Shadow of the Hangman

by J. A. Johnstone

  Lithe as a panther, Frenchy scrambled to his feet. Snarling his anger, he went for the holstered Colt at his side. Jacob saw the danger and dived at the breed again. He grabbed the man’s right hand, pushing the revolver up and away from him. But the right side of Jacob’s face was momentarily unprotected. Frenchy hit him with a pair of hard lefts that opened up the tight skin of Jacob’s cheekbone. Blood splattered over both men as they again wrestled to the ground. Jacob wrenched Frenchy’s Colt from his hand, tossed it away, and got a hard left hook to the chin for his pains. Jacob’s head snapped back, and the breed tried to roll away from him. Too slow. Jacob half-rolled, half-fell onto him. Whipping his shoulder, arm, and thick wrist into it, Jacob smashed the bolsters of the big Buck squarely into the bridge of Frenchy’s nose. Bone shattered and blood splashed onto the front of Jacob’s blue shirt.

  Frenchy, his glassy eyes rolling in his head, was out of it, at least for a moment. But the breed was half-cougar and all game. The bottom half of his face a scarlet nightmare of blood, snot, and shards of bone, he tried to struggle to his feet.

  “You murdering devil!” Jacob yelled, no longer human, possessed by the fighting madness that made him lose all reason.

  He crashed the toe of his boot into Frenchy’s face, and the breed screamed and fell on his back. Jacob straddled the man, and his right arm crossed his chest, ready for a backhanded slash across Frenchy’s exposed throat.

  Suddenly, Shawn grabbed his arm. “Jake,” he yelled, “no! He’s had enough!”

  Jacob tried to wrestle free of his brother. “Get away from me. I’m gonna gut this bastard!”

  “Jake!” Shawn shoved the muzzle of his Colt against his brother’s temple. “Damn you, leave him be.”

  Jacob’s face was twisted in rage, flecks of white foam on his battered lips, but he hesitated just a moment. Shawn took advantage of the pause. “Jake, he’s done.” He put a name to the unconscious man, knowing that in his mind his brother was no longer battling the breed but one of his own faceless demons. “Frenchy Petite is done,” he said.

  It took a tense minute before Shawn saw the stiffness leak out of Jacob’s shoulders. Another few moments passed, and when Jacob turned his head and looked at his brother the madness had fled his features.

  “We’ll drag him into the trees with us,” Jacob said. He rose to his feet and looked around. “Where is his horse?”

  “When the fisticuffs started it took off over the rise—thataway,” Shawn said, pointing south.

  Jacob nodded. “Good, it’s probably still running and in the right direction.”

  “Maybe we should follow it,” Shawn said. “If you don’t mind me saying so, Jake, you look like hell.”

  Ignoring that, Jacob said, “Frenchy was scouting for somebody, probably a bunch of somebodies. I don’t want them to catch us out in the open, even in darkness.”

  “Why do you reckon they’re after us, Jake?”

  “I don’t know. Robbery, maybe.”

  “Nemesis, you think? Hired herself some guns to do us in?”

  “Maybe, but that’s stretching things mighty thin.” He motioned to the groaning Frenchy. “Pick up his gun while I drag him into the trees. If he gives me any trouble, I’ll bash his brains in with a rifle butt.”

  Shawn smiled. “You’re not a forgiving man, are you, Jake?”

  “Devil near broke my jaw,” Jacob said. “Hell, only a saddlebag preacher would be that forgiving.”

  Shawn looked at the sky where clouds had swept the stars aside. “I smell lightning in the air,” he said. “It could be fixing to storm.”

  Jacob wiped off his knife on Frenchy’s buckskin shirt, then got behind him and started to drag the man toward the trees by the armpits.

  “Maybe if it storms, the boys who are tracking us, whoever they may be, will turn back,” Shawn said.

  Jacob paused and looked at him. “You believe that?”

  “No,” Shawn said.

  “Neither do I,” Jacob said.

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Ernest Thistledown doused the oil lamp, and lightning flashes shimmered in the darkened barn.

  He took a knee beside John Moore and said, “Where are you wounded?”

  “Here,” the lawman said. He touched the front of his left shoulder, and his fingertips came away bloody. “Feels like I got hit with a big fifty.”

  Thistledown said, “Every bullet that hits a man feels like a big fifty.”

  “I guess the shot came from the house, huh?” Moore said.

  “I would say that is likely.”

  “Then we got to get out of here,” Moore said.

  Thistledown got to his feet and stood in the shadows at the corner of the barn door. All the lamps in the adobe had been extinguished, and the house was in darkness. Out in the village, a Mexican voice yelled, “Quién es?” Thistledown understood that, but he couldn’t make anything out of the chorus of voices that answered. Probably, “The hell if we know,” he figured. But he wasn’t sure. A star of fire appeared at the window of the adobe kitchen, and another bullet rattled through the thin timbers of the barn.

  Thistledown threw his shotgun to his shoulder and slammed two shots at the window. He heard the sharp shatter of breaking glass, but no cry of pain.

  He turned his head and said to Moore, “At least they know I’m not sitting on my gun hand.”

  The lawman got to his feet, and Thistledown told him, “You stay right where you’re at. A big target like you will get plugged for sure.”

  “I already got plugged,” Moore said.

  “Just proves what I’m saying,” the little man said. He took two shells from his jacket pocket and fed them into the Hollis and Sheath. “These are my last,” he said. “So we have a situation here.”

  Thistledown let a silence stretch as he tried to think his way out of this fix. Finally he said, “Moore, do you have any strength left or are you bleeding out too fast?”

  “Damn you,” the sheriff said, “I swear, you’d mock a dying man.”

  “Answer the question,” Thistledown snapped.

  “Yeah, I’ve got strength left,” Moore said. “I ain’t quite dead yet.”

  “Then get to the back of the barn and pull some boards free. We’re going out that way.”

  “You mean just cut and run?”

  “Do you have a better idea?”

  “I might have, if I had a gun,” Moore said.

  “Well you don’t, and that’s one of the reasons we’re beating our feet out of here,” Thistledown said. “Now get back there and tear down timber. Take the crowbar with you; that’ll help.”

  After Moore cussed his way to the rear of the barn, Thistledown saw the kitchen door open and a shadow step into the moonlight. He shouldered the scattergun and triggered off one shot. The shadow quickly disappeared inside, and the door slammed shut. Immediately, a couple of bullets chipped through the barn, high and harmless.

  Thistledown reckoned that Lum and the others were keeping the shooting to a minimum because they didn’t want to hit their horses. Come daylight, when they could see better, that would change.

  “How are you doing back there?” he whispered to Moore.

  “I’m shot through and through,” the lawman said. “How the hell do you think I’m doing?”

  “Then try harder,” Thistledown said. “It’ll be daylight in a couple of hours.” He heard boards splinter and said, “That’s the way, Moore. Are you putting your back into it?”

  The sheriff’s reply was to exhaust his repertoire of curses and invent a dozen more. Delighted, Thistledown smiled.

  Regularly spaced shots from the adobe kicked up V’s of dirt just outside the barn doors. The warning was clear: Don’t even think of trying to break out. If you try, we’ll kill you before you’ve taken a couple of steps.

  The only way of escape was through the rear wall. Thistledown reckoned that once clear they would try their chances in the dark hill country and make their way to his horse and bug
gy.

  But time was running out. Dawn was not far off and then the shooting would start in earnest.

  “Moore,” Thistledown said, “I don’t hear you back there.”

  He was greeted with silence. The half a dozen horses in the stalls dozed and made no sound, and even the rats seemed to have ceased their scurrying.

  “Damn it, Moore,” Thistledown said, “I’m coming back there with a stick.”

  He propped his shotgun against a stall and made his way to the rear. There was no thunder, but inside the barn lightning flickered like a magic lantern show.

  “Where are you, Moore?” Thistledown said.

  “Over here.”

  The little man followed the voice. The sheriff sat on the floor, his back fetched up against a sack of oats. Blood stained the front of Moore’s shirt, and under his mustache his lips were pale.

  Thistledown saw where the crowbar had chewed splinters out of a few pine boards, but Moore had not managed to remove any.

  “I swear,” the sheriff said, his voice thin as mist, “that the Mex who built this damned barn used a bushel o’ tenpenny nails on every plank.” Moore’s head lifted to Thistledown, his eye sockets shadowed. “I’m weary.”

  Thistledown tried to budge the boards, but they were stiff and unyielding.

  “Looks like we’re done for, huh?” Moore said.

  Thistledown nodded. “Come first light, I reckon.”

  “I don’t know how to die well,” the sheriff said. “Do you?”

  “Never really thought about it,” Thistledown said. Then after a while, he remarked, “No, I guess I don’t.”

  “You’ve got one shotgun shell left,” Moore said.

  Thistledown nodded. “I’ll take one of them with me. I want Lum because I’ve never taken money for a contract I didn’t honor.”

  “Use the shell on me, Thistledown.”

  The little man was surprised, and Moore read the look on his face.

  “I don’t want to fall into their hands wounded and helpless,” the sheriff said. “Come first light, put the scattergun to my head and do for me.”

  Thistledown thought about that last, then said, “Moore, that’s a lot to ask of any man.”

  “Then I’ll do it myself.” The sheriff grabbed Thistledown’s pants leg. “Hell, man, I’m hurting here. And those insane devils will hurt me a lot worse.” A long, painful silence, then Moore said, “I’ve never begged anything of any man, but I’m a-beggin’ this of you.”

  Thistledown glanced up at the shadowed rafters of the barn where the spiders lived. He stayed like that for a long time. “All right,” he said finally.

  “Thank you, I—”

  “Don’t say another word, Moore,” the little man said. “Just . . . let it go.”

  A moment later, a voice, male, low, accented, came from the doorway.

  “Are you in trouble, my son?” the voice said.

  Thistledown turned, and a fleeting thought flashed through his brain that he should make a dash for the shotgun. Then he saw the man and stayed where he was.

  The man in the doorway, silhouetted by lightning, wore the dark brown robes of a monk. Beside him a small boy led a donkey, a canvas-covered bundle on its back.

  “Are you in trouble?” the man asked again.

  “Seems like, padre,” Thistledown said. “There are men in the adobe who plan to kill us.”

  “My name is Brother Benedict,” the monk said. “The people of El Cerrito are part of my flock. I heard the gunfire.”

  “I suppose,” Thistledown said, “that you don’t have any shotgun shells about your person.”

  “No. I am armed only with God’s grace.”

  “Too bad,” Thistledown said. “A box of shells would’ve come in real handy.”

  The monk smiled. “I will take you and the wounded man out of here.”

  Moore was lost in shadow, out of sight from the door. “How did you know—”

  “I see blood on the floor. You are not wounded, my son, so there must be another man here.”

  “He’s a lawman and he’s badly hurt,” Thistledown said. “How do you plan to get us out of here, padre? I’m surprised they haven’t plugged you already.”

  “The people in the house won’t fire on me,” Brother Benedict said. Under his cowl his hair was yellow and his eyes were startling blue. “They’re afraid of me.”

  “Why?”

  “They worship evil, but they fear the wrath of God. Since time began, this has always been so.” The monk waved a hand, encompassing the village. “They’ve brought bad luck to El Cerrito, and their very presence has polluted the river. The fish don’t swim there anymore, nor do the antelope come to drink.”

  Thistledown said, “You should ask God to strike them down, especially a man called Lum.”

  Brother Benedict smiled, showing white teeth. “That’s up to God. He doesn’t need any help from me. Now,” he said, “let’s help your wounded friend.”

  Thistledown woke Moore from sleep, and when the big lawman saw the monk his eyes widened. “Well, I’ll be . . . I always figured I’d end up in hell,” he said.

  “Moore, you’re still in El Cerrito, and that’s close enough,” Thistledown said.

  He and Brother Benedict helped the big man to his feet, and together they manhandled the sheriff to the front of the barn. Moore continued to stare at the monk, as though he couldn’t believe his eyes.

  Brother Benedict took the canvas-wrapped bundle from the burro’s back, then said to the boy, “Get the sheriff onto the donkey.”

  With Thistledown’s help, Moore managed to straddle the animal. His was a heavy weight for so small a donkey, but the burro stood four square on its legs and seemed to willingly accept its burden.

  The monk opened the canvas and revealed a large crucifix as tall as the peasant boy. Like a man showing off a priceless relic, Brother Benedict said, “The wood of the cross is black because it was made from a charred timber taken from the ruins of a mission burned by Apaches. The Christ crucified was hammered from the melted silver chalices that were found in the chapel.” The monk kissed the cross. “It is a very powerful crucifix.”

  “Yes, but will it stop bullets?” Thistledown said.

  Brother Benedict smiled. “We’ll see, my son, won’t we?”

  “Sorry for doubting you, padre,” Thistledown said, “but I’m a Presbyterian myself.”

  “Ah, then I can give no guarantees,” the monk said, smiling, and Thistledown worried that the padre wasn’t making a joke.

  “Get my horse and saddle,” Moore said.

  “You’re not fit to ride,” Thistledown said.

  “I know, but I don’t want to leave him with those damned heathens,” he said.

  “Pedro,” Brother Benedict said, “please saddle Mr. Moore’s horse. Then we’ll leave.”

  The boy did as he was told and led the horse to the front of the barn. Thistledown grabbed his shotgun and then took the animal’s reins while Pedro stood by the donkey’s head.

  “Are we ready?” the monk asked.

  Thistledown looped the shotgun’s strap over his shoulder. “As we’ll ever be, padre,” he said.

  “Then we’ll be on our way,” Brother Benedict said.

  It was still full dark, but far to the east in the star-studded sky above the Great Plains, a slender fissure of pale blue light appeared, heralding the coming dawn. Insects stirred in the grass, and the gray coyotes had ceased to yip.

  Brother Benedict led the way out of the barn, holding the cross up in front of him. He whispered in prayer. Behind came Pedro with the donkey and its heavy burden, and Thistledown brought up the rear, leading Moore’s horse.

  Suddenly the chapel bell in the village began to toll, its slow clang . . . clang . . . clang . . . ringing loud, clamoring into the shattering darkness.

  The back door of the adobe opened and Dora DeClare stepped outside, the others with her. Her brother sat in his wheelchair in the doorway, Lum just in fron
t of him.

  Brother Benedict stopped, then turned and held the cross high, its elongated shadow falling across the open ground between him and the house. The bell clanged and clashed louder, faster, and the monk’s prayers grew in volume to an intense, terrible shout. Pedro urged the donkey to walk faster, and Moore, fevered and only half-conscious, roared and demanded to know if he was in heaven or hell.

  Thistledown, his nerves unraveling, held the shotgun up and ready, his finger on the trigger. But no shots came his way.

  One by one, like roaches scuttling into a hole, Lum and the others fled inside the house, driven by stark, supernatural fears of their own making. Soon only Dora remained.

  The scream cut through Thistledown’s brain like a blade and turned his insides to water. A shrieking, screeching, piercing cry of fear and rage, it sounded like nothing he’d ever heard in his life. It was the dreadful, hellish, scream of the newly damned.

  And it clawed from the beautiful throat of Dora DeClare.

  Chapter Twenty-three

  “Where the hell are they?” Shawn O’Brien said. “Be light soon.”

  Jacob glanced at the sky. A narrow band of mother-of-pearl sky showed to the east, but the night was still ablaze with stars.

  “They’ll be here,” Jacob said. “Count on it.”

  Frenchy Petite groaned, and his hand went to his battered face.

  Jacob shoved the muzzle of his Colt into the middle of the breed’s forehead. “You lay still and keep your trap shut or I’ll scatter your brains,” he said.

  “Frenchy, how many men are with you?” Shawn said.

  The breed opened his swollen eyes, and his split lips curled in a smile. “More than you can handle, O’Brien,” he said. “Joe Aiken leads them, and he’ll cut your heart out.”

  “Is that so?” Jacob said. Way too quiet, a thing Frenchy should’ve noticed.

  “Yeah, it’s so, you bastard,” the breed said.

  “Good night, Frenchy,” Jacob said. The barrel of his revolver came down hard in the middle of the breed’s skull, right where his long hair parted. Frenchy went out as though an anvil had dropped on his head.