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  He could tell by the high flush on Hastings’ cheekbones that he had struck at something near to the truth.

  ‘Which of you broke it off, Hastings? Who’s got the biggest reason to hate?’

  Hastings stretched his hands, cracked the knuckles of first the left, then the right. ‘I think you’ve outstayed your welcome. Marshal.’

  ‘You orderin’ me off?’

  ‘Advising.’

  ‘All right. But before I go make sure you understand one thing—there’s only one law in this territory and it ain’t your law. Nor the Double C’s. Vigilantes an’ lynchin’ parties an’ the like, they’re worse than whatever they’re aimin’ to cut down. You hold that tight in your mind an’ think on it before anythin’ else happens.’

  Herne stood by the door, letting Hastings see his right hand hover close to his Colt. ‘I don’t want to come back here usin’ this, Hastings, but if I have to, I will. I’m a man as does what he’s paid for—an’ right now that’s keepin’ the law in these parts. Don’t you forget it.’

  From the window Clifford Hastings watched Herne go, a tall figure walking to his horse, mounting up and riding casually away from the ranch house. Hastings wasn’t one to underestimate a man—and he’d seen what Herne could do with a gun that first night in Liberation.

  Yes, if Herne came back there after him it would mean a lot of trouble. But that was a big word ... that ‘if. He took out his watch again and looked at the time, making calculations in his head.

  Damn Herne and his impudence, talking about Bathsheba and himself like that!

  Damn him!

  Herne let his horse move at its own pace, trying to figure out how far his warning had gone with Hastings. In the end, he decided not very far at all. When a ranch owner got that big there was only one thing most of them wanted—and that was to get bigger still. It was one thing to own a small spread of your own—like the one he and Louise had worked and grown to know and care for—but another to own thousands of acres, hundreds of head of cattle. To have that much power over man and beast: that much wealth.

  No: Clifford Hastings wouldn’t be content to stick with what he had. Especially with the Double C standing in his way ... for the Double C was Bathsheba Emerson. Herne had hit home on a nerve there right enough.

  Raw nerve.

  He wondered what state their relationship had been in when Dan Stewart had come along to be marshal. What difference Bathsheba’s feelings for him had made?

  A feud between two people who were neither of them likely to back down this side of dying. A feud with Dan Stewart in the middle and himself alongside him—now that he’d taken the badge to wear and a few paltry dollars for his pay.

  How had Stewart described it when he’d asked Herne to take the job? About to burst open and explode? Well, that was sure enough right. It surely ...

  He saw the man almost before the shell whipped past his head; felt the wind of it almost before he heard the shot. Herne glanced quickly round in search of cover that didn’t exist. He was in the middle of open range and they knew it—had wanted it like that.

  He pulled at his horse’s rein, touching its flanks with his spurs and calling to it as he bent low over its neck and started into a gallop that would take him away from the group of riders that was coming up behind. Away from them and off at an angle from the man who’d tried to drop him from the saddle with a rifle.

  Power of the animal beneath him surged up through his thighs as he felt it straining for distance; shots sang out but Herne ignored them, knowing that his pursuers were coming at him with speed and only a lucky shot would hit home.

  If his luck was out, well, there was nothing he could do about that.

  Ahead of him the land swung into a gradual rise where it followed the contours that would eventually bring it up to the hills in the distance.

  Herne felt the sun on his back, on the back of his neck; glanced round again.

  To the right there were five riders, to the left and further off, three more. He couldn’t recognize any of them travelling at that speed but he guessed that Seth and Montana were among them.

  So much for Hastings: he’d planned this little show even before hearing what Herne had to say.

  A couple of shells raked the ground only a couple of feet to his right. He’d make the side of the slope—such as it was—then use the Sharps. Just to get the odds down to size.

  The big gun was already out and in his hand when he willed the stallion into a further burst of pace. Time to slow and turn, bring up the rifle and take aim ...

  Herne’s first shot smashed into the leading man of the group of five and sent him crashing to the ground. The animal that had been underneath him continued on its way, suddenly free of the weight that had sweated on top of it. After thirty yards it started to move off to the side, cutting across two of the other riders.

  By that time Herne had fired twice more. A second Broken Bar cowboy was hanging onto his horse’s neck for dear life, while a hole the size of several fingers pulsed blood from the top of his thigh.

  A third was dragging from one stirrup; dragging, bouncing, falling clear away, rolling over: still.

  Herne had ridden away from the sun, changing position, putting its brightness at the backs of his attackers. Six men now, one of them wounded. He whirled round and drew a bead on the one he could now recognize as Montana. Let the horse slow. Saw Montana’s face, chest; up again; fired and the shell tore through the cowboy’s neck, leaving a gaping wound where the windpipe had been and exiting at the rear in a stream of blood.

  Five.

  Before Herne could fire again the wounded man came out of his saddle and sprawled over the ground.

  Four.

  Herne saw them rein in on their mounts, hesitant about riding towards that big Sharps of his anymore. Fine. He rammed it back down under the saddle and called to his horse. Drew his Colt and took off towards them.

  One, a skinny youngster with yellowish hair that hung past his shoulders, kept on coming. The others turned and high-tailed it for home.

  Herne and the youth drew closer and closer, the sun filling the space behind him, making the ends of his hair gleam until it seemed to be on fire. Herne shaded his eyes, almost didn’t see the pistol come up beside the animal’s neck. A shot sang out of that bright sun and Herne moved instinctively to one side and brought up his own Colt.

  Yellow hair, oh, yellow hair!

  As the body jumped and left the horse’s back, strands of hair shot up across the roundness of the sun and began to drift back down through it. They were close now and Herne could see the youngster’s face as his body fell from the center of the light and hit the ground. Eyes clenched tight shut. Mouth open.

  His back struck the ground and arms and legs arched out, pistol going up into a series of curves and loops, high, high in the air.

  Herne reined in and jumped down from his saddle. Colt held ready he walked back to where the youth had fallen. Wanting to be certain; taking care.

  He turned him over with his boot. The bullet had taken him in the chest, on the left side and Herne allowed himself a little nod of satisfaction.

  Traveling at that speed and against a moving target, it was a shot he could be pleased with. Not so, the Broken Bar cowboy. But at least, thought Herne, he’d had guts; at least he hadn’t turned and run, like Seth and the others.

  As Jed Herne walked back to his horse, he felt the warmth of the sun again; his eyes swept over the landscape, over Hastings’ land. It was empty of people— except for himself and the youngster with yellow hair. And the youth was dead.

  He mounted up and carried on his way back to town. He had Hastings’ answer and it was writ clear: clear in the blood of the men he’d sent out against Herne.

  How long would it be, Herne thought, before it had to be written in blood that was Hastings’ own?

  Chapter Ten

  There was enough moonlight coming through the shutters for Herne to be able to pick out the outline
of everything in the room—but that wasn’t what was keeping him awake. The rail at the foot of the bed; clothes hung from the brass knob at the right hand side; set of drawers; wooden stand with a bowl and jug; chair. No: none of those things.

  He was thinking about Clifford Hastings and Bathsheba Emerson: the long, slim fingers of one; the long, dark hair of the other. Sending men out to fight and die for what causes?

  Herne’s mind went back again to the Lincoln County Range War. A whole territory torn apart by hired guns— guns such as his own. He remembered the excitement, the fresh charge of adrenalin through his body each morning. The men he had fought with or fought against.

  But that had been before meeting Louise. Before putting up his gun and getting those hands of his to adapt to the plough and the axe. Calloused they had become, worn and blistered—for the first weeks, his skin had rebelled with blisters the size of dollar pieces. Red and raw when they had burst and the skin had started to form again into another swelling.

  It had been worth it for the look on Louise’s face when he’d got back to the cabin at the end of the day; a look “friar bad grown in maturity, in confidence since the first time he had laid eyes on her when she’d been no more than sixteen. And him twice her years.

  1878.

  Six years: and times they seemed like sixty. At others no time at all. He could see her eyes upon him, feel the lightness of her fingers as she traced the lines on his face, felt the strength in his limbs.

  Now, when he had no wish to think about her, when he wished she would let him rest, the sight of Louise moved across his mind constantly. A long dress, patterned with flowers. Only close to was it possible to see where it had been stitched up and stitched yet again; where blackberry and apple juice had each left their mark. Herne shook his head but the image persisted. The feel of the body that moved freely beneath that dress. Smell of it. Warm.

  ‘Jed.’

  Herne turned and leaned on one arm, looking down at the woman who lay beside him.

  ‘Jed. Why’re you awake?’

  It’s nothin’.’

  ‘Must be something troubling you.’

  Josie came closer to him, shifted her arm against his, her leg coming over one of his own. She reached her face up towards his and, despite himself, he jerked his head backwards.

  She frowned, hurt. ‘Don’t do that?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Pull away.’

  ‘Did I?’

  For answer she closed her fingers about his arm and squeezed it, rubbing the inside of her thigh up and down his leg; closer now so that the tips of her breasts were grazing the hair on his chest.

  ‘Tell me what you’ve been thinking of.’

  Herne shook his head and looked over towards the window.

  ‘I want to know.’

  ‘It’s none of your business!’

  She moved her hand and leg away as if stung and turned quickly from him. Herne pushed back the covers and sat on the edge of the bed. The light through the shutters made slanting patterns over his legs.

  He stood up and went to the window: opened one of the shutters and looked out. The side of the house, the place opposite; further up into town the outline of the top story of The Cattlemen’s House.

  He stayed there for some time, listening to Josie shifting on the mattress behind him. After a while he got cold and went back and slipped under the covers.

  Her warmth drew him like a magnet. He pushed against the roundness of her behind, let his head fall against the curve of her neck as she shifted her face round to kiss him. His cheek, his nose, his mouth. Hands reaching for him.

  ‘God, Jed Herne, I swear you can keep as silent as you like. Just so long as you’re here next to me. I feel so safe when I’m with you, Jed. So safe.’

  He put the palm of his hand to her nipple and watched as her eyes closed. There was suddenly a double explosion as two shots ripped through the woodwork of the door. Herne’s heart stopped for a fraction of a second, then he was pushing Josie across the bed and rolling backwards, one hand grasping upwards for the Colt at the bed head.

  As he fell to the floor a third shot ploughed through the door and then another. From his knees, Herne replied twice and then made a leap at the door and kicked it back.

  The lock shattered and sprang apart, the wood gave at the center. The door rocked back on one hinge and Herne stepped out into the darkness of the small corridor,

  His eyes struggled to become accustomed to the light; darker here than in the room. Herne thought he saw a shape at the end of the space and fired into it. Nothing moved or fell, and then from somewhere else there was a scurrying of movement and the sound of feet on boards.

  Herne snapped off a shot and ran for the stairs. Two, three paces and he was there. Below a door slammed. Herne took the steps in four jumps and opened the door, the handle awkward in his hand.

  In the street nothing stirred. The moon showed the fronts of buildings, hitching posts, a deserted boardwalk. He became conscious of sounds behind him, people waking, lanterns being lit. He turned to go back into the house, a naked man with a Colt .45 in his hand.

  Upstairs, Herne pulled on some clothes and knelt on the bed. People were standing outside and he shouted at them to get away and wait. He grasped Josie’s shoulders and turned her over, feeling the resistance of her body. Her right arm fell sideways from her chest and onto his leg; its fingers were wet with what he knew was blood. One of the shots had gone into her below the rib cage and the soft flesh was sticking here and there to the sheet. Another shell had pierced her breast, drilled through it and pulled away a flap of skin that hung loosely about the wound.

  Herne knelt up and gazed at what he could see of Josie in the light that still seeped into the room. He used the thumb of his right hand to shut her eye-lids. The thumb was stained with her blood and left a pattern on the skin, so that her closed eyes resembled crimson butterflies.

  So safe, she had said. So safe.

  ‘Mr. Herne, I ...’

  He got off the bed. Grabbed his coat and a box of shells. Pushed his way through the people who had crowded round the door.

  The old man was asleep in the livery stables and he didn’t wake as Herne led his horse out into the night.

  It was getting near dawn by the time Herne got close to the Broken Bar. The first strained signs of light were ringing the horizon and here and there were spurts of deepish red, heralds to the dawn. He rode well clear of the ranch buildings, taking a path round to the wind pump a hundred yards or more to the rear.

  Herne tied up the horse and checked his Colt and the bayonet that he had sheathed inside his right boot. He was wearing a wool coat against the early morning chill which he buttoned tight as he started to walk slowly forwards.

  There was a fence round the back of the house and a worn track that led to a door. The door was unlocked. Herne shut it behind him and stood inside, looking around, trying to get his bearings.

  The room where he and Hastings had talked before was through towards the front of the house. He remembered a staircase and guessed that Hastings would sleep upstairs.

  He wondered if the rancher slept alone.

  There were three doors on the upper floor and the first of them led into a cupboard. The second was locked and Herne didn’t want to break it down unless he had to.

  His left hand closed round the handle to the third room and the other rested on the butt of the Colt. He eased the door open and went in, silent but fast. The room was long and large. There was a double bed with the covers pulled back as if whoever had been sleeping there had already risen for the day. The same crude and heavy furniture that Herne remembered from downstairs.

  It was Clifford Hastings’ room all right. Strange that a man so particular about his dress should choose to live in such somber surroundings.

  Herne’s thoughts were interrupted by a noise from the ground floor. He went to the bedroom door and looked out. Seeing nothing, he closed the door behind him and went
to the stairs. A light, which he had not noticed before, shone from underneath the door to the room where he and Hastings had last met.

  Herne took his time getting there, stepping as carefully as he could. Yet soon the rest of the ranch would come to life and Herne would have too many guns to face, too much to do in too little time.

  When he opened the door, Hastings seemed to be waiting for him. Waiting for someone. He was sitting in a chair just past the center of the room and was fully dressed, except for his suit jacket.

  His left hand was resting on the thigh of his left leg, fingers parted like a claw.

  In the other hand he held a pistol that Herne recognized as a Smith and Wesson Schofield .45. A butt that was more curved than his own Colt, a thicker, more clumsy-looking barrel with a rounded section just ahead of the chamber. Not a gun that Herne would ever choose to use, an awkward single-action model, but one which Jesse James was said to have favored.

  Jesse James and Clifford Hastings both.

  ‘I could shoot you down here and now as a robber and thief.’

  ‘You could try.’

  ‘I see very little to stop me.’

  ‘Go ahead.’

  Herne’s hand was by his gun butt, fingers curled and ready; his body automatically dropped into a crouch. Hastings stared at him and the expression on the rancher’s face told him that Hastings wasn’t going to use his gun. Not then.

  ‘I thought you only got others to do your killing for you.’ Herne’s voice was like a whip, cracking out at Hastings from the far side of the room.

  ‘Meaning?’

  ‘You know damn well! Part of it we talked about before—Tolly, Curly Young. That was your men. Same as the bunch that tried to take me right after we was talkin’ here. And now there’s the girl.’

  For the first time, the expression on Hastings’ face changed. He flinched visibly, letting the hand holding the gun drop an inch.

  ‘What girl?’

  ‘Name’s Josie. Was Josie. Worked for Faulkner at The Cattlemen’s House.’

  ‘Well, what about her? What’s she got to do with me or the Broken Bar?’