Behind them, McGill and his men had flogged their horses and closed the gap to about fifty yards. Their shots were coming nearer. If McGill could kill the three of them now, he could still get away with it.
Flint leaned over the neck of his horse and urged it to draw on its last reserves of speed and strength.
Suddenly he realized their mounts were running on the main road into town rather than on the trail to Trident. Buildings flashed by, and Flint glimpsed the startled faces of the townspeople who watched them gallop past. West was still in the lead, and he was headed for the sheriff's office. McGill's men had no choice but to stop firing. They couldn’t gun the three of them down in front of witnesses.
West hauled his horse to a stop in front of Dedrick's office. Flint was right behind him. The young cowhand snagged the reins of Anabel's mount and dragged it to a halt. Drawn by the commotion, Dedrick burst out of his office. His deputies were right behind him, and all of them carried guns.
Flint slid from the saddle and glanced up the street. McGill and his men had slowed their horses to a trot now, but they were still coming. The rancher's face was set in murderous lines.
West helped Anabel down from her horse and clutched her to him. She was sobbing hysterically, giving in to the strain she had been under for so long. Dedrick looked at her, then at Flint. "What the bloody hell's going on here?" he demanded.
"You tell him, Anabel," Flint suggested grimly.
"He kidnapped me!" Anabel wailed, huddling in West's arms.
"Kidnapped? By God, girl, who kidnapped you?" Dedrick asked.
"Lance McGill!" The name was torn out of Anabel.
"That's a damned lie," McGill said icily. He sat on his horse a few feet away, his men behind him. Leveling an accusing finger at Flint and West, he went on. "Those two just robbed my ranch, and they took Miss Anabel as a hostage! All of my men will tell you that's the truth, Sheriff."
Dedrick looked back and forth between the accusing parties, clearly confused. "But she says you kidnapped her, McGill," he said.
"She's overwrought because of her father's death," McGill said smoothly. "She's imagining things because she's so upset, Sheriff. You can understand that."
Flint met McGill's eyes and saw a trace of mockery there. The rancher was smooth, all right. Flint had to give him that much. He must have come up with this story on the way into town while he was doing his best to kill them. Flint looked back at Dedrick and saw that the sheriff was rubbing his jaw in puzzlement. McGill was an influential man in this part of the country. His story was pretty weak, but Dedrick appeared to be wavering. The sheriff was on the verge of accepting what McGill had to say.
A crowd had gathered in front of the sheriff’s office, its numbers swelled by the people who had come to Cheyenne to witness the hanging.
Flint scanned the group, hoping to see someone who might help, who might speak up and force Dedrick to listen to reason. Suddenly he spotted Thatcher Horrigan on the boardwalk a few feet away. Flint was about to call his name when he noticed Horrigan's disheveled condition. More important, he caught the glance that the young newspaperman exchanged with Lance McGill. Horrigan patted his jacket pocket, as if to assure McGill that he had something safely stored there. The gesture was surreptitious, and Flint doubted that anyone in the crowd noticed it except him.
Horrigan and McGill? Suddenly a great many things started to make sense to Lucas Flint. The only problem was, it looked as if it was too late to do anything about them.
Dedrick stepped forward and clamped a hand on Flint's arm. "You and West had better come with me, Flint," he growled. "We'll get to the bottom of this."
"No!" one of McGill's men suddenly yelled. "They're robbers and kidnappers! String 'em up!"
The spectators on the boardwalk took up the cry. Shouts of "Hang 'em!" resounded through the street. The crowd had been cheated of one hanging today. They didn’t intend to miss out on another one.
McGill was grinning now. Everything was going his way. Dedrick and his deputies were pale and nervous, and it was clear to Flint that they might not be willing to stop a lynch mob, even if they had been able. The man from Kansas looked again at Horrigan, saw the smile on his face.
"Horrigan!" called a voice.
The newspaperman stiffened and turned as several people on the boardwalk near him suddenly backed away. As he saw who had called his name Horrigan cried, "Oh, my God..."
K. W. Newcomb was lurching along the boardwalk toward him. A huge bloodstain spread across the hangman's shirt and coat, but his eyes were clear and determined as he closed in on Horrigan. His .38 was in his hand.
In a frighteningly cold voice Newcomb said, "You should have made sure I was dead, Horrigan. I want those papers."
Horrigan was panting harshly as he stared at Newcomb. Suddenly he seemed to break out of the trance that was gripping him. He lunged toward one of the bystanders and jerked the man's pistol from its holster. Uttering an inarticulate cry, Horrigan spun toward Newcomb and lifted the gun.
The hangman fired. The bullet struck Horrigan in the shoulder, knocking him backward. The gun he had grabbed fell from his hand, unfired.
Dedrick yelled, "What the devil!" The people in the street scattered, looking for cover in case there was more shooting.
Flint saw Lance McGill's hand darting toward his holstered gun. McGill had to know the game was over, that he was about to be exposed as a rustler and maybe a killer and God knew what else. But a man like McGill wouldn’t want to go down alone.
With one hand Flint suddenly shoved Sheriff Dedrick to the side while he snatched the rifle from his grip with the other. McGill was lifting his gun when Flint fired from the hip, the rifle blasting in his hands. One shot erupted from McGill's gun, but the bullet went high in the air as the rancher threw his hands up and plunged from the saddle. He landed heavily in the dusty street, dead from the Winchester slug that had slammed into his chest an instant earlier.
Flint heard the clicking of hammers being cocked and looked around to see Dedrick's deputies pointing their guns at him. He stood very still, not wanting anyone's trigger finger to get itchy. McGill's men sat unmoving on their horses, clearly confused as to what to do now that their boss was dead. West still had his arms around Anabel. No one moved until Newcomb limped forward and bent over Horrigan, who was squirming and whimpering from the pain of his wounded shoulder. Newcomb reached inside Horrigan's coat and pulled out a sheaf of papers. He walked slowly over to Sheriff Dedrick and thrust the documents at him.
"You'd better read these, Sheriff," he said. "And then you'd better have a long talk with Horrigan as soon as he's patched up. I imagine Lucas Flint and his young friend have some pretty important things to tell you, too."
Dedrick opened and closed his mouth several times, then finally managed to stammer, "B-but what about the hanging?"
Newcomb shook his head. "There's not going to be any hanging. Not today. And if you'll excuse me, there's someone inside that jail I want to break that news to personally."
With a broad grin on his face, Newcomb clapped Flint on the shoulder and then turned toward the office. Despite the blood from his wound, Newcomb looked like his old self again, Flint thought, like that jolly fellow he had met on the train from Abilene.
Right now, K. W. Newcomb was just about the happiest hangman Lucas Flint had ever seen.
18
Quite a crowd had gathered at Cheyenne’s train station to see Lucas Flint off the next morning. K. W. Newcomb and Rachel Coleman were there, along with Anabel Yeager and Jordy West. They were a pair of fine-looking couples, Flint thought. Sheriff Bob Dedrick was on hand, too, as was the young deputy, Jeremy. At one end of the platform, Elijah Jones leaned on the railing and used it to support the pad on which he was sketching the big Baldwin locomotive.
It had taken the remainder of the previous day to sort everything out, but once Dedrick had learned what had happened both in Cheyenne and at the Trident ranch, he was convinced of Rachel's innocen
ce. Together with Judge Theodore Stephens, Dedrick visited Thatcher Horrigan at the local doctor's office, and the wounded newspaperman quickly broke down and confessed to his part in the murder of Mayor Yeager.
Armed with that testimony and the records Newcomb had recovered, Judge Stephens convened his court just long enough to dismiss all charges against Rachel Coleman.
Now, as she took Flint's hand while they stood on the depot platform, Rachel asked, "Are you sure you won't stay longer, Lucas? With everything that was going on, we hardly got to visit."
Flint smiled and shook his head. "I think I'd better get back to Abilene. I'm sure everything is all right there"—he shrugged his shoulders—"but you know how old lawmen are. We worry about our towns."
"I certainly worried about mine for a while there yesterday," Dedrick grunted. He extended a hand to Flint. "Sorry we didn't get to work together more, Marshal. I appreciate what you did. It would have been a terrible mistake if we had...well..."
Rachel laughed. "I think we know what you're trying to say, Sheriff."
A grin tugged at Dedrick's mouth. He snorted, nodded curtly, said, "So long, Flint," and left the platform, with Jeremy following behind him.
Flint looked at Newcomb. The hangman probably should have been in bed, he knew, recuperating from the bullet wound Horrigan had given him. The slug had passed through his body, missing the vital organs but knocking Newcomb out for a few minutes from shock and loss of blood. But he had come to in time to save Flint, West, and Anabel, not to mention Rachel.
"I guess you'll be staying here in Cheyenne for a while," Flint said. "You'll need to rest up."
"Indeed, he will," Rachel replied, slipping her arm through Newcomb's. "Kashton is going to help me with the paper as soon as he feels up to it."
Flint grinned. "Kashton?"
Newcomb frowned and shook his head. "Let's not mention that again, shall we? But yes, I plan on staying around for a while. I'm thinking about giving up my career as a hangman." He leaned closer to Flint. "I almost have to, you know."
"Reckon so," Flint said with a chuckle. "Who's going to hire a hangman who rigs his own gallows so it won't work?"
Newcomb glanced sharply at Rachel, then looked back at Flint. "Now, how in the world did you know that?"
"I didn't tell him," Rachel said. "I didn't even know about it until you told me just before the hanging."
Flint said, "Don't worry, Newcomb. None of us is going to say anything. As for how I knew... Well, let's just say I figured a man like you knew his business too well for something like that to be an accident."
Newcomb grinned sheepishly. "That's the first time I've ever done anything like that. But I just couldn't hang Rachel. When I broke the mechanism accidentally the day before, I got the idea to repair it so that it would never work again. I'm sure glad I didn't have to go through with the execution."
"So am I," Rachel said. Her smile faded as she went on. "But I am sorry that it turned out to be Thatcher who was responsible for everything. I genuinely liked him. I thought he had the makings of a fine newspaperman." She brightened again. "But the Eagle will carry on."
"Of course, it will," Flint assured her. He turned to West and Anabel and thrust out his hand. "Thanks for everything, Jordy. None of us would have come through this without your help."
"Glad to do it," West replied, shaking Flint's hand firmly. "We'll miss you around here, Lucas. Things have sure been popping since you came to town."
"You'll be staying busy enough." Flint grinned as Anabel blushed at his words. "You're going to help Miss Anabel here take care of that ranch, aren't you?"
"It's all hers, now that McGill's dead," West said. "The way all of his riders ran off yesterday, we're going to have to find a whole new crew. It'll take a lot of work"—his arm tightened around Anabel's shoulders—"but I reckon it'll be worth it."
The train conductor came along the platform then, bawling out his summons for the passengers to board. Flint shook hands with Newcomb, then kissed Rachel on the cheek. "We'll get together again," he promised, "only under better circumstances."
"I'm going to hold you to that, Lucas," she said warmly.
Flint climbed onto the rear platform, waving as the train pulled out of the station. He stayed there until the depot shrank from sight, then went inside the car to find a seat for the long ride home.
He hoped things had been quieter in Abilene than they had been in Wyoming Territory.
Deputy Cully Markham was waiting at the station when the train carrying Marshal Lucas Flint pulled into Abilene a day and a half later. He greeted Flint with a broad grin and said, "Hello, Marshal. Glad to have you back. We were sure happy to get that wire from you about your sister-in-law being innocent and all."
Flint warmly shook hands with his young deputy and said earnestly, "I'm glad to be back, Cully." He turned toward the baggage car to reclaim his bag. "How was everything while I was gone? Any trouble?"
Cully shrugged. "Oh, nothing to speak of. Leander Bullfinch broke out of jail, but I got him back. He said he was sorry he did it and promised not to do it again."
Flint stopped and turned to stare at Cully. "Broke out?" he exclaimed. "How the devil did he manage to do that?"
"Now, I'm still not sure about that," Cully said with a shake of his head. "You see, I was off fighting that prairie fire with Angus when it happened."
"Prairie fire," Flint said slowly.
"Don't worry, it didn't amount to much. We stopped it before it got to town. Closest it got was burning up a couple of pens out at the Great Western's stockyard. And you'd never even notice that, what with the damage from the stampede and all."
"Stampede?"
"Well, the fire spooked the cattle, of course," Cully said reasonably. "So you can see why I'm not sure just how Leander managed to get out of his cell. If I hadn't gone looking for him, though, I wouldn't have run into those boys who robbed the bank down in Wichita—"
Flint held up a hand, palm out in surrender. "Never mind," he said. "You can tell me all about it later."
"Sure, Marshal." Cully grinned. "So, how was Wyoming Territory?"
A Solid Right Cross
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
1
A cold autumn wind whirled through the dimly lit Chicago streets, and heavy clouds, threatening an icy rain, scudded across the crescent moon. Pedestrians unfortunate enough to be out on this bitter, damp night cast envious glances at the closed carriages that occasionally rolled by them on the cobblestoned avenues. They pulled their caps down farther on their heads or drew their jackets closer to them to ward off the chill.
But not Quincy O’Sullivan. He was still too excited about the fight he had just won to feel the biting cold.
"I knew you had it in you, O’Sullivan!" exclaimed Bernie Campbell. The small man walking beside him was struggling to keep up with O’Sullivan's long strides. "I knew you could take Paladino, he's nothing but a big tub of lard. But a knockout! That will make people sit up and take notice, my boy. Mark my words, you keep punching the way you have been, and you'll be fighting for the heavyweight title before another year is out!"
O’Sullivan grinned at the smaller man's enthusiasm. Clapping him on the back, he said, "I never could have done it without you, Bernie."
Bernie staggered a bit from the exuberant blow, regained his balance, and then caught the derby that was about to fly off his plastered-down, carrot-colored hair. "I'll start setting up the next fight right away," he declared, returning O’Sullivan's grin. "We'll have you back in Parslow’s Garden before you know it!"
O’Sullivan laughed at the idea of returning to the famo
us New York exhibition hall. "I hope you arrange that before they change the name to Madison Square Garden the way they're threatening," he said. "People won't know where they're going otherwise."
The prizefighter was a tall, brawny man with wide shoulders that stretched the fabric of his cheap suit. His thick black hair was rumpled and unruly, but his heavy black mustache was neatly groomed with the tips lightly waxed. The hearty laugh rumbled from his broad chest as if it were coming from a deep well.
"But don't get carried away, Bernie. I want to celebrate tonight's win for a while before I start training for the next fight."
"Sure, sure, celebrate all you want," Bernie rubbed his palms together in anticipation as he bounced along at O’Sullivan's side, "because tomorrow morning, you'll be doing road work again, laddy buck!"
O’Sullivan groaned. He had better have a good time tonight, he decided, because he knew Bernie meant every word he said. The little man was quite a taskmaster. He was also Quincy O’Sullivan's best friend and had salvaged his once-failing boxing career.
Bernie Campbell had been O’Sullivan's manager for a little over a year. In that short time he had taken a down-on-his-luck slugger who had served mostly as a punching bag for other prizefighters and turned him into a legitimate boxer who would soon be a contender for the heavyweight crown. Bernie had worked him mercilessly, never settling for any less than O’Sullivan's absolute best effort, both in the prize ring and in the training sessions that preceded the bouts. Nursing O’Sullivan's career along, he arranged matches that had taken them from small, but tough, New Jersey towns to tonight's important fight in Chicago.
This evening in a waterfront hall, O’Sullivan had faced Dozier Paladino, a powerful fighter who had once fought for the championship himself and was still highly regarded. The bout ended in the seventh round with a knockout. O’Sullivan's knuckles still ached from the blow that did the job—a solid right cross that slipped past Paladino's guard and caught him in the jaw. Paladino almost flew out of the ring. The crowd went wild, shouting and cheering as the referee lifted O’Sullivan's hand in triumph. Even now, more than an hour after the fight had ended, O’Sullivan's heart pounded at the memory.
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