Hart the Regulator 2 Read online

  ‘C’mon.’ Hart picked up the pace and tried to clear his mind of anything but Fredericks.

  As soon as the place came in sight he slowed the horse again, approaching carefully. There was no sign of the loaded wagon and he guessed that T.C. and Chavez had kept on going, taking the goods with them. There wouldn’t have been any point in getting involved any more than they were already.

  But Peters...

  His horse was in the corral, saddle still on its back. There was another horse, saddled, tied up near the front of the house. Maybe Fredericks was planning to make a run for it and something had stopped him, held him up.

  Hart got down from the saddle and looped the reins over the corral fence. He lifted the sawn-off shotgun from its holster and automatically checked the load. That in his left hand he flicked off the thong from the Colt’s hammer and began to walk towards the house.

  He saw the movement of the rifle in the upstairs window and stopped dead, drawing his Colt and firing in a fluid movement. Glass shattered and the rifle barrel withdrew. A second shot cracked out in the fading echoes of his own and Hart spun round, facing the barn. He snapped off a covering shot and ran diagonally, heading for the bunkhouse. Another rifle shot followed him as he ducked low and swiveled fast. Peters had come too far round the barn door.

  Hart sighted and squeezed down on the trigger.

  There was only the right arm to aim at and this time he did smash the bone. Peters fell sideways, almost dropping the rifle but finally clutching on to it. He landed awkwardly and shouted out with pain, rocking on to his back.

  Still no further movement from the house.

  The rifle hadn’t reappeared.

  Hart watched as Peters got on to his knees and tried to lift the rifle, but his arm wouldn’t function and he knew he couldn’t use it with his left hand.

  ‘Throw the gun clear and stand up!’

  Peters hesitated, then did as he was told. The metal of the barrel flashed in the sun as it spun through the air. Peters stood up slowly, wincing.

  ‘Get over here.’

  He was a dozen feet away from the bunk house when a shot rang out from the upstairs of the house and he stumbled forwards, a bullet low in his back.

  Hart fired twice, fast, without hitting anything more than wood and glass.

  Peters was face down in the dirt. The fingers of his left hand twitched and formed a claw, pulling on the earth.

  Hart reloaded the Colt; the movements of Peters hand ceased.

  There was no more movement from inside the house; no more shooting. Hart watched as the blood from Peters’ body started to spread across the ground on either side of his chest.

  Maybe Fredericks had killed him for giving up – maybe he was at the end of his tether and acting without reason. Perhaps he could see the empire he had schemed and struggled to build up disintegrating before his eyes.

  The voice came from the other upper window, edgy and harsh. ‘What do you want, Hart? What in hell’s name do you want?’

  Hart made no reply; waited to see if Fredericks would show enough of himself for it to be worth taking a shot.

  ‘Answer me!’

  A few moments later an object was hurled through the window and landed on the ground not too far from Peters’ dead body. When it fell, the cord around the top of the leather bag loosened and coins spilled out on to the dirt.

  ‘There’s three hundred dollars there. Take it. Take it and go.’

  Hart still said nothing.

  Minutes passed.

  A second bag followed the first and landed with the chink of coins.

  ‘It’s you I want, Fredericks. You.’

  ‘There’s five hun…’

  ‘Come out!’

  ‘I’m never coming out.’

  Hart fired once at each of the upstairs windows and sprinted across the open space. Two thirds of the way there a shot gouged the ground close by his feet and he leaped sideways, rolling, firing, running again. He rammed his shoulder against the front door and it held fast. Two bullets cracked through the wood a foot to the left of his head.

  He stood back and leveled the shotgun at the lock. The blast ripped the door apart and he dived in, hitting the floor and rolling away to the wall.

  Another shot came from the top of the stairs.

  Hart fired as he was pushing himself to his feet and heard footsteps running. He went after them, taking the stairs two at a time. Three closed doors.

  ‘Fredericks!’

  Hart kicked the nearest door open and jumped through. A wardrobe, a four-poster bed, dressing table with a mirror and countless small bottles and boxes. An ornamented water jug standing inside a bowl.

  Nothing else.

  ‘Fredericks!’

  Hart moved to the second door and lifted his right leg.

  A door opened behind him and the explosion of a gun from close range boomed in his ears. He was already falling when the shell grazed across the top of his back, drawing a line from shoulder blade to shoulder blade.

  Hart fired his Colt as he hit the floor and the impact jarred his elbow, sending the shot wide. He saw Fredericks lower the pistol towards him and fired again, snatching at the shot. The slug slammed high into Fredericks’ left leg and knocked him back against the door jamb.

  The gun fell away from Fredericks’ fingers.

  He stared at his leg, unbelieving. The entry wound was raw, blood came from it in a steady stream, thick and bright as it ran down his pants leg.

  Hart stood straight and thumbed back the hammer on his Colt.

  ‘That’s nothing,’ he said bitterly. ‘Nothing to what you’ve done.’

  ‘I haven’t…I’ve never…’

  Hart lashed out with his right arm, the sight at the barrel end tearing a bloody line down the side of Fredericks’ face. The man went back against the wall and shrieked with pain.

  ‘All that happened was you didn’t see. You didn’t see the bodies. What happened to them. What was done in your name. So that you could own so much land, so much wealth. Power.’

  He came close and Fredericks flinched, turning his head aside.

  ‘Power,’ Hart repeated. ‘Your money and other people’s guns. Well, when you tried to buy mine you bought the wrong one.’

  There was a footfall on the stairs.

  Bonney Fredericks was three steps from the landing. She stared at her husband’s face, at the wound deep into his leg; her face was expressionless, stone, white stone. She glanced at the Colt in Hart’s hand then turned away and walked back downstairs.

  Fredericks watched her go. His mouth faltered: ‘Bonney,’ he said. ‘Bonney!’

  The blood from his leg was running into his boot; he reached down his hand gingerly towards the hole in his leg – his fingers sank through the soft, shattered flesh.

  Hart stepped away, keeping the gun level.

  ‘You hired me as your regulator, well…’

  He turned and went to the top of the stairs and Fredericks’ mouth gaped, relief showing in his eyes.

  Hart turned fast and fired twice: head and heart.

  Fredericks was hurled back against the corner of the wall then bounced towards the stairs, folding over the banister and swinging like a life-size doll.

  Hart walked down the stairs. Bonney Fredericks was sitting in front of the bookshelves; she made no attempt to look up when Hart went into the room. He left and stepped towards the ruined door. Blood fell from the top of the stairs down on to the floor with a steady splashing sound: dark, red rain.

  In the sky the sun was thickening towards dusk and clouds shifted heavily across it. Hart untied his horse. The two bags of money were still on the ground, coins scattered loose. Hart picked them up, pushing them down into his saddle bags. He climbed into the saddle. When he looked back at the house he half thought he might see Bonney Fredericks’ pale face at one of the windows: there was nothing.

  He pulled at the reins and moved the gray past the corral fence. The graze across his back
made him shift uneasily in the saddle and he could feel the shirt sticking to his back with the blood.

  He didn’t know for sure where he was going except that it had to be away. Dusk gathered about him and within a short while only the sound of his horse’s hoofs picked him out. The fall of blood from Fredericks’ body had slowed, but not stopped.

  Piccadilly Publishing

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