Hart the Regulator 4: The Silver Lie

By John B. Harvey

The Regulator is Wes Hart – ex-soldier, ex-Texas Ranger, ex-rider with Billy the Kid. He’s tough, ruthless, slick with a .45. He’s for hire now and he isn’t cheap...
Little Alice was cute. And brave. On her father’s instructions – and for the right price – Hart agreed to escort her to Denver. Seemed like easy money ... until Hart discovered silver bullion stashed away in the stagecoach ...
Lee Sternberg’s gang found out too. So they figured on blowing Hart’s head clean off and making a quick exit with the loot. Hart thought different. So after the blood of an ambush, it’s the agony of a kidnapping and the brutality of a pulse-pounding showdown in a Rancho Nuevo whorehouse ...
And all this for a little girl ...

• Language: English
• Publisher: Piccadilly
• Release date: Feb 28, 2014
• ISBN: 9781310382024

John B. Harvey

Initially a teacher of English and Drama, the novelist John Harvey began writing in 1975, and now has over 100 published books to his credit, most recently a collection of short stories, A Darker Shade of Blue, and a novel, Good Bait. The first of his celebrated Charlie Resnick novels, Lonely Hearts, was named by The Times as one of the 100 most notable crime novels of the last century. Flesh and Blood, the first of three Frank Elder novels, was awarded both the British Crime Writers' Association Silver Dagger and the US Barry Award in 2004. In 2007 he received the CWA Cartier Diamond Dagger for Sustained Excellence in Crime Writing, and in 2009 he was made an honorary Doctor of Letters by the University of Nottingham. A published poet, John ran Slow Dancer Press for nearly twenty years; in addition, he has written many scripts for television and radio, including dramatisations of novels by Graham Greene and A.S. Byatt and (with Shelley Silas) Paul Scott's The Raj Quartet. John was one of the original 'Piccadilly Cowboys' and Piccadilly Publishing is proud to reissue his Herne the Hunter series, which was co-written with Laurence James under the name 'John J. McLaglen'.

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Issuing classic fiction from Yesterday and Today!

The Regulator is Wes Hart – ex-soldier, ex-Texas Ranger, ex-rider with Billy the Kid. He’s tough, ruthless, slick with a .45. He’s for hire now and he isn’t cheap…

Little Alice was cute. And brave. On her father’s instructions – and for the right price – Hart agreed to escort her to Denver. Seemed like easy money … until Hart discovered silver bullion stashed away in the stagecoach …

Lee Sternberg’s gang found out too. So they figured on blowing Hart’s head clean off and making a quick exit with the loot. Hart thought different. So after the blood of an ambush, it’s the agony of a kidnapping and the brutality of a pulse-pounding showdown in a Rancho Nuevo whorehouse …

And all this for a little girl …

THE SILVER LIE

HART 4:

By John B. Harvey

First published in the U.K. by Pan Books in 1980

Copyright © 1980, 2014 by John B. Harvey

Published by Piccadilly Publishing at Smashwords: March 2014

Names, characters and incidents in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each reader.

Cover image © 2014 by Edward Martin. Visit Ed’s site here

This is a Piccadilly Publishing Book

Series Editor: Mike Stotter

Published by Arrangement with the Author.

This is for the American Studies Department, Nottingham University, England: 1978-79

Oh, yes, and Siobhan... right?

Here I am in the heart of the land

Where they sell it on the run

And they steal it if they can,

Living in the heart of a dream

In the promised land.

John Stewart:

Living in the Heart of a Dream

Chapter One

The eyes were the faded blue of a shirt that had seen a lot of summers, a stream running over rocks in the lazy heat. They were still yet alert, waiting. The face they were set in was lean and strong, tanned skin stretched tight over high cheekbones. Stubble grew round the jaw and the beginnings of a mustache showed clearly on the line of the upper lip. Darkening brown hair fell away from under the brim of a flat-crowned black hat, almost brushing against the man’s shoulders.

He was crouching close by the base of an aspen, the Henry in his hands lowered just a little from his shoulder, finger inside the trigger guard, the extra rear sight he’d had fitted flicked up into place.

Waiting.

The dapple-grey mare shifted sideways and tossed her head, but he ignored the movement. The fingers of his left hand were tight on the metal of the barrel, thumb of the right laying alongside the hammer.

Now!

The grey-brown head appeared over the knoll of land and the long ears went up even as the rifle moved up to the man’s shoulder, the curved, reinforced end of the wooden stock fitting firmly into place as the eye squinted along the barrel and the trigger was squeezed evenly back.

The buck rabbit tumbled through a series of awkward somersaults, most of its head blown away.

The man was on his feet and walking towards the dead animal; he was tall and wiry, maybe an inch or so over six foot and weighing close to a hundred and seventy pounds. Not an ounce of surplus fat on his frame, but the muscles taut and strong. He bent down and picked up the rabbit by its hind legs and carried it back towards the fire that was already burning in the clearing between the trees, aspens and pines, together here where the trail ran down the side of the hill to the valley bottom.

He slid the Henry down into the scabbard alongside his saddle and pulled out the double-bladed knife from the Apache sheath which hung from the saddle pommel. He sliced off the remains of the head and threw it clear, then got to skinning the rest.

In minutes, the creature was impaled on a sharpened stick and laid over the fire, the bloodied flesh beginning to singe and sizzle.

The man poured water from the skin container into a blackened pan and set to making coffee, tasting already the black and bitter liquid in his mind and starting to savor the freshly killed meat.

He’d been riding for a couple of days, down out of Colorado and back into the north-west corner of Indian Territory. Taking it easy on account of the two wounds that his meeting with Crazy John Carter and his ride to Tago had brought him. Neither of them was serious, the first not much more than a groove that a bullet had taken out of his back, a line that ran almost from buttock to shoulder. The second had been a shot from a rifle that had gone clean through the flesh of his left shoulder, missing the bone altogether and not doing much more damage than a loss of blood. If he rode too fast, though, they reminded him of their presence with small, nagging pains that vibrated through his left side and back.

So he was making the journey in his own good time, enjoying the warmth of the sun and the movement of the aspens in the wind that stopped it from getting too hot for comfort.

Another day and a half and he’d be back in Creek City, near the North Canadian River. Then he’d take a bath and get himself a shave. See that Clay was taken good care of down at the livery, curried and brushed and fed. Take himself a walk down main street to the dining-rooms for a steak that tipped over the plate at both ends, have a few shots of whiskey and then step across the street to Kate’s.

He thought about the last time he’d seen her. Full, red mouth and dark eyes, darker than her hair which was pulled back tight behind her head. She’d been wearing a tight-fitting black dress and silver trinkets. Wide, round earrings, a thin bracelet on her left wrist, a silver locket that hung from her neck - a silver heart that rested on the swell of her breasts. The only piece of jewelry that wasn’t silver had been the small cameo ring on the second finger of her left hand.

Yes, it would be good to see Kate again.

He reached forward and turned the stick so that the rabbit would be cooked on both sides; he poured a measure of the boiling coffee into his tin mug and set it to rest a few moments before drinking it, not wishing to burn his lips or tongue.

Before he lifted the mug to his mouth, he saw a movement higher up the trail. Saw it before he heard it, a branch being swept aside. A rider making a slow descent. Heard the sound of the horse then. Saw the man.

He got up and pulled the rifle clear from its scabbard, sitting back down so that he faced the trail, the Henry across his knees.

He tasted the coffee: it was good.

The newcomer was riding a dun-colored gelding, despite the heat wearing what appeared to be a suit. In place of a hat, a white handkerchief was knotted over his head. He rode with his shoulders slumped forward, face downcast. Fifty yards off, he seemed to become aware of the smoke from the fire, possibly even the smell of roasting meat.

‘Hello, there! I say, hello!’

The man with the rifle across his knees made no reply, but continued to drink his coffee, turning the rabbit again, never taking his eyes off the stranger as he rode towards the fire.

‘Hello to you.’

The black hat dipped in a curt nod of welcome.

‘D’you mind if I dismount? I seem to have ridden for days without meeting another soul.’

‘Go ahead.’

He got down from the saddle a trifle warily, as if uncertain whether the animal would veer suddenly to one side or the other. Once his feet were on the ground, he appeared all the more confident. He wiped both palms down the sides of his pants and walked briskly to where the man was still sitting.

‘My name is Edwards. Virgil Edwards.’

‘Wes Hart.’

They shook hands, Edwards wincing at the strength of the other’s grasp.

‘I’d be obliged to join you.’ Almost in spite of himself, Edwards glanced towards the rabbit.

‘That’s okay. If you don’t mind sharin’ this mug, you can have coffee while we’re waitin’ for that meat to cook through.’

‘Thank you. I … there’s a cup in my things, I could just fetch it …’

Both of Edwards’ saddlebags were bulging and in addition a sack which also appeared to be full was tied to the horn of his saddle. Edwards opened one of the leather bags and took out a chipped china cup, which he proceeded to clean with a piece of cloth he also drew from the bag.

‘I should tie up that horse of yours if you’re stayin’ for a time. You don’t want him wandering off.’

‘No, I …’ Edwards glanced round and then began to fumble with the reins, doing his best to secure them round one of the aspen branches.

‘Travelin’ far?’ Hart asked with no more than a hint of curiosity in his voice.

‘Texas. Sterling City.’ Edwards sat down with the cup held in both hands. ‘Do you know it?’

Hart shook his head. ‘Heard of it.’

Edwards smiled diffidently. ‘I have a position there.’

‘You got a what?’

‘A position. A job, I suppose you could say.’

‘I could, huh.’

‘I am a preacher.’

‘Oh.’ Hart stared into his face until Edwards looked away.

Hart poured coffee into the china cup and some more into his own tin mug. He watched as the preacher blew on the surface of the black liquid and began to sip at it suspiciously.

Edwards had a young face, without lines or marks. Somehow he’d managed to shave that day like he probably did most days, not a nick or a cut to show for it. His mouth was even, nose regular, the eyes a neutral grey-blue. From close up his suit was fashioned from dark blue material that was fraying at the edges and beginning to bust apart at the seams. Only one button remained in place. The shirt underneath it had been white once, as had the handkerchief that he kept knotted across the top of his head.

If he was carrying a gun, it wasn’t anywhere in sight. There wasn’t even a bulge under the jacket such as might suggest a shoulder holster.

‘You know Texas?’ Hart asked, lifting the stick that held the rabbit away from the fire.

‘No. No, I can’t say that I ... no, I’ve never...’ He looked at Hart earnestly. ‘I’m from the East. Boston.’

‘Yeah.’ The suggestion of a smile played at the edges of Hart’s mouth.

‘I finished my studies earlier in the year. A thesis I was writing upon the sermons of Jonathan Edwards.’ The grey-blue eyes flickered on to Hart’s face and quickly away. ‘He was, sadly, no relation but a wonderful preacher. His sermon on the perils of the evil way of life and the horrors of Hellfire must be the finest ever delivered. All based upon the verse from Deuteronomy, chapter thirty-two, verse thirty-five: Their foot shall slide in due time.’

Hart snapped one of the legs from the cooked rabbit and passed it over to Edwards, who looked suddenly flustered and embarrassed.

‘I’m sorry, I guess you’re not too interested.’

Hart bit away a chunk of meat. ‘That’s right,’ he said, chewing. A trail of juice began to run from one corner of his mouth into the stubble of his chin.

Edwards bit into the leg gingerly; it was only barely cooked and tasted of the animal’s blood. Close to the bone, the meat was almost raw.

‘Good, ain’t it?’ asked Hart enthusiastically.

‘Indeed,’ replied Edwards politely but without fervor. He spat a piece of the meat delicately out into his cupped hand and set it down on the ground.

‘You must’ve been travelin’