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  The fingers of the left hand were opening and closing slowly, as if with a will of their own. Hastings blinked, not once, but several times.

  ‘Tonight,’ Herne said grimly, ‘back in Liberation. Someone tried to gun me down in my bed. They shot the girl. Killed her.’

  ‘I still don’t see ...’

  Herne moved towards him and Hastings thought the big man was going to keep coming until he was upon him. His thin body pushed back into the chair and the gun hand shook a little.

  ‘Soon as I left here yesterday some of your men tried to jump me an’ it didn’t succeed. So what happens next? Some feller tried a few shots through the bedroom door. It all points to you, Hastings.’

  The white face shook from side to side in denial. The fingers of the left hand moved more and more frantically. Hastings’ brown eyes flickered with something close to fear. Herne didn’t think it was an emotion the Broken Bar man experienced very often.

  ‘That in town with the girl. It was nothing to do with me. I swear it. I...’

  ‘You’re lyin’!’

  ‘No, I’m...’

  ‘I said you’re lyin’!’

  Hastings moved the Smith and Wesson and Herne lashed out at it with his free hand, sending it flying out of Hastings’ grasp and across the room.

  ‘No, don’t...’

  ‘That’s right, mister. Don’t!’

  Herne had failed to hear the door open behind him or the man come in.

  ‘Stand right still and let me see that gun of yorn on the floor. Now! Before this finger of mine gets carried away an’ I pump a couple of shells into your back.’

  Herne looked over his shoulder. Seth was leaning back against the door, his own Colt pointing at the middle of Herne’s body. There was an expression of triumph on his face.

  ‘You heard me. Let’s see that gun on the ground. Easy now.’

  Herne turned slowly towards Seth, using forefinger and thumb to lift the heavy pistol from its holster.

  ‘That’s right. Now let it go.’

  Herne began to bend with it, as if placing it on the floor, his eyes never leaving Seth’s face.

  ‘That’s it, you can drop ...’

  The Colt fell the short distance onto the worn carpet and Herne’s body straightened up like a whiplash. But the hand that had dropped the gun didn’t come back up empty. It had the hilt of the bayonet in it and midway through the movement the blade was unleashed across the room.

  Seth’s mouth stayed open, words drained in mid-sentence; he moved the gun to fire but something plunged its way through his shoulder blade and pinned him to the door. His hand opened in spite of itself and the pistol slipped out.

  Hastings had dived for his own gun as soon as he saw what happened to his man. Herne, turning fast, had gone with him. The two landed almost side by side, struggling for possession of the Smith and Wesson.

  Something kicked into Herne’s groin and he let go of Hastings’ arm for a moment. The gun was pulled away and then Herne struck out with his fist and the gun fell to the floor again as Hastings rolled back and into a chair. Herne jumped after him, clubbing him hard and sending the chair crashing over. Herne knelt above the rancher and grasped him by the front of his shirt. The eyes pleaded with him and as they did so Herne let him have two jabs to the side of the face. The head went lolling back and Herne stood up, letting Hastings drop to the floor.

  Only then did he notice the high-pitched sound coming from the door. Seth was trying to lever the bayonet out of his body, but he was getting weaker at every moment and every effort to move the blade merely made it cut deeper into his flesh and enlarged the wound.

  ‘Take ... ta... t...’

  Herne went over to him. The blood that ran down his shirt front was joined by a steady drip, drip from behind. Seth’s face was white with agony and fear and the effect of the rapid loss of blood.

  ‘Take the ...’

  Herne set his left hand alongside the entry point of the bayonet and Seth screamed; he caught hold of the handle and the man screamed all the louder; he pulled the blade free with one tug and the scream cut off as though a gag had been placed across the man’s mouth.

  Seth put a hand out in front of him and Herne stepped to one side; the cowboy staggered forward; choked, began to fall; fainted into unconsciousness.

  Herne stooped and picked up Seth’s gun and tucked it into his belt; then he picked up his own Colt and holstered it. A moaning and a scuffling from the other end of the room told him that Hastings was coming round.

  When he did come to, Herne was standing over him, waiting. ‘What’s it to be?’

  Hastings wiped at his face, bringing his hand to the front to examine the few drops of blood that had fallen from his cut mouth. Herne repeated his question but the rancher still looked dazed.

  Herne went out to the kitchen and returned with a jug of water that he threw in Hastings’ face.

  ‘What’s it goin’ to be, Hastings?’

  ‘I don’t... under ... stand.’

  Herne slapped him with the back of one hand, sending the rancher’s head sideways and back.

  ‘There’s men gettin’ killed all the time, Hastings. Killed an’ wounded. An’ mostly on your say-so. When’s it goin’ t’ stop?’ He lifted the thin man half out of the chair and shook him like a dog with a rat.

  ‘What... what do you want?’

  ‘Start off with, you can write a statement sayin’ that your men killed Tolly an’ Curly Young on your orders.’

  Hastings began to protest, but Herne lifted him up and pushed him towards the desk at the side of the room. ‘You get to it, ’fore I fetch that bayonet to your stubborn hide.’

  Hastings took a sheet of paper and a pen. He opened an ink well and began to write. Herne watched him for a while, then went over to where Seth was showing signs of life. He took out his Colt and reversed it, clubbing him back into unconsciousness. Hastings was still bent over the desk, scratching away frantically at the piece of paper.

  ‘Hurry it along, will you!’

  Very soon the rest of the ranch would be clamoring around outside and likely someone would spot Herne’s horse.

  Hastings coughed and bent lower; he opened a drawer and reached inside; his hand came out with a long envelope.

  ‘I said move it along!’

  Herne glanced at the window: it was almost light.

  ‘Here it is.’

  Herne turned at the sound of Hastings’ voice; saw the little gun .and leaped aside even as the report rang out. Something tugged at his shirt and a sharp pain cut his side as his right hand dived for the Colt and brought it up in a blur of speed. In the middle of that curve of movement there was a flash of flame and Clifford Hastings went backwards off his chair with a bullet in the center of his chest.

  In the short time it took Herne to cross to him, Hastings’ eyes were already glazing over and when he tried to speak blood emerged in the place of words.

  He lifted a hand with a great effort and beckoned Herne no closer. ‘I never ... the girl... had nothing to do ...’

  He broke into a racking cough which made his body arch forward and his head jolt back. Both arms came out, reaching for something that wasn’t there. Long, thin fingers, still grasping in their last movement.

  Clifford Hastings collapsed back, rolling over onto his side. Herne stood over him and watched the final twitching motions of death. Then he picked the rancher up and strode from the room towards the front of the house.

  Men were running towards it, some still in their long Johns, pulling on their gun belts. When they saw Herne standing with their employer’s body in his arms they stopped and stared.

  ‘I got a paper signed by Hastings sayin’ the responsibility for Tolly an’ Curly’s deaths was his. An’ now he’s paid fer it. Seth’s inside with a wound in him, but he’ll patch up an’ live.’ He surveyed them as they stood their ground, watching him with obvious hostility. ‘Seems to me any of you’d be a damn fool to throw his life a
way fer someone who’s dead. Ain’t even goin’ t’ pay no bills no more. Any of you think different?’

  He looked at one face after another. They didn’t like him none. Plumb hated him. But they knew he was talkin’ sense.

  ‘All right. He’s your boss. You bury him.’

  And he dropped Hastings’ dead body on the dirt in front of them. Then he backed away until he was at the side of the house before turning and walking to where he’d left his horse.

  Every now and then he glanced round, but none of them saw fit to follow.

  By the time Herne had arrived back in Liberation everyone was going about his or her normal daily business. He rode down to the livery stable, then walked back to the marshal’s office.

  The boy from the stable was there, sitting in Dan Stewart’s chair. When Herne walked in on him, he leapt up like his rear end had found a cactus and blushed redder than sunset.

  ‘What you doin’ here, boy?’

  ‘Please, Mister Herne, I’m sorry but, I’m sorry but ...’

  ‘Spit it out, son, before it chokes you.’

  ‘Marshal Stewart, he asked me to stay here and give you a message.’

  ‘Well, what is it?’

  ‘He’s gone out to the Double C ranch. Miss Emerson, she sent in a rider askin’ for him. Real early. He says you’re to wait here till he comes back. Lessn’ he don’t come back by a hour after noon.’

  Herne made a face to show his annoyance. ‘What’m I supposed to do then?’

  The boy gulped and shook his head, eyes wide. ‘I don’t know, Mister Herne, marshal he didn’t say.’

  ‘Okay, son, get out of here. My horse is down to the stable. You curry him well. Understand?’

  ‘Yes, Mr. Herne. Yes, sir.’

  Herne took a coin from his pocket and the boy caught it as it tossed through the air.

  ‘Now, on your way.’

  As the office door was shut, Herne took off his coat and hung it on one of the pegs on the wall. He stretched, realized he was hungry, and thought that in a minute or two he’d walk over to The Cattlemen’s House for a bite to eat.

  It took a whole three seconds before he remembered that Josie wouldn’t be there to cook it

  Chapter Eleven

  Bathsheba Emerson stood at the upstairs window and watched the trail of dust grow larger, closer and closer. So he had heeded her message; he had decided to come. And alone.

  He rode tall in the saddle, riding like a man with a purpose but without any unnecessary haste. Bathsheba watched him as he passed the corral and the outbuildings, her green eyes following him all the way to the hitching pole outside the ranch house.

  As he got down from his horse, she noted for maybe the hundredth time the set of his shoulders, the slim strength of his hips. The brown moustache curved round his mouth drawing attention to lips that Bathsheba had known only in her dreams of him.

  She watched him step towards the door, one hand pressed against her thigh, the other fidgeting with a gold pendant she wore over her yellow blouse, the back of her wrist pushing against the lower curve of her breast.

  After several moments she turned and walked to the stairs: he was standing below in the hallway, looking up as if knowing she were about to make her appearance.

  ‘Marshal. It was so good of you to come.’

  Dan Stewart nodded briefly and stood back as Bathsheba came down the stairs. Besides the yellow blouse, she was wearing a black skirt that fitted snugly at the hips and thighs, then flared out round the calves. Shiny black boots showed beneath the hem. Her long, dark hair glistened as she moved.

  ‘Let’s go in here, marshal.’

  She opened the door to the best room and stood aside for him to enter first. As he walked past her she moved slightly so that his arm brushed against the front of her body. Bathsheba’s eyes closed for an instant and a sigh echoed inside her head.

  ‘In a little while, we’ll have coffee, marshal. I’ll make it for you myself.’

  Stewart shifted around uneasily in his chair. ‘I don’t have the time. Miss Emerson, there’s a lot to do back in town.’

  She raised an eyebrow quizzically. ‘Don’t you have a deputy?’

  ‘Sure, but ...’

  ‘Well, then, I’m positive he can handle things for you.’ She smiled slowly. ‘It’s a long while since we talked, marshal, just the two of us.’ The smile broadened and he could see the tip of her tongue between her red lips. ‘Or may I call you Dan now?’

  Stewart stood up suddenly and gazed around the room.

  ‘Don’t worry, marshal, most of the men are out on the range.’ Bathsheba got up from her chair and began to walk across the carpet towards him. ‘Don’t worry, Dan.’

  He stepped past her and stood with his back to the window, the sunlight warming him through his black waistcoat and white shirt. ‘You wanted to see me urgent.’

  ‘Very well. If we must get straight to business: I’ve been thinking over what you said yesterday about leaving Hastings and the Broken Bar to the law.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘And I’ve decided that you’re right.’

  ‘That’s good, Miss Emerson.’

  ‘Bathsheba.’

  ‘Sorry, I ...’

  ‘Call me Bathsheba, Dan. While we’re alone—and friends. We are friends, aren’t we?’

  She was moving towards him again, closing on him slowly, like a hunter towards its prey, body tense and eyes alive.

  ‘Bathsheba, then. I’m right pleased you’ve decided to leave things to me. That’s the way it’s got to be.’

  ‘But there is a little proposition I’d like to make to you, Dan.’

  She was standing directly in front of him and he could smell the sweetness of her breath and the slightly cloying scent of her perfume. The skin of her neck seemed to shine.

  ‘Go ahead.’

  ‘You’re only one man, strong as you might be. And you’ve only one deputy. That’s never enough against Hastings. You deputize my men. Say, a dozen of them. Then you can ride in and finish off the Broken Bar forever.’

  ‘That’s all you’re interested in, isn’t it? Getting rid of the Broken Bar. You ain’t worried about law an’ order. You ain’t even worried about me, whatever you pretend. You just want to see Hastings an’ his ranch wiped off the map of this territory. That’s it, ain’t it?’

  Dan Stewart’s face was red with anger; the birthmark on his cheek showed clearly. Bathsheba’s eyes sparkled, then dimmed. She put out a hand and touched Stewart’s arm lightly with one finger.

  ‘It isn’t true, Dan. Especially that I don’t care about you.’

  He threw up his arm and knocked her hand away. ‘Damn it, woman, can’t you never do nothin’ but lie? Why the hell d’you think all you have to do is make up to me an’ everythin’ll be just like you want it? You reckon that’s all you got to do, don’t you? Make an offer of that body of yorn an’ men’ll go out an’ get theirselves killed for you!’

  She stepped away, eyes blazing now, face flushed; her hands tight in clenched fists, nails digging into her palms.

  ‘How dare you talk to me like that? How dare you suggest that I would ...’

  Stewart came towards her: ‘Bathsheba, you’d do any damned thing you could to get rid of Hastings and what I’d like to know is why? What did he do to you that you can’t forgive?’ He stared at her with scorn. ‘What wouldn’t he do?’

  She sprang at him, with her open hand clawing for his face but Stewart ducked his head back and grabbed her wrist and held it firmly.

  ‘He spurned you, didn’t he, Bathsheba. He turned you down and that’s one thing you can’t stand. So you’ll get round me as a way of gettin’ your own back. An’ you’ll try to get your men deputized so that they can go in and shoot down the Broken Bar, all legal like.’

  Both of them were breathing heavily, perspiring freely. Dan felt her arm tense in his grip, then relax.

  ‘You can let me go now,’ she said quietly.

  He
did so and they continued to stand there, avoiding looking directly at each other. Then Bathsheba turned away and went to the door; she walked out of the room, leaving him there alone.

  Dan Stewart paced the carpet, knowing that he could leave, should leave, yet not going. Something kept him there still, a sense of things unfinished, maybe unsaid. After a short time she returned with a coffee tray.

  Her face looked fresh and undisturbed, her eyes moved over his as if nothing had happened between them, no anger, no pent-up violence.

  She set down the tray and asked him to come over and sit down; poured out his coffee and passed it to him with a smile.

  ‘Is that sweet enough for you?’ she said a minute or so later.

  ‘Sure,’ Stewart nodded, ‘it’s fine.’

  He thought she was about to get out of her chair and go over to him, but she didn’t. All she did was set her cup down in its saucer and stare over at him, the expression on her face both serious and innocent. It made her seem a lot younger than her forty-odd years: Stewart wondered how often she practiced it in front of her mirror.

  ‘What you said about Clifford, Dan, about Clifford Hastings. I guess you’ve heard all the rumors. It’s true we were betrothed to be married at one time. Two weeks before the ceremony—church and fancy party all arranged —it was called off.’

  Now she did come to him and knelt beside his chair, looking up into his eyes. A tress of warm, dark hair fell against his arm, but he didn’t move.

  ‘One thing you must believe, Dan. It wasn’t Clifford who called it off. It was me. I did it myself, Dan, and do you know why? I realized I couldn’t marry him because... because I knew that I didn’t love him.’ She lowered her head and for an instant Stewart thought she was going to cry, but when he saw her eyes again they were clear as before. ‘It would have given us one of the biggest ranches in this part of the country, maybe the biggest. All that wealth, all that power and I turned my back on it, Dan. Out of a lack of one little thing ... a lack of love.’

  Bathsheba let her face move nearer to him, a hand rested lightly, warmly on his arm and he could feel the shape of her fingers clearly through the thin material of his white shirt.