Below him some thirty feet, he looked at the sandy floor, strewn with sandstone outcrops and knew that if he fell, he’d die.

  In through the nose, out through the mouth. He remembered. In and out, in and out, he tried to calm himself down and breathe normally.

  His feet sent a cascade of debris falling to the ground; he saw himself following.

  As quickly as it had started, the pain subsided and his breathing became regular again. Feeling returned to his fingers and his biceps unlocked. Picking his way carefully, he made his way to the top.

  He stayed spread-eagled on the ground, panting, relaxing his muscles and flexing his fingers. Eyes shut tight.

  Sitting up, he started to pull the rope. He heard the coffee pot and mug and plate clanging together as the saddle-bags hit the bluff, then they appeared over the edge and into safety.

  He breathed a long, grateful, sigh of relief.

  Henry John sat there for five more minutes. He felt the worst was over now. What came up, must come down. Standing, he turned. The sight fair took his breath away again.

  No more than half a mile in the distance, the desert melted into water. Great, white, rolling, clouds of foaming water.

  The ocean.

  Tears sprang to his eyes. For as far as he could see, the ocean ebbed and flowed. The white birds he’d seen earlier were gently floating outside the cruel crash of the waves. He watched in awe.

  A new strength filled him and he began walking. It took him thirty minutes to reach the shore line. The noise of the crashing waves was deafening, followed by a rustle as the water ebbed, dragging at the shore line and rattling the loose sand and stones together.

  He dropped his saddle-bags and removed his leather boots and walked forward. He felt the power of the water as it swilled around his ankles, washing the sand from between his feet. He walked further out. The water pulled at his thighs and he almost lost his balance.

  Bending down, he scooped up a hand full of the cold water and splashed it over his face, then he took his Stetson off and filled it to the brim.

  The salt taste lingered in his mouth, it was unexpected. For some reason, the salt in the sea surprised him.

  Refreshed, Henry John paddled back to the beach. Although he’d swum as a kid in ponds, he wasn’t about to try it in this rough water.

  He flopped down beside his saddle-bags and let the sun dry him off.

  After a short nap, which again to Henry John’s surprise, was dreamless, he took out the Wanted poster once more and studied the man’s face. It felt eerily familiar, but Henry John knew he’d never seen this man before.

  When he had memorized the face, he closed his eyes and saw it, printed there in his mind’s eye. He was ready.

  Taking a dime out of his vest pocket he tossed it in the air. Heads. He turned left and headed south along the shoreline.

  Again, he walked for the rest of the day. It didn’t feel as hot here next to the ocean, with the cool breeze blowing inland, the walk was a pleasure. The sea-salt air even seemed to do his lungs some good. As for the rest of that day, he had no trouble breathing whatsoever.

  The sun began to sink, a sight he’d seen a thousand times before. But this time it was different. He stood and watched, mouth open in wonder, as the sun sank into the ocean.

  The millions of ripples reflected red; it was as if the very water itself was on fire. The huge orb sank majestically from sight and warm, friendly water turned icy black and cold. A new dimension was added to his scant knowledge of the ocean.

  He walked on for three hours, marvelling at the way the moon’s rays reflected off the ocean. The black of the water was now silver as the moon rose. The water looked warm and friendly once more.

  He halted by a large sand dune and set up camp. There was plenty of driftwood on the beach and in only a few minutes, he had a roaring blaze going.

  Finishing off the coffee, he washed pot and mug and plate in the sea and set the shelter up. He stoked up the fire and crawled under the sailcloth onto his bedroll.

  The moon was full, and he could plainly see the craters. Stars in their thousands twinkled back at him and the roar of the fire, with embers rising in the thermal, created a picture he’d never forget.

  Sleep came, and with it the flickering dreams. He’d been over-confident. Assuming that, as he hadn’t dreamt for the last two sessions, he’d get away with it now. He didn’t.

  Only these weren’t dreams. These were nightmarish images that flashed before him now. His mother’s deathbed, the woman and child he’d found on the Plains, all the dead people he’d ever come across in his life were there in plain view.

  Lastly, his wives.

  They took it in turn to appear, arms outstretched. Beckoning. He could hear their voices calling him.

  His chest was on fire. As he breathed, it gurgled as if his lungs were full of water – or blood.

  He was choking! Henry John was choking to death in his own nightmare and he couldn’t do a damn thing about it.

  His body was wet with the exertion of breathing the water – or blood was lapping round his neck, engulfing him.

  He woke up. The sea was all around him. Not the cruel crashing waves of the evening before, but a gentle ripple of salt water, just rushing up the shoreline to wet him and then retreat.

  The tide was coming in.

  In a state of blind panic and with his lungs fit to burst, Henry John gathered up his soaked possessions and climbed atop the dune.

  The camp fire was sizzling, soon to go out, and from where he stood he could see that the ocean had crept up the beach to get him. It must have moved over a hundred yards. He was lucky he woke up when he did.

  Wet and cold, he wrapped himself up in the damp bedroll and this time, slept undisturbed.

  From the desert behind him the sun rose and warmed his bones and cramped muscles. Again, it took Henry John some minutes before he realized where he was and what he was doing.

  He’d been stiff before, but not this stiff. It was as if the salt in the sea had dried up all over him and sealed him in its crust.

  With aching fingers, he gathered driftwood together and built a roaring blaze again and began to warm himself up. There was just enough water left in the canteen for a fresh brew of coffee.

  Warming up from the inside now, he felt better. He sat by the fire and gathered himself together. Heading south on the toss of a coin may not have seemed to be the best of planned journeys, but he didn’t know the area at all so it was as good a way as any.

  He packed up and set off again, the heat now building up, but the breeze kept him cool.

  In the distance and slightly inland, he saw smoke. It could be a town or it could be a camp site. He decided to travel light and stashed his saddle-bags where he could find them and went on, holding just the rifle.

  The smoke turned out to be coming from a variety of sources. It was a small township, no more than ten or twelve buildings. A ramshackle affair with no boardwalks and very little evidence that anyone did anything to keep the place tidy.

  He walked straight down the middle of the street, the only street, and felt eyes on him.

  There was a saloon; he would’ve been surprised if there wasn’t. He walked in.

  Even at this early time of the day, the saloon had six or seven people in it, all of whom were drinking red-eye.

  A silence fell as Henry John approached the bar. He dropped a dime on the counter and the ’keep filled a whiskey tumbler to overflowing.

  Without question, Henry John downed the liquid and coughed until he felt his insides were about to come out through his mouth.

  ‘’Fects most people that way, first time,’ the ’keep said.

  The man’s voice was music to Henry John’s ears as he suddenly realized he’d not heard the sound of a human voice for twelve days.

  ‘Shoot me again,’ Henry John said.

  The barkeep filled the tumbler and this time Henry John sipped it down. The effect was better, the burning liquid entered his stomach and a warm glow spread throughout his entire body. He relaxed.

  The general hubbub, of which there had been precious little, resumed. The other customers now took no notice of him at all.

  Placing another dime on the counter, he picked the replenished tumbler up and leant on the bar, surveying the room. He was about to raise the glass to his lips when he caught sight of a man seated on his own in the corner.

  Trying not to stare in the gloomy light, Henry John knew that face, and couldn’t believe his luck.

  Black Jake sat there for all the world to see. Henry John downed the whiskey and asked if there was board and lodging in the town.

  The barkeep informed him that he had two rooms out back that he rented off, fifty cents, in advance.

  Henry John threw the money on the counter and the ’keep led the way through to back of the saloon.

  Black Jake looked up as he passed. Henry John nodded and the large man tilted his head so slightly, you wouldn’t even know it.

  Once in his room, Henry John checked the rifle; it was still loaded. He made his way back to where he’d buried his gear and brought it back to his room. He took out the Wanted poster and studied it. There was no mistake. The man in the saloon was Black Jake, and the poster said Dead or Alive!

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Henry John started to tremble. It was all very well saying you wanted to be a bounty hunter, in broad daylight, in a sheriff’s office, in a large town like Red Rock. It was another thing to actually become one in a two-bit no-name town like the one he now found himself in.

  Sure, he thought, I’ve used a gun before, I’ve killed people, but never out of choice. I’ve never gone out looking for a fight.

  He sat on his bunk and slowly polished his handgun. The Colt Frontiersman was a faithful weapon, accurate and reliable. Nevertheless, he wanted to make absolutely sure. Besides, it gave him time to think.

  He carefully cleaned each of the six chambers, cleaned out the barrel and peered through it, blowing it out from both ends. Satisfied, he reloaded it. It felt reassuring.

  Next, he picked up the Winchester. The stock was battered and scarred, but the metalwork was in good order. Again, he unloaded it and cleaned all the moving parts as well as polishing up the barrel. Reloading it, be even inspected the bullets – just to be on the safe side.

  He leaned the Winchester up against the wall and relaxed on the bed. He didn’t figure on getting into the bed, by the smell of it, the sheets and blankets had never seen soap and water.

  He rolled a cigarette. Despite his chest, he needed to calm his nerves. He lit up and drew deeply, the bitter tobacco made him cough and he couldn’t finish the cigarette.

  Now he needed a drink, his throat was red-raw. But Black Jake was in the saloon and he didn’t know whether he could face that yet.

  Sooner or later I’ve got to, he thought. Might as well be sooner. He got up and put his Stetson on, noticing how battered and misshapen it now was. Maybe he’d buy a new one when he got some money in.

  He left the room, leaving the oil-lamp on low. The saloon had the same people in it as an hour ago. Jake still sat morosely at the table, the red-eye still in front of him.

  Henry John went through his pockets and gathered the loose coins together. His folding money, what there was of it, was in his left boot – out of harm or temptation’s way.

  He asked for, and got, a full bottle and one glass which he took to a table near the door and poured himself a drink. He sipped it until his throat and stomach got used to it. The second one he downed, and the third and the fourth. It was then he realized he was hungry.

  He walked back to the barkeep and asked if there was a cafe nearby. The barkeep laughed, too loud and too long.

  ‘Nope, we ain’t got no café. I can rustle you up some chilli though, always keep a mess of it bubblin’ away.’

  ‘Bowl o’ chilli ’ll do fine,’ Henry John said, although he doubted his stomach would agree with him.

  It took the barkeep two minutes flat to reappear with a steaming bowl of the most foul-looking meal Henry John had seen for a long time. When the barkeep said he kept a mess of it, he wasn’t kidding, thought Henry John.

  Hunger, though, was a slave driver, so, picking up the greasy spoon, he began to eat.

  The fiery chilli was as hot as all hell, and pretty soon Henry John’s tongue was on fire. The whiskey was no help at all. He rushed to the bar and in a voice that he didn’t recognize as his own, asked for water.

  The barkeep smiled. He’d been waiting for the request and already had a jug filled and glass standing by.

  Henry John drank the tall glass of water in one go. The sweat was pouring down his face as the chilli got to work, and although the water cooled his mouth while he was drinking, as soon as he’d finished, the burning started all over again – if anything, worse than before!

  The barkeep had a stupid grin on his face. He’d known how hot the chilli was and it was one of his major sources of entertainment, watching his customers suffer.

  The rest of the saloon had their attention focused on Henry John as well – including Black Jake, who was himself eating a bowl of chilli with no side-effects at all, not even a sweat.

  Now Henry John had a sense of humour, but with his mouth and stomach on fire with the chilli peppers, he failed to see the fun.

  He grabbed the pitcher and glass and stormed back to his table where he proceeded to drink the entire pitcher full.

  Black Jake watched the man carefully. His senses told him to keep an eye on this man. He didn’t look like the usual saddle-bum that populated this town on and off.

  Jake had used the saloon many times before, as had a lot of outlaws. There was no law here and nobody asked any questions. Once or twice Jake had caught the man eyeballing him. That put his hackles up. He continued with his chilli, which didn’t have the same amount of peppers in it that Henry John’s did. The barkeep knew better than that.

  Henry John had finished trying to eat anything. His tongue gradually ceased its burning, his stomach, however, had not. He downed a couple more slugs of whiskey and began to feel more human.

  He looked up and caught Black Jake staring at him. He looked away, pretending to gaze through the bat-wing doors. He picked up his whiskey glass and, as he drank, cast his eyes in Jake’s direction once more. The man was still looking at him. His black eyes were penetrating, almost as if he was reading Henry John’s mind.

  It was obviously a stand-off, a trial of wills that Henry John couldn’t afford to lose.

  The coincidence of finding Black Jake – if that indeed was what it was – Henry John thought it was more like his own destiny, his fate – was too good to be true.

  Having drunk enough for one night, Henry John decided it was time for bed. He picked up the half-empty bottle, put the glass in his vest pocket and walked across the saloon to the back door. Black Jake stood.

  The man was a giant. Not just tall, indeed, he was even taller than Henry John’s six-foot five frame, but he was big all over.

  His enormous gut hung over both his belt and gun-belt, the shirt buttons so taut on the material, it seemed that they might snap off at any minute.

  The face, large, round and red, was covered in a massive, black beard, that Henry John thought contained remnants of at least his last six meals.

  But it was the eyes. Black, satanic pools of hatred, that glowered at Henry John. Malevolence seemed to ooze from every pore on the man’s body.

  Henry John continued his walk across the saloon, trying as best he could to avoid eye-contact with the big man.

  He almost succeeded.

  As he got to the end of the bar, he had to pass Black Jake’s table. The big man stepped out in front of him.

  ‘You ain’t finished your chilli, mister,’ he spat at Henry John.

  He could smell the man, a sour, sickly, unwashed smell that was matched only by the man’s fetid breath. He was a creature straight from hell.

  ‘I’ve eaten all I’m gonna,’ Henry John said and tried to get past, but the big man didn’t budge an inch.

  ‘I said, you ain’t finished your chilli.’

  This now came out not as a statement, but as an order.

  Henry John looked straight at the man. In a fist-fight, Henry John knew he’d stand no chance. In a gunfight? He wondered about that, he wasn’t too sure.

  ‘An’ I said I’ve eaten my fill.’

  ‘Well, we don’t think so, do we boys?’ Jake looked around the saloon. The men seated at tables and trying not to get involved, merely grunted their replies. It was good enough for Black Jake.

  Henry John had a choice: he either fought the man here and now, or he went back to the table and finished his chilli.

  The chilli came second.

  Backing off, Henry John made as if to return to his table. About ten feet away from Black Jake he stopped and turned around. Placing the whiskey bottle on the nearest table, he spread his feet, and let his arms hang loose.

  ‘Maybe you’d like to finish the chilli,’ he said. Even as he said it, the ridiculousness of the confrontation hit him. Was he really going into a gunfight with a suspected bank robber, killer and rapist? All because the chilli was too hot? He must be mad.

  But it was too late to back down. If he didn’t make a stand, he’d be dead before sun up.

  Black Jake ambled forward on his huge legs and stood within six feet of Henry John. He too spread his feet and his enormous arms hung by his side.

  This was the signal the rest of the assembled company had been waiting for. Chairs were knocked over in their haste to be somewhere else right now. The barkeep took down a few bottles of whiskey from the shelf behind the bar, then unhooked the mirror and ducked down behind the counter.

  ‘Your play, stranger,’ Black Jake said.

  Henry John was more relaxed than he ever thought he could be. In his mind, he saw the two of them draw, and he saw Black Jake hit the wooden floorboards with a crash that sent splinters into the air.

  A grin appeared on the face of Henry John. Black Jake wasn’t expecting that. Most of the fights he’d got into, his enemies were often intimidated by his sheer bulk, but this man was different. A puzzled frown appeared on his face as he pierced Henry John with his eyes.

 

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