Blood on the Hills

by Matt Chisholm

  “That’s a fact, Miss Lou,” he agreed.

  “But if a man was a real gentleman, I reckon he could control his baser instincts.”

  “He could sure try.”

  Her mouth was raised.

  He lowered his mouth onto hers. At once, she opened her mouth and he felt her tongue caress his. The flame in him leapt into fire. Their arms tightened around each other, they locked together, straining their bodies against each other, never able to get close enough.

  A warning note sounded in his head.

  But it came too late.

  He felt the gun lifted from his holster. He lunged for her, but she was too quick for him and he heard it come to full cock.

  Suckered.

  The girl herself had done the job.

  She turned and called: “Olly.”

  He heard a man walk out from under the trees. A moment later a figure loomed up above him on the bank and the man scrambled down to the creek edge. Jody couldn’t see much, but he knew the man wore the garb of a cattleman and there was a gun in his hand.

  “Lou,” the man said, “give me his gun and walk ahead. Storm, you follow her. You get near her an’ I’ll drop you. Hear?”

  The girl started off along the edge of the creek, walking uncertainly in the poor light. Jody turned to follow her and felt his knife lifted from his belt. The man’s feet tramped behind him. The situation felt unreal. It couldn’t have happened to him. The family always told him he was green, but they would never believe that he could be as green as this. If only he hadn’t tried to be so damned smart and had stayed back there in the office with Charlie...

  They walked for about ten minutes, then the girl climbed the bank and led the way through the trees. After a while, Jody heard the nicker of a horse and they came in sight of an adobe standing squat and long against a rise in the ground. He smelled goats. A door opened and a shaft of light cut the darkness. A moment later he was inside the place and looking around at the faces of the men. He thought he’d seen some of them on the streets.

  He could see that most of them were pretty excited. They were mostly the ordinary run of men and they had pulled off something illegal here tonight. They had been waiting here tonight while one of them and the girl brought in a deputy-sheriff.

  A young man stepped forward and put his arm around the girl. She buried her face into his chest. He was dressed like a cowhand. His eyes were on Jody, resentful.

  “You all right, Lou?” he asked.

  She nodded into his chest, bravely, as though being with Jody had been an ordeal.

  “I did it,” she said. “It was awful. I hated every minute of it. You believe that, Bret?”

  “Sure,” he said.

  Hated it, my foot, Jody thought. She didn’t act like she hated it.

  Bret released the girl. She went and sat down in the shadows, hugging herself and watching them with wide eyes. Bret came up to Jody and looked at him as if he wanted to hit him. But he didn’t.

  “We’d best tie him up,” he said. “Who has the rope?”

  A man came forward with the rawhide reata and the noose was dropped over his shoulders. In a few seconds, he was tied hand and foot, helpless as a trussed calf, his ankles pulled backward up toward his neck. The man, Bret, did the tying and he wasn’t gentle. One day, Jody promised, he’d take that sonovabitch apart. And then some.

  “All right,” said the man Olly. “That settles the first part of it. Let’s get on to the next.”

  “Gag him,” said a man. “He could yell.”

  They found some rag and stuffed it into his mouth. It tasted of oil and Jody wanted to retch. They tied it in place with his own bandanna.

  “One of us better stay and watch him,” Bret said.

  “No, he ain’t goin’ anywhere,” Olly told him. “We need every man we have.”

  Two of them tested his bonds and they agreed he’d never get himself free.

  “Besides,” said Bret with a laugh, “he’ll strangle himself to death if he tries.” Which was true enough. The thong around his ankles was fastened to a noose around his neck.

  A middle-aged man said to Jody: “Nothing personal in this, young man. Just you’re too handy with that gun of yours. You’ll be let free when it’s all over.”

  They started to head for the door. The girl rose and paused as she passed him. She gave him a half-frightened glance and hurried on as Bret pulled her by the arm. The last man turned out the light. The door closed and he heard a key turn in the lock. Just in case.

  He heard them going on their way. Some were afoot, others rode. Silence came down.

  He thought about Froud and Charlie and the woman Consuelo back there in the office. It was a funny feeling, lying there tied hand and foot in the dark. He’d been suckered like he’d never been suckered in his life before.

  One thing he knew for sure—he had to get out of here and if he was to save Froud and Charlie he had to do it fast. These men wanted Shawn dead, preferably by hanging. Charlie would put up a fight and maybe get himself killed.

  He thought a little more and he came to himself. How about him? Didn’t his own life rest on one fact—whether they succeeded in killing Shawn or not. No, it didn’t. He was a danger to them whether they were successful or not. But if Shawn died, they would have to kill him. He had seen their faces. If he lived, there would be a charge of murder against them.

  The fight to get free was just as Bret had said, he nearly strangled himself. He started choking and that was pretty uncomfortable with the gag in his mouth. He tried lying motionless and thinking of something smart. But he never could be smart when he needed to be. He never could be smart. Period.

  Then suddenly, without warning, utter desperation and fear took hold of him completely and he started to thresh about and throw himself this way and that in a vain effort to get free, not caring in the sudden burst of panic whether he strangled himself or not.

  Violently, his head struck something hard.

  He must have been knocked unconscious for a second. He came to, inert and soaked in sweat.

  Something wet and cold struck him in the face.

  Startled, he waited, analyzing the sensation.

  Water.

  He’d struck his head against a table. There must have been a pitcher of water on it. That had fallen over and water was dripping from the table-top. Another drop splashed him in the face.

  Water, his mind said. Rawhide. You soaked rawhide in water if you wanted it to dry out tight and firm. Water made rawhide swell.

  Using his knees and choking as the thong around his neck tightened, he started to push himself forward. The water soaked through his coat. He was exhausted and choking. He couldn’t move another inch. But he did. Two inches. Three. He felt the water on his wrists.

  He would have shouted if it hadn’t been for that damned gag. Would there be enough water to soften the rawhide? His life hung on that.

  Within minutes, the water stopped. He struggled with his wrists behind him against the bite of the thong and he knew right off that he was wasting his time and strength.

  He lay helplessly, raging impotently.

  When he got out of this, he would kill some bastard for it. That Bret, Olly, any of them he came on...

  Chapter Eleven

  An hour must have passed.

  He could see Charlie lying dead, Shawn hanging from a tree on the edge of town.

  His eyes were becoming more accustomed to the dark. A silver beam of moon cut softly across the room.

  If Charlie and Froud were dead, Shawn hanged, then he must start thinking solely of himself. If they were dead, they would be coming back here. Some would argue to keep him alive and scare him out of the country. Others would want to be sure. That meant killing him.

  He turned himself and found himself staring at the table. It was a Mexican affair, primitive. There were two legs only, upright planks of wood with another piece of wood a couple of feet long to make it stable. People put things on tables.
After a terrible and painful struggle, he managed to gain his knees.

  Then he saw it—a knife lying on the table beside a plate. It was a domestic article and possibly blunt, but it was worth a try.

  He shuffled agonizingly on his knees toward the table, until his chest was pressed against the edge of it. He thought of throwing himself against it, but he knew that wouldn’t work and he would only strangle himself. With great difficulty, he managed to get one shoulder under it and to heave upward, at the same time throwing himself forward.

  He hurt himself, knocking his face badly. And he was somehow all caught up inside the legs and top of the table. The knife, he decided, must be on the other side of the top. And that meant extricating himself and somehow crawling around to the far side.

  He succeeded in rolling out from the table and this showed him the best way of progression. It was painful, but he gritted his teeth and stuck at it. Finally, he gained the far side of the table and there, right in front of him, was the knife. He rolled on his side and backed up to it, searching blindly with his hands. At last his fingers closed on it and he fiddled around for a few minutes trying for the best grip. He found it between the fingers of both hands which allowed him about an inch of action.

  He sighed with relief as he found that the knife was sharp. Just the same, it wasn’t easy work. The rawhide was tough and his fingers were soon almost powerless. But he drove himself on.

  When a strand suddenly gave, it was like gaining the inaccessible peak of a high mountain. He gave himself a short rest and then started again.

  A few seconds later another strand gave. He could have shouted with joy.

  Inside a couple of minutes, his hands were free.

  He heard a sound. Cocking his head, he listened. A horse.

  Desperately, he strained back and attacked the rawhide binding his ankles. A rider could be that damned cowman with the smooth-handled Colt’s gun at his hip. Bret. That was one who would want him dead. They’d done the job at the jail. Shawn was hanged and Bret had got here first to make sure Jody’s fate was the one he intended.

  A strand gave.

  The horse was close to the house. It halted and Jody could almost hear the creak of saddle-leather as the man dismounted.

  Another strand.

  He sawed away in a frenzy.

  Footsteps.

  He was strangling as he put pressure on the rope.

  The key grated in the lock,

  The last strand parted. He tried to straighten his legs and the pain knifed through his own body so violently that he almost cried out. When he reared to his feet, his legs almost collapsed under him. They would not carry him to the door in time. Panic washed through him. To have gotten so far ...

  The fellow at the door was having trouble with the key. Jody heard a muttered curse. He sank to his knees and started to crawl. A chair lying on its side. He dragged it with him across the dirt floor.

  The door swung open and he froze instantly. He was no more than halfway to the door and to one side of it.

  The man stood for a moment with the door wide, listening. Then a lucifer scratched and there was a bright patch of light.

  It was Bret.

  The sight of the man shocked Jody. His hat was gone and his hair was matted down over his forehead. There was what looked like blood down the side of his face. He headed for the lamp and saw the overturned table. He swung at once, searching for Jody. There was nothing to do but hurl the chair.

  It caught the man somewhere in the region of the chest and face. The match dropped and went out. Bret gave a kind of half-yell half-scream.

  Jody was crawling as fast as he could drive his stiff limbs. He heard a gun come to full cock and flung himself sideways and rolled. The roar of the weapon in the confined space was deafening. He heard the slug slam into the wall behind him. The muzzle-flash gave him Bret’s position. He rose to his knees and launched himself as best he could. The gag still held his tongue a prisoner and restricted his breathing. He felt his hands touch cloth and drove his fist into the darkness.

  He didn’t know where he hit the man, but he landed his fist on muscle and bone. Bret went away from him into the darkness. Jody lunged forward and butted his head into the table. He got his hands on the table and dragged it around in front of him. Again the gun thundered and he heard the bullet thud into the top of the table. He heaved himself forward so the table toppled over, went sprawling and lunged forward again.

  His right hand touched flesh. It must be Bret’s face. He drew back his fist and smashed it into the darkness. The man cried out again. Jody swept his hand down in search of the gun, found a wrist and tore it around. To his joy he heard the weapon hit the floor.

  Bret was down, groaning.

  Jody moved forward and something struck him hard in the belly. He knew he’d been kicked. He managed to grab something and knew that it was a boot. Bret kicked himself free.

  Jody heard a huge intake of breath by the other man. That should have warned him. The boot caught him under the ribs and almost lifted him across the room. He collided with something that moved and he knew it was the chair. He used it as a lever to haul himself to his feet. The beam of moonlight touched the other man’s face. The eyes were down, searching for the gun.

  Jody heaved on the chair summoning strength he didn’t know he had.

  Suddenly, the face darted out of the faint beam of light and Jody knew Bret had spotted the gun. With all the strength in him, he hurled the chair for the spot where the man’s head should be.

  He heard Bret go down.

  On failing legs, he went forward, stumbled over the other man and found that he was lying still. He searched around till he found the gun.

  It made him feel better, having the gun in his hand. He felt through the man’s pockets and found a match, struck it and found the lamp. The globe was broken, but the wick caught when he applied the flame. That gave him enough light to take a good look at the man he had felled. It was hard to tell now which injuries he had received during the fight in the dark. Jody felt for his pulse and found it strong.

  But there was no time to fool around here. He had a gun, shells in his belt and outside was a horse.

  Lurching and staggering, he made for the door.

  The horse stood placidly in the moonlight, one line dragging. Jody went to it and leaned against it for a moment. There didn’t seem enough strength left in him to get him into the saddle, but somehow he climbed aboard.

  It was only then that he became conscious that the gag was still in place. That was enough to make a cat laugh. He was giggling when he spat the rag out of his mouth and retied the bandanna around his neck. Then he headed for town, hanging on for dear life and praying he wouldn’t fall out of the saddle before he reached the office.

  Hitting an alley from the north, he trotted the horse along it. Even before he reached Main he knew that something was wrong. As he rode onto the street, he could see that it was full of people. As he went through them, they shouted to him. He was deaf to their shouts. Reaching the office, he almost fell out of the saddle and staggered up to the door.

  It swung open.

  There was a lighted lamp on the desk. He reached the alcove and looked down at Froud. The man was pale. He could be dead. Jody paced forward and felt for a pulse. It was steadier than when he had felt for it last. Froud at least was all right.

  Stepping across the floor, he saw a pair of boots sticking out from behind the sheriff’s desk. He lifted the lamp and saw that Charlie was lying on his back.

  “Charlie.”

  Putting down the lamp, he knelt by the man and tried to raise up his shoulders.

  Charlie opened his little slits of eyes.

  “Shawn,” he whispered and went limp.

  Now you go die on me, Jody thought.

  He laid Charlie gently down and ran for the cells. A lamp stood on the floor of one cell. Shawn’s cell and it was empty.

  He went back to Charlie. His breathing was ragged. J
ody found a pitcher of water and slopped some of it into the deputy’s face.

  “Charlie,” he said. “For God’s sake, Charlie.”

  The eyes came open again.

  “Olly’s crowd,” Charlie whispered. “They took him to the oak west of town.”

  “What happened to Consuelo?”

  “They told her to get out and keep her mouth shut or they’d kill Froud. One wanted to kill her ... others didn’t take to that.”

  Jody headed for the horse. There was a knot of people outside. He took a man by the arm: “See to Charlie. Then fetch Consuelo Rodrigo.”

  The man nodded—”Sure.”

  This was hellish queer. How was it nobody had gone into the sheriff’s office before this?

  He turned to another man.

  “This oak west of town…”

  “The hanging tree,” the man said.

  “Show me it.”

  “No call. Ride west down the road. It’s off to the right. Stands on its lonesome. Quarter mile. No more.”

  Jody was in the saddle, turning the horse and kicking it into a run. Maybe it was all over, maybe it wasn’t. He was the only one left. It was all up to him, Jody Storm, the fool of the family. Folks were stepping back hastily to get out of the road of the running horse. Jody yelled to it. It stretched out, running with a will.

  He rocketed out of town, the horse’s hoofs drumming on the hard surface of the rutted trail. A quarter mile, the man said. Trees loomed out of the moonlight. None of them fitted the bill. There were no men around. Maybe it was all over and all he would find was a dead man who had been strangled to death at the end of a rope.

  There to the right was the tree. He had no doubt it was the right one. He swung the horse off the road. A glance was enough to see the place was deserted. He was too late. Shawn was dead.

  He pulled the horse to a halt and stepped down from the saddle.

  The silence was eerie. The horse blew. Jody stepped forward, searching for the boots of the dead man, the boots that would be at eye level.

  Then he saw it, the thin thread of the rope. No corpse.

  A chill went through him. There was something uncanny about this.