Death in Gold Read online

They had been to Laredo before. Many times. And on each visit the place seemed somehow different. The shacks and shanties round the outskirts had spread; many that had been there before were falling down and simply being left to rot. Now kids and mangy curs ran in amongst them in an interminable game of chase.

  The center of the town had thickened out. Grown up in more ways than one.

  Where there had once been single storied buildings with huge false fronts, they now had genuine two and three floors. A dentist hung his sign above the property of Davies, Jackson and Co., purveyors of General Merchandise. The Champion Boot and Shoe Maker of Texas shared a building with one Elwood P. Travers, specialist in Fire Arms and Ammunition. A poster showing a pair of straight boots colored a vivid red was above one for the new Smith and Wesson carved handle pistol.

  Two doors down from the Laredo Star saloon was Zelda’s Fun Palace, with girls hanging their heads and bare shoulders from nearly every window.

  Herne and Coburn rode past all of this, taking it in with interest, yet never allowing it to distract them from the possibility of danger. In a town where folk would know them and where their reputation would still be a source for gossip and bragging in the saloons and bars, there could well be somebody drunk enough, puffed up sufficiently with false pride, to call them out. Even to try a shot at their backs.

  But they reached the livery stables without incident.

  The man who limped down to greet them winced visibly as he set his foot to the ground at the bottom of the ladder from the loft. He pushed the pain back from his face arid a wave of recognition took its place.

  “Dang me! It ain’t...?”

  Herne grinned and stepped quickly forward clasping the man by the hand and clapping him enthusiastically on his shoulder. “Bin a long time, Larry. Half thought you might have upped and gone.”

  The livery man shook his head and the frayed ends of whitening hair bounced around the bald spot that dominated his skull. He patted his hands across his broad spreading stomach and smiled. “Only one place I’d be goin’, Jed, an’ that’s six foot under. No mistake.”

  He laughed again and Herne looked at him, finding it hard to accept that Larry and himself were much of an age. Had run together way back when. One night Herne had been facing three outlaws in the main street right there in Laredo. Larry had been backing him up with an old single shot Richmond Sharps. He’d been mighty proud of that rifle – carried it ever since the Shenandoah Valley. That particular night it hadn’t done him a lot of good; not for the first time the mechanism had fouled.

  Larry had taken a bullet high in the left thigh and another lower down in the same leg.

  The doc had got all of one of them out and most of the other. The fragments that were left still bit at his flesh whenever it rained, as soon as winter began to set in.

  Herne noticed he was favoring the leg now.

  “Turnin’ raw?”

  Larry nodded and rubbed the thigh openly. “Damn right! Blasted thing that it is!”

  Jed Herne knew. Knew also that had he stopped those bullets that night he might have been the one to have stayed in Laredo and taken on work in the livery stable. Instead of which.

  “You an’ your friend seem to be well loaded.”

  Herne knew the man was aware of Coburn and his name of Whitey, but was hesitant to use it. “Reckon you can find a space for this wagon of ours? Somewhere out back where it won’t be too noticeable. Horses, too.”

  “Yep. Though now you’ve ridden her through town it don’t seem to matter much where you put her. Ain’t too many secrets kept in a place like this.”

  “I know that.”

  Larry looked at the bullet marks and holes in the wagon’s woodwork. “Looks to me like you got somethin’ in there folk bin tryin’ powerful hard to get their hands on.”

  “They ain’t got near it yet,” interrupted Coburn abruptly, his voice harsh. “Not here neither.” He stared at the livery man hard and long.

  “Tell him he don’t have to worry none about me, Jed. You tell him that. Tell him ‘bout the time...”

  Herne laid a hand on him again. “It’s all right, Larry. I know it’s safer with you than most. But if you could keep a special eye open…for old time’s sake.”

  Larry grinned and patted the gun at his side. “Don’t worry, Jed. No bastard’s goin’ to get his nose even near that there wagon of yourn. Not while I’m about, he ain’t.”

  “Thanks, Larry. You always was a good man.”

  When Herne and Coburn were at the livery stable door, the bald man called after them: “If’n you get up to Zelda’s -give them blasted girls one for me.”

  Jed waved and they walked out into the main street, leaving Larry with his chuckling dreams.

  A couple of hours later the two men had got themselves a room in Ma Carey’s Boarding House and were sitting in a pair of new enamel hip baths at the rear of the Laredo Bathhouse and Barber Shop, Greene and Ross, proprietors.

  Jed splashed the soapy water up underneath his armpits and then reached down to the floor and picked up the glass of whiskey he had sent out for special. Whitey rested his arms on the sides of the tub, his head back, a long cigar stuck out from his mouth, the occasional wisps of smoke merging with the steam of the room.

  The curtain was pulled aside and Rosie Ross appeared, a wooden bucket in one hand. “Either of you gents needin’ hottin’ up?”

  Coburn opened one eye. “You could come over here and rub a little soap over my back. That’d warm me up some.” The eye winked, then closed again.

  He knew well enough she wasn’t about to take him up on it and so did she.

  “I’ll take a little of that,” said Jed, a moment later enjoying the surge of warmth that ran down his back and sides and up between his legs. He glanced up at Rosie, at the dark eyes and fleshy arms.

  There’d been a time when she had done a sight more than soap his naked body and it had been good. It had also been a long time ago.

  “Jed,” her voice was soft and she spoke as she still leant over the tub, “some feller’s bin askin’ round town for you.”

  Herne tensed slightly. “What kind of feller?”

  “Small. Half-breed by the look of him. Dressed pretty fancy.”

  Herne nodded.

  “You know him?” her forearm was almost touching his shoulder now and he could feel her warmth.

  “Could be.”

  “Pete says he saw him close by the end of town talking to a man named Charlie Whitten.”

  Herne shook his head.

  “He’s a wastrel hangs round town. Picks up work where he can. Thinks he’s good with a gun.”

  Herne fixed Rosie with a firm look. “Is he?”

  The brown eyes smiled: “Not once he’s put up against you, he ain’t?”

  Herne returned the smile. “Thanks, Rosie.”

  She stood up, picked up the bucket and walked out of the room.

  Coburn stirred in the bath, breaking the surface of scum that had formed. “You two was havin’ a real nice talk,” he grinned, the cigar still smoldering in his mouth.

  “She didn’t say the name, but I reckon as how Thursby’s in town. An’ he’s askin’ for us.”

  Whitey removed the cigar from his mouth. “Is that a fact? Well now…well now…”

  He lay back once more and settled his back against the smooth enamel. If Antonio Thursby had come looking for them, they surely weren’t about to hide.

  The half-breed found them in the eating house down the street. Both men had been shaved and Jed had let the barber lop an inch or two off his hair. They were wearing clean shirts and feeling pretty damned good. Relaxed.

  Two large T-bone steaks had just been served on oval plates, along with potatoes and beans and thick slices of bread. After they had each taken a mouthful Thursby stepped forward.

  “Ah, gentlemen. So pleasant to see you, again.”

  Neither man answered, but carried on chewing.

  Thursby took another
pace forward, a little hesitant now. He was wearing a dark suit with a light grey waistcoat and a silver watch chain that hung in two loops across its front.

  “I trust – er – your little mission has proved successful.”

  Whitey chewed some more, spat a piece of gristle down on to the floor and finally looked up. “That little mission you’re talkin’ about cost a lot of men’s lives – an’ that’s just so far.”

  Thursby tried to avoid looking back into the pink eyes, but it was difficult He tried to avoid the threat in Coburn’s voice, but that was impossible.

  “Well, at least both of you gentlemen are in one piece. I...”

  “No damned thanks to you!”

  “But…”

  Herne spoke softly, firmly. “How much you agree to pay for them pots?”

  Thursby went as white as he was able. “I…you know…”

  Coburn banged his knife down hard on the table. “You’re damned right, we know!”

  He was halfway up from his seat when the door at the side of the eating house was pushed open and slammed loudly back against the wall. The man who stepped through was about the same build as Jed Herne. He wore a flat brimmed hat with a white cord dangling below his chin. Black shirt and pants. A scowl screwed up one side of his face and he leant his body to the left so that the knuckles of his left hand grazed the butt of his gun.

  Coburn stared at the man, then looked across the table at Herne.

  “Shit!” he said, his voice a mixture of disbelief and disgust.

  “Everything okay, Mr. Thursby?” the newcomer asked.

  “Er…yes. Yes, Charlie.”

  “Sure, Charlie,” said Coburn standing straight and pushing the chair well clear of the table. “But you stick around. When I’ve finished my steak I just might throw you the bone.”

  Charlie Whitten’s scowl grew deeper and the hand stopped moving on the gun.

  Thursby hopped nervously from one foot to the other and back again. Herne did nothing. Said nothing. Waited.

  “See, gentlemen, it’s like this. I’ve got the rest of your money here with me.” His hand moved to the front of his coat and Herne rested his own hand on his Colt. “I will personally take charge of the merchandise here and relieve you of your…er…duties.”

  He looked expectantly from Herne to Coburn and back again. Neither man showed anything in his face. Neither spoke.

  The fingers reached deeper. “Well then, gentlemen, I presume that matter is agreed?

  Coburn stepped forward fast and grabbed hold of the man’s hand and the front of his waistcoat at the same time. He lifted him clear of the ground and sat him down on an adjacent table, clattering the knives and forks to the floor,

  By the door, Charlie Whitten had drawn his pistol halt way out of its holster when he realized that Herne’s Colt was pointing at his chest He froze fast, mouth open and eyes wide.

  Thursby was spluttering with outrage – until Coburn slapped him twice about his swarthy face, drawing blood from the edge of his mouth.

  “Right!” Whitey said menacingly. “You didn’t answer our question. How much was we supposed to give to those damned Mexes?”

  “Five thousand,” the half-breed squealed.

  Coburn hit him again. With his fist this time and full in the center of his face. Thursby’s nose spouted blood down his neat, grey waistcoat

  “How much?”

  “Five thousand,” the little man all but sobbed.

  He winced and fell forward as Coburn punched him in the stomach. Whitey sidestepped neatly and Thursby’s head smacked the floor with a sharp crack that echoed around the dining-room.

  The waitress appeared in the doorway, took one look and went hastily away again. Whitten was still staring down the barrel of Herne’s .45. He didn’t seem to like it, but then he didn’t seem to have a whole lot of choice.

  Thursby tried to get up, but only succeeded in rolling over on to his side. He curled up into himself like a hedgehog in danger.

  “Get up, you half-breed bastard!”

  Thursby didn’t move. Coburn kicked him in the head. He shrieked and scrambled towards the wall. Coburn reached down and lifted him high into the air, wheeling him round in a half circle and finally ramming him up against the wall opposite, feet well clear of the ground.

  “Now let’s get this straight. We got down into Mexico and found they was expectin’ twice what you’d said. When we offered them the five thousand you give us, they wasn’t pleased. Before we could get that junk of yourn out of there we, had to fight off practically the whole of some damned rebel army. An’ I didn’t like that. I don’t take to the idea of gettin’ shot up on account of your twistin’ and connivin’. You understand me?”

  Thursby nodded, his eyes darkly spread with terror.

  “Another thing,” interrupted Herne, talking over his shoulder and still covering the gunman at the door. “We ain’t about to hand over nothin’ to you and your friend here. Less’n it’s a couple of shells apiece. Our deal was to take that wagon to New Orleans and that’s what we’re goin’ to do. Whatever you’re tryin’ to cheat your partner out of, that’s your business. Just don’t expect to get us mixed up in it.”

  “There was no intention to cheat…”

  Coburn dropped him to the floor and the jolt made him stumble awkwardly forward.

  “I think you’ve finished your business here,” Whitey said.

  “Reckon that’s so,” echoed Herne.

  Antonio Thursby looked at his hired gun expectantly. But it was obvious that Charlie Whitten wasn’t about to do anything other than get out of there as soon as he could.

  Thursby walked to the door, slowly at first, finally scuttling through like a small animal. Whitten followed him and slammed the door shut behind him.

  Herne holstered his gun and Coburn came back round to the table. The food on their plates was already a deal colder than it should have been but they ate it with gusto.

  “D’you think he’ll try anythin’ else?” Coburn asked: his mouth crammed with meat.

  Jed shook his head. “I don’t reckon. After you scarin’ the shit out of him like that, he’s not goin’ to be in a hurry to tangle with us again.”

  “Um.”

  The pair of them carried on with their meal, trying to get back to the feeling of well-being they had enjoyed before being interrupted.

  It wasn’t often that Herne was guilty of an error of judgment, but his assessment of Antonio Thursby’s reactions had been far from correct.

  The girl laying alongside Herne said her name was Tina. It probably wasn’t, but that didn’t matter. It was simply something to call out at those times when you had to yell someone’s name and didn’t want to dredge one from your memory.

  So Tina it had been. Tina when she had arched herself underneath him, pale skin reflecting the moonlight sliding in through the window. Tina when she had swung herself on top of him and slithered smoothly down his hard body, gathering him in her warm mouth, red hair falling across his belly. Tina now as she lay inside the crook of his arm, his fingers gently stroking her bare breast.

  She felt him tense as footsteps came within earshot along the corridor outside.

  “Don’t worry,” she said, “it’ll be one of the other girls.”

  But his hand was already on the butt of his Colt and his nerves were fully awake. Through the window, the moon had been replaced by the first light of the sun.

  The steps halted outside the door: Herne cocked his gun.

  The girl pushed herself against his chest.

  “Jed?”

  It was Whitey’s voice.

  “Come on in if n you must.”

  The door opened and a grinning albino stood there, all dressed and ready to go.

  Tina pulled the sheet up over her breasts and tried hard not to stare at the man who had come into the room.

  “You done finished here?” Coburn asked.

  “Guess so.”

  Herne glanced down at the gi
rl and moved his arm away from her. She turned her back on him and curled her legs up towards her stomach. Herne swung his legs over the edge of the bed and caught his long Johns as Whitey threw them from the chair by the door.

  Within a few minutes he was ready. He looked down at the girl, who still hadn’t moved. Herne shrugged his shoulders and walked out of the small room with Whitey following.

  On the street the early morning air struck cold on their faces, like the slap of an angry hand.

  Chapter Ten

  Herne started running twenty yards this side of the livery stable: there were tracks in the dirt of the street which shouldn’t have been there. Heavy wagon tracks.

  Whitey hadn’t been the only one up early that morning.

  Where the wagon had been the day before, now there was nothing but space and scuffed footmarks.

  “Larry?” asked Coburn.

  “I don’t know.”

  Herne found him wedged between two bales of straw. They had been careful not to risk waking too many people. Someone had used a knife on him. There was a stab wound in his back, inches to the right of his spine. The blood around it had not yet dried, the coat and shirt matted together.

  When Herne turned him over, the limbs had not yet set into the hardness of death. Not that that made any difference to Larry.

  The knife had slashed at his throat as well, carving through the skin from the right ear down to beneath the chin. Ends of straw and dust clung to the congealed blood that ran along either side of the wound.

  His hair fell over his head, partly concealing his bald patch. Somehow he looked younger than he had when he was alive,

  Only one place for me to go, he had said. And already he was more or less there.

  Herne sensed Coburn close behind him and the same shiver of coldness he had felt before swept up through his loins.

  “You reckon he tried to stop them?”

  “Said he would. Larry was the kind of man always kept his word.” He looked at Coburn and there was a shadow deep in his eyes. “He kept it best as he could.”

  Coburn turned and stepped past the end bale. “I’ll get the horses fed and watered. They won’t have gone so far we can’t catch ’em easy.”