Hart the Regulator 6 Read online

  Not to Zeke.

  He watched the rise and fall of the bodies as the horses trotted in and for no good reason that he could think of, his mind went back to the day the Jawhawkers had ridden in on their sod house so many years ago.

  Phlegm caught at the back of his throat and he tried to cough it clear.

  Millie appeared in the doorway, hearing his cough. ‘Zeke are you all right? There’s some lemonade that—’

  She saw the riders too; her mouth fell open and she caught at her skirts.

  ‘Zeke.’

  He wondered if her memories were the same as his. At the same moment he knew they were groundless, there was no reason, no connection. Yet when he turned and began to walk towards Millie in the doorway he had a sudden second’s vision of Willard sprawled on the ground, blood running from his neck, his body.

  ‘Zeke.’

  ‘It’s okay, Millie.’ He touched her arm reassuringly. ‘It’s only men passing through.’

  She watched them over his shoulder. ‘They ain’t passin’, they’re heading right here.’

  His fingers tightened. ‘In that case, they’ve heard of your chicken stew.’

  He smiled and walked past her, not hurrying till he was inside, his legs then not as fast or steady as he would have liked, his fingers neither as he checked the load in the Navy Colt he kept in the kitchen drawer.

  Chapter Two

  The two riders reined in before the station, the third, the Negro, was still coming slowly behind.

  ‘Ma’am,’ the tall one with black hair nodded and made a gesture with his hand towards where his hat brim would have been.

  Millie Daniels stared up at Waite and the color gradually drained from her face; the fingers of both hands wound tight inside the palms, chipped edges of nail biting at the rough skin.

  ‘Hot, ain’t it?’ Waite glanced round at Walker and slipped his right boot from its stirrup. ‘Real hot.’ He swung his leg and dropped to the ground. The side of his coat flapped wide and the pistol in his holster showed clear.

  ‘Appreciate it if you could water an’ feed these mounts,’ he said to Zeke, who was now in the doorway. ‘Been a long ride. They could use a rest.’ He stretched his body, arching his back. ‘AH could.’

  Zeke hadn’t moved, his hand still at his back.

  ‘We’ll pay,’ added Waite. ‘Don’t expect nothin’ for nothin’.’

  ‘If there was somethin’ to eat an’ drink,’ said Walker, ‘we’d pay good for that, too.’

  ‘There’s a stage due in,’ said Zeke Daniels. ‘In soon. Pretty busy gettin’ ready for that.’

  Waite turned his head with something approaching laughter in his dark eyes. ‘Hear that, Walker, there’s a stage comin’ in.’

  The Negro set his head on one side and scratched at his ear. ‘Well, is that a fact? Comin’ in now. Ain’t that somethin’? ‘

  ‘St Louis stage,’ confirmed Zeke, his worries about the three men still strong.

  ‘When would that be?’ asked Waite. ‘Exactly.’

  Zeke shrugged: ‘Ten minutes, maybe.’

  Waite fingered the silver watch from his pocket and tapped the cover from its face. ‘On the hour, then?’

  ‘Yeah. On the hour.’

  Walker dismounted and then Weston did the same.

  ‘Can you look to these horses?’ asked Waite, taking a couple of steps towards the door.

  Zeke didn’t see what else he could do. Riling them wasn’t going to help any and as for the old gun he was holding behind his back—

  ‘Sure. Be with you in a minute.’ Zeke went back inside and returned the Navy Colt to the kitchen drawer. Then he went outside to take the horses. The front door swung to a little behind him and Waite pushed it back and went inside, the others following.

  The main room served as dining room for passengers and waiting room too. A long oak table filled the middle of it, several places set now and ready. Hardback chairs were pulled up close. At the far end of the room was an iron stove, not lit, on either side of which were armchairs, whose upholstery had seen better days a long time back.

  The kitchen led off to the left, the stove there alight and the smell of stew seeping through. Two doors at the rear of the main room led to the Daniels’ bedroom and a spare one with bunks for passengers who stayed over. Any surplus of visitors was put up in one or other of the barns.

  Weston went over to the nearest armchair and thumped down into it, causing a small cloud of dust to rise up around his head.

  Waite pulled round one of the chairs at the table and sat in that, his boots resting on the cross-leg of another.

  Walker went over to the kitchen door and grinned. ‘Reckon we got time to get us some of that.’

  ‘You sure spend a lot of time thinkin’ ’bout that stomach of yours,’ growled Waite.

  The Negro laughed and turned towards the woman, who was standing a couple of feet inside the room and staring at Waite, her face ashen and her hands still clenched.

  ‘Hey, ma’am,’ said Walker. ‘There enough of that stew to go round?’ Millie heard him, but vaguely, as if in a dream, a voice through a fog.

  ‘Ma’am.’ Walker went up to her and moved to touch her arm.

  Suddenly Millie jumped back and sat her teeth together, making a strange hissing sound.

  Walker frowned. ‘I didn’t mean nothin’. I was just askin’ ’bout that food out there.’

  ‘It’s for the stage,’ said Zeke, coming in.

  ‘Got to be some to spare,’ argued Walker.

  ‘Damn,’ snapped Waite. ‘Let it go.’

  ‘All I want is a plateful of stew, what’s wrong with that?’

  Waite stared back at him but said nothing more. At the end of the room Weston blinked his good eye and steadied his breathing and wished to hell the woman would serve up some food and stop looking at Waite like she’d just seen a ghost.

  ‘Millie,’ said Zeke, setting a hand to her elbow, ‘I reckon we can feed these folk right off, huh? You made plenty.’

  Millie didn’t look at him; didn’t move.

  ‘Always does,’ Zeke said to the men. ‘Cooks an’ bakes like there’s no tomorrow whenever-the stage is due in. Folk say they leave here carrying a few pounds more baggage than they had when they come.’

  No one laughed.

  ‘Come on, Millie.’

  Zeke shepherded her past the table and on into the kitchen.

  ‘What the hell’s got into her?’ asked Weston in a low voice. ‘She was starin’ at you like you was the Devil hisself.’

  ‘Weston, you’re talkin’ like a goddam fool.’

  ‘No, I ain’t. You ask Walker if I ain’t right.’

  The Negro sat on the edge of the table. ‘She was givin’ you the eye, an’ that’s a fact. I thought she just couldn’t stop starin’ at that handsome face of yours, that strong, muscular body.’

  Walker laughed and Waite looked at him threateningly, lifting up a knife from close by his elbow. ‘I told you before. You watch your mouth.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ said Walker, standing up and spreading his hands. ‘Yes, sir!’

  Waite scowled and looked away; the knife fell back to the table with a clatter.

  In the kitchen, Zeke set the coffee pot on the stove and took down three plates. He could see from his wife’s expression how troubled she still was but he didn’t see that talking about it now would make things any easier.

  ‘Zeke, it’s him.’

  Millie’s voice was soft but strained and she clung to her husband as she spoke.

  ‘Who? What d’you mean? Millie, I don’t understand.’

  ‘That man out there.’ Her grip tightened till the ends of her fingers bit through the sleeve of his plaid shirt. ‘The one at the table. The tall one. It’s him!’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘The one who killed our Willard.’

  Zeke’s breath drained out of him; cold lanced his bowels and the small of his back. He set a hand upon his wife’s and her skin was
cold and wrinkled beneath his own.

  ‘Millie, Millie, don’t!’

  ‘But, Zeke, it is. Don’t you see, it is him. The same … the same man.’

  Her voice was getting louder, more off-key. Zeke patted her and shushed her and moved away; he took up the ladle and started to lift out portions of stew and set them on the three plates.

  ‘Zeke—’

  He turned to her. ‘Millie, it can’t be. The man who shot Willard would be nearly twice that man’s age. Can’t you see that? Can’t you understand?’

  Something in the back of her eyes, something he’d seen before at moments and not wanted to recognize, told him that understanding was the one thing she had little of. He shook his head and looked away again and finished ladling out the food.

  All three men ate greedily, taking wedges of freshly baked bread and breaking them in their hands, dipping them into the juice and wiping them round the sides of the wide plates. Gravy trickled down one side of Weston’s mouth and dripped on to his sleeve, on to the table top.

  ‘Jesus! You have to eat like a pig?’ Waite exclaimed.

  Weston chewed and carried on regardless.

  ‘What d’you expect. Only got one eye, ain’t he? Can’t see where to put the damned stuff half the time.’ Walker laughed and licked juice from his fingers. ‘Good, though, ain’t it?’

  ‘Uh.’ Waite wiped his arm across his mouth and threw back his head, letting out a loud belch.

  ‘You…’ Weston began with difficulty, his mouth overfull, ‘you callin’ me a pig an’ you carry on like that.’

  ‘Aw, shut up, Weston. You’re a pain in the ass.’

  ‘Ain’t that the truth, though,’ agreed Walker with a broad grin.

  ‘I—’

  All three men stopped talking and listened. The sound of the approaching stage was unmistakable. Zeke hurried through from the kitchen, not wanting to leave Millie on her own, but failing to see an alternative.

  Waite and Walker were on their feet, moving towards the door.

  ‘What’s the hurry?’ Weston asked, crumbs of bread falling from his mouth.

  ‘We best—’ Waite began, but then he shook his head and stopped. ‘He’s right.’ He touched Walker’s arm and gestured towards the table. There ain’t no hurry to do what we got to do. Let’s finish this food. Say hello to these folks just gettin’ in.’

  Walker grinned: That’s right. We’ll help to make ’em feel right welcome. After that long journey of theirs.’

  ‘Yeah.’

  Bob Crewe brought the stage round alongside the corral, hauling the team of four to a weary halt. The horses ran with sweat. Bob set the brake and took his Stetson from his head and fanned it in front of his face.

  ‘Sure glad we got here,’ he said to Chester Miles alongside him.

  ‘Right enough. Right enough.’

  Chester Miles was around the same age as the driver, which put him the wrong side of forty and maybe too old in some folks’ eyes to be riding shotgun. He’d been with the stage line for nearly as long as Zeke Daniels though and he couldn’t think of any other way of life. Stablehand, driver, way station manager, guard. Chester had done them all.

  ‘Hey, Chester! How the hell are you?’ Zeke called up to him. ‘Didn’t know you were making this trip?’

  ‘Yeah, an’ it’s a hot one.’

  ‘It is. ’Lo, Bob, everythin’ okay?’

  ‘Be better when I get down out of this damned box and stretch some. Get me a piss and somethin’ to drink.’

  ‘Millie’s got it ready an’ waiting.’

  ‘Like always,’ called Chester, climbing down.

  ‘Like always.’

  The door of the coach opened and a fresh-faced young man showed himself, looking around before stepping to the ground. He was somewhere around twenty, wearing a gray suit that must have been giving him hell on account of the heat, and carrying a leather case that proclaimed him as a drummer. He turned and held the door open while a woman climbed down after him. She probably wasn’t a good many years older than the man, but she’d been on the frontier long enough for that not to matter. There were lines and wrinkles around the corners of her face and mouth and the make-up she’d applied to her cheeks and lips looked tawdry and cheap. Her hair was several shades of red, curled at the edges. She was wearing a green dress with a short jacket which covered her shoulders and little more.

  There were no other passengers.

  ‘Step inside, folks. There’s plenty of good food and there’ll be hot coffee to go with it.’

  Zeke ushered everyone inside. Walker grinned and said good day to them as they came in, Waite and Weston watched and drank from large mugs of hot coffee.

  Walker made a show of shifting a chair for the woman passenger to sit down on.

  ‘Name’s Walker, ma’am. Pleasure to know you.’

  Waite snorted into his coffee.

  This is Miss Jackson,’ said the drummer. ‘Miss Rose Jackson. She is an entertainer.’ Waite snorted again. ‘We became acquainted on the journey.’

  ‘I just bet you did,’ said Waite, just loud enough to be heard.

  ‘And my name,’ the young man went on, ‘is Alan Ransome. I have the honor to represent—’

  ‘Boy,’ said the stage driver, ‘you sure do talk a mess. Let’s get down to this good food.’

  They did exactly that and after a few confused moments, the drummer joined them. It was his first trip to Kansas, his first trip out of the East - beyond St Louis anyway - and he was having difficulty adjusting to the way things were done out on the frontier, the different ways in which people behaved.

  The food smelled good, though, he had to admit to that.

  Ransome set his samples case between his feet, smiled across the table at Rose, glanced a little nervously at the two men wearing dirty white coats who were sitting at the end of the room, and forked a piece of stew to his mouth.

  ‘You folk want some of this good bread?’ asked Zeke.

  They did. Zeke cut the bread away in chunks and passed it along the table. Ordinarily it would have been Millie’s job, but she was keeping out of the way in the kitchen and Zeke figured that to be the best place for her. Maybe as soon as all the folk had moved on, the stage had got on its way, they could sit down together and talk it out.

  ‘Millie okay?’ asked Chester, almost as if he’d been reading Zeke’s thoughts.

  ‘Sure, she’s—’

  Chester put a cupped hand aside his mouth. ‘Hey, Millie! Come on out here and let’s have a look at you.’

  Zeke moved closer. ‘Tell you, Chester, she ain’t so good today. Best leave her be.’

  Chester nodded. ‘Okay, Zeke. You only got to say.’

  Zeke went towards the door. ‘You folk all right now, I’ll see to changing that team.’

  ‘We’ll be pullin’ out inside the hour,’ said the driver, looking up from his food.

  ‘Yeah.’ Zeke opened the door and went out into the front.

  He’d been gone a couple of minutes when Waite leaned over towards Weston and spoke quietly in his ear. The one-eyed man nodded and stood up. ‘Best I see to our horses, too,’ he said. ‘We ought to be riding.’

  The driver turned his head as Weston went past him. ‘Headin’ far?’ he asked Waite and Walker.

  ‘Could be,’ answered Waite.

  ‘Depends,’ said Walker, smiling.

  ‘It does,’ finished Waite.

  ‘Where you men from?’ asked Bob Crewe, chewing on a piece of gristle.

  ‘Rode up from round Caldwell way,’ said Walker. ‘Few days back.’

  ‘Yeah,’ interrupted Chester. ‘I used to drive on that run.’ He paused to pick a piece of meat from between his teeth and smooth it away on his pants leg. ‘Hear tell the railroads goin’ down that way any time.’

  ‘We heard that, too,’ said Walker.

  Chester shook his head. ‘That’s another good stage line that’ll get its business cut in half.’

  ‘More,
’ put in Bob Crewe.

  ‘More,’ Chester agreed.

  ‘Can’t blame folk for using the railroad,’ said Waite. ‘Not if it’s cheaper an’ quicker - an’ more comfortable.’

  ‘Don’t know ’bout that,’ Chester shook his head. ‘I ain’t never rid one of them ugly bastards an’ I never will.’ He glanced round to see if Millie had come into the room, ready to apologize for his language; he saw she hadn’t and carried on. Instinctively, he didn’t think it necessary to apologize to Rose. ‘No, sir, never will.’

  ‘I think,’ said the young salesman,’ that the future of the country lies with the railroads.’

  ‘Huh, an’ with the likes of you, I suppose,’ snorted Chester. ‘Ridin’ round with fancy suits an’ fancy ways, getting decent folk to spend money on things they never thought of needin’ in the first place till you convinced ’em they did.’

  ‘Sir, let me assure you—’

  ‘Assure my ass,’ said Chester and dipped his bread in the remains of his stew.

  ‘They do say the railroad’s safer,’ said Walker a few moments later, ‘better for carryin’ money an’ the like.’

  ‘Maybe,’ agreed the driver grudgingly, ‘it depends. Trains get held up same as coaches.’

  ‘That a fact?’ said the Negro, wide-eyed.

  ‘Yeah, they do.’

  ‘And how ’bout you?’ Waite leaned forward in the chair, pointing at the driver. ‘You ever been stopped by some of these...’ The word didn’t seem to come to him right off. ‘... desperadoes?’

  Bob Crewe pushed his empty plate away from him across the table. Chester was listening, still picking at his teeth. Ran-some was trying to talk to Rose and finding her interest waning fast.

  ‘Had my share, I guess,’ Bob agreed, ‘but I come through it.’

  Waite nodded and his eyes seemed to sink even further back in his head. ‘When was the last time anyone stuck you up?’

  Bob set his head to one side and thought a while. ‘That’ d be two years back this coming June. Few miles short of Wichita. We was—’

  ‘You hear that,’ said Waite to Walker, ‘two years since this here man’s been held up.’

  Walker grinned and shook his head. ‘Sounds like a long time to me.’