Herne the Hunter 10: Vigilante!

By John J. McLaglen

Drummond's vigilantes - an evil cloud passing over the ranch land of Montana, and killing all who stood in their way.
At first Jed Herne strung along, needing the money. But one day they went too far ...
And from then on it was war!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Piccadilly
• Release date: Nov 27, 2014
• ISBN: 9781310525315

John J. McLaglen

John J. McLaglen is the pseudonym for the writing team of Laurence James and John Harvey.

Book preview

Drummond's vigilantes - an evil cloud passing over the ranch land of Montana, and killing all who stood in their way.

At first Jed Herne strung along, needing the money. But one day they went too far ...

And from then on it was war!

CONTENTS

Dedication

One ~ Two ~Three ~Four ~ Five

Six ~ Seven ~ Eight ~ Nine

Ten ~ Eleven ~Twelve ~ Thirteen

Books in the Series

Copyright ~ About the Author

About Piccadilly Publishing

This is for Gill Davies and Sam Fuller

Chapter One

Jed Herne squatted on his haunches. The collar of his heavy wool coat was pulled up at the back of his neck and strands of lank black hair fell about it haphazardly. Already, at the temples, that hair was streaked with gray.

Herne had moved off the trail he’d been following, seeking shelter while he gave himself and his horse a chance to rest up. He’d ridden eastwards along the rising land that led to a ridge dotted with patches of scrub and looked down. Little more than a hundred yards off there was a small hollow, room enough to build a fire and heat some coffee. He’d watered the horse from the big canteen tied to the saddle pommel.

He hadn’t built too big a fire. Out in open country it wasn’t too wise to draw more attention to yourself than was necessary. The way Herne had heard it; strangers weren’t any too welcome this side of the Yellowstone. Not with the big ranchers getting jumpy the way they were.

The Colt .45 nestled in its holster, its grip shiny with use. The leather thong which normally kept the bottom of the holster tight against Herne’s leg had been loosened, so that the gun sat easy while he crouched. The loop that hooked around the hammer when he was riding had been freed too – the pistol could be snug in Herne’s right hand before a man could get out his last gasp.

Herne had skirted round the Badlands, riding west through the Dakotas and on towards eastern Montana. The last time he’d stopped for more than a few minutes had been that morning in Willard. A few eggs and a piece of stringy ham with cornbread to mop it up. All the while he sat at the back of the saloon eating, this old timer with one eye gouged out and the other beady like a bird’s just kept watching him. Leaning over on the end of his broom, watching him. Herne had swallowed down the last few mouthfuls fast and lit out.

Now he chewed on the ends of a piece of jerky and swilled the remaining drops of coffee around in his tin mug. Another day coming towards its close. If he didn’t find a way of earning some dollars before long, he wouldn’t even be able to replenish his supplies.

Herne drained the mug, letting the dark grains of coffee run against and between his teeth. He bit down into them, liking the bitter taste. The hand that held the mug was veined and weathered; the fingers and edges of the palm were calloused. Herne frowned: it was getting to be an old man’s hand.

That wasn’t surprising. The back of his hand had looked like a man’s as soon as he was ten. Just as well. Him with his ma dead giving him birth, trapped in the Sierras by the snow. Early in ’Forty-Four, that had been. Come fall of that same year, his pa had ridden out alone into Indian country and never been seen again.

Not that Herne could ever recall having seen him anyway. He’d been brought up by his ma’s unmarried sister and she’d been so weak that had meant he’d been fending largely for himself from the time he could walk.

He was fifteen before he killed his first man.

Herne set the tin mug on the ground close to the dying embers of the fire. Spring of forty-four, Hell! It was eighty-four now and coming powerful close to the end of that.

Herne shook his head. He didn’t need to count the years to know his age. He could read it clearly enough in the faces of men who stared at him as if he should have already been dead; men who heard his name when they were enquiring about a gun for hire and let it pass, reckoning him too far over the hill, too slow; men who earned themselves drinks telling tales of the legend that was Herne the Hunter and ignored the living fact.

The image of the old timer back in Willard passed across his mind and Herne shuddered.

It was getting colder.

He stood up and began to push earth over the fire with his boot. It was then that he heard the sound. Immediately his senses were alert; he quickly finished covering the fire, careful not to break any still brittle wood at its edges. Sounded like a wagon, probably two horses.

Herne went to his horse and pulled the long-barreled single-shot Sharps from its scabbard that ran under the saddle fender. He went back up to the ridge at a loping run, keeping his body low as he neared the top.

The trail was clear. Wheels and hoofs had beaten the grass flat and now there was more dirt and dust than anything. To the west the prairie ran free, one fold of land falling gradually into another.

The wagon was travelling at a steady pace, the pair of horses trotting easily. There were two men on the raised board seat at the front. Herne could see the plaid shirts underneath their coats, flat-brimmed black hats pulled low at the front. There was someone else in the back. As the wagon came nearer, Herne saw that it was a woman. A head of fair hair that seemed to reach well past her shoulders, her arms stretched outwards as if she were holding something in them. Whatever that was, Herne couldn’t tell.

He moved a yard or so back, lying flat so that most of his body was behind the ridge. There wasn’t any point in being spotted.

As Herne’s eyes followed the movement of the wagon, he brought up his left hand and set it over his forehead, shielding his face from the last red rays of the sun.

On the far side of the trail, the tall grass shone dully and moved in swathes with the wind.

He could see the woman distinctly now: could see that the object she held was a child.

Herne began to hitch himself back and then stopped. A fresh noise broke in on the first. Deeper, louder, spreading. His ear close to the earth, Herne could feel as well as hear the drumming of hoofs.

Riders.

As he looked to the south-west, the first of them broke the skyline at the point where the trail disappeared from sight. Men riding in pairs, in a column, like a troop of cavalry.

A dark shadow passed over the land, over the grass, draining its color: shadow of a cloud moving across the sun.

On the trail the wagon had stopped. Herne saw one of the men lean sideways as if reaching for a gun, but his companion said something to him and he stopped.

The lines of men were almost upon them now, the sound of their horses driving up through the air, filling it, threatening to tear it apart.

Ten, twelve, sixteen – Herne counted nineteen men as they galloped past on either side of the wagon, passing so close that those sitting in it must have been almost deafened. A thick cloud of dust rose up in their wake and after the last of them had passed the wagon was lost in a pall of gray.

Herne let his finger relax inside the guard of his Sharps, sliding the barrel back from the ridge until it lay beside him. As the dust cleared he could see the woman clutching the child to her chest, head bent low over it. She had made no attempt to move. At the front, both men were sitting round, staring after the lines of riders. Their faces were pale; Herne could see the mouths opening but not hear what was being said.

He looked to the right. The trail was clear again. All that remained of the horsemen was a smudge of dust to the northeast.

Herne thought fast. They’d looked like army but they hadn’t been no soldiers. Been something, though. All wearing the same long coats, the same grayish cattlemen’s coats he’d seen before on some of the bigger spreads. The same Montana peak hats with the curled-up brim and the tall crown. All with rifles on their mounts that looked to be new Winchesters.

Not regular army – but they rode like someone’s army sure enough.

The wagon had set off again, continuing southeast towards Powderville. Herne thought for a moment that he would ride down and catch it up, ask the folks about the men who’d just ridden by. But almost immediately he decided against it.

For one thing, they’d likely be shook up and wouldn’t take too well to talking with strangers. For another, he’d be certain to find out soon enough anyway. With a bunch of armed riders like that in the territory, they sure weren’t going to be a secret.

They could even, Herne mused as he walked back down to the hollow, be the outfit he was looking for.

As he slid the Sharps back into its scabbard he hoped that they weren’t.

He dropped the stirrups back down from the seat of his Denver saddle and tightened the cinch. The mug and coffee pot he pushed back down into the nearest of his saddlebags. Taking hold of the saddle horn he set one boot in the stirrup and hauled himself up.

When he reached the ridge again, the trail was empty. The sun he faced was round and deep red, split through by splinters of black cloud. The grass stirred in the light breeze and shone and no shadow rode over it.

Herne touched his horse with his heels and rode down to rejoin the trail.

Chapter Two

Powderville looked more or less the same as any other small cow town in the north-west. It didn’t have the railroad running through it so there hadn’t been any major boom in business, but the Northern Pacific ran its rails west from the Mississippi and passed close enough to ensure a share of prosperity.

The railway came out of the Dakotas and followed the valley of the Yellowstone until it met up with the Bozeman Trail, close by Virginia City. The nearest it got to Powderville was the point where it bridged the Powder River, just south of where that river ran into the Yellowstone. That was close on eighty miles due north.

It was dusk when Herne reined in his bay horse on the hill above the town and gazed down. Here and there, the lights of kerosene lanterns picked out scenes of activity. Some shone close to the edge of town, shining through the canvas of tents that had been set up there by folk who couldn’t afford better. Families with men who were likely looking for work.

Like himself, Herne thought, ’cept that he didn’t have no family. A memory twisted inside his mind, tight like a noose. He shook his head, as though that would free him from it. Below, the wail of a young child set up and was followed by an adult shout and the sound of someone being hit; Silence for several seconds and then the child’s cry once more, louder and more agitated than ever.

Herne looked along the length of the main street, picked out easily by the line of lights that he guessed to be the saloons and shops, likely a restaurant and some kind of hotel. Beyond these and to the right, raised up, the sails of a windmill were outlined starkly against the violet of the sky.

Herne shook the reins and spoke softly to the horse and it started off down the hill.

There was a boardwalk on either side of the wide street; hitching posts that began and ended apparently at random. Herne passed a barber’s with its owner standing close to the plate glass window, white apron tied over his belly, forlornly looking for custom. His