Hart the Regulator 10 Page 8

  Never knew with Jedediah, though. Strange old bastard with his bible and his psalm-sayin’ and hymn-singin’ and the like. What the hell a woman like Rachel wanted to get herself tied down to a lifetime of psalms and hymns and misery, Aram had never understood. He’d have shown her a better time if she’d come up into the wilderness with him. Least she’d’ve laughed once or twice. He doubted if Jedediah permitted laughing.

  All them times his brother would try to get Aram to go into partnership with him. Come on with me and we’ll get us a good stake of land, build a place, we can raise crops and cattle and kids. Make a life for ourselves and our young ‘uns. It’s what men got to do, Aram. You know that. You read it in the book, heard it from the preacher. Go forth and multiply.

  Multiply, shit!

  Only thing that brother Jedediah succeeded in multiplying was his kids. Never seemed to be so damn fruitful when it came to stock or anything that was meant to sprout up out of the land. Never enough money to buy clothing or boots or even nails to fix up the house. Stop the wind getting in and tearing it down. Stop the cold. The rats. Stop death.

  It occurred to Aram that some time his brother had to die. He wasn’t a young man any longer and the life he’d chosen had worn him hard. Could be he’d pass on and Aram’d never know about it. They weren’t likely to pass the news up there by the Missouri, that was certain.

  When it came for Jedediah Batt to leave for the promised land not a lot of folk were going to shed or tear or wave him on his way and wish him good luck.

  Aram grinned to himself and sucked on his pipe, satisfied. Weren’t no one special going to be mourning him, neither, but then that was the way he chose it. That was what he’d wanted. Lots of the other trappers, they bought an Indian squaw and took her into the mountains with them. She made the food and kept the place clean and at nights she was warming enough, that was pretty certain. Aram knew of some men, took a squaw they bought for a parcel of hides and spent four or five winters with her without ever exchanging as much as a single word. Just a succession of gestures and grunts and that was all it took.

  Not for Aram: he’d gesture and grunt to himself.

  He wanted company, someone to talk to, well; he’d strike up a conversation with the mule. Least it wouldn’t quote the bible back at him, try telling him how to live his life.

  Hell! He knew how he wanted to live his life and he was doing it. Weren’t nothing or nobody going to come along and make him change.

  Chapter Ten

  They’d sent Bailey and the Mexican in ahead. Hart rode with the main group: Cherokee and High-Hat Thomas at the front, then Mescal and the guard who’d first got the drop on Hart and whose name turned out to be T. J. Bodine; next came Hart with yellow-shirt close at back of him - though today his shirt was dark blue and his name was LaRue. All of them were well armed and none of them was going to hesitate before pulling the trigger. They’d got the word that there was going to be close to a couple of thousand dollars in the Fallon bank and they wanted to hit it while the money was still there. Their idea of hitting a bank seemed to involve getting as many men inside as possible and scaring the hell out of everyone in sight. While that was going on, a couple of others would brandish their weapons up and down Main Street and keep other folk clear.

  As a plan it lacked subtlety but that wasn’t going to prevent it from working.

  It had worked over at Ely, when the bunch had taken the Mining Company bank and shot two of the staff, leaving the manager dead and a clerk crippled. On that occasion they’d ridden clear with eight hundred dollars. This time the stakes were higher and they were going to make all the more certain that no one stood between them and the money.

  With the sheriff in Fallon a few days dead and likely nobody in his boots, there wasn’t anyone who was likely to stop them. Unless it was Hart.

  ‘Hey, now!’ LaRue called from behind him as if somehow he’d read his thoughts. ‘Remember I got this gun drawn and you covered. All the way down to the wire!’

  Hart glanced over his shoulder at the thin, balding man who sat in the saddle grinning his lopsided, gap-toothed grin. ‘Yeah,’ he nodded, ‘I’ll keep it in mind.’

  LaRue scowled and spat and Hart swung away. In less than half an hour they would be in Fallon.

  The bank was right across the street from Zack Moses’ store. It was a pretty imposing looking building, with a balcony jutting out from the upper story so that it covered the boardwalk and slim pillars pushed down from underneath the balcony edge into the dirt of the street. There were glass windows set at either side of the front door, three more windows, curtained, above.

  There was just enough wind to shift the sign where it hung over the sidewalk.

  Bailey was sitting on a rocker close by the door, enjoying the comforts of the chair that was generally used by the bank’s manager when business was slack. Bailey was able to make use of it this particular morning on account of the bank being about as busy as hell come Sunday. Three or four farmers were in town to negotiate a loan or pay some of their mortgage; the local manager of the stage line was checking that his men’s wages had arrived in time to be collected and taken out to the surrounding way stations the next day; old Mrs. Parsons had brought in the profits from her rooming house and was set to add them to her savings account.

  It was a busy day and busy enough without the sudden influx of extra custom that Cherokee Dave Speedmore and the rest of his bunch were intent on providing.

  Bailey stretched his legs, one boot hooked over the other. He had his wire-frame spectacles on the end of his nose again and he’d picked up a local newspaper and was going through it column by column. He was also keeping a check on how many folk were going in and out of the bank, whether anyone who looked useful with a gun was hanging around too close, and what signs there were of a new lawman being in town.

  The Mexican was thirty or so yards lower down and on the opposite side. He was leaning back against the side wall of the barber shop, hat sloped over his eyes and the toe of one boot making slow patterns in the dust. No one was about to interrupt and ask just what he figured he was doing.

  His and Bailey’s mounts were tethered close by, their reins looped over the barber’s striped pole. The hitching rail in front of the bank was full and when the gang arrived they were going to find themselves squeezed across to the far side of the broad street.

  One horse, one mule and one brightly painted rig waited already outside Moses’ store, their respective riders inside making purchases and talking with the mayor about the need to appoint a new peace officer to replace Merle Wringer just as soon as possible.

  Zack Moses placated them and assured them the town council was making inquiries about the most suitable replacement. He was sure they’d have a man in the job by the time he was needed. Sure of it.

  Zack rubbed a hand across his stomach and glanced through his store window as a tall rider in a steep hat went slowly past, checked his mount and turned.

  Yes, they’d get their new sheriff soon enough.

  ~*~

  Cherokee rode alongside Hart and quickly pulled back the long coat he was wearing to reveal the pearl-handled Colt. He lifted it towards Hart’s body and smiled: ‘I still ain’t sure I shouldn’t pull this trigger right now an’ leave you in the street for dead.’

  Hart glanced around. ‘Do that, you’re liable to get yourself a mite more attention than you need.’

  Cherokee swiveled the pistol on his finger and handed it towards Hart, butt first.

  ‘One false move …’ he said, letting the threat ride.

  ‘Yeah,’ said Hart, ‘I know.’

  High-Hat Thomas dropped to the ground and threw his reins up to LaRue. He waited for Cherokee, T. J. and Mescal to dismount and the three of them went over to the bank together, pushing the door open nice and easy like they were customers much as any others.

  Once they’d gone from sight, Hart knew he had to wait a couple of minutes, hitch his horse across the street and kee
p the north end clear of trouble. The Mex was handling the south. LaRue held the horses.

  Bailey folded his newspaper carefully, looked over at Hart and gave him a short nod that might have been either warning or greeting, there was no way of knowing. He took off his spectacles and slipped them into his pocket, patted his holster a couple of times for luck, then he, too, entered the bank.

  Hart stood close enough to Zack Moses store to shout out a warning that the mayor was half-certain to hear. But Moses was busy persuading a woman to buy a new pair of button-down shoes and he wasn’t paying heed any longer to what was going on out front. Hart turned away from the store and saw that LaRue was watching him carefully from the saddle. Down the street the Mexican had shifted his position a little; his hat was no longer down over his eyes and he was watching a couple of men arguing about cattle prices just below where he was standing.

  Up towards the end of town a tall feed wagon was trundling towards the livery stable, drawn by a team of four long-eared mules.

  When Bailey entered the bank, the others were all in their positions. Cherokee was standing over by the side wall, opposite the counter and its two clerks, pretending to read the official notices pinned to the bulletin board. T. J. and Mescal were leaning against the end of the counter nearest to the door, T. J. figuring out some arithmetic on a scrap of paper. High-Hat was close to the door, a look of expectation on his face and one hand hovering awful close to his pistol.

  Bailey looked at all three men, set his glasses back on his nose and headed for the manager’s office.

  He knocked on the door, took half a pace back and waited.

  Sy Enderby opened the door with a patient smile and a warm handshake. ‘What can I do for you?’

  ‘You the manager here?’ Bailey’s voice was so soft that En-derby instinctively lowered his head towards the speaker.

  ‘Yes, I am. I am. Sy Enderby, that’s me. Anything I can do will be a pleasure. That’s the way we like to do business.’

  The manager beamed and Bailey smiled quietly and kept hold of the man’s hand.

  ‘Just one thing.’

  ‘Go ahead.’

  ‘Open the safe.’

  The hand which wasn’t gripping Enderby’s suddenly produced a small derringer and stuck the twin barrels against the banker’s right ear.

  Cherokee threw back the flap of his long coat and produced Hart’s sawn-off Remington and poked it in the direction of the counter.

  ‘Don’t nobody move or you’re dead!’

  Four men and one woman standing at the counter spun round and stared. One of the men began a move towards his belt and stopped as the shotgun angled round to cover him. The woman opened her mouth in a shrill scream.

  ‘Shut her up!’ Cherokee nodded to T. J. and jabbed the shotgun towards the woman.

  T. J. took three steps and slapped the woman around the side of the head with the knuckles of his right hand. She gasped, sobbed, looked as if she might scream again. The outlaw drew back and clipped her under the chin hard enough to drive her back against the counter edge. When she bounced forward, he rammed the butt end of his pistol into her teeth and laughed as she sank down spitting blood.

  ‘Get them drawers empty!’ ordered Cherokee, pointing at the two clerks. ‘Fill a couple of sacks an’ do it fast!’

  Mescal moved around behind to make sure it was done.

  Bailey had moved the manager over to the safe and was standing close behind him as he fumbled nervously with the lock. The derringer was still at his head, this time resting immediately behind the ear.

  Out on the street the Mexican was still watching for trouble and had his back towards the bank. Hart started to walk into the middle of the street, not running but not going slow. LaRue swiveled his horse through a half circle, hand tight on his gun butt.

  ‘Where the hell you reckon you’re goin’?’

  ‘In there.’

  ‘Like hell you are! You’re job’s out here on the street.’

  Hart kept on walking, past LaRue now and almost at the boardwalk.

  ‘I’m warnin’—’

  ‘Forget it, LaRue!’

  Hart half-turned and his hand was hovering over the pearl handle of his .45. LaRue clearly wasn’t about to forget it. He went through with his draw and got the tip of the barrel almost clear of the leather before a slug from Hart’s Colt ripped through the flesh at the top of his right arm and exited with a fierce spray of blood which showered over the nearest mounts. The gun fell away from the balding man’s hand and Hart jumped towards the bank door. As he did so he was conscious of the Mexican turning and shouting in his direction but he could wait.

  High-Hat Thomas had whirled fast at the gunshot and had the door half open, his gun hand poking through. Hart chopped down on it with the barrel of the Colt and the force of the blow vibrated along his own arm.

  Thomas went numb to the elbow and the pistol was forced from his fingers. Hart shouldered the door inwards, taking Thomas back against the wall. Hart jumped through the doorway just as Cherokee was swiveling round the shotgun.

  Hart swung up his arm and shot the breed through the head. It was an almost exact replica of the shot that had killed Merle Wringer, only this time there was no doubt it was aimed and true.

  The Remington slid towards the floor as Cherokee was driven back hard against the wall. Hart snatched it up and lifted it with his left hand, covering Mescal and T. J. with the .45.

  ‘Freeze!’

  ‘Bastard!’ called T. J., but froze anyway.

  Thomas was looking a little groggy over by the door and Hart pushed the Remington in his direction.

  ‘You, too, High-Hat.’

  Thomas cursed him and stood there swaying.

  ‘You folk,’ Hart said to the bewildered customers, ‘hit the floor! Now and fast!’

  They did as they were ordered but they weren’t quick enough. Bailey swiveled the bank manager round in front of him so that he formed a shield and rammed the little .22 right inside his ear.

  ‘Okay, feller. Now how you fixin’ to play this one? You drop them guns or this man here’s gettin’ a bullet through the brain.’

  Hart hesitated, feet running towards the door outside and he guessed they belonged to the Mexican.

  ‘Your choice,’ said Bailey, beginning to move his shield along behind the counter and towards the door.

  There wasn’t enough of him showing to aim for and Hart didn’t want to be the cause of the manager’s death if he could help it. He slowly began to lower both weapons as Bailey continued on his way.

  ‘Let’s go!’ Bailey called to the others. ‘Let’s move it!’

  Hart was midway to the floor.

  With a holler the Mexican appeared in the open doorway. He was armed and coming straight for Hart with anger bright in his dark eyes. He got one pace through before there was an almighty roar from the street and a couple of barrels’ worth of 00 gauge shot from Zack Moses’ gun drove into his spine and the back of his neck.

  ‘Jesus Christ!’ sang out T. J.

  Hart came up straight quick as a whip but not quick enough to prevent Bailey from squeezing back on the trigger of the derringer and sinking a .22 slug into Sy Enderby’s skull.

  Hart leaned his body to one side and brought up the Colt fast. Bailey let the banker fall and made a dash for the door, twisting the up-and-over barrels of the small pistol round as he went.

  Hart shot him twice, splintering the left knee cap and breaking the shin bone of the other leg. Bailey hit the floor face first and rolled over towards the wall. T. J. made a rush at Hart, who ducked under his blow and brought the barrel-end of the Colt up into his jaw.

  High-Hat Thomas made it through the door while this was going on and found himself face to face with Zack Moses and a long-barreled shotgun which had just been reloaded. Behind the mayor were the getaway horses and behind them were half a dozen of the local citizenry, armed and looking pretty damned angry. Mescal sprang after High-Hat and was welcomed i
n the same way.

  LaRue was writhing on the ground with a short, fat man standing over him, a rifle close to the top of the outlaw’s balding head.

  Hart pushed T. J. ahead of him and down into the street. He stood in the doorway to the bank and hoped to hell that the folk out there knew whose side he was on. From the looks on their faces and the way they were fingering their guns he wasn’t any too sure.

  He lifted both arms wide of his sides, Colt and sawn-off held well clear of his body. ‘Glad you got here in time to stop the Mex, Mr. Mayor.’

  Zack nodded and lowered the shotgun towards the ground. ‘Didn’t think you’d be comin’ back to visit so soon.’

  Hart shrugged. ‘Didn’t have a deal of choice.’

  ‘You still ain’t wearin’ no badge though.’

  Hart grinned. ‘Didn’t seem to make a whole lot of difference.’

  Zack Moses started to say something and then his face changed expression fast. Hart read the warning and turned on his heel in time to see Bailey crawl through the door on his hands and knees, the derringer between his fingers and pain clear in every move.

  Hart watched Bailey balance on one hand and try to bring the pistol up. He swung back his right leg and kicked out, the underside of his boot smashing into Bailey’s face, its heel cutting a line through the cleft of his chin. Bailey was lifted up on to his knees and his eyes shut tight so they didn’t see the round-arm swing which brought the cut-down barrels of the Remington into the side of his face like a hammer.

  There was a fierce, sustained cracking sound and Bailey rolled along the boards and slumped down into the street.

  ‘That see it done?’ asked the mayor.

  Hart nodded. ‘I guess so.’

  ‘Let’s get these beauties in the jail and then you and me can have a drink, maybe. You look as if you could use one. We’ll talk about what’s happened. I guess it’ll be a good story.’

  Hart slipped the Colt back into its holster and stepped in behind Mescal and Thomas on their way towards the jailhouse. LaRue was being carried and T. J. was being dragged more or less by the hair.