Billy the Kid (A Herne the Hunter Western Book 13) Page 7

When the sun was at its highest and hottest Charlie Bowdre ran his mount a few yards ahead of the others, then turned it sideways on across their path.

  He raised a hand, fingers outspread. ‘We got to talk.’

  A snarl sped to the Kid’s face and he pulled his horse up short, making it rear up on its hind legs. ‘What the hell you playin’ at, Charlie?’

  ‘Nothin’ only ... only we got to talk, that’s all.’

  Billy quietened his animal and let his right hand drift close to his holster. Herne shifted himself to the side, keeping an eye on both men, hoping that whatever Charlie Bowdre was going to say wouldn’t cause things to erupt into violence.

  ‘I got me a wife, I guess you know that an’...’ Pecos pushed his hat forward on his head and grinned.

  ‘Sure we know that, Charlie, ain’t you always writin’ to her an’ stuff.’

  ‘Never mind that,’ snapped Billy. ‘Let him say his piece,’

  Charlie pulled his pipe from his pocket and set the stem in his mouth, biting down on it with signs of nervousness.

  ‘Thing is ... she ain’t above a few hours ride south-east of here.’

  Billy’s mouth tightened till his lips were barely visible. ‘Go on.’

  Charlie took the pipe from between his teeth and pushed a finger end down into the bowl. ‘I ain’t seen Manuella since the turn of the year an’—’

  ‘Hear that?’ put in Pecos. ‘I told you she was a Mex. I ...’

  One look from Herne was sufficient to shut him up.

  ‘I thought I could ride through with you boys an’ pay it no heed, but …’ Charlie shook his head to one side. ‘... thing is I can’t. No way.’

  Herne watched the Kid’s face, trying to make out what was going on behind it. It was impossible. Seconds dragged across the middle of the day like minutes.

  Charlie’s pipe was back between his lips. Finally, Billy gave a cackling laugh which splintered in the middle and left an odd echo on the air.

  ‘I can understand that, Charlie, you bein’ a married man an’ all. You ride over an’ spend some time with her. We’ll come an’ pick you up on the way back. Week or so time.’

  Charlie Bowdre sighed and relaxed his body, blinking his eyes against the brightness of the light. ‘Thanks, Billy,’ he said quickly. ‘Thanks for seein’ it that way.’

  ‘What did you expect, Charlie? I’m a reasonable man, ain’t I?’

  ‘Sure, Billy. Sure.’

  Mason moved his horse alongside Bowdre. ‘Where’s this wife of yours?’

  Charlie pointed towards the south-east. ‘Place called Valentine. Just north of the border. Can’t miss it–only place for miles either way.’

  ‘Okay, Charlie, we’ll be seein’ you.’ Billy pulled at the reins and swung past him, eager to be moving. Herne, Mason and Pecos fell in behind him, leaving Charlie to move away to the left of their trail, diverging from them further and further.

  ‘You reckon he’s a lucky bastard, Jed?’ asked Pecos, looking over his shoulder at Charlie’s disappearing shape.

  ‘How’s that?’

  ‘Woman of his own to go to an’ all.’

  Herne nodded slightly. ‘Guess it’s okay for him.’

  Pecos looked at the older man. ‘Not for you, huh? You prefer to be on your own, travel light?’

  ‘That’s right,’ Herne answered quietly, not looking at Pecos but off towards the horizon. ‘That’s right. I prefer to travel light.’

  ‘Yeah,’ said Pecos, smiling a young smile and spurring his horse forwards. ‘Me, too.’

  A line of sandhills, the slope of one merging into the next, marked the western edge of their trail. To the other side a flat plateau of scantily grassed land spread towards a rocky mesa a mile to the east. Purple and yellow cactus flowers winked in the sunlight like prairie stars.

  They’d been riding maybe two hours after parting from Charlie when Mason reined in his mount and called for the others to hold up.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Rider comin’.’

  They could all hear it then; somebody heading fast in their direction.

  ‘It’s Charlie, I bet,’ said Pecos. ‘Decided he’d rather ride along of us ‘stead of see that wife of his.’

  ‘Boy,’ said Mason. ‘If you think that it shows how wet behind the ears you still are.’

  ‘Quit gabbin’ and spread wide!’ called Billy. ‘Without any damn cover to speak of we’d best do what we can.’

  They went left and right of the trail, Billy dropping from the saddle and standing alongside his horse, pistol drawn and cocked. Mason pulled the sawn-off shotgun from the saddle bag where it traveled; Pecos lay on the ground, with a shell levered into his Winchester. Herne sat on his mount, hand resting on the smooth butt of his Colt.

  Soon the sound of the single rider was joined by a cloud of dust that showed before the man himself. As head and shoulders pushed above the line of the land, Herne thought he recognized them but couldn’t be certain. Moments later, he could.

  ‘Hold up!’ he called. ‘It’s Garrett.’

  ‘You sure?’ asked Billy, resting his gun arm on the saddle of his horse, which he had drawn round in front of himself. Herne flicked the reins and started out towards the trail.

  ‘I’m sure.’

  Pat Garrett began to slow down a quarter of a mile away, bringing his animal to a walk by the time he arrived alongside Herne.

  ‘You get into another close poker game?’ asked Herne with a suggestion of a laugh.

  Garrett grinned back handsomely. ‘No. Nothin’ like that.’

  ‘You sure hit that trail like Satan himself was after you.’

  Garrett’s face clouded over. ‘Not exactly.’

  Billy Bonney was up with them now, Pecos and Mason close behind.

  ‘What is it then, asked Billy, ‘exactly?’

  Garrett looked at the Kid, then back at Herne. ‘Name Jennings mean any thin’ to any of you?’

  The men looked at one another, uncertain. ‘That be Will Jennings by any chance?’ said Herne after a moment’s pause.

  ‘Uh-huh.’

  Billy turned towards Herne. ‘Who the hell’s he?’

  ‘Last I heard he was wearin’ the badge of a United States marshal.’

  ‘Same when I seen him ...’ began Garrett.

  ‘And when was that?’ snarled Billy, angrily.

  ‘Not too many hours back, ridin’ down out of Honcho. Headin’ towards the Rio Grande with a posse and that badge on his vest for everyone to see.’

  ‘Shit!’ The Kid clenched his fists and punched them against his thighs; his eyes were wide, pupils small and stony. ‘He after me?’

  ‘That’s what he said. Aims to catch you before you can get across the border.’

  Mason swung his mount round towards the south. ‘What we hangin’ on for? Let’s ride out of here.’

  ‘Hold on!’ snapped Billy, ‘How many men in this posse, Pat?’

  ‘Round a dozen.’

  Pecos whistled low through pursed lips. Billy rubbed the middle of his palm against the end of his pistol butt.

  ‘Good men?’ asked Herne.

  ‘Good as he could get.’

  Billy was mounted and turning his horse through a succession of circles. ‘We’ll ride on till we come to cover, then wait up for this–what’s his name?’

  ‘Jennings.’

  ‘Yeah, Jennings.’

  ‘Okay,’ said Mason. ‘Let’s go.’

  Billy came up to Garrett again, stopping next to him. ‘How ’bout you, Pat?’

  Garrett smiled at him. ‘I come this far...’

  ‘Yeah.’ The Kid laid a hand on Garrett’s shoulder for the briefest of moments. ‘Good of you to ride down an’ warn us, Pat.’ He laughed. ‘Told you we’d be friends.’

  ~*~

  Closer to the Rio Grande the land broke into a succession of spiraling rocks and canyons. The layers of sandstone twisted and turned, thrusting out jagged surfaces that glowed all shades of re
ds and oranges in the afternoon sun. Higher the rock became violet, darkening towards gray-blue at the distant summits.

  Billy reined in and scanned the area, choosing the best place for an ambush. To the right of where they were, the trail swung sharply south-west and moved alongside a now-dry watercourse. The thinly-earthed slopes at either side were studded with the creamy white blossoms of Spanish Dagger and the crimson of Ocotillo.

  ‘This is it,’ Billy announced. ‘They even got flowers for wreaths.’ He laughed his high-pitched laugh and pointed to the western side of the canyon.

  ‘Pecos, you an’ Mason get up there. Find yourself a good spot and keep down out of sight. Pat an’ me’ll take this side, along of Herne here.’

  Ten minutes later, the three of them had found an outcrop of reddish rock that pushed up some dozen feet into the air, smaller clefts at either side of it. The ground hollowed out behind, allowing them plenty of room to stretch out and wait.

  Herne took a piece of salt beef from his saddle bag and pulled aside the muslin that covered it, cutting off slices with his bayonet blade.

  ‘That from the war?’ asked Billy, eyeing the blade with something approaching envy.

  Herne reached him over a strip of meat. ‘That’s right.’

  Billy took the beef. ‘One thing I always regretted–not bein’ old enough to be in that. We likely ain’t goin’ to see another–not till I’m too damn old.’

  Herne gave Garrett a slice of the meat and pushed another into his own mouth. ‘If you’d been there,’ he said, chewing hard, ‘maybe you’d think different.’

  Billy looked at him disbelievingly, watching as Herne wiped the bayonet blade against his pants and slid it down into the sheath inside his right boot.

  Garrett passed over his water canteen, angling the brim of his Stetson against the slanting rays of the sun. ‘How come you know this Will Jennings?’

  Herne drank and wiped his sleeve across his mouth. ‘Was workin’ for the railroad a time back, along with a feller name of Coburn. Whitey Coburn. We run into Jennings a few times then. He wasn’t no U.S. marshal in those days, just a man fast enough with a gun to earn a few dollars wherever there was trouble.’

  ‘You go up against him any?’ asked Billy.

  Herne shook his head. ‘Not exactly. Wouldn’t say we was best of friends, though. Him an’ Whitey stood off once ...’ Herne turned his head to one side and spat out a piece of meat. ‘Nothin’ come of it.’

  Billy swallowed from the canteen. ‘What sort of man is he, this Jennings?’

  Garrett levered himself off the ground with the flat of his hand. ‘You’re goin’ to find out soon enough.’

  While Billy and Herne moved up to the jutting section of rock, Pat Garrett went back down to where the horses were hobbled and drew a pair of field glasses from his saddle bag.

  ‘Here,’ he said a few moments later, passing them to the Kid. ‘Take a look for yourself.’

  The posse had halted at the head of the watercourse, the sun slanting into their eyes from the west. At first there seemed to be less than Garrett had warned of, but then three more men rode into sight. Thirteen riders in all–with Will Jennings at the center. Billy focused the glasses on him until he had him down sharp. He wasn’t exactly what the Kid had expected.

  Jennings didn’t look too tall and he was carrying a deal of weight. He wore a scuffed leather coat over a plaid shirt and faded blue pants. His hair was dark, thick and receding; he had a beard and moustache that were ginger at the center, graying at the edges. The most alive feature of his face was the eyes–bright, young blue, never still.

  ‘Why don’t the bastard move?’

  Billy handed the glasses back to Garrett.

  ‘He don’t trust it,’ said Herne. ‘Stands to reason if we saw this place as a good one to hold ’em off, so’ll Jennings. He’s up there sniffin’ danger like some old buck.’

  ‘Shit! You think he’ll find a way round?’

  Herne shrugged. ‘Could be, or—’

  ‘No,’ interrupted Garrett. ‘Someone’s movin’.’

  Herne smiled. ‘Crazy like a fox, that one. He sure don’t like the smell of it.’

  Will Jennings held his ground while first one pair, then another, detached themselves from the posse and began to ride slowly downwards, following the track. The cream and crimson flowers showed less brightly now; the heat of the sun was less strong; behind the three watching men the sky had begun to fill in, darken.

  Herne wet the sight of his Sharps and leaned the stock against his shoulder. With a rifle like that he could have taken Jennings where he was, but the thought left Herne’s mind as soon as it entered. A man like that was due a lot more than a single bullet from out of nowhere.

  ‘How ’bout it?’ asked Garrett as the first two men, moving their animals at a cautious walk, came level with them below.

  Billy shook his head, answering in the same whispered tones. ‘Let ’em through. It ain’t them we got to worry about.

  They waited while the second pair passed along in the trail of the first, Will Jennings watching carefully from the top of the canyon, keeping an eye on track and rock rim for the least sign of danger.

  When the first two men reached the far side, one of them turned and removed his Stetson, waving it back and forth, side to side in sweeping arcs. Still there was no response from Jennings. The third and fourth men arrived safely and one of them set his hands to his mouth.

  ‘It’s okay, marshal. Ain’t nothin’ here. Bring ’em through.’

  The voice echoed from rock to rock, the final syllable fading slowly. Only when it had disappeared and all was silent again did Jennings make his move.

  He sent four men down the trail, spread wide and long, Jennings himself setting off then, the remainder of the posse following.

  Billy clicked back the hammer of his pistol and set his wrist against the edge of rock. A little way along from him, Pat Garrett sighted along his rifle.

  ‘Wait for it,’ said Billy almost under his breath. ‘Take your time, take your time.’

  A smile started to spread over his face and stopped abruptly like a mask ripped clear as a shot rang out from the far side of the canyon.

  ‘Jesus, I ...’

  One of the men directly in front of Jennings swayed violently in his saddle, shot through the side. Jennings turned his horse fast and yelled a warning to his men, heading for the cover at the bottom of the rock.

  Billy sent a couple of shots after him, but the angle was diminishing all the time. The rest of the posse rode for safety, some of them firing upwards as they went. The four men who’d reached the far end gave covering fire with their rifles, bullets soon ricocheting among the sandstone about Billy’s head. Close by him, Herne and Garrett exchanged glances that said their chance had gone.

  Cursing wildly, Billy knew it, too.

  The one man who’d been hit had now reached the side of the rock and was following Jennings and the rest back out of range. Billy leaned dangerously over the rock, trying to get better aim and a whining slug whipped sandstone across his eyes, making him dodge back fast.

  He jumped down into the hollow, pushing his pistol back into its holster, anger showing in every line of his face, in every angle of his body. There was nothing for them to do now but ride. The posse knew where they were and had enough men, and likely supplies, to keep them under siege for days. It was a race to the Rio Grande after all.

  He kicked viciously at a piece of rock, sending it skittering along the ground.

  ‘Let’s get the hell out of here!’

  The three of them climbed into their saddles and began to ride towards the south-east.

  ‘We’ll skirt round them four at the end of the canyon,’ said Billy. ‘Swing round and pick up the trail further south.’

  ‘How ’bout Pecos an’ Mason?’ asked Herne, coming alongside.

  Billy cleared his throat and spat. ‘They can take their own chances. Whichever one it was fired that shot c
an get his from that damn posse for all I care.’ His eyes stared wildly at Herne. ‘Cause if they don’t shoot the bastard, it’s sure that I will!’’

  Chapter Eight

  They rode until the horses were too tired to risk pushing harder, then made camp in a hollow well wide of the trail. Unwilling to risk a fire, they ate dried meat and stale biscuits, hunching down into their saddle blankets as the rawness of the night wind began to cut across them from the north-east.

  ‘We’ll split the watch,’ announced Billy, taking his blanket over towards a steep incline to the north of the camp site. ‘Pat, you relieve me, then Herne.’

  Herne and Garrett glanced at one another, dragging their saddles closer and settling down against them. The sky was studded with formations of stars, a crescent of moon slipping through the branches of the trees that curved around two sides of the hollow.

  ‘You reckon Jennings’ll try anythin’ by night?’ asked Garrett, tipping tobacco into a rectangle of thin white paper and tapping it even.

  ‘I doubt it. Even if he’s close enough, he might not think it worth the risk. Not when all he needs to do is get to the river before us an’ wait.’

  Garrett licked his tongue along the edge of the paper and pressed it down. ‘There’s more’n one place to cross.’

  ‘I know. Still …’

  The quick, sharp scratch and flare of the match made Herne turn his head; Garrett drew on the thin cigarette and slowly exhaled smoke through his nostrils.

  ‘This Coburn you was speakin’ of ... he still around?’

  ‘Whitey? Far as I know. Ran into him last couple of years back. Arizona way.’ He looked at Garrett, only the glow at the cigarette’s tip clear. ‘Livin’ the lives we do, it ain’t easy to keep in touch, have friends.’

  Garrett drew on the cigarette and flicked ash away to the ground. ‘You regret that?’

  Herne didn’t reply straight off, but thought. ‘Regret? That’s too strong a word, maybe. Man chooses his own road, he’s got to live by it.’

  ‘Yeah, guess you’re right,’

  Herne pulled the blanket up over his shoulders and set his head against the smooth leather of the saddle. ‘I’m gettin’ some sleep.’

  Pat Garrett didn’t answer but sat there, smoking and staring up at the stars, looking for patterns he couldn’t clearly see.