Herne the Hunter 21 Read online

  ‘That was why I fixed things.’

  ‘How does it help, makin’ me first and then you?’

  Howell patted one of the pockets of his fancy vest and grinned again. ‘My secret, Jed.’

  ‘But, why me, Charley?’

  ‘You got a gun. I got me a gun. Rest is short-brained fools don’t deserve anythin’ better than losin’. You and me. Ride good and then wait and see.’

  ~*~

  The black was hard-eyed, and its mouth looked like it was hewn from granite. Herne eased the bit a half inch, giving himself more play. Checking the girths carefully, ensuring that nobody was selling him short-measure in chances.

  ‘You stay up there for four minutes, Jedediah,’ warned Sikking. ‘No fancy riding. Care and caution is what we look for. Remember, only two of you go through to get a chance of the job.’ Taking out his silver watch and snapping it open again, resting it in his hand.

  ‘I’m ready,’ said Herne.

  ‘Then, go!’

  Jed had ridden worse.

  There’d been a sway-backed mule owned by a trapper, up near White River Junction in New England. Riding the black stallion was easier. Compared to that yellow-eyed mule it was like sitting a buckboard with the wife of an elderly Episcopalian bishop.

  It kicked up its heels some, twice trying to turn its head and bite Jed, but he was good enough for it.

  ‘One minute, Master Herne. One minute remaining.’

  Jed was able to wave a hand in acknowledgement. He had taken the precaution of wearing a thin pair of leather gloves, using them to tighten his hold on the reins, gripping the flanks of the black with his knees, spurring it on.

  ‘Ten seconds,’ counting down. Jed was so much in control that he was able to swing from the high saddle and still hang on the reins, holding on so that Charley Howell could come running over for his chance.

  ‘Can I lend them gloves, Jed?’ he asked.

  ‘Sure. Sure, you can.’

  One of the other lads held the black while Jed handed over the gloves to his new-found and puzzling friend. Watching him take them carefully, stretching them, working his fingers into them for a good fit.

  ‘You ever kill a man, Jed?’ he whispered, suddenly. Unexpectedly.

  ‘Why … No.’

  Howell grinned. ‘I could call you a liar if’n I didn’t figure you for an honest man. I killed two, but one was a Mex and I guess that don’t count. Thanks for the gloves.’ Lifting his voice. ‘Ready, Mr. Sikking, sir.’

  ‘Four minutes, Howell.’ Turning to face Herne. ‘That was good, son. Nice and controlled. Take some good boys to beat you.’

  Howell set his spurs to the horse at the word from the official. Whooping and waving his left hand free. Herne figured it was too much flash and noise for real good riding, but it was impressive. Charley had a fine seat on a horse, never really looking like he was going to be thrown. Near the end of the four minutes it seemed to Jed that the stallion was showing signs of slowing, bucking with less intent.

  ‘Time, Master Howell.’

  Charley pulled his right leg over the pommel, dropping off on the far side of the corral. Immediately hanging on the reins as Herne had done. Calling across to Sikking.

  ‘Girth’s loose, sir. Could Jedediah there come give me a hand to tighten them? Want it fair for all, eh?’

  ‘Of course, my boy. Damned sporting of you, Charles Howell.’

  ‘Charley, sir,’ muttered the boy, beckoning for Herne to join him.

  ‘I’ll hold his head.’

  ‘Sure. And stand ’tween me and them lummoxes over yonder, Jed.’

  Herne had already seen enough to realize that the boy was up to something. Watching him as he stooped and tugged a couple of times at the girth on the stallion. It hadn’t been loose.

  ‘Come on, then,’ hissed Howell, reaching and taking something from the left pocket of his embroidered, brocaded waistcoat. He walked to the back of the stallion, seeming to pause and pat the horse on the rump. Immediately jumping out of the way as though he was frightened at being kicked.

  Daniel Travanti was eager to get in the saddle and he ran across, grinning his thanks to Herne and taking the reins in his fists.

  Jed moved across the corral, joining Howell, looking at the horse. It was kicking back, as though something was plaguing it. Flies, possibly, thought Jed.

  ‘Ready, Master Travanti?’

  The narrow face split into a smile and the Italian-looking young man lifted a hand to show his readiness.

  ‘Then, go!’

  ‘Sure,’ called the oldest of the applicants.

  And fell off.

  The stallion kicked out with frightening violence, throwing the boy clean over its head, bounding away from him and running free. Travanti picked himself up and dusted himself down, ready to start all over again.

  ‘Next,’ called Sikking, placing a neat black cross against the name of the third boy.

  ‘I get another chance. I kind of slipped.’

  ‘Sure, Daniel,’ said the official, his voice filled with as much compassion as a dying rattler. ‘Faller goes out. No other chances. Next!’

  Mike Conrad and Charley Haid lasted on longer than seventeen seconds between them. The rest of the boys managed a grand total of twenty-three seconds.

  The horse had changed. From being a reasonably difficult bucking bronc it had become unmanageable. It was whinnying, rolling its eyes, kicking and thrashing around as soon as the next luckless youth climbed into the saddle. Sikking ordered it roped and held between each ride, otherwise none of the boys would even have been able to mount.

  With two to go the official muttered out loud that they’d maybe better change animals. But Charley Howell was at his elbow.

  ‘Wouldn’t be rightly fair. Me and Herne here, we both rode him and stuck in the saddle for the full time you asked. Not fair.’

  ‘Well, I guess that’s so.’

  Hamel was the last of them. Jed was still trying to figure it out. Charley Howell had done it. Changed the horse in some mischievous way that he couldn’t work out. He could guess, but that was all.

  ‘Once he’s gone, we’re there, friend,’ whispered Howell.

  Jed nodded.

  Hamel looked, for about ten seconds, as if he was going to belie his girlish appearance and stick it out. But the big stallion had other ideas.

  Dropping its head, pulling the youth forwards, then heaving back, dipping one shoulder and kicking out.

  Hamel came out the side door, landing on his shoulder with a sickening crack, screaming, and then rolling over on his right wrist. This time a fainter crack and the youth slumped unconscious, close by the fence.

  Everyone ran to him, led by Charley Howell. Even Mr. Sikking stepped out fast, taking his hat off as he came. Pushing everyone away from the unconscious lad, looking carefully down at him.

  ‘Back, please. Seems the boy’s shoulder is busted. Arm as well. Went down hard.’

  ‘Last one down and last one out, good friend,’ came Howell’s voice in the ear of Jed Herne.

  It was obviously true. With only a couple of jobs available and the first two the only ones to stay in the saddle for longer than a handful of seconds … Sikking had only one choice to make.

  ‘Herne and Howell are clearly the winners and I’d appreciate them staying behind here. Rest of you, thanks for coming. Could a couple of you help get Mr. …’ consulting his list… ‘Mr. Hamel off of the street and inside.’

  The people around were silent, and the official realized that maybe he ought to do something more.

  ‘The Central Overland, California and Pike’s Peak Express Company regrets that it has no responsibility or liability towards any lad who tries to join us and is not successful. This is our policy and, if required, we shall test it in the courts.’

  The only sound was Hamel, recovering consciousness and starting to cry with pain and with shock. Looking down at his crooked wrist with the jagged and bloodied ends of splintered b
one. Terrified to move at all because of the grating from his shoulder.

  ‘Jedediah Herne and Charles … Charley Howell are hereby hired. Come with me, both of you.’

  ~*~

  That afternoon the two young men were sitting at a corner table in the nearest saloon to the stables, celebrating their new jobs in too much cheap liquor.

  ‘To fortune,’ mumbled Jed, raising his shot-glass in a toast.

  ‘Weren’t too much fortune, my old new friend, Jed. Not fuckin’ luck.’

  Howell’s eyes seemed like eggs floating in clear syrup. However hard he tried, Herne couldn’t focus properly on the grinning face opposite.

  ‘What did you … you do?’

  ‘When, Jed?’

  ‘You did somethin’ to the black. Made him turn a real killer. What’d you do?’

  ‘Ah, ha. Lill debt between us.’ Holding up thumb and finger to show how little the debt was. ‘You owe me, Jed. Best friend. Owe me. Remember.’

  Jed Herne had never minded owing people. It was the repaying he didn’t care for.

  He sloshed more whiskey into the glass. Blinking owlishly at it. ‘Sure, I owe you. I won’t forget, Charley. But … but you gotta tell me what you done!’

  ‘Sssh, sssh, Jed. Don’t want everyone to know what gave us that edge on the rest. Do we? Do we? No, guess we don’t. Look, here.’

  Cautiously opening his hand, showing Herne something he’d just pulled from the pocket of his gaudy waistcoat.

  ‘You had to be first. They’d have been suspicious if I’d drawn my own name. Patted his rump. Good old stallion. After I’d done. Shoved three of these clean up the poor bastard’s ass.’

  “These” were fiery red peppers, lying wrinkled and malevolent in the palm of Charley’s hand.

  ‘Sure made him buck. Now, don’t forget, Jed. You owe me.’

  Six

  By the second week in September Jed Herne considered himself a fully-fledged Pony Express rider. Before the Paiute rising of the previous spring the Pony had been making one whole trip a week. Since then they had been undertaking two a week. It meant a lot of hard riding.

  Conditions were tough, with many of the way station s hastily built from whatever happened to be available. Some were simply sod huts, others made from adobe. In places where materials were totally absent the contractors had simply tunneled away into banks of earth or stone and thrown over a makeshift cover.

  Generally speaking, the food wasn’t all that good, either.

  A couple of days earlier Jed had been snatching a meal at a station, forty miles or so west of Casper, Wyoming, waiting while a fresh horse was shod. The replacement had been found lame and the manager of the station was busily readying another.

  A traveling salesman had stopped in the hope of a meal, and was sitting at the chipped table, opposite Jed. He was a tiny man, with thinning hair, who had introduced himself as George Meeker, and his profession as selling agricultural tools and machines from a catalog in his saddlebag.

  ‘Independent Farmers’ Help Company, of Independence, Missouri. Finest outfit in the land.’

  His voice was surprisingly deep for such a slight frame. The door swung open, letting in fresh air and shafts of bright sun. Herne caught the scorched smell of the horse being shoed.

  ‘You still got a few minutes, Jed?’

  ‘Sure.’ Opening the cheap watch that they had all been given. ‘Got me near a half hour on the day’s run.’

  The agent nodded. ‘I’ll get the food up and ready. And for you, mister.’

  ‘I thank you.’ Running a forefinger round the inside of his stiff collar. ‘You boys are the talk of the land, sir,’ addressing himself to Herne. ‘Battling against the evil red men and against highwaymen.’

  ‘Nothing for a robber to take, mister,’ replied Jed. ‘Paiutes rose four months back. No real trouble since then.’

  The agent bustled in, holding two steaming platters of food, placing them on the table, bringing over a couple of greasy knives and spoons, putting them in front of each man. Adding a crock of mustard, big as a bucket, crusted around the lip.

  ‘They say the Cheyenne been raising seven kinds of Hell, Jed. Makin’ fuckin’ threats ’bout us crossin’ their tribal lands and huntin’ and upsettin’ their pagan gods. Usual load of buffalo chips.’

  Mr. Meeker was looking in some dismay at the plate in front of him, hardly listening to what the agent was saying.

  ‘Cheyenne trouble? You said that … What is this on my plate?’

  ‘Sure. Few bucks off their camps, lookin’ to lift some hair and get a name. What did you say, mister? About that food?’

  Meeker was torn between the news of Indian troubles and the meat that decorated the platter in front of him. Herne was amused, busily tucking in himself to the food.

  ‘This …’ mumbled the salesman. Pointing with the tip of the knife at the meat. It was a very large slice of what might once have been pork. It had been laid down and salted, but the heat of the summer in that part of the country had already pushed it to the stage beyond rancid. The fat that hung around the fringes of the leathery meat had a faint green hue to it and Jed could plainly make out one corner where weevils and maggots were busily setting up home.

  ‘What about it?’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Pig, mister.’

  ‘Is that all there is?’ asked Meeker, voice plaintive. His distress nearly making Jed choke with amusement.

  ‘All there is? Holy Judas, mister! There’s enough meat on that there platter to feed half the fuckin’ Sioux nation!’

  The drummer shook his head. ‘I’m real sorry, but I don’t eat pork. It don’t agree with my digestion.’

  ‘You can’t eat good pork!’

  ‘No.’

  The agent looked as though the salesman had been touched by the sun. ‘Then I guess you’d best feel free to just help yourself to the mustard. Ain’t nothin’ more.’

  Meeker chose to leave the way station as hungry as when he arrived there.

  ~*~

  Jed’s path crossed with Charley Howell several times. They both covered similar sections of the Pony Express route, sometimes even passing on the trail. Each of them reining in for a quick word. Warning about anything unusual they’d seen. Strangers, or Indians. Maybe bad water or a common stopping-place that was infested with rattlers.

  Charley never allowed an opportunity to pass without mentioning the cunning manner in which he’d secured them their jobs. Saying how Jed owed him for it. It became something of a running joke between them.

  Towards the end of September Jed was able to settle the debt.

  ~*~

  Those riders for the Pony who were resting at that time had been called in for a meeting, briefing them on changes in conduct and warning them against various evils. Encouraging them for the good work they were doing and urging greater caution when crossing the land of either the Shoshone or, more important, the Cheyenne.

  The conversation continued later in a saloon along the street, the Cross and Bow. Jed had been up in his room, cleaning the Colt Navy, using a basin of boiling water and some rags. Finishing by carefully reassembling the pistol and reloading it, using plenty of grease, making sure the caps were firmly in place on the nipples. Like many of the Pony’s riders, Jed had adopted the useful habit of carrying a spare cylinder for the handgun, also fully loaded and ready to slip into place.

  By the time he rejoined the other half-dozen gallopers they were already two bottles of liquor ahead of him. Unseen by any of them Herne walked quietly to the bar and leaned there, drinking at his own pace.

  The riders were at a table in the alcove, and he realized that there was some sort of bitter argument in progress. Mainly between Charley Howell and one of the oldest of the other men. Well into his thirties, Ethan Corleon was the least popular of all the express men on that section of the schedule.

  He had joined the Pony in Sacramento, among the first twenty or so to be recruited. Despite hi
s age, he was well within the weight limit, standing about five feet four inches tall. His hair was thinning; cropped in an uneven fringe all around, making him look like a rather shifty and unreliable monk. He had a scar from an old knife wound that ran from near to his left ear across the corner of his mouth. Puckering the skin of his cheek and tugging his lips into a permanent sneer. Unlike most of the younger riders Corleon carried two pistols. An unusual pair of matched Colt Patersons. They were single-action, five-shot handguns, lacking trigger guards. Indeed, when the gun was uncocked the trigger folded into the frame. Chambered to take a .44 caliber ball.

  ‘You wet-eared little puppies know fuckin’ nothin’ you hear me, boy? Nothin’. I been places and seen things that’d make your hair curl.’

  ‘I just said that I hadn’t seen any Indian trouble in these parts, Ethan. That was all.’

  ‘All! You know fuckin’ nothin’. Got brains like coyote shit! Indian trouble! Best kind of red bastard is a dead red bastard. See this …’

  He pulled something from his leather jerkin, laying it on the table. By craning his neck Herne could make out what it was.

  ‘See that, squirrel’s prick!’

  ‘Yeah, Ethan.’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Pouch. Pouch for your ’bacco, I guess.’

  ‘Right.’ Corleon clapped his hands together sarcastically. ‘Least you got eyes, Howell. It’s a pouch. Know what it’s made from?’

  Jed guessed the answer before any of the other young boys seated drinking in the alcove.

  ‘Animal skin?’

  Corleon laughed, hard and harsh. ‘Animal! That’s ’bout the wisest fuckin’ thing you said yet, you egg-suckin’ little fucker!’

  ‘What animal?’ Jed thought he recognized the voice. Sounded like Billy Cody. A young blowhard who’d only recently joined the Pony Express and was already irritating everyone with his boasting.

  ‘Meanest animal alive, boy. That’s made from the finest Indian skin you ever saw. Big buck male from the Chiricahua Apaches. Took it down near Phoenix three years back.’

  ‘Human skin?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  Someone had picked it up. ‘What part of the … the body, Ethan?’