The Hanging (Herne the Hunter Western Book #17) Page 11
‘I guess it is.’
The shootist risked a glance around the corner of the trail. Seeing Wright was kneeling behind a boulder, only part of one arm showing. It was a temptation to put a bullet through it. At that range Jed was good enough with the Sharps to put a shot through a visiting-card four times from five.
But he wanted to try and bring the robber in alive. That way it was easier to clear his own name. Easier than having to hack the head off of a corpse and carry it to Stanstead Springs or to Cold Christmas.
‘I said that I guess it’s you, Herne. Christ! Why not answer?’
The shootist still held his silence. Knowing that the greater the tension he could build up, the more likely Wright was to lose his judgment and do something foolish.
‘Christ!’ There was a note of disgust in the voice. ‘It’s fuckin’ colder down here than a well-digger’s ass, Herne.’
The man had moved a little, lifting his head over the top of his boulder. The wind tugged at the hem of the long duster coat, flapping it into sight. There was just about enough of Wright showing for Jed to have hit him in the side of the body, or possibly in the shoulder. But he still held his fire.
‘We stayin’ here all day?’
‘No.’
The bandit disappeared at the word, scuttling out of sight. His voice floated up to Herne: ‘Knowed it must be you.’
‘Why d’you pick on me in the first place, Wright? I don’t have no grudge with you.’
‘Man in Sweetwater Pen said I looked some like you. Seemed a good idea to make folks think I was you. Keep ’em off the trail.’
‘It worked a time.’
A crackle of laughter. ‘Sure did.’ A pause. ‘Hey, you there?’
‘I’m goin’ nowhere, George.’
‘Guess me neither. What happened with the others? Unless I heard wrong, I figured you’d found Beech.’
Herne cupped his hands to his mouth so that his voice would carry better against the wind. ‘I found him.’
‘You kill the nigger?’
‘Yeah. He tried to take me out when my back was turned.’
More laughter, sounding genuine. ‘That good old black bastard sure learned white folks’ ways real fast, didn’t he?’
‘The girl’s dead, George.’ There was no reply. He called again. ‘I said that the—’
‘I heard you. I fuckin’ heard you, Herne. Jesus, you’re a cruel bastard.’
‘She killed herself.’
‘How?’
‘Stepped over the cliff back yonder. If’n you look I guess you might see what’s left of the poor little bitch.’
‘I’m real sorry ’bout Joey. Why’d she do it, Herne? You know?’
‘I’d taken her prisoner.’
He could see the top of Wright’s head if he moved a little to his right. The leader of the gang was nodding to himself.
‘That figures. Joey said she’d never let herself get took to jail.’
‘Maybe they’d just have hung her.’
The laughter was back. ‘Maybe, Herne. But pretty little girl like that might have charmed ’em. Not me. Be the rope for me.’
‘You want it easy or hard, George?’
‘I got the choice?’
‘Everyone gets that choice.’
‘I’ve been running and fighting since I was born, Herne. I could stay here and tell you the story of my life, stretchin’ it out like the town drunk with a handful of small change.’
‘Not interested.’
‘So what do you want. Herne?’
‘You.’
‘Dead or—?’
‘Doesn’t signify, George. I just want you so I can get from under what you built.’
‘I got money.’
Herne didn’t answer. Stepping softly through the powdery snow, keeping to the cliff side of the trail, closing in on Wright.
‘Got it stashed away, Herne!’
Shutting the gap down to a little over one hundred paces.
‘Pay you five times what the flyer’s offerin’. Give you eight thousand dollars, Herne. Don’t you damned well hear me?’
‘Sure. I hear you, George, but I guess I don’t listen.’
‘Ten thousand dollars.’
‘Forget it.’
‘Lot of money.’
‘That’s the trouble with men like you, George,’ shouted the shootist. ‘You figure that life’s all about dollars. It’s not. It’s different things. Things you’d never even begin to understand.’
Now he could see even more of the man. Most of his back. Neck: Left arm and hand. It was worth a try to hit him. Wound him and bring him out in the open.
And if he died?
‘He dies,’ Herne answered himself.
As he brought the stock of the Sharps to his shoulder, peering along the gleaming barrel, Herne looked beyond the foresight. Past Wright, down into the bottom of the valley. He’d been correct. There were men there. A dozen or more. Even at that distance he could see something glittering on the left breast of one of them. Something that had to be a metal star. And he thought that he recognized the figure of Cyrus Blennerhassett. The merchant from Stanstead Springs. The vigilantes had ridden again, with a marshal in tow to give them a cloak of doubtful legality and respectability.
He held his fire.
With him holding the top of the trail and the posse at the bottom, George Wright was completely trapped.
‘Give up, George!’ he shouted.
‘Go fuck yourself, Herne!’ bellowed the bandit.
Their voices were loud enough to reach the men behind Wright and Herne saw faces turn in his direction.
Wright stuck his head around the corner of his boulder, trying to spot Herne. Suddenly seeing him much nearer than he’d figured and popping back again like a disappearing child’s toy. Snapping off a couple of shots with his pistol, neither of them coming anywhere close to where the shootist was hiding.
But one of the bullets did have some effect. Bringing down a trickle of loose snow and stones from the overhanging cliff up to the right. There was an uneasy rumbling sound and Jed looked up, worrying about the shots starting a real avalanche.
But the noise stopped.
There was a matter of a dead clergyman for starters. The posse would be all fired up and ready to string up anyone who fell into their hands. And this time there wouldn’t be any last letter to his Ma.
‘Herne!’
‘Yeah, George?’
‘Guess it’s a stand-off. Real Arkansas stand-off.’
‘Funny expression, Wright. You from that far East?’
A burst of laughter. ‘Further. I’m no westerner, Herne, Spent first part of my life East. Worked from fourteen to twenty-three as a shoe salesman in the Bronx.’
‘Why finish like this?’
‘Wanted to be a bank robber. Hold up stages. Read about it in the papers and pulps. Fancied doin’ that.’
‘You made it.’
‘Yeah. Those years holdin’ other folks’ sweating, stinkin’ feet. I made it.’
‘Happy?’
‘Guess you can always be what you want to be, Herne.’
The shootist didn’t answer. His brain was racing, trying to figure out what was best to do now. If he took his enemy, the posse would close in and probably hang them both. Already they were fanning out, dismounting, preparing to come silently up the trail behind Wright.
There wasn’t going to be a lot of time to get back to his own stallion and head away over the crest of the mountain to safety.
‘Herne! You still there?’
‘Sure.’
‘How’s about comin’ and facin’ me down. Fair and square. Man to man?’
Jed snaked down on his stomach and crawled to the further edge of the winding trail, out of sight of the approaching vigilantes.
Less than two hundred yards separated the nearest of the posse from Herne. It was the marshal, silver star glittering proudly in the bright sunlight. From his new position the shoo
tist could see Wright, cowering flat behind the boulder, all of his attention directed up the trail, oblivious to his new danger. He was carefully loading a small over and under Remington derringer. A hideaway pistol, tucking it up the sleeve of his duster coat. Ready for the “fair and square” gunfight he’d talked about.
‘George!’
‘Yeah.’
Time was running out.
‘Guess this is the last time you’ll use the name of Herne the Hunter?’
‘I’m not done yet.’
‘You hid long enough behind another man’s name and reputation.’
Wright laughed heartily. Unaware that he was partly in sight. ‘Sure did, friend. Old Herne was a real good diversion for long weeks.’
Jed knew that the conversation would reach clear to the ears of the posse. Especially to the ears of the waiting lawman.
‘You know what happened to the real Herne, George?’
‘What would that be?’
‘Near got lynched in mistake for you.’
Appearing at the side of the marshal Herne saw the figure of Blennerhassett. Jed was ready to spoil a little of his day for him.
‘Yeah. Stanstead Springs posse.’
‘I recall them.’
‘They got hold of an innocent man and he had to kill to escape.’
It was difficult to tell whether it was his imagination or whether Blennerhassett’s face had gone whiter. Certainly he and the marshal seemed to be locked in an intense, whispered conversation.
‘Good for you, Herne!’ bellowed Wright. The derringer was now hidden to his satisfaction and he was rotating the chamber on his pistol, still hoping that the shootist would agree to come out and face him.
Jed figured he’d done enough. The marshal and the folk of the township would get together and his name would disappear from the flyers. The killings would probably go down against George Wright and his gang.
It was time.
He brought the rifle to his shoulder again, lying flat on his belly in the dirt and snow. Steadying his aim and holding his breath.
‘Herne!’
He didn’t reply.
‘I’m ready to come out, Herne.’
Time.
The wood was cold against Herne’s cheek as he cradled the rifle to him. Squeezing the trigger. Feeling the kick of the gun against him, blinking through the burst of black powder smoke that billowed all around him. Looking down the slope of the trail to see the effect of his shot.
Wright was screaming at the top of his voice. Lying out in clear view, on his back, knees drawn up to his chest in pain. It was odd to stare down into the face. Seeing it as a distorted image of his own. A man of much the same age and looks.
The big fifty-five bullet had hit him precisely where Herne had aimed it.
The bank-robber had been kneeling, head down, and Herne had shot him through the centre of his backside, the ball tearing through between his legs, smashing his genitals into shredded flesh. It was a wound that would cripple him for what remained of his life.
W7hite agony blotted out any other thought for Wright. There was no possibility of reaching his gun or fighting back as the Stanstead Springs posse rushed him.
Herne didn’t stay around to watch the last scenes of the long, long chase. By getting out he was forfeiting any share of the reward bounty, but there were more important things in life than money. As he’d been telling George only a few moments ago.
He ran away up the trail, boots slipping in the rutted mud and ice, carrying the buffalo gun in his right hand.
Pausing at the first turn in the track, another three hundred feet higher. Snow was still sliding down the cliff, threatening a major slip, but it wasn’t going to stop his getting away.
There were shouts from below him and he could hear screams from the helpless robber as he was dragged down to a clump of trees near the white-topped river. Kicked and pushed along by the boots and fists of the vigilantes.
As he paused he was seen. Fingers pointed up towards him and he could hear his name being called. Someone raised a rifle, but he was jostled aside by the marshal. Cyrus Blennerhassett pushed to the front of the group, holding a Winchester in his fist. Lifting it above his head in a kind of salute to the shootist.
Herne stood still a moment, then lifted the Sharps in reply. Holding it straight over his head for several seconds, then turning again and disappearing from their sight around a bend in the trail. Close to where his stallion was waiting.
It was around twenty minutes before he got to the top of Mile High Point.
The last few weeks had been mainly wasted.
He’d been instrumental in the breaking up of one of most ruthless gang of robbers and killers that Colorado had ever known. And for that he’d come as close as he’d ever come in his life to being killed by vigilantes.
Now he could get on. Find some more bounties to hunt down. More flyers to look at. Secure that he was no longer a wanted man.
In the thin air he stopped, resting his stallion before heeling on over the crest. There was a group of riders moving away on the far side of the valley from him, going at a brisk gallop.
The posse returning home, the last act of their mission played out to the end.
Herne shaded his eyes against the sun, still bright in the cloudless day.
There it was.
Beneath the overhanging branch of a tall pine, a few paces from the river.
Black and still. A man’s figure, dressed in a faded duster coat that flapped and blew in the cold northern wind.
George Wright.
Dead.
Hanging.
The Herne the Hunter Series by John J. McLaglen
White Death
River of Blood
The Black Widow
Shadow of the Vulture
Apache Squaw
Death in Gold
Death Rites
Cross Draw
Massacre!
Vigilante!
Silver Threads
Sun Dance
Billy the Kid
Death School
Till Death
Geronimo!
The Hanging
… and more to come!
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