Herne the Hunter 21 Read online

‘His balls, sonny. Cut off his pecker and his balls, and skinned ’em. Real nice, ain’t it? Got me one from five years back in my saddlebag. Left tit of a Comanche squaw. Bought that one off of a soldier-blue.’

  Jed finished his drink, deciding that Ethan Corleon’s company was something that he could well do without right at that time. Ready to leave the Cross and Bow and go back to his own cheaper lodgings.

  When he heard the older man’s voice raised in a flare of sudden anger.

  ‘You look like you don’t approve of me and my ways, boy!’

  Charley Howell, trying to lighten the moment. ‘I didn’t say a thing, Ethan.’

  ‘No. No, you didn’t, you yellow-bellied bastard. Just sat there lookin’ like butter wouldn’t melt in your damned mouth.’

  ‘I didn’t…’

  The scrape of a chair being pushed back, made Jed turn, seeing that Corleon was standing, and his pistol was drawn.

  ‘Jesus, Ethan …’ cried Cody.

  ‘Never mind Jesus Christ, children,’ sneered Corleon. ‘Let’s stick to me and this little fucker, Howell. Boy in a man’s world, ain’t you? Well, I tell you, I killed me more Indians than you sucked warm milk.’

  ‘It doesn’t make it right,’ protested Howell, stung finally to stand himself, despite the threat of the drawn pistol.

  Herne quietly reached down and flicked the retaining thong off the top of his own handgun, freeing it for a draw. Even in his sixteen years Jed had seen enough blowhards and vicious bullies to suspect that Corleon might not be content to let this matter rest. There were times when men like him were only satisfied with someone else’s blood on their boots.

  ‘I’ll put a ball through any red dog that stands in my path. Old or young. Women or brat. And I’ll kill any man who frowns at me as you do, Howell!’

  ‘I didn’t mean a thing by it, Ethan.’

  ‘You come out in the street, or I’ll gun you down like the dog you are.’

  ‘I’m no shootist,’ said Charley, voice dropping, unable to hide his fear.

  ‘Then I’ll just have to clean up this saloon myself.’

  The click of the hammer coming back on the Colt Paterson was unnaturally loud in the stillness. Followed by the triple click of the hammer coming back on Jed Herne’s .36 pistol.

  ‘Pull the trigger, Corleon, and you’re a dead man. You die before Charley hits the floor.’

  The older rider never moved, standing frozen, his gun still pointing at Howell. He talked to Jed over his shoulder.

  ‘You’re a dead man, Herne. Dead as a beaver hat. Nobody draws on me from behind.’

  In his later life Jed would have avoided any risk and simply gunned the man down. Working on the simple theory that a dead enemy posed no threat. But back in 1860 Herne was still young and there were lessons in life that he was yet to learn.

  ‘Nobody draws on a friend of mine and never gives him a chance.’

  ‘Kid like you wouldn’t dare pull the trigger. No guts for it.’

  ‘There’s dead men says different. Lay the gun back in its holster, Corleon.’

  It was an effort for Herne to keep his voice under control, so that it didn’t tremble, and reveal his own nerves.

  ‘I don’t think … Holy shit!’

  Jed fired from the hip, the long hours of painful practice paying off. The bullet struck the table in front of Corleon, smashing the glass that he’d been drinking from.

  ‘I said holster it.’

  ‘You bastard.’

  ‘No, sir. I know both my parents, Mr. Corleon. I was born regular. I won’t wait.’

  Slowly, reluctantly, Ethan let the gun come down, thumbing the hammer off, the trigger retracting into the frame of the pistol. Only then did he turn, and Jed had never seen such venom in a human face. The man’s eyes were open wide, his nostrils flared and his mouth had disappeared into a razored line. As Herne stared him down, he saw that Corleon’s right hand was shaking, trembling over the butt of his pistol.

  ‘I give you my word, Ethan. Go for it and you’re dead.’

  ‘You sure—’

  ‘He means it, Ethan,’ interrupted one of the other boys. Voice cracking with excitement.

  ‘I meant it,’ added Herne.

  ‘By God, boy, but you sure do have some balls to threaten me.’

  ‘I didn’t.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Didn’t threaten you, Ethan. I promised you. There’s a damned difference.’

  The man walked towards Jed, coming closer, eyes locked to his.

  ‘Close enough,’ warned Jed.

  ‘You listen, boy, and you listen good.’

  ‘Go right ahead,’ said Herne, grinning now that he knew the man wouldn’t fight him. Man came to kill didn’t waste time on talking.

  ‘You got me cold, I’ll admit …’ Herne could smell the whiskey on Ethan Corleon’s breath from eight paces off. ‘I go back to my run now. Be gone in a half hour. So, we won’t meet up.’

  ‘And be glad of that,’ squeaked Charley Howell, his normal bravado and good-humor restored when he saw Jed had the situation in hand.

  Corleon ignored him, all his attention focused on the teenager in front of him. ‘Jedediah Herne, aren’t you? Jedediah! I’m goin’ to kill you one day. Maybe not for a week. Maybe a month. But one day.’ His voice had become lower, more insistently murderous. ‘When I catch up with you, boy, I shall hurt you horrible. Do things to you that’d make you weep. So’s you’d cry if’n you saw yourself in a mirror. Then I’ll kill you for shamin’ me.’

  ‘You shame yourself, old man,’ replied Herne, keeping his eyes closely on Corleon.

  The fingers moved for the Paterson, then retreated once more. ‘One day, and that’s a promise.’

  Jed shook his head. ‘No. It’s a threat. There’s a damned difference.’

  ~*~

  Ethan walked from the saloon and Jed didn’t see him again for some weeks. Heard about him but didn’t actually meet up again.

  The rest of the boys riding for the Pony talked of little else but the confrontation, and Charley insisted on buying Herne a bottle of whiskey and a crimson neckerchief in gratitude. But Jed refused the gifts.

  ‘No, I won’t. You said about me owing you and the debt ‘tween us. Well, Charley, I just paid it and we’re all square again.’

  Seven

  The weather caused more problems to the Pony Express during its eighteen months of brief, heady life than any other factor. But the most serious threat was still the Indians. The route ran across the traditional hunting lands of dozens of tribes and peoples, and some of them resented it. Seeing yet another encroachment by the invading white men on their ancient values and ways.

  Jed Herne had soon learned from other riders of the Paiute rising in May of that same year, only a couple of months or so before he joined. For nearly a month the mails did not get through and over seventy lives were lost on both sides during the bitter skirmishing, despite the efforts of the Paiute chieftain, Mumaga, to seek peace.

  The Pony had been at the very center of the conflict.

  Which had begun with a night raid on the relay station at Williams, with five white employees getting killed. In the next four weeks another six stations were hit, with losses to the company of sixteen men in all. In some ways the more serious losses came in the hundred and fifty horses that were stolen by the Paiutes.

  If the settlement of the fighting had gone on much longer than four weeks it could well have ended the Pony Express there and then.

  As it was, the company ship sailed perilously close to the wind. And all riders from then on were urged to show as much friendliness and courtesy towards the local tribes as was possible.

  ~*~

  By early October the first snows were already lying deep and bright on the scarps and ravines of the Rockies. When Jed joined up with the Pony he had wondered what kind of drawbacks there would be to the work. He had anticipated the sheer hard work of the endless, non-stop riding and the hazards of the tra
il.

  What he hadn’t anticipated was the biting loneliness.

  There was rarely time at any of the way station s for more than a snatched word, and that was invariably about the conditions just passed or those still to come. Food was gulped, sometimes eaten on the run, and sleep came where and when it was possible.

  Fifty a month and all found.

  It was good money, and it was well earned. Apart from the isolation, Jed hadn’t once found himself menaced by any of the conventional dangers of the trail.

  ~*~

  The next stop along the line was the Knightley Station, run by brothers, set at the mouth of a narrow canyon, eighteen miles further along.

  Jed was carrying a lighter load than usual, with only two of the cantinas filled with mail and papers, the other two pouches on the mochila being empty. He had just been paid and had been pleasantly surprised in what he’d been handed. Despite the advertising, he learned that the average pay of one of the riders, allowing for how far and for how long he’d worked, was closer to one hundred dollars. He was richer than he had ever been.

  Independence Rock was behind him, and the Rockies, mist-topped, loomed ahead of him. The horse was still fresh and his spirits were high. He decided that when next he had a few days off work he would send his aunt in Boston twenty dollars for her to treat herself to some good liquor.

  Life wasn’t bad at all.

  ~*~

  It was four in the afternoon, the sun beginning to sink low behind the mountains away to the far west. Shadows clung to the trail behind galloping horse and rider and plumes of breath came steaming from the nostrils of the animal. Winter wasn’t that far off the high country and Jed knew that times looked set to be harder. Already he had seen evidence himself that Indians were starting to leave their furthest lands and coming in ready for the turning of the years. Several times in the last week he’d seen Cheyenne, in scattered groups, many with ponies, each family group with its own travois.

  The thought of Indians brought to Jed the memory of the conflict between himself and Ethan Corleon. The older man had headed back towards his own stretch of the St. Joseph to Sacramento run and everything seemed to have blown over. But even in only sixteen years of living, Herne had learned enough about making and keeping enemies to ensure that he took his precautions when anywhere near Corleon’s route.

  Indeed, the next man along the line on this particular day was Ethan Corleon, due to pick up the mochila from Jed and speed it westwards. But Herne was running a full hour or more early, which could mean he and his rival spending time together at the way station.

  Jed slowed the gelding to a canter, pulling out his Colt Navy and checking that none of the percussion caps had been jarred loose and that all six chambers were fully charged. Spinning the cylinder, hearing the soft whir of the action. Least a man could do was be ready.

  Because of the lie of the land, he smelled smoke before he even saw it. An acrid scent that tasted flat on his tongue. He reined in the horse, standing in the stirrups, feeling the wind. Seeking out where the fire was.

  Only then did he actually glimpse smoke. A pale gray column, almost invisible against the lowering sky. Coming from ahead. In the direction of the station.

  ~*~

  Knightley’s Station, as it was known, was one of the more isolated changes. Timber had been cut and brought down to the canyon, and a bunkhouse thrown hastily together. The corral for the horses was at the back, against the towering wall of gray rock.

  As he cantered cautiously forward, Jed was leaning from the saddle, straining to read the signs. There had been a wagon, moving eastwards, the day earlier. He’d seen it on the trail. A motherly woman with a white apron and bonnet had waved a cheery hand as he flashed by her.

  There were no marks of a large number of ponies. Nothing unshod showed up at all in the moist earth. The smell of the smoke was stronger as he neared the rim of the bluff above the station, less than a quarter mile off. A small rain came slanting in from the west, directly into his face and he thought of pulling out his slicker.

  ‘Whoa, back,’ he said, quietly, reining in the horse. Tethering it quickly to a nearby boulder and patting it on the neck. Considering taking the mochila with him, so important had the mail become in his life. But the crest of the slope was only a few paces away and the gelding would be in plain sight all the time.

  The rain stopped as he reached the top of the bluff, and he dropped to hands and knees to crawl the last couple of feet. Not wanting to suddenly appear against the skyline. Drawing the pistol and gripping it tightly in his gloved right fist.

  The wind veered and freshened and it drove smoke into his face, nearly making him cough. The strong, overlying smell was of burning wood, and he saw immediately that the bunkhouse was still blazing at its further end. And the corral fence had been knocked down and all of the animals driven off.

  But there was another, different odor. One that puzzled Jed, because it was both exceedingly familiar and also extremely odd. His first thought was that it smelled something like when Aunt Rosemary drank too much for the good of her cooking and the Sunday roast turned into a burned offering. That was it. Like charred meat.

  Yet, he couldn’t identify what kind of meat it was that had been burned.

  ‘Horse?’ he queried, not even aware that he’d spoken out loud.

  It wasn’t horse.

  But it was burned meat.

  ~*~

  Jed stayed for several minutes, making sure that nobody remained from the party that had attacked the way station. He could just make out what looked like horsemen, far off, raising a lot of dust behind them. The ground was soft and wet. So much dust meant a lot of horses and men. Down below him the spread seemed deserted. As he watched he saw the one end wall of the bunkhouse crumble silently into glowing ash and embers, revealing the outbuildings behind it. Two small sheds and a necessary.

  One of the sheds was also burning, fire glowing in the sinking gloom of the afternoon. Jed blinked at the smoke, wiping his eyes. Disbelieving what he thought he was seeing.

  But it was still there.

  Slowly Jed got to his feet and walked back to where the gelding was waiting patiently. Climbing into the saddle, holstering the pistol. Moving on at a slow walk, down the slope and into the station.

  ~*~

  The way station had been run by the two Knightley brothers, both in their forties. One running to fat, with straggly hair and the other skinnier with two fingers missing from his left hand where a mule had once bitten him. They were helped by a Sioux half-breed. A taciturn man in his twenties called Jefferson, who always wore cast-off rags of army uniform.

  The fatter of the brothers was dead by the gates. Herne stopped and looked down, fighting a feeling of nausea. He hadn’t seen a victim of Indian torture before and it was a stomach-churning moment. From talk he’d picked up around the stations he saw immediately from the nature of the injuries that Knightley – he didn’t even know his first name – had been killed by Cheyenne.

  The hands and forearms had been hacked off — the sign of the dog-soldier societies of the Cheyenne. Conquering his nausea, making sure the Colt was loose in the holster, Herne swung down from the saddle, calming the horse again, tying it to a broken fence stump. Walking back to look again at the dead man.

  Apart from the hands, several toes had been cut off both feet. The body was naked, the stumps of arms tugged back and tied with rawhide thongs to the remnants of the gate. Herne guessed that the Indians must have put out Knightley’s eyes and broken his teeth before they lit the fire beneath his genitals. Most of the hips, thighs, groin and lower stomach had been destroyed by the flames which had blackened and blistered the skin clear to the neck.

  Nearer the smoldering bunkhouse Jed found the corpse of the breed, Jefferson. He looked like he’d died clean, with the broken shaft of an arrow feathered in his throat. As with his boss, both hands were gone and he had been scalped. A half-hearted attempt had been made to break the join
ts in the body – elbows, knees, ankles – with a war-ax, but it hadn’t been completed.

  The valley was quiet. Clouds came scudding down from the tops, loaded with water, eager to shed the rain as soon as possible. It began to weep, rain hissing in the fire as Herne stood there.

  The voice made him jump, the Colt Navy leaping to his hand in the fastest draw that he’d ever made. He spun round, seeing nobody.

  ‘Die.’

  That was all he could hear. A voice muttering round back of the bunkhouse. Where he’d thought that he’d seen someone. It had looked like someone hanging upside down in the middle of the shed door, but it clearly couldn’t have been.

  It was.

  It was the skinny brother. Hands gone, long baling-spikes driven through both elbows, in a parody of a crucifixion. His ankles were roped and hung over a great hook in the center of the door. He was naked, and one of the Cheyenne had succeeded in castrating and blinding him, while still leaving him alive.

  ‘Die. Me die.’

  The voice was a monotone, juddering on like a derailed train, whispering to itself in some room at the back of the man’s mind.

  Horrified and fascinated Herne drew closer, coughing as the wind whipped smoke about him.

  The Indians had taken some sport with the dying man. The door of the out-building and his naked body were liberally smeared with horse droppings. And a fire of green wood and manure had been lit beneath his head. All the hair had burned away and smoke wreathed Knightley’s face, mercifully hiding it.

  ‘Die. Let me die. Let me die. Let me die.’

  Herne stopped, kneeling. Seeing that there was nothing he could do to save the man.

  ‘Mr. Knightley. Mr. Knightley!’ He shouted.

  ‘Let me die. Let … Someone there?’

  ‘Me. Jed Herne, from the Pony, Mr. Knightley. Is there …?’

  But it was a foolish question and he allowed the sentence to trail off.

  ‘Kill me, son. You got a gun?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Indians still … I want to die. Real … real bad, boy. They done …’

  ‘Was it Cheyenne?’

  ‘Yeah, ’round a dozen. Bucks. Couple older men. Oh, the pain, the … Shoot me, quick, son.’