Hart the Regulator 7 Page 13

  “I ain’t interested in you. Nor the railroad money.” Hart released his grip. “Majors is the one I’m after.”

  Tap blinked and drew a deep breath. Hart took the glass of beer from the counter and set it back in Tap’s right hand.

  “Okay,” said Tap, nodding. “Okay.”

  Hart smiled quickly, picked up his own drink and followed Tap to a table close to the door. The drummer waved a bottle at them as they passed and Hart gave him a look that should have scared him sober.

  Tap sat down hesitantly, his tongue edging out nervously on to his lips. He searched Hart’s face for some sign of weakness, of sympathy: there was none. Hart leaned one elbow on the table, pushed back his hat brim with the opposite hand.

  “Came past your friends a while back,” Hart said evenly.

  “Friends?”

  “What was left of ’em.” The eyes narrowed. “Ashes to ashes.”

  “Who are you?” Tap jerked his head forward as he spoke.

  “You was lucky not to be in there with ’em, way I heard it.”

  “Who?”

  “Wes Hart. I’m lookin’ for a man named Majors.”

  Tap Loughlin blinked fast and his head settled back. “Majors?”

  “You heard me.”

  “Sure, I—”

  “You bust out of jail with him. Thought you might know where he’d be.”

  Tap turned sideways in the chair. He was full of indignation over what Majors had done to him; seething at the prospect of what he might do to Sara-Lee if he found her. He was also wondering what his chances were of sneaking the pistol out of his belt.

  “I don’t know where the bastard is!” he half-shouted. Two or three heads swung round his way.

  “Rode off an’ left you, huh?”

  “Somethin’ like that. I don’t care what the bastard does!”

  “Or where he’s goin’?”

  Tap pressed the palms of both hands hard against the edge of the table. “What’s that to me?” He never began to sound convincing.

  Hart grinned and set his chair back on its hind legs. He was wondering how much time he had on the Pinkerton men, how long he could afford to let Loughlin take his own time.

  “Share a cell with a man,” Hart said, conversationally, “things get said that’d normally stay quiet. Stuff about that money, for instance.”

  “Money?”

  “Railroad money.”

  “I’d...”

  Hart’s hand moved faster than Tap could follow. The fingers caught at the front of Loughlin’s shirt and gripped it fast, hauling him across the table until his face was so close that Hart could feel and smell his breath, smell the taint of fear high upon it. Behind the bar Seth Franklin thought about opening the drawer where he kept his pistol stashed. Two cowhands held their breath and stared expectantly.

  “What d’you think them two who put paid to your friends are out for? A little exercise? Shooting practice? You’re a small-time thief, Loughlin, and the only time you tried for something bigger it bit back harder’n you could handle. But there’s a lot of money hid away somewhere and you can bet those two back there somewhere ain’t about to let you ride safely home an’ find it. An’ Majors ain’t wanderin’ round Arkansas catchin’ flies, neither. He’s chasin’ them dollars down same as everyone else.” Hart relaxed his grip a little. “Everyone ’cept me.”

  The last words were spoken soft, so quiet that Tap hardly heard them. When they had registered, he looked at Hart questioningly, disbelievingly.

  “What do you want, then?” he finally asked, catching his breath and shifting awkwardly back in his chair.

  “Majors.”

  “Majors! That bastard! What the hell for?”

  “For what he did. You know ’bout that, don’t you?”

  Tap hawked phlegm from the back of his throat, aimed at one of the two cuspidors and nearly hit it right. He knew what Majors had done. “You ain’t a lawman. You ain’t wearin’ no badge.”

  Hart shook his head. The cowboys had lost interest by now and were dealing from a dog-eared deck of cards. The whiskey drummer had started to sing an Irish ballad. Seth Franklin hadn’t got any further with his pistol than thinking about it - the way the man with the scarf and the flat-crowned hat was handling himself he could clear his pearl-handled Colt from leather so quick nothing Franklin could do was going to make any difference.

  “Detective?” asked Tap.

  Hart shook his head again. “I’m workin’ for the man whose kids Majors attacked. He doesn’t figure it right someone like him should be runnin’ free.”

  Tap scratched his thigh along the top. “Neither do I,” he said.

  “Maybe you should have thought of that when you helped him get out.”

  Tap nodded ruefully. “I damn well should.”

  Franklin came over and set a plate of stew in front of Loughlin, giving Hart a sideways glance as he did so. Tap pushed his fork around in the stew for a while, but his appetite had left him some minutes back.

  “I’m playin’ this straight,” said Hart. “If I weren’t I could take you in and hand you over to the Pinks and get a share of the reward. I could sit you on that horse out there and ride you north till you showed me where the money is – I don’t want that money, I don’t want you.” He pointed a finger, rock steady, into Tap’s face. “You help me find Majors, I’ll let you take your chances. That’s all I’m sayin’.”

  Tap wrinkled up one side of his face. “If I don’t?”

  Hart didn’t need to answer; he simply carried on staring at Loughlin, that was enough.

  “All right. We had a place, ten miles north-east of Pierce City. It’s high off the Springfield road. High as anything is round there. Place called Shadow Point. Nothing more than a wooded bluff, small stream running down from it towards the James. Easy enough to spot once you know what you’re lookin’ for. Only one narrow trail in, though, and a couple of men could hold off a good-sized posse for a long time. I reckon that’s where they’ll have made a run to – Jeff and Bluey – still holed up there, I shouldn’t wonder.”

  “Anyone riding with Majors likely to know that?”

  Tap nodded grudgingly. “Yeah. Feller name of Levy. Scott Levy.”

  “Uh-huh. Who else Majors got with him?”

  “Couple of niggers is all.”

  Hart drummed his fingers on the table and stood up. “Them Pinkertons,” he said, “you run your own chance with them. I’d say you take your time, you’ll get wherever you’re goin’ right enough. There are ways of avoidin’ bein’ caught. And they’ll be keepin’ more’n half an eye on that money anyhow.”

  Tap nodded. “Thanks.”

  “Okay.” Hart turned away and glanced quickly back over his shoulder. If Loughlin had been considering making a play for his gun, he would have done it then. But his right hand was still toying with a fork, his left was idle on his knee.

  “Be seein’ you, maybe,” Hart said, and stepped through the door.

  He was pulling himself up into the saddle when Loughlin appeared. Hart’s gun was in his hand so quick it made Tap gasp and stagger a couple of paces back.

  “Take it easy!” he called.

  “You be careful how you come through doors,” warned Hart.

  Tap came closer to the rail. “One thing.”

  “Yeah?”

  “This Majors – you reckon you’ll get him? I mean, you can deal with him okay?”

  Hart shrugged. “I took the job. That’s enough for me.”

  “Fine, only …”

  “Yeah?”

  Loughlin didn’t like saying it and when he did it tumbled out all of a piece, but Hart got the gist of it anyhow. “This girl, woman, she’s a teacher. Up in Springfield. Name’s Danziger. Sara-Lee Danziger. Her an’ me ... anyhow, Majors, he knows about her. What you was sayin’ ’bout folk who share cells sayin’ more’n they should. I reckon he might think she knows about the money or ... or even if he don’t there’s somethin’ makes me
... he’ll seek her out. I’m all but sure of that. Seek her out an’...”

  Loughlin’s eyes flickered across Hart’s face and quickly away, as though afraid that Hart would somehow be able to see pictured there what was happening in Loughlin’s mind.

  Hart could smell fear rising off the man again, only this time it was for somebody else as well as himself.

  “You catch up with Majors and he’ll never get to Springfield.”

  Hart nodded. “Maybe. I ain’t making promises.”

  “You could

  “I can do what I can do. Nothin’ more.” Hart pulled the pinto round and it was the grey’s turn to toss her head and act a little temperamental. She’d been with Hart so long she didn’t take to close company from some other horse.

  Tap Loughlin had moved back to the door; he was resting the underside of one boot against it, watching as Hart drew away, heading for the wide blue of the lake and then the road to the border. As Tap watched him go he thought about the speed with which the Colt had appeared in Hart’s hand and prayed that Majors would see it too, only that it wouldn’t end there.

  He prayed that one of the bullets Hart was carrying had Lloyd Majors’ name writ deep into its casing.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Scott Levy was sweating so much he could smell himself even through the stink of horse sweat that surrounded him. The flies were paying as much attention to him as they were to his mount. The leather of the reins slipped between his fingers as he pushed the animal into a canter and then slowed it again to a trot. There were trees in both sides of the trail now, scrub scrambling away from them and merging with the tall grass. Here and there small-headed flowers showed yellow or blue through the pervading green.

  The gunshot wound he’d taken in his thigh was reminding him of its presence.

  His pistol felt heavy and unwieldy at his side.

  The blue-green of his eyes shone back the sun more startled than ever.

  “Hold it!”

  Levy stuttered forward in the saddle at the command, hauling on the rein so hard that the horse whinnied and reared.

  “It’s me!” Levy shouted. “Me, Scott!”

  “Hold it there!”

  Levy clamped his knees tight against the horse’s sides and waited as the man appeared from the trees to the right of the track. He was further back than Levy had thought from the fall of his voice and it was a few moments before he recognized him for certain as Bluey - tall and rangy, a shock of fair hair forever threatening to fall right over his eyes and blind him. He couldn’t have been much over seventeen.

  “That really you, Scott?”

  Levy laughed nervously; broke off quickly, recognizing the strangeness of the sound. “Sure it’s me. Who d’you think it is?”

  “Don’t rightly . . . Jesus, Scotty, it’s good to see a friendly face!”

  Levy laughed again, a little more easily this time. He reached down his hand and the youngster clasped it tight, not noticing the fact that it was running with sweat.

  “Where the . . . how come you’re here? We thought you was clapped up in the State Pen.”

  “We was.”

  “And?”

  Levy almost giggled. “We bust out.”

  “How many of you?”

  “Whole damned lot of us, no less.”

  Bluey shook his head and the hair toppled down on to his forehead, pieces touching the bridge of his nose; he slapped his leg and shrilly whistled. Tap an’ the whole bunch?”

  “Tap an’ me, Baptiste and Little Kinney.”

  Bluey almost hugged himself with excitement. “Well, where are they?”

  Levy nodded back down the trail. “They’ll be along. Sent me on ahead to see if you was cooped up here. That’s what.” He looked at Bluey and smiled.

  Bluey ran his fingers up through his hair and shook his head from one side to the other, the hair falling down again and making question marks over his face. That Tap,” he sang out, excited. “I knew he’d think of somethin’. Knew he wasn’t dumb enough to let them bastards swing him from no gallows. Hey! That Tap – he sure is some feller, ain’t he? Ain’t he, Scott?”

  Levy agreed, a knot of discomfort tightening at the base of his stomach. “Let’s ride up, shall we, Bluey?”

  “Yeah, sure, we … but the road, Scott. Jeff says we got to guard the road in case some posse

  Levy treated him to his best reassuring smile. “Hold on to yourself, now, Bluey. Remember Tap and the rest of the boys is back there. They’ll give this piece of track all the guardin’ it needs.”

  “Hah!” Bluey slapped his leg and tickled his own ribs and his face shone like a ten-year-old’s come Christmas. “You’re right, Scott. No need to guard the road with Tap comin’ on up it.” He beamed. “What signal you got arranged with him.”

  “Simple. Any trouble, I fire twice, then once. They don’t hear nothin’, it’s okay to come through.”

  Bluey shook his head, delighted by the simplicity of it all.

  “Let’s get up an’ see Jeff, eh?”

  “Sure, Scott. Can’t wait till I see his face.”

  ~*~

  Jeff’s face was partly covered by a reddish half-formed beard that Levy hadn’t seen before. He was sitting out back of the cabin, peeling potatoes into an oaken bucket and thinking about the times his ma had sat by their farm in Virginia, doing the self-same thing. When he heard the horse approaching, he dropped the potato in the water and by the time the rippling had subsided, his Winchester was to his shoulder and a shell had been levered into the chamber.

  “Okay, Jeff!” hollered Bluey. “It’s Scott! An’ the rest of the bunch are comin’ on behind.”

  Jeff didn’t lower the rifle till he could see the two colors of Levy’s eyes clear and distinct. Then he let his face crack into a smile, the smile became a laugh, the laugh almost tears. The small, hunched figure of Scott Levy getting down from the saddle and limping over towards him was the best thing he’d seen in a coon’s age.

  “How far behind?” asked Jeff, pointing down towards the path through the trees.

  “Mile or so, maybe,” said Levy.

  “Let’s go meet ’em.”

  “No, better get inside and hustle up some food an’ coffee. Long time since Tap and the rest got a good meal inside ’em.”

  “Okay!” agreed Jeff, clapping Levy on his humped back. “Let’s get in an’ do that. Kind of a surprise for ’em, huh?”

  “Yeah,” said Levy, “a surprise.”

  Levy dragged an empty barrel over towards the bunks along the right-hand wall, close to the front end. He shucked off his coat, but he was careful to keep his gun belt buckled on. He noticed that Jeff had set his rifle down to the left of the door and had only a knife in a sheath on his belt. Bluey had rested his rifle next to Jeff’s and was toting a pistol, holstered at his side.

  The two men hurried around, preparing the welcome meal, telling Levy he should rest. He leaned back against the front wall and asked them about their escape from the posse and about the money.

  “Tap don’t have to worry ‘bout that,” said Bluey. “Does he, Jeff?”

  “We got it safe,” said Jeff. “Buried it safe under the boards here.”

  “All of it?” asked Levy, perhaps a fraction too anxiously.

  “Most.”

  “Most?”

  “You’ll never guess what we did,” said Jeff, rubbing his hands down the front of his plaid shirt. “Tap goin’ to be real pleased when he hears.”

  “Go on,” said Levy.

  “We took six hundred dollars up to that schoolteacher.”

  “Yeah,” said Bluey. That one in Springfield he was sparkin’.”

  Levy stood up. “What the hell you do that for?”

  The two men looked at one another, surprised by the change of tone in Levy’s voice.

  “Figured he’d want it that way,” said Jeff.

  “We didn’t know what was goin’ to happen to him down in the State Pen,” said Bluey. �
�She’s holdin’ on to it for him. Said she wasn’t goin’ to spend a nickel. Not till she … till she knew for sure what happened to Tap.”

  “Still …” Levy began.

  Bluey gestured with his hands outwards. “Come on, Scott, it don’t matter none. There’s more’n enough left for the rest of us. You know that.”

  Levy shrugged and sat back down. “Yeah. I reckon you’re right.”

  “An’ you do think Tap’ll be pleased, don’t you?” asked Bluey a little anxiously.

  “Yeah,” said Levy. “I think Tap’ll be pleased and then some.”

  Bluey and Jeff looked at one another and nodded, smiles on both their faces. Levy leaned back against the wall and the others got back to their chores. They were still fussing round the stove when the cabin door was hurled back and three men burst into the space.

  “Hey!” Jeff whirled fast and saw a man bulking inside the doorway with a gun held out in front of him. He didn’t know who he was, but sure as hell knew it wasn’t Tap Loughlin. Jeff swung his arm and hurled pan and contents towards the big man’s face, throwing himself to the far side of the stove as he did so.

  Majors didn’t even bother to duck; he let the pan strike his chest and bounce away; he angled his pistol round and squinted along the top of the barrel. He fired three times. Jeff was driven back against the stove, his legs hitting it hard, a pot of coffee failing down, the contents spilling over Jeff’s face and arm. The coffee was hot and black and it scalded the open skin, but already Jeff wasn’t worrying. The three slugs had torn their way through chest and neck and before Jeff’s bearded face struck the boards he was about as dead as he was going to be.

  Across from him, Bluey leaned his body forward, hand to the butt of his holstered gun. His mouth was open, tongue protruding between open lips. His hair hung down almost shielding his eyes but not enough – he could still see what had happened. He was shaking, shaking like a small kid afraid for the first time. A small kid that comes face to face with the bogyman.

  Bluey looked at Majors and the two blacks at back of him. He looked at them and slapped his left thigh; he laughed and pulled at his gun. Joseph tightened the butt of the sawn-off shotgun against his hip and squeezed down on both triggers.