Silver Threads Page 6

  There was the sound of stones shifting underfoot, further down the valley, towards the mine. Herne checked automatically that the leather cord was free of the top of the Colt’s hammer. Wild Rose City was such a peculiar place that it was a fool who didn’t take precautions. And out West a fool didn’t get to live very long.

  ‘Mr. Herne,’ hissed a voice. High and thin and trembling, like the summer wind through pine trees.

  Jed stood still and waited. Wanting to see whether Zimmerman had come alone or whether he was just the Judas goat in a trap. There was a silence and then he caught the noise of feet coming closer, slipping on the pebbles, somewhere to the left, on the same side of the river as Herne. Easing towards him.

  ‘Mr. Herne. Are you there?’

  He still waited, not wanting to reveal where he was, deep in a pool of shadow. Able to see without being seen.

  ‘It’s me. Bob Zimmerman. Are you there? Oh, Jesus Christ!’

  It was almost a cry of despair, so rending in the early morning that Jed immediately believed the manager’s honesty. Nobody could act terror that well. The little man from Hibbing was so frightened that you could damned nearly smell it.

  ‘I’m here. And keep your voice quiet, less’n you want the whole damned town to know we’re meeting here like this!’

  ‘Where are you?’

  ‘Under the trees.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Here.’

  ‘Oh. I think I see you. I’m just... Ooooh ... My God! I nearly fell into the river, Mr. Herne.’

  With the Clearwater running as high as it was Herne had no doubts that Zimmerman would inevitably have been swept away to his death.

  One thing was certain.

  Though he was a good swimmer, Jed wouldn’t have gone into the icy waters after him.

  The mist wavered as a breath of wind came up from the north, and Herne was at last able to see the manager of the Mount Morgoth mine. Staggering slightly as he fought for his footing on the wet pebbles. He was wearing a dark suit and ankle boots. An outfit better suited to Boston than a muddy trail in the Black Hills. Jed noticed that Zimmerman had obviously fallen several times on his stumbling journey through the darkness and his clothes were smeared with dirt, black patches of wetness showing in the pale light.

  ‘Thank God you’ve come, Mr. Herne,’ he panted, reaching out to shake Jed by the hand. As he took it, Herne felt the chill from his fingers. Fingers that were quivering with fear.

  ‘What have you got to tell me, Zimmerman? About the robberies?’

  ‘I’ve worked at Mount Morgoth for several years now, since I first came to Dakota Territory. Before that I had been...’

  ‘Christ, Zimmerman,’ said Herne disgustedly. ‘I didn’t come out here in this lousy weather just to listen to the story of your life!’

  ‘I’m sorry. Oh, God, but I’m so sorry, Mr. Herne.’ For a moment Jed thought the manager was going to break down and start weeping. The damp had plastered his thin curly hair across his forehead and there was a streak of dark mud under one cheekbone. The eyes were sunken in and he coughed nervously, putting his hand to his mouth. Jed saw that even since the previous day the man’s condition had worsened. He was blinking constantly.

  ‘Come on. Get a damned grip on yourself. Tell me what you have to say and we can both go.’

  ‘Yes. You’re right, of course. It’s just that I so wanted... ’

  ‘Zimmerman,’ warned Herne.

  ‘Yes. It’s about the robberies. I ... I know something about them.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I know who’s doing them, Mr. Herne.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘I’m sorry. I can’t tell you.’

  There was a short silence between them. Jed considered drawing the pistol and bending it across Zimmerman’s face. There wasn’t a shred of doubt in his mind that the manager really did know.

  ‘What the Hell is that supposed to mean?’ he snarled.

  ‘It’s just that...’

  ‘Just fuckin’ nothing, Zimmerman, you gutless son of a bitch!!’

  There was no need to fake his annoyance. Herne was bitterly angry with the little curly-headed man for getting him out there in such a dangerous way, then losing his nerve.

  ‘I can’t tell you.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘They’ll kill me. They’ll know who... who told on them, and they’ll kill me.’

  Reassurance was useless and Jed recognized that immediately. What the true story was might be something he could only guess at. And he was beginning to guess at it.

  ‘All right. Calm down.’ Despite his rage he forced himself to pat Zimmerman on the shoulder, wanting nothing more than to take the honed bayonet from its sheath in his right boot and cut the manager here and there until he blurted out what he knew. But it wasn’t the time or the place for that. It was time for the carrot rather than the stick.

  ‘I’m sorry, Mr. Herne. Truly I’m ...’ and to his embarrassment the manager of Mount Morgoth began to weep in his arms, his slight body racked with juddering sobs.

  ‘Come on. There must be some help that you can give me without betraying... anyone.’ The pause was where Herne nearly took a chance and voiced his suspicions, holding back from it because he was worried what the effect might be on Zimmerman.

  ‘Help?’

  ‘Damn it, man, that’s what we’re both down here for, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes.’ Hesitantly.

  ‘Then come on. It’ll soon be full light and they’ll be able to see us from every damned house in Wild Rose City. And that is going to make folks mighty suspicious, Mr. Zimmerman.’

  ‘I can tell you one thing.’

  ‘What?

  ‘The next robbery.’

  ‘Yeah? Go on.’

  ‘I know when.’

  ‘Tell me.’

  ‘And where.’

  ‘But not who?

  ‘No.’

  ‘Sure?’

  ‘I’m positive. Please don’t ask me that, Mr. Herne. I beg you.’

  He was gradually regaining his control, standing away from Jed, wiping his nose with a white square of linen that he unfolded from a pocket of his vest. Blowing noisily and then sniffing, flicking away the remains of a tear from his cheek.

  ‘Better now, Zimmerman?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘So, tell me.’

  ‘Tomorrow.’

  ‘Tomorrow!’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Jesus, Zimmerman! You surely don’t give a lot of warning, do you?’

  ‘It’s taken all my courage, Mr. Herne, even to tell you this much.’

  ‘I need more.’

  ‘It’s from Old Number One Mine, again. They’ve already hit it once.’

  ‘Where?

  ‘Close by. About eleven miles north and west of town there’s a narrow canyon, with several spur canyons opening off it. Most of them are boxed, but there are some with trails through wide enough for a man on a horse leading pack mules.’

  ‘What time tomorrow?’

  Zimmerman looked at the mud staining his boots and shuffled his feet nervously. Herne stared at him in disgust, unable to understand how fear could so reduce a person’s will. Once you let fright rule you, then it ruled for ever. All you had to do was stand up to it. The worst that could happen to a man was death. Herne stopped being afraid of dying a very long time ago.

  ‘I asked you what time tomorrow the robbery’s goin’ to be.’

  ‘Later on. Probably close to evening. They leave the mine in the morning, and they should be passing through here on their way to Jansonville by nightfall.’

  ‘That’s all you’re goin’ to tell me?’

  ‘I... I guess so, Mr. Herne. I think I ought to be gettin’ back now, before I’m missed. There’s eyes everywhere watchin’ around Wild Rose.’

  All the time Herne’s suspicions were becoming stronger and stronger.

  Unbelievable though they seemed to him, the trail of clues seeme
d to be pointing in only one possible direction.

  ‘Guess you better go. Me too. Wouldn’t do for the ladies to catch me sneakin’ out like this.’ A thought struck him. ‘But I surely am kind of doin’ the job they hired me for. Trackin’ down these killers who’ve been stealin’ silver ore all over the damned Dakotas.’

  ‘Sure is,’ stammered the manager, staring all around him as the light grew into a great halo in the east, making it possible to see further down and up the valley. Somehow the swelling brightness seemed to make the turbulent river sound quieter.

  ‘How many men goin’ to be there tomorrow evening, Zimmerman? Seems I’m goin’ to have to try it all on my own, so you owe me that much.’

  ‘I’m not sure.’

  ‘God damn it! Be sure!’ hissed Herne, grabbing him by the collar and lifting him clear off the ground in one hand, his legs jerking and kicking helplessly. Zimmerman’s face began to turn purple, his tongue protruding. His eyes seemed to swell from their sockets.

  ‘Please.. .’ he gasped.

  ‘Please, nothin’,’ spat Jed. ‘I don’t know what you’re frightened of, mister, but whatever it is you better believe I can top it.’

  He dropped him contemptuously to the wet stones, watching him sprawl on his side, rolling nearly into the Clearwater, panting for breath, running his shaking fingers around the inside of his collar.

  ‘Now you tell me how many. I’m not askin’ you who’s behind it. I see that one’s too much for you. But you must tell me how many.’

  ‘They might see us here,’ panted Zimmerman, scrambling painfully to his hands and knees, not looking at Herne.

  ‘To see us here they’d need to be up damned high with a spyglass, and I don’t see no signs of that happening. So come on.’

  ‘Two or three this time. Doubt there’s goin’ to be more, Mr. Herne. Truly. They know how the ore is being carried. How many guards.’

  ‘How do they know that?’

  But Zimmerman remained stubbornly silent.

  ‘Late evening. What’s the name of the canyon where it’s to happen?’

  ‘Drowned Squaw Canyon. Can’t miss it. Listen, I’ve truly got to go.’

  ‘Yeah. Guess you have at that. I’ll be there, Zimmerman.’

  ‘I’ll go, then.’

  ‘Sure. If’n all this turns out well for us, then I’ll come and talk to you again.’

  ‘Be careful, Mr. Herne. You don’t know what it is you’re running yourself against.’

  ‘Maybe I do, Mr. Zimmerman,’ replied Jed, grinning at the little man. ‘Maybe I do.’

  ~*~

  Herne watched the manager of Mount Morgoth scurry off down the valley through the dawn, the sound of his going quickly muffled by the river. Then he turned back towards the town and began to climb up the hill towards the Sowren mansion, confident that nobody had seen his secret meeting.

  He would have been somewhat less confident if he had spotted the gleam of light from one of the upstairs windows of the big house. The sort of flash you get from glass or from polished metal.

  From something like, for instance, a powerful telescope.

  Chapter Seven

  The day had passed quietly. He had ridden out with the sheriff again, taking in a loop all around the town. Making sure that the trip took in the area eleven miles north and west of the town. Allaying any suspicions that Daley might have had by hurrying through the region, pretending he wanted to get back to the house for the evening meal.

  It was a desolate area. Drowned Squaw Canyon was steep-sided, about six hundred paces in length, with half a dozen spur trails coming into it from either side. Most of them clearly blind, but one or two showing signs of having been ridden by men on horseback. One of them in particular looked as though it had been covered very recently. Within the last couple of days.

  The weather was cold and both men rode hunched in the saddle, keeping conversation to a minimum. Daley reined in when they were halfway along the canyon and faced Jed.

  ‘Seems to me you aren’t exactly burning a hole in your ass trying to track down these sons of bitches, Herne. My opinion, you understand.’

  ‘Guess you’re entitled to it, Sheriff. I got a job and I think about it and I do what I think the folks hirin’ me want me to do.’

  He managed to lay just enough emphasis on the words for the sheriff to catch his drift. The plump lawman laughed heartily.

  ‘Thought you was a clever bastard, Herne; Thought it.’

  ‘I try.’

  ‘Guess you do. Guess you do, Mr. Herne. Get to learn the side of your bread carries the butter, don’t you? Huh?’

  Jed smiled and dug his heels into his stallion’s flanks, not replying. Sheriff Daley laughed again and walked his own horse on behind him.

  ~*~

  The next day, Herne hung around the house. Cleaning his guns. Stripping and oiling them. Making sure his ammunition was where it should be. Unloading the long fifty caliber Sharps rifle. Wiping it down and pulling through a strip of clean rag. Squinting along the sights to ensure the gun hadn’t taken a knock.

  The kind of action there was likely to be during the promised silver robbery could lead to the rifle coming in very useful. With its classic rainbow trajectory it wasn’t impossible for a good shot to knock a man off his horse at seven or eight hundred paces. And there were cases on record of the Sharps being effective at twice that range.

  The Colt was stripped totally down. like any man out on the frontier who relied for his living and for his life on his gun, Herne carried a complete set of tools with him. A habit he’d learned in the turbulent years after the War from the notorious gunsmith Jack Ryker. A man who turned his skill in helping men by repairing guns into using those guns for killing men for bounties. He always carried a pouch of tools, including some handmade and razor-edged scalpels. Herne had once heard about the time he’d cut off a man’s lower lip before he could even draw his pistol. Holding it between finger and thumb of his left hand and making the hissing cut with the right.

  Jed relied on the Civil War bayonet in his boot for that kind of action.

  After he’d washed and dried the pistol, he carefully polished each component with a soft rag, reassembling the Colt in a little over two minutes. Checking the triple clicking action. Sliding in each round and testing the smoothness of the cylinder.

  Out of habit he drew the long, slim-bladed knife from its sheath and ran his thumb along the edge, holding it up to the light from the window to make sure there was no trace of damaging rust. Pressing the tip of a finger against the needle-point.

  He was about as ready as he could be.

  ~*~

  At the evening meal he pretended that he was suffering from a disposition of the stomach and begged to be excused. Miss Eliza was concerned, her small eyes glinting at him from over the top of the pince-nez that she habitually wore once the light became poor. Her sister was more involved in filling her mouth with a monstrous morsel of roasted turkey, well larded with rich sauce, the plate almost cracking into splinters beneath the weight of a positive mountain of sweet potatoes.

  ‘I trust that this will not prevent your carrying out your duties on our behalf, Mr. Herne,’ said Eliza, the chill in her voice freezing the air out of the long, gloomy dining-room.

  ‘I trust not, Ma’am,’ he replied, bowing his way out into the hall. ‘But if I am indisposed then I surely hope you will dock my money on account of it.’

  ‘I will, Mr. Herne. I will indeed.’ Then, with a rare flash of warmth. ‘I do hope that you will be recovered on the morrow.’

  ‘And I, sister,’ added Lily, gurgling uncomfortably as she swallowed more in one mouthful than a normal person would eat at an entire sitting.

  ~*~

  The next morning Herne rose at his usual time, but again pretended to be ill. Occasionally clutching at his stomach and groaning: biting his lips as if he were making a considerable effort to fight off the discomfort. It was odd that both the sisters seemed more worr
ied about him that day than they had the previous evening. For some reason they seemed very much to want him better.

  It crossed his mind that it might just possibly have something to do with the robbery that Zimmerman had said was coming off that evening. In those situations, it was at least conceivable that someone might want to ensure that they had a careful tab on him so that they knew where he was. A sick man in his room with the door firmly bolted could be anywhere.

  Lily persuaded him to come down after lunch to join her again at the piano. Though he had eaten nothing himself, Jed was easily able to deduce what the ladies had lunched on. There were traces of every course splattered across Miss Lily’s dress. A vegetable soup. What he suspected must have been buffalo stew from the coarseness of the meat fibers in the folds of the pink satin. And also from the way she kept picking at the rotting remnants of her teeth to dislodge stubborn fragments. The dessert had clearly been some kind of milk pudding.

  ‘Will you join me, Jedediah, in “I Sowed The Seeds Of Love”? It is a most beautiful melody.’

  They all were before Lily Sowren set her vocal cords to them. She generally used the same book. Published in London, England, by Macmillan, nearly twenty years earlier. Bound in maroon leather and embossed with gold. Herne was coming to hate its glossy appearance. And to hate the compiler of the volume, John Hulla, Professor of Vocal Music in King’s College, London, England.

  But it was all part of the price that he had to pay.

  ‘You are of course, a Republican, Mr. Herne?’ asked Eliza, pausing in the doorway. He noticed she was wearing her outdoor clothes. Through the window he could see that it was so overcast that rain could not be far off.

  ‘Of course, Ma’am? And yourself?’

  ‘I would have hardly imagined that a man of your apparent intelligence would have found such a question to be necessary.’

  He nodded at the reproof. ‘Though I hear that there are some who say that Mr. Grover Cleveland for those Democrats has hopes of being elected.’

  ‘Bah! Stuff and nonsense!! If the day ever comes when there is to be another of those fools in the highest office in the land, then I hope that I am not here on this earth to see it.’