Hart the Regulator 10 Page 7
He called her name and at first he thought she couldn’t hear him because his voice refused to rise above a whisper. But then she turned her head slowly, like in a dream, towards him and her eyes were dark fire, accusing him. Accusing him and he didn’t know what of. He wanted to turn his head away but his own pain held him there and he was forced to watch as the skin around the eyes gradually started to slip away and shrivel. He had to watch as Kathy’s mouth opened in a smile and the lips peeled back to reveal teeth that were blackened and broken and which rotted and fell from her face. Soon all that seemed to remain were the eyes: the accusation.
Hart’s hands were working, tearing, tearing something, paper, tearing paper, tearing a letter, her letter, a letter asking him. . .
‘Hey!’
The icy water splashed into Hart’s face and his head jolted with a painful gasp, the dream washed away.
‘Hey! Wake up, you bastard!’
Hart’s eyes flickered open and he winced a second before the Mexican’s hand crashed into the side of his jaw and drove him back against the wall.
The crown of his head was throbbing with an insistent, repeating ache and he knew that the swelling above his eye had to be the size of a duck egg, though a different color.
His hands were tied behind him and his legs were roped tight together at the ankles, knees drawn up towards his chest. He didn’t know how long he’d been unconscious, but it had been time enough for the gang to go through his belongings with care. On the table behind the Mexican he could see the sawn-off Remington ten gauge, his Henry rifle and the double-action Starr .44 that was a souvenir of his time fighting for the Confederacy in the War between the States. At first he thought they’d failed to find the Apache knife he kept stashed in his boot, but then he realized that both boots had been pulled off and thrown under one of the bunks and the knife blade was sticking up from the far end of the table, just back of where Cherokee Dave Speedmore was sitting, a sneer cutting hard across his face.
High-Hat Thomas was sitting over the door, a chair reversed under him. None of the other men were in the cabin.
‘You better do some talkin’,’ said the Mexican threateningly.
Hart glanced up at the round mustachioed face and laughed.
The Mexican punched him in the mouth.
Cherokee laughed.
‘You the law?’ asked Thomas. He managed to look tall sitting down.
‘You know everythin’.’
‘Answer the question!’ shouted the Mexican and aimed another blow at Hart’s head, only this time he held it back.
‘I ain’t the law,’ said Hart. ‘You didn’t find no badge, did you?’
‘That don’t have to mean nothin’, suggested Cherokee.
Hart shrugged. ‘Suit yourself.’
‘You could be a Pinkerton, one of them?’ High-Hat Thomas voice was quieter than the rest, more reasonable. Hart didn’t trust it; he’d been at his most reasonable immediately before he’d pistol-whipped him unconscious.
‘Sure,’ agreed Hart, ‘I could be, but I ain’t.’
‘Then what you doin’ here?’ asked the breed.
‘Ridin’ through?’ suggested Hart.
‘Very funny!’ snorted the Mex.
‘Not as funny as lookin’ like a greaser on the front of some trashy book,’ said Hart.
The Mexican punched him in the mouth. He was still swinging when Cherokee got off the table and grabbed his arms, pulling him away.
Hart spat some blood from between his lips and didn’t bother about it splashing down the front of the Mexican’s pants.
‘Why you …!’
‘Take it easy! Hold off, for God’s sake!’
Cherokee spun the Mexican round and propelled him back against the table. The Mex’s hand made a move towards the gun at his right hip and Cherokee’s face tightened into a mask. He had his own pistol out and pushed up under the Mexican’s ribs before the other man could clear leather.
‘I ought to blast you away!’ Cherokee hissed.
The Mex managed a half-hearted sneer but one side of his mouth was quivering and his eyes were a lot wider than they had been moments before.
‘Forget it,’ said Thomas, winding himself up from the chair.
The tall outlaw moved between the two, lifting Cherokee’s pistol with his forearm and waiting until the hammer had been released and the gun was back in its holster.
‘Go help with the horses,’ Thomas said without turning his head.
‘You said—.’
‘I said, go help with the horses.’ Thomas’ voice was still soft and reasoning. Underneath he was hard as well-honed steel.
The Mexican gave a token scowl and stomped out of the room.
High-Hat Thomas leaned back against the table and forced Hart to look a long way up if he was going to see his face at all. Cherokee was off to the side and seemed anything but patient. Hart wondered where the others were and what needed doing with the horses; it could be they had a raid planned and that Hart’s presence was holding them up. They could even think he’d got wind of whatever they were planning and had come snooping around for that reason.
One thing was certain: no one was about to believe that he’d happened upon the Hollow by chance.
Hart moved his head slowly from side to side and asked for something to drink. Thomas poured half a cup of luke-warm coffee and bent double holding it to Hart’s mouth. A couple of mouthfuls was enough. Thomas pulled the cup away and leaned back against the table and waited.
One of the men outside was whistling a hymn.
Hart said: ‘I was down in Fallon. Couple of days back. Had a little trouble with the sheriff down there.’ He paused and caught a quick look pass between the two men. ‘Seemed to think playin’ stud with a marked deck weren’t right. Some fool ranch hand made a fuss about bein’ cheated out of his money and the sheriff he comes over to the saloon an’ accuses me of cheatin’ and tells me to ride out of town within the hour.’
‘What you do?’ asked Cherokee.
‘What would you do if a man accused you of cheatin’ at cards in front of witnesses?’ Hart looked from one to the other. ‘I killed him, of course.’
‘You shot the sheriff?’
‘That’s what I said.’
‘Down in Fallon?’
‘That’s right.’
Cherokee started to laugh, a low, deep sound that began in his belly and worked its way up slow and gradual. Thomas levered himself up from the table and stood, head hunched down, in front of where Hart was tied on the floor.
‘This lawman you claim you killed, tell me about him.’
Hart shrugged, thought for a couple of minutes. ‘Near as I recall, he was dressed pretty smart. Clothes looked like they come right out of the store an’ on to his back. Real neat little beard he must’ve had trimmed in the barber shop every damn mornin’. Struttin’ round with that badge on him like some peacock.’
The door opened and the newspaper reader with the scar down his neck came into the shack; he went across the room and around the stove and stood close by the back wall.
Hart carried on with his story. ‘So there he was all shinin’ like the Fourth of July an’ fixin’ to use that Smith an’ Wesson he had at his hip, I beat him to it, that was all. Cleared that Colt of mine and let him have it right between the eyes.’
‘Between the eyes?’ queried Thomas.
‘Well,’ Hart shrugged, ‘mite above ’em, tell the truth.’
‘Tell the truth!’ scoffed Cherokee. ‘You wouldn’t recognize the truth if it was crawlin’ up out your own ass!’
Hart leaned back towards the wall and looked at Thomas. ‘Never mind what he says. What I’m sayin’s gospel. You send one of your men down into Fallon an’ ask ’em what happened to Merle Wringer. They’ll likely take you out the cemetery an’ show his grave marker. Maybe even got my name on it.’
‘Your name,’ said Thomas softly. ‘Now you forgot to tell us exactly what that was.’
There was a few moments of silence inside the cabin. Outside the whistler had found another tune much like the first and you could hear horses, restless and close.
‘You believe any of this shit?’ asked Cherokee.
Thomas shook his head. ‘Not a deal.’
‘You, Bailey?’
The scarred man grinned. ‘What I heard wouldn’t even make the back page of the Bute Times and Express.’
Cherokee came closer to Hart and pointed a finger at his face. ‘Mister, you best start prayin’ up a few last words while you got the chance.’
The breed leaned his body away and his long fingers found the butt of Hart’s Colt Peacemaker, where it was sticking up from his belt. The triple click of the hammer coming back was underscored by the sound of a horse and rider coming along the valley at a canter.
‘Mescal?’ Cherokee turned questioningly towards the center of the room.
Thomas gestured that he had no way of knowing.
Bailey went back around the stove to the door and threw it open. ‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘It’s Mescal right enough. Looks pretty lathered up ’bout somethin’.’
Hart couldn’t hear everything the newcomer said, but he heard enough to pick out the news that the sheriff down in Fallon had walked into the saloon and got himself a slug through the brain pan.
‘You see it?’ called Cherokee.
‘Saw the earth an’ read me the marker.’
Hart allowed himself the beginnings of a grim smile.
‘How d’it happen?’
‘Hell, I didn’t stay long enough to find out. Some of those boys down there, they was actin’ mighty jumpy with strangers. Followin’ me all ’bout the place like they was ’bout to get tar an’ feathers an’ see me out the hard way.’
‘You don’t know who killed him, then?’
‘Only what I heard.’
‘Yeah?’
‘Some feller put one in him from thirty yards in bad light, near inch perfect.’
‘What feller?’
‘Hell, I don’t … wait a minute, Bird, some such … no, wait on … Batt, that was it. Fool name if ever I heard one. Batt, that was the feller. Did us one hell of a good turn when he blowed that lawman away, no mistake about that.’
Cherokee and High-Hat Thomas were staring down at Hart and their expressions were starting to change. The breed extended his arm and pointed the pistol at Hart’s face and squinted up his eyes along the barrel. He laughed a guttural laugh and used his thumb to release the hammer.
‘It does seem like you might’ve been tellin’ the truth after all.’
‘Surely does,’ added Thomas. ‘Only that still don’t say how you got up to the Hollow.’
‘Easy,’ said Hart. ‘I was on the run from a bunch of fellers whose idea of a little fun was throwin’ a rope round my neck an’ stretchin’ it from the nearest tall tree. I headed off into the livery stable an’ this old timer in there, he shook me by the hand for shootin’ the sheriff and told me if I didn’t have nowhere to run to come up here.’
‘Why here?’
‘Said it was used as a relay by a bunch runnin’ stolen horses. Ten or more years back. Deserted now, he said. Good place to lie low.’
Hart looked at the men and waited.
‘Makes some kind of sense,’ allowed Thomas.
Cherokee grudgingly agreed that it did; he seemed more than a little disappointed that he wasn’t going to be allowed to blast Hart’s skull into fragments and scatter it all along the cabin wall.
‘What we goin’ to do with him?’ asked Bailey from the doorway.
‘You got any ideas?’
‘He’s that good a shot, why not let him ride with us?’
‘You out of your head?’
‘What we got in mind, one more gun won’t go amiss.’
‘You goin’ to trust him with a gun?’
‘Sounds like he puts it to good use. Hell, he’s already got rid of the sheriff for us. Ought to give him a vote of thanks for that anyway.’
‘He can have a vote of thanks,’ said Thomas. ‘But he ain’t gettin’ a cut of that bank money. We’re splittin’ that too many ways as it is.’
‘I never said nothin’ ’bout givin’ him no share. Take him along for the ride. He proves as useful as his mouth is, we might want to take him in for whatever we set up next.’ He pushed the back of his boot against the jamb of the door. ‘Don’t see what we got to lose.’
High-Hat Thomas agreed that they’d call the boys together and talk about it, which they did. Finally it was agreed that Hart could ride with them into Fallon, but his hands would be roped to the saddle all the way to the edge of town and he wouldn’t get his fingers round a gun until they were close by the bank itself. One of them would be watching him all the way in and at the first sign of a sneaky move they’d take his head off from the back with the first shot. If he played it right he’d get a place to sleep for a few days and maybe even an offer to join up. If not, that was his look-out.
The Mexican voted no all the way along the line, saying they should string him up like the folk down in Fallon had wanted to do, except that he wanted a little time alone with him first so that he could work on his nose and his cojones with a blade.
Cherokee might have been tempted to go along, but there was still something about Hart that made him curious and he knew that once he was hanging from a cottonwood with his balls stuffed in his mouth he wasn’t going to be saying very much.
So they loosened the ropes at Hart’s feet and wrists and gave him some stale bread and a few bits of fatty bacon, with some more weak and cold coffee to swill it down. He didn’t know exactly how he was going to play it when they finally rode back into Fallon, but he knew it wasn’t going to be the way Cherokee and High-Hat had got it planned.
Whatever happened, he wanted time to teach the Mexican some lessons and he hadn’t forgotten there was a pretty price riding on at least two heads that he intended to collect.
Chapter Nine
Aram Batt slid his hands into the water and pulled the twin lengths of branch clear. The river eddied around his arms and he paused long enough for it to settle. His fingers felt the cold of steel beneath the cold of water. The trap had shut but the beaver had gone: all that remained was the furry stump of his foot where he had gnawed it off to make his escape.
Aram sighed, shook his head and reset the trap. There was time enough before the coming of the snow and ice for him not to worry overmuch about one hide more or less.
Better that the creature should escape of its own accord than that it should be stolen by the Indians.
Since the occasion when he had come upon two of them in the act of unloading his traps and left them dead in the river -their look-out making a bloody and sudden third - he’d scarce seen sign of a Blackfoot at all. Least, what signs there had been were distant ones and unlikely to disturb him overmuch.
Back on the bank, he set the four beavers on the back of his mule and took the time out to break off a chew of tobacco from his possibles sack. He touched the clay stem of his pipe and promised himself a good smoke when he got back to the shantee. He was feeling wolfish and his mouth began to water at the thought of the, side of antelope that was waiting for him. Two hours he’d spent tracking her down, laying in wait until the moment when that lovely head thrust up into the sights of his .40-.60 Hawken.
He’d savored it as he pulled the trigger and he did so again now, heading back through the underbush, moving gradually away from the main stream of the river.
The place he’d built was fashioned from skins stretched over a framework of slender poles that had been bent skillfully to make a sloping, semi-circular shell. Inside this his belongings were packed and covered - tea, flour, salt, coffee, the dried meat he had left and the nuts and wild plums that he’d collected and kept in old tins.
In front of the shelter was the remnant of a large fire, t
he center of which would still be smoldering and hot. At either side of the fire were the graining block on which he worked the skins and the frame upon which they were then stretched.
So far it had been a goodish season, nothing like the old days when the Rocky Mountain Fur Company and the American Fur Company were dividing things up between them. Big profits to be made and every trapper worth his salt was signed up with one outfit or the other and some of them ready to kill a man who worked for the opposition if he showed his face in the wrong territory.
Now those days were over and everything was starting to change. Aram was freelancing again and spent both seasons out in the wilderness with his own company. Wouldn’t see another white man, most likely, till he made it back down to the trading post at the fort a couple of days ahead of the worst weather. It’d be fine when he got there and he’d enjoy the warmth and the sound of other voices coming from other heads than his own. He’d eat hot food and drink bad liquor and after maybe a week he’d be hankering after the mountains again, the sounds of water moving through the trees and the chatter of birds, the silence.
Aram got the fire going and rinsed his mouth with water. He bit into a piece of hardtack and chewed on it while unloading the mule. His long-barreled rifle he leaned against the side of the shantee carefully, never letting it far out of his reach.
Soon he was sitting down on a makeshift stool and tamping cut tobacco down into the base of his pipe. When he got it lit and was drawing the strong smoke down into his lungs he thought - for no reason that was apparent to him – of his brother, Jedediah. He wondered how he was getting on working that miserable patch of land of his where nothing seemed to grow and the hogs and cattle took fever most winters and never survived round till spring. Stuck there with that wife of his - too good for him by half – and all them damn kids.
Aram tapped the end of the pipe stem against those few teeth he had remaining at the bottom of his mouth.
Kids must be pretty old by now. Men and women, more or less. Eldest flown the coop and gone, he shouldn’t wonder.