Newcomb had come to the office the day before and introduced himself. Dedrick was expecting him, knowing that the judge had sent for the hangman. But the man's pleasant demeanor and habit of spinning yarns was a surprise. Dedrick anticipated that a man in Newcomb's profession and with his reputation would be a grim individual.
Now the hangman wanted to talk to Rachel Coleman, and although Dedrick couldn’t imagine why, there was no reason for him to deny the request. "Sure," he said as he pushed back his chair and reached for the keys. "Come on."
The sheriff led the way into the cellblock. Despite the early hour, Rachel had already had breakfast. She had placed the empty tray on her bunk and was sitting in the rocking chair, reading a copy of the Cheyenne Eagle that Dedrick had brought to her.
"Have you come for the tray, Sheriff?" Rachel asked without glancing up from the paper.
"I'll take it," Dedrick replied. "But I've got somebody here who wants to see you, Rachel."
Rachel looked up then, saw Newcomb standing behind the lawman, and frowned. "Hello," she said to Newcomb. "I don't believe we've met, sir."
"No, ma'am, we haven't," Newcomb said, sweeping off his hat and stepping closer to the bars. "My name is K. W. Newcomb, and I just wanted to say hello to you."
Rachel's eyes narrowed. "Have you come for the hanging, Mr. Newcomb?"
Newcomb's cheerful expression wavered, and his smile threatened to disappear as he said, "Well, I suppose you could say that, Miss Coleman."
"Are you a journalist? Your suit reminds me a bit of some reporters I've known." Rachel's tone was dry and cynical.
Newcomb shook his head. "No, ma'am. I'm an officer of the court." He shifted his feet nervously, and Dedrick could tell that Newcomb didn’t want to admit to Rachel that he was going to be her executioner.
"I see. Well, then, I don't believe that we have a great deal to say to each other, Mr. Newcomb." Rachel lifted her newspaper again in a gesture of dismissal. "Good day, sir."
Dedrick looked at Newcomb and jerked his head toward the office. The hangman nodded and went out. When the two men were back in the office and the door to the cellblock was closed, Dedrick asked, "What the hell was that all about?"
"I'm sorry," Newcomb said, and he sounded sincere. "I just needed to get an idea of the lady's weight and her, ah, build. Such things are important when you're designing a gallows. Now that the platform and steps are finished, I'll turn to the trapdoor mechanism."
Dedrick snorted. "I thought a gallows was just a gallows."
"No, you're wrong there. Each gallows is different and must be adjusted to the person being hanged. I don't want any mistakes. That can be very bad. In fact, there's nothing worse than a gallows that doesn't work just right. It can take a long time for the sentence to be carried out to its conclusion."
"So you were just working when you went back there to talk to Rachel," Dedrick stated coldly.
"I'm afraid so." An odd, distracted look came over Newcomb's face as he went on. "But I wanted to meet the lady, too. I've never hanged a woman before, Sheriff. To be honest, I wasn't sure how I would react." He took a deep breath. "But I'll do my job, never fear. I just wish the lady had not been so attractive. That's distressing, quite distressing..."
Newcomb left the office muttering. Dedrick stared after him for a moment, then shook his head and went back to the paperwork stacked on his desk.
At about the same time, Lucas Flint left his hotel and strolled down the street to a livery barn he had noticed the day before. He knew he would have to do some riding and needed to rent a horse.
A young man was working at the stable, carrying hay into the stalls. Flint paused just inside the barn's big double doors and waited until the lad came out of one of the stalls. The young man saw him, put down his pitchfork, and came toward him with a grin. "Something I can do for you, mister?" he asked.
"I need a horse," Flint replied. "Do you have one I can rent for a few days?"
"Sure. How about this one right over here?" The stable hand went to one of the stalls and reached over the gate to pat the flank of a chestnut mare. "She's right friendly, and she'll get you anywhere you want to
go."
Flint joined the young man at the stall. He studied the lines of the horse for a moment, then nodded in approval. "She'll do," he said. "She have a name?"
The youth grinned again. "We call her Sweetie."
A grimace tugged at Flint's mouth. Despite her name, the horse looked like a fairly good mount. She was young, healthy, and strong. He probably wouldn’t find a better one for rent. Quickly, the young man and he completed the financial arrangements, and Flint managed to get the use of a saddle thrown into the fee. He handed over the money, then watched while the young man led Sweetie out of the stall and saddled her.
"Take good care of her, mister," the lad said as Flint swung into the saddle. "We're right fond of her."
"I'll be careful," Flint promised. He heeled the animal to a walk and rode into the street.
He had not slept much after the attempt on his life. The shooting itself didn’t bother him too much—a man never got used to somebody throwing lead at him, but such incidents became less shocking as the years went by. Instead, Flint’s mind was occupied by what he had learned during his day of investigation.
Initially Flint had thought his questions had not turned up much of value. But if the person who tried to ambush him was connected with this case, then maybe he was more successful than he first assumed. Something he ran across was important and prompted the ambush. He just didn’t know how it all tied together yet.
The widespread rustling seemed to be the main piece of information he had uncovered. He was a little surprised to learn that McGill had suffered losses.
When Flint had gotten out of bed that morning, he decided it was time to take a look around and familiarize himself with the lay of the land. He had been told the Trident ranch was north of town. While he didn’t know its exact location, he had heard it was so large that he would have no trouble finding it. If he headed north from Cheyenne, he would wind up on Trident range sooner or later.
That was exactly what he did, riding easy in the saddle and quickly leaving Cheyenne behind. The Laramie Mountains loomed to his left. The rugged heights of Pole Mountain were the highest point in this part of the range. To his right was the rolling prairie that gradually flattened out to become the Great Plains farther to the east. A few rocky gullies scarred the terrain, but overall it was fine ranch land, Flint thought as he forded a rippling, tree-lined creek. Even though it was summer, a cool, gentle breeze blew off the mountains, and wispy white clouds floated high in the deep blue sky. He rode through the lush, fertile pastureland and had traveled less than ten miles when he began to spot cattle grazing.
Around midmorning, Flint steered Sweetie close enough to a small herd of cattle to read the brand on their flanks. It was unmistakably in the shape of a three-pronged spear—a trident. He was on McGill's land.
McGill's land...and Anabel Yeager's, as well, Flint corrected himself. He wondered how McGill would react if the young woman decided to take an active hand in running the ranch. That was unlikely, Flint knew, but it was an intriguing idea.
He rode up a hill, topped it, reined in, and paused to look down on the rich green valley that spread out before him. Brush outlined a creek that wound gently out of the foothills to the west. It was as pretty a place as Flint had seen in a long time.
Suddenly a rifle cracked to his right, and Sweetie surged forward as a slug burned a furrow across her rump. Flint leaned down and spurred her into a gallop.
Part of him had expected that whoever had shot at him the night before would try again, but the pleasantness of the ride through the Wyoming countryside must have dulled his senses, he thought angrily. He crouched low in the saddle as another shot whistled over his head. Several whoops and yells made him turn around to see four men riding out of a clump of trees, angling toward him in an attempt to cut him off.
/> "Come on, Sweetie," Flint hissed through clenched teeth. His keen eyes searched the landscape for some cover. The men were firing rapidly now. It was unlikely they would hit him, aiming as they were from the backs of galloping horses, but if they caught up with him, the odds would be too high. He had to reach cover.
Flint prodded the mare westward toward the foothills. The terrain was rougher, and there was a greater likelihood of finding some protection near the creek. Luckily, the mare was running smoothly, and he was surprised at the speed she had at her command.
Sliding out his pistol, the marshal squeezed off a shot at the men pursuing him. He knew it was unlikely he would hit anything at this range, but at least the shot would let them know he intended to fight back. He didn’t shoot again, preferring to save his shells until they would have a chance to do some good.
Suddenly Flint spotted a group of small boulders up ahead on the shoulder of a little rise. He pointed the horse toward the rocks, then ducked involuntarily as a bullet whined close to his head. The four men were closer now, but he could tell that they wouldn’t be able to intercept him before he reached the boulders.
The odds were still discouraging—four against one, and they were armed with rifles while all he had was his Colt. But at least he would have a chance to put up a fight. Maybe he could do some discouraging of his own, make the price for taking him high enough that they wouldn’t want to pay it.
He had to drive them off. If they killed him now, Rachel would hang for sure.
Flint glanced over his shoulder to see how close the bushwhackers were, then hauled back on the reins as the mare reached the clump of rocks. The horse came to a sliding stop. Flint dropped out of the saddle, slapped the mare on the rump to start her running again, then threw himself behind the largest of the boulders. He had to crouch to get his body behind the rock. Stabbing the barrel of his pistol around the boulder, he triggered three shots at his attackers.
They were close enough now to be within revolver range, and Flint's slugs made them rein in and hunt for cover of their own. The man from Abilene raised his head long enough to see them dismounting and running toward some small trees. They spread out as they ran, so that with their rifles they would be able to cover the whole hillside where Flint was holed up.
Flint thumbed fresh cartridges into his Colt to replace the spent ones. His pulse was pounding from the frantic ride and the danger in which he found himself. There was nowhere for him to go now. He was pinned down with a limited amount of ammunition, no food or water, and no possibility of help. No one knew he was out here, and he had no friends in Cheyenne to come looking for him.
Unless something extraordinary happened, he was going to die out here today. But he wouldn’t go down alone, he vowed as his grip tightened on the revolver in his hand.
He edged around the boulder again and snapped a shot toward the trees. As Flint's slug chewed splinters out of a tree trunk, a flurry of frantic movement behind another tree caught his eye, but he didn’t have time to see anything else. The other men opened fire, making him duck behind the rock.
Abruptly the rifles fell silent. A long moment passed, then Flint heard one man calling to the others. His words were clearly audible. "Bilt, you and Andrews head over that way. Try to flank the son of a bitch!"
Flint didn’t recognize the voice or the names, but that meant nothing. These men were probably hired guns or ranch hands who worked for McGill.
If the men named Bilt and Andrews succeeded in getting off to his side, this fight would be over in a hurry. They would be able to pick him off while the other two kept him pinned down.
Flint twisted and leaned toward the other side of the rock. He had to hit the two men as they tried to flank him, even though doing so would probably expose him to the fire of the other pair. He spotted Bilt and Andrews as they darted from tree to tree and lifted his gun to venture a shot at them.
A bullet smacked into the boulder just above his head, and the impact sent dust and rock chips flying into his face. Flint dropped to one knee and blinked rapidly to clear the dust from his eyes. When he was able to look up, he saw he had missed his shot. Bilt and Andrews had taken cover in some trees on his flank.
They opened fire on him. Flint hunkered down as low as he could as bullets ricocheted off the boulder less than a foot from him. He tipped his Colt up and fired blindly toward the bushwhackers.
Suddenly he became aware that fewer bullets were coming in his direction. He glanced up and saw one of the men who had flanked him scurrying from behind the trees. The man turned as he ran and fired at something behind him. Then, abruptly, the man staggered, dropped his rifle, and clutched at his thigh. He stayed on his feet somehow and hobbled back toward the other two men. His companion joined him in fleeing, caught up to him, and grabbed his arm to help him along.
A flicker of movement over his left shoulder caught Flint's eye, and he turned to see what it was. A man on horseback was coming over the top of the rise about a hundred yards away from him. From that angle the man had a clear line of fire at all four ambushers. Flint poked his gun over the boulder and joined in the barrage that the newcomer was firing with a Winchester. The man was uncannily accurate, considering that he was galloping at a downhill angle. His bullets were coming close enough to drive the ambushers back to their horses.
Flint stood up and fired the last two rounds in his Colt as his attackers hurriedly mounted up and began to flee. The odds were still in their favor, Flint thought as he watched them gallop off, but now they were meeting more resistance, and they didn’t have the stomach to face it.
The lone rider sent two more rifle slugs screaming after them, then reined in his horse. He sat for a moment, watching until the four ambushers had disappeared, then turned his mount and rode slowly toward Flint.
The marshal looked around and spotted his horse about fifty yards away, dancing nervously at the top of a ridge. He started walking toward the mare, and when he got close enough, he began talking softly and soothingly to her. Sweetie cast a suspicious glance at him, but Flint was able to reach out and grasp the dangling reins. He patted the horse and checked the bullet burn on her rump. The wound didn’t appear to be serious. Flint led her back down the hill.
The stranger was waiting for him at the clump of boulders. He was twisted in the saddle, watching the spot where the four bushwhackers had vanished, just in case they tried to sneak up again. He grinned when he looked at Flint.
"Seems like I owe you some thanks, mister," Flint said. "They would have rousted me out pretty quick if you hadn't shown up."
The man reached up and pushed his hat back, revealing curly brown hair. "Didn't look like a fair fight to me," he said. "Didn't sound like it, either, from the other side of the ridge. That's why I rode up to take a look. My name's Jordy West."
"Lucas Flint," the lawman said. He reached up to shake hands with West. As he did so, he glanced at the man's horse and saw that it wore a Trident brand.
Jordy West, a young man in his mid-twenties, was wearing a faded blue shirt, jeans, and a battered black hat. His well-cared-for boots were worn. A Colt rode in a holster on his hip, and he still had the Winchester in his hands. From his outfit and the coil of rope that was hung on his saddle, Flint guessed that he was one of McGill's cowhands.
"Mind if I ask what you're doing out here, Mr. Flint?" West asked. "You're on Trident range, and I don't recollect seeing you around before." The young man studied Flint suspiciously.
Flint didn’t blame West for being wary. If there was as much rustling going on as there seemed to be, then any stranger would have to have a mighty good reason for riding through this territory. "I'm glad I ran into you," he said. "I was looking for McGill's spread."
"Well, you found it. You have business with McGill?"
"I'm not sure." Moving slowly so as not to spook West, Flint swung into the saddle. He met West's eyes and debated just how much to tell the young man. West had saved his life, but that only meant that the punche
r didn’t like unfair odds. Flint went on carefully. "I was just trying to get an idea of what this country was like. I've heard there's been some trouble with rustling around here."
West nodded. "I figure those hombres who jumped you were cattle-lifters themselves. You must've interrupted them while they were trying to rustle a few head."
Flint didn’t tell him that the attack had come out of nowhere and was probably motivated by his investigation into Mayor Yeager's murder. It might be better for now to let West think whatever he wanted to.
"You sound like you've been losing some stock on the Trident," Flint said as he spurred his horse into a walk alongside West. The two men were riding in the same direction Flint had been going before he was attacked.
"We've lost enough," West said grimly. "Maybe not as much as some of the other spreads hereabouts, but there's been enough rustling to make all of us edgy."
The marshal nodded. Part of his job was being a good judge of character, and West struck him as an honest young man, even if he was riding for McGill. Flint decided to tell him some of the truth. "That's why I came out here today," he said. "I want to find out who's behind this rustling."
West glanced over at him. "You some kind of range detective?"
Morven Stubb had asked him the same question the night before, and then Flint denied it. Now he said vaguely, "Something like that."
West laughed shortly. "I can tell you who's running that gang of crooks if that's what you want to know. It's a fella called Ladell, Dax Ladell."
Flint had not heard of Dax Ladell and said as much. "What makes you think this Ladell is behind the rustling?" he asked.
West shrugged. "Ladell's a hardcase," he said. "Folks have suspected he was mixed up with everything that's shady around here for a long time. Sheriff Dedrick can't seem to get any evidence against him, though. So Ladell and his bunch keep getting away with whatever they're doing."
"Ladell has his own gang, does he?"
West nodded. "They're about the roughest collection of men you'll find. Wouldn't surprise me if those four who ran you to ground were part of his bunch." The young cowboy reined in and leaned forward in his saddle. Flint brought his own horse to a stop as West frowned at him and went on. "You're asking a lot of questions, Mr. Flint. I think before I answer any more, you'd better tell me what you're really after."
Rattler's Law, Volume One Page 104