Hart the Regulator 5 by John B. Harvey

Author:John B. Harvey
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: bounty hunter, wild west, old west, western fiction, gunslinger, john b harvey, texas regulator, west hart
Publisher: Piccadilly Publishing

Chapter Seven

At around the same time that Hart was sitting in the sunlit room of Clancy Shire’s ranch house, talking and drinking brandy and wondering about what had happened to Shire’s legs, three men rode into Caldwell from the north.

All three wore long duster coats, grubby-white, that trailed past their stirrups towards the ground: all three had Winchester ‘73 rifles hitched up in scabbards that angled from beneath their saddles so that the stocks were resting against their knees. All three rode slow and easy, not talking, keeping their heads steady while their eyes flicked from side to side, missing nothing.

If Andrew Fairburn had been out on the street he would have recognized two of them from that day out by the Chikaskia River; if Barcroft had been leading a team hauling feed out from his livery stable, he would have recognized the same two. Neither man would have picked out the third rider as being someone he’d seen before, yet he’d been there — back in the trees with his Winchester sighted well enough to put a slug right where he wanted it, in Seth’s left thigh. He used a Winchester well enough to put a slug most any place he wanted.

His name was Weston. He was short for a gunfighter and not strong; with a .45 he was slower than many and he’d been known to get in a first shot and miss. Once that had happened and the feller at the other end of the street had missed too. One other time he’d got shot in the side of the head and he’d been certain — certain clear in one plain long second that his brain pan had been blown away. It hadn’t. Weston suffered headaches almost all the time now, fierce attacks that made him feel as if a herd of buffalo were stomping over the right side of his head. His jaw would sing with pain and his ear would feel as if someone, unseen, were driving a thin needle into the inner drum; the hair on that side of his scalp would be as if a hand were tugging at it, desperate to tear it from the roots; he was positive at these moments that the top of his head would burst. He had lost, also, his right eye.

A black patch of soft leather, like a rounded triangle, was fastened over the empty, twisted socket by a length of black cord.

Weston had learnt to fight at a distance, with a rifle. He had learned to shoot with his left hand, squinting along the barrel with his left eye; the adjustment had been made surprisingly quickly. Weston could put a Winchester slug most any place he wanted.

He rode in the center of the three: Waite and Walker to either side of him. Waite’s lank, black hair had been freshly slicked down with grease and clung to his head like the fast-folded wing of a blackbird. His eyes seemed so far back in his head that from a distance he appeared to be blind.

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