Hart the Regulator 9 by John B. Harvey

Author:John B. Harvey
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: wild west, cowboys, gunfighters, gunslingers, billy the kid, the old west, regulator, wes hart, john b harvey, us frontier
Publisher: Piccadilly Publishing

Chapter Nine

The blanket hung over the back of the bed, draped down from the slightly sagging rail. Woven in red, white and dark blue, striped with a row of stretched stars along its center and down the edges, it had been in Hart’s possession more than ten, eleven years. As he sat trying to recall exactly how many, the time slipped from him, eluding him like straw cast on water and spiraling further whenever his hand plunged towards it. All that remained were fragments, snatches: the face of He Who Runs, tight and proud as he handed Hart his own chiefs wearing blanket. Dogs, lean and long-toothed, curling their legs by the fire. Women pummeling corn while the young warriors sharpened their arrowheads.

‘You have made peace for my people. Peace from your heart.’

Three days later the army captain had led his troop out of the fort and He Who Runs had been hacked down by a trooper’s sabre. He had crawled towards the stream and let the water draw his blood out. Still it had taken him two days to die. Days of pain in which to think about his words to Hart. Peace from your heart.

The close colors of the Indian blanket blurred and for an instant Hart felt a little of the dying chiefs pain and understanding. He knew himself and maybe it was his good fortune that he did not need to take a mortal wound in order to be certain: there was no peace. Least of all peace of the heart.

He realized now that he had been concentrating on the blanket to keep from thinking about something else.

The envelope was neatly folded now and lay between his spare shirt and the bottom of the drawer. Not too close to the heart, yet close enough.

He splashed water up into his face and shook his head before wiping it on the rough cotton towel. He pulled on his boots and buckled on his gun belt, lifting up the pistol and checking its load automatically, the gun’s balance perfect in his hand.

Eyes staring down at the Colt still bolstered at his side; that strand of hair dark across the face.

Hart lifted the Meteor off the bed and slid it down into the opposite side of his belt. The blanket he fastened over his shoulder like before. He pushed his flat-brimmed hat down on to his head and had one last quick look around the room. He opened the door, turned the key in the lock, dropped the key down into his pocket and set off for the downstairs lobby.

Fowler was sitting in a leather armchair smoking a small cigar and cradling a glass in his hand. Hart stood watching him for a few moments, thinking how little like any kind of lawman he looked. Maybe considering where they were planning on spending the evening that was just as well.

The detective turned his head as Hart approached.

‘Drink?’

‘Later. Let’s be goin’.’

Fowler downed the remains of his bourbon. ‘Pretty anxious, ain’t you?’

‘Anxious enough.

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