"That's Vince Franklin," Dearborn said. "Has a little spread south of town."
"Is he married?"
"Yeah," Dearborn replied. Braddock heard the worry in his tone. "He and his wife have a couple of kids."
The corner of Braddock's mouth tugged in a grimace. He didn't care for the answer he'd gotten, but there was nothing he could do to change it.
The mob was only about twenty yards away now. Dearborn sighed and said, "Reckon I'd better go out there and talk to them."
"I'll do that," Braddock said.
"No, you won't," Dearborn said with a trace of unexpected steel in his voice. "I'm still the sheriff of Brewster County."
Braddock looked at the man in the dim light of the jail's foyer and then nodded.
"All right, Sheriff. But I'll be right behind you. Right beside you if you need me."
"And I'm obliged to you for that."
Dearborn grasped the doorknob and swung the door open. He blocked the entrance, standing squarely on the jamb.
"You men stop right where you are!"
His words held a commanding tone as they rang out over the open area in front of the jail. The members of the mob slowed, took another step or two, and then stopped, as if it were against their will but they were unable to go on.
"You know why we're here, Sheriff!" one of the men holding a torch called. "Step aside and nobody has to get hurt."
"You know I can't do that, Joe," Dearborn told the man. He stood stiff and straight with the shotgun held in both hands at an angle across his chest. "You fellas don't have any business here tonight. Just turn around, go on back to your homes, and we'll forget this ever happened."
"To hell with that!" The angry bellow came from Vince Franklin. "You got a killer in there who's got to pay for what he done, Sheriff!"
"Henry Pollard will pay," Dearborn insisted, "once a jury has convicted him and a judge has passed sentence. Not before."
"Everybody here knows that's what's gonna happen," another man in the forefront of the mob said. "What's the difference?"
"The difference is, it hasn't happened yet. If you string up Pollard tonight, it won't be justice. It'll be murder!"
That accusation brought a wave of angry shouts from the mob. Franklin said, "Whether it's tonight or day after tomorrow, he's still gonna hang!"
Dearborn nodded curtly and said, "That's right, Vince. So what difference does it make? Why does it have to be tonight?"
"Because we're tired of waitin'!" Franklin shouted. "And because Amos Pollard's liable to come into town any time with that crew of renegades who ride for him and turn his brother loose!"
Again the crowd yelled its agreement.
Dearborn shook his head stubbornly and said, "If Amos Pollard shows up, I'll tell him the same thing I'm tellin' you boys. Henry is gonna stand trial, and anything that's done will be carried out proper and legal-like."
Franklin leaned over and spat derisively.
"Nobody out here believes that," he declared. "You're too old, Sheriff. You're scared you're not gonna make it to that rockin' chair you got waitin' for you."
Dearborn stiffened even more. He lowered the shotgun so that it pointed in the general direction of the mob. That brought angry mutters, but some of the men began to look nervous and eased back a little, especially those in the front ranks of the crowd.
"Vince, you'd better get out of here right now," the sheriff warned, "or else your wife's liable to become a widow and those two young'uns of yours won't have their pa anymore."
For a second, Braddock saw indecision, maybe even fear, on Franklin's flushed face. But then the outrage came back, stronger than ever, and he started toward the jail as he opened his mouth to say something. Dearborn swung the shotgun's barrels toward him.
There was no telling what might have happened if shots hadn't blasted out from the back of the jail at that moment.
* * *
Quintero was kneeling on the platform in the bell tower with the barrel of his Winchester resting on the low wall. He pressed his beard-stubbled cheek against the smooth wood of the stock and peered over the barrel at the roof of the jail. The rifle's sights were lined up on the guard covering the rear of the building. The unlucky bastard didn't know it, but he had only moments left to live.
When the first shots sounded, telling him that the mob had attacked the jail, Quintero stroked the trigger. The Winchester cracked, and Quintero saw the guard pitch forward as the slug punched into his back. The man toppled off the roof and disappeared.
Quintero worked the rifle's lever, shifted his aim, and fired again. Another of the rooftop guards went down. Quintero smiled as he jacked another round into the chamber.
It always felt good for a man to use his skills productively.
* * *
Braddock wheeled around and ran down the long hallway leading to the back of the building. He'd been expecting something like this all along, but it appeared that the attackers had jumped the gun a little. If they had waited a moment longer, the jail's defenders would have had their hands full with the mob.
As it was, Franklin and the other men were now milling around in confusion, unsure of what was going on and not knowing if they should storm the jail or scatter and hunt some cover.
Braddock didn't know what he would find back there: Amos Pollard and the men from the Triangle P, or the killers who had accompanied Henry Pollard in the bloody raid on Santa Angelina.
It didn't matter. Whoever was trying to get in, Braddock intended to stop them.
He was still twenty feet from the rear door when it exploded inward—literally. The blast blew Braddock off his feet. Dynamite! he thought. He hadn't expected that. As he scrambled up, still holding the shotgun, he saw men charge in through the ragged opening where the door had been. Muzzle flame flickered in the hallway as they fired blindly.
Braddock yelled, "Now!" and touched off the Greener's right-hand barrel. Smoke and flame gushed from the weapon as deadly buckshot shredded the invaders.
At the same time, more shots came from the rear staircase to the right and the office to the left where Braddock had posted deputies. The men who had been standing guard outside had been ordered to retreat at the first sign of an attack and join the others. That had drawn in the raiders. The dynamite had been an unexpected—and unnecessary—tactic. Braddock wanted the men to get inside.
The first men through the door were caught in a crossfire between the staircase and the office and knocked down by buckshot and pistol and rifle rounds. Other men, not knowing what was happening but determined to breach the jail, replaced them and ran into a similar storm of lead. Braddock dropped to a knee, aimed the shotgun, and fired the second barrel into the chaos of curses and muzzle flashes. He tossed the empty scattergun aside and palmed out his Colt. It roared and bucked in his hand as he triggered three shots.
The few attackers who were still on their feet broke and ran.
Braddock surged up and dashed to the opening along with several of the deputies. He emptied his revolver after them, as did the men with him. Some of the fleeing attackers went down. Braddock wasn't sure how many of them vanished into the darkness. No more than one or two, he thought.
"Stay here," he snapped at the deputies. "Guard this hole."
Then he turned and ran toward the front of the building. There was still the startled mob to deal with.
Chapter 11
Half a mile outside Alpine, Amos Pollard abruptly reined his horse to a stop as he heard the rattle of gunshots, followed closely by the dull thud of an explosion.
The other men had halted, too, and Bert Luttrell exclaimed, "What the hell!"
Raymond Harper sucked on a front tooth and then said, "Sounds a mite like a war."
"A mob's trying to get to Henry," Pollard said. He jammed his boot heels into his horse's flanks and sent the mount leaping forward. Over his shoulder he called, "Come on!"
The others galloped after him. As he rode, fear welled up his throat and thr
eatened to choke him.
Were they too late? By the time they made it into town, would Henry's lifeless body already be dangling from a rope thrown over a tree branch?
If that turned out to be the case, Pollard would have his vengeance. He would make the town sorry for this night. That would be one more turn in the bloody cycle of death, but he swore it anyway.
* * *
When Braddock reached the jail's front door, he saw right away that the gunfire and the explosion had caused the mob to splinter and come apart. At least half of the men had scattered, and the ones who remained, including Vince Franklin in his cowhide vest, had pulled back and taken cover behind the trees beside the courthouse. Braddock heard Franklin's loud, abrasive voice as he urged his companions to regroup and attack the jail.
Dearborn had retreated just inside and to the left of the open door. He still held his shotgun and had the barrels trained on the open area in front of the jail. He turned his head to glance at Braddock and asked, "Are you all right?"
"I'm fine," the Ranger replied as he moved up next to the door on the other side, staying out of the line of fire if any of the men outside started shooting. "As far as I know none of your deputies were hit, either, at least not bad."
"What the hell was that explosion?"
"Whoever tried to get in back there used dynamite on the door." A grim smile flashed across Braddock's lean face. "I didn't figure on that. But it didn't help 'em. They charged right into the crossfire I had waiting for them."
"Any of them get away?"
"One or two, maybe."
"Was it Amos Pollard and his men?"
"I don't know," Braddock said, his voice bleak. "All I saw was corpses."
Dearborn nodded and said, "I was hopin' the ruckus would make everybody in that mob decide to light a shuck. I think they might have if it hadn't been for Franklin. He rallied some of 'em."
"He's the ringleader, all right," Braddock agreed. "That's why if anybody can put a stop to this, it's him."
Dearborn looked at him with narrowed eyes and asked, "What are you thinkin' about doin'?"
"I think it's time to let Franklin know what the situation really is." Braddock leaned closer to the door and called, "Franklin! Vince Franklin! This is Ranger Braddock! I want to talk to you!"
The muttering from the men who had sought cover outside stopped. After a moment of silence, Franklin replied, "Unless you're gonna tell me you're ready to turn Pollard over to us, Ranger, there ain't no use in talkin'!"
"I think there is," Braddock insisted. "I'm coming out there. I want you to meet me, and we'll talk, man to man."
"The way we talked earlier in the saloon, when you hit me with that rifle?"
"You swung at me first," Braddock said. "And I could have arrested you, but I didn't."
Again there was silence. Braddock hoped that Franklin was actually considering what he'd said, rather than plotting something else. Finally, after several tense moments, Franklin called, "All right, Ranger, I'll talk to you! But this better not be a damned trick!"
"It's not," Braddock replied. "I give you my word on that."
As the Ranger stepped into the open doorway with his hands empty and raised slightly, Dearborn said, "You'd better be careful, Braddock. Tempers are still runnin' pretty high out there, I'd say."
"I intend to be," Braddock said.
He moved out onto the landing and then went down the steps to the ground. As he did, Franklin stepped into the open, too, from behind the tree where he had taken cover earlier when the shooting started.
Braddock glanced around as he walked forward. He spotted a dozen more members of the mob crouched behind cover here and there and figured there were probably that many he couldn't see. He was out in the open, a good target if somebody decided to start the ball again. He hoped that once he talked to Franklin, though, and told him what the real situation was, the shooting would be over.
The two men stopped about ten feet apart, still within the circle of light cast by the lanterns in the trees around the jail and the courthouse. Franklin glared at Braddock and snapped, "Say whatever it is you've got to say, Ranger, so we can get on with this."
"There's nothing to get on with," Braddock said.
"That's where you're wrong. Henry Pollard's gonna swing before this night is over."
Braddock shook his head slowly and said, "I don't think so. He's not even here."
* * *
About a hundred yards from the edge of town, Amos Pollard slowed his racing mount as Harper came alongside him again and said urgently, "Amos, hold on! You need to listen. The shootin's stopped. Whatever was goin' on, it's over."
Pollard brought his horse to a stop and stared toward the courthouse and jail. He could see the glow of lights around them.
"It can't be," he said in a choked voice. "We can't be too late."
"Maybe we ain't." Harper leaned forward in the saddle. "Let me go on the scout. You and the rest of the fellas stay here. I'll get closer and see what I can find out."
Pollard looked over at his foreman and old friend and said, "You might be risking your life."
"Shoot, that's what we set out to do, ain't it?" Harper asked with a wry grin. "Anyway, riskin' one man's life is better than riskin' everybody's."
"I'll come with you—" Pollard began.
"No, it's better you stay here. Somebody might see you and recognize you, and then that'd be liable to start a ruckus by itself. Folks'd be bound to think you were there to bust Henry out of jail."
Pollard knew that Harper was right. As high as the sentiment was running against him and Henry, if any of the townspeople laid eyes on him, they might start shooting just on general principles.
"All right," he said with a sigh. "We'll wait here. But you be careful, Ray."
"Didn't I scout for the Army, back before I went to work chasin' cows for you? I know how to skulk around, boss, don't worry about that."
Harper clucked to his horse and rode slowly toward town. Shadows soon swallowed him.
"I don't like this, boss," Luttrell said from behind Pollard.
"I know," Pollard said. "I don't like any of it. Something just doesn't feel right..."
* * *
"Not even here?" Vince Franklin repeated as he stared at Braddock in disbelief. "What kind of loco yarn are you tryin' to spin, Ranger?"
"It's not a yarn," Braddock said. "It's the truth. I moved Henry Pollard out of here earlier and had him taken to a safe place."
Franklin stared at him for a second and then shouted, "That's a damned lie!"
Anger stiffened Braddock's spine. He said, "Normally I wouldn't take that, Franklin. This is the second time tonight I'm letting you get by with something. There won't be a third."
"I don't believe it." Franklin shook his head stubbornly. "You're still hidin' him in there. Why you'd go to so much trouble and risk your life for a man who's done the things Pollard did, I just don't understand."
"Maybe I don't, either," Braddock said quietly, "but that's the way it is. If you don't believe me, will you believe the evidence of your own eyes?"
Franklin's voice was thick with suspicion as he asked, "What do you mean?"
Braddock jerked his head toward the jail and said, "Come on inside and see for yourself. Look anywhere in there you want to. Check everywhere in the building. You'll see that Pollard's not there."
Braddock's voice was loud enough that the other members of the mob who were still around the jail could hear him, too. That was what he wanted. Once the men realized their cause was hopeless, maybe they would give up and go home.
Franklin was still suspicious. He said, "You're just tryin' to get me in there so you can take me prisoner and use me as a hostage."
"No, he's not," Sheriff Dearborn said as he marched out of the jail and came toward Braddock and Franklin. "You go with the Ranger, Vince. I'll stay out here so your friends will know that we're playin' straight with you. If you don't come back, they'll have me to use as a hostage
."
One of the other men called to Franklin, "Go ahead, Vince. See if the Ranger is telling the truth."
Franklin looked like he didn't care for the idea at all, but he nodded and said, "All right, Braddock. You show me what you've got to show me."
"Look for yourself," Braddock invited. He turned and started toward the jail. Reluctantly, Franklin followed him.
They went up the stairs and into the foyer. Franklin cast a wary glance at the armed deputies.
Braddock said, "All the cells are upstairs, but you're welcome to look around down here if you want to."
"Let me see the cells," Franklin said.
Earlier, Braddock had made sure all the cells were unlocked, as well as the iron gate and the cell block door. He led Franklin up the stairs and into the cell block. The rancher looked into every cell as they passed, but it was obvious Henry Pollard wasn't in any of them.
"That's where the sheriff had him locked up," Braddock said as he pointed to the special cell at the end of the corridor. The door was ajar, and as they reached it, Braddock took hold of the door and pulled it open all the way, revealing the empty cell.
Franklin had a lost, confused look on his face now. He stepped into the doorway of the special cell and looked around as if to make sure Henry Pollard wasn't hidden in a corner. Franklin turned to Braddock and asked, "What the hell did you do with him?"
"Like I said, he's in a safe place," Braddock replied. "But don't worry. The law's still going to deal with him."
Chapter 12
"That's far enough, Pollard," Tom Nation said. "We'll rest the horses for a spell."
"You're crazy, trying to ride through these mountains at night," Henry Pollard said. "One of us is gonna fall in a ravine and break our neck for sure."
"If it happens to you, it'll just be a little sooner than it would be otherwise," Tom said.
As soon as the words were out of his mouth, he sort of regretted them. He had known Ranger Braddock for less than twelve hours, but already the Ranger had impressed on him the need for doing things according to the law. Tom had already felt that, but Braddock had reinforced it.
Hangman's Knot (Outlaw Ranger Book 2) Page 6