Death in Gold Page 4

  Jed wheeled about and came alongside the albino. He had had enough of his own company. “Tell away.”

  “Seems we talked so little ‘bout this job of yourn, I don’t even know where in hell’s name we’re headed or what we got to do when we get there.”

  Herne grunted. “Right now we’re due at a little place called Davis, down east of the Brazos. Meet a couple of men. They’re the ones who put out the contract.”

  “What is it, Jed?” Despite what he had said before, Coburn’s eyes showed his eager anticipation of excitement to come. ‘some gang to chase down? Gold shipments to protect? A town to clean up? What is it?”

  “A mess of pots.”

  “What?”

  Herne grinned, almost in spite of himself. “Pots.”

  “What kind of damned pots you talkin’ about.”

  “Antiquities, they called them.”

  “Who?”

  “The two we’re riding to meet.”

  Coburn looked up at the clear blue of the sky and blinked. “Jesus! Sweet Jesus Christ! An’ I was thinkin’ that if I was goin’ to go out then I’d do it with one real big one – so what do we get? Playin’ nursemaid to a pile of junk!”

  Herne’s grin broadened and he reached over and slapped his friend on the arm. “Don’t worry, Whitey. You was the one said you was gettin’ too old. Least the pots won’t make too fast a run for it!”

  Coburn reached inside his coat for a piece of tobacco and bit off a piece savagely. “I tell you straight, Jed. It would have been different if I’d known what the cussed job was.”

  Herne looked at him sharply. “You mean you had other things you could have done?”

  “Course.”

  “Like hell you did! How far d’you ride to get to me?”

  There was a long pause, then Whitey said quietly: ‘some-where’s around Denver.”

  “You rode all the way from Colorado down through Cheyenne and Comanche territory and into Texas on account of you’d heard some rumor in a saloon that I was lookin’ for men. You did that and there were other offers?”

  Coburn chewed on without answering. Herne didn’t push him further; he knew what it was like when you were a gunfighter with a reputation that had lived on and on. Most folk thought you were dead; the rest figured you already had one foot in Boot Hill.

  He saw the expression on Coburn’s face and reflected on his friend’s yearnings for a life of settlement and peace. No matter how hard he stared he could see nothing of that in the albino’s strange face. He thought he could read something else there, but turned his head away before he could be sure.

  If it was what he had imagined, he didn’t want to know.

  “What the hell is it?” Whitey demanded.

  “Nothin’. Why?”

  “You looked as though you’d seen a ghost or somethin’, that’s what.”

  “Nonsense, Whitey. That’s plumb foolish an’ you know it.”

  But Coburn had been right – and the ghost Herne had glimpsed was all too familiar: the long white hair which fell around the skull, the two pink eyes that stared from the sockets of bone.

  They were within sight of the small town of Davis when Coburn turned in his saddle and spoke with the tone of someone who has long had something nagging at his brain. “Hell, I don’t even know how much we’re gettin’ paid for this damned job!”

  “Guess you don’t.” Herne smiled wryly. “Thought if n you did you’d have maybe gone back the way you corner No matter how far.”

  “Sweet Jesus, Jed! What do we reckon to get out of this?”

  “Little less than a thousand.”

  Coburn looked up at the sky, then spat off to the side. “How much less?”

  “We’ll get eight hundred.”

  “Each?”

  “Between us.”

  The animal under Coburn whinnied and stamped as the rider’s hand pulled in tight on the rein. “Ain’t no time to be jokin’, Jed.”

  “It ain’t no joke. That’s the pay they offered.”

  “An’ you took that?”

  “Didn’t seem to have a whole lot of choice.”

  “Shit!”

  Whitey urged his horse into a fast trot, then a gallop. Jed let him get some way ahead before he set out after him. It wasn’t long before the albino was looking back over his shoulder, a smile starting to cross his face.

  “You realize I ain’t never worked for less than that. Not even ten, twenty years back.”

  “I know,” Herne shouted as he caught up with him.

  “But like you said, there don’t seem to be a whole lot of choice.”

  “Sure don’t.”

  Herne slowed to a walk and Coburn did the same. Then they stopped and looked at the line of buildings spread out below them. Almost everything was ranged along the one street; false-fronted buildings whose backs were a story lower than their other side suggested. At the far end there was a scattering of squat dwellings that seemed to be made out of mud, baked hard in the Texas sun. Beyond the town, to the east, the wooden grave markers showed clearly on the hill.

  For a small place there were a hell of a lot of graves.

  “Whitey.”

  “Yep?”

  “This could take a long time.”

  Coburn stared at his friend and the lines of age and hard living showed clear on his face like the work of wind on white rock. “Don’t matter none, Jed. I bin goin’ nowhere for ten years.”

  The two men they had come to meet were obvious as soon as Herne and Coburn entered the largest of Davis’ two saloons. They stepped under the swaying sign that proclaimed The Brazos Queen and pushed their way through the batwing doors.

  It was an entrance that failed to go unnoticed. It wasn’t intended to.

  Drinkers paused with glasses midway to their lips, mouths hung open in mid-conversation. Even the faro dealer stopped with his hand in the air above the table.

  The woman sitting on the edge of the bar slid down till her feet were on the floor, rucking her dress up behind her as she did so and giving anyone interested, a good glimpse of white thigh above a purple garter and dark stockings.

  No one was interested.

  The two gunfighters stood their ground, waiting until all of the customers had had their fill of staring; until they had weighed them up for what they were and decided to leave well alone.

  Only when the low hum of conversation had started up once more, and the clink of glasses could be heard, did Herne and Coburn walk into the center of the saloon.

  There was a raised section at the rear with wooden partitions dividing it into booths. Their contacts were sitting in one of these, different from everyone else on account of their clothes and the space that had been left around them.

  As Herne and Coburn walked towards them, both men exchanged a hasty glance and downed the remains of whatever had been in their glasses.

  Jed wondered what they had to be so nervous about.

  “Gentlemen.”

  “Mr. Herne.”

  “We were expecting you yesterday,”

  Herne nodded. “Took a mite longer than I reckoned. Findin’ help weren’t easy.”

  “And this is what you found?” said the darker of the two, pointing a finger at Coburn.

  Whitey’s hand moved for his gun and Jed reached his own hand across and stopped him.

  The man who had spoken first, half stood up from his seat and smiled earnestly. “Gentlemen. Gentlemen. There is no call for any animosity. None whatsoever. We both have complete confidence in Mr. Herne’s choice of companion in this – er – venture. Please sit down and relieve your undoubted thirst. Then when you are refreshed we may discuss business.”

  The smile stayed on the man’s face as if it were stuck there. Herne and Coburn sat down opposite each other and waited while more glasses and another bottle were called for.

  The one who was doing most of the talking introduced himself as Floyd Toomey. A New Orleans lawyer, he had met Herne while on a visit t
o. Dallas and had offered him the job there and then.

  He was a large man, both tall and fat – probably the weight of the two gunfighters combined. His suit was dark with thin white and grey stripes running through it and Herne guessed it would have cost the best part of his own share of the pay for delivering the lawyer’s damned pots safely. A rather grubby looking white shirt frilled out from underneath the jacket and a silver stick pin with some kind of stone at its head was thrust down into one lapel. His hair was slicked back and down with a quantity of grease and perfume that still smelled strongly even among the other pungent odors of the saloon.

  The second man looked to be a half-breed. Toomey introduced him as Antonio Thursby, an associate from New Orleans. His face was swarthy, with sharp features and two dark eyes that were never still. He, too, wore an expensive suit, a silver chain stretched across the black of his waistcoat, a soft pink handkerchief tumbling from the breast pocket of his coat.

  When he drank, a gold tooth shone from the front of his mouth.

  “You know the outline of what I require you to do Mr. Herne, that much remains the same.”

  Herne looked across at Toomey and nodded, waiting for the big man to continue.

  “Very well, yes – er – the shipment will be brought to a town called La Rosita. It is across the Bio Grande and on the edge of the Burro Mountains. By the river known as the Salado. There you will meet a man called Don Vincento. He will deliver to you a wagon containing the antiquities my associate and I desire. In exchange you will pay him a certain – er – sum of money.”

  Toomey stopped abruptly, reaching for his glass and drinking hastily. Alongside Herne, the half-breed’s eyes flickered more nervously than usual.

  “This money,” Herne asked. “How much is it?”

  Toomey blinked, the action almost lost in the center of his heavily bejowled face. “Five thousand U.S. dollars, Mr. Herne. Five thousand dollars.”

  Coburn whistled through closed teeth.

  “Course I don’t know much about such things,” said Herne, “But that sounds like a whole lot of money for a pile of pots and suchlike.”

  Toomey fixed back on his smile and leaned forward across the table. His breath was sickly and sweet; his voice was low.

  “Sir, I assure you these antiquities are most rare. Most rare. They will fetch a good price in the museums and private collections of our country. And not only here. There are many in Europe who would pay dearly to get their hands on such things.”

  “How come no one else has?”

  “That, Mr. Herne, is our little business secret. But – er -shall we say that the authorities in those countries from where these pieces originate would not be pleased to know of their disappearance.”

  The large head moved back across the table; the thick fingers sought out the glass once more. Thursby picked at his teeth with a silver toothpick he had slipped from his waistcoat pocket.

  Herne looked at Coburn and said nothing. He didn’t have a good feeling about what was going on. Not at all. From the expression of distrust on Whitey’s face, neither did he. But there didn’t seem to be anything specific to question.

  “After La Rosita, then what?”

  “As arranged, Mr. Herne, you and your – er – colleague deliver the goods to New Orleans and collect the second half of your payment.”

  Coburn’s clenched fist hit the surface of the table hard. Thursby’s eyes flashed and his right hand moved towards his coat pocket.

  “Way I see it, if these damned things are worth so much, we ought to be gettin’ more’n we are.”

  Herne held his breath, award of Thursby’s movement, watching the half-breed’s arm and Toomey’s face at the same time.

  Floyd Toomey shrugged his massive shoulders. “I can – er- sympathize with your outburst, sir, but please remember that a business arrangement is, shall we say, sacred. Mr. Herne and myself have made a deal and we shall, I’m sure, adhere to it strictly. You were doubtless aware of the financial details before you accepted your part in this – er – contract.”

  Whitey’s hand opened and closed, one, twice, three times.

  Herne moved his tongue around his lips; they felt unnaturally dry. “Could be my friend has a point. We didn’t talk about how much money we was goin’ to carry down into Mexico. If’n we had, then I might have asked more for doin’ it.”

  Thursby spoke for the first time, his voice thin and oddly accented. “But you didn’t. You didn’t.” The dark eyes ceased moving and fixed themselves on Herne’s face.

  Toomey leaned forward. “My associate is, of course, right. But at the same time I appreciate your feelings.” He stood up. “Shall we say that – er – if you deliver the goods to New Orleans within a reasonable time and in perfect condition, then I shall be pleased to pay you a more than handsome bonus.”

  Herne nodded. He stood and accepted Toomey’s outstretched hand. The flesh was flabby, but the bane was firm underneath. He was not a man to underestimate, Herne decided, whatever appearances might suggest to the contrary. Nor was the dark man with him.

  Whitey Coburn nodded and stepped away from the table, waiting for Jed to be done. He wanted another drink but he wanted it in some other place, some other company.

  Herne joined him and they stepped down into the base of the saloon, men’s eyes moving to follow them once more. Their easy, balanced step, the guns strapped and tied to their sides, the unwavering eyes that nevertheless saw everything: these were two men who would step aside for nothing, for no one.

  Neither spoke till they were outside in the street.

  “Guess I shouldn’t have done that, Jed, seeing as how it’s your show, but goddam, I couldn’t hold myself back. Those two, they riled me just by sittin’ there. That fat lawyer with his fine clothes an’ his fancy way with words – reckon he’d get a knife slipped across your throat soon as look at you.”

  “Know what you mean, Whitey. But they got the money an’ we ain’t. They’re buyin’ an’ we’re sellin’. That’s how it is.”

  “I know.”

  They crossed the street and walked along past the saddler’s and the gunsmith’s towards the building which advertised itself as the Davis Rooming House. Except that the end of the board had started to fall away and the last three letters of House had fallen with it. Not that it worried Herne and Coburn none: as long as the beds were all of a piece that would be enough.

  They wanted a good meal and a good night’s rest before heading south west towards the Rid Grande and the Mexican border.

  Herne paid for their room in advance, dipping into one of the two envelopes Floyd Toomey had handed to him at the end of their conversation. The other one held the five thousand dollars.

  Chapter Five

  They decided to follow the Brazos south out of Davis, quitting it only when the last of the high land that swept down from the center of Texas had been left behind. Their trail then led almost directly westwards, giving them the chance of taking in San Antonio or steering well clear.

  Herne thought it best to swing round below the town, keeping to less well-used tracks and smaller settlements. If the route proved to be a good one, and wide enough to bring a wagon through, they would make use of it for the return journey.

  The intention was to pick up the Nueces River and follow its winding course towards the Rio Grande. As the Mexicans knew it: the Rio Bravo del Norte. Past Crystal City, they would cross the Rio Grande at Eagle Pass.

  La Rosita was less than a hundred miles from there, always with the heavy peaks of the Serrenias del Burro towering northwards as they rode.

  The two men had packed ample supplies, although they expected to replenish them on the way. Hard tack, bacon, beans, coffee a generous amount of tobacco for Coburn, and a deal of ammunition.

  Herne was carrying his well-worn single shot .55 Sharps in the bucket holster which ran underneath the flap of his saddle. Coburn preferred a Winchester .44-40, accurate over two hundred yards and with an extra sight at
the top of the stock. Although it lacked the range and precision of Herne’s rifle it did have speed of shot.

  Between them, the guns made an efficient pair.

  For four days the only time they were used was when Coburn shot them a couple of rabbits. The five thousand dollars rested safe underneath the thick wool of Jed’s coat and there wasn’t anybody around who looked interested in taking it away from him.

  Which was the way both men liked it.

  “Hey, Jed,” said Whitey towards the evening of that fourth day’s ride, “that girl – the one you was lookin’ after on account of what happened to her ma along of your Louise – what happened to her, anyways?”

  “School.”

  “Uh-huh. She got relations send her?”

  Herne shifted in the saddle and looked about them. Nothing but a flat landscape without a tree or a bush to break its monotony. Around the horizon the failing sun spread itself like a ring of weak gold.

  He wasn’t sure why he didn’t like talking about Becky, but he seemed to get knotted inside whenever he did. Knotted in his head and in his stomach. He guessed maybe it was on account of her being the nearest thing to kin he had left in the world.

  Unless you included Whitey.

  “Jed? You hear me?”

  “Sure I heard you. No one paid for her but me. Sent her over to England on the boat for a spell. She was draggin’ me down and there were things to do.”

  “Damn, Jed! That must have cost one hell of a lot of dollars.”

  “Most of what I got from our spread an’ stock.”

  “That’s why you went back to sellin’ your gun after those years you was with Louise?”

  “Maybe. Reckon I’d’ve done that anyway. Man makes one attempt to change his life. That don’t work out an’ you go back to what you know best. What you’re born to.”

  It was Coburn’s turn to be silent…his own attempt at settling down was yet to come. And he felt a yearning for it, a longing for the peace it would bring. Smooth white hands holding sparkling, yellow gold.

  When the line at the land’s edge had lessened to a single strand of weak white light, Coburn spoke again. “Jed, ‘stead of camping out here tonight, how about you an’ me finding somewheres to get ourselves good and rollin’ drunk?”