Death in Gold Read online

  Chapter Seven

  A second stolen from time.

  Jed Herne stood, palms upraised and weighted down; the Mexican less than ten feet away, both guns aiming directly at his chest.

  The point of Don Vincento’s beard thrust proudly forward, the swarthy features widened into a sneering laugh; the fingers tightened.

  There was the sudden roar of a Colt .45 from close behind Herne.

  The sound boomed in his ears and simultaneously the sneer on the Mexican’s face disintegrated into a gory blur.

  Herne dropped the plate and mug and pulled his own gun clear just as Coburn fired his second shot. What was remaining of Don Vincento’s face exploded in a mass of splintered bone and gristle. Blood splashed out as the body staggered haphazardly. A solid spray of grey matter strongly flecked with crimson burst through the rear of the torn skull and fell on to one of the unused tin plates, slopping over the edge towards the ground.

  Herne fired to his left. Diego had started to run for the cover of the nearest of the wagons as soon as the shooting had started. There had not been time for him to get far. The shell struck him low in his left side, inches above the hip. Somehow he managed to keep on running, one hand clutching his wound, his body bent low.

  Herne dropped to one knee and leveled his gun. Coburn squatted alongside him, sending two shots in the direction of a pair of Mexicans who were trying to get to the line of horses. They scuttled back behind cover, one hit in the leg and screaming with pain,

  Diego never made it to the wagon. Herne’s bullet took the crouching figure directly between the buttocks. The man jerked upright, both hands clasped in front of him where his genitals had been seconds before.

  He fell forward and his head bounced up from the hard ground. Once only. His scream of agony died with him.

  “That leaves six of the bastards, don’t it?”

  “Reckon.”

  A shot rang out from the side of the furthest wagon, which was pulled round sideways towards the fire. It thumped into the side of beef so that it swung round on the spit.

  “Ain’t no use firin’ at that, you dumb bastard!” yelled Coburn.

  The gun poked into sight again and Whitey steadied his right arm with his left. He calmly squeezed the trigger and nodded with satisfaction as the arm was pulled hastily back, letting the weapon fall to the floor.

  Two shots ran into the earth too close to Herne for comfort.

  “Let’s get the hell away from this fire!”

  Coburn didn’t answer: he had already started to run.

  The albino made off in a zigzag pattern, heading towards the second wagon, firing sporadically as he went. Herne let him have a couple of covering shots, then jumped to his right and scooped up one of Don Vincento’s pistols.

  He ran directly at the nearest wagon, emptying his own Colt as he did so.

  The wagon was end-on, its canvas pulled across leaving only a narrow gap. It was for that gap that Jed Herne dived. He sprang off his right foot, grasping the top of the canvas and swinging his body through. A bearded face was suddenly inches away from his own and he struck at it with his fist.

  He rolled to one side, bringing up the gun he had taken from the dead Mexican. In the half-light he saw two shapes jump out of the opposite end of the wagon. One more rose up a couple of feet away, somehow trying to turn a rifle through too small a space. Herne fired fast. The gun was less well balanced than his own, the shot taking the man in the forearm, smashing the bone.

  Herne moved to his right to avoid the falling rifle and fired a second time. The Mexican went back against the side of the wagon, arms outstretched. The weight of his fall tore the canvas from the sides and he collapsed with it, finally clasping hold of one of the metal hoops of the frame.

  While he hung there, blood welling from the center of his chest, Herne turned to deal with the man he had punched. He was trying to burrow a way between the boxes of supplies on the floor. Herne jerked him up by his collar and only just managed to parry a thrust from the knife the man brought arcing up in his right hand.

  Jed’s left arm stopped the descent of the knife inches from his face, jamming against the man’s wrist. At the same moment he discharged the pistol into his body.

  The explosion was muffled by the closeness of the target. Herne felt the Mexican convulse against him and saw the head drop forward, the pupils thrust upwards in their sockets. The mouth shot open and a gout of blood flew out splattering Herne on his chin and neck.

  He pushed the man off him, lifting his leg and kicking him off the wagon. He pushed the Mexican’s gun down into his belt and wiped the blood and sweat off his face with the sleeve of his coat.

  Coburn called out from the second wagon. “Jed! You all right?”

  “Sure am. You?”

  “Yep. But one of your bastards got to the horses.”

  Herne jumped down to the ground, reloading his Colt as he did so. He looked in the direction that Whitey was pointing. A man bent low over his saddle, whipping his mount hard, first one side then the other.

  “Damn! And there’s another.”

  “Well where the…”

  The splash from the river gave them their answer.

  Coburn ran towards the horses. “I’d rather ride than swim,” he shouted. “I’ll be back.”

  As Whitey vaulted on to the back of his horse and set off in pursuit of the Mexican, Herne turned towards the river. At the point where they had met Don Vincento and his men, it was running through a broad sweep and it was a good distance to the far shore.

  Also, the current was quite strong.

  Herne moved down to the bank, watching the arms come over and over, the head rising up on its right side only, gulping down air. Jed pulled off his coat and boots, then unbuckled his gun belt. He waded into the edge of the water, waiting until it was above his knees before he slid into a low dive.

  Minutes later he was gaining on the Mexican, who had jumped in still wearing most of his clothes and was finding the going difficult. Herne swam steadily, never doubting he would overhaul him before he reached the middle of the river.

  The Mexican began to glance back over his shoulder, panicking as he realized how close the American now was. He splashed frantically against the surface of the water, fighting it but always losing, expending his energy when he was about to need it most.

  Only a couple of yards away now, Herne pushed against the current so that he could come into his man with extra force. His right arm rose from the water and fingers grabbed for the Mexican’s long hair, yanking it from the back of his neck and pulling the head towards him.

  The man struggled vainly, bringing his other arm round in an effort to free himself from Herne’s grip. This sent him down below the surface of the river, legs kicking wildly as he knew the fear of death by drowning.

  Herne held hard and tried to grasp the Mexican under water with his other hand, but the man’s convulsions made that impossible. Finally Herne had to let go of the lank hair and wait for him to push up above the level of the water.

  The head broke through the surface and Herne swung a punch at it. His fist landed on the side of the man’s face and the head disappeared again. Only momentarily this time.

  It burst back into the air, mouth open, eyes blinking. Herne’s second punch missed, striking the water instead. The Mexican grabbed his hand and then his arm, pulling Herne towards him. Something stung at his side under the surface and Herne knew then that the Mexican was armed with a knife.

  He struggled to free his arm and for several seconds both of them went under, only the turbulent movement above and a succession of air bubbles testifying to their presence.

  Herne surfaced first, turning on to his back and kicking with his legs through the swirling water. The Mexican ducked away from the feet and his knife flashed brightly in the sun that had appeared above them.

  Herne watched the blade fall and timed his dive back under. He rose fast, one hand bunched hard and tight and driving up betw
een the Mexican’s legs.

  The pain from his side had begun to penetrate and he knew the struggle had to be finished and finished fast.

  As the Mexican groaned and swallowed a mouthful of muddy water, Herne swung an arm into his face, driving him backwards. He leapt on top of him, forcing him down below the surface and searching for the hand that held the knife.

  Legs threshed beneath him as the man fought for his life, struggling vainly to reach fresh air. Herne’s fingers closed about the right wrist, squeezing and twisting, prising the handle of the knife clear.

  For a second it floated free before Herne secured it,

  He pushed himself backwards and caught his breath, waiting his moment. It was not long in coming.

  No sooner had the Mexican gasped in a lungful of air than the blade ripped down into his throat, tearing at the flesh and cutting towards the windpipe. Herne pulled it away and cut downwards a second time, then a third.

  Blood spread across the turbulence of the water and was tugged downstream by the current. The Mexican lay on his back, arms sideways, most of his head beneath the surface. The neck lay level with the top of the moving water, the skin cut and slashed apart so that a dark hole coughed blood like the open mouth of some hideous dying fish.

  Herne plunged his face back down into the water then up again, clearing his eyes and his mind. The wound in his side was nothing now. He let the knife fall slowly towards the bed of the river then turned and struck out for the shore, away from the ever-widening circle of blood.

  The Mexican in front of Coburn knew it was no use stopping and trying to fight the man off. Not a man as mad as that crazed one with white hair and those terrible eyes. He shuddered despite himself at the thought

  No, his only hope was to get to La Rosita before him. There he would be safe. And there he could find help.

  He turned in his saddle and took a quick look behind; the Gringo was getting closer all the time. Vehemently, he whipped into his horse’s flanks with the ends of the reins, lashing first one side and then the other. He ducked his head lower, so that it was along the animal’s neck, close to the bouncing black hair of the mane. The smell of sweat filled his nose: the thunder of Coburn’s pursuing horse filled his ears.

  Whitey knew that his time was limited; knew also that the Mexican would not make the town unless some miracle saved him.

  The Mexican drew his pistol and leaned his head and shoulders round, trying to steady his aim without slackening speed. Coburn heard the sound of the shot and saw the puff of smoke but the bullet missed him by yards. Then as the Mex tried a second time, Coburn’s horse stumbled.

  Whitey felt the juddering movement, the faltering stride. He cursed aloud and knew that the animal was about to lose its footing completely. As the second shot flew well wide, he grabbed at his Winchester and freed his feet from the stirrups. Better to jump than be thrown.

  He checked the reins and moved his left leg high and ready.

  Counted.

  Jumped.

  The earth seemed to spring up to meet him. He landed awkwardly, losing his grasp of the rifle and tumbled over and over, bruising his left shoulder.

  Quickly he righted himself and seized the Winchester. The man he had been chasing was already a hundred yards away and getting smaller every second. Getting closer to La Rosita.

  He knelt and pushed up the extra rear sight on the stock of the weapon. A hundred and thirty yards. And forty. Fifty.

  The recoil slammed back into his shoulder and through the smoke of the explosion the Mexican seemed to be riding still. Then, as though in slow motion, he tumbled sideways from the saddle. His right boot caught in the stirrup and trailed him along for another twenty or thirty yards, banging his head and shoulders against the ground.

  Finally he fell free and was still.

  Whitey Coburn stood up and started to walk forward. His horse had started to hobble back in the direction it had come. He let it go. The Mexican’s horse had stopped further along the trail and was cropping at one of the few patches of grass.

  Fifty yards away and the Mexican had still not moved. Most likely he was unconscious, winded. A pistol had fallen wide of his reach and was useless.

  Coburn wasn’t taking any chances. He covered the man all the way in with his Winchester, watching for any sign of movement.

  Nothing.

  He kicked the gun further away and came and stood behind the body. A trickle of blood came out from underneath the curved brim of the man’s hat, where it lay over the back of his head.

  Coburn kicked hard at the sole of one boot. “Get up, you shammin’ bastard!”

  Still nothing.

  “I said get your ass off’n that ground!”

  Nothing again.

  Coburn let the rifle fall back into his left hand and reached down with his right to pull the man round. As he did so, the Mexican sprang to life, pushing himself off the earth with surprising speed. A fist landed in Coburn’s face and a boot went into his thighs, six inches below the groin. Coburn fell backwards, trying to swing the barrel of the rifle at the man but missing as he lost balance.

  The Mexican’s hand grabbed at his throat and squeezed hard, forcing themselves against his wind pipe and stopping the supply of air.

  For what seemed a long time but was in reality no more than seconds, Coburn felt his lungs heaving for air that was not there. He closed his eyes as they began to bulge forward in his unnaturally pale face, the pupils pink and protruding. Everything went a sudden overwhelming black: a blackness which threatened to envelop him.

  Then he rammed his left knee upwards hard, hard, harder!

  The fingers on his throat loosened their grip. Enough to let Coburn gasp a quick breath. He opened his eyes and saw the strained face of the man above him. He spat upwards and kicked again at the same time.

  Instinct freed one of the hands to wipe the spittle clear.

  Coburn pivoted back on his buttocks and brought up both legs together. They took the Mexican in the pit of the stomach and lifted him high into the air.

  Coburn jumped aside, one hand rubbing at his neck, the other grabbing at his holster. The Colt was missing. It had been shaken loose in the struggle, despite the loop usually tight around the hammer.

  The Mexican had scrambled to his feet and was about to try yet again. Coburn braced himself and waited for the man to make his move.

  There was a feint with the right and then the left hand going straight for the eyes, fingers extended. Coburn pulled his head back and knocked the arm upwards. He dropped his body fast and punched up into the man’s belly. As the Mexican fell, Coburn was round and on his back, one arm tightening about his neck, the other chopping at the Adam’s apple.

  Teeth bit deeply into his upper arm as the man managed to twist his head sideways. Coburn let go and jumped to one side.

  The Mexican dived towards the gun that had been kicked away: there was no way in which he was going to get it.

  Whitey let him sprawl, moving fast and stomping his boot heel down on to the rear of the man’s knuckles. He waited as the shout faded and the face turned towards him, then kicked out again.

  The toe of his right boot embedded itself savagely in the Mexican’s startled face. There was a soft squelching followed closely by the cry of agony and the crunching of bone.

  Coburn looked down at the face: he kicked it some more.

  The edge of his heel caught against the top of the left eye socket and the man collapsed on to his back and showed no signs of moving again.

  There wasn’t any point in taking chances.

  Coburn bent down and retrieved the Mexican’s gun. He weighed it in his hand for a few moments, watching the blood wash over the man’s face and the muscles of his arms and legs twitch involuntarily.

  When he checked the chamber, there was one shell remaining. Whitey spun it across his left palm and pointed the barrel down at the man’s chest.

  He squeezed the trigger and the body bucked upwards as the bull
et drove down and through it into the earth beneath.

  “I guess,” said Coburn, “it just ain’t your lucky day.”

  His voice was quiet and, in the vastness of the plain, strangely lost. Coburn tossed the pistol down by the Mexican’s body and walked over towards where the man’s horse was still munching unconcernedly.

  Chapter Eight

  Jed Herne sat cross-legged on the ground eating from a plate of beef and beans. The meat had become rather charred on the outside edge, but it still tasted better than anything he had had inside him since he couldn’t remember when. The beans were well spiced with chilies and he relished the burning sharpness on his palate.

  He reached down and picked up a bottle of wine and swallowed deeply. It wasn’t chilled any longer, but Herne had never been one to fuss about such things.

  He hadn’t been surprised when the Mexes had tried to take the money from him and keep what they were selling. Even so, he had allowed himself to get caught with both hands full and no easy way out He was fast enough to have dropped plate and mug and get his Colt clear…fast enough, but against two guns already cocked?

  Herne shook his head and chewed thoughtfully. It was as well that Whitey had been there. A man almost as fast as himself. Almost?

  Jed grinned. He didn’t know. Had no way of being certain. Come to that, he didn’t want to know. Like he’d said to the man back in that saloon, he sure as hell wouldn’t like to have to live on the difference.

  Only that was what he had lived on today – Coburn’s speed of thought and action. And not for the first time.

  Whenever they had worked together, each man backed up the other naturally, covering and watching, a perfect team. In those days when he had been traveling across the country with Becky and Whitey had been leading a group of men after him, it had not been right.

  Neither of them had ever said as much, but both had known: it had felt wrong. All wrong, Whitey Coburn was his friend: that was the way it was.

  Jed looked up from his food at the sound of a horse approaching.