisco was damp in January. In daylight hours too, when the white clouds of mist came rolling in from the bay, the clawing wetness sought out everything, everyone.
So that, when it became too bad, those who could sought escape. And as he sought to escape from the vengeance of Herne the Hunter, in the same way Senator Nolan attempted to flee the atmosphere of the city.
He bought his way out.
Nolan had chartered a special railroad car to take him up into the hills that surrounded the city. There the air would be cleaner, calmer–more restful.
Jed Herne rode along at a leisurely pace. The sky above was still overcast, but the temperature had risen considerably. He found it good to be in the saddle again, enjoying the rhythmic movement of the animal beneath him. Good to be on the trail again.
Especially as he knew that this time there would be gold at the rainbow’s end. For above him, ahead of him, the senator’s train was slowly making its way. As long as Herne keep in sight of the rail track he was content. He would catch up with the senator soon enough. And then ...
Money. Hell! thought Herne. Money was a kind of cancer that spread through the bloodlines of certain families and made them rotten. He remembered the Stanwyck woman and her two sons, hidden away in a place that was built like a fortress. Built out of money. Innocent from the outside but rotten inside.
Like opening up a crisp green apple and finding its core diseased, crawling with maggots. Herne shuddered.
Trains. It had all begun with a train. A specially chartered train–the one that the senator’s son had hired to carry himself and several ill-assorted companions on a gambling jaunt across country. No chance of an interruption that way; they could drink and play cards to their hearts’ content. Nolan had the money that made it possible, so why not? Trains and money.
Herne visualized the over-confident, spoiled face of Josiah Nolan. Imagined him rubbing his well-manicured hands together with anticipation, a puffy smile on his thin, mean-looking lips. In anticipation of making a killing!
And so he had. Though almost certainly not the one he had had in mind. Not even one. Two. Two women. One of them Jed’s. He looked up at the vast grayness of the sky as it stretched from one distant horizon to the other. In all of that space he could see nothing but the figure of a young woman wearing her best dress. A dress that was beginning to spread round her belly with the first visible signs of pregnancy. She had only worn it once, that green velvet dress. For a special occasion.
Like hanging herself when she knew that she could not hope to live with the memory of what had happened to her.
She had died before Jed had woken and found her. Her memory had not. It lived on inside Herne himself. Lived and drove him. Onwards. Upwards.
Herne shook his head in an attempt to dispel his sudden gloom. This time no specter hovered in the sky. Just gray clouds. And away from him stretched the black lines of the railroad track.
He clicked gently to his horse and touched her flanks with his spurs.
‘Come on, now. We’ve got things to do. Let’s climb a little.’
An hour later Herne saw the train. There were only two cars being pulled behind the engine. He urged his mount harder, moving in closer with every pace.
Soon he could distinguish the rear car. The blinds were pulled down against the light–such as there was. Apparently,
Senator Nolan chose to spend most of his time in comparative darkness. Chose to...or had to.
Herne had found that out from the guard back at the house in San Francisco before he had killed him. Also, that the senator would be accompanied in the blacked-out carriage by his two top bodyguards. Men to whom Nolan paid a small fortune. For theirs was the final responsibility.
He had not learnt much about them. Only their names: Neilson and Lamont. And the fact that Lamont was a negro. The dying man had thought that would interest Herne, but Jed couldn’t see why.
When you were going to kill a man, what the hell did the color of his skin matter?
There was a point up ahead of him where the track wound itself alongside a small stream. Both water and rail moved in close to a fairly steep bluff. Herne reined in and looked thoughtful; then he pushed his horse back into motion. Wheeling round to the east. Fast.
Now he knew what he should do.
He left the animal tucked out of sight over the incline, tying her to the overhanging branch of a tree. Then he hurried down the side of the bluff, leaning back against it so as not to lose his balance. Boots digging into the hard ground to find footing. Hands now steadying, now pushing him on his descent.
Finally he slithered to a halt at a point that was almost directly above where the train would pass. Below him, the stream coursed strongly, the recent rain having nearly swollen it over its banks.
All around, the landscape was bleak, dead-looking.
Into this deadness, moved the train. The steam that emerged darkly from its engine funnel soon became one with the sky.
Train of death.
Herne steadied himself and checked quickly that the leather tag was pulled up from the back of his holster over the hammer of his gun. He didn’t want that to shake free when he dropped downwards.
He held himself back against the sloping ground as the engine passed below him. The driver and his fireman were busy with their tasks. Neither looked up. After all, on such a drab day, what could there possibly be to look at?
Herne pushed himself forward, timing his jump so that he would miss the tender and land on top of the first, hopefully empty, car. He tensed himself and then relaxed as the jolt of the impact thrust up through his legs.
He immediately flattened himself on top of the car. Looked round anxiously towards the engine. No one moved. The sound must have been lost in the noise from the moving train. He waited a few moments longer. Partly to get his breath back. Partly for the terrain to level out. He didn’t want the rear car to go rolling back downhill. Not with him on it, he didn’t.
Ready now, Herne crawled along to the end of the carriage and climbed down off the roof. The door that led into the senator’s car was firmly closed. Herne bent down and lowered both of his arms underneath the iron coupling hook which held the carriages together.
The occasional bumping of the wheels on the somewhat uneven track did not make his task easier. It was some time before he was able to drag the hook clear of its linkage. He knew that his forearms would be bruised and there was a troubling ache from the injured left arm where the dog had savaged it.
Herne jumped free from the still moving section and leapt upon the almost stationary carriage. His right hand loosed the tag from the hammer of his Colt; the left went to the handle of the door. Tested it. It did not budge more than a fraction of an inch. And it would not be long before those inside realized that something had gone wrong. That they had stopped moving.
Which was fine. Because it meant that sooner or later one of those who were within the darkened car would have to look out and see what had happened. A window would open. Or a door.
Herne ran on to the grass at the side of the track, putting some space between himself and the carriage.
Herne crouched down and surveyed the drawn blinds. He could only see one side, of course, with a good view of the observation platform at the back and a partial view of the shorter section that led away from the front end.
He waited and waited. Nothing happened. The water continued to flow down towards the bay; the clouds moved relentlessly by overhead. Other than that there was no movement. No sound.
They must have realized what had happened. So why were they waiting? Supposing it was “they”…It was always possible that the man back at the house had lied to him. But, when Herne recalled his terror-stricken face, he could scarcely believe that to be true. His information might simply have been wrong. The senator could have been in the forward carriage—no, he would have seen signs of movement through the windows. Or perhaps he was not on the train at all?
The thoughts raced through Jed Herne’s mind as he continued to watch the train like a hawk staring down on its prey.
He could only guess that if his information were correct and Nolan and the two bodyguards were inside, then they must have assumed that it was an attempt to either assassinate or kidnap the senator, being carried out by more than one man.
They were probably sitting in the car envisaging armed men surrounding the train on either side,
Well, Herne grinned, let them sweat it out. I ain’t in any hurry. Not now I’ve got this far.
He had little fears of interference from other quarters. He did not think that the driver and fireman of the train would want to become involved in whatever strange events were taking place back along the track. They would probably pretend they hadn’t noticed anything was wrong and just keep on going.
Which, thought Herne as he stared downwards, just leaves me and you.
At which point he held his breath.
His eye had picked up a movement low on the ground on the far side of the stranded car. Surely? Yes. There it was again. Something shifting slowly, surreptitiously along behind the wheels.
One of the men had managed to slide through a window on the blind side and was now trying to make his way to the rear end of the car without being spotted.
Fine, thought Herne. Let him keep on thinking he’s doing just that.
The man was edging his way along with such patience that it was almost possible to believe there was no one there at all. Whoever he was, he was not going to be easy. He knew what he was doing.
Herne wondered if it was Neilson or Lamont. White or black. It was idle speculation as it didn’t really matter. At least, not to Herne. It might conceivably matter to Lamont or Neilson.
Whichever of the two it turned out to be was five feet away from the observation platform. Herne drew his Colt and crooked his arm at the elbow, resting it upon his knee. He lowered his head behind the hammer and, with one eye closed, sighted along the barrel.
The man would have noticed that there was nobody on the stream side. Which probably meant he expected to find a whole gang round the side where Herne was waiting. Patiently. As patiently as the gunman who had that second eased his left boot up onto the metal floor of the rear platform. A hand pulled upwards. The right boot joined the left boot. The body swung gracefully under the rail then took up as little space as possible against the carriage end. Began to shift across to the other side. Inch by slow inch.
And still Herne waited for the first clear sign, the first target.
There was a blur of dark brown. The sleeve of a shirt? Uncertain, his finger remained poised on the trigger. Come on, damn you, said Herne to himself. Stop being so goddamn worried!
As if hearing him, the owner of the shirt obliged by showing his whole arm. Still Herne wanted more. Wanted the man’s head to peer round the end of the car, so that...
The click was slight but in the intensity of all that expectant silence it sounded as loud as a hammer blow.
Christ!
Herne cussed inwardly as he flung himself to his left with all the strength he could muster. The bullet hammered into the heel of his boot, wrenching it off. Herne kept rolling.
‘Christ!’ he repeated, out loud this time. The other man had gone along the far end of the train. The first had just been a decoy.
Shots now came at him from both directions, missing him as he thumped down towards the track. Suddenly he dug his feet in hard and pulled up short. Fired first at the observation platform, then, immediately after, at the other end of the car. He stood up. A searing pain shot through the back of his left calf as a bullet ripped through the skin. He looked up and saw the man furthest away duck back from sight.
Herne himself fell to the right away from the anticipated shot from the brown-shirted man on the platform. Dropped. Rolled. Came up firing. Twice. One miss. One shot that sent the man toppling back against the rail, clutching at his right thigh. He bounced backwards and Herne’s next shot whistled over his head.
Then Jed was pushed back against the side of the carriage and reloading fast while there were seconds of time.
‘Lamont! You all right?’ The gunman nearest to Herne yelled down to the other end.
After a moment, Neilson got his answer. ‘Great! How about you?’
‘The bastard got me in the leg, but I’m okay.’
‘Which leg was that?’ laughed Lamont.
Jesus, thought Herne, as he pushed the last cartridge home, what a hell of a time to be making jokes.
The wounded man thought much the same. ‘What are you cackling at, you black bastard? This ain’t no laughin’ matter!’
‘Don’t worry,’ came the reply. ‘There’s still two of us and only one of him.’
‘Goddamn it!’ Neilson screamed. ‘Shut your mouth and do something about gunning this feller down. You black bastard!’
Herne wondered whether Lamont was grinning or not. Then he wondered whether he was still where he had been a moment ago. Someone who was clever enough to set Herne up the way he had, getting him to concentrate on one place to the exclusion of the others–he was going to have more tricks than one.
Like setting up a conversation which would fix the positions of himself and his partner firmly in Herne’s mind.
Jed holstered the gun and turned fast. He grabbed at the ledge at the side of the train and pulled himself up. He wanted to be on that car roof and quickly. Before it was too late for him to move anywhere.
His head and shoulders were above the level of the top of the carriage for a split second. It was enough. Enough to see the smiling face of the gunman as he stepped cat-like along the center. Lamont snapped off a shot too quickly for the aim to be good, although it was close enough for Herne to feel the wind of it as it passed by him.
Holy shit! They were good all right.
He dropped back to the ground and turned right, beginning to run for the end of the train car that Lamont had left.
‘Hold it!’
He ducked low and kept running. The bullet whined into the side of the train and ricocheted away into the distance. Herne stopped sharply and turned, drawing as he did so. Neilson steadied himself for his second shot. He wasn’t going to miss this time. Not now his man was standing still.
Which was exactly what Herne was thinking.
He fired fast. Two shots blurred together as though they had come from a single pull of the trigger. Neilson threw his right arm high into the air and his gun fired uselessly upwards into the gray clouds. He stumbled two paces backwards, then recovered his balance and came forward once more.
His gun arm was lowered again; he struggled desperately to level it in Herne’s direction. His eyes began to blink then his arm began to droop. He fought against it. Fought hard. Lost.
The gun slipped out of still grasping fingers. Head went back, mouth and eyes open wide. Two blotches of red stained the brown shirt, less than an inch or two apart. Even as Herne watched the marks widened into one solid bloodied patch.
His legs began to separate, as though he had decided to perform the splits. Halfway through the action, the upper half of his body collapsed forwards. Finally he lay stretched out alongside the track.
Herne was moving gradually around the carriage. The black bodyguard was nowhere to be seen. He had gone back inside. Now that he was down to a one to one situation, it was the obvious thing to do.
It left Herne in the worse position: of having to come in from the light into the dark. In from the cold.
All right, thought Herne. You still don’t know which entrance to watch. Which door. Which window.
He moved swiftly from one end of the car to the other, shooting off the locks of the doors as he went. But he did not make any attempt to enter. That way Lamont would be forced to check both ways at once.
Next he fired through a central pair of windows, shattering the glass and tearing back the blinds.
Herne reloaded his Colt and moved silently along to the observation platform. He prepared to kick the door open. Counted under his breath. One. Two. Three.
Kicked. The door flew open and almost instantly two shots rang out. Herne dived low, keeping himself as close to the floor as he could. The light from the doorway penetrated deep into the car. But not deep enough for him to see clearly.
He pushed himself into a gap between a pair of upholstered seats at his right and peered over them. A shot tore out of the blackness at him. He fired back. Heard an urgent shout and curse. Fired again, aiming for the source of sound.
He jumped for the other side of the gangway. But Lamont was not concerned with getting back at him. Not now. He was too intent on getting away, out of the carriage.
Three-quarters of the way down the car a blind was suddenly ripped back from one of the windows and a body went crashing through it, head first. Herne turned and ran for the open door, swinging himself over the rail that ran round the platform.
He landed at the edge of the track, alongside the bank of the stream. Lamont had made it into the water and was trying to swim across to the far side. But it looked as though one of his arms was out of action and he was not finding the going easy.
Herne decided he could wait. Again. This time it would be all right.
The black gunslinger pulled himself up the bank at the far side of the stream. He shook his head, wincing as the pain high in his side struck him afresh with the effort he had made, then turned to see where Herne was.
The flash from Herne’s Colt showed him what he didn’t really want to know. His eyes remained on Herne for a full ten seconds but they showed neither feeling nor expression. And at the end of that time he fell face first down into the water.
Herne watched as the current edged him away from the bank and began to move him downstream. The water around him was etched with thin red lines.
‘So long,’ said Herne. ‘You poor black bastard.’
He turned back into the carriage. Gun still held expectantly in his right hand. He ripped the blinds down from the windows as he passed along the corridor.
Then he saw him. The man he had been searching for. The man he had come hundreds of miles with the express purpose of killing.
Senator Nolan.
He was sitting in a specially padded seat close to the center of the car. It was made in soft, quilted velvet. Black velvet, like everything else in the carriage. The blinds. The upholstery. The hangings.
Herne put up his gun and went over to where the man sat. Stared at the face. Puffy-white, flabby, lifeless. His mouth was set. His eyes failed to move, not even a flicker. His whole head resembled a decaying vegetable. Inhuman. At the side of his neck the muscles were pulled tight as though gripped in some form of paralysis.
He had evidently suffered some kind of crippling stroke. Whatever he now was…this thing that surrounded itself with darkness.
There had been many things Herne had wanted to say to Nolan. He had wanted to talk about hate and revenge. About fathers and children. About his child, dead inside his wife’s raped and hanged body. He had wanted to hear Nolan plead for mercy. Plead passionately for the mercy he could never allow him. Then he would kill him.
But now ...
The part of Nolan that had been a mouth suddenly moved, parted wider. Herne lowered his face towards it. He almost reeled back at the sickly sweet smell that greeted him, that hung over Nolan’s body like a cloak. The skin of his face looked as though it was a soft covering for a swollen balloon of pus. He watched as the hole in the middle of it formed two silent words: ‘Kill me.’
Herne stood up and walked out on to the observation platform. Behind him something scraped against the top of the roof. He whirled round, Colt in hand. It was a vulture clawing at the metal as it took a brief respite from feeding on the exposed face of Neilson’s dead body. Herne looked and saw other birds stripping away the clothing above the wounds on the dead man’s chest and thigh.
He turned away from them and suddenly thought of Becky, waving down to him from the ship that had carried her away. He knew that as long as he lived nothing could be allowed to happen to her. She was the last remnant of his past, of his future. He could not afford to take a single risk.
Herne went back into the railroad car.
Moments later a shot echoed outwards. The huge birds rose, disturbed by the sudden sound. They wheeled and circled in the sky. Beyond their ugly, ominous shapes a single streak of blue showed through the gray.