Geronimo! (Herne the Hunter Western by John J. McLaglen

Author:John J. McLaglen
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: us cavalry, geronimo, apache indians, john j mclaglen, herne the hunter, us historical frontier fiction, western ebook online, gunfighter 1880s, western ebook novel
Publisher: Piccadilly Publishing

Chapter Eight

Isaac Ray was drunk. During the few minutes that Herne had been talking to the officer, he’d managed to sneak among the Troopers and had offered five dollars for a half bottle of whiskey, certain that out of any six soldiers at least one of them would have been carrying some illegal liquor. The man concerned had held out for ten dollars but the bottle had been three-quarters full. While Jed led the way, turning off southwards, away from where he thought El Poco might be, Isaac had been bringing up the rear of the party, taking slug after slug of whiskey until the bottle was empty.

Herne discovered it when they stopped for the noon break, seeing the way that Isaac Ray swayed when he tried to climb down from the saddle, catching his boot heel in the stirrup, toppling over and falling on his back, lying in the sand, giggling helplessly.

Jed stepped over arid stared down at him, face set like iron. ‘You got the liquor from the blue-bellies? And you drunk it all?’

‘Surely, surely did, Jedediah, my old uncle. Good ol’ Jedediah. Surely … Ooooh!’

The toe of the shootist’s boot hit him under the jaw, knocking his teeth together with a splintering click. Isaac came close to biting off the tip of his tongue, and three of his remaining teeth broke under the impact. Herne had kicked him so hard that the back of the photographer’s head cracked against the stone behind him and he slumped sideways, unconscious, blood worming from his open mouth, staining his moustache and trickling down over the collar of his shirt.

‘Herne!’ cried Thaddeus Ray, more in shock than in anger. ‘What the—?’

‘He’s drunk.’

‘Ike?’

‘Yeah. Son of a bitch. I ought to gut-shoot the bastard and leave him.’

Carola hadn’t heard any of the conversation, turning in time to see her brother-in-law sprawled unconscious in the dirt, bleeding.

‘Thaddeus?’ she said, questioningly.

‘What is it?’

‘What’s happening here? Did Mr. Herne strike your brother?’

‘Fuckin’ did.’

‘Language.’

‘He shouldn’t have.’

‘The bastard was drunk. Damned drunk. I warned him of it,’ said Herne, disgusted with the whole business. Convinced by now that they were unlikely to ever find any tracks of the small Chiricahua party. Eager to quit the Rays and get away from the baking heat of the mountains, moving north and west to cooler country.

‘He did warn him, husband,’ said Carola.

‘But he kicked him in the face.’ Stepping to look down at Isaac. ‘Look. Broke his teeth. Lost the end off of his tongue. Bleeding.’

‘He’ll live.’

Carola looked across at the shootist and there was considerable sympathy in her eyes. She’d suffered from Ike’s drinking habits ever since her marriage to Thaddeus, and it gave her great pleasure to finally see him punished for it.

‘But he can’t travel like that.’

‘Could tie his wrists to his ankles over the back of the mule,’ said Herne. ‘Maybe sober him up real quick. Once traveled eighty miles like that myself and it’s not the best way to ride.’

Thaddeus shook his head. ‘You said we shouldn’t stop moving.

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