Till Death (A Herne the Hunter western. Book 15) by John J. McLaglen

Author:John J. McLaglen
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: western ebook, herne the hunter, jed herne, gunfighters in the old west, us frontier fiction, john j mclalglen, best western book online, cowboys and gunfighters 1800s
Publisher: Piccadilly Publishing

Chapter Six

‘You heard the Kid’s headin’ out t’ Fort Sumner?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Place draws him like a fly.’

‘Seems.’

Charlie Bowdre passed the bottle, but Herne shook his head and Charlie shrugged and had another swallow: it did taste pretty bad at that.

‘You ain’t thinkin’ of taggin’ along?’

‘Uh-uh.’

Charlie cleared his throat and spat down into the ground, the ball rolling and gathering dust until it stopped, choked.

‘You mind sayin’ just what you are intendin’ doin’?’

Herne eased up the stained brim of his Stetson and peered up at Bowdre. ‘Little of this, little of that.’

Bowdre laughed. ‘Now what in the Lord’s name does that mean?’

‘I mean, what are you goin’ to do? You can’t stay here. Less you’re lookin’ to punch cattle. That don’t seem in your line of work too easy.’

Herne stood up and walked away from the corral fence. ‘Charlie, why don’t you saddle up and ride down to that wife of yours and stop persecutin’ me with your fool questions?’

‘On account of I don’t like to see no friend of mine make a fool of hisself.’

‘Now what does that mean?’

‘It means, ‘s if you didn’t know, I reckon you’re lookin’ to go sneakin’ round Hondo like a rooster on the prowl an’ all you’re goin’ to get for it is a flea in your ear. That’s what.’

Herne made a pattern in the dirt with the toe of his scuffed boot. Rubbed the palm of his right hand against the edge of his Colt butt. Said nothing.

‘See. I’m right, ain’t I? Ain’t I?’

Herne came at him so fast that Bowdre all but dropped his whiskey bottle.

‘Charlie, you either drunk too much of that rotgut or you didn’t drink enough yet. I never heard you go blabbin’ on at the mouth like this all the time we been ridin’ together. Now quit an’ get packed out of here and go see Manuela.’

Charlie Bowdre opened his mouth to say something in reply, but the look in Herne’s eyes told him he’d be best advised to say nothing. The mouth drew in a little air and closed again, silent.

A while later, Bowdre was sitting astride his horse, saddle bags bulging and his bedroll tied on top of them.

‘Jed.’

Herne reached up and shook the man’s hand.

‘Charlie.’

‘Ride easy.’

Herne released Charlie’s hand. ‘Sure. You take care. See to that wife of yours.’

Charlie turned the horse away and looked over his shoulder. ‘You give my regards to that little girl of yours – if you can get close enough.’

Charlie Bowdre laughed and slapped his hand down on the animal’s rump and rode away. Herne sat up on the fence and watched him go, never looking back. He never saw him again. Three years later he heard that for whatever reason Bowdre had made his way back north to Fort Sumner and ran with a gang of cattle rustlers. They got themselves trapped by Pat Garrett and a posse at Stinking Springs round the Christmas of 1880. Charlie took seven slugs before he died. They buried him at Fort Sumner close by Billy Bonney.

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