Billy the Kid (A Herne the Hunter Western Book 13) Read online

  A man stepped quickly from the crowd and it was Billy. From somewhere he had borrowed a Mexican waistcoat and a white shirt with a wide frill down the front. He swept the Stetson from his head and made a bow, half-mocking, half-sincere.

  ‘Señorita, will you do me the honor of dancing with me?’ The smile on the Kid’s face was reflected in his voice; he had been drinking, but not enough to lose control. He was happy, in good spirits.

  Camilla gave a quick curtsey of thanks but shook her head. ‘I am sorry. This dance, it is for my father. Later, perhaps.’

  Gómez stepped forward and took his daughter’s arm and led her past the Kid and into the space that had been cleared in the middle of the courtyard. The musicians seated and standing on a decorated platform saw their patron approaching and struck up a waltz. Everyone craned their necks to watch father and daughter circling in one another’s arms.

  ‘Guess it ain’t your night, Kid,’ said Pat Garrett with a grin.

  Billy looked up at him and laughed. ‘Never did mind losin’ out to a girl’s father. Don’t seem the same, somehow. ’Sides, there’s plenty of fine-lookin’ women here who’ve left their fathers at home.’

  Garrett laughed and passed Billy the bottle of wine he’d been holding. ‘In that case, Kid, it’s the husbands you’ve got to look out for.’

  ‘We’ll see.’ Billy set the lip of the bottle to his mouth and swallowed hard, a trickle of the wine running down one side of his chin and dripping on to the front of his white shirt. ‘How ’bout yourself, Pat? You got anythin’ set?’

  Garrett moved in closer and bent his head towards the Kid. ‘Don’t tell no one else, but that other daughter’s been givin’ me the come-on ever since this shindig started.’

  ‘The hell she has!’

  ‘If you don’t believe me,’ Garrett winked, ‘just watch this.’

  And he left Billy and walked over to where Carmellita was standing talking to a group of friends. Within seconds she was on the floor in Garrett’s arms, waltzing close by Gómez and Camilla. Billy shook his head and took a good swig at the bottle: if he wasn’t going to get himself a woman, he was going to make sure he got good and drunk instead.

  Herne and Pecos were sitting on a low wall at the far side of the courtyard, eating and drinking and occasionally passing comments about one or other of the girls. With his curly dark hair and natural good looks, Pecos was drawing quite a lot of attention himself but when Herne told him to get a partner and join in with the dancing, he shook his head.

  ‘That steppin’ around like that ain’t for me.’

  ‘Why not? One sure way to get a girl sparkin’.’

  ‘If that’s the only way, I’ll do without.’

  ‘Suit yourself. But Pat sure don’t agree with you by the looks of things.’

  Garrett was holding the raven-haired girl closer than ever and dancing with her non-stop. Every now and again, she would throw back her head and laugh and the sound of her laughter would ring out over the party like a carillon of bells.

  Pecos was adamant about staying on the sidelines, but a bottle of wine and a short time later a girl with a white rose pinned to the side of her hair came and pulled him out into the midst of the dancers and he went with hardly a protest Herne sat around a while longer, noticing that Garrett and Gomez’s daughter seemed to have disappeared. He shrugged and stood up - it wasn’t any of his business. He had one more drink and wandered away from the courtyard towards the edge of the rancheria. Dancing wasn’t for him either, and he couldn’t see any young girl taking a shine to him and pulling him out on to the floor the way one had with Pecos.

  Billy had also noticed Pat Garrett’s absence and taken it into his head to find out just where he’d sneaked off to. First he walked through the orchard beyond the courtyard wall, half expecting to find the couple there, either leaning against some tree or stretched out on the floor with Garrett’s coat as a blanket.

  Disappointed, the Kid was on his way back to the party when he heard a girl’s laughter coming from an open window upstairs in the main part of the house. Billy smiled wryly and went around to the rear, letting himself in through an unlocked door.

  At the foot of the stairs he heard the laugh again, followed close by a voice urging silence–there was no mistaking the owner of the voice. It was Pat Garrett.

  Billy climbed to the landing stealthily, making sure the boards didn’t creak beneath his light weight. At the top he listened, everything quiet now and all of the doors closed. For a few moments the only sounds were the music and the rise and fall of conversation from the courtyard at the other side of the house. Then the squeak and rhythmic movement of a bed.

  His small mouth open, wide eyes smiling, Billy went to the door and set his ear to it. He drew his gun and set his left hand to the brass handle, turning it slowly. When the catch was open, he let the door swing soundlessly back. He caught a glimpse of Garrett’s back and the thick, black hair lank to his neck; the girl’s hair, longer, blacker, lustrous beneath it. Movements of flesh against flesh.

  Billy stepped back from the doorway on to the landing, making sure this time that his footsteps could be heard. In a moment there came the girl’s startled voice and then a scream, muffled, Billy guessed, by Garrett’s hand.

  More movement.

  Billy withdrew into the darkened shadows at the far end of the landing, gun still in his hand. The music and sounds of dancing floated up the stairs as if from another place and time. The girl spoke again and he heard Garrett shushing her, then the sound of a man’s steps.

  Garrett came through the doorway quickly, silently, then stopped. He’d pulled on his pants but was naked to the waist; his pistol was cocked in his hand.

  ‘¿Quien es?’

  Billy held his breath and waited, unsure if Garrett had spotted him in the dark.

  ‘¿Quien es?’ Garrett moved several paces, the gun held out in front of him. ‘¿Quien es?’

  Billy could contain himself no longer; first a giggle spluttered from his lips, then the high-pitched laugh, rising and unmistakable,

  ‘Billy!’

  The Kid stepped out of the shadows, holding his side and laughing fit to bust.

  ‘Billy, you bastard! You could’ve got your head blown off.’

  ‘Pat, Pat!’ The Kid stopped and wiped the saliva from the corners of his mouth. ‘That’s nothin’ to what could’ve happened to you, layin’ there all defenseless with your backside out to the world.’

  Garrett tried to keep the look of anger on his face but he couldn’t; in a few moments he was laughing, too, while from inside the room, Gomez’s daughter called out for explanations.

  ‘Hey, Pat. You better get about your unfinished business, I reckon. She sounds mighty impatient.’

  Garrett shook his head, smiling. ‘Okay, but I’ll tell you one thing. Playin’ a trick on me like this, I’m goin’ to get my own back, just you wait an’ see.’

  Billy grinned: ‘I doubt that, Pat. I ain’t caught so easy as some.’

  ~*~

  At the same time that the Kid was stalking Pat Garrett through the house, Herne was returning to the courtyard, thinking to take a night-cap before turning in. The party was still in full swing and he saw Gómez dancing with his wife in front of the musicians. Some of the guests were singing to the tune and the melody and noise almost prevented Herne from hearing the sound of hoofbeats coming close to the rancheria.

  Almost …

  Taking a quick look to make sure that Gómez was occupied, Herne slipped away. He went quietly along the wall in the direction of the orchard, pausing in the shadow of one of the trees. The rider came in through the arched entrance at the rear and reined in, leaning back in the saddle. Even if Herne hadn’t been able to pick out Jennings’s shape in silhouette, he would have recognized the dun mare.

  Herne slipped the thong from the hammer of his Colt and waited.

  Jennings sat a while in the saddle, then dismounted. He moved like a tired man and Herne wond
ered how far he’d ridden that day–how many extra men he’d been able to gather together and how far away from the rancheria they were, waiting for some prearranged signal?

  Herne stepped away from the tree.

  ‘Hello, Will.’

  No longer slow or old or tired, the marshal spun fast and as he did so his hand closed on the butt of his pistol, eyes trying to make out Herne in the poor light.

  ‘Come to pay your respects, Will?’

  ‘How’s that?’

  ‘It’s Camilla’s birthday–Gomez’s daughter. But, then, I guess you got other things on your mind.’

  ‘Same thing as before,’ said Jennings slowly. ‘Fetchin’ in that mad dog Kid.’

  Herne shook his head. ‘You’re way out of line, Will, an’ you know it. You ain’t got no business here an’ you don’t stand for no law.’

  ‘I know it.’ Keeping his right hand on his gun butt, Jennings reached up and unpinned the badge from his leather coat and threw it down on to the ground.

  ‘There,’ he said. ‘That does it.’

  ‘Uh-huh.’ Herne went closer, fingers of his right hand curved over the Colt like a hawk hovering on air. ‘Almost.’

  Jennings looked at him, head to one side. ‘Meanin’?’

  ‘I told you before, Will. I don’t want to have to kill you.’

  ‘Then don’t. Stand aside and let what’s got to be done, be done.’

  Herne shook his head. ‘You know I can’t.’

  ‘I guess so.’

  ‘You could mount up again an’ ride out. Leave us be.’

  Jennings almost smiled. ‘An’ you know I can’t do that.’

  ‘Yeah.’

  Jennings leaned slightly to the left, then pulled at his gun. It was sliding up from the holster when Herne’s hand hit the smooth wood of the Colt’s butt and the blurring arc of movement was set in motion. The hammer came back and the trigger was squeezed quickly, evenly. The blast and flash of light in the half-dark.

  Will Jennings bucked like a mule. His right hand jerked and the pistol lurched away, unfired. He stumbled backwards, clutching at the wound in his chest, fingers despairingly trying to pull back the bullet that had ploughed through him, trying to pull back the life that was slipping fast away.

  He landed heavily on his side, the pain jarring through him, clouding his brain, his vision; the shadowy figure that moved in front of him already indistinct and becoming more so with every second.

  Herne leaned over him quickly, making sure. Yes. If he wasn’t already dead, it was a matter of minutes only. Herne spun away and fan for the stable.

  At the foot of the stairs inside the rancheria, the Kid stopped and rocked back on his heels, hand drifting towards the gun at his belt.

  In the bedroom above, Pat Garrett froze his rocking movement above Carmellita and then eased himself from between her legs, reaching for his shirt where it hung from the bedpost, The girl turned on her side, curling into herself, weeping.

  When the shot sang out Pecos was dancing with Camilla Gómez in the courtyard. Amidst the clamor and the music the sound failed to make itself understood immediately. Seconds passed before the significance registered on the young gunman’s brain. He stared into the girl’s face, seeing the fear written there, and tried to push her away, but she clung to him, eyes bright and fingernails sharp at his back and neck.

  ‘No, I …’

  Pecos struggled and pulled at her arms to free himself; around him men and women were backing away, shouting excitedly, asking for explanations.

  Pecos ducked under Camilla’s grasping arm and turned towards the house. As he started to straighten, began to move, Gómez fired his pistol. The bullet took Pecos in the chest, smashing two ribs and forcing one of them into his lungs. He went backwards then sideways, always reaching for the gun he was never to reach. As he took two stumbling steps towards Camilla she put her arms out to catch him and his knees gave way. He lurched suddenly forward and as his head jolted against her breasts a gout of deeply red blood flew from his mouth on to her dress.

  The air filled with screams; sounds of orders and counter-orders.

  Pecos’s face slid down Camilla’s white dress leaving a thick smear of blood. She grasped the curls of his head with her hands and her fingers were rich in his blood also,

  ‘Camilla!’

  She swung her head round at her fathers shout and saw past his shoulder the three mounted men riding into the courtyard. They sent people scattering towards the walls, several of Gomez’s men reaching for their weapons. When Gómez himself turned to face them he gasped with shock at the sight that greeted him - his other daughter, Carmellita, was lying across the neck of Garrett’s horse, quite naked, long black tresses of hair falling straight down and covering her face. There was a gun in Garrett’s hand and it was pointing at the back of her head.

  ‘Drop it!’ shrieked Billy. ‘Drop it and order your men to throw down their guns. Now!’

  Gómez shuddered convulsively as if a shadow had walked over his grave. He held out his hand, let the pistol swing and hang from his index finger, then slipped the finger through the guard and let the gun bounce on the courtyard stone.

  Several rifles and pistols followed suit from the crowd.

  Billy rode his horse forward until it was level with Gómez and he stared down with hatred into the Mexican’s face.

  ‘I was right not to trust you. You sold us out. You lied to us, you befriended us to take us off our guard and then you betrayed us.’

  Gómez turned his head away and Billy kicked out at him: ‘Look at me!’

  When the Mexican did Billy spat in his face.

  ‘Come on, Kid,’ said Herne urgently. ‘Let’s go.’

  ‘We’re taking your daughter, Gómez, taking her for a hostage. The other one, the one who’s dressed and fit to travel. Anyone comes after us, she won’t see another birthday.’

  Herne led out the spare horse and motioned to Camilla to mount. The girl moved slowly, as if in a nightmare, arms and legs in slow motion, head swimming.

  Billy thrust his pistol towards Gómez. ‘I ought to blow your brains clear away.’

  ‘Come on, Billy,’ said Garrett. ‘Let’s ride.’

  The Kid swung his right arm, bringing the side of the gun barrel down on the side of Gómez’s head, the gun sight raking a deep line alongside his eye.

  The three men rode their horses out through the crowd and beyond the rancheria, speeding off into the cover of the night. For a long time all any of them heard, apart from the sounds of their own mounts drumming along the trail, was the girl’s frantic sobbing. That and Billy repeating over and over, at intervals: ‘I should have blown that bastard’s brains clear out of his head. Clear out of his head,’

  Chapter Twelve

  The old timer scratched at his wispy beard with dirt-grimed fingers, the knuckles painfully swollen with arthritis. ‘Out of his head, eh? Way you tell it, that Billy he was more out of his head than most.’

  ‘Maybe.’ Herne shifted in his chair, looking along the street to where a line of riders was slowly returning. ‘Maybe, I wouldn’t like to say for sure.’ He leaned forward. ‘I’ll tell you one thing, though. I weren’t never at ease when the Kid was around. Not the once. Couldn’t tell which way he was goin’ to jump, what the hell he was for doin’ next.’

  The old man nodded, then turned his head slowly to stare at the posse. Their mounts were lathered and slow, the men’s faces showing the emptiness of their pursuit. The one named Turner glanced up at Herne and then away again, shoulder-length hair swaying a little with the movement of the horse,

  The men dismounted outside the saloon, some of them wandering away, others going up the steps and inside for a drink. The youngster who’d clashed with Herne before stood for several seconds on the sidewalk, staring at Herne hard, right side of his face twitching with scarcely-controlled anger. He only moved when Turner leaned over the bat-wing doors and called him inside. Even then he shot Herne a final glance be
fore disappearing from sight.

  A few moments later Herne pushed back his chair and stood up, stretching his arms above his head,

  ‘Time to be movin’ on.’

  The old man looked up at him in surprise. ‘You ain’t leavin’?’

  Herne nodded.

  ‘Well, I’m damned, I …’ The old timer broke off and let his gaze drift towards the saloon door. ‘Not on account of that fool kid?’

  ‘That fool kid’s goin’ to stay in there drinkin’ long enough to get up the courage to try and live down what I did to him before, showin’ him up in front of the town. Then he’s going to come out here after me and I’m goin’ to have to shoot him down like I would a stray dog.’ He looked at the old man. ‘I don’t want to do that. Let someone else do it, not me.’

  The old man thought for a few moments then eased himself from his chair.

  ‘You know your own mind, your own ways, an’ I’ll respect ’em. Sure wish you could’ve stayed around a while, though.’ He chuckled. ‘Ain’t everyone I can beat at checkers so easy.’

  Herne grinned and shook the old man’s hand, feeling the pain and age that lived there.

  ‘Be seein’ you.’

  ‘Sure thing. Be seein’ you some other time.’

  The old timer sat back down and his fingers fumbled with the checkers; Herne walked towards the livery stable to get his horse. The old timer never looked up and Herne never looked back and the hollowness of their last words to one another echoed inside their heads long after each was out of sight.

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