River of Blood Read online

  ‘Shall we tie her, Miss Owen?’ one of them asked.

  ‘Exactly so.’

  Becky’s wrists were tied with rope to the posts of a bed which was probably the headmistress’ own, although there were no signs that she had slept in it that night. Becky stood behind the bed, her head hanging forward, hair streaming down over her face, covering her tear-stained cheeks.

  ‘Shall we give her something to cry about, Miss Owen?’

  The grey-haired woman seemed to think for a while, then the smile made its sudden and brief appearance.

  ‘I think that it is necessary for me to show the child who is mistress here. I will chastise her myself. You may leave me. Please ensure that all of the other girls are quiet before you return to your beds.’

  She watched them as they went to the door.

  ‘Good night, Miss Owen.’

  ‘Good night, Miss Owen.’

  ‘Exactly so.’

  The door to the room was shut firmly. Becky heard Miss Owen’s footsteps on the boards behind her.

  Herne rose early, vaguely conscious of the fact that he had been troubled in his sleep. As he was saddling his horse in the stable opposite the hotel, he tried to recall some of his dream but could not.

  Mounted and on the main street of Phoenix, Herne could see a dull sliver of moon still in the sky. At the same time, the sun was starting to show its colors over the storefront buildings. The road towards the Mississippi lay eastwards out of town.

  Herne turned his horse and started to ride west: towards the school.

  Becky was almost on her knees, but the tight bonds on her wrists would not allow her to fall that far. So she drooped from the bedposts, listening to the shrill invective of the headmistress’s scolding tongue, waiting for the crack of leather, the sharp lash across her bruised back.

  ‘Never. You will never disobey me. Never again. You will do as I say. You will respect me. Respect the rules of my school. My school!’

  As the voice rose to a climax the tawse descended once again. Becky shrieked as the leather hit into a cut that was already bleeding beneath the material of the nightdress.

  Then the woman came forward again and took the neck of the nightdress in two hands. One tug and the stitching at the neck gave way, a second and the nightdress ripped in two down the back, stopping short just above the girl’s bottom.

  Miss Owen looked hard and long at the weals which had risen up on the fresh skin, the blood which was smeared across the whiteness. Then she opened her mouth and laughed shrilly. Becky shivered. The mouth, still open wide, descended into the flesh between Becky’s neck and shoulder. The teeth bit home hard. Becky shrieked and arched her body backwards, but the woman’s grip held.

  Becky slumped forward in a faint and Miss Owen released her teeth from the girl’s back. The marks showed in an almost exact oval, except that at the top the flesh had been opened by the downward strength of the bite.

  Beneath the woman’s grey hair, her face was leering horribly; her mouth was still slightly open and a mixture of blood and saliva dribbled from its edges. At the front, two false teeth made from polished metal glimmered in the light from the oil-lamp. A close inspection would have revealed sections of Becky’s skin fixed to their sharpened edge.

  Herne had not ridden too fast. By the time he had left Phoenix, he had not imagined Becky to have been rising. There was little point in getting to the school before anyone was up. In fact, he wasn’t at all sure if there was a point to his going at all. Yet something was nagging away inside him and maybe he just needed to say goodbye to her properly before heading on his way. Certainly, the previous day’s parting had been unsatisfactory.

  The sun was behind Herne as he drew up outside the Academy and already he could feel its warmth on his neck.

  It was going to be some day!

  As he was tying his horse to the hitching pole, he heard the scream. A scream of terror and agony . . . and helplessness.

  Instinctively, Herne slid his hand to the butt of his gun, checking its presence, its balance in the holster. While he was doing this, his legs took the steps in front of the building three at a time. He tried the front door and it resisted.

  Grasping the handle firmly, he put the weight of his shoulder alongside the lock. Once, twice, the third time splintered the wood and the door gave way.

  A woman stood in the hallway, a startled expression on her face.

  ‘Who? . . . What? . . . You . . . ’

  Herne pushed briskly past her and tried the door of the classroom he had entered the day before: rows of empty desks. As he stepped back into the hall, he heard the voice again, crying out for help: Becky’s voice. Unmistakably.

  The woman stood at the foot of the stairs, attempting to bar his way. Herne’s fist struck downwards on to her arm, then opened and slapped her hard across the face. She staggered backwards, moaning and holding her bleeding mouth. Herne had already passed her and was trying door after door.

  He did not have to search far.

  The first thing he saw was Becky’s bitten and bleeding back; the second, in the corner of the room, her eyes alight with a mixture of fear and triumph, was the headmistress.

  She stared at Herne, but his eyes had returned to Becky’s back; then her head turned and she looked at him through her tears. Herne moved past her, returning the older woman’s gaze, holding it with his own.

  He bunched his right fist as he went slowly towards her, bunched it and flexed the muscles in his arm; drew the arm back and down; stood in front of her, staring into those wild eyes still, and released his punch.

  The full force of his fist landed on her nose with a crunch that sounded like a man stamping on the shell of a crab. The fist moved back, returned: this time it was a man walking on egg shells.

  Herne looked at the mess of blood and mucus staining the woman’s face. The skin at the centre of the nose was split across and a jagged edge of shattered bone was poking through.

  She had said nothing, had not cried out; only a barely audible gush of breath forced itself from between her lips. Herne wanted to draw his gun and kill her but he could not. And behind him, Becky was saying faintly, ‘Take me away. Take me away.’

  Herne spoke flatly: ‘Within an hour you get everyone out of this building. If you don’t do that, then I won’t answer for their lives. You understand that?’

  Miss Owen nodded slightly and her eyes showed that she understood well enough.

  ‘And if I ever hear that you’ve set up school somewhere else,’ Herne continued, ‘I’ll sure as hell come and seek you out and kill you.’

  He waited until he was certain that she believed him, then turned and untied Becky’s bonds. With her arms free, she clung to him and sobbed on his chest until she became aware of her nakedness. He found her a bowl of water and towels and washed clean the worst of the wounds on her back. Then, wrapped in a clean sheet and blanket, Herne lifted her on to the saddle of his horse, jumped up behind and rode back into Phoenix.

  He took Becky to the doctor’s and left her there while he went off to the livery stable to buy a small rig. There was nothing else for it: she would have to come with him. For now, anyway.

  He made sure the horse that was to pull the rig was docile enough for Becky to handle herself, then bought extra supplies and piled them behind the driver’s seat.

  Back at the doctor’s he gave Becky some money to buy some more clothes for the journey and told her to be ready to leave in half an hour.

  ‘Where are you going, Jed?’ she asked.

  ‘Time to teach someone a lesson,’ Herne replied, as he swung his leg over the saddle and turned the animal’s head in the direction of the General Store.

  Purchases made, he went westwards out of town for the second time that day back to school again.

  ‘Anyone around?’ he yelled from the loot of the stairway. There was no answer, so he continued to pour the oil from the cans on to the floor and throw it high on to the walls.

  Wa
lking backwards he made a trail of liquid which led outside down to the bottom of the steps. Herne threw the empty cans back through the open door and reached inside his trouser pocket tor a match, which he struck on the sole of his boot.

  The flame leapt greedily to life and ran anxiously into the house, darting this way and that, not wanting to miss any chance to consume and destroy. In a matter of minutes, the entire ground floor was ablaze. By the time Herne had steered his mount fifty yards away from the growing flames, they had reached the first storey. He began to walk the animal slowly away.

  Something made him turn once more, just for a final sight of his morning’s work. His eyes blinked with surprise for a second, then looked long and hard. At the top floor window, outlined against a bright orange backdrop of fire, he could see distinctly a woman’s face. An old woman’s face. Her hair was grey, metallic grey, the complexion beneath was as white as death. He watched the face for several minutes, until the smoke obscured it from his sight.

  Herne wheeled his horse round once more and rode smartly back into Phoenix to find Becky waiting in the rig.

  As she looked up at Herne she could see the smoke rising behind his shoulders.

  ‘You went back to the school.’ Not a question, a statement.

  ‘Yep. Had to teach that old crow a lesson.’ He allowed· himself a grim smile. ‘Guess it was a lesson too late for the learning.’

  Three

  The man and the girl set out on their journey, unaware of what might happen to them between Phoenix and Memphis, uncertain even of what they might find when they arrived. Herne knew what he was looking for: the gambler Barton Duquesne. It never occurred to him that to travel well over a thousand miles in search of one man was an absurd thing to do. He would have journeyed three times round the world to find any of the men who had attacked his wife.

  What he could not be sure of was whether Duquesne had if even returned to Memphis. A man who had been involved in such an affair might move on, fearing retribution. There was even a slight chance that he had heard of the death of one of his fellow-travelers on the gambling train.

  Yet Herne would head for the Mississippi and find out.

  Becky was far less positive about the necessity for their making the long journey. She knew that it would be long and difficult; knew the possibility of Jed meeting his death at the end of it. And yet she was with him, felt safe riding in the little gig, able to watch him guiding his horse just ahead of her. Anything rather than be left by him at some other school, where some other cruel woman might . . .

  When she had been trying on the clothes she had bought in Phoenix, Becky had tried to find out from the proprietor of the shop what Memphis was like. All she got was a look of surprise.

  ‘Why, honey, bless you, I haven’t got any long distance information about Memphis, Tennessee!’

  So the girl had tried to find out from Herne what the place would be like. But Herne was too intent upon watching the road to say very much.

  He had to look out for holes or rocks on the trail which might damage the wheels of the gig. He had to keep his eyes peeled for any signs of bands of marauding Indians who might be loose in the territory: for they had to go through the heart of Apache territory on their way from Arizona into New Mexico.

  The first part of their travels took them along the Salt River Valley. The hills on either side hovered steeply above them and from time to time closed in on them sharply.

  As they went through one such part of the valley, Becky felt the short hairs at the back of her neck begin to prickle and stand on end. She confessed her fears to Herne, who carefully looked around and above them. He could see nothing, but he tied his horse’s rein to the gig and sat alongside Becky in an effort to make her less afraid.

  When they had passed further along the valley and the land had become more spread out, less menacing, Herne climbed back into the saddle.

  He pointed back the way they came.

  ‘That place you weren’t feeling so good,’ he grinned, tight-lipped.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Reckon some sixth sense of yours must’ve taken you back into the past.’

  ‘What do you mean, Jed?’ Becky asked.

  ‘Exactly ten years ago, there was an Indian battle there. Lot of lives lost on our side; lot of braves went off in search of their happy hunting grounds. Salt River Canyon, they call it.’

  Becky shivered and looked quickly about her. ‘Do you think there’s Indians around here, Jed?’

  The big man shook his graying hair. ‘Doubtful. Even if there were a few Apaches riding tree, they’re not likely to bother us out here. They would have made a move a while back, where conditions were better for an ambush. ’Sides, what have we got that they’d want?’

  ‘The horses?’ Becky ventured.

  You, Jed Herne thought, as he looked at her girl’s body and imagined the sight of it through the eyes of a wild Indian brave. But he said nothing.

  He wasn’t right about the Apache. They had only gone another mile, when Herne saw a group of them riding along not far to the north, heading in the same direction. At first his instinct was to say nothing to Becky, but there was little sense in this. She would know soon enough.

  ‘Guess I might have been wrong about them Indians.’

  Although he had spoken softly, he saw the tense expression fill her face at once, the tightened grip on the reins of the gig.

  Becky looked in the direction in which he was pointing. ‘Will they come after us?’

  Herne shrugged his shoulders: ‘They might just carry on the way we’re going, but then again, I doubt it. Indians are naturally curious — just like kids. I reckon they might come and see who we are, what we’re carrying.’

  Becky looked at him anxiously. ‘Why don’t we make a run for it, Jed?’

  He shook his head. ‘Do that and they’ll come and get us straight away. And with that rig you’re riding, we wouldn’t stand a chance of getting clear. No, we’ve got to wait and let them make their play. That and pray they ain’t been drinking. An Indian with cheap whiskey inside him sure spells trouble.

  The line of Indians was now veering in their direction and coming gradually closer. Now that they had spread themselves out. Herne could count them: seven, eight, nine. If the worst came to the worst, they were not impossible odds.

  If only, thought Herne, if only I didn’t have the girl with me.

  When they were closer still, Herne recognized them as Jicarilla Apache. He wondered what had separated them from the rest of their tribe.

  Becky asked in a worried voice, ‘What do we do? They’re almost up to us.’

  Herne was alarmed at the panic in her voice, then he remembered that really she was still a child — a child who had recently gone through the most terrible experience. He wondered what rumors she had heard about the treatment the Apache sometimes handed out to those they took prisoner.

  ‘You just keep a steady hand on that rein and keep staring out ahead of you. Whatever you do, don’t look round at the Indians and for God’s sake don’t let on that you’re scared.’

  The line of braves had slowed, so as to be able to ride along behind them. They were riding small ponies mostly and had the air of having already traveled a long way. They were certainly in no hurry to make a move now.

  Herne looked only in front of him, but in his mind’s eye he had a clear picture of where each Apache was; he knew which one he would take first with his gun if it became necessary.

  He had tried to see if they were armed but had only seen two rifles and a revolver; but there might have been more arms hidden. Several of them were carrying spears, a single feather tied near the tip.

  They had dirty colored bands knotted around their heads and all wore soiled thin trousers. Above these they had on a variety of shirts and army tunics. Herne had noticed that one of them was wearing a strange garment round the top of his trousers: a girl’s yellow and white gingham dress.

  He wondered who it had belonge
d to and what had happened to her. He wondered, too, if Becky had seen it. If she had, she gave no sign. Outwardly, she remained calm as Herne had instructed, concentrating on the horse and the trail ahead. Yet inwardly . . .? Herne did not know, could only guess, but he admired her bravery.

  They continued like this for another mile, Herne and the girl in front, the group of Apache in a line behind. From time to time, Herne looked out of the corner of his eyes to the hills on either side, searching for signs of other Indians lying in wait. Yet surely, if they wanted to take the two of them, there was little need to wait for help.

  Why, then, did they keep riding?

  At that moment, the line broke its formation. Four of the Indians rode past, two on each side, while the remainder spread themselves into a curve behind.

  They were closing in.

  Becky was only too aware of what was now happening, yet she struggled with herself to control her emotions. If they decided to attack, she could not see that even Jed would be able to fight them all off. Which would leave her alone . . . and she did not think they would kill her straight away.

  Deep inside her mind, some dim, dark ideas of what might happen to her in their hands rose and fell insistently.

  Suddenly, there was a loud hiccup which made Becky grab tightly at the reins and which forced Herne’s head round to his right. In that otherwise silent landscape, it was an unexpected noise.

  Until Herne saw the reason for it — one of the Apache was holding a whiskey bottle to his lips as he rode. The brave used his knees to move his pony up towards Becky’s rig, then reached one hand down until it grasped the back of the seat. Again the bottle was tilted to his lips, the liquid missing his mouth and pouring down his cheeks and chin on to the torn blue army jacket that he was wearing.

  Herne let his right hand shift easily to the top of his thigh. He knew that at any second, a single gesture would make him draw: and he did not know how long Becky would be able to retain her appearance of calm with the Indian that close.