River of Blood Page 9

  The door opened and a passenger began to call out, ‘What the deuce is . . .

  Duquesne turned quickly and let his arm fall from Becky’s throat. She immediately dropped down on to the floor.

  Herne’s right hand dived for the butt of his Colt. The gambler’s own gun moved to cover Herne.

  ‘Gentlemen!’

  The sudden voice was high-pitched, young, yet full of authority. Both men held their positions. The voice had come from behind Herne and instinctively he looked over his shoulder for a fraction of time. Duquesne squeezed off a shot so quickly that it thudded harmlessly into the wood paneling.

  Then he raced past Herne, knocking him away from the door, and out on to the deck.

  Captain Leathers walked up to Herne. ‘I see that you have found the man you were looking for.’

  Herne nodded abruptly and said, ‘Found and lost him, ma’am – At least for now.’

  He turned and began to help Becky to her feet.

  ‘Leave the girl in my care,’ said the captain. ‘If that man needs hunting down, you had better be doing it. But take care that you don’t injure any of my passengers.’

  Before she had finished the second sentence, Herne was out on to the deck in pursuit of the gambler. When he got to the top of the flight of steps which led down to the deck below, a bullet close by his head told him where Duquesne was.

  Herne drew his weapon and fired once in the direction from which the shot had come. Then he took the steps four at a time, landing on the deck quickly enough to see a white-shirted figure disappearing into the main salon of the boat.

  Only a few of the many people gathered inside had heard the shots. There was so much noise and general movement that most people continued with their drinking, dancing or gaming. A small orchestra sat on a raised stage in the corner of the room, playing a quadrille.

  Herne stepped several paces into the crowd, then stopped and looked around. There was one other door, directly opposite the one by which the two of them had entered. No one had gone out of there, he was sure.

  So . . . Suddenly one of the women in the room screamed and the sound of her voice rose above the music and the general jollity. People began to move, to look around anxiously.

  At that moment, Duquesne fired. He missed his mark.

  He did not miss an elderly lady with grey hair who was standing to Herne’s right, one arm over that of her husband.

  She swung round to face her husband, mouth open with shock. From between her breasts, like some fine ornament, a splash of blood appeared on the front of her silvery dress.

  Herne shouted above the noise, ‘Everybody stay still. That way nobody’ll get hurt.’

  The remark had the opposite effect to the one intended.

  More women started to scream. There was the clear sound of sobbing, the angry shouting of the men. The woman who had been shot was now slumped to the floor in front of her husband, moaning softly as he cradled her in his arms, the blood beginning to saturate both of their clothes.

  Herne saw the gambler move near the stage, then jump up on to it. He took aim and fired in one movement. Tried to allow for the fact that Duquesne was still moving. Not totally successfully.

  There was a crash as the gambler fell sideways and collided with the snare drummer, sending the drum crashing and reverberating to the floor. Duquesne felt down at his thigh and the fingers came away with a coating of his own blood.

  And there was the gunfighter coming towards him. He lifted the little Colt in front of his face and took aim.

  Too slow. Too late.

  'Herne fired again and this time he did not miss. The bullet smashed into Duquesne’s right hand, tearing the back of it wide open and shattering the handle of the tiny weapon. It passed through the hand and deflected upwards off the wrist bone, burying itself in the flesh between shoulder and neck.

  Herne stood in front of the stage. Five astonished musicians stared at the two men. Now the packed room was silent except for one woman still stifling her sobs against her handkerchief and the last vibrations of the snares on the bottom of the drum.

  Duquesne looked at Herne, at the Colt .45 in his hand, and waited for the end. But it was not to be . . . not yet . . . and not that way. Herne had scores to settle which demanded a richer vengeance. Especially against this man. This …

  He holstered his gun and the gambler’s eyes blinked.

  ‘Well? What are you going to do, suh? Are you going to hand me over to the proper authorities for trial?’

  But all Herne gave the man for an answer was his grim smile.

  That and a promise which was spoken in his eyes only promise which said: I am my own authority and I will exact my own punishment. And it will be as savage as it can possibly be.

  Duquesne began to moan lowly under his breath and Herne sneered at the cowardice which lay beneath all the man’s fine manners, his clothes and appearance.

  ‘What are you going to do, suh? Tell me, I beg of you.’

  For reply, Herne put a hand into one of his pockets and drew forth a card. He held it up for the gambler to see: the Ace of Hearts. ·

  ‘I found this on the floor by your cabin door, Duquesne. You must have given it to Becky as a token of your affections. And it must have fallen to the floor when you ripped her dress open in an attempt to take her by force.’

  Herne’s voice had risen as he said this and there was a ripple of disturbed reaction from those listening.

  Herne reached down to his boot with the other hand.

  ‘And here is the second thing I have for you, you murdering bastard?

  He slowly and deliberately drew forth from his boot an army bayonet.

  Duquesne pushed himself back across the stage with a look of sheer terror in his eyes; the crowd drew its breath. Herne climbed on to the stage and began to move the short distance towards his enemy.

  Then there was the captain’s voice again: ‘The man must be under my authority now! He is unarmed and to kill him would be murder. You must allow him to be locked away in his cabin until we arrive at Vicksburg. Then you may take him to the marshal there.’

  Herne stood straight, the bayonet shining dully in his hand. Looked at the woman, at the certainty in her expression.

  ‘It’s your boat, ma’am,’ he said grudgingly.

  ‘Take him,’ she ordered two of the sailors who stood by her with rope and weapons of their own.

  They walked to the stage and clambered up on to it as Herne moved away. Duquesne quietly allowed himself to be led down.

  ‘You need not tie him yet,’ said the young woman captain.

  ‘He is wounded too badly to be dangerous.’

  It was a reasonable assumption . . . but a wrong one.

  Half-way across the room, Duquesne rounded on Herne and with his left hand went for the gun carried by one of the sailors. His fingers had snatched it from the surprised man’s grasp when Herne reacted.

  He hurled the bayonet with all of his strength. It plunged into the gambler’s chest on the left side of the breast bone, close to his heart.

  Duquesne was knocked backwards several feet by the force of the blow and as he fell the tip of the bayonet embedded itself into the floor.

  By the time Herne had reached the body. Duquesne was dead, his blood pumping out on to his shirt, staining the white silk the color of scarlet.

  Herne felt in his pocket once again for the playing card. The one which had nestled between Becky’s breasts. He held it above the dead body, held it high between two fingers, then allowed it to flutter down.

  It landed on the blood-soaked shirt, and stuck fast, soon to become the color of blood itself.

  ‘That’s one heart too many he played around with,’ said Herne, so quietly that few could hear him. ‘One heart too many.’

  He stepped over the body and walked past the captain without saying another word.

  In her cabin, Becky was lying huddled in between the covers of her bed. When she saw Herne come into the little
room, the tears sprang to her eyes again.

  He went over and sat on the bed and looked down at her face. Before she had looked so much older, almost a woman. Now, tears pouring down her cheeks, she was just like a little girl.

  He looked at her and wanted to apologies, to tell her how wrong he had been to use her for his own ends. He wanted to say a whole lot of things but he was Herne and he could not say one of them.

  He just sat there and looked down at her and alter a while she stopped crying and reached her hand out from under the covers and rested it on top of his. And a while after that, she closed her eyes and slept.

  Seven

  Becky had begged to be allowed to make this part of the journey on horseback, but Herne had not liked the idea. Apart from anything else, some kind of wagon was useful for the amount of supplies that they needed to carry with them.

  But he did not feel that he could deny her; not at this time. So when they left the sternwheeler at Vicksburg, Herne bought fresh mounts for each of them, along with a third horse loaded with the things that they needed.

  Four of the men he was hunting down were dead: three remaining.

  Another long journey, one for which he was only too ready, but which Becky, after her recent experiences, could have done without. However, there was no alternative. And the girl seemed cheerful enough.

  ‘You don’t have to worry about me, Jed. I’ve been working and riding ponies almost since I could walk.’

  Herne grunted and shook his head in agreement. There were other things on his mind. Especially Whitey Coburn. Any time now the albino would make another play . . . and this time Herne was certain that he would be leading his men himself.

  A man who lived by selling his gun could not afford failure.

  But Herne said nothing of this to Becky. He rode slightly ahead of her, the pack horse trailing behind at the end of a length of rope. Becky looked around at the clumps of trees which stood here and there between their trail and the Mississippi. She gazed about her; knew that Herne was pre-occupied and guessed it to be something to do with the next man he had said they must find.

  Larry Harvey: whose red wig had flapped up and down like some grotesque bird while he had raped Louise.

  Larry Harvey: bald, fat . . . frightened.

  But it was not to be Harvey or Coburn that brought trouble first. For Herne was not the only man who did not give up on what he wanted.

  They were fording one of the small rivers which fed the giant Mississippi when Herne looked up to his left. There on a bluff only just visible due to the darkness of the- trees which spread out behind him, sat a figure on a horse.

  Despite the conditions, Herne could see that the horse was jet black. There was something, too, that he recognized about the way the rider sat in his saddle. He could not see the face, but he was certain that he knew who it was.

  Herne looked round at Becky. She was concentrating on the movement of her mount through the water and had not looked up. So Herne said nothing.

  When next he glanced at the bluff; there was nothing between himself and the silhouetted trees but space.

  They rode into Floyd carefully. If they hadn’t done so, they might have gone right through it without noticing it was there. A scattering of low wooden buildings; a general store, saloon, barbershop; the only building which was in any way impressive was the jail. A mangy mongrel dog scavenged around outside the saloon, oblivious of anything going on around him.

  Hell, thought Herne, you’d have some job painting this town red. Might get it a little pink maybe, but even that’d be a whole mess of effort.

  He called out to an old man sleeping under his hat against the boardwalk. ‘Hey, mister. Tell us where the livery stable is?’

  The hat edged upwards, uneasily, as though its wearer least expected to be spoken to that afternoon. Any afternoon. .

  ‘Sure,’ the man said, after he had looked at Herne and Becky very edgily. ‘Head round the back of the store over there and you’ll see it. Probably won’t be anybody about, though. Just put your horses in yourself and see Henry in the saloon after.’

  The hat lowered over the face, then lifted again.

  ‘You can tell Henry,’ the man chuckled, ‘he’s the one who stinks of horse shit!’

  Again the hat dipped down, only this time it shook with the man’s laughter.

  Herne said his thanks and led Becky around to the livery stable. The first thing they saw was the black horse. Becky’s heart leapt, but she said nothing. Neither did Herne.

  The girl was unsure what she felt. If it was Matt’s horse, and she was almost certain that it was, then she would be pleased to see him. No, more than pleased. Except . . . except that she wasn’t sure of Herne’s reactions. She did not want any trouble. Not between Matt and Jed. Not now. As for Herne, he was content to wait and see what the boy wanted. He didn’t want trouble between them either.

  Not now.

  The trouble with life is you rarely get things when you want them . . . especially little things like trouble.

  Becky was tired and went to her bed early, even though the only rooms they had been able to find had mattresses as bumpy as the Sierra Nevadas and stains that told of who-knew-what nights.

  Herne made his way to the saloon. There was nothing else to do: cards and whiskey: and making sure you didn’t take a seat with its back towards the door.

  Half-way through a winning hand of poker, Matt Bronson came into the room. He saw Herne immediately, flicked his eyes over him, then passed on towards the bar. Herne sat back and pushed some more coins into the centre of the table. From one corner of his eye he could see Bronson leaning over the bar counter, talking in low tones to the barman.

  All right, he thought, I can sit and wait. Maybe there’s nothing to wait for.

  There was: one more deal and a sudden push against the batwing doors. Herne rocked his seat round on to its rear legs, hand straying close to his gun. He could see that Matt Bronson had straightened at the bar, his own right hand halfway between holster and counter, his left hand resting alongside his second gun.

  When the doors had parted, the man who came through stood unsteadily and gazed around the saloon. His eyes passed over the card players quickly; not too quickly for Herne to see that they were partly glazed from drinking. They did not pass Matt. Instead they tried desperately to steady themselves and focus upon him.

  There were not many people in the room, but all stopped talking and drinking. All watched.

  ‘Bin lookin’ for you,’ the newcomer said.

  Matt didn’t move. Didn’t answer. Watched the man’s hands. ·

  ‘Said I bin lookin’ for you. You hear me?’

  Still no reply.

  ‘Said, you hear me?’ the man bellowed.

  One of the men playing cards with Herne, turned to face the man and said, ‘John, you ain’t in no way to come in here calling someone out. Why don’t you jest go home and sleep it off?’

  The man called John turned unsteadily and looked at the speaker with anger in his face. Herne could see the sweat bursting out from his forehead, the vein on his forehead standing out and beginning to throb.

  ‘Keep yourself out of this. This is between me and . . . me and him. That smart kid up at the bar.’

  ‘What’s the kid done, mister?’

  It was Herne’s voice, low yet strong. Everyone in the saloon looked in his direction, wondering who this stranger was and why he was taking a hand in what was none of his business.

  ‘What’s it to you?’ John snapped.

  Herne shrugged his shoulders. ‘Just interested.’

  ‘Well, keep your interest to yourself. This is between me and him.’

  The man looked at Matt again. The kid had still not moved. Both hands remained the same distance from his guns. His eyes still watched the man’s hands. Herne knew that if he needed to, Matt would shoot the man dead before his drunken lingers could drag his weapon clear of its leather.

  He thought about
the jail outside and for some reason didn’t want that to happen. Though he couldn’t for the life of him have said why. It would have made things a whole lot easier.

  Maybe, just maybe, he was still seeing something of himself as a young man in the boy’s arrogant stance at the bar. An attitude that said, come on and take me if you think you can; John took a couple of hazy steps forwards; his hand was lowered almost level with the butt of his gun.

  ‘Well, kid, what’s it gonna be? You made me look a fool back there. You gonna apologies or do I have to draw on you?’

  Matt’s voice was thin but casual. ‘Mister, I didn’t have to make you look a fool. You do that yourself. You’re making a fool of yourself right now. If you go for that gun, you know I’m goin’ to cut you down like so much trash.’

  Herne saw the vein pump harder, the color spring even more brightly to the man’s cheeks. His fingers were now resting on his gun. Matt Bronson’s hands still had not moved.

  ‘You ain’t givin’ me no choice,’ said the drunk. ‘You know I can’t go back on that. Not after what you said!

  ‘Sure you can,’ Matt sneered. ‘You can crawl back out into the dirt where you just come from.’

  That was enough. The man’s hand jerked at the gun, but it, failed to clear his holster evenly. It was all that Matt needed.

  His right hand drew his Colt and moved it easily through an arc, thumbing back the hammer as he did so. The barrel came up in front of him and leveled out. The trigger was squeezed back.

  John seemed to jump backwards into the air and hang suspended for a second, arms akimbo like some drunken puppet. Then the strings were cut and he slumped to the floor in an untidy heap.

  The nerves in the right arm twitched several times, as though some still-living impulse in the man’s brain was aware that the gun had to be drawn. But soon it didn’t matter.

  Herne looked back at Bronson. The Colt was back in its holster; the kid was back to the bar, ordering another shot of whiskey. Herne didn’t approve of killing drunks, but he grudgingly admired the boy’s style.

  And he had been fast. ’