The Black Widow (3 page)
Authors: John J. McLaglen
Tags: #historical, #wild west, #gunfighters, #western fiction, #american frontier, #the old west, #john harvey, #piccadilly publishing, #laurence james, #jed herne
But if he did, then
Coburn
or
any of his men might take her. They’d know exactly where he was
headed. With only two left alive from the gambling train, there was
only one place in the whole country he could be. He knew that
Whitey wouldn’t be far away.
‘
Get that wet wood off
the fire. It’ll
send up enough smoke for anyone to see for fifty miles.’
‘
Sorry, Jed. My fingers just
don’t feel properly anymore.’ She was on the edge of
tears.
Herne
turned away from her and started to
check his weapons. Care of his guns and knife was just one of the
reasons that he’d kept alive as a hired gun into his thirties, long
after most of his contemporaries were moldering dust in frontier
cemeteries.
He laid the Colt on the greased rag,
half-cocking it, working the ejector, flipping the six cartridges
out on the cloth, wiping each one carefully. Rubbing down the
grips, and working the action a dozen times to ensure perfect
smoothness. Reloading again, flicking the gate up with his index
finger. Cocking it, and easing the hammer back down
again.
Checking the long Sharps, making sure
the action was smooth. Peering along the sight, and picking away a
thread of cotton from it. Using the rag to wipe down the barrel and
then loading and unloading it. Opening the leather pouch of
ammunition, making sure he wasn’t in danger of running
short.
Replacing both guns, while steam started
to pour out from the spout of the coffee pot, clouding the cold
air. Finally checking the bayonet, wiping it down and examining it
for any trace of rust, or for any sign of a weakness in the
polished blade. Slipping it soundlessly back in its sheath inside
the right boot.
‘
Nearly ready, Jed. We
haven’t got a lot of jerky left. Should I go to the
store?’
It was around twelve miles back down the
narrow trail, and Herne didn’t want the folks in Lone Pine knowing
that they were still in the area. He’d told the shopkeeper they
were just passing through. And that was the story he wanted to get
to the ears of anyone else asking questions.
‘
Damn it!’ he exploded. ‘Why
didn’t you check it out and get some while we were
there?’
‘
I’
m sorry, Jed.’
He bit his lip. Fond though he was of
Becky, there were times like this when he regretted having to drag
her around with him. To exist in that part of the Sierras in the
late fall wasn’t easy. And he had tried to give her
responsibilities, like keeping a check on the food.
‘
Truly, I’m sorry,
Jed.’
‘
That’s .
.. Just never mind. I’ll try
and snare something for us if we have to stay up here for longer
than a couple of days.’
‘
Coffee’s ready. Have you
finished with your guns for today?’
‘
Yes.’
‘
Jed. You couldn’t do that trick
with the dollar on the back of the hand for me, could
you?’
She loved to see him exhibit his skill
with the Colt. But in this sort of weather, it would mean trying to
draw either in his gloves, which was as near as damn-it impossible,
or taking them off and risking the cold. Normally, Jed Herne would
practice his skills as often as he could. But high in the
mountains...
Then again, he thought, if I was
called upon to use my guns up there, I’d have to do it, regardless
of the weather.
‘
Right. Pour me out a cup
of coffee, and I’ll do it. Just once.’
“
That’s wonderful.’ She
clapped her hands like a child who’s been promised a treat from a
benevolent uncle.
Breath pluming out from his mouth, Jed
walked a few paces from the smoldering fire, bracing his tense
muscles against the biting cold. Flexing his fingers inside the
gloves, ready for the moment when he’d have to peel them off,
already regretting his weakness in giving in to the girl’s request.
But when she turned those deep-set serious eyes on him, and set
that determined jaw, he felt like when he first saw his young wife,
Louise. And the stirring of the memory made him uneasy. Made him
even more concerned to get Becky away from all this to somewhere
Nolan’s gunmen couldn’t reach out to harm her.
Jed sucked in cold air, feeling it
snap at his teeth. It wouldn’t take many days of this weather to
leave them both stiff and dead under the snow for the animals to
tear at.
‘
Ready.’
It was the first time for days that the
girl had shown any real spark of interest, and this worried Herne.
Since the death of her parents, Becky had ridden hundreds of miles
with him, and seen the deaths of several men. And none of it seemed
to have touched her. She was changing from the sweet innocent child
she once had been, back on the spread near Tucson. Hardening.
Ignoring the hardships of the trail they rode, and becoming
increasingly concerned with the mechanics of death and
killing.
He fished in the pocket of his jacket
for some money, finding it hard to feel anything through the
thickness of the gloves. Appreciating that this simple
demonstration might have a great practical use. It had been a long
time since he’d ridden the high country in winter.
At last he managed to grip a smooth coin
in his hand, and he quickly took off the gloves, stuffing them into
his pants’ pockets. The cold took a while to clamp on the muscles,
and it felt good to have the freedom. While the girl squatted on
her haunches, watching him eagerly, Herne took the dollar in his
left hand and laid it carefully on the back of his right hand.
Unconsciously moved his toes inside the boots, getting his footing
firm and safe. Reached across his body to flip the leather thong
that held the hammer of the Colt secure.
Becky looked at him admiringly. She’d seen
him like this before. Standing in the peculiar straddle-legged
stance of the gunfighter, toes turned slightly in, knees bent. At
first she’d hated the killing, and hated Herne for being so good at
it. But gradually she had come to see the genius that lay behind
what he did and realize how he had been the best. And probably
still was the best.
Herne
the Hunter!
That was what they called him, before his
marriage, and it was still a name to stir memories. And those
memories were being rekindled with the news that Herne was back.
The stories of why he vanished were revived: killed in an Indian
massacre. Shot in the back in a saloon. The bodies heaped around
him in a skirmish south of the border. But now the myths were being
buried by the man.
And by his gun.
Herne
’s hand was quite steady as he held
out the coin at arm’s length, level from the shoulder. Moved the
fingers against the chilly winds that echoed around the sides of
the valley.
Dropped his hand down, letting the dollar
spin towards the hard earth. It seemed as though there was a
splitting of time. The gleaming dollar caught in a trap where the
seconds stretched out. Herne’s hand moving like a blur towards the
holstered gun. Thumb striking the hammer, clicking it back to
full-cock even before the barrel was clear of the greased leather.
The index finger unerringly inside the trigger-guard, bending,
ready to take up the pressure as the gun came up and
out.
Becky gasped at the beauty and speed
of the action, and shook her head, the wind bringing tears to her
eyes.
If it hadn’t been for the closeness of the
Stanwyck house, Herne would have snapped off all six shots. But he
took up the tension on the light-filed trigger, and eased the
hammer forward with his thumb.
Wonderful, Jed.’
He shook his head, reholstering the Colt,
quickly putting his gloves back on, rubbing his hands to maintain
the circulation. ‘Not that good, Becky. Maybe good enough for up
here. But this damned cold sure takes the edge from a man.’ He
thumbed the cord across the hammer to hold the gun in place in the
holster and hunkered down beside her. ‘I guess that cup of coffee
might be welcome now, Becky. Take a mite of the cold away from my
bones.’
As he sat down on his blanket, feeling
the earth immovably hard beneath him, cupping his hands round the
warmth of the chipped mug of scalding coffee, and let his eyes
wander across the lake, white-whipped by the wind, towards the
house.
‘
Jed?’
‘
What is it?’ Irritated by the
interruption to his thoughts.
‘
The dollar. You forgot to pick
it up.’
He grinned at her, suddenly amused,
putting down the cup, and striding over to where the coin lay
shining in the pale sunlight. It had hit the ground a fraction
after he would have squeezed the trigger of the gun. The cold had
slowed him, but he was still fast. That was a feeling to warm a man
more than a whore’s belly would.
He turned to remember who it was who’d
first said that to him? Tiny, frail John Holliday? Maybe. He
carried enough guns in the old days to fortify a bank. But his
favorite had been the ten-gauge Meteor shotgun with the shaved
stock and the sawn double barrels. Carried it on a shoulder strap
like that Mormon Avenger, Porter Rockwell.
‘
What you thinkin’ about, Jed?
Haven’t seen you smile in days.’
‘
Doc Holliday.’
‘
The gunman? I heard about
him. Something in Tombstone with those Earp brothers?’
‘
Yeah. Doc. Wisp of a man, but
he burned like aflame. Haven’t seen him in a year or so. Hell! Must
be about a year since he and the Earps tangled with those bastards
- sorry Becky - the Clantons. In that dead-end corral in Tombstone.
Heard he moved on to Denver. Or maybe it was Leadville. Might look
him up after this is over. Funny sort of guy. Went with “Big Nose”
Kate Fisher. Had a cough fit to scare the ears off a
mule.’
Becky’s eyes went past him, looking
towards the house, set squat and dark on the hillside, with a
fringe of trees reaching nearly to its walls.
‘
Look.’
Jed was already moving, hardly realizing
that his hand had dropped to his gun, staring hard as the main
gates of the house swung open, like the jaws of some beast, and
eight or ten men rode slowly out, like a procession of ants across
the whiteness of the snow that had drifted more on that side of the
valley.
‘
Is it them?’
‘
Becky Yates! I may have
good eyes, but not that good. Might be them. Probably is. That’s
most of the men they have there, so I guess they’re on their way
out for a huntin’ trip.’
‘
Not leaving for the
winter?’
It was like a kick to the groin. In
all his planning, it had never even crossed Jed’s mind that the
Stanwyck family might leave their house for the winter. Everything
he’d heard about them made him doubt it, but there was always a
maybe.
‘
I’m going to check it out. Stay
here with the horses, and try and tend that fire. Keep it in, but
no more than that. And don’t use no green nor rotten wood. They’ll
get you by the smoke.’
As he stood up, she looked up at him,
her face quite without expression. ‘Jed. Take care.’
He stooped over her, bending down from his
six feet two, and kissed her gently on the forehead, finding a bare
space among the fringe of hair. Marveling at the coldness of the
skin.
It was only as he strode away among
the trees that he recalled the last time he’d touched his lips to
flesh as cold as that. The bitter memory of the manner of his
wife’s lonely dying hastened his movements towards the towering
mansion across the lake.
It took him the best part of an
hour t
o get
to the water’s edge, keeping among the fringe of sparse brush that
bordered it, alert for any sign of guards from Mount Abora. There
was a narrow trail that he’d already scouted which wound up from
the lakeside, towards the house, keeping a man under cover until he
was almost under the walls.
There had once been a clear path through
the woods, but the snow and the rain had undone it again, and now
it was almost lost to sight. But Jed Herne had found it.
For much of his scramble the house had
been invisible, but he had paused in a clearing and been rewarded
by a view of the entrance trail, and the main gates open once more.
To readmit the bunch of riders. There seemed to be the same number,
all huddled in dark clothing against the rising wind. Except for
one of them who wore a coat of stark whiteness, making him almost
invisible against the snow.
‘
Luke Stanwyck,’ breathed Herne,
relieved at the sighting. So they were staying. He was much closer
by the water than he’d been at their camp site, and he could see
that one of the last riders was carrying a small sledge, with
polished runners. That was where they’d been. Just off for a
morning’s sport.
He coughed and hawked up a ball
of phlegm, spitting it in the shallow water
at the lake’s edge, sending a
fish skittering away in a ring of white water.
It was as good a time as any to try and
get closer to the house, so he cautiously began the steep climb,
cursing as he caught the branch of a tree and brushed powdery snow
down the back of his jacket.
Herne
stopped for a moment, untying his
scarf from round his hat, tucking it back under his collar. He ran
his fingers through his mane of black hair, streaked for the last
few years with threads of gray, and put his hat back on. In the
trees the wind was less keen, and he felt the relief on the skin of
his face.
Above his head, through the top branches
of the pines, he noticed that the sky was lightening again, with
patches of blue among the gray clouds. He stepped cautiously along
the path, carefully avoiding the dry twigs that lay on the
bone-hard earth. Knowing that a boot-heel on one of those would
crack like a whip.
Somewhere away to the left he heard the
sound of a heavy animal lumbering through the forest, and he
waited, drawing the Colt. At that height it had to be either a
mountain lion or a bear. And neither of them would make good
company in the climb.
But soon all was still again and Herne
moved on. Halfway up the path there was a small clearing, in the
middle of which stood the remains of a massive tree, its heart
ripped out by lightning. Gradually the green was pressing back in
again, but it was a place for a brief rest, before carrying on
towards the house.
Jed knew that within a couple of hundred
yards he would come within the range of the patrolling sentries. He
rubbed the stubble on his chin as he pondered which way he might
play it. Stealth was going to be the key, so he holstered the Colt
and drew the bayonet from his boot, ready for the sudden
encounter.
The men sometimes patrolled in pairs
and sometimes alone. Since he and Becky had arrived in the area,
Jed had tried to find some kind of pattern in the sentries’
movements, but had been unable to do so. He didn’t know whether
they made their checks at random, out of cunning or simply because
they had never arranged a set routine. Either way, it made his task
that much more difficult.
With the Sharps he could have waited
somewhere on the fringe of the trees, and could virtually have
guaranteed to bring down one of the twins. But the Sharps was a
single-shot weapon, and by the time he’d reloaded the other would
have escaped. To make sure of them both he had to get close enough
to gun them down with the Colt, which would be impossible from the
outside. He had to get right inside.
‘
Got to find a way in,’ Herne
muttered to himself.
‘
Yeah. That’s about the way that
I figured it, too, Jedediah,’ said a voice from somewhere behind
him.
Herne
didn’t move a muscle. ‘Hello,
Whitey,’ was all he said.