Billy the Kid (A Herne the Hunter Western Book 13) Read online

  To his right Alexander McSween had one foot on the curved end of the iron rail that surrounded the fireplace. Unlike Chisum, who wore a wool shirt and pants with a bandana loose at his neck, the lawyer was dressed in a black suit that showed only marginal signs of wear and hard times. His white shirt was clean although frayed at the collar and cuffs; his black tie knotted to one side.

  Dick Brewer and Billy Bonney stood in the center of the large, sunlit room, straining to end the oppressive silence. It had been two, three minutes since the Kid had finished his account of the shooting in Lincoln and Brewer had added what he’d learnt from Herne and the rest. Chisum had already heard his foreman’s report and, of course, McSween had given his wife’s story.

  Sally Chisum, the rancher’s niece, came into the room and walked four paces forwards before the silence stopped her. She glanced from her uncle and his friend to the two men in the middle of the room. She knew both of them well enough and Billy, in particular, she had always liked. Possibly as a reaction against the feelings he brought out in most others. She knew for a fact that both McSween and her uncle didn’t trust him, didn’t like him one bit. He was there because Tunstall had taken him under his wing and once Tunstall had died there had been no way in which Chisum could dispense with the Kid’s gun.

  Until now …

  Until this …

  Sally shook her head, medium brown hair falling in waves about her face. ‘I was ... was wondering if you’d like coffee or …’

  Her uncle’s expression was answer enough; the girl turned and left the room, closing the door quietly behind her. In the hallway outside she lingered by a large white vase, rearranging the yellow and blue blooms.

  ‘Whatever justification you care to give,’ said Chisum finally, ‘you cannot explain away the stupidity of what you’ve done.’

  Billy flinched as if a hand had slapped his face.

  ‘Riley will be telegraphing for a U.S. marshal to ride into the territory and when that happens your name won’t just be on a Lincoln County flier, you’ll be wanted all over the territory.’

  Billy snarled, ‘Brady had it comin’.’

  ‘That isn’t the issue.’ Chisum moved his hands from behind his back and one clenched fist tapped against his thigh. ‘Although whether he had it coming in the back is a different matter.’

  Again the Kid flinched. Alongside him, Dick Brewer hoped to hell that Billy wasn’t going to do anything stupid. Not here. The Kid was wearing a gun, although Chisum never carried one and it was doubtful if McSween did either.

  ‘The trouble with you …’ Chisum began. ‘… one of your troubles, is you can’t see beyond yourself. Tunstall gets killed so you have to go out and avenge him. Brady issues a warrant for your arrest so you have to ride out and shoot him down in the street.’

  Billy’s eyes blazed. ‘What’s wrong with that?’

  ‘What’s wrong with that is you’re drawing wages and you ought to give some thought to them as is paying you. What you’ve done might throw everything into Murphy’s lap, every damn thing. You’ve given him a license to use the law against us in a way he never could before.’

  ‘The law!’ Billy scoffed.

  Chisum raised his fist angrily, then turned away. McSween stepped away from the fireplace.

  ‘The law,’ he said, white-faced, ‘is what matters. It’s what has to matter. When I threw in my lot with John Chisum here I did so because I thought the law was on his side, because I thought right was on his side. Now . . . now . . .’ The lawyer coughed into the back of his hand. ‘You could have done nothing more serious against my interests if you’d tried deliberately to injure me. I cannot afford to uphold you in the perpetration of such outrages.’

  McSween was sweating, lines of perspiration ringing his face.

  ‘You mean,’ said Dick Brewer after a few moments, ‘that if Billy gets taken and comes to trial you won’t defend him.’

  ‘I can’t.’

  Chisum’s hands were behind his back again. ‘Kid, you’ll have to ride over the border, into Mexico. Stay out of sight for a while. Later on, we’ll see.’

  Billy came a few paces towards Chisum, red spots on his cheek bones, right hand brushing his pistol. ‘You’re tellin’ me to run.’

  Chisum shook his head. ‘You’re doin’ it again, thinking of yourself. I want you out of this county as much for my sake as for yours. Now you go. I’ll see you’ve got money enough. Take a few men with you. Get drunk and fool around for a time. Just ...’ Chisum made a sweeping gesture with his right hand. ‘... keep well clear of me.’

  Brewer moved up by Billy and touched him on the arm, but Billy shrugged him away.

  ‘C’mon, Billy. Let’s go.’

  The Kid stood there, stubborn.

  ‘Billy. It’s time to go.’

  Finally, Billy turned away and went towards the door. As his hand set upon the handle he swung his head round and looked at Chisum and McSween. ‘I’ll be back.’

  McSween looked away, down at the logs in the grate; Chisum answered the Kid’s state evenly and nodded. Billy and Dick Brewer went into the hall.

  Sally Chisum was by the front door, a yellow flower in her hair, another held by its green stem in her hand. Billy walked past her without noticing that she was there.

  ~*~

  They’d crossed the Rio Penasco, always keeping the Guadalupe Mountains to the east. The sun shone unfettered in the sky, driving down on to them as they rode. The horses rarely moved faster than a walk, their riders hunched in the saddles, dampened bandanas round their necks.

  Herne stretched and straightened, swinging his head as he did so. On either side there was nothing but the same harsh, sandy soil broken here and there by clumps of mesquite and the occasional cactus.

  ‘How soon d’we get to some fuckin’ saloon?’ asked Mason angrily, the top of his head awash with sweat. ‘I need a god-damn drink an’ I don’t mean this piss weed water we’re carryin’.’

  Pecos turned and looked at him but said nothing. Charlie Bowdre carried on chewing on the stem of his unlit clay pipe, his mind full of his wife, aware that every mile they travelled he was nearer to her.

  ‘What’s the matter with everyone?’ called Mason. ‘I asked a—’

  Billy spoke without turning his head. ‘Honcho. We should be at Honcho by dusk. Now leave it be.’

  Mason wiped the end of his red bandana over his shiny skull. He knew better than to argue or cross the Kid in any way. Ever since they’d ridden out of the Tunstall ranch, Billy had been strangely silent, keeping his own counsel, never breaking into the odd laugh that usually characterized him.

  Mason dropped back alongside Herne. ‘You know this place, Honcho?’

  ‘Been there once.’

  ‘What’s it like?’

  Herne looked at him. ‘Like everywhere else.’

  ~*~

  The five men rode into the small town as the sun was fading to a dull orange circle on the rim of the sky. Horses and riders were bathed in sweat.

  ‘Pecos,’ said Billy, barely glancing round. ‘Take the horses to the livery.’

  A word of protest stuck on Pecos’s lip. He turned his own mount and walked it over to the hitching post outside the low adobe that was the saloon. The others dismounted and handed their reins to Pecos, who gathered them in both hands and guided his horse with knees and boots down the wide, sandy street to where a wooden board proclaimed: Livery Stable.

  Billy was first through the door, letting it swing back hard so that Herne had to push up an arm quickly to avoid being hit. The Kid went straight to the bar and leaned sideways against the counter, calling for whisky and beer.

  Herne waited inside the door, taking in the interior. A game of cards was going on at the opposite side of the room to the bar, five men playing stud poker, two Mexican, the rest American. A short, swarthy man with an apron tied at his waist was in the act of lighting a kerosene lamp in the center of the room. Two older men sat towards the back, nursing near-em
pty glasses of beer.

  Mason and Charlie Bowdre joined Billy at the bar and Herne followed after them. Billy’s shouts brought the swarthy man hurrying over to the counter, waving his hands apologetically.

  ‘Never mind,’ snapped Billy, ‘just get me a drink. Pronto.’

  The man served the Kid first, spilling the whisky over the edge of the glass in his hurry, then saw to the rest. They went over and sat at two tables, Billy sitting on his own, the other four sharing.

  After a while Charlie nodded in the Kid’s direction and spoke in a low voice. ‘I’ve known him pretty strange, but never like this.’

  Herne looked past Charlie and nodded.

  ‘You got anythin’ to say about me, you can speak it to my face.’

  Charlie half-turned. ‘Wasn’t nothin’ ’bout you, Billy.’

  Disbelieving, Billy stared at him for a few moments, then called for the bartender to bring the whisky bottle over to his table.

  Herne swiveled his chair round making sure he could cover both the Kid and the door, and began to pay attention to the poker game. The player with the most money stacked by his left hand was square-jawed with a wide, firm mouth; his blue gray eyes watched the cards carefully, flicking on to the faces of the other players and away again, serious yet with a hint of humor somewhere at the back of them. His gray Stetson hung from the side of his chair, lank and thick black hair falling almost to his shoulder. The chair was tilted back to accommodate the man’s long legs–Herne figured him for four or five inches over six foot. He wore a plain green vest over a gray cotton shirt; buffalo-hide leggings over tan pants. Herne could see the worn leather of his gun belt but not the pistol that was holstered in it.

  As Herne watched, sipping at his whisky rather than drinking it, the tall man won five games out of six,

  ‘Anyone want to eat?’ asked Mason.

  There was a sign over the bar that said: Meals 50c. Pecos and Charlie Bowdre reckoned that they would. At his table, the Kid declined with a growl and a shake of the head. Herne thought he’d wait and see what his fifty cents would bring him before he made up his mind. Not that he begrudged the money, but he’d eaten in one-horse towns like Honcho before. Times it was better for a man’s stomach to stay hungry.

  But when the plates came they were crowded with beans and peppers and tortillas and the smell unleashed a hunger in Hearne that had to be satisfied.

  ‘How is it, Charlie?’ he asked.

  Charlie Bowdre answered without either looking up or ceasing to chew. ‘Good. S’good.’

  ‘Uh-huh.’ Herne pushed back his chair and stepped over to the bar. It was quite dark outside now, the light from the saloon’s lamps spilling out into the street and casting shadows around the low room.

  The man behind the bar nodded when Herne gave his order and moved off to a side door that led to the kitchen, wiping his hands on his apron as he went. Herne turned and leaned back against the counter just as the tall poker player stretched across the table to scoop in his winnings.

  There was a muffled shout and a hand grabbed at the winner’s wrist, holding it fast. At the same time one of the other Americans leaned well back in his chair, right hand disappearing from sight beneath the table. The tall man saw the move from the corner of his eye and struggled to free his arm. Herne saw it too, realizing what was happening–what was about to happen.

  He yelled a warning as his own hand went for the Colt .45 at his hip, fingers settling around the butt, thumb flicking clear the small leather thong from around the hammer and continuing to move the hammer back as the pistol came up from its holster.

  He fired fast, his shot going over the shoulder of the gambler making his draw and making him jump backwards, over-balancing.

  The tall man swung his left fist into the face of the man holding him and slammed his right arm down on to the table, striking the knuckles that gripped him hard enough to make them let go.

  The man Herne had shot at was recovering, making another effort to get to his gun. In the center of the room Billy had leaped up and backed from the line of fire, his own weapon fast into his hand. The others followed similar action.

  Herne hurried towards the card table, Colt covering the players. The tall man had cleared leather quickly and the butt of his pistol was inches from the side of the one who’d tried to draw on him. He glanced over at Herne and nodded his thanks; still no one had spoken.

  The tall man moved round behind the pair who’d attacked him, taking their weapons and dropping them down on the table amongst the scattered cards and money.

  ‘Now,’ he said finally, ‘you two still reckon there’s somethin’ wrong ’bout the way I been playin’ these cards?’

  The men looked at one another, anxious. First one, then the other, shook his head.

  ‘That’s fine. Now you back off an’ get out. I’ll hang on to these guns of yours till your tempers’ve cooled down a little.’

  He pushed the gun into the nearest man’s stomach—‘Now get!’

  At the table, the two Mexicans hesitated, uncertain.

  ‘Some of that money’s yours, ain’t it?’

  ‘Si, señor. Yes.’

  ‘Okay. Get what’s comin’ to you an’ move out. I guess the game’s over for today.’

  They did as they were told, fingers scrabbling nervously among the coins and bills. Behind them, Billy and the rest had holstered their guns and sat back down.

  ‘Name’s Garrett,’ offered the tall man, pushing his own pistol down into his gun belt.

  ‘Jed Herne.’

  The two shook hands across the table.

  ‘Much obliged,’ said Garrett with a grin. ‘I just might not have got there myself. Not in time.’

  Herne nodded. ‘Maybe.’

  ‘Buy you a drink?’ asked Garrett, finishing collecting his own winnings.

  ‘Sure.’

  Herne’s plate of food was waiting for him on the counter; he took it over to a table while Garrett fetched a bottle of whisky and a couple of glasses.

  ‘They didn’t take to you winnin’ so easy?’ asked Herne.

  Garrett grinned again, his blue-gray eyes lively and bright. ‘Somethin’ like that.’

  ‘Funny, ain’t it–the way losers always get to thinkin’ whoever’s winnin’ has to be takin’ ’em off the bottom of the deck.’

  Garrett drank some of his whisky. ‘Sure is.’ His eyes were smiling brighter than ever.

  Herne forked some beans into his mouth, chewing strongly.

  ‘How come you took a hand yourself?’

  Herne shrugged. ‘Never like to see a man gettin’ two-timed that way. Don’t seem right–whatever’s been goin’ down.’

  Herne’s own eyes stared at Garrett evenly, letting him know he no more believed him than disbelieved him.

  ‘Well,’ said Garrett with a short laugh, ‘thanks anyway.’

  Herne nodded and went back to his meal.

  ‘If it helps,’ offered Garrett after a few moments, ‘I wasn’t cheating. Not this time.’

  Herne wiped the back of his hand over his mouth and let the whisky burn the back of his throat,

  ‘Where you an’ your friends headed?’

  ‘Mexico.’

  Garrett raised an eyebrow but left the question unasked.

  ‘You?’ said Herne.

  ‘I ain’t sure. Got restless, I guess. Been stayin’ up at Fort Sumner for a while. Feller named Pete Maxwell owns it. Big ranch close by. I been workin’ for him a few months.’

  ‘You don’t look like no cowboy,’ said Herne.

  ‘Takes all kinds, they say.’ Garrett poured more whisky from the bottle, glancing round sharply as someone came through the saloon door. Seeing it was no one he knew, he relaxed again.

  ‘I done seven years straight from when I was a kid. Down on the Panhandle. Sure bust my ass and stayed poor. Thought there had to be easier ways of makin’ a livin’.’ He smiled over the table. ‘Since then you could say I tried a few others.’

&n
bsp; ‘Uh-huh.’

  ‘How ’bout yourself? You punch cattle?’

  Herne looked at him: ‘No.’

  Garrett nodded. ‘I guessed not.’ He leaned back in his chair, reaching into his pocket for a pack of tobacco. ‘Herne, you said your name was. That make you the one they call Herne the—’

  Herne pushed his empty plate across the table and stood up. ‘Come over and meet the boys.’

  Mason, Pecos and Charlie Bowdre shook Garrett’s hand and told him to pull round a chair and join them. Billy left the table where he’d been sitting alone and came over to stand alongside the taller man.

  ‘Name’s Pat Garrett.’

  The Kid accepted his hand, feeling less sullen now, mellowed by drinking. ‘Billy Bonney. Pleased to meet you.’ His wide-set eyes fixed on Garrett’s face and he smiled his lop-sided smile. ‘Somethin’ tells me we’ll be friends.’

  Chapter Seven

  Pat Garrett sat on the fence alongside the livery stable watching Herne and Billy and the rest saddle up and prepare to ride south. The sky was bright with promise, blue and yellow and lacking the smudge of a single cloud. A couple of days’ ride should take them within reach of the Rio Grande, after which they would be safe from any U.S. marshal that Murphy and Dolan might arrange to send after them on account of Brady’s death.

  ‘Sure you won’t ride with us, Pat?’ called Billy from his saddle.

  Garrett smiled towards the sun and shook his head. ‘Guess I’ve come far enough for a while. Now Jed’s ridden off them two bad losers, I’ll stick around and see what else good luck’ll bring me.’

  ‘Okay.’

  Billy turned his horse’s head and started to move off. Herne raised a hand in Garrett’s direction and the tall man waved an answering salute.

  Garrett stayed where he was until the four riders were out of sight and nothing showed of them save a slow-moving cloud of dust that marked their path until that, too, faded into the clear air.

  Pat Garrett set his hands to the fence and pushed himself outwards and down. He hadn’t eaten yet and there was an eating house that advertised ham and eggs and coffee for forty cents.

  ~*~