Ralph Compton Blood on the Gallows

by Joseph A. West

  The younger man took it lightly. He grinned and tapped a forefinger against his nose. ‘‘I’ve got it. No names given or asked for in Rest and Be Thankful.’’

  After a growl that might have been a word of approval, the old man asked, ‘‘What you doin’ in this neck o’ the woods anyhow?’’

  ‘‘Looking for work. I have four young wards attending finishing school back East and I have to earn enough to keep them there.’’

  ‘‘What kind o’ work?’’

  ‘‘Any kind of work I can find. I’m just about busted flat.’’

  ‘‘The saloons are always lookin’ for swampers. You could try that, though I don’t recommend it my own-self.’’ The old man’s face was suddenly crafty. ‘‘If you’re slick with the iron you could talk to Jared Josephine about gun work. He’s always hirin’. Well, talk to him or his son, Lance.’’ The old man took a step back and his eyes moved over McBride from the toes of his elastic-sided boots to the top of his plug hat. ‘‘On second thought, maybe you should forget it. Somehow you just don’t look the gunfightin’ type.’’

  Strangely, McBride was pleased with the old man’s assessment of his gun skills. He didn’t want anyone in town, especially the marshal, to see him as any kind of threat. He picked up his blanket roll and threw it over his shoulder, then slid the Winchester carbine from his saddle scabbard, a ten-shot, 1866 model Yellow Boy in .44 caliber.

  ‘‘Nice rifle,’’ the old man said absently. He bowed his head, thinking, brow wrinkled, bushy white eyebrows lowered.

  ‘‘Thanks,’’ McBride said. ‘‘I bought it a few months back from a puncher with the rheumatisms who was riding the grub line up Santa Fe way. He let it go for . . .’’

  But his voice petered out as he realized that the old-timer wasn’t listening.

  What the man had on his mind could have gone unsaid, but he’d obviously just fought a battle with himself and decided he had to say his piece. ‘‘Here, you said you was busted. You know it costs two-bits to keep a hoss here overnight, even one like yours? That, an’ another two-bits extry fer the oats.’’

  McBride smiled, fished in his pants pocket, then spun a silver dollar to the old man. ‘‘Keep the change, pops,’’ he said.

  The old man had caught the coin deftly, and now he touched it to his hat brim. ‘‘Well, thank’ee, thank’ee kindly.’’ When he smiled he showed few teeth, and those were black.

  McBride nodded and stepped to the door. The old man spoke to his back. ‘‘Hey, John McBride, my name’s Jed Whipple.’’

  ‘‘Nice meeting you, Jed,’’ McBride said, turning.

  ‘‘See, I gave you my handle, ’cause I like you.’’ Whipple hesitated, his bowed legs doing a strange, agitated little jig. ‘‘What I tol’ you earlier about speakin’ to Lance Josephine about gun work don’t go. I didn’t like you so much then. Still, talk to him if’n you’ve a mind to. Maybe I’m wrong and you are the type.’’

  The big man smiled. ‘‘I’ll bear that in mind, about Josephine I mean.’’

  ‘‘He an’ his pa walk a wide path around here. Jared ain’t so bad, but Lance is pure pizen. He’s killed five men since he and his pa founded the town three years ago, and some say he’s even faster on the draw than Marshal Harlan.’’ Whipple shook his head. ‘‘It don’t take much for Lance Josephine to get mad at a man.’’

  ‘‘Thanks for the warning, Jed,’’ McBride said. ‘‘But I doubt I’ll meet him. I’m only passing through.’’

  ‘‘The last man Lance killed was only passin’ through. You step careful, John McBride.’’

  ‘‘I’ll do that.’’ McBride’s rumbling stomach was demanding attention and he turned back to the door. But Jed Whipple, apparently a talking man, was not finished with him yet.

  ‘‘Be at the funeral tonight, John. You don’t have any call to attend the hanging afterward, but let Jared Josephine see you on the street.’’

  It was in McBride’s mind to question the old man further, but he decided he’d be there all night. He waved a hand and stepped out of the barn into the darkness.

  Jed Whipple called out after him, but he couldn’t hear what the old man said.

  Chapter 4

  As McBride walked along the boardwalk toward the hotel the clouds had cleared and a honed moon hung in a sky without stars. The dank air smelled of mud and horse dung and out on the flat grass the coyotes were talking.

  The buildings along both sides of the street looked bleached white in the stark moonlight, but the alleys were angled in deep purple shadow. Reflector oil lamps had been lit outside the saloons and McBride walked from darkness through dancing cones of orange light and back to darkness again.

  The night was young and the town of Rest and Be Thankful was not yet fully awake. There were few men on the boardwalk, but the tinkle of pianos and the laughter of women that floated from the saloons declared to one and all that the music and painted, bold-eyed girls were ready and waiting.

  The Kip and Kettle Hotel was in sight when McBride saw two men standing ahead of him where the boardwalk stopped for an alley. The men had Colts drawn and at first he thought they were shaping up for a gunfight. But then he heard one of the men laugh and say, ‘‘Set it up on the rail there, Ed. See if I can take its damned head off.’’

  McBride quickened his pace, his eyes on the men. They were rough, bearded, dressed in dirty range clothes and they had been drinking. A sign that advertised women’s clothing creaked over their heads and a short length of white picket fence bordered the boardwalk outside the store, an attempt to add a touch of femininity to the location.

  Then McBride saw what was happening and his anger flared.

  The man called Ed had set a tiny calico kitten on top of the fence. The little animal was terrified, mewling in alarm, a hunched, trembling, bundle of orange, black and white fur.

  ‘‘Cut ’er loose, Jake.’’ Ed grinned. He holstered his Colt, his amused eyes on the kitten.

  ‘‘Watch this, Ed, its head’s comin’ right off,’’ the other man said. He took a few steps back until he was stopped by the store window. He raised his gun—and that’s when McBride hit him.

  Driven with all McBride’s strength, the brass butt plate of the Yellow Boy crashed into the side of Jake’s head and the man dropped like a felled ox. He lay on the muddy boardwalk, his left leg twitching, but he made no sound.

  Ed cursed and went for his gun.

  McBride swung on him and rammed the muzzle of the rifle into the man’s belly. Ed bent double, retching, and McBride grasped the rifle in both hands and chopped upward, driving the top of the receiver into Ed’s mouth. The gunman convulsively triggered a shot into the timber of the boardwalk, then straightened for a moment before staggering into the fence. The slender pine rails splintered under his weight and Ed fell on his back into the mud, his ruined mouth a startled, bloody O of smashed teeth and pulped lips.

  McBride stepped to the edge of the boardwalk, looking down at the injured man. Ed was conscious and his gun was lying close to him in the mud. But he showed no inclination to reach for it. The man climbed to his feet, turned and lurched across the street. Over his shoulder he cast a single, fearful glance in McBride’s direction, then crashed through the batwing doors of a saloon and vanished inside.

  McBride watched the man go, his anger settling. He bent and retrieved the kitten from the street where it had fallen when the picket fence collapsed. The little calico was covered in mud, shivering, and he held it close to him. Despite its fear the kitten was purring, a fact that pleased McBride immensely and made him smile.

  Boot heels sounded on the boardwalk and McBride turned to see Marshal Thad Harlan taking a knee beside the unconscious Jake. The lawman grabbed the fallen man’s jaw and jerked his head back and forth. He slapped Jake’s cheeks a few times, then rose easily to his feet and faced McBride.

  ‘‘He’ll live, lucky for you,’’ he said. Harlan’s eyes looked like chunks of worked obsidian in the darkness, capturing
scarlet flecks of lamplight. A saloon girl in a bright yellow dress stepped onto the boardwalk. She’d heard the gunshot and wanted to see what she could see. But the woman spotted the marshal, seemed startled for a moment, then walked quickly back inside, her high heels clacking.

  ‘‘I won’t stand aside and watch women, children or animals being abused,’’ McBride said. ‘‘I can’t abide it.’’

  As though he hadn’t heard, Harlan smiled and rubbed the top of the kitten’s head with the pad of his forefinger. ‘‘I’ve heard it said that if you stare deep into a cat’s eyes you’ll be able to see the world of spirits,’’ he said. ‘‘I’ve never tried it so I don’t know if it’s true or not.’’ His gaze lifted to McBride’s face. ‘‘If you’d killed Jake Streeter I’d have hanged you before the moon went down.’’

  ‘‘He was going to shoot the kitten. I had to stop him.’’

  ‘‘McBride, understand this—Rest and Be Thankful is a safe haven for men like Jake Streeter and Ed Beaudry. Take that safety away and you take away the town’s only reason for existing. Pretty soon all you have is a ghost town filled with ghost people.’’

  ‘‘Marshal, I’d say that men who would kill a helpless little animal for fun aren’t worth protecting.’’

  ‘‘That’s your opinion and you’re entitled to it. But it’s my job to see that men like Ed and Jake are safe in this town. That’s why they come here in the first place.’’

  McBride was puzzled. ‘‘What’s so all-fired special about trash like Ed and Jake?’’

  The marshal’s thin mouth stretched in its humorless smile. ‘‘They’re good at what they do.’’

  ‘‘And what’s that?’’

  ‘‘No business of yours, McBride.’’

  Buttoning the kitten into his slicker, McBride picked up his bedroll. He looked at Harlan. ‘‘You going to charge me with assault?’’

  ‘‘You’ve been a peace officer somewhere along your back trail.’’

  ‘‘How can you tell?’’

  ‘‘The way you stand, the sternness in your eyes, the noble, righteous way you talk. It takes one to know one, I guess.’’ The lawman shook his head. ‘‘No, McBride, I don’t take the time to charge a man with anything. I hang him or I gun him. That’s how I administer the law in this town. But for this once I’m allowing you some slack since you’re only passing through. Call it professional courtesy.’’

  ‘‘A gun and the rope isn’t much of a way to administer the law.’’

  ‘‘It suits me. It suits this town.’’

  McBride turned on his heel but into the dark, dead space between them Harlan said, ‘‘Take care of your kitten, McBride, and stay out of trouble. I don’t want to draw on you unless I have to. That’s friendly advice from one law officer to another.’’

  McBride stopped and turned. ‘‘Marshal, don’t threaten me with your gun. When a man threatens me with a gun I get scared and when I get scared I get violent and bad things happen. That’s more friendly advice from one law officer to another.’’

  ‘‘Look into the cat’s eyes, McBride,’’ Harlan called out to the big man’s retreating back. ‘‘Maybe you’ll see the spirit world and decide you really don’t want to go there any time soon.’’

  The marshal laughed, a mocking cackle that followed McBride all the way to the hotel. Like bat wings flapping around his head.

  Chapter 5

  ‘‘I’m sorry, sir, but we don’t allow animals in the hotel.’’ The desk clerk didn’t look sorry; he looked pleased, a small man forcing a big man to take a step back. It didn’t happen often.

  ‘‘He’s a kittlin’,’’ McBride said. ‘‘What harm will he do?’’

  ‘‘You can leave the animal outside and pick it up in the morning if you have a mind to.’’ The clerk had sleek, patent leather hair parted in the middle and a thin line of black mustache adorned his top lip. He looked smug, officious, and McBride badly wanted to punch him.

  Instead he said, ‘‘He’s hungry.’’

  The clerk shook his glossy head. ‘‘I’m afraid that is no concern of the staff and management of the Kip and Kettle Hotel.’’

  McBride held the kitten high and talked into the little animal’s face. ‘‘Hear that, huh? Cat, you’re an undesirable. I’d have thought you’d fit in real well in this town.’’

  ‘‘There are other hotels,’’ the clerk said as McBride tucked the kitten into his slicker.

  The big man nodded. ‘‘Well, now. Me and the kittlin’ have taken a liking to this one.’’

  ‘‘Then I’m sorry. There’s really nothing I can do.’’

  ‘‘What’s the trouble here?’’

  McBride turned and saw a buxom, round-faced woman at his elbow.

  Immediately the desk clerk’s voice took on a fawning tone. ‘‘This man wants to bring an animal into the hotel, Miss Ryan. I told him no, as per your instructions.’’

  ‘‘What kind of animal?’’ The woman looked to be in her early thirties. She had beautiful turquoise eyes and a generous cleavage that would draw any man’s attention.

  McBride smiled. ‘‘You must be Denver Dora Ryan, Prop.’’

  The turquoise eyes frosted a little. ‘‘Dora will do just fine. What kind of animal?’’

  McBride showed her the calico. ‘‘He’s just a kittlin’.’’

  ‘‘I’ve never heard one called that before.’’

  ‘‘My Irish grandmother used to say that, I mean, call a kitten a kittlin’.’’

  The little cat had spread-eagled itself against McBride, its head on his chest, asleep.

  ‘‘You call it that? Kittlin’?’’

  ‘‘No. I’ve taken a notion to call him Sammy. I’ve always thought Sammy was a crackerjack name.’’

  Dora reached out and ran a forefinger up and down the kitten’s back. ‘‘It’s a name. Where did you find him?’’

  ‘‘Back there on the boardwalk. Two fellows were shaping up to take pots at him.’’

  The woman looked shocked. ‘‘Who would do such a thing?’’

  ‘‘One called himself Jake Streeter, the other was Ed somebody.’’

  ‘‘Jake Streeter and Ed Beaudry,’’ Dora said. She turned to the desk clerk. ‘‘Hear that, Silas?’’

  The man smiled. ‘‘I heard it.’’ He looked at McBride and asked, disbelief and scorn in his voice, ‘‘How come you’re still alive, mister?’’

  McBride refused to be baited. ‘‘Just lucky, I guess. Right now Mr. Streeter has a headache and Mr. Beaudry needs to see a dentist.’’

  Dora looked at McBride as though she were seeing him for the first time. ‘‘Silas is right. You are lucky to be alive. Streeter and Beaudry are contract killers out of the Rattlesnake Mountains country in the Nations. They’re fast with the iron and they’ll cut any man, woman or child in half with a shotgun for fifty dollars.’’

  ‘‘Seems likely. Somebody told me they’re good at what they do,’’ McBride said.

  ‘‘The best.’’ Dora turned to the desk clerk. ‘‘Put the stranger and his friend Sammy in room twenty-three.’’

  ‘‘But, Miss Ryan—’’ The clerk saw the expression in the woman’s eyes and bit off his words. ‘‘Yes, yes, of course, Miss Ryan,’’ he said, his prominent Adam’s apple bobbing. ‘‘Room twenty-three it is.’’