It was getting on toward midday, and Braddock was hungry. He nodded and said, "That'll be fine."
The clerk said, "I'm glad we've got a Ranger in town. Sheriff Dearborn's a good man, no doubt about that, but I'm not sure he can keep the lid on this."
Braddock just nodded and turned toward the arched entrance to the dining room.
Most of the tables were full. Several waitresses in gingham dresses and white aprons hurried among them, taking orders and delivering food. Braddock spotted an empty table in the corner, made his way to it, and sat down. He was aware of the eyes following him. He was sure that word had already gotten around town about a Texas Ranger riding in. People were curious about him, even as they were grateful for his presence.
One of the waitresses, a sweet-faced brunette about twenty years old, came over and set a cup of coffee in front of him as he took his hat off and dropped it on the table. Braddock smiled and said, "I didn't order that."
"If you don't want it, I can take it away," she told him.
"I didn't say that. Fact of the matter is, I appreciate it. If you could bring me a steak and some potatoes to go with it, that would be even better."
"Right away, sir."
Braddock sipped the coffee, which was excellent, as the waitress bustled away. He ignored the other people in the room who kept stealing glances at him. Instead he thought about the situation he had ridden into.
The wire Sheriff Dearborn had sent requesting help from the Rangers might be answered, or it might not be. The tattered remnant of the Frontier Battalion was spread far and wide these days, and the simple fact of the matter was that Captain Hughes might not have anybody available to send to Alpine.
But if he did...if another Ranger rode into town in the next couple of days...there was an excellent chance he would know that Braddock wasn't supposed to be wearing that badge. Braddock had broken enough laws in his quest for justice that he'd been warned to stay out of Texas. Yet here he was, unable to stay away when he was needed.
Either way, there wasn't anything Braddock could do about it. Another Ranger would show up or he wouldn't. Fate would follow its own course. That was the way of it.
A sudden awareness that the room had fallen silent broke into Braddock's reverie. He glanced up and saw the reason why.
A woman had come into the dining room and was walking toward the table where he sat. Judging by the silence and the gauzy veil that hung over her face from the flat-crowned straw hat she wore, he figured she was June Castle.
Chapter 5
Braddock got to his feet as the woman came to a stop beside the table. She said, "Please sit down, Ranger Braddock." The thin veil obscured her features but didn't muffle her voice. "You are Ranger Braddock, aren't you?"
Braddock remained standing. He said, "Yes, ma'am."
"I'm Miss Castle."
"Yes, ma'am." Braddock moved a hand toward the empty chair across from him. "Will you join me?"
"I..." For a moment he thought she was going to refuse. There was something tense and expectant about her, like a bird about to take wing and launch into startled flight. But then she nodded under the veil and said, "Yes, thank you."
Braddock stepped around the table and held the chair for her as she sat down. Most of his upbringing had been devoted to preparing him for life as a Ranger, but while his mother was still alive he'd been taught to be a gentleman as well.
He looked across the room, caught the eye of the pretty waitress who'd brought the coffee, and angled his head toward June Castle. The waitress nodded her understanding and went to fetch another cup.
Braddock settled back into his chair. He said, "I'm pleased to meet you, Miss Castle."
"You know who I am, then? You've heard my story?"
"I have. I'm sorry."
"For what?" she asked bluntly. "Because I was maimed by a madman? Or because my actions led to the deaths of dozens of people and the ruination of an entire community?"
"None of that was your fault. The blame for all of it lies with that madman you mentioned—Henry Pollard."
June Castle clasped her hands together on the table in front of her. They were slender, long-fingered hands, and very pale. She said, "Not everyone sees it that way. There's been talk...Some say that if I'd given in to Henry to start with, like he wanted, none of those awful things would have happened."
"Ma'am, people who would think something like that don't deserve the attention you'd give a mosquito. They're just wrong, that's all there is to it."
"I'm not so sure. Wouldn't it be better to trade one person's pain and humiliation for the destruction of so much else?"
"Those waters are over my head, Miss Castle," Braddock said. "I'm just here to help see to it that Pollard pays the price for what he's done."
"Will hanging him do that? Will hanging him bring back all the people he killed or undo all the destruction? Will it take back this?"
She raised her hands to the veil and lifted it, revealing the ugly red and ragged scars that criss-crossed her face. Braddock was able to catch a glimpse of the beauty that had once been present under those terrible injuries.
She held the veil up only for a second, then as she dropped it Braddock said, "No, ma'am, hanging Pollard won't change any of that. But it's all we've got, isn't it?"
"It's not enough," she whispered.
Braddock sighed and asked, "What would you have me do?"
"If he's tried and convicted, they'll build a gallows and drop him through it. It'll be a clean drop, Sheriff Dearborn will make sure of that, he's a good man. Henry Pollard's neck will snap, and his life will be over." June Castle's fingers tightened on each other. "If he's taken out and a rope is thrown over a tree limb to haul him up, he'll strangle. He'll take minutes to die, and he'll be in agony. It won't be enough...not nearly enough...but it will be better than the fast, clean death the law will give him."
"So you want me to let a mob lynch him," Braddock said. "That won't change any of what he did, either."
"No...but as you said, it's what we have."
The conversations in the room had started up again, although at a lower level than before. People had gone back to their meals and cast only occasional glances at the Ranger and the young woman sitting at the table in the corner. The waitress came to the table with a cup of coffee, set it in front of June, and asked quietly, "Would you like something to eat, Miss Castle?"
"No, thank you," June said. Her voice was polite but cold. When the waitress had gone, she asked Braddock, "She's pretty, isn't she?"
"I suppose."
"You know she is. She's pretty, and I never will be again. And it's all Henry Pollard's fault." Her voice trembled as she spoke.
"Nobody's denying that—" Braddock began, then stopped as he realized someone else was approaching the table. A young man this time, tall and slender with brown hair that tried to fall forward over his forehead. He carried his hat in one hand.
"June," he said as he stopped beside the table, "I thought we were going to eat dinner together."
"Go away, Tom," she told him without looking up. "I'm talking to this Ranger."
The young man looked at Braddock, nodded, and said, "You're Ranger Braddock. I heard you were in town." He put out his hand. "Tom Nation."
Braddock stood up and shook with him.
"You're the deputy from Santa Angelina who captured Pollard."
"Yeah," Tom Nation said. "But I've thought plenty of times since then it might have been better if I'd just gone ahead and shot him." He smiled, but there was no humor in the expression. "I suppose I shouldn't admit such a thing to a Ranger."
"Been plenty of times I've felt the same way," Braddock said with a little smile of his own. "Join us?"
Before Tom could respond, June Castle said, "I've spoken my piece." She stood up and turned away from the table, leaving the cup of coffee untouched.
"June, you don't have to leave," Tom said, but she ignored him. Some of the people in the dining room watched her surr
eptitiously as she walked out, but others stared openly. Tom Nation just sighed.
"Sit down," Braddock said. "No point in letting good coffee go to waste."
"I suppose you're right," Tom said. He put his hat on the table and sat down where June had been.
When Braddock had settled back in his chair, he said, "You deserve congratulations for bringing Pollard in. From what I've heard, you found yourself in the middle of quite a battle."
Tom picked up the cup, sipped from it, and said, "It wasn't a battle. Nobody was able to fight back enough to call it that. It was just murder."
"A few of the raiders were killed, and you captured Pollard."
"Luck as much as anything," Tom said with a shrug. "He came mighty close to killing me before I knocked him out. And I couldn't do a thing to help any of the folks in town."
"How many raiders were there?"
"Twenty, I'm guessing. Maybe more. With all the commotion, it was hard to tell. And there wasn't really any time to count them."
"How many were killed?"
"Three."
"And Pollard was captured. Anybody else?"
Tom shook his head and said, "No, that's it. The others got away. Why do you ask, Ranger?"
"That means there are at least sixteen men out there who might not want Henry Pollard to be hanged," Braddock said.
Tom Nation sat up straighter in his chair and said, "You don't think they'd come here to Alpine, do you? You don't think they'd try to break him out of jail?"
"I don't see how anybody can guarantee that. Sheriff Dearborn's worried that a lynch mob might try to take Pollard, but it seems to me that's not the only threat."
Tom ran a hand through his hair and frowned worriedly. He said, "I guess you're right. We've been figuring that Henry used some of his brother's money to hire those gunmen, but maybe he didn't pay them all of what he promised them. Maybe they were supposed to get the rest of it after the raid on Santa Angelina. If that's the case, they can't get the rest of their money if he winds up at the end of a hangman's rope."
"And that's still not all of it," Braddock said. "The sheriff's convinced Amos Pollard won't do anything to help his brother, but I'm having a hard time believing that. I don't know Pollard, but I've run across plenty of old cattlemen like him. If he loves his brother, he won't let the law stand in his way."
"Amos has always been blind to just how bad Henry really is," Tom said. "He's always gotten him out of one scrape after another. This is just the worst one there's ever been."
"So there are three different bunches with good reason to want Henry Pollard out of jail," Braddock said as he leaned back, extended his long legs under the table, and crossed them at the ankles. "A lynch mob, the killers who burned Santa Angelina, and Pollard's own brother and the men who ride for him. I'm assuming the Triangle P crew will do whatever Pollard asks of them?"
"Yeah. They ride for the brand, and they've always been about half-wild, some of them not much better than outlaws themselves. Good Lord, Ranger, with all this hanging over your head, what are you gonna do?"
Braddock spotted the waitress coming toward the table with a tray of food in her hand. He smiled and told Tom Nation, "I'm going to eat a good meal and then try to get some rest. It's liable to be a long night."
Chapter 6
Amos Pollard held a framed photograph in his left hand, a squat glass containing three fingers of whiskey in his right. The picture showed a hawk-faced young man with dark hair and a mustache standing with a toddler in his arms. It might well have been a photograph of a man with his son, but despite the difference in their ages the two were brothers.
Amos and his brother Henry, more than twenty years ago.
Pollard threw back the whiskey, set the empty glass on the sideboard where he had filled it a moment earlier. He looked at the photograph and said, "You stupid son of a bitch."
He didn't indicate which of the people in the picture he meant. He wasn't sure he knew anymore.
The sound of hoofbeats came through the open window in the room that served as Pollard's office, library, and study. The men he had sent into Alpine were back, he supposed. He had given them strict orders not to get drunk or start any fights. If any of the townspeople gave them trouble, they were to walk away. They hadn't liked that, of course. He didn't hire men who were partial to backing down from trouble. But they were there just to scout out the situation, not to raise a ruckus.
Pollard walked over to the fireplace on the other side of the room and set the framed photograph on the mantel. He was still as straight as the man in the picture. A little thicker through the waist, maybe—but only a little. And the hair and mustache were iron-gray now, instead of black. The hawkish face was still the same, sharp and predatory. He swung away from the fireplace as a knock sounded on the door.
"Come in," Pollard said. The years had given his voice a permanent rasp.
Raymond Harper opened the door. He and Bert Luttrell came into the room holding their hats. Harper, who was the Triangle P's ramrod and who had been with Pollard longer than any of the other hands, said, "We're back, boss."
"I can see that," Pollard snapped. "What did you find out?"
"Trial's set for the day after tomorrow," Harper reported. He was a barrel-chested man with salt-and-pepper hair. "Talk in the saloons is that Henry won't make it that long. Lynch fever's buildin'. I reckon there's a good chance it'll break loose tonight."
Luttrell was one of the older hands, too, although younger than Harper. His curly red hair lay close to his squarish head. He said, "It don't help matters that girl is in town. The one from Santa Angelina."
"June Castle," Pollard said.
"Yeah. She wears a veil when she goes out in public, but folks know what's underneath it. That just gets 'em stirred up more. They keep thinking about..."
"About what my brother did to her," Pollard finished the sentence for him. "You can say it, Bert. We all know what Henry did to that girl."
Harper turned his hat over in his hands and said, "You know they're gonna hang him, Amos." He was the only member of the crew who could call Pollard by his given name. "Whether it's a lynch mob or the sheriff and a hangman after the trial, Henry's gonna swing."
"You think I don't know that?"
Harper cocked his head slightly to the side and said, "Question is, what are you gonna do about it?"
Amos Pollard had been trying to come up with an answer to that question for days now. He swung around and stared out the window at the hills and valleys sprawling away for miles. The ranch house was at the top of a hill and commanded a sweeping view of Pollard's range. All that land. All the power and wealth it represented. And yet none of it had been able to change Henry and make a decent man out of him.
He'd never been called Hank, even as a little boy. That nickname never seemed to fit the solemn-faced lad. Pollard had raised him from an early age, after a fever had taken both of their folks. They were first-born and last-born, with four other babes in between who hadn't made it through childhood. But they were survivors, and Pollard thought that was responsible for the special bond between them.
But Henry had tested that bond many times over the years. Lord, how he'd tested it!
The first time, Pollard recalled now, had been when Henry was just seven years old. He'd gotten thrown off a pony, and one of the hands had laughed at him. What was the fella's name? Briscoe, that was it. Jack Briscoe. Smarting from the fall, face red with embarrassment, Henry had run into the house, then emerged a few minutes later carrying one of Pollard's revolvers. Who would have thought a kid like that could even lift the gun, must less pull back the hammer and fire it? But that was what he'd done, yelling, "Nobody laughs at me, you bastard!" and letting off a shot at Briscoe. A well-aimed shot, too. The bullet had torn Briscoe's left ear off.
Who could ever expect a thing like that?
Raymond Harper had grabbed Henry and taken the gun away from him before the boy could shoot again. Briscoe had yelled and cussed and
hopped around and threatened to beat Henry within an inch of his life, but he shut up quick enough when Pollard showed up to see what the shooting was about. When he heard the story, Pollard had given Briscoe his time and an extra double eagle and sent him packing. Better not to keep him around, he'd decided. Better for Henry to just put the whole incident behind him.
Too bad that hadn't been the last one.
"Amos," Harper said, breaking into Pollard's thoughts, "there's something else you ought to know about."
Pollard turned away from the window and asked, "What's that?"
"There's a Ranger in town."
"A Texas Ranger?"
"Yeah. Fella name of Braddock. He rode in late this mornin'."
Pollard nodded slowly and said, "I'm not surprised. John Dearborn's a good man, but he's in over his head and there's only so much courage you can find in a bottle of gin."
Harper and Luttrell waited a minute more, then Harper asked, "What are we gonna do?"
"What are the men willing to do?"
"Whatever you tell us," Luttrell answered without hesitation. "You know we'd follow you straight into hell, boss."
Pollard considered for a moment more, then asked Harper, "You think there'll be a lynch mob tonight?"
"I believe there's a mighty good chance of it," the ramrod said.
"A lynch mob would hit the front of the jail, more than likely," Pollard mused. "That would be a good time for somebody else to hit the back."
* * *
Santiago Quintero paced back and forth, chewing on a thin black cigarillo as he looked out across the valley toward Alpine, three miles away. Behind him in the narrow canyon, thirteen men lounged around the camp they had made under the trees along the creek. One of them strolled toward Quintero and said, "Starin' off into the distance ain't gonna get us the money we got comin'."
Quintero turned his head and glared at the man, whose name was Robinson. He said, "I know that. But is it worth dying over?"
Robinson shrugged and said, "Money's the only thing worth dyin' over."
Hangman's Knot (Outlaw Ranger Book 2) Page 3