Cross-Draw Page 8

  ‘Recognize him, marshal? Curly Young, one of my best punchers. Been with me for five years. A good man, steady, not a drinker, never drew down on another man in his whole life. A law abiding citizen of this territory, marshal—the sort of a man you and your friend there are paid to protect.’

  Mumbling from the drinkers, sounds of shuffling, awkward feet. Herne could see more people gathering outside. He cut off a chunk of steak and set it to his mouth. No point in letting good food go cold.

  ‘Don’t you want to know what happened to him, marshal? You don’t seem awful curious, standing up there like that. Perhaps you know already.’ She stared at him accusingly. ‘But in case you don’t, I’ll tell you. Curly was out riding line, him and one of the other boys. Some dozen of them came up fast. Rode them down. Mitch got away but, as you can see, Curly wasn’t so lucky. They cut his throat and brought him near enough to the ranch house for us to see him. There was a note on his body, just so that we’d know who’d done it.’

  Bathsheba Emerson ran the tip of her tongue round her lips; they were dry and the back of her mouth felt parched.

  Dan Stewart said his first word for some time: ‘Who?’

  She took a pace towards him, then another. ‘You mean you don’t know, marshal? You don’t know who did this to one of my boys?’

  ‘If’n I knew, ma’am, I wouldn’t be wasting my breath asking.’

  Herne watched closely, wiping a piece of bread round his plate and pushing it into his mouth.

  ‘It was the Broken Bar, marshal. Who else did you think it could be? Hastings and the Broken Bar.’

  Everyone started talking at once; almost everyone, Herne and Stewart exchanged hasty glances.

  ‘You say Hastings was there?’

  ‘Of course he wasn’t. He wouldn’t do his own dirty work when he can pay others to do it for him. But it was his men, right enough.’

  Stewart started to walk down the saloon. Fifteen yards away from her he stopped. ‘You brought the note?’ he asked, left hand outstretched.

  Bathsheba Emerson reached behind her and Miller put the note into her hand. She unfolded it and read it aloud: ‘This is a warning. Every time my stock is rustled by you thieves from the Double C, your men will pay the bill. Ifs time someone took care of the law round here and we’re going to do it—like we did with that murderer Tolly.’

  Stewart continued on his way. Herne had moved from the booth and was covering the marshal from an angle to the left, watching Scott Miller and the men behind him. Stewart took the note from Bathsheba Emerson’s hand and read it slowly twice. Then he folded it up and pushed it into his back pocket.

  ‘What you aimin’ to do, Miss Emerson?’

  ‘What do you think?’ Her voice was like a slap.

  ‘I hope you’re goin’ to take Curly back to the ranch and bury him proper. Nothin’ more.’

  Bathsheba threw back her head and laughed, a sharp ringing laugh that echoed round the saloon. When she spoke it was almost in a whisper. ‘We’ll take Curly back home all right. Then we’re going to mount up and ride over to the Broken Bar and show Hastings what kind of trouble he’s bought.’

  ‘No, you ain’t.’

  She laughed again, full in the marshal’s face, and started to turn away from him. He grabbed at her arm and as he did so Scott Miller went for his gun.

  ‘Freeze!’

  Jed Herne had seen the move and his own had been faster. The ramrod’s pistol was half-way out of his holster when Herne’s Colt was drawn and pointing at him, hammer cocked back. The big man snarled and let the gun slide back into his holster.

  ‘Any of you make a move an’ you’re dead men!’

  The Double C boys looked at Herne’s gun and believed him. No one made another play. Stewart still had Bathsheba Emerson’s arm tight within his hand and she stood her ground, green eyes glaring hatred at him.

  ‘Let me go!’

  Stewart shook his head and she tried to pull away from him; he held fast and she aimed a slap at his face with her free hand but he parried the blow and then beat her to the .32 at her hip. Stewart tossed the little gun back along the floor towards where Herne was standing, covering the rest of the Double C gang.

  ‘Don’t you dare!’

  She made to slap Stewart again and this time his left hand went fast for the Remington at his chest. The open palm cracked across the marshal’s face exactly as the end of the gun barrel pressed home between her breasts.

  ‘Don’t!’

  She stared at his handsome, angry face with the white marks of her fingers imprinted on his cheek; felt the prodding of his gun in the cleft of her breasts.

  ‘You bein’ a woman won’t make it any less likely for me to kill you.’

  She wrenched her arm free and he took half a pace back. ‘What I hear,’ she hissed, ‘it’s all the more likely, not less.’

  Miller glared at Stewart: I’m goin’ to tell you something, marshal. Next time we meet up you’d best go for one of them guns of yours right off. ‘Cause I ain’t goin’ to let no man treat Miss Emerson that way. Not an’ live.’

  ‘Stop runnin’ off at the mouth, Miller,’ snapped Herne, ‘or I’ll put a bullet in you right now.’

  Stewart fished out the note and held it in his hand, showing it to Bathsheba. ‘I want your word you’ll let us handle this.’

  ‘You’re joking ...’

  ‘I ain’t. You take your men back to the Double C and wait.’

  ‘For what, marshal? An invitation to your funeral?’

  ‘Maybe. That’s my affair. But you’re going back—this is law business. Like you said yourself.’

  ‘And if I refuse?’

  ‘You and your boys can spend the night here in jail.’

  Bathsheba stamped her foot in temper and slapped a hand against her thigh. ‘Damn you, marshal! Damn you!’ She rounded on her heel and pushed through her men and out into the street.

  Herne moved after her, herding Miller and the rest of Double C boys onto their horses.

  ‘Want me to ride with ’em a-ways, Dan?’ he asked.

  Stewart shook his head. ‘Miss Emerson knows what’s right by the law. She’ll go back to the ranch for today. Won’t you, ma’am?’

  The woman hissed an inaudible reply through her teeth and jerked at her horse’s rein, pulling it away and into the street. She tossed her head and the hat fell backwards, revealing her pinned-up hair.

  ‘You’ve got till this time tomorrow, marshal. You and your ... your friend there. After that this town will see that Hastings isn’t the only one to take the law into his own hands!’

  With a whirl of dust, she galloped out of town, her men following, the dead body of Curly Young bouncing on the back of the spare horse to which it was tied.

  Chapter Nine

  It hadn’t been easy for Herne to talk Dan Stewart into letting him ride out alone to the Broken Bar. But finally Herne had persuaded him that if the two of them rode in there together it was likely to lead to shooting before many words got spoken. Besides, Herne didn’t trust some of the Double C boys not to come back into town and stir up things there.

  So the two lawmen split up, with Stewart staying in Liberation and Herne riding out towards the North Platte River.

  At the edge of Broken Bar territory he came upon wire, stretched out in both directions for as far as the eye could see. A little way in and he could see the sails of the wind pump turning gently in the breeze. And then the sound of hoofs and a dust that clouded the new brightness of the day.

  Herne’s hand automatically went to his Colt; his left hand slid the Sharps a few inches from its place by the saddle. He reined in his horse and waited.

  Likely they’d see who he was and what he wanted before they started going for their guns.

  Likely ...

  If they didn’t...

  There were four of them and as soon as they saw him they split up, still heading in his direction but letting fifteen to twenty yards of daylight separate them, m
aking it more difficult for one man to pick them off.

  Whoever had taught them their business, thought Herne, had done it pretty well.

  When they saw Herne was making no attempt to go for a gun or to ride off, the center pair pulled back together again, coming directly for him, the others standing off.

  ‘What’s your business, mister?’

  ‘Look at that badge he got on him, Seth.’

  The man named Seth drew back his head and stared at Herne’s chest, then let his right hand get awful close to his gun butt. Herne narrowed his eyes, let the cowboy see that he’d noticed the move, but let it go.

  ‘I said, what’s your business, mister?’

  ‘You seen the badge,’ said Herne. ‘Ain’t that enough?’

  ‘Not out here it ain’t. This is Broken Bar range. This ain’t town.’

  ‘Don’t you have no law out here?’

  Seth tapped his Colt: ‘This.’

  ‘And Hastings?’ Herne asked.

  The man alongside Seth grinned. ‘It’s his ranch. His word what calls the tune.’

  ‘He says what’s law and what ain’t,’ said Herne. ‘That it?’

  ‘You ask a lot of questions, marshal.’

  ‘What I’m paid fer.’

  ‘An’ that gun you’re wearin’ – you paid to use that, too?’

  ‘What d’you think?’

  ‘I think someone might be payin’ you too much.’

  ‘I wouldn’t lay bets if I was you.’

  Seth sneered and left his hand on the butt of his pistol.

  Herne let his horse move a little under him. He reckoned the two on the flanks weren’t up to much and could probably be discounted. Seth was getting itchy with that trigger finger of his, just dying to squeeze back on the Colt he was wearing. The one with him didn’t seem so keen for gunplay, but he wore his gun strapped to his leg like he knew how to use it.

  ‘We’re wastin’ time, Seth.’

  ‘You’re right.’ He came a mite nearer to Herne. ‘You was tellin’ us your business on Broken Bar land.’

  ‘I weren’t, but I’m here to see Hastings.’

  ‘On whose say-so?’

  For answer, Herne tapped the badge that was reflecting the sun in tiny shafts of light.

  ‘Mister, I told you what we think of the law here!’

  ‘Seth, for ...’

  ‘Jesus!’

  Herne had gone for his gun when neither man before him had expected it and his speed had been impossible for them to follow. All they knew was that they were suddenly staring, not at the man with greying hair, but at the end of his Colt .45.

  ‘Let that hand of yorn drift away from your gun belt. Do it easy now.’

  ‘Hell, I ...’

  ‘Do it, Seth.’

  One more glance at Herne’s face and Seth took his friend’s advice.

  ‘You two out there, ride in where I can see you better. And keep both hands well clear of anything that might get you into trouble.’

  They rode over, worry under their Stetsons, ordinary cowpunchers who were none too keen on getting involved in a fight—especially when the chances of coming out on top didn’t look so good. He was only one man, but ... but he’d got the drop on Seth and Montana like they never saw him move.

  ‘Okay, now we’ll all take us a ride down to Mister Hastings. Me behind and you four in front.’ Herne let them see the gun in his hand clearly. ‘Any one of you decides to be a hero, he’s goin’ to earn himself a quick, cheap funeral. That understood?’

  Nods and grunts.

  ‘Then let’s get goin’.’

  The Broken Bar didn’t have the style of the Double C, not when it came to the main ranch house. But it did seem bigger and more solid: like Hastings had had it built to stay. Stay and grow.

  There was only one other Broken Bar man in sight as Herne rode in—an old timer nailing pieces of fresh planking onto one of the outhouses. He turned his head slowly as the riders approached, then jerked fully round, almost choking on the nail he held between toothless gums. Finally his mouth dropped open and the nail fell to the ground.

  What in tarnation was going on? Seth and Montana and a couple of ±e other boys being ridden herd on by one man.

  The old man blinked and saw the badge on Herne’s shirt as the big man rode closer. He reached for the hammer and stood with it in his hand as the procession passed him by.

  They were close to the ranch house, when the door opened and Clifford Hastings made his appearance. Herne wondered from how far off he had seen them coming.

  He had on a black suit, though Herne was sweating under the shirt he wore and the day looked to get a whole lot hotter before it cooled down. A watch chain dangled from his waistcoat; the long fingers hung patiently by his sides.

  Herne could see no sign of a gun, but didn’t doubt that the rancher wore one somewhere.

  ‘Marshal,’ he said in greeting. ‘I see you stayed in the job longer than you figured when we were talking.’

  ‘Seems like.’

  Hastings took another pace forward. ‘If I didn’t know better, I’d think you was arresting my men there. That’s the way it looks.’

  Herne shook his head: ‘Ain’t arresting anybody yet Just come in to talk.’ He nodded in the cowboys’ direction. ‘They didn’t see it that way.’

  Hastings smiled and gestured with one hand. ‘Don’t reckon too much to that, marshal, I guess they might have been a little hasty, but that’s understandable. Considering ...’

  ‘Considering what?’

  ‘Trouble we’re having with the Double C

  Herne’s face broke into a broad smile. ‘You got gall, Hastings, I’ll give you that much.’

  ‘Marshal Herne, I don’t ...’

  ‘Like hell you don’t!’

  Hastings looked closely up at Herne: he wasn’t smiling any longer. ‘Let’s step inside and talk about this. What d’you say?’

  Herne nodded: ‘That’s what I rode out this way for.’

  Hastings had a quick word with Montana, telling him to get the others back out onto the range double quick. Then he showed Herne into the house.

  It was very different from the Emerson place. The furniture was rough and heavy, a thick layer of dust clouded the surfaces, shown up by the sunlight that filtered through windows patterned with months of dirt. The rug on the floor of the room where Hastings led him was worn and patched. There was a musty smell, as if the room hadn’t been aired for ages.

  ‘You aren’t averse to a drink?’

  ‘I’ll take some whisky.’

  Hastings got up: ‘Jack Daniels suit you?’

  ‘Fine.’

  Herne watched, fascinated, as the long, spidery fingers picked up the square-shaped bottle and poured some of the contents into two glasses.

  ‘What are we drinking to?’ Hastings asked, holding his own glass high.

  ‘Law and order?’ Herne suggested, challengingly.

  Hastings didn’t hesitate, but put back his head and drank.

  ‘What d’you think of the ranch?’

  ‘Didn’t see too much, but what I seen, it’s fine. Good grazing land. Plenty of water. Guess you’ll be driving a pretty big herd down to Cheyenne in a few weeks?’

  Hastings stood up and walked towards the window at the end of the room. When he turned to face Herne again, his hands were in front of him, palms apart, tips of the fingers together to form an arch. He gazed down at the shape for several seconds before speaking again.

  ‘You’re right. It is good land. It is a big ranch. But …?’

  ‘But it could be bigger.’

  ‘Correct. Without the Double C

  ‘This country’s big enough fer you both to grow as much as you like.’

  ‘No.’ Hastings separated his hands, walked back towards his chair; stood with his arms resting on its back. ‘For one thing, the way to expand is with the line of the river—and their land’s in the way. For another, they’ve been harrying and rustling my s
tock for the best part of a year.’

  ‘You say.’

  Hastings brown eyes flickered dangerously. ‘That wouldn’t be calling me a liar?’

  ‘It’d be sayin’ that Dan Stewart’s sweated a lot of time trackin’ down so-called rustlers from the Double C an’ ain’t come up with a thing.’

  ‘And you take his word against mine?’

  Herne set down his glass slowly and deliberately, then stood up. ‘Yes. Yes, I do.’

  ‘Even allowing for what’s between Stewart and that Emerson woman?’

  ‘Which is nothing—at least, not as far as Dan Stewart is concerned, it ain’t.’

  Hastings straightened up, took out his watch and looked at it, then replaced it at the front of his waistcoat.

  ‘Expecting company?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Tired of talkin’, maybe.’

  ‘Not at all.’

  ‘How ‘bout this then? If you get enough stories goin’ ’bout the Double C rustling your stock an’ the law don’t do nothin’ about it—on account of the fact it ain’t really happenin’—no one’s goin’ to blame you fer taking matters into your own hands. Like that business with Curly Young. An’ with Tolly.’

  Hastings managed to look surprised. ‘What business? I heard something about Tolly being sprung from jail, but...’

  Herne stepped towards the ranch owner. ‘Tolly was sprung all right. Sprung from the neck. Right after that one of the Double C boys had his throat cut.’

  ‘And what makes you think it was Broken Bar work?’

  Herne took the crumpled note from his pants and gave it to Hastings, who read it quickly before dropping it onto the seat of the chair.

  ‘It’s a fool trick to lay blame on us.’

  ‘They’d kill two of their own men to do that?’

  ‘Bathsheba Emerson would do anything to see me and my ranch wiped off the face of the earth. Anything! You don’t understand her cunning or her determination. You can’t.’

  ‘What about her motives, Hastings? Why should she want rid of you so bad?’

  The rancher looked as if he was about to answer, but turned away instead.

  ‘I could make a guess,’ offered Herne. ‘Two people, powerful, man an’ a woman. Nothin’ more natural than that they should meet, become attracted, arrange to marry maybe.’