Ralph Compton Blood on the Gallows

by Joseph A. West

  Wind rustled through the cottonwoods, and the booted feet of the dead men swayed, setting the tree limb from which they hung to creaking. As lightning flared again, McBride saw the black beginnings of rot in their faces. They had been hanged a while back, several days probably, and the stink of death drifted through the air like mist.

  Nailed to the trunk of the tree was a crudely lettered wooden sign. McBride walked around the dangling corpses and stood close to the rough placard. He thumbed a match, cupped the flame in his left hand and read the words. They were as merciless as the hangings had been.

  ATTENTION THIEVES, THUGS,

  CONFIDENCE MEN AND DANCE HALL LOUNGERS

  ~ anyone caught pilfering, robbing, stealing

  or committing any act of lawless violence in

  the town of Rest and Be Thankful

  WILL BE HUNG

  By order of Jared Josephine (Mayor)

  The match burned down to McBride’s fingers and he threw it on the ground, where it sizzled a moment, then died. Through the trees he could see the lights of a town that he now believed was best to avoid. He had a feeling that there was little rest in the place and little to be thankful for. Yet, driven by hunger and a desire for a soft bed and sleep, McBride knew he could not avoid it. He’d spend the night and ride out at first light; that is if he could find his horse and—

  ‘‘Stay right where you are, mister. Make any fancy moves and I’ll drill you square.’’

  Chapter 2

  The voice, harsh, commanding, came from behind McBride. He stood still, his hands by his sides. ‘‘I was passing through,’’ he said. ‘‘Then I saw the overripe fruit you grow on your trees around here and stopped to take a look.’’

  ‘‘Right curious man, ain’t you? Where’s your hoss?’’

  Without turning, McBride waved a hand. ‘‘Out there, somewhere.’’

  ‘‘Damn it, I told you not to move! You want me to gun you in the here and now?’’

  ‘‘That was not my intention,’’ McBride said. It felt as if ants were crawling all over his back.

  ‘‘Turn around, real slow. Keep them hands where I can see them.’’

  McBride did as he was told. A tall man in a yellow slicker, on the near side of middle age, stood about eight feet from him. He had the slicker pulled back from a holstered Colt on his left hip and McBride caught a glimpse of a lawman’s star pinned to his vest. He held a riding crop in his right hand, long and thick, made of braided rawhide.

  ‘‘What are you doing here?’’ the man asked, speaking within the hollow of a thunder boom. ‘‘You on the dodge, huh?’’

  The voice was strange, cold, sharp, like the crack of breaking ice in a river come a spring thaw.

  Suddenly McBride wished he were wearing his celluloid collar and black and red tie. He would look more respectable. As it was, his answer to the lawman’s question didn’t come fast enough.

  He looked at McBride. ‘‘I asked you if you’re on the dodge.’’

  ‘‘No, I’m not on the dodge.’’

  ‘‘Then why are you here?’’

  ‘‘Passing through. Like I told you’’—he hesitated, knowing how foolish he must sound—‘‘I thought I saw giants among the cottonwoods and decided to investigate.’’

  The lawman’s teeth showed for an instant as he looked up at the hanging bodies. ‘‘Well, I’d say they all got about two inches taller right sudden after their necks were stretched. I should know since I hung them myself.’’ The teeth showed again. ‘‘For Texas hard cases, them boys surely did squawk some.’’

  ‘‘What did they do?’’ McBride asked. He really didn’t want to know the answer, but if the lawman was talking, he wasn’t shooting.

  ‘‘Bounty hunters. Rode into town to see what they could see and maybe snag an outlaw or two. That’s against the law in Rest and Be Thankful.’’ McBride felt the heat of the man’s eyes on him. ‘‘Now then, you wouldn’t be one of them? A bounty hunter, I mean.’’ He’d taken stock of McBride and didn’t seem overly impressed. ‘‘Appearances are deceptive.’’

  Lightning flared on the prominent cheekbones of the lawman’s face, painting the stretched skin with flickering silver. His eyes were shadowed in darkness, but each pupil gleamed with pinpoints of steely light. Under his sweeping dragoon mustache the lips were thin, drawn tight and hard. He had a cruel mouth—the mouth of a man who knew nothing of compromise but much of intolerance, prejudice and the value of violence.

  It was written plain on his features what this man was and McBride read the signs and felt a cold dread. He had met killers before, but not like this one. Cadaverous, icy and pitiless, he was the specter of death itself.

  McBride glanced at the man’s Colt. The fact that it was holstered meant he was confident of his ability on the draw and shoot. He’d be fast, sudden and unlikely to miss. McBride decided he wanted no part of him.

  ‘‘I’m not a bounty hunter. I plan to round up my horse, then head into town for a hot meal and a bed,’’ he said. ‘‘Come morning I’ll be moving on.’’

  ‘‘That seems like a plan all right.’’ The lawman thought for a few moments, then said, ‘‘Yeah, you do that.’’

  Rain beat on the shoulders of the man’s slicker and drummed on his hat. Lightning cobwebbed the sky and thunder clashed like a massive hammer on an anvil. With his riding crop, the lawman pointed to the sign on the tree.

  ‘‘You read that?’’

  ‘‘I did,’’ McBride answered.

  ‘‘Keep it in mind.’’

  ‘‘I’m not likely to forget it.’’

  ‘‘Well now, that’s real good. While you’re in Rest and Be Thankful, mind your p’s and q’s and behave yourself. Eat, sleep and then get out. And forget what you’ve seen or heard the minute you ride beyond the town limits.’’

  ‘‘I’ll be sure to do that,’’ McBride said, a small anger rising in him.

  The lawman’s teeth gleamed. ‘‘I know you will, because if you don’t it will be my solemn duty to hang you.’’

  It was that stark, that raw, and McBride felt the chill of it. He opened his mouth to speak, but the lawman turned on his heel and walked into the cottonwoods. He emerged a few moments later astride a rangy black horse and drew rein close to McBride, watching him. The rain lashed at both men. They looked as if they were within a shifting mesh of hissing steel.

  Angry at the lawman, angry at himself for letting the man intimidate him, McBride let his fury creep into his voice. ‘‘What about them? What about the men you hanged? Shouldn’t there be a burying?’’

  The man was close enough for McBride to see him shrug, then look at the swaying corpses. ‘‘The crows have been pecking at them and by and by the coyotes will gnaw on their bones. That’s burial enough.’’

  ‘‘What you just said is cold, mister. Mighty cold.’’

  Jerking back in the saddle, the lawman showed his surprise. He even smiled. ‘‘Boy, you don’t know who you’re talking to, do you?’’

  ‘‘Don’t know, don’t care,’’ McBride answered, his growing resentment forcing him to throw caution to the wind.

  ‘‘You should. My name is Thaddeus T. Harlan, town marshal. I would ask my friends, if I had any, to call me Thad.’’ He leaned forward in the saddle and crossed his hands on the horn. ‘‘The name mean anything to you?’’

  McBride waited until a cannonade of thunder passed, then answered, ‘‘Not a damn thing.’’

  ‘‘Well, like I said, it should. I’ve killed nine men, hung twice that many, and it gets easier all the time.’’ He waited a few moments for that to sink in, his shadowed eyes studying McBride as if he were a slimy thing that had just crawled out from under a rock. Then he said, ‘‘Something for you to remember, that.’’ He raised the riding crop to his hat brim. ‘‘Enjoy your stay in Rest and Be Thankful.’’

  Harlan swung his horse away, showing his back, a man who seemed to think he was immortal.

  ‘‘Wait!’’ McBride
took a step forward, determined to cut the marshal down to size. He made his brag, hating himself for it. ‘‘My name is John McBride. I’m the man who killed Hack Burns.’’

  Harlan reined up his black, turned in the saddle and grinned without humor. Lightning glimmered scarlet on his narrow skull of a face, making him look like a demon in flame. ‘‘Well now, Hack Burns. I knew him a few years back when he was selling his gun down around the Nueces Plains country to anybody who would hire him.’’ He swung his horse around and threw over his shoulder as he left, ‘‘Mr. McBride, remember that pride cometh before a fall. Hack Burns wasn’t much.’’

  Anger burned in McBride. He was losing and it galled him. ‘‘Harlan!’’ he yelled at the lawman’s retreating back. ‘‘Why do you stand alone in the dark among your dead? Why do you do that? Huh, why do you do that?’’

  The man’s only reply was to raise his riding crop, lift his head and laugh, a sound like rusty hinges protesting the opening of a long-buried coffin lid.

  McBride watched Harlan go until the darkness swallowed him. He clenched his fists, defeated. He felt that he’d been badly beaten up by the man, yet Harlan had not touched him. He’d been pounded by words alone, those and the man’s attitude. Harlan had weighed him in the balance and found him wanting. As far as the marshal was concerned, he was just another saddle tramp passing through who needed to be warned to be on his best behavior.

  For the second time that day, McBride was made to feel small. First it had been the cloud-capped land itself and now by a man who had been shaped by it. Thaddeus Harlan was as cold, distant and unforgiving as the mountains, and just as likely to destroy anyone who, unwanted and uninvited, set a single foot wrong.

  Rest and Be Thankful was not a town where McBride wished to linger. He planned a fast in and out and no harm done. But when he walked into the night in search of his horse, thunder roared a warning, and behind him the bladed lightning illuminated the bright path to town, beckoning him to his destruction.

  Later, with hindsight, McBride knew he should have ridden well clear of the town and taken his chances in the wilderness. Or he could have bedded down in the open by the creek. But he did neither of those things. And what had begun so badly for him was destined to get worse . . . much worse.

  Chapter 3

  It took John McBride an hour to round up his horse and by the time he rode into Rest and Be Thankful the thunderstorm had growled its way to the east, venting its fury over the desolate canyon country.

  Chains of raindrops ticked from hanging signs outside the stores on each side of the wide Main Street, and the mustang picked its way through six inches of yellow churned-up mud. McBride passed a dozen saloons, a brewery and an opera house, and then rode up on a false-fronted, two-story hotel with a painted sign hanging outside that read THE KIP AND KETTLE, DENVER DORA RYAN, PROP.

  McBride drew rein outside the hotel and looked the place over. A second sign had been tacked above the stained-glass front door. It proudly proclaimed that the hotel was an official stop for the Barlow-Sanderson stage line and that its restaurant ‘‘served fresh oysters twenty-four hours a day.’’

  A hotel that had a stained-glass door, served fresh oysters and was run by Denver Dora Ryan, Prop., was likely to have clean beds, McBride decided. He’d see to his mustang and then check in for the night.

  He called out to a man on the boardwalk and asked the way to the livery stable. ‘‘Follow your nose down the street and you’ll see it on the left,’’ the man answered.

  McBride touched the brim of his plug hat and swung his horse away from the hotel, but the man’s voice stopped him.

  ‘‘You ride in for the funeral?’’

  ‘‘What funeral?’’

  ‘‘You answered my question with a question, so I guess you didn’t,’’ the man said. He was tall, thin, carried two guns low in crossed belts. He looked tough and capable and wore the careless arrogance of the named gunfighter like a cloak.

  ‘‘I’m just passing through,’’ McBride said, a fact he felt he should make well known.

  The thin man nodded. ‘‘Uh-huh. Ain’t we all?’’ He grinned confidentially, as though he and McBride were sharing a deep secret.

  ‘‘Sure we are,’’ McBride said, trying his own confidential grin, knowing he was failing miserably.

  The gunfighter took a few moments to study McBride’s face; then he said, ‘‘Passin’ through or no, I suggest you be on the street at nine for the funeral procession. Mr. Josephine will be sorely offended if you’re not.’’

  ‘‘The mayor?’’

  ‘‘Uh-huh.’’

  ‘‘I wouldn’t want to offend His Honor. Who’s being buried?’’

  ‘‘You’ll find out.’’

  ‘‘I guess I will.’’ McBride touched his hat again. ‘‘Well, see you around.’’

  As he rode toward the livery, he glanced over his shoulder. The thin man with the two guns was standing on the boardwalk, watching him.

  ‘‘Now, why did you tell me that? Damn it all, boy, did I ask for your name?’’

  The stable hand paused, the fistful of oats he was about to throw to McBride’s mustang hanging by his side. He was a grizzled old man, dressed in a red undershirt that had faded to a dull orange, striped pants with wide canvas suspenders and scuffed muleeared boots. He also wore an expression that hovered somewhere between irritation and outright anger.

  ‘‘Sorry,’’ McBride said, smiling inwardly, ‘‘but I reckoned you’d want to know the name of the man who owns the horse.’’

  ‘‘I know who owns this hoss,’’ the old man said. ‘‘It’s you. An’ there’s eighteen other hosses and four mules in this barn an’ I keep track of who owns each and every one of them. But I don’t know names an’ I don’t want to know. Savvy?’’

  ‘‘Sorry,’’ McBride said again. The stable smelled of horses, straw and dampness. He could hear rats scuttling in the dark corners.

  ‘‘Sorry don’t cut it, mister, not in Rest and Be Thankful it don’t.’’ The old man tossed the oats to the mustang, rubbed his hand on his pant leg, then said, an eyebrow crawling up his forehead like a hairy caterpillar: ‘‘You ain’t from around these parts, are you?’’

  ‘‘No, I’m from back East.’’ McBride hesitated for a heartbeat. ‘‘Originally.’’

  The old man nodded. His eyes had the color of blue milk. ‘‘Took you fer some kind of Yankee, with that long face of your’n an’ all. Stayin’ in town for a spell, are ye?’’

  McBride shook his head. ‘‘No. Just passing through.’’

  ‘‘Blow into town, blow out again. That makes good sense. Well, here’s some advice for what it’s worth—don’t ask for anybody’s handle in this town and don’t give your own. If a man wants to know your name, he’ll ask for it an’ smile all the time he’s askin’.’’ The old man’s eyes moved over McBride’s face. ‘‘A while back, a feller used to come here now an’ then and he was mighty free with his name. Proud of it you might say. He called hisself Bill Bonney. Heard o’ him?’’

  ‘‘Billy the Kid,’’ McBride said, smiling, remembering the dime novels he’d read back in New York. ‘‘The proud Prince of Bandits.’’

  ‘‘You could say that, I guess. But here’s what I’m driving at. Like I told you, young Billy tossed out his name in Rest and Be Thankful as freely as he did silver dollars to the Mexican whores. There are some who say that’s how come Pat Garrett was able to track him all the way to old Fort Sumner an’ gun him while he was holdin’ nothing but a butcher’s knife and the memory of a pretty senorita’s kisses.’’ The old man’s gaze was searching, as though he was trying to read McBride’s thoughts. ‘‘Are you catching my drift?’’