Hang Him Twice

by William W. Johnstone

  Besides, Dooley knew Butch Sweeney would be watching that man, if he indeed remained in the alley.

  If anyone had seen Leadville this day, at least on this street, they would have figured they were in a ghost town. That’s what Dooley had meant. You read about things like this in showdowns in dime novels. You didn’t think they actually happened this way, but Dooley’s folks had always told him that you learned something new every day.

  And Dooley’s pa had opined: “If you live long enough, you’ll see it for yourself.”

  Dooley wet his lips.

  “I said,” Harley Boone repeated, “that you called my mama a filthy name. I won’t abide that. Go for your gun.”

  “I don’t think I said anything about your mother, Mr. Boone,” Dooley said.

  “Now you’re calling me a liar. No man calls me a liar.”

  A door slammed. Dooley thought he might be able to breathe again. For a moment, he thought it would happen just like this, on a deserted street in a deserted town, two gunfighters facing each other, both drawing their guns, two shots sounding like one, and one of the gunmen falling dead in the mud with a bullet straight through his heart.

  Even money that Dooley would have been the dead one.

  But Dooley had lived long enough to see it himself.

  “Wait a minute, Boone!”

  Dooley dared not breathe, and certainly would not look down the boardwalk, even though he heard the boots pounding on the planks, slugging through the mud on the street and thundering against the wooden planks on the next block.

  The voice rose into almost a panic: “I said, wait. Wait. Don’t go for your guns, boys!”

  “What the hell . . .” Boone snarled.

  Dooley let out a short breath, but did not move his hand from the Colt holstered on his hip.

  The footsteps halted. The door to the Chinese bathhouse and barbershop opened. Dooley figured that would be Butch Sweeney stepping outside, just in case George Miller had come along to shoot Dooley in his back.

  “I think,” Dooley heard George Miller say as he gasped for breath. “I . . . think . . .”

  It seemed like ten months limped past before Miller could finish.

  “. . . there’s been . . . a . . . mistake.”

  “Mistake?” Harley Boone looked as though he had just been poleaxed.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  The sucking sound told Dooley that George Miller had just stepped off the boardwalk into the muddy street. The noise came closer to Dooley’s right, and he tensed, ready to draw the .45 and start blasting at George Miller, Harley Boone, whoever it was still hiding in that alley on the side of Chin Lu’s place, and George Miller again . . . if he had enough time. Yet he breathed a little easier as Miller slogged through the mud and stopped at the gunfighter’s side. This morning’s copy of the Leadville Ledger, which Miller held in his left hand, came up.

  Speaking in whispers, the two men talked for a few minutes, the newspaper coming up a bit, Miller pointing to it with his right hand, Harley Boone grimacing and snarling and not understanding hardly anything, Dooley figured, that Miller tried to explain.

  The sun crept higher. A dog—not Blue, it wasn’t his bark—let out a racket somewhere to the north. A rooster crowed. Yet nobody came down this street, although Dooley glanced behind him quickly to see that Chin Lu had stepped outside, staring with a face filled with bewilderment.

  Butch Sweeney had the same expression on his face.

  At length, Harley Boone shook his head, stepped back, spit in the dirt, and glared at Dooley. His mouth opened, but quickly snapped shut, and then he turned and glared at George Miller.

  “Do it.” Dooley could read George Miller’s lips.

  The gunman faced Dooley again, spit again, and said in a tone as icy as the previous winter’s winds: “Reckon I mistook you for somebody else, pilgrim. My mistake.” The last two words came out like a bitter cough, and Boone wheeled around, moving quickly back to the boardwalk, where he stuck another cheroot into his mouth and struck a match on the rough-hewn column and lit his cigar as he walked hurriedly to the nearest saloon.

  It wasn’t open, either, but Boone smashed open the door with a solid kick and stormed inside. Dooley could hear the chairs and maybe even tables overturning as the hired killer made his way to the bar.

  Only then did Dooley feel the pressure in his brain begin to recede. He felt as if he could breathe again, but he stood there, waiting for his muscles to relax, to cooperate, and watched George Miller walk past him. Miller did not make eye contact, and his face showed pure rage.

  “You’re a dead man, Dooley,” he whispered as he passed. “Mark my words. You’re dead.”

  The county clerk made it to the boardwalk, wadded up the newspaper, and tossed it in the mud as he stormed back toward his office.

  When Dooley breathed again, he stood in the mud, staring down the street, watching George Miller move down the walk, huffing like a locomotive climbing a hard grade. A door opened on the other side of the street, and a man poked his head out. A window cracked open. He thought he could hear hushed conversations. Looking farther down the streets, he caught a glimpse of a curtain moving in the top story of the Hotel Tabor. He made himself believe that was Julia Cooperman—he decided to forget that she was married to that scoundrel Miller—and that she was relieved to see Dooley wasn’t lying dead in the mud.

  It didn’t make him feel that much better, but he moved back toward the barbershop and bathhouse, where Butch Sweeney took off his hat, scratched his head, and asked:

  “What the Sam Hill just happened there, pard?”

  * * *

  “I still don’t understand,” Butch said as he pushed his scrambled eggs around his plate with a fork.

  They sat in the busy restaurant that served those tasty doughnuts. Dooley was on his second dozen. It’s a wonder, he thought, how hungry you can feel after feeling you might puke your guts out and then learn that you’re going to live through this day, at least.

  Dooley washed down the last of the pastry that was filled with apples and cinnamon and set the coffee cup on the table.

  He pointed at the Ledger.

  “That’s a notice of my filing claim on the mine,” Dooley said, and tapped at the woodcut image.

  “I understand that.” Butch kept pushing the eggs around. He had hardly taken a bite.

  “The story also says that I have sent notices to the United States marshal in Denver, the Denver Telegram, and that I have even filed a will with an attorney.” Dooley sipped the last of the coffee. “I didn’t say which attorney. Figured that would be wise.” Harley Boone might decide that J. T. Cohen had insulted his mother and called him a liar, too.

  “So?”

  Dooley grinned. “They can’t kill me to get the mine. That’s what this means. Miller knows that. If I die, the Denver Telegram will start reporting on things, causing a ruckus, and the U.S. marshal will come here to investigate. Plus, I have filed a last will and testament—”

  The redheaded cowboy quit playing with his fork and food and pretending to eat. “Don’t you think that’s dangerous?”

  “What . . . making out a will?”

  Butch Sweeney nodded. “It’s bad luck.”

  “It’s keeping me alive.”

  Sweeney shook his head. “It’ll jinx you. Man I knowed, old cowboy up in Utah. Pat Powell. You recollect him? No, no, I think that wasn’t at the ranch where you saved my bacon. Well, anyway, he once stepped on a rusty nail. And took a fever. He had the old cookie, Jasper Gibson, make out his last will and testament.” Butch snapped his fingers. “That’s all it took. Come down with the lockjaw and croaked.”

  “You’re one superstitious kid, Butch.”

  “Damn right. And I’m still alive.”

  Dooley grinned. “So am I.”

  “For now.” Butch slid his plate to the other side of the table, leaned forward, and, setting his elbows on the tablecloth, clasped his hands with the thumbs sticking out and r
ested his chin on the thumbs.

  “It ain’t just Miller and Harley Boone you got to worry about, chum,” Sweeney whispered. “If that mine is as rich as you say it is, what it assays out to a ton, you’ll have every silver baron in town after that hole in the ground. And that means they’ll be after you.”

  Dooley laughed and reached for the last doughnut, waiting as the waitress refilled the two coffee cups and took away Butch’s plate of half-eaten breakfast.

  “I’m not a fool, Dooley,” Butch said, and Dooley lost that smile. “I’ve been in this burg longer than you have. So has Julia. I’ve seen things. I’ve seen how those barons can take over a mine, one with a legal claim to it. They got lawyers, too, and they don’t need no hired gun like Harley Boone. They ain’t low-down cutthroats like George Miller. They don’t use guns to get what they want. They use power. And they got plenty of power.”

  Dooley did not finish that last doughnut.

  * * *

  Although Butch Sweeney offered him a place to bunk in his shack, Dooley declined. Just in case Sweeney was right about the silver barons, Dooley didn’t want his old pard to wind up getting hurt, or even killed. He decided that he should not flaunt his newfound wealth by taking a room at one of the fanciest hotels, so he found that hotel where he had stayed when he first arrived in Leadville—the one with the really good bacon in the café next door. It wasn’t that fancy, but a good hotel with a good reputation. The Millers had checked out, Dooley knew, after George was appointed county clerk. They now stayed in the Hotel Tabor with all the silver barons and powerful players in Colorado mining ventures.

  He had to hire a bookkeeper. He had to hire a foreman. He let the foreman hire the miners, but Dooley kept the two guards on the payroll. It was interesting, he decided, being a real man of capital. Blue could grow old and fat. So could General Grant, but Dooley took them to the mine every day. Sometimes, he even left the offices the carpenters had built—at Leadville prices, mind you—and went back into the mine. He had always had a curious nature, and he wanted to see how miners—real miners—did their jobs.

  The miners seemed to appreciate this, that an owner, a rich, rich man by their standards, would take a drill or hammer in his hand, or even tap sticks of dynamite into a hole and light the fuse. Dooley also paid them a nickel more than most of the mining companies in town. He didn’t want to become an evil silver baron.

  Actually, what he wanted was to go back to punching cattle. That was more his nature, but, this was his dream. Not being stuck in an office, signing checks and drafts and legal things, or talking things over with his foreman or his bookkeeper, although half the time Dooley didn’t have any idea what they were saying to him or what he was saying back to them.

  Being rich wasn’t all it was cracked up to be.

  Owning a silver mine was even worse.

  Then there were the nights. He attended one ball at the opera house, and another highfalutin party at the Hotel Tabor. George Miller and Julia were at both events, and seeing them dance at the hotel soiree made Dooley nauseous. He decided not to attend any other parties, unless maybe the miners invited him to a poker game or to join them for a beer at one of the many saloons in town.

  Every day, at his hotel, when he was eating bacon and eggs at the dining room or taking his supper, or when he was at the office being bored and not doing actual work in the mines, the silver barons would bring him offers. Oh, not personally. Silver barons were too big to handle trifling affairs like meeting with this lucky son of a gun who had been a cowboy and bounty hunter all his life and just happened to land on one of the richest claims in the Rockies. But they would send their minions, men in plaid sack suits with carpetbags filled with paperwork and cash.

  They would make Dooley an offer for the mine.

  It was rather tempting, seeing all that cash money, but Dooley had to explain to them, at least once a day, sometimes more. Sometimes the same man in the plaid sack suit would see Dooley at breakfast, get dismissed and rejected, and return that afternoon with another bid before the six o’clock whistle sounded.

  “You need to understand,” Dooley tried to explain. He had said this so often he had the thing memorized. “Tell Mr. So-and-So that I appreciate the offer. I truly do. It’s a mighty fine offer, and generous, befitting Mr. So-and-So’s reputation as a generous and wonderful man. But it’s like this, you see, I just always dreamed of mining. I missed my chance in Alaska. I missed my chance in Deadwood. I’m not saying that I want to do this all my life, but, well, you see, it’s just something that I want to do. See me again later, though, but let me enjoy this adventure for a spell.”

  They would see him again later. Usually later in the week, or maybe early the next week, and sometimes even later in that very same afternoon.

  So here sat Dooley in his office, flexing his fingers after signing so many papers that morning. He looked down at Blue, who was curled up on the bed Dooley had bought for him—not a real bed, but a bed, more like a cushion, that the really fancy emporium sold for dogs and cats—snoring away. Dooley thought about leaving the office, once his fingers did not ache again from clutching that ink pen, maybe planting some dynamite in the hole, or even joining the workers as they took their dinner break. Being one of the boys again, and not just some silver baron.

  The bookkeeper tapped on the door and opened it. Blue did not stir.

  “Yes?” Dooley said with a heavy sigh.

  “Someone to see you, Mr. Monahan.”

  Dooley sighed even heavier. “I’ve told you, Jarvis, that you need to call me Dooley. Not Mr. Monahan. Dooley.”

  “Yes, sir.” Jarvis looked impatient.

  “Show him in.” Dooley sighed again.

  “It is not a man, Mr. Monahan, but a woman,” Jarvis said.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  She took his breath away.

  Dooley blinked, wondering if he were dreaming, then realized he just gawked, might have even been drooling, and he shut his mouth and sat up quickly. Blue awakened from his slumbers, barked, and hurried off his plush pillow, tail wagging. Blue indeed was drooling. Yet Julia Alice Cooperman Miller laughed, and knelt, putting her knees and that fine dress on the dirty floor of Dooley’s office.

  “Blue,” Julia said, scratching the merle-colored shepherd’s ears, laughing as he rolled onto his back and Julia rubbed the dog’s stomach. She laughed until tears flowed down her cheeks, and Blue looked so contented that he probably wished Julia would have kept that up the rest of the day.

  Recovering, Dooley looked at his clerk, staring in disbelief, and Dooley pushed himself out of his desk and said, “That will be all, Jarvis. Close the door behind you.”

  The clerk hurried, but as he pulled the door shut, Dooley called out, “And, Jarvis . . .”

  As the door stopped, the clerk raised his eyes over his spectacles.

  “Keep your damned mouth shut,” Dooley said.

  The door closed.

  Dooley found the pitcher of water and filled a glass, realized that glass was filthy, and found another. He had only two glasses on the table in the corner, but, thankfully, that one was clean. He filled it and held it in his hands, watching his hands tremble so much that he thought he would spill the water before Miss Julia . . . Mrs. Julia, damn it . . . finished rubbing the dog’s stomach.

  She did, though, and looked up at Dooley. He started to offer her the glass, then realized he ought to help her up first, so he set the glass on the edge of his desk and stepped toward her, extending both hands.

  When she accepted his hands, he felt the electricity shoot through his body. His heart ached as it pounded against his chest.

  Her gloves were white satin, and her dress a pretty cambric suit of blue and gray, the skirt knife-plaited, the top featuring a cutaway basque with a striped vest. Her hair was curled, and diamond earrings hung from her ears. He could not believe just how beautiful she was as he lifted her to her feet and reluctantly released his hold on those trembling fingers.


  Dooley gestured at the chair across from his desk, and Julia sat and looked for something to wipe the tears off her face. He stared for a moment, trying to believe that this was the loudmouthed wild hellion he had found in a cave in Arizona Territory. He could not believe how much she had grown up, or how beautiful she had become, over those few years. Then he quickly moved to the coatrack behind his desk and fished a handkerchief out of the pocket of his Prince Albert that he never liked to wear except when he was outside or at some formal party.

  He handed her the white cotton, and she reached for it, muttering an apology, and tried not to look at him. She focused on the handkerchief, which Dooley involuntarily pulled away from her fingers.

  He stared.

  She looked at him in surprise.

  He stared harder.

  It had never really been like Julia to apply rouge on her face, but she had. Only the tears of joy from playing with Blue had caused the makeup to run with streaks, and now he understood why she had applied the creamy stuff underneath her eyes.

  Realizing that sweet Julia was trying to hide a wicked bruise, Dooley swore under his breath.

  She looked down, and Dooley realized his mistake and extended his hand and the offering to her.

  “Here,” he said.

  She took it and held it under her eyes, then began wiping away the makeup. He took the handkerchief when she was finished, tossed it onto his desktop, and helped her to her feet, and guided her toward the chair. Next he found the water, in the relatively clean glass, and slipped that into her hands. She sipped, thanked him in a hollow voice, and Dooley stood there like a knot on a log, before realizing he was acting the fool. He told Blue to go back to the bed, but the dog lay down at Miss . . . Mrs. . . . Julia’s feet, and Dooley returned to his desk.

  His throat was parched, and he downed the water in his not-as-clean glass in a few gulps. His knees began to buckle, so Dooley sank into his desk.