Shadow of the Vulture Read online

  Nor was there any mistaking the anger in his voice when he shouted at the young man in the doorway. ‘What the fuck do you think you’re doin’, you whippersnapper? No man throws Joe Brodie out of his own store and gets away with it. Least of all a nothing like you, Tom Newman.’

  He hadn’t moved for the gun yet, but it was obvious that he was thinking about it. Tom Newman must have been thinking about it also, but he did nothing to shift himself out of the way.

  By now, Herne was not the only person watching. A good few had woken from their afternoon slumbers in the saloon and other buildings along the street and had staggered out into the dull light of the afternoon. A solitary, shadowy figure surveyed the scene from the window of the bank.

  The storekeeper still stood there, flour covering his fat little body, yelling abuse up at the boy in the doorway. It could have been funny–except that someone was likely to get killed before many more words were exchanged.

  ‘You had no right to throw my goods out into the street,’ the young man was saying.

  ‘What do you mean, your goods? Those things are mine, the property of my store.’

  ‘Not any more they ain’t!’ guffawed someone in the crowd.

  Brodie turned on him with a wild look which shut off his laugh like the firm wrench of a tap. The townsfolk obviously knew the store man’s temper and weren’t prepared to run the risk of goading him any further.

  ‘They ain’t your goods since I bought them,’ said Newman.

  ‘If’n you bought them. Which you didn’t.’

  ‘I had ten dollars of credit with you and that’s what I came here to use up.’

  ‘I told you before, your credit ain’t worth the bit of paper I’ve got it writ on. You got the cash, you pay me in that.’

  Newman stepped down from the doorway and off the boardwalk until he was only feet away from the enraged figure of Joe Brodie. His clear face was set in its expression of anger. His blue eyes shone with an intensity that hushed the man’s shouting for a few moments.

  ‘You give me a credit note for that money the last time I was here. I come in today to redeem it. You know full well that I need all the cash I got in my situation. If my bill ain’t worth the ten dollars you said it was a month back, then what is it worth?’

  He glared at Brodie. The fat storekeeper glared back. Then his blubbery lips opened and he spat down at the ground in front of Newman’s feet.

  ‘That’s what your credit’s worth.’

  Several people in the crowd began to snigger. Newman looked down at the greeny-yellow spittle that the store man had dredged up from his chest.

  ‘If’n you want it,’ sneered Brodie, ‘you’d better get down on your knees and lick it up!’

  The young man sprang forward. Brodie did his best to get out of the way. He half managed it, but still took enough of the impact of the charge to get knocked to the floor. The two men rolled over and over. Brodie doing his best to pull the gun from underneath his apron. Newman concentrating on stopping him from doing just that.

  The fat little man found the handle of one of the pans close to his right hand and grabbed at it. Newman saw it being lifted in the air and tried to intercept. He didn’t succeed. The edge of the pan struck him on the forehead and set him flat on his back.

  When he got back up on to one knee, blood was streaming from a wide cut above his left eye—and Brodie had managed to draw his gun. It was an old Navy Colt and it didn’t look as though it had been fired for some time. The action would no longer be either smooth or quick. The aim would be a lot less than perfect. But from that range and against an unarmed man, it wasn’t going to matter too much.

  ‘I told you, Newman, you ain’t worth no more than my spit, an’ I’m going to shoot you down without thinking about it, ‘cause that’s no more than your due.’

  Tom Newman said nothing; simply looked full into the fat man’s face with clear blue eyes. The crowd that stood around held their communal breath. Brodie’s finger started to squeeze down on the trigger.

  ‘You got any last words you’d like to be remembered by?’ Brodie asked. ‘Any last orders you’d like to make?’ His voice broke into a harsh, raking laugh. Then his eyes narrowed in their puffy cushions of fat.

  ‘Nothing to say? Too bad. Too bad.’

  ‘I got somethin’ to say.’

  The short, plump figure froze; the head swiveled round to the left looking for the new speaker. And found Herne. Standing slightly away from the rest of the crowd. Standing tall. Right arm curved away from his body. Fingers arched inches above the top of his holster.

  ‘Who the hell are you? Who asked you to chime in here with your two bits’ worth?’

  ‘Guess nobody did.’

  ‘Well then?’

  ‘Well, it seemed like that young feller there didn’t have too much to say for himself. And at a time like this, it seemed that someone ought to make with a few words.’

  ‘What’s the all-fired matter with you? You some kind of a preacher or something?’

  Herne shook his head. ‘I ain’t no preacher.’

  ‘What are you then?’

  ‘Just a man who doesn’t like to see somebody shot down in cold blood for no good reason.’

  The fat face grew purple with anger. ‘What d’you mean, no good reason? I got every reason.’

  Herne shook his head again. ‘That ain’t the way I see it. What I heard makes that feller there the one who’s got right on his side. If you give him a bill of credit, it only makes sense that he should be able to cash it in. Less there’s other things here that you ain’t talked about.’

  Brodie’s head twitched and he gave a hasty glance over his shoulder. He could have been looking in the direction of the bank, but he might as easily have been searching for a friend amongst the growing crowd.

  Herne looked over the storekeeper’s head. A lone figure still stood at the bank window.

  ‘What you aiming to do then, stranger?’ Brodie asked.

  ‘I’m aiming to ask you to put up that old gun of yours, then help this feller to load what he wants on to that buckboard down there.’

  Brodie leered at him in amazement. ‘Is that all?’

  ‘Not exactly. Those two sacks of flour will have to be replaced by new ones. And then you might apologize for your hasty temper.’

  ‘...I...’ But the man was rendered temporarily speechless. Which was more than could be said for the crowd, who were now talking excitedly among themselves. As for Tom Newman, he still had not made a move. But those blue eyes were blazing less fiercely now.

  Joe Brodie had finally found his voice again. What you intendin’ to do if I don’t do like you said?’

  ‘Mister, as long as you’re waving that Navy Colt of yours around, I’m just liable to blow a hole right between those piggy eyes. Might let a little sense into that fat skull you got. Course, it’d be a mite late by then.’

  The crowd chuckled.

  ‘What’s it going to be, mister? It’s going to be dark around here soon and you’ll be wanting to shut your store for the night.’

  Slowly, grudgingly, the old gun was pushed down into the holster underneath the striped apron that was messed with dirt and flour. Brodie turned away, kicked savagely at the mostly empty sack closest to him, then walked up into the shop.

  Tom Newman walked across to where Herne was standing and extended his hand. ‘Mighty grateful to you, mister. You might have heard that old fool say, the name’s Tom Newman.’

  Herne accepted the hand in his own. I’m Jed Herne. Pleased to know you.’

  ‘Jed Herne?’ Newman said questioningly. ‘Don’t I know that name?’

  ‘Could be. People some places got reason to remember it.’

  Newman looked him up and down. I’ll bet they have. Anyways, mighty glad of your help. There ain’t anyone else in this place who would have done for me what you did.’

  ‘You mean,’ said Herne, ‘that Charity ain’t a good name for the place after all?’ />
  ‘Hell, no! Couldn’t be a worst one.’

  Herne shrugged his shoulders. ‘You going to be okay with him now?’ He jerked a finger up towards the store.

  ‘Yeah. I reckon. But, look, I want to show how much I appreciate what you did there. You not only saved my life...’ He glanced down at the street. ‘…you saved my bacon as well.’

  Herne laughed. ‘You don’t owe me nothin’.’

  ‘I do. And I ain’t a man who likes debts. I should know about that, too. Thing is, I don’t have a lot of money right now.’

  ‘Seems a condition that’s spreading,’ said Herne.

  ‘Maybe I could give you something. How about some of these supplies?’

  Herne shook his head.

  ‘Hell, Jed, I got to pay you back some way.’

  Herne grinned and looked at the thick, plaid coat. ‘You’re not as broad as me, but that damn coat seems to sit on you with plenty of room. That might come in useful for the winter season. That is, if you got another one of your own at home?’

  Tom Newman didn’t waste time saying anything. He was already taking the coat off. He handed it over to Herne, who tried it on. It was a little tight across the shoulders, but apart from that it fitted him well enough.

  And in his situation he couldn’t afford to be fussy.

  ‘Look,’ said Newman, ‘I live on a spread north of here. Only a small place. Keep it with my parents. Just about keep it anyhow. It would be an honor if you’d stop by tomorrow or the day after. Share what we got for Christmas with us. It ain’t much, but what there is, you’re welcome to.’

  Herne reached out a hand and slapped him on the shoulder. ‘Thanks, son. I’m not sure if I’ll be staying on or moving through. But if I’m still here, well, I can’t think of too many more places I’d rather spend Christmas than at your place.’

  He turned and walked across the street. He didn’t have any money yet but at least he had a warm coat. Things were looking up.

  The sky was dark now and evening had almost settled over the town. Jed Herne knew that he was going to have to go into the saloon after all. Whatever his feelings about it.

  Jed should have realized that in a place the size of Charity, what had taken place outside Brodie’s store was going to be big news and it was going to travel fast. In Charity it was news if anyone crapped more than twice between sundown and sunup.

  So that when he pushed open the batwing doors and walked into The Queen of the West, everyone was already talking about him. Which meant that as soon as they saw who had come in, all conversation ceased and the whole place became almost as silent as a graveyard.

  Almost. There was the sound that Herne made as he walked over to the bar and the clink of glasses made by the man behind it as he set them on the shelf.

  By the time Herne had reached the bar, the talking had started again. Livelier than before and obviously directed at him. Nor need he have worried about scrounging a drink. Before he had had time to place his hand on the counter, half a dozen men had flocked around him, all anxious to be allowed to treat him to whatever was his pleasure.

  Jed accepted a beer and a whisky, listened for as long as he thought necessary to their accounts of what had happened and how much they had enjoyed it, then made his way over to an empty table at the far side of the room.

  He pulled up a chair and set the two glasses down in front of him. His back was to the wall away from the window. His eyes faced the front doors, with a view of the stairs to his right and the office door just beyond them. Anyone who came in or went out, Herne was going to have a good sight of them. He never allowed himself to sit any other way. Never had, even before he had heard how Wild Bill Hickok had got his. It was one of the reasons why Herne had stayed alive while others —his contemporaries–had not. One of the reasons. There was one more strapped to his side. Another tucked down inside his boot. The main one was underneath the mask of black hair. The gray at the temples didn’t only testify to his age. It also meant he had lived long enough to have learned some sense. A whole lot of sense, compared with some folks he’d met.

  He sipped at his beer, alternating that with an occasional slug of whisky. People from the other tables would turn round every now and then and look meaningfully in his direction, then turn quickly back as soon as they saw that he had noticed them.

  Herne looked at the banner above the bar: Rosie aims to please. He wondered how successful she was–and what she used for a weapon. Maybe she would put in an appearance later in the evening and he would be able to tell for himself.

  She could be an interesting woman. She certainly liked to spread her name around. It must be good for business.

  As he mused, the batwing doors opened to reveal the fat shape of Joe Brodie. He scuttled half way to the bar before he noticed Herne sitting at the back of the room. He stopped dead in his tracks, gulped, turned quickly, then scuttled back out again. The doors swung back and forth behind him and all of the occupants of the saloon hollered with laughter.

  Except for Herne.

  Except for the figure that had appeared at the top of the stairs.

  She was a little over medium height, an immediately striking woman, from the polished toes of her black boots to the uppermost wave of her flaming red hair. She was wearing a green silk dress that was cut low at the top to accentuate her already considerable cleavage. The dress was split along the left leg. The V began half way down the thigh, showing an increasing amount of tan stocking as it opened out and a bright red garter, with a yellow rose at its center. Fractionally below the knee, stocking gave way to leather. High, lace-up boot around a well-shaped calf.

  All in all, it was a truly imposing sight. Something the lady herself was fully aware of. She stood there with her left hip pushed out so as to support her angled arm–and to show more leg through the gap in her dress.

  She waited motionless until she had everyone’s attention. She didn’t have to make a sound in order to get it. Only wait until the message was passed from one pair of lecherous eyes to the next. Then, when she was certain that all of the men had not simply seen her, but had begun to want her, she shifted her pose and started to walk slowly down the staircase.

  She was watched all the way down. At the bottom, she raised both her arms towards the seated congregation. ‘Good evening, boys!’ she sang out.

  ‘Evening, Rosie!’ the answer poured back.

  She beamed a smile, they whooped loudly. And Rosie walked the short distance to her office. Herne downed what was, left of his whisky. Yes, he thought, she was one hell of a woman and she didn’t care who knew it. It sure paid her to advertise and that didn’t only mean the banners strung around with her name on them. He pushed his chair back on to the rear legs and swung his boots up on to the table. He didn’t think she was going to reappear too quickly and he wanted to be around when she did.

  Apart from wanting to get another look at her, Herne figured that if anyone knew what was going on around town she was the most likely. And he guessed that she was a sight better looking than the blacksmith.

  Almost an hour later the saloon had swung into action. As much as a saloon in Charity was ever likely to muster. There were several card games in progress; there had been two minor fist fights over by the doors; some cowboy had tried to balance five full bottles of beer on top of one another and was surprised to find out that they didn’t stay there. And the piano player had turned up.

  That was what she had eventually turned out to be. Herne had watched bewildered as she came into the saloon. For all the world, she looked like an old-maid schoolmarm who had lost her class and didn’t know where to find them.

  Almost as tall as Herne himself, with a back bent from stooping forwards for most of her life and an eagle’s beak of a nose, she wore a black coat over a shapeless black dress. Her hair was tied up in a bun and there was a tiny hat pinned on to it by an enormous hat pin with an enamel butterfly perched at its end.

  She peered around the room rather anxiously
, without anyone taking much notice of her at all. Eventually she seemed to find what she was looking for and she made her way towards it.

  It was the upright piano underneath the side window.

  The woman pulled a chair away from one of the nearby tables and set it in front of the instrument. Then she put her hand into the case she was carrying and pulled out a pile of sheet music which she placed in an untidy heap on the piano lid. Next she took out a pair of wire-rimmed spectacles and pushed them down over her aquiline nose. A length of black ribbon hung limply down from one frame.

  One of her bony hands flipped open the music sheet at the top of the pile and she began to play. The music was fast, tinny, raggy. It fitted in with the mood and atmosphere of the saloon in a way which the player herself had totally failed.

  She was half way through her second number, when the office door opened and Rosie stepped out into the main body of the saloon. She looked around for several minutes, probably assessing how much money her place had already taken that night and how much more it would pull in if she went round and jollied up the customers a little. When she had decided it was worthwhile, she moved out into the room.

  It soon became clear how much difference her presence made. The laughter increased, the general level of noise almost doubled, and there was a continuous stream of people moving to and from the bar.

  When things were in full swing, Rosie walked over to the bar herself. She exchanged a few words with the bartender, who handed her a bottle of whisky and a pair of glasses.

  She turned and leaned her elbows back against the edge of the bar, pushing out her chest correspondingly. Both her eyes and her breasts were pointing over in Herne’s direction. She hesitated, looking him over candidly, a smile playing around the curves of her lips.

  Then, when she was good and ready, she swayed over to Herne’s table and set down the bottle and glasses in front of him.

  ‘Hi,’ she beamed, ‘I’m Rosie.’