River of Blood Read online

  But there would be none.

  ‘What’s your beef, anyway, kid?’ Herne finally asked.

  ‘You know what it is. Ever since me and Becky’s been trying to get together you been pushing us apart. Well, you ain’t her kin and you got no rights over her at all. We was going to that dance in Fort Worth and you just upped and ran her out of town that night without a word.’

  ‘That was nothing to do with you, Matt,’ Becky interrupted.

  ‘Keep out of this now, Becky. This is between me and him. And we’ve got to settle it once and for all.’

  Herne said, ‘You mean you’re going to gun me down in front of all these people?’

  ‘Goddamn you!’ Matt shouted. ‘I’ll give you as fair a break as you ever gave anyone in your life.’

  ‘What you doing with that gun pointed at me then, when my own Colt’s still safe in its holster?’

  ‘I’m keeping this on you until you’re down off your horse and we’re facing each other along the street. Then we can start from the beginning.’

  By way of an answer, Herne began to swing down from the saddle.

  ‘Hold it now!’ Matt yelled and lifted his gun towards

  Herne’s head. ‘You get off the other side, with your right hand tight on the saddle pommel. I ain’t riskin’ you sneaking anything on me.’

  Herne dismounted as Matt said and handed the reins of his horse to Becky.

  ‘Take the horses and stay out of this. Get right out of here. There ain’t no reason for you to see this. You’ve seen too much killing.’

  ‘But Jed,’ she replied, tears already showing in the corners of her eyes, ‘does there have to be more killing? Can’t you talk things over with him?’

  Herne nodded his head sideways. ‘Does it look as if he’s ready to talk?’

  Becky gazed down at her feet.

  ‘He’s only ready for one thing, Becky, and that’s a fight. And when he goes for his guns, what can I do?’

  Slowly, she looked up at him again, crying fully now, eyes glowing brightly, beautifully.

  ‘You could wound him, Jed, you could . . . I don’t know, you could do something which didn’t mean he’d have . . . he’d have to die.’

  The girl was shaking with tears and Herne reached out to comfort her, but she backed away.

  ‘I’m waiting, Herne. You going to use that girl as an excuse for much longer?’

  Herne let his arms tall to his sides and turned to face Bronson, who had walked into the centre of the street and now stood with both guns back in their holsters.

  A hush of expectancy fell over the crowd, which backed against the walls at either side of the street.

  Herne left Becky standing with their horses and moved into the street, some twenty yards down from where Bronson stood waiting.

  Silence.

  A half-laugh of nervousness rose up from someone in the crowd, only to fall away as quickly as it had begun:

  The two men faced one another. Watching eyes. Watching hands.

  Fingers spread in a curve. Elbows at an angle.

  Silence.

  ‘Jed!’ Becky made one last appeal, then turned and buried her face in the leather of her saddle.

  Herne did not look round. Just stared at the kid, anxious now for him to make his play. Or let things be. But Bronson was enjoying this, savoring every moment.

  Eventually, Herne could wait no longer.

  ‘ You’re keeping everyone waiting, boy,’ he called down

  the street.

  ‘Don’t call me boy, old man! And don’t wait for me. You make your play. I want folks to see that you drew first.’

  ‘If they see me draw first, son, they’ll never see you draw at all.’

  Matt sneered back at him. ‘Don’t try to talk your way out of this, Herne. You’re powerful good with the boasting, but I haven’t seen much yet in the way of action.’

  Herne looked at him. ‘It ain’t too late to back down, kid.’

  ‘Yes it is,’ shouted Matt. ‘Ever since I first seen you it’s been too late.’

  He moved for his right hand gun. He was fast. The action was smooth. The weapon came up clean from the leather, the hammer rose, the trigger moved backwards.

  Then there was an explosion and the gun fell from Bronson’s hand. He looked at Herne in disbelief. But there was the smoking Colt in the man’s hand. He felt at his shoulder, felt the place where the bullet had entered, high and just below the collarbone.

  There was a gasp from the crowd and then this died down to leave only Becky’s frantic sobs.

  Herne held his gun still ready.

  ‘You back off now. You move on and leave that gun where it is.’

  Matt shook his head, half in disagreement, half to clear his vision. Then he went for the second gun. This time he didn’t even clear the holster. The bullet smashed into the lower part of his arm, sending a searing pain through the side of his body.

  Matt clutched at the shattered bone and yelled at Herne like a person in torment. ‘You bastard! You rotten bastard! That’s both my arms gone. Both my arms!’

  Herne looked at him coolly.

  ‘Back off then, boy. Nice and easy and nothing else will happen.’

  When Matt looked at Herne it was with eyes full of hate and humiliation. He swayed slightly, almost stumbled, then Herne saw that he was trying for the gun on the ground. He fired once: the bullet sent the weapon skimming across the dirt out of the kid’s reach.

  ‘Why don’t you give up, son?’

  But as he asked, Herne knew the answer. He didn’t want to have to finish him, not now. Not now that he was almost helpless; not now that he was showing himself to be brave; not now that Becky was wailing and watching.

  ‘I said pack it up and let’s end it!’

  But Bronson kept coming, unevenly, towards him. The left hand gun still at his side.

  ‘Ain’t no other way to end it, but you’re going to have to kill me,’ he called out. Then tried for the remaining weapon once more, despite the wrenching pain in that arm.

  Herne waited until the gun was clear of the holster, then shot the boy high in the left leg. Matt stopped, lost balance, and rolled over in the dirt of the street.

  Herne watched as he tried to push himself up. Managed it as far as all fours. The gun still held in the left hand. Now being steadied by both hands. Up on his knees. Pushing himself up further still, limping with the wounded left leg dragging behind him, dripping blood to the ground.

  He made another effort to bring the gun to bear on Herne.

  The gunslinger waited as long as he could, before shooting for the right leg. His slug passed through the flesh of the thigh and the boy fell to the street.

  He raised his head and said weakly, ‘That means you only got one bullet left, Herne. And you’re gonna have to use it . . . cause I’m coming for you still.’

  The crowd held its breath as Bronson tried to make it to his knees once more. Fell, rose, fell, rose. Held it there, only his head swaying from the effect of the pain and loss of blood.

  Gun held steady.

  ‘Come on, Herne. You’re gonna have to kill me in front of her. You’re gonna . . . ’

  Herne sighted on Matt Bronson’s forehead, slightly above and between the eyes. Hesitated for a fraction of a second only. Fired.

  The kid plunged forward: dead.

  After a few moments, the crowd rushed forward to look at the shattered body. Becky stayed by the horses, not even crying by now. Not looking. Not thinking. No feeling or sense left.

  Herne swiveled his empty Colt round on his trigger finger and let it slip easily back down into his holster. He looked at the mass of people who had gathered around the boy’s body like vultures. Then he saw Becky standing there, staring at him as though he had ceased to exist. As though he, not Matt, were lying in the street with his life blown out.

  He turned and began to walk away.

  Ten

  Mile followed silent mile. Becky refused to speak.
She woke up, helped with the breakfast, got on her horse, rode. The killing of Matt Bronson was so twisted up inside her that she could not bring herself to say a single word to Herne. Yet she had to go the rest of the way with him. She had no alternative.

  She even knew that he had tried not to kill the boy, that Matt had left the older man no choice. She was glad that, in the end, she had seen Matt’s death. What use would he have been with so many shattered limbs? Limbs which might heal, but which might never allow him to use his gun again.

  His gun. Yes, Jed had been right when he had told her how important it was to him, how he seemed to live for the moment of truth that came when you were up against another.

  To live without the gun would have been nothing for Matt — a mere existence.

  And yet . . . and yet . . . surely Jed had been the same before he had met Louise. Then he had changed. Rather, she had t changed him. Why couldn’t she, Becky, have done the same for Matt Bronson?

  She thought she knew the reasons. Herne had been ready to settle down, had had his share of excitement, of fighting, whereas Matt was only at the beginning. Louise, though young, had been more experienced than she was. And Louise had obviously loved Jed so strongly that her love had been the reason that he had altered his way of life.

  She didn’t think that her feelings about Matt had been like that . . . wasn’t sure what they had been . . . if it had been love at all.

  It was just that she would have liked the chance to have found out. Now there was nothing. Nothing except riding on after Jed Herne as he followed his vengeance trail nearer and nearer to Carson City.

  Mile after silent mile.

  Herne, too, thought of these things: of Louise, of Becky, of Matt. He thought of the accusation she had screamed out at him before they left Gallup.

  ‘You killed him because you were jealous of him!’ she had shouted through her sobs and tears.

  He hadn’t listened to her, not really. Had put it down to her state of mind at the time. Until, several days later, he had happened to turn round in the saddle and catch a glimpse of her as she rode. Her eyes focused on something towards the far horizon, hair moving gently around the edge of her face. It had been all that he could do to stop himself from calling out to her. From calling, ‘Louise’.

  But he had turned back and faced the west and thought about Carson City. The man he hoped they would find there.

  Larry Harvey. The man he was going to kill there.

  They were approaching the Carson River when the sky ahead of them began to blacken resolutely. Herne let his mount drift to the right and waited until Becky had come up alongside him.

  ‘See that?’ he said.

  Her eyes followed the direction of his outstretched arm, but she made no comment.

  ‘Guess we’re going to make good use of those slickers we bought, after all.’

  The rain could be seen clearly now, falling in long slanting lines down from the darkened sky. They were riding straight into it. Unless they stopped where they were, there was nothing else they could do.

  "We could try waiting here if you’d rather,’ Herne said,

  ‘it just might pass us by.’ ·

  Becky stared straight ahead, as though she had not heard him, as though she had no thoughts about rain or distance or anything else. Herne shrugged his shoulders and moved his horse on ahead. In a little while, he began to untie his slicker from behind his saddle and saw that Becky was following suit.

  They were close to the river itself before they encountered the storm proper. One minute they were dry beneath the overcast sky, the next it was as if they had walked into a different world.

  Herne pulled his Stetson down firmly on to his head and patted his horse on the neck. There was nothing for it but to keep pressing on, though the river might not be possible to ford, which would mean them riding up to the ferry.

  Behind him, Becky had ducked most of her face down into the neck of her slicker. Her hair was already plastered to her head, making her look strangely vulnerable.

  There was a sudden and vicious clap of thunder, which echoed off the black rocks to their right. Lightning ripped through the sky like a razor in the hand of a madman. Becky’s horse reared and whinnied. Herne turned round sharply and reached for the rein in an effort to bring it under control.

  And as he did so, there was another burst of thunder.

  No: not thunder.

  Gunfire.

  Flashes of guns away to the right, among the rocks. To the other side, only the river.

  Herne shouted and pointed at the same time, uncertain of whether his voice would be heard.

  ‘Head for the river. Fast. It’s our only chance.’

  He slapped Becky’s horse on its rear, then set his own mount in motion, following her. Bullets whistled around them as they rode.

  And when they reached the banks of the river itself, both of them could see immediately that there was no escape that way. The water was rising steadily, all the time nearing the point when it would wash over the river’s banks and flood the surrounding land. It would be certain death to attempt to ford the river here.

  Which left the ferry.

  Up river, under the guns.

  Herne looked round, desperately trying to decide on a plan of action. He saw a couple of rocks between where they now were and the main range in which the gunmen were taking cover. Other than these, there was nothing.

  He could try and pick them off — or wait until the rain stopped and hope that they would come out into the open.

  ‘Becky!’ he shouted above the noise of the rain, the river, the thunder.

  She looked at him, eyes closed to the smallest possible slit.

  ‘Head for those rocks.’

  He saw that Becky had followed his eye. That was enough.

  Any minute now one of the riflemen was going to get lucky, despite the poor visibility.

  ‘Okay. Let’s move it!’

  Again he urged Becky’s horse on before his own. The two of them rode as fast as they could in the conditions, heads down low and hands tight on the reins. They managed to reach cover safely.

  The main clump of rock was around Herne’s own height, and was wide enough to allow them both to stand side by side behind it and remain out of sight. To one side, a smaller rock was set in the soil —· soil which was rapidly becoming waterlogged.

  Herne grabbed his Sharps and flattened himself against the hard surface of the rock. For an instant he thought the rain might be easing, but he decided that this was his imagination.

  He waited with his rifle at the ready. Waited for the next flash of lightning.

  As it lit up the sky, Herne moved the barrel quickly around the edge of the rock and fired in the direction of the first volley of shots. He didn’t hit anyone but he did get a good sighting of their positions.

  Four of them, at a guess — Two high up, the other two spread apart and lower down the rock face. All covered pretty well, but not impossibly so. Not now that he knew exactly where to aim.

  But they knew where he was too.

  Herne checked his Sharps and waited for the next shaft of lightning. This time he’d let them get in a shot first and hope to hit one of them before he dropped back down again.

  One of the two near the top.

  There it was. Herne listened for the firing, then stood tall, aiming quickly, firing. Reloading, aiming again . . . no, darkness. He dropped back out of sight.

  Wasn’t even sure if his first shot had struck home. Not until he counted their next volley; only three men fired that time.

  Better, Herne thought, that’s better. Three men, separated.

  One gone. That left six - and Coburn himself.

  Herne was no longer certain what to do. Wait, as he had thought first, or try to move round and pick them off before Coburn and the other three moved in as well.

  Shit! he thought, if I wait here much longer I’1l die of some kind of stupid cold anyway.

  ‘Becky. I’
m going to make a try for the men in the rocks. I’ll leave you the rifle. Just hope you don’t need it.’

  Her rain-soaked face looked up at him. She wanted to say something but after all this time it was difficult.

  Herne sensed this and reached out and affectionately squeezed her shoulder for a moment.

  ‘If I don’t get back and the rain stops, ride up to the ferry.’

  Though they were standing close together, he could not see the expression in her eyes for the density of the rain. He moved quickly away.

  A hail of bullets skimmed round him as he ran for the bottom of the main group of rocks, but none struck home. He flattened himself and drew breath, waiting until he was breathing normally again before starting his next move.

  Herne began, very carefully, very slowly, to climb upwards between the rocks. The surfaces were slippery and several times he nearly lost his footing.

  Above him, the three men waited, silently. They knew that he had reached the bottom and must by now be climbing towards them, but they could see nothing. And no one of them was about to stick his head out for a better view.

  Not with the prospect of getting a sizeable hole blown in it, they weren’t.

  Then, suddenly, Herne turned a corner and was face to face with one of the bushwhackers. The man’s face was a white blur through the downpour; his hands tried frantically to level his rifle on Herne in time. But Herne’s Colt was drawn before the angle was completed.

  The sound of the shot reverberated loudly and the white blob of face disappeared backwards. There was the sound of a body bouncing off substances more solid than itself but this too became lost in the midst of the storm.

  Herne leaned on the rock and waited. l

  ‘Hey, Pete! You okay? D’you get him?’

  The voice came down faintly- from above. Herne said nothing.

  ‘I heard the shot. D’you get the bastard?’

  The end of the question was whipped away by the wind.

  Herne began to look for a way to climb up higher. As he did so, the obviously worried gunman called out to his remaining partner.

  ‘Hey! I reckon he got Pete. What d’you think we ought to do?’

  The reply was fainter still, but Herne could just hear it. ‘Reckon as how you ought to hush up before you tell him just exactly where you are.’