Herne the Hunter 20 Read online

  ‘Step back there, boy.’ His hand was close to the pistol holstered at his side and the shotgun was held tight across his chest.

  The youth hesitated, uncertain. He wanted to look to his father for advice, except that at that moment he didn’t want to face the accusations he knew would be burning in his eyes.

  ‘Back off!’

  ‘You aren’t taking sides with this harlot?’ asked the preacher, moving closer to his son.

  ‘I ain’t about to allow no breach of the peace without good reason.’

  ‘Without good reason!’

  ‘Nothin’ here calls for burnin’ an’ such.’

  ‘That’s right.’ piped up Jeremiah Patterson from close by the front of the crowd. This ain’t no lynchin’ town, burnin’ neither. Let’s keep it that way.’

  There were a few voices of assent, but most howled the town leader down to silence.

  Stanley still hesitated with the torch. Mary Anne Marie was still on the wagon steps and her girls were peering at the action from away behind her. MacIntyre stood his ground, knowing that if the preacher got the mob in the mood to rush the women there wasn’t a deal he could do about it, not even armed as he was.

  Preacher Kenton seemed to have made up his mind. He called for silence and let forth a stream of words that had the crowd yelling and calling at every pause. Finally he stepped up alongside his eldest son and pointed one of his huge hands towards Mary Anne Marie and started up a wordless howl of anguish that sent a chill through most folk present.

  He went past the sheriff to the wagon steps and his finger, accusing, almost touched the woman as she looked back down at him.

  ‘Whore!’ he shouted. ‘Whore!’ he boomed. ‘Whore of Babylon!’

  They came forward with a rush. Sheriff MacIntyre grabbed for Stanley’s arm at the same time as he was switching the shotgun to his right hand and trying to swing it round to cover the advancing mob.

  The preacher was on the first step of the wagon and his hand was raised over his head, ready to strike the woman down if she didn’t give way. Stanley got free of the sheriff and hurled the burning brand high in the air, looping over the first wagon to land on the roof of the second. Immediately the screaming began.

  MacIntyre swiveled fast and drove the stock of the shotgun hard into Stanley’s side, below the ribs. The youth shouted, staggered, sprawled across the ground.

  MacIntyre swung the weapon high and discharged both barrels over the heads of the crowd.

  Those at the front faltered, their courage like to leave them as fast as the preacher’s voice was drowned out by the roar of the shotgun. Those at the rear continued to press forward, trampling on a few who had fallen. The preacher seized Mary Anne Marie’s throat with one hand, the fingers almost enclosing it. She slashed at his face with the nails of her left hand, drawing blood. Her other hand was trying to find the slit in her skirt. Kenton’s fingers were squeezing down hard on her Adam’s apple and her mouth was opened wide.

  Sheriff MacIntyre pushed two fresh cartridges down into the barrels of the shotgun and snapped them shut.

  Men elbowed him on either side, pushing past.

  The canvas of the second wagon roared into bright, lancing flame.

  Mary Anne Marie felt her legs weakening beneath her; her heart seemed to swell as she struggled for breath; air rasped through the narrowing gap at the top of her throat.

  Four girls ran screaming away from the wagons, men chasing after them.

  The preacher heard a heavy step behind him and turned with a slow shake of the head. A fist hammered into his kidneys and another crossed hard into his temple. He grunted, roared, the pressure on the woman’s neck increased. Another blow landed on his elbow and then another. The bone seemed to go numb.

  Below, the sheriff swung the shotgun like a double-handed club and brought three men to the ground, holding cracked heads. In a rare burst of courage. Howie rushed at him headlong. MacIntyre judged his timing to perfection and split both the boy’s lips with the base of the shotgun stock.

  Over to the side, a bunch of men were chasing a couple of the girls between the tents and shacks, while five or six others were beating up one of girls who hadn’t been so fleet of foot.

  MacIntyre discharged the shotgun a second time.

  The preacher’s head jerked round and the grip of his fingers slackened a little. He saw the face of his attacker and his eyes showed surprise. The man brought his knee up sharp between the preacher’s legs and simultaneously drew his pistol and cracked the barrel against the bridge of the preacher’s nose.

  Preacher Kenton staggered.

  The pistol swung up and crashed down.

  Blood seeped through the bushy eyebrows and the eyes below them closed. The bulky form of the preacher fell from the steps, landing on the ground with a heavy thump.

  Mary Anne Marie sat hesitantly down, gingerly fingering her throat.

  The sheriff was holding off most of the mob. The second wagon was blazing fiercely and threatening the first. Five men stood around a young woman, sinking their boots into her body, striking her with their fists, shouting and spitting at her.

  The lank-haired stranger burst amongst them, hauling off the nearest pair and pistol-whipping a third to his knees. He ducked beneath a fist and sank his own into one man’s overfed belly. A boot struck him in the back of the thigh and he turned fast, slashing out with his gun barrel and breaking half a dozen teeth in the attacker’s mouth.

  They fled as best they could.

  On the ground, the girl lay groaning, barely conscious, knees pulled up tight into her belly, blood streaming from her head.

  ‘Get out of here! Get the hell out of here! Go back home!’

  Sheriff MacIntyre advanced slowly on the crowd, the shotgun pushed out menacingly before him.

  ‘ Anyone left on the street in five minutes spends the night in jail. Supposin’ he ain’t nursin’ a bellyful of buck shot!’

  They backed off, murmuring threats no one of them was going to be man enough to carry out. Not now the preacher’s voice was stilled.

  Preacher Kenton was nowhere to be seen; neither were his sons.

  Black smoke spiraled up into the air from the burning wagon.

  Mary Anne Marie lay back on the steps, caressing her throat.

  The sheriff hooked the shotgun in the crook of his arm and stepped towards the stranger, who was helping the barely-conscious girl round into a sitting position, her bleeding head resting against the already stained front of his black vest.

  ‘Guess I should say thanks.’

  ‘Maybe you should.’

  The sheriff looked him over. “Consider it said.’

  ‘Sure.’

  The sheriff held out his hand. ‘John MacIntyre.’

  The stranger let the girl’s weight fall against his chest and reached up his right hand. ‘Herne,’ he said. ‘Jed Herne.’

  Two

  Jed Herne sat back in the chair across from the sheriff’s desk and cradled a mug of coffee well laced with whisky between his calloused hands. He was tired: he was aching from too long in the saddle, aching and dirty. He wanted a bath and a shave. He wanted a hot steak and a comfortable bed. He had a horse and saddle, a rifle and a change of creased clothes, a Colt .45 with an action as smooth as oil and care could make it.

  John MacIntyre had his feet up on the desk, papers pushed to the side. His hat was angled back on his head. Back of the partition door were the three solid citizens he’d thrown in jail to serve as a lesson to the rest. The doctor was tending to Mary Anne Marie and the girl who’d been beaten up. No one had seen hide nor hair of the preacher since the middle of the fighting. His sons had disappeared as well – so had the poor box from the church and the bronze crucifix that had stood on the plain wooden altar.

  One thing and another, it had been a hell of a day.

  MacIntyre sipped at the laced coffee and peered across the rim of the mug at his visitor. The name Herne the Hunter juggled in the bac
k of his mind and he struggled to make it come forward clearly, but to no avail.

  ‘Seems I should know more about you than I do.’

  Herne grinned. ‘Won’t find me on none of them fliers, if you’re thinkin’ of thumbin’ through ’em.’

  MacIntyre shook his head, tried a little more coffee. He’d put in more whisky than he’d figured. ‘Weren’t what I meant.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘Seem to recall folk talkin’ ’bout a gunfighter went by the name of Herne the Hunter – wouldn’t be the same Herne, I suppose?’

  ‘Could be. Been called that in my time. That an’ a whole lot more.’

  ‘Uh-huh.’

  Silence hung between the two men for a while, both drinking, thinking. Herne trying to ignore the way his skin itched and stunk; he didn’t know how long it would be before the sheriff got up and threw open a window. When he’d finished his coffee …

  ‘How come you was in town? Passin’ through?’

  ‘Not exactly.’

  MacIntyre ’s feet came off the desk. ‘Got business here?’

  ‘Did have.’

  ‘Anythin’ I should know about?’

  ‘It’s maybe a mite late.’

  ‘How come?’

  ‘That big feller, one as called hisself a preacher—’

  ‘What about him?’

  ‘How long he been in town?’

  ‘Five, six weeks.’

  ‘Been followin’ his trail across from West Texas.’

  ‘That’s a long journey.’

  ‘Is the way I come. Trackin’ that feller an’ them boys of his from here to there, never seemin’ to get close enough to spit.’

  MacIntyre stood up. He set his empty mug down close by the stove and moved towards the window. He glanced out into the street and didn’t see a soul. Herne waited for him to open the window but he didn’t.

  ‘How come you chased ’em all that way?’

  ‘They robbed the bank an’—’

  ‘Robbed the bank!’

  Herne nodded, drank another mouthful of the coffee. It was all but cold. ‘They’d been in town a week or so, holding meetings in a tent Sundays, blowin’ off a lot of steam. Walked into the bank Monday morning with guns drawn and told the clerks to fill a couple of sacks. One of them went for a pistol he’d got stashed away under the counter and that was enough to get it started. There was some youngsters in the bank with their ma. Boy of around seven, little girl no more’n five. Boy stopped a slug in his leg an’ it turned gangrenous. Cut it off below the knee to save the rest. Little girl, she never got hit but she wakes up most every night hollerin’ and screamin’. Preacher an’ his boys, they rode clear with near on a thousand dollars. Lost every posse as set out after ’em.’

  ‘That’s why you set out.’

  ‘That’s right. Boy’s father, he laid out a couple hundred dollars expenses. Two hundred more when I catch up with the preacher, bring him in – one way or another.’

  MacIntyre moved away from the window, sat on the angle of his desk. ‘You could’ve taken him when you had the chance.’

  ‘Maybe,’ Herne shrugged. ‘That many folk millin’ round, some of ’em was liable to get hurt bad. Rather go up against him alone.’

  ‘You could’ve put a bullet in him when you was fightin’ by the wagon.’

  ‘In his back,’ Herne agreed.

  ‘Ain’t your way, huh?’

  Herne shook his head.

  ‘Still could’ve taken him if you hadn’t gone wadin’ in to help that girl.’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘Weren’t nothin’ but a whore.’

  Herne looked straight back at him and didn’t answer; words didn’t seem worth the saying.

  ‘You’ll be headin’ out after ’em, then, preacher an’ his boys?’

  ‘Likely.’

  ‘You tracked ’em all this way.’

  ‘Yeah. An my guess is that now, same as whenever I got close before, they’ll go into hiding so’s they can’t be found till they reckon they’re safe and they surface somewheres else.’

  ‘Any idea where they’re headin’?’

  ‘Up north’d be my guess.’

  MacIntyre nodded, looked at the coffee pot simmering on the stove. ‘More?’ he asked.

  Herne got to his feet. ‘Thanks, but no. I’d best take a bath, stuff like that. Find me a room for tonight. Ain’t had a decent mattress under me since I left Texas.’

  MacIntyre walked with him towards the door. ‘Try the First an’ Last, bugs there ain’t so damned greedy.’

  Herne laughed and stepped out onto the boardwalk. The gelding lifted its head and pushed its nose against Herne’s hand. He unlooped the reins and slotted his boot into the saddle. Fifteen minutes later the horse was being watered and fed and the stable boy was getting ready to brush and curry comb it down. After half an hour, Herne was lowering his aching body into a galvanized tin tub, the water as hot as he could bear it. A half bottle of whisky sat within reach of his left hand and his unholstered Colt lay close to his right.

  Herne closed his eyes but not his ears and relaxed.

  Mary Anne Marie had a light tread and he didn’t hear her until she was immediately outside the bathhouse door. He figured she could have been the Chinaman carrying a bucket of fresh, hot water, but the thought didn’t convince him.

  His hand snaked through the scum that was settling on the surface and slid down alongside the tub, circling the butt of the Colt.

  Mary Anne Marie shut the door with her back, resting against it. She looked at the man’s closed eyes and smiled, the edges of her mouth tilting upwards. One side of her hair hung forward over her shoulder, the other hung behind. Her cheeks were rouged but not too much. There was a touch of make-up around her mouth. Powder had failed to obliterate the massive marks left on her neck by the preacher’s hands, nor could the high lace collar of her blouse completely cover them.

  She went slowly forward to the side of the bath, enjoying the reddening that came unbidden to Herne’s face as his eyes opened just sufficient to see who she was.

  His hand came away from the gun and pushed back beneath the water.

  ‘You always visit this way?’ he asked, looking at her for the first time direct.

  ‘Depends how important it is.’

  ‘It is me you’re lookin’ for?’

  She took a step closer to the tub and stared down into it as Herne pushed himself deeper into the water and as a result his knees angled higher above the surface.

  ‘It’s you, right enough,’ she said, her voice, like her eyes, teasing him.

  ‘Seen your fill?’

  She tossed her head. ‘Mister, I seen more men without their clothes on than any doctor or nurse. There nothin’ about to surprise me or shock me or even excite me about a man’s body.’

  The Chinaman knocked and came in with quick, short steps, pouring a bucket of steaming water into the front of the bath and then retreating as fast as he’d entered, his queue bounding up and down from his shoulders, a smile fixed to his face.

  ‘First off,’ Mary Anne Marie said, ‘I want to thank you. Either that no-good bastard would have squeezed the life out of me, or I’d’ve got that little gun of mine out and made an end of him – more likely than some of those God-fearin’ folk would have rid me out to the nearest cottonwood and finished what that preacher started.’

  Herne nodded, feeling between his legs for the soap. ‘S’okay, ma’am.’

  ‘Not ma’am-Mary Anne Marie. Mary Anne Marie Delaney.’

  He raised an eyebrow. ‘Some mouthful.’

  ‘Yes it is.’

  ‘Jed Herne.’

  ‘The sheriff told me.’

  ‘What else he tell you?’

  ‘Enough to bring me over here.’

  Herne soaped his shoulders and chest, under his arms. He was reaching over towards his back when she moved round behind him and slid the cake of soap from his hand.

  ‘Let me.’

 
; ‘Hey! There ain’t no call

  ‘Least I can do.’

  She smiled and lathered his back, taking her time, a smile toying with the edges of her mouth. She did it slow and easy, making sure that he enjoyed it just enough. She didn’t want him busting out of the water after her, but she did want to talk him into something.

  ‘Sheriff says you might be headin’ Northern California way.’ She scooped a jugful of water out of the tub and poured it in a slow, steady stream so that it broke against the top of his shoulders and sprayed outwards, clearing away the lather.

  ‘Sheriff maybe says too much.’

  ‘No harm done.’

  Herne shrugged and waited. It was a long time since any woman had worked over his back the way this one had; long time since he’d passed the time of day with a woman who’d interested him more than a little.

  ‘I was wondering if you was interested in a proposition.’

  Herne turned his head and she poured water down the side of his face so that he shook himself quickly, as a dog does. Water splashed across the front of her blouse.

  ‘What kind of proposition?’

  ‘Sort of … ridin’ guard.’

  ‘Over what?’

  ‘Me an’ my girls.’

  Herne wiped his forearm over his eyes. He looked at Mary Anne Marie and shook his head. ‘You serious?’

  ‘I wouldn’t be here now if I weren’t.’

  Herne pushed his fingers up over his face and through the wet black of his hair. As propositions went it was more interesting than most, Mary Anne Marie had seen to that and both of them knew it. Trailing over the country with a wagonload of women wasn’t as easy as it sounded first off, though. He’d found that out when circumstances had left him with a young girl name of Becky and no place to leave her; no place to run, no place to hide.

  Then there was the matter of the preacher.

  ‘I ain’t certain,’ he said. ‘There’s other things

  ‘Like that bastard Kenton?’

  ‘Yeah, him and his kin.’

  ‘Sheriff said that was why you was fixin’ on ridin’ north.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘That’s where I want to go. Me an’ the girls. There’s work there for us and a place we can stay. I’ve got a deal all worked out. All we have to do is get there. And that ain’t easy in this country for five women travelin’ alone.’