River of Blood Page 2

  Jed Herne lay back in the tin bath and enjoyed the soaking his skin was getting from the warm, soapy water. The best thing about not taking a bath too often, he decided, was that you sure appreciated the luxury of it when you did climb into one. He had already had a shave in the barber shop out front and was feeling almost at his best.

  Now that Becky had been taken care of, his mind was free to worry about what really mattered. The men who had attacked his wife and also Becky’s mother.

  They had come off a specially chartered gambling train which had got stuck in the snow near the two homesteads. As the night had gone on and the men had got more and more drunk, their wildness had reached a point where there was no containing it. And so had begun their trek across the crisp, unsullied whiteness which led to the two homes, to the two unprotected women.

  Seven men there had been and three of them had been accounted for: the powerful and spoiled Josiah Nolan; Pete Sheldon, the undertaker and the Reverend Chester Goldsmith. That left four more — and the next of these was Barton Duquesne, a dude and professional gambler whom Herne hoped to find in Memphis, Tennessee. If Coburn didn’t stop him.

  Whitey Coburn. A hell of a man to have on the other side! A man once seen, never forgotten. For Isaiah Coburn was an albino. Hence his nickname —a name that only his friends dared to use to his face. And he didn’t have many friends.

  Coburn and Herne had first fought together in the Civil War. As members of Quantrill’s Raiders, they had reluctantly taken part in the massacre at Lawrence during the course of which a hundred and fifty people had been bloodily and brutally massacred. They had both been eighteen years of age at the time.

  Years later, they had met up once again in the Lincoln County Range War. The two of them, together with almost every other hired gun in the West. Including a couple of friends called Pat Garrett and Billy the Kid. Herne shuddered as he thought of Billy and some of the water splashed over the edge of the bath. Of all the people he had ever met, the Kid was one of the few who had ever made him afraid: he was odd, shambling, given to fits of sudden unprovoked violence or moods of intense depression. Totally unpredictable.

  He wondered if he was afraid of Coburn and decided that he wasn’t. But he did have a lot of respect for the man —one hell of a lot! Of all the men he had seen with a gun, he wouldn’t like to state for certain that any of them was faster on the draw than Whitey. And that included himself.

  His grim smile showed above the line of scum that was forming on the bath’s surface. There was only one way of finding out which one of them was the quicker. Not that he was in any hurry to put it to the test.

  He knew that, as well as being fast, Coburn was a professional. Whereas he had had three years of retirement, which his reflexes had grown slow and his reactions had become dulled, Coburn had continued to sell his gun to the highest bidder. And once sold, there would never be any going back on his word. The next most important thing to speed with a gun was reliability. Let either drop and no-one wants to hire you anymore.

  That was something that Coburn could ill afford to happen. For he was the same age as Herne, into the late thirties. For a gunslinger that was old, very old.

  Herne’s hand pushed unconsciously up at the graying temples that were showing more and more distinctly through his black hair. He wondered whether Coburn had known Herne to be his target before accepting the assignment; wondered if it would have made any difference if he had.

  Hell, no, he thought, it wouldn’t have mattered a damn! It wouldn’t have mattered to me if I’d been in his position. I cou1dn’t have afforded to have let it.

  He stood up and reached for the towel that lay across the back of a chair. He would have a couple of drinks and some supper, then get to bed early. It was important to make an early start.

  The saloon was full almost to the point of overflowing when Herne arrived and he had to push his way through two lines of men to get to the bar and order his shot of whiskey. He stood and looked around him, able to see, over the heads of most others.

  Across the room, there was a big faro wheel, with small colored lights that glowed on the faces of the men standing around it. Beside that there was a blackjack table and nearer to the bar there were three tables for poker. For whatever reason, the citizens of Phoenix obviously had a lot of money that they weren’t too particular about keeping hold of.

  Away to the left, there was a small raised stage with an upright piano on the floor beneath it. A man in a bowler hat was playing this, or so Herne thought, for his hands were moving up and down over the keys. But among all the noise of upraised voices and the constant clinking of glasses and money, he could not hear a note.

  He turned back to the bar and ordered another whiskey, draining the glass in one go. He had had enough for this evening.

  As he pushed his way back towards the door through the crowd, he was suddenly aware of someone pushing back unnecessarily hard. Then a blow to the back of his head sent him staggering into a group of cowboys standing around one of the poker tables.

  'Just watch who you’re elbowing, mister, or you’ll get cut down to size!’

  Herne could not see the owner of the voice straight away, but whoever it was sounded very young, and very drunk.

  ‘You heard me, you old fool! I said who do you think you’re pushing around?’

  Now Herne could see him clearly, for the others near the spot had moved back into a circle, so that the two men were left facing each other.

  He couldn’t have been much more than seventeen years of age; he might have been even younger still. His eyes were red with heavy drinking and his voice was high-pitched and strained. Herne’s gaze shifted from his face to the hand which hovered unsteadily over his gun belt. Left-hand draw, holster strapped low on to his thigh. Herne wondered how often he rode out into the country and practiced with a line of tin cans along a fence. More than that, he wondered how many he usually hit.

  However good he might be, this evening was different. He had drunk so much that he might not be able to clear leather cleanly. But then again . . .

  Herne was in no mood to take chances.

  He took a step towards the boy and saw his left hand lower itself another inch.

  ‘Steady, boy. I’ve no quarrel with you. If I pushed you then I’m sorry. Let’s shake on it and no hard feelings.’

  He took a further step forward and extended his right hand, aware that he was taking a risk as he did so, for he was moving it further from the butt of his own Colt.

  The kid backed off slightly, almost stumbling. The fingers were curved directly over the handle now. He tried to stare hard at Herne, but blinked instead.

  ‘Don’t think you can talk your way out of this, old man. It’s time someone cut you down to size. Time you knew better than to go shoving other folk around without paying for it.’

  Herne risked another pace, his arm still outstretched, the fingers extended.

  ‘Easy now! One more time you come at me and I’m going to make an awful mess of all that grey hair. Yes, sir, I’m going to part it with a bullet.’

  The hand was actually resting on the gun. Herne tried to fix him with his eyes, but, the boy didn’t seem to be able to focus anyway. He sure as hell didn’t want to have to kill him. Only he wasn’t sure how much choice he would have.

  ‘Herne!’

  Another voice, older, from away to his right and behind his shoulder. Tempted to look round, he knew that if he did so the boy would almost certainly go for his gun.

  ‘Herne!’ The voice again. He wondered if its owner was holding a gun on him.

  ‘Don’t kill the boy, Herne. Don’t do it. He’s my only kin.’

  Herne answered without looking round, his eyes still firmly on the kid in front of him, watching for the movement that would mean he was about to draw.

  Herne said, ‘It don’t look as if I’m going to get a whole lot of choice, does it?’

  By now everyone in the saloon was still. Those not close enou
gh to see from the floor had stood on chairs or tables to get a better view. Only the pianist continued as he had been before and now you could hear him. He was playing a slow rag, elegant and ornate. It was strangely at odds with the scene it accompanied.

  ‘Let me come and talk to him,’ the voice said.

  As Herne heard the man coming closer, he saw the look of anger and disgust on the boy’s face.

  ‘You keep out of this, pa! I ain’t gonna have you always chasing round after me like I was some cub that wanted looking after all the time. You keep back out of the way while I take this old man.’

  The boy’s father was standing alongside Herne now. He was six inches shorter and several years older; he wore no gun.

  ‘Boy, you listen to me. I’ve seen this man use a gun. He could cut you down and spit into a glass on the bar at the same time. There ain’t no way in which you’re going to get anything but dead if you carry on with this. No way at all.’

  He stopped talking and looked at his son, who was now looking even less steady on his feet and seemed likely to topple over at any minute. The father walked towards him, both hands held out as if to reassure him, comfort him even.

  Herne let his own arm drop down and relaxed slightly. Then, over the older man’s head, he saw the boy’s left shoulder dip. His Colt cleared leather ahead of the sound of the single shot. He saw the man in front of him stagger a couple of paces backwards as though he had been punched heavily in the stomach. Then he clawed at his chest and sank down on to the dirt and sawdust of the bar floor.

  Herne side-stepped the toppling figure and raised his drawn gun high, bringing it down in an arc on to the boy’s forehead. The side of the muzzle struck the bone with a crack which punctuated the piano rag abruptly. The pianist lifted his hands clear of the keys, as if aware for the first time that something was going on.

  When Herne looked down at the boy’s father he met an expression of astonishment that he would not easily forget. It was an expression that was not destined to leave the man’s face. It did not even relax in death.

  The crowd pressed closer and closer, unable to believe what it had just seen. The two members of the same family, father and son, lay side by side on the floor. The blood which seeped from the wound in the father’s chest was spreading across the wood and anointing the son’s head, staining his hair dark.

  Apart from the still red eyes, he no longer looked drunk or troubled. ·

  Herne stepped out of the encroaching circle and walked slowly away. For the second time that day he tried to puzzle out someone else’s thoughts and failed. He hadn’t known what Becky’s thoughts were on burying her father; he could not guess what that boy would think when he came round and found out he had shot and killed his own pa.

  Herne walked across the street and went to his room. Now, more than ever, he needed a good night’s sleep.

  Two

  Jed Herne’s sleep was troubled by dreams he did not understand. At almost every hour he woke, rolled over on the lumpy mattress and tried to find peace again. Becky Yates did not sleep at all. As soon as Herne had ridden out of sight, Miss Owen had come striding up to her and frowned angrily at the girl’s appearance.

  ‘Child! You are dressed as no respectable young lady ought to be dressed. What is more — you smell!’

  Becky had been shocked by this accusation and by the swift change in the woman’s manner. She was even more shocked when two other women suddenly appeared and caught hold of her by each arm.

  ‘Take her to the bathroom. Strip her of her clothing and scrub her from tip to toe. I shall be along to supervise presently.’

  And she marched away, leaving Becky in the hands of the two new arrivals. They were hard-faced women of about thirty, both of them gaunt and lean. The fingers that dug into Becky’s arm were thin and strong. The skin on their faces was pasty and marked with red blotches and spots. One of them had a large mole on her left cheek, which proudly sprouted a crop of long black hairs.

  Becky knew that she would receive no sympathy from these two.

  They pulled her through a door and down two steps into a low room which housed a number of tin baths and wash-basins.

  ‘Take off your clothes!’

  Becky looked from one face to the other and moved back against the far wall. She held fast to her dress as they came for her, held it until they snatched her hands away and tore at the buttons which held it fast at the front.

  As she stood on the cold floor in just her petticoat, Becky closed her eyes and tried to offer up a short prayer. But the words would not come. Then she felt a rough hand seize her by her dark hair and jerk her towards the bath which the other woman had been filling.

  ‘Take that off and get in! Or do you want that torn from your back as well?’

  Becky realized that it was hopeless to attempt to resist.

  She undressed, shy and embarrassed before their eyes.

  Even her mother had not seen her fully naked for the past year, not since her body had begun to change. Becky tried to cover her breasts with one arm, while her other hand instinctively fell to the top of her legs.

  ‘Look at her hiding herself as if she’s special,’ one of the women jeered.

  ‘Get into that water and wash the filth off!’ the other one ordered.

  Becky raised a leg and set her foot down in the water. With a shout she suddenly realized her bath was stone cold. But she knew that she would have to lie in it, if only to cover her body.

  She slid down into the icy water and her skin immediately smarted and became covered with goose pimples. No sooner was she immersed, than the two women attacked her with hefty scrubbing brushes and harsh soap which stung her skin.

  Becky yelled and thrashed about, but they held her fast and attended to their task with grim determination. She felt one of them loosen her hold and thought that this part of the ordeal was over, but almost at once she was drenched in a jugful of cold water which was poured over her head.

  Becky shook her head and wiped her eyes clear. Then she heard a voice say, ‘Exactly so. You have done your job well. Now take her out and give her something suitable to wear. Something for sleeping in. It must have been a tiring day for our new pupil.’

  Miss Owen showed a sudden gleam of teeth and pointed to the pegs at the side of the room. One of the women went over and fetched a rough, white nightdress, while the other began to rub Becky dry with an equally rough towel.

  Miss Owen stood and watched, grimly approving.

  The room in which Becky was to sleep was a small dormitory, in which the narrow beds were packed very closely together. The room was empty when they arrived, but Becky was only too pleased to have the chance of going to bed early.

  ‘You will rise at six-thirty,’ said Miss Owen’s voice.

  Becky pulled the blanket high over her head and lay curled in upon herself, waiting. She had no intention of rising as late as six-thirty.

  After a while, she heard the other girls who occupied the room come in. There was a certain amount of whispering, but Becky remained under her covers and pretended to be asleep. Then there came the order for silence, the oil-lamp was removed; everything was quiet.

  Becky lay and thought about her mother, about Louise, Jed’s wife, who had been the only close friend she had ever had, and about Jed himself. As soon as she thought she could do so, she would go to him. She hoped he had not changed his plans and left for Memphis that night.

  She had been lying quite still, thinking, for some time, when she became gradually aware that someone was moving in the room. Becky held her breath and waited. The sounds slowly came nearer to where she was straining her ears beneath the blanket. Then someone sat gently on the edge of the bed.

  It seemed like an eternity before anything else happened, but it could only have been minutes. Whenever it was, Becky became conscious that a hand was touching her body through the covers. It rested first on her hip, then began to move down her leg to her knee and back again, as though stroking i
t. After a while, the hand was lifted away, only to return on Becky’s shoulder. She was frozen with fear: unable to call out or move.

  As suddenly as it had begun to touch her, the hand was removed and did not return. Becky felt the mattress rise as the person — whoever it was — got up. It was almost impossible to hear the movements away from the bed.

  For at least an hour, Becky was unable to alter her position or even think about her plans to escape from the school and find Jed in Phoenix. But gradually her courage returned and she eased the edge of the blanket down from her eyes. The room was very dark, shutters having been pulled to against any possible light from the moon.

  Becky listened for sounds of movement from the other girls but there was total silence apart from the taint noise of easy breathing. She pushed back the covers and lay still for another minute or two. Then she swung herself round and set her bare feet on the floor. She had no idea what they had done with the clothes she had arrived in.

  Once out of the dormitory, Becky began to tiptoe down the staircase to the ground floor. A sudden screech of an owl from outside the house startled her and her heart jumped within her. But she steadied herself on the banister and continued.

  She got as far as the main door. Her fingers were curled round the handle. At that point she became aware of the light that had suddenly appeared inside the house. Whirling around, she looked up and saw Miss Owen, still wearing her black dress, standing at the head of the stairs, holding a lamp high with her right hand.

  In her left hand she held a thin leather strap, which was split into fine thongs at its tip.

  The two women who had bathed her so roughly earlier dragged Becky screaming up the stairs and pushed her through the door opposite the dormitory. She fell to the floor and started to sob.

  ‘Lift her up and prepare her! She must learn her first lesson very quickly. Very quickly indeed!’