Apache Squaw Read online

  Do unto others - before they do it unto you.

  ‘Jed. Tell me.’

  ‘What?’

  Tell me that it’s all going to be fine. That Lishe’ll pay and they won’t kill me.’

  ‘I’m sure as I can be that his pride’ll make him want to get you back at any cost.’

  He avoided any mention of the second part of the question, because he could see no way that El Capitan was going to let the girl live and finish up with her testifying against him. Whitey Coburn, Jed’s old riding friend, had known the James boys well. Jesse had often said the safest way of making sure nobody tells on you was to kill them all. And that was true whatever the crime and whoever the killers.

  ‘How about you, Jed? You’re going to miss out on all the money you earned. God knows, but you surely did enough in West Wind Canyon to get some of it.’

  ‘From what I’ve seen of your husband, I don’t reckon that he’s the type of man to take kindly to having to pay twice for the same thing.’

  ‘But that’s not fair.’

  ‘Lots of things in life aren’t fair, Emmie-Lou. Figure you know that as well as most. But you pay your own price to live with yourself on your own terms. Lishe Parsons and I did a deal. Didn’t shake hands on it, but there wasn’t any need for that. Contract said I brought you back. If the Mex releases you to him, then I’ve not done what I promised. I’d do the same.’

  She put her head on one side, as though seeing Herne for the first time. ‘There’s something of the Mexican in you. And something of Lishe. Some of their worst hard qualities. Ruthless and deadly. Cold, even. But you’re a better man, Jed.’

  He tipped his hat. ‘Well, thanks a lot for that, ma’am. I guess that ain’t truly what I’d call much of a compliment.’

  ‘Señor Herne!’

  ‘Got to go, Emmie-Lou. You take care now.’

  Awkwardly, struggling to maintain his balance, Jed walked slowly over to where the bandits stood grouped around El Capitan. The injured Manuel sat on a large boulder, nursing his maimed hand inside his shirt, his face pale and sweating.

  ‘Join, us, mi amigo. We talk of what to do, and we think that the plan we talk of is best.’

  Herne nodded. ‘So that’s what you’ll do?’

  The bandit smiled, his stained teeth barely visible in the rotting cavern of his mouth, pitched into shadow as the sun began to decline to the west of the arroyo. ‘Si. Is what we will do.’

  The letter was written and sent, with two more of El Capitan’s lieutenants trusted with the mission. A mission that Herne himself would not have found attractive. From what he knew of Parsons, the man’s pride might work two ways. One of them would insist that he retained his wife at any price. The other was that he would never deal with people like the Mexican bandits and he could easily nail them to the wall of the house and slice away a few more pounds of flesh each day.

  They had left at first light, and Herne had again been tied up during the night, and just as closely guarded.

  Emmie-Lou had been moved away from him, as though El Capitan no longer wanted them to talk together. The bandit chief made no attempt to interfere with her that night, totally ignoring her like a spent bullet. But Herne was included in the final planning session, as though the Mexican somehow wanted to draw him into the conspiracy.

  It was going to be like Jed had suspected. El Capitan would stay behind in the canyon, with just four men, to guard the prisoners and take charge of the whole operation. He told his men that it would be dangerous if he were to risk meeting Parsons eye to eye as his hatred was so great that he might shoot down the rancher in his anger and ruin the whole deal.

  And his men believed it.

  As Jed lay relaxing against a tree, the bandit came grinning up to him, a jug of pulque spilling from his chubby fingers.

  ‘Time for another talk which is so much interesting to us, amigo.’

  ‘I’ll talk but not drink. My head’s not recovered from last time.’

  ‘The Señora Parsons. Her head is not well? Nor only her head that was hurt, eh?’

  A bellow of ribald laughter that sent a couple of the horses whinnying across the branches of the corral. ‘Not only her head, my old friend.’ The laughter disappeared and was replaced immediately by a more serious face. ‘And it is of friends that I wish to talk. Come.’

  He walked away among the grove of trees, out of sight of the others, with Herne, ankles linked with rope, joining him. Once he was sure that none of the other bandits could hear them, El Capitan pulled Jed to him, his lips so close to Jed’s ears that the foul miasma of his breath ruffled the hairs on the nape of his neck.

  ‘You think my plan, she is a good one?’

  ‘I think it is.’

  ‘Ah. But we are men of thinking the same. So you can see my mind. What you really think will happen.’

  Casually, as if it was doing it on its own without his agreement, El Capitan’s right hand dropped to rest on the butt of his gun. Jed’s Colt. And his eyes flicked at Jed’s face, as if they sought the inside of his mind. It was difficult to know what to say.

  ‘I think,’ said Herne slowly, ‘I would rather be on your side of the plan than on anyone else’s side.’

  ‘Good. You think like me. Maybe we long-losing brothers, eh?’

  ‘Yes. For once I think maybe you’ve gotten it just right. Just right.’

  ‘Now, if my plan works good, like we think. Then this will not be a good place to be, as Señor Parsons might think you have done something with this.’

  ‘Guess he might, at that.’

  ‘So, I like you, Herne the Hunter. And I do all right with you.’

  ‘I’m grateful for that. Matter of fact, right now I’m damned grateful for most anything.’

  ‘Even when we are enemies…is right word…? When we are enemies, I still help you. When my men come back here, pretty soon now, I help you one lot.’

  As he strolled away, leaving Herne to struggle along after him, the Mexican was whistling to himself. Jed watched him and said, very much to himself: ‘With enemies like you, then a man sure doesn’t need friends.’

  Chapter Thirteen

  Everything had gone well. The two bandits were jubilant on their return, whooping their way through the narrow neck of the canyon, lashing their horses on to a gallop, hauling them up on their back legs while they shouted the news to the rest of the gang.

  Emmie-Lou came out to watch them, turning to look to Herne in bewilderment at the calling and hooting. ‘What are they saying, Jed?’

  ‘That your husband thought about it and agreed. That they left him rolling on the floor weeping and tearing out his hair. Biting on broken teeth, they reckon. For me, I think that last bit is just for effect. But the deal’s on. Twenty thousand dollars in gold. They ride and collect half of it tomorrow around mid-day. Two men bring it back here. They take you with them, and collect the rest of the gold. Easy as falling off a log.’

  ‘He promised me…El Capitan, that he’d just take the money and let me go. Cross up Lishe. He promised and I did all…all of those things with him. For him. I even…’

  ‘I know the things you did, Emmie-Lou. Some folks are born winners. Guess you just aren’t among them.’

  ‘He promised me. Swore I could trust him. You sons of bitches are all the same.’

  ‘Mrs. Parsons. I never promised you anything.’

  As she turned away, she was crying again.

  The night passed.

  In the morning, soon after first light, the canyon became almost deserted as most of the band rode off to collect the gold. Herne noticed that there was a hasty meeting between El Capitan, the three men who were to remain as guards, and the two men who were to bring back the money for the first part of the exchange.

  With a loud clattering of hooves on the stones, echoing around the canyon, the bandits rode off. In the sudden silence, Herne again heard the sound of the girl crying. Knowing that for the others the day was just beginning. For her i
t was very nearly over.

  El Capitan walked to Jed, his arm round the crippled Manuel - one of the men staying behind. He said something to him, and then sent him off towards the horses. The other two guards — Jesus and Esposito — sat near Emmie-Lou. Grinning like a cat that’s got the best of the cream, El Capitan came towards Herne, his naval cap perched at a rakish angle at the back of his head. Jed’s gun was still in his holster. The Sharps rifle lay alongside his blanket roll. Herne had seen it there.

  ‘Now we talk. Over here.’

  The rope between his ankles had stretched a little, and Jed was able to walk more easily than before. The thongs that tied his left wrist to the back of his neck were also looser than they had been. While the other three bandits were occupied elsewhere, it might have been the chance to reach for the bayonet and attack El Capitan.

  Might have been, but wasn’t.

  ‘Stand there. Soon Manuel will come and he will cut the foot ropes. Then you will get on your horse. Ride with mi compadre out of the canyon, and away. Never we meet again, if the good God is happy for that.’

  ‘My guns?’

  ‘No. They stay. You get more guns but never get another life, Señor Herne the clever Hunter. You ride away and never come back here. Is good?’

  Jed nodded, watching Manuel lead his horse towards him, seeing Emmie-Lou rising to her feet, unable to understand what could be going on. It was at the back of his mind that it might be a cruel trap, but there was no reason for it. His usefulness to the Mexicans was over, and all they needed to do was put a bullet through the back of his head. No, El Capitan, with his odd idea of loyalty and kinship was really going to send him on his way.

  ‘You shake hand with me, Señor?’

  ‘Gladly.’ They clasped hands, Jed feeling the palm of the bandit’s hand slippery with sweat, his own dry with tension. He glanced across to Emmie-Lou. ‘The girl?’

  ‘Take what is given, amigo. If the good Lord had not wanted her to be carved, then he would not have made her such a pretty piece of meat.’

  ‘All right.’ There wasn’t anything else to say. As soon as he was gone, the girl’s life would be measured in minutes. And when the gold came, she was dead.

  ‘Jed!’

  ‘Vaya con Dios, amigo.’

  ‘Jed! Jed Herne!!’

  ‘So long, Emmie-Lou.’

  ‘Please! Jed! Please.’

  He didn’t look back. Not once. Letting his horse walk along the narrow trail behind Manuel, ignoring her cries. Hardening his face and his soul. Not even turning to see her standing alone.

  His left hand was still tied up, and he asked the bandit if he would be released.

  ‘When out of arroyo,’ replied Manuel, holding the reins awkwardly in his uninjured hand, the Colt ready at his hip in case Herne was crazy enough to try anything on his way to freedom.

  The long and winding trail wound back to the open plain, hidden from outside by a great cleft in the orange rock. As soon as they were through the narrow gap, Manuel beckoned Herne alongside him, reaching in his belt for a knife, letting go of the reins.

  ‘Here. I cut you.’

  ‘No. I cut you,’ said Herne, his right hand snaking down to draw the razor-edged bayonet from his right boot, the blade hissing from the soft leather of its sheath.

  Manuel was already close to him, leaning out of the saddle with his own knife ready to cut free Jed’s left hand. With his other hand fingerless, he wasn’t able to pull himself away from the whistling arc of death in Herne’s hand, his mouth falling open in horror and shock as he saw his own doom upon him.

  The thin-bladed bayonet sliced through the side of his neck, just below the ear and a little behind it. Cutting a red-lipped gash through the swelling artery. Blood jetted out around the knife in a great crimson fountain, splattering all over Jed, his horse, and the rocks around.

  ‘Madre...!’

  The rest was drowned in blood welling from Manuel’s mouth, choking him. His good hand went, too late, for his gun, but the lines were already going down between his brain and his body, and he slowly toppled sideways, landing with a dull thud in the dust, nearly turning a somersault as he dropped.

  The blood flowed more slowly as the supply drained away into the dry earth. The eyes were still open, staring up at Herne, but Manuel saw nothing but the mistiness of death clouding the bright day into darkness.

  ‘Adios, amigo,’ said Herne, reaching round with the bloodied knife to cut his left hand free of the rope, flexing and bending the stiffness from it.

  Holding the reins of his horse carefully, he bent down over the corpse and hooked the Colt from Manuel’s holster. Testing the action over and over to make sure it worked. That the gun didn’t play any tricks of its own that might end in his death instead of anyone else’s.

  Herne remounted and slowly walked the horse forwards, through the squeezed neck of the canyon, back towards the camp of the Mexicans. Stopping a couple of hundred yards from the smoking fires to tether the mount to some rocks, carrying on the rest of the way on foot. Cautiously he stepped among the tumbled boulders, eyes searching for the three remaining bandits.

  Seeing two of them sitting across from the main cooking fire, smoking and talking. They had their backs to him, and beyond them he could see the woman. Jesus and Esposito both had rifles at their sides. There was no sign of El Capitan, though Herne knew that he must be somewhere around the trees at the far end of the arroyo.

  He didn’t have a lot of time. It would have been tactically sound to wait and grab a chance to reach one of the rifles. Then pick off all three of them when they came together in the open. But there was no way of knowing when the other pair would return with the gold.

  ‘Has to be now,’ he said to himself, trying to work out a plan that would get him close enough to the other two.

  Using his own Colt he might have chanced it even at fifty or sixty paces. With Manuel’s gun he needed to be a whole lot closer.

  There was only one plan that suggested itself to him. The simplest of all. Just walk up to them and gun both bandits down as soon as he gotten close enough. Not the most cunning of stratagems, but it was about the best he could come up with in the circumstances.

  He moved the fingers of his right hand, and drew the gun two or three times for balance. It was clumsy compared to his own Colt, but he reckoned he could manage. No point in fretting over it. If he managed then he’d be all right. If he didn’t, then he’d be dead. And everyone knew the dead had no worries.

  As quietly as possible he stepped out from cover and began to walk at a steady, even pace towards the backs of Jesus and Esposito. The small pebbles and sand crunched under his boots, but the Mexicans were deep in conversation and didn’t hear him coming. Not until Emmie-Lou looked up and saw him and cried out, unable to check herself.

  ‘Quien es?’ said Jesus, spinning round, and reaching for the rifle.

  ‘Just me,’ said Herne, keeping on walking, holding his arms away from his sides to show how innocent he was of any unpleasant motive. Then let them ease back down again.

  ‘Where is Manuel?’ said Esposito. Neither man was standing, unsure of the tall gringo who walked at them. Both of them had rifles, and he would not be such a crazy man when he had no gun.

  ‘You have a gun,’ said Jesus, unbelievingly, putting his hand to the ground to help himself up. Which meant he couldn’t stand up and shoot at the same moment. And that turned out to be a fatal mistake for him.

  By looking calm and confident, Herne had managed to cross the ground nearer to them. When Jesus started to move, and Esposito began to swing the rifle round on his knee, Jed was only thirty paces from them. Still walking.

  Esposito started to shout something out, but Herne never heard what it was. He drew and fired the Colt, finding the action stiff compared to his own gun. Watched with a detached calmness as the bullet hit the sitting man in the face, ripping through his nose with a sickly cracking noise.

  ‘High and right,’ said Her
ne, correcting his aim and firing again.

  Esposito had dropped the rifle, clutching at his face, and the second shot hit him under the right arm, smashing a rib before it ripped his lungs to bloody tatters, ending in the upper part of the heart. The bandit keeled slowly over sideways, rolling on his face in the sand. The hands still groped at his face, but he was very dead.

  Jed was vaguely aware of a thin wailing, which part of his mind tabulated and decided it must be Emmie-Lou Parsons screaming. But he ignored the noise, concentrating on firing at the other Mexican, Jesus, who was rising and trying to bring up the rifle at the same time.

  It took two bullets to kill him. One surprising Herne by dropping low and left, knocking the heel off the bandit’s right boot, spinning him off balance.

  ‘Hell!’ spat Herne, cocking and aiming again.

  The second bullet drilled through the center of the man’s chest, just a little to the left of the breast-bone, almost lifting him off his feet with the impact of the heavy slug. Jesus moaned softly as he fell backwards. A strangely muted noise, as if he had been caught by a pang of toothache.

  Then he fell back, arms spread-eagled in a crucified position. Quite still, blood bubbling silently from the neat hole at the middle of his once-white shirt.

  Alert for any sign of El Capitan, Herne glanced at the corpse. ‘Sorry, Jesus, but I can’t stick around for the third day.’

  Emmie-Lou was still crying, hands to her face, great tears coursing through her fingers and dripping into the sand near her bare feet.

  ‘Where the Hell is El Capitan?’

  ‘He…Oh, my God! He went into the trees there. I think he went for a…’

  ‘I don’t need the details.’

  From where he stood, Jed could see the Sharps rifle lying in his bed-roll. He was only forty or fifty yards from the trees, which meant that the Mexican was either hiding and waiting for Jed to come in after him.

  Or…

  ‘There! Climbing!’

  Jed didn’t need the cry from Emmie-Lou. He’d spotted the dark figure of the chief, scrabbling his way against the red rocks, already over a quarter of the way up the face, on his way to safety. Knowing the reputation of Herne the Hunter, and having probably witnessed the deaths of Jesus and Esposito, he had clearly decided that discretion was the only way of saving his life.