Cross-Draw Page 3

  The first to speak was wearing a blue wool suit that was a couple of sizes too big for him, making him look especially ludicrous. There was a patterned cravat at his neck, held in place with a diamond pin the size of a two bit piece.

  ‘Good day to you, mister. Allow me to introduce myself and my friend. My name is Quentin Faulkner and I am the manager of this establishment.’ He gestured around himself, podgy pink hand emerging from the deep sleeve of his coat. ‘This here is Wilbur Merz. Mr. Merz is head of the Bank of Liberation. We are rep ...’

  Herne sat forward and slammed his boot on the floor : ‘A hundred dollars—’

  Faulkner stared open mouthed, not used to being interrupted at any time and certainly not by someone who looked as much a no-account as Jed Herne. Merz stood with one hand on his swelling belly and the other to his jaw where it was making certain his mouth didn’t drop all the way to his chest.

  ‘Look,’ Faulkner finally managed. ‘Look here, I don’t know what...’

  ‘Hundred dollars. And ammunition.’

  ‘It seems to me you’re being more than a little presumptuous,’ said the banker.

  ‘An’ it seems to me you two buzzards are bein’ more that a little long-winded. A hundred dollars. And ammunition. And you can forget about my hotel bill when I leave.’

  ‘Sir, I...’ expostulated Faulkner.

  ‘Really, this is ...’ protested Merz.

  ‘Suit yourselves,’ said Herne and stared past them at the rest of the town council who were standing off and trying to listen to as much of the conversation as they could. A good few other people were watching closely, suddenly interested in the tall, mean-looking stranger who was the subject of the official visitation.

  Faulkner cleared his throat; Merz massaged his stomach and shifted from one foot to the other and back again. ‘It seems to me that we’ve got off to this rather badly,’ Faulkner tried.

  ‘While it is true that we were going to make you a proposition,’ said Wilbur Merz, ‘we hadn’t anticipated that you would be so, er, positive and, er, direct with your demands.’

  ‘I just bet you didn’t,’ smiled Herne and aimed for the brass cuspidor that was standing on the floor beyond the end of the booth. He only half-hit.

  Merz watched fascinated as the dark spittle dangled lower and lower from the rim. Faulkner unbuttoned his coat, then buttoned it up again.

  They were still standing there, saying nothing, when a third man pushed his way between them. Six foot tall and thin as a whip. Short dark hair with a thick streak of white going through it on the right side. A three-piece suit in black and a silver watch that hung from a wide silver chain across his waistcoat. A lean face with a prominent nose and brown eyes that looked straight at a man, not around him.

  Long fingers snapped open the front of the watch.

  ‘How long you two goin’ to waste everyone’s time here?’

  ‘Hastings, I resent that.’

  ‘Faulkner, you resent every damn thing that anyone ever says or does less you do it yourself. Only trouble with that is, you never seem to do anything that really amounts to anything. How this place keeps making the money it does I never understand. You must have some mighty smart folk working on your payroll.’

  Clifford Hastings sat opposite Herne and poured him a shot of his own bourbon.

  cBen Hastings,’ he introduced himself, offering his hand. Herne noticed the firmness of the bony fingers and the fact that the man’s eyes never stopped looking at him while they shook hands. CI run one of die two big ranches round here. The Broken Bar, over towards the North Platte river.’

  ‘Jed Herne. Pleased to know you.’

  Hastings turned his head and called for another glass and a fresh bottle. The other two businessmen hovered around for a few moments, then walked back to where the rest of the council were waiting.

  ‘Don’t know how much you’ve heard of what’s going on, so I’ll fill you in. Some of the Double C boys are holed up in the Five Aces down the street. One of ’em killed the barber and then did the same for Bill Crompton—he was the deputy marshal. Since then they’ve accounted for three more and wounded a couple of others. I reckon we got one of them, maybe two. Leaves four or five.’

  Herne nodded. ‘Go on.’

  ‘Folk round here are better than most in backing up the law, but now I reckon they’ve had enough. No sense in throwing lives away when it ain’t achievin’ anything.’

  ‘’Specially when you can get someone else to throw his away for you.’

  Hasting’s eyes moved to Herne’s Colt .45. ‘You ain’t above selling that?’

  ‘Already made my terms clear.’

  ‘Make them clear to me.’

  ‘Hundred dollars, ammunition and board.’

  Hastings held out his hand again. ‘You’ve got it’

  Herne looked over at the town council. ‘What about them?’

  Hastings laughed with contempt. ‘Don’t worry. They’ll do what I say.’

  Herne raised an eyebrow. ‘You must find that mighty convenient?’

  ‘At times.’

  ‘An’ these boys being from one of the other ranches— that wouldn’t have nothin’ to do with your eagerness to let me at ’em, would it?’

  The rancher sat back and smiled: ‘There’s no love lost between the Double C and myself. But I didn’t ask them to come in here and start shooting up the town.’

  ‘One more thing?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘This marshal who got himself killed, you said he was the deputy. Where’s the head man?’

  ‘Out of town looking for some cattle rustlers. Won’t be back till morning.’

  Herne stood up; Hastings faced him. ‘They wouldn’t be your cattle the marshal’s out lookin’ for, would they?’

  ‘Guess they would,’ the rancher agreed. ‘I guess they would.’

  Herne spun the chambers of his Colt Peacemaker, weighing the pistol in the palm of his right hand. The grip of walnut was polished to a dull shine by constant use, the natural grain of the wood only just evident through the darkening effect of a man’s hand. The long barrel, half an inch over seven inches, had a fine metallic sheen.

  Oiled and ready: a precision instrument that only required the hand of an expert to make it into a killing machine.

  Jed Herne dropped the gun into its holster. Paused. Drew it out, smooth and fast, pleased with the ease with which it cleared the leather.

  He checked the thong at his thigh for the right degree of tightness; rested his palm on the end of the butt once more. All right: oiled and ready.

  Herne stepped out from The Cattlemen’s House and began to pace down the boardwalk, keeping on the opposite side of the street to The Five Aces. When he came level with the barber shop, he looked in through the shattered plate-glass window, then down at the speckles of blood that stained the wood outside.

  Even in the dusk, they showed up plain, amongst the fragments of broken glass that were still littered there. Herne stepped on until he was almost level with the saloon, waiting a moment by a wagon that was outside the dry goods store. Above, the windows that had been used for firing from at the saloon were smashed and empty.

  Herne glanced up and down the street. He was alone.

  Though in the darkness of windows and doorways the townsfolk were waiting to see who would be killed and by whom. How many graves to add to the cemetery on the hill to the south of town, marked or unmarked depending.

  ‘You boys in there hear me?’

  Silence. Then: ‘Who the hell are you?’

  ‘Name’s Herne. I bin deputized to bring you out of there.’

  Another pause and—‘How you aimin’ to do that?’

  ‘Two ways I know of. You can throw out your guns and come walkin’ out peaceful. In which case I’ll take you up the jail. What happens after that’s no business of mine. Other way is, I’ll come in and get you.’

  ‘By yourself?’

  ‘Don’t see it needin’ anyone
else.’

  Inside the darkened saloon, Shay and Tolly exchanged glances. ‘You know who he is?’

  Tolly shrugged his shoulders. ‘What’d he say his name was? Herne? No name I know.’

  ‘Maybe you’d do better if’n you did.’

  The two cowboys turned their heads. It was one of the old men, walking slowly towards them from the back of the room. ‘I knowed a man called Herne. Herne the Hunter folks called him. Fastest thing with a gun I ever see. Faster’n Earp, Jimmy Ringo, any of ’em. Thought he was dead.’

  Then maybe he is. Who’s to say this feller outside’s him?’

  ‘It ain’t a chance I’d like to live on.’

  ‘Nobody’s askin’ you to, old man,’ snapped Tolly. ‘You mind your own damned business and get back over where you belong.’

  ‘I was only warnin’ yous for your own good, I...’

  Tolly lashed out with the barrel of his gun. The old man’s head rocked back. The gun sight had drawn a line across his wrinkled face. Shaking fingers went to the bloodied cut and old eyes wavered and watered nervously.

  ‘Damn, Tolly! Weren’t no need for that.’

  Tolly scowled at Shay and ducked over to the window, poking his pistol round the edge of the frame. ‘You there, mister deputy?’

  ‘I’m here. Still waitin’ fer your answer.’

  Tolly fired twice in quick succession, aiming for the source of the sound. Neither was effective. Herne waited a few moments, then repeated his warning: ‘Throw out your guns and walk out with your hands grabbing sky. Else I’m comin’ in.’

  ‘You reckon he is that Herne the Hunter?’ asked one of the cowboys.

  ‘Shit!’ said Tolly. ‘What difference if he is? There’s four of us, ain’t there? You reckon one man’s gonna bust in here against the lot of us?’

  ‘Guess not,’ the Double C man replied. But he didn’t sound too convinced.

  ‘You makin’ me come for you?’ asked Herne a final time.

  Shay moved to the door: ‘That’s the way it has to be.’

  Herne nodded to himself; he hadn’t expected anything else. In their position he’d likely have done the same. There wasn’t a whole lot of choice. But at least he’d tried to talk them out—now he was going to have to earn his hundred dollars the hard way.

  He slipped further back into the shadows.

  Ten minutes passed. In The Cattlemen’s House, the silver watch in Hastings’ hands elegantly ticked out the seconds. In The Five Aces, the gambler glanced from time to time at the smaller, less expensive watch he kept in his pocket. Every time he did so, his arm shook and disturbed the chair to his right, one of the several he was shielding himself with. The derringer was still in the holster inside his sleeve and after seeing what had happened to the bartender, he had no intention of using it. Not unless there was no alternative.

  ‘What’s that slippery bastard playing at?’ snarled Tolly,

  ‘Maybe he ain’t comin’ in at all. Maybe it was nothin’ more than a play to trick us out. Now it ain’t worked, he’s gone off and ain’t comin’ back.’

  ‘Yea, maybe he’s not this Herne the Hunter the old feller was on about at all. What d’you reckon, Tolly?’

  But Tolly was remembering the man he had faced up to outside the livery stable earlier that day and he was keeping his thoughts to himself. Too clearly he recalled the way the big man’s manner had made him back down— and that wasn’t something Tolly had ever done in his life before.

  ‘Hey, Tolly! You hear me?’

  ‘Shut up!’

  From the doorway, Shay looked into the saloon. ‘Gettin’ so dark out in that damned street we soon won’t be able to see who’s coming at us. I...’

  There was a loud crash as one of the bat-wing doors was knocked open and something flew past Shay and landed about ten feet into the room.

  ‘Hey, what the ...!’

  ‘Jesus, that’s ... ’

  The kerosene lamp was smothered at its base with old rags that had been soaked in spirit. For a second it glowed and then burst upwards into a billow of orange flame.

  ‘Get rid of that bastard thing!’

  ‘Kick it out!’

  ‘Smother it!’

  Shay hesitated by the doorway, uncertainly; one of the cowboys went close to the blaze, holding his coat out in front of him as if about to drop it on the flames.

  ‘Christ!’ The bullet ploughed into Shay’s shoulder almost before he heard the sound of the Colt being fired. He staggered sideways, trying to bring up his own gun. Herne fired once more through the gap in the doors and then jumped through the window.

  He rolled over in a half-somersault and came up into a crouch with the Colt .45 leveling up at the big Double C man’s chest. Shay did his best to get a shot off but he wasn’t fast enough and now he wasn’t about to get any more time to practice.

  Herne’s bullet drove him backwards and down onto his knees. His eyes were open and he was looking at Herne as though he wanted to remember Jed’s face forever. Which likely he did—his forever didn’t amount to more than a minute or so of gasped breath and bitter, bitter pain.

  And it was Tolly and the cowboy’s bad-tempered recklessness that he was bitter about more than anything else.

  Herne didn’t waste any more time on Shay. As soon as his shot had struck home, he whirled round and snapped off another in the direction of the cowboy making a dash for cover at the side of the saloon.

  The shell smashed the running man’s left elbow and brought him to a halt; he turned round to face Herne, right hand clutching his ruined arm.

  Herne shot him between the eyes.

  ‘Bastard!’

  Jed heard the shout, the following shot, sensed something streak past his head and dived for the same table that Shay had used for a shield earlier.

  He reached down to his belt and reloaded his Colt.

  ‘Murderin’ bastard! Killer!’

  ‘One of you did his own killin’ out there earlier. Started all this off.’

  ‘That ain’t the same.’

  ‘Don’t seem no different to me. ‘Sides, you had your chance to come out and you didn’t take it’

  Herne’s gun was ready; he had picked out where the remaining two cowboys were. One behind the bar, towards the far end, he reckoned; the other about half way down, beyond the fire, back of a stack of chairs. He knew there were three others in the room but they were keeping well out of things and he wasn’t bothered with them.

  He rocked the table to one side, then back. The one behind the bar didn’t rise to the bait. The other one did. There was a crack of a pistol shot and Herne fired one back but missed. The stench of smoke and burning wood was strong now and the center of the saloon floor was well alight. It sent high, flickering shadows around the room, casting patterns of chair backs and table ends onto the walls.

  Herne could suddenly detect a smell of burning flesh and realized that the second man he had shot had fallen into the arc of fire.

  Something would have to be done soon or more of the place would catch and it would be too late. He could hear excited, loud voices from the street and the sound of a hand bell summoning the town fire force.

  Herne moved his table and drew another shot in his direction. Whoever was down behind the bar was still keeping quiet—it occurred to Herne that he might have taken a stray bullet.

  ‘I’m getting out of here. I’m not being burn ...’

  The gambler jumped up from his cover under the chairs and made a panicked dash for the door. He was skirting the fire and making as much ground as he could when the cowboy at the end of the room shot him in the back. Herne voted the gambler his thanks and shot away a sizeable chunk of the Double C man’s face.

  Then he pushed the heavy table before him and leapt through the edge of the flames. Tolly saw him coming at the last moment and brought up the sawed-off shotgun.

  Herne recognized the movement of the barrels and threw himself to the floor fast. He winced in spite of himself as
the loads of buckshot were unleashed only a couple of feet over his head.

  He reached up both hands and grabbed the end of the weapon and pulled it free from Tolly’s grip. He hurled it away and used his left hand to vault the bar counter.

  His right leg met Tolly trying to free his pistol from its holster. There was a shout and Tolly went back into the shelves of bottles and glasses. Herne drew his Colt and twice brought the butt down on Tolly’s head as he bounced forwards. With his other hand he took Tolly’s gun and pushed it into his own belt. Slowly he released the hammer of the Colt: there wasn’t any point in killing him. Not now. Somebody else could have that pleasure.

  Herne dragged the cowboy’s body round the bar and towards the door, nearly colliding with the two old timers and the stunned youth who still wasn’t sure if he was in the middle of a nightmare.

  A line of men was gathered outside the saloon, some of them holding a length of hose; a little further off more men were standing by a hand pump set on a wagon. Several people held lanterns high and, by the light of one of these, Herne saw Hastings and the members of the town council.

  ‘Right,’ said Herne, ‘I done my job. Now you get to yours, before that whole place goes up.’

  He dumped Tolly’s unconscious body on the street before them. ‘Reckon now you can take care of him yourself.’

  Herne strode through the still-thickening crowd, eager for one more drink and a good night’s sleep between clean sheets. He felt in need of a treat.

  Chapter Four

  The pendulum of the tall clock swung rhythmically from side to side behind its glass front. Above it the ornate hands showed the time to be something short of eight o’clock.

  Herne sat at the table to one side of the bar and broke off a piece of bread; he began to wipe it round his plate, mopping up the juices of the steak he had just finished, together with the remaining traces of egg yolk.

  Whatever else they did in The Cattlemen’s House, they sure did a good breakfast.

  Herne had slept well, dropping off with the noises of the night’s excitement still rising up from the street. His Colt had hung in its holster from the bed post to the right of his head and he had jammed a chair underneath the door handle. Not that he was expecting any special trouble, but after a shooting there were always likely to be those coming round to make a complaint. Relatives, friends, even employers. And the nature of their complaint usually involved gunplay.