Till Death (A Herne the Hunter western. Book 15) Read online

  In his time Herne had killed a whole lot of me; he'd killed them in war and in what the frontier called peace. There'd been times when he'd worn a badge but mostly he hadn't. He'd killed for causes and he killed for money. Sometimes he even killed for love - like he killed those men who had savagely attacked his pretty wife, Louise ...

  Now Herne found himself lending his deadly skills to help young Tom Lenegan with the girl he loved. But Katie's family were willing to murder to keep the lovers apart ... but Herne had other ideas ...

  HERNE THE HUNTER 15: TILL DEATH

  By John J. McLaglen

  First Published by Transworld Publishers in 1980

  Copyright © 1980, 2016 by John J. McLaglen

  First Smashwords Edition: April 2016

  Names, characters and incidents in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons living or dead is purely coincidental. This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each reader.

  Cover image © 2014 by Tony Masero

  This is a Piccadilly Publishing Book

  Series Editor: Mike Stotter

  Text © Piccadilly Publishing

  Published by Arrangement with the Author.

  For Lorraine and Mike: it doesn’t have to end this way.

  I take thee to my wedded wife to have and to hold from this day forward for better, for worse for richer, for poorer in sickness and in health to love and to cherish till death us do part

  Chapter One

  Tom Lenegan had not left Katie more than a half-hour when the first Indian appeared. He ran, bent-backed, along twenty feet of flat red rock, jumped a crevice and disappeared from sight. Apache. Even though he didn’t see him for perhaps a mile, Tom knew he was still there. He knew he could reckon on seeing him again. His hand went automatically to the pistol at his belt, slipping the safety thong from the hammer and drawing the weapon clear so’s he could check the load. His fingers performed the actions almost without thinking-his thoughts were for Katie. If the Apache were off the reservation then it was well that they were following him and not her. She would have had no more than a fifteen-minute drive back in her rig from the grove of aspens where they’d met, to the ranch house she shared with her family.

  He was of half a mind to round on his tracks and go back to her, but better judgment prevented him. For one thing, if there was a band of Apache keeping him company then he’d only succeed in drawing them back towards her. For another, rushing into the ranch to Katie’s rescue wouldn’t be the most tactful thing he could do. Not when they’d been meeting in secret, snatching moments. Not when Katie had said at last, ‘Yes, all right, I’ll tell my pa -tell him. I promise.’

  Tom remembered her face when he said that, her eyes bright yet anxious, a slight tremble of the lip as her hand caught his arm and gripped it tight.

  ‘I’ll tell him.’

  Then the second Apache showed himself, across the trail and ahead. This one seated on a piebald pony, war lance in one hand and trailing almost to the ground. He was wearing a dark red shirt, a strip of blue cloth fast round his head and lank black hair tumbling past his shoulders. Just sitting there, watching. And at his left the same Indian he’d seen first - the same by the old army jacket he wore, one sleeve hanging loose at the shoulder, baggy tan pants - running silently from rock to rock.

  Tom Lenegan’s left hand touched the stock of his Winchester, as much for reassurance as anything else.

  How many of them, he thought, how many?

  He hadn’t heard in town of any Apache jumping the reservation in the past few days, though it was a common enough occurrence. Tom could understand why. The Indians had been deprived of everything they needed to live; they were forced to stand in line for the simplest supplies, lines that were long and humiliating and to the Apache futile. At the end of it you got flour or bacon or perhaps a section of beef that was already beginning to stink and collect tiny flies inside its fibers. You couldn’t get self-respect. The reservation didn’t have it in stock. Not ever.

  Tom could see what the Apaches were doing, jumping the reservation. That didn’t mean he condoned what they did once they were free: nor what they’d done before the Army fenced them in. He certainly wasn’t about to lay down his life for the principle of it; he wasn’t going to let them have his horse and guns either, which was probably what they were interested in. Not himself.

  Three now. The one to his left had gained a friend. The red-shirt on the piebald was riding along, keeping just ahead and now not bothering to look back to see where Tom was.

  Four.

  If they kept popping up like gophers there’ll damn soon be a whole tribe of them.

  Of course, they hadn’t made a hostile move as yet, but Tom didn’t imagine they were keeping him company for the pleasure of it. As if to prove his point, both flanks began slowly to converge. Tom gulped a mouthful of air and readied himself. The horse he was riding was a good one, two years old, strong-might outrace the whole bunch of them and that would settle things easier than …

  Tom kicked his spurs into the horse’s sides and hollered for him to go. He slapped the reins this way and that and slid his body low in the saddle, calling again in the animal’s ear. Already he could hear sounds of pursuit. Almost too late he noticed that a red-faced chunk of rock was pushing out across the trail and that the Indian atop it was perched ready to spring.

  As Tom’s horse sped towards the rock, the Apache pushed himself off powerful legs, axe in hand, leaping out. Tom jerked the rein awkwardly, throwing himself across to the other side of his saddle, left boot sliding easily from the stirrup.

  Something powerful and hard smashed against his left knee and the Apache had hold of the bridle with one hand and was running with the horse, feet skipping on the hard ground as he tried to haul himself up on to the animal’s back or pull Tom off.

  Tom twisted sideways and jabbed his elbow hard into the Apache’s face. He missed, tried again, missed and struck his shoulder, again and felt something that might have been the Indian’s nose give under the blow. Tom ducked as a flailing swing with the axe swished above his head and he pulled his pistol from its holster and tried to fire at the Apache from beneath his left arm. The speed of the horse, the jolting caused by the Indian, made certain that he missed. The Apache managed to get one leg over the animal’s rump. Tom pressed the barrel end of his gun against the Indian’s left arm and fired. A roar of pain seemed so close that for a moment he imagined it had come from his own mouth. And then the fingers loosed their hold on the bridle, Tom glimpsed the movement of a brown arm jetted with blood, and the Apache was a sprawling heap on the ground, covering his head with his arms to protect himself from the pony hoofs that galloped over and around him.

  Tom’s breath was tight in his throat.

  He willed himself to look over his shoulder but twenty, thirty yards were swallowed before he did so. Five Indians, the red-shirted one in the front of the bunch, brandishing his spear. One of the others was naked to the waist, a vermillion streak of paint slashed diagonally across his chest like some grotesque wound. Tom saw the brave with the torn Army jacket begin to swing wide, one of the others following him.

  He turned ahead and saw why. The land was flattening out, the rocks which had bordered the trail were diminishing. Ahead was desert, a brown-grey wasteland from which giant Saguaro cactuses rose up like giant, upthrust hands. The tops of the fingers were beginning to break open in flower; tips of white showed fleetin
gly against the green.

  Tom glanced back: he was holding his ground but certainly not gaining. If the Apache had guns they would have used them by now, he was sure. As long as his horse kept going, as long as the gap separating them remained the same, he would be all right.

  Three miles of this desert until the next range of hills and after that the landscape began its dramatic change. The river that fed the San Pedro watered a valley that was thick with aspens and firs on its sides and which held some of the best farmland he knew close by the base. Jesus! Tom knew that valley inch by inch, near enough blade of grass by blade of grass. He knew the fall of the land and the coldness of the stream and he knew the exact spot he’d picked out for Katie and himself to live. Down at the far end from his folks. Three miles of desert and it was going to be the longest three miles of Tom Lenegan’s life.

  The pair of braves who’d spun out to the east were turning in again, driving their ponies as hard as they could and trying to cut him off. Red-shirt was yelling and screaming and waving his lance like a fury. They wanted him bad, wanted his rifle and six-gun and horse.

  Damn them!

  Tom drew the pistol again and tried to steady his arm along the horse’s neck. He gritted his teeth and squinted, sun behind him; the arm jolted as he fired and the bullet passed over the heads of the Apaches by more than a man’s height.

  Damn!

  Tom swiveled in the saddle and took a shot at the red-shirt and then cursed himself twice-one time for missing and another for wasting ammunition when it might be the most precious thing he had ’cause if he didn’t outrace them across that patch of cactus-studded scrub and sand then he was going to be needing every bullet.

  Tom pushed the gun down into his holster and whipped up the horse some more with the reins.

  ‘Come on, you beauty! Come on, let’s give these bastards the back of my ass!’ Tom patted the animal’s neck as he leaned over it. ‘Yours too!’

  The Apache in the Army coat was less than ten yards to Tom’s left and closing fast. The brave with him was another five yards behind him. The piebald - a hasty check over his shoulder — was no more than twenty yards at back. It wasn’t happening. He wasn’t getting away. He wasn’t even holding his own any more. Another quarter of a mile, less, and they would be up to him.

  Tom’s throat was prickly-dry; his shirt was sticking to his body at the back and under his armpits. His stomach felt hollow with gathering fear.

  He swayed to the left, drew his pistol and swayed back again, turning the upper half of his body. He straightened his arm and aimed the gun at the Apache in the Army coat. The shot went wide, speeding between the two Indians.

  ‘Jesus Christ!’

  Tom fired again, knowing as he was doing so that it was too fast, snatched rather than squeezed.

  To his amazement the second of the two Apaches threw both arms up into the air and rocked backwards on the striped blanket thrown over the pony’s back. For several more moments he held himself there with his knees but then went back, somersaulting over the pony’s rump. It hadn’t been the one he was aiming for but it counted just the same.

  What it didn’t do was stop the rider closing on him with each fresh stride and now beginning to swing the axe with his right arm, wide curving swings which threatened to cleave Tom’s head almost from his shoulders. Tom rested the gun barrel on his left forearm. He could see the dark shine of the Apache’s eyes, the lines of his face, the hatred that showed in the set of his mouth, the muscular force of the arm, the edge of the axe.

  Tom squeezed the trigger.

  Nothing seemed to happen other than the roar of the explosion.

  Five yards separated them.

  Four.

  Two.

  The Apache’s mouth opened and Tom stared at tongue and teeth and as he stared a gobbet of blood flew from the Indian’s mouth and landed on the pony’s neck. The Apache began to sway from side to side. Tom let his head turn further. The remaining three were the same distance behind as before.

  The Apache in the Army jacket was rocking from left to right but wouldn’t fall. The axe made one attempt to rise through a last murderous arc but when it was level with the brave’s leg it slipped from his failing fingers and bounced along the dry ground until it was still. The Apache was keeping himself in the saddle by instinct; his hands no longer held the rope which led from the hide bridle; his legs were no longer tight about the pony’s sides. His eyes were closed. Tom knew it was useless to watch him anymore but he could not stop. He was fascinated.

  Finally the Indian toppled slowly sideways and pitched head first to the desert floor.

  Tom looked back. He seemed to have pulled another five yards from his pursuers. The first traces of a smile showed at the corners of his mouth and at the back of his eyes. He had known all along it would be all right. Didn’t it have to be, after Katie had agreed to tell her pa, tell him that they wanted to be wed?

  Didn’t it?

  Tom Lenegan rocked his body in the saddle and urged the horse on with spurs and reins and voice and in the midst of that he heard the first stretch and break of leather.

  Panic flooded his mind.

  A week ago he’d been in the barn with his young cousin come to stay on a visit. They’d been fooling around and play-fighting the way they’d always done since knee-high to a cricket. His cousin had pulled down a saddle and harness from the rail and only later, replacing it, had the weakening of the girth been noticed.

  ‘Best look to that, Tom, else you’ll go ass over tip afore you know it.’

  And his cousin had run, laughing, from the barn.

  ‘Best look to that, Tom?

  Tom kicked his heels hard down into the animal’s flanks. The leather groaned and tore. He felt the saddle immediately slide to the left and struggled to right himself, pressing with his boots down at the stirrup irons, somehow thinking to keep himself aright.

  The chasing Apaches were only ten yards to his rear.

  The girth slipped round; the saddle pitched sideways; the stirrups swung. Tom grabbed at the horse’s neck and fought to remain on its back while the saddle fell out from underneath him. Holding … holding …

  He went with the saddle, crashing to the ground. Pony hoofs thudded round his head. Just as the Indian he had shot had tried to do, Tom’s arms wound about his head, he pulled his knees to his chest and made himself as small as possible. His fall had been too sudden, too unexpected for the Indians to react. All three rode past and then tried to turn their ponies so as to round upon him before he could recover.

  His body conscious of the danger, Tom responded fast. He uncurled and moved into a crouch. His pistol had been shaken from its holster and had fallen some way out of reach over to the right. His rifle was with the saddle, several yards behind him. Tom turned and jumped backwards, hands reaching for the Winchester and grabbing at its stock. He landed beside the saddle and rolled half on to his back, tugging the rifle clear of the long scabbard as the Apaches charged in.

  Up on one knee, Tom levered a shell into the chamber.

  Red-shirt was over him, the lance whirling like a silvered blur through the air. The point shimmered, star-like, in the rays of the sun. Tom felt the wind of it as it passed alongside his right cheek.

  He brought the Winchester up six inches and fired; levered and fired; levered and fired. Sprang around, levered and fired. One of the Apache lay on his back with a bullet wound high in his chest, blood pulsing greedily on to a shirt that was thick and stiff with grease. At that moment, Tom didn’t know if he had hit the third brave or not. Ponies seemed to whirl about him, close. Dust and sand choked his eyes, clogged his mouth. There was another flash of light and he knew it was the lance and he dived aside, rolling fast. Hoofs thundered by him so near that they seemed to be inside his head. He was struck on the left shoulder and shouted and rolled and then tried to get to his feet. He fell back. Unable to understand why, he glanced down and saw dark red on the top of his pants; if he had been wound
ed he knew neither how nor when.

  A scream of defiance broke from Tom’s lips as he saw red-shirt galloping in. Tom grasped the rifle in both hands and thrust it up above his head as the lance came shuddering down. Arms outstretched, the blow vibrated the length of his body, echoed down his spine. The blade of the lance split asunder. The Apache was past.

  Tom heard a fresh sound and dropped on to his belly as a hatchet carved the space where he had been seconds before.

  Bringing up the rifle he put two bullets into the Apache’s back. The brave’s pony carried on its mad gallop and its rider spread his legs wider and seemed to sit on the air for longer than was possible.

  As the Indian pitched downwards, Tom turned again and saw that the remaining Apache was returning. This time he was lying over the side of the pony, all of his body shielded save for a hand and a foot. The piebald came at Tom almost head-on and he sweated and held his breath and looked along the barrel for something to aim at. Closer and closer. Tom bit down into his lower lip and shot at the pony’s head. The animal swerved violently aside. Tom levered a fresh shell and tried for the Apache, the bullet grazing a line down the pony’s back. He … the gun was empty.

  The pony made a half-circle, hesitated, folded its front legs neatly and collapsed.

  Red-shirt leapt over the dying body of the pony and came at Tom headlong, pulling a knife from a beaded sheath at his side. Tom stood with legs braced and reversed the Winchester. As the Apache got to within five yards, Tom began his swing. The lunge with the knife was sooner, quicker than he’d anticipated. The Apache was inside the swirl of the rifle, the butt went behind his head as he ducked underneath it, and Tom was forced to hurl himself backwards, letting go of the weapon as he did so. His chest burnt him, suddenly, vividly, burnt him. As he went down he kicked up with his right leg and felt the shin connect with something solid. Tom’s eyes were filled with dust and his thigh screamed to his brain and he felt rather than saw the Apache’s blow. His left arm went up to block, succeeded in halting the blade less than twelve inches from his face. Tom jumped at the Indian, butting the crown of his head into the Apache’s stomach. With a grunt the brave went back and down. Tom kicked out wildly, knowing that his boots were striking his opponent but not where or how seriously. A hand tightened about one ankle and Tom was hauled off balance. He struck the ground with elbow and buttock and heel and the wind was driven out of him. The Apache’s knife glinted and drove for his throat. Tom swiveled outside the lunging blade and brought his own arm through a sharp curve that sent his crooked elbow into the back of the Indian’s forearm. The Apache’s arm was numbed. Tom rolled back and grabbed for it, twisting, turning, hauling it up behind the struggling brave’s back.