Ralph Compton Blood on the Gallows

by Joseph A. West

  The woman angrily slapped his hand away. ‘‘I won’t take your blood money. I hope you burn in hell.’’

  ‘‘Well, that suits me. I was giving you too much anyhow,’’ Josephine said. ‘‘What’s the life of a cook worth?’’

  ‘‘More than you can ever pay, Lance.’’ Dora Ryan was standing in the doorway, wearing a gray hooded cloak that was black with rain, the hem mud-spattered. Her hard edge was showing, a woman who had seen the worst of human nature back in a shady and mysterious past. What men did or said no longer surprised or offended her, and that was evident in the flatness of her voice. ‘‘Now do as the marshal says and get your nose seen to. You sure don’t look so pretty anymore.’’

  Josephine seemed stricken, as though it had just dawned on him that his handsome features could have been ruined by the big man who was staring at him with such silent contempt. He rushed for the door but stopped and turned at the sound of Harlan’s voice.

  ‘‘Mr. Josephine, do you want to press charges against this man?’’

  Josephine seemed surprised by the question. ‘‘Of course I want to press charges. I want that man dead.’’ He hesitated a moment, then added, ‘‘He wears a shoulder holster.’’

  ‘‘I know where he carries his gun,’’ Harlan said.

  Josephine stepped through the door into windblown rain. A trail of blood spots across the floor marked where he had walked.

  As Dora did her best to comfort Mrs. Davis, the marshal said to McBride, his skin tight against the bone, ‘‘Three serious assaults already and you haven’t been in town two hours.’’ He shook his head. ‘‘Well, in my experience, all hard cases need is to be locked up for a spell and they go back to being virtuous.’’

  McBride’s voice rang with disdain. ‘‘You mean breaking Lance Josephine’s nose is not a hanging offense, Marshal?’’

  Harlan shrugged, his eyes like ice. ‘‘It might be, so don’t push it, McBride. It depends on what the mayor thinks. I should warn you that as a general rule he’s not a forgiving man.’’

  The lawman’s voice hardened. ‘‘You’re under arrest, McBride.’’ The shotgun barrels came up and centered on the big man’s belly. ‘‘Shuck the armpit stinger with your left hand and lay it on the table in front of you. If I see more than your fingertips on the handle I’ll cut loose and blow you in half.’’

  A man, if he’s wise, doesn’t argue with a scattergun at close range, and McBride did not. He did as he was told, and Harlan said, ‘‘Now move away from the table.’’

  Suddenly Harlan was a man forged from iron, unyielding and hard. By itself, the Greener shotgun was not a killer—but it was an effective tool in a killer’s grasp. Looking into the lawman’s cold eyes, McBride saw the dark soul of a man who had been a beast of prey too long. He was dissociated from the rest of humanity, a man who would kill human beings, men, women or children, as dispassionately as a hunter kills a rabbit.

  There was nothing of compassion or empathy for another’s suffering about Thad Harlan, and McBride knew that if he made a single wrong move he was a dead man. He backed away from the table, the marshal following his every move.

  ‘‘Dora,’’ Harlan said, without taking his eyes off McBride, ‘‘don’t forget to be on the street later for the funeral.’’

  The woman was holding Mrs. Davis in her arms. Her eyes lifted to Harlan, looking at him evenly. ‘‘I’m not likely to forget, am I?’’

  The lawman’s lips stretched in a thin smile. ‘‘Better not, since the mayor is leading the procession. If he doesn’t see you, it could be bad for business.’’ He let his glance slide to her for a moment. His words were slow and considered as though he were picking them out of a box. ‘‘Bad for everything.’’

  ‘‘I’ll be there,’’ the woman said, quietly, as though she’d just suffered a small defeat.

  Harlan picked up McBride’s revolver, dropped it into his slicker pocket, then motioned with the scattergun. ‘‘Let’s take a walk.’’ He bent from the waist, scooped up the calico kitten and handed it to McBride. ‘‘Take your cat. A man needs company in jail.’’

  They stepped outside, Mrs. Davis’ sobs falling around them like scattered raindrops after the squall has passed.

  ‘‘I guess now she regrets not taking the five hundred dollars,’’ Harlan said.

  Chapter 7

  McBride had expected the jail to be part of the marshal’s office, but it wasn’t. It was a freestanding adobe building that faced the street, wedged between a saloon on one side and a hardware store on the other.

  ‘‘I haven’t cleaned up the place since I held them three bounty hunters here before they were hung.’’ Behind him, McBride heard the dry, parchment rustle of the lawman’s laugh. ‘‘But you should be cozy enough.’’

  They had slopped through ankle-deep mud that was even deeper around the heavy oak door to the jail. The rain had stopped but the sky flashed, tinting the surrounding buildings with a shimmering blue radiance that made them look like structures out of a bad dream. Out on the flat the drenched coyotes shook themselves, spraying glittering arcs of water, then sat and bayed into the unheeding night.

  Harlan rammed the muzzle of the Greener into McBride’s belly and pushed him back. He clanked a huge brass key into the lock and swung the creaking door wide. ‘‘Get in, and no fancy moves.’’

  When he stepped inside, the stench of the place hit McBride like a fist.

  ‘‘Now you know why I never feed ’em before they’re hung,’’ Harlan said. He was standing just outside the door, his shotgun trained on McBride’s back. ‘‘But the mayor insisted on a last meal. Hell, when I took ’em down to the cottonwoods they were still puking, during the opening prayers mind you.’’

  Harlan slammed the door and McBride heard the key turn in the lock.

  ‘‘Look on the bright side, McBride,’’ he said, his voice muffled. ‘‘You’ve got a ringside seat for the funeral procession.’’ Harlan sounded like an old family friend.

  The marshal walked away, his boots making a sucking sound in the mud.

  McBride thumbed a match into flame and looked around him. There wasn’t much to see, an iron cot covered with a filthy mattress and a bucket. A single barred window looked onto the street and the roof was low, made from heavy beams and rough-cut timber planks. The jail was twelve feet wide and maybe eight deep, resting on a cement floor. McBride tried the door. It didn’t budge as much as a fraction of an inch.

  The jail had been built strong to hold hard and violent men and it served its purpose well.

  ‘‘Home sweet home, Sammy,’’ McBride said to the kitten. ‘‘I’m sorry I got you into this.’’

  The little cat laid its head against his chest and promptly fell asleep. If it harbored any ill-feelings toward its rescuer, they were not apparent.

  McBride stood close to the window, breathing in the damp night air. He had not explored his cell and had not ventured near the bucket. If it came down to it, he planned to sleep standing up.

  Slow as molasses in January, an hour passed. People had been gathering on both sides of the street, mostly lean men with careful eyes who wore their guns as though they were born to them. But among them, in expensive broadcloth, stood the respectable businessmen of the town, most with their somber wives who studiously kept a stone-faced distance from the loud and profane saloon girls. Dressed in yellow, red or blue silk, the girls looked like tropical birds that had landed among a flock of crows.

  Reflector lamps burned along the boardwalk, their light casting the elongated shadows of people onto the yellow mud of the street.

  McBride heard a far-off, hollow boom and at first he thought the thunder had returned. But the sound continued, rhythmic and muffled, drawing closer. Craning his head to look out the window, he saw the flare of torches at the other end of the street, a dozen scarlet points of fire that bobbed as they were carried aloft.

  The boom McBride had heard was made by a bass drummer thumping out a measured, steady be
at to set a dignified pace for the marching mourners behind him.

  The procession drew closer and on the boardwalks men removed their hats and stood with bowed heads. Lightning pulsed across the sky and the town was bathed in a trembling glow that flickered on the faces of the onlookers with an eerie silver light, as though they were spectators at a magic lantern show.

  From his vantage point at the jail window McBride’s attention was drawn to the man who led the funeral procession. Jared Josephine bore a passing resemblance to his son, Lance, who walked behind him with downcast eyes, his nose and cheekbones covered by a thick white bandage.

  The mayor was short and stocky, dressed in a new suit of fine black broadcloth. His head was bare, revealing a thick shock of iron gray hair, and his restless eyes constantly swept the crowd on the boards, a man making sure the turnout was what he expected. He seemed oblivious of the mud that stained his pants to the knees and he stepped confidently under the angry, sheeted lightning, an arrogant man who revered himself above all things and feared nothing.

  McBride suddenly remembered a painting he’d seen in a New York art gallery of a Roman emperor riding a chariot in triumphal procession along a street thronged with cheering people.

  Jared Josephine’s face revealed the emperor’s same overbearing pride and lust for power that give an ambitious man the ability to use them to dominate others. The measure of a man is what he does with power, but, again like the Roman emperor, the hint of cruelty in Josephine’s mouth and set of his stubborn chin suggested a man who would use and misuse power for his own ends, be they good or bad.

  Watching Josephine, McBride knew that such a man as he would not surrender power voluntarily. It would have to be taken away from him.

  And that, he decided, would be easier said than done.

  The pallbearers walked behind Lance Josephine, six silent men shouldering a bier hung with loops of black crepe. They were flanked by a dozen others holding guttering torches, all of them hard-faced men wearing guns.

  McBride got up on his toes and strained to see the body. Was it a close relative of Jared Josephine? His wife maybe? Or an honored citizen of Rest and Be Thankful?

  It was none of those. It was a dog.

  A huge, fawn-colored mastiff lay stretched out on the bier, its eyes closed, pink tongue lolling out of the black mask of its mouth. The dog was as dead as it was ever going to be, and it seemed that Jared Josephine had lost an old and loyal companion. That the whole town had turned out to honor the mayor’s dead mutt was an indication of the man’s power over them.

  But what was the source of that power?

  McBride recalled Mrs. Evans saying that the mayor had made the town a safe haven for killers and outlaws. Such protection must come at a high price. Money is power, and the free-spending outlaws who paid part of their ill-gotten gains to Josephine had made him a rich man.

  Here men on the dodge could indeed rest and be thankful—until their money ran out. Killers, robbers, rapists and other frontier riffraff were safe in a town on the ragged edge of nowhere where few lawmen or bounty hunters ventured. And those that did, well . . . the three bodies hanging from the cottonwoods bore eloquent testimony to the fate that awaited them.

  As the dead dog was borne past, McBride smiled without humor. Jared Josephine had a good thing going and he would not let anyone jeopardize it—and McBride knew that would include the man who had smashed his son’s nose and ruined his wedding plans, at least temporarily.

  Suddenly, in the dank, stinking darkness of his jail cell, McBride realized with certainty that his life was not worth a plug nickel. He’d hang for sure. If not for lawless violence, namely assaulting Lance Josephine and two other hard cases, then for making himself a general nuisance to the community at large.

  Events on the street dragged McBride from his gloomy thoughts. Behind the bier walked a few dozen mourners, then a boy in his mid-teens who staggered and fell into the mud just outside McBride’s window. Thad Harlan dragged the kid to his feet, backhanded him across the face, then pushed him after the others. The boy, who was stripped to the waist, had the jet-black hair and brown skin of a Mexican. His face was almost shapeless from multiple beatings, his eyes swollen shut, and vivid red welts crisscrossed his back, put there, McBride guessed, by the riding crop in the marshal’s hand.

  A few Mexican women, black mantillas over their long hair, followed, their anguished wails rising into the air like a writhing mist. One of them was supported by two other women. Her wobbling legs kept giving way and her head was thrown back, tears streaming down her cheeks. She could only be the kid’s mother and McBride’s heart went out to her.

  The boy stumbled and fell again, and Harlan laid the crop on his back, swinging, vicious blows that split the skin and drew blood. Shrieking, the boy’s mother broke away from the other women and ran at Harlan, her fingers outstretched like claws. The marshal brushed away the woman’s arms, then cut his riding crop across her face. She staggered back a step, a sudden, scarlet stripe scarring her from cheekbone to chin. The woman sank to her knees in the mud. Her hands joined, tearfully pleading with Harlan in a language McBride did not understand. The marshal ignored her and roughly dragged the Mexican boy to his feet.

  White-hot anger scorched through McBride. He pressed his face to the bars of the window and yelled, ‘‘Harlan, let that boy alone!’’ The lawman ignored him and McBride called out again, louder this time. ‘‘Harlan, you no-good son of a—’’

  Harlan drew as he swung to face McBride, then fired. The motion was incredibly fast and McBride had no time to react. The marshal’s bullet smashed into the side of the window, close to the big man’s head, gouging out splinters of timber that drove into his cheek.

  Across the street, the crowd roared and laughed, and Harlan was grinning. He looked across at McBride and yelled, ‘‘You learn to keep your big mouth shut or the next one goes right between your eyes.’’

  Again there was a roar of laughter.

  Harlan dragged the Mexican boy to his feet and roughly shoved him forward. The wails of his mother and the other women continued to rise from the street even after the torches of the procession were just moving pinpoints of light among the shadowed cottonwoods.

  Chapter 8

  As he picked bloody wood splinters from his face, John McBride embraced his anger like an old friend. He’d sought only a meal and a soft bed in the town, but was now locked up in a stinking jail and he had been unable to stop the lynching of a young boy. He was sure the kid had been hanged, but for what crime? Had he killed someone, or was he in some way connected to the death of the mastiff?

  No doubt Harlan will tell me, McBride thought. Right before he hangs me.

  The street was full of shadows. Men were drifting back from the cottonwoods, and the saloons were doing a roaring business. A dozen tin-panny pianos competed for space, their notes tangling in a jangling cacophony of sound, and the laughter of the saloon girls was loud and harsh, soaring above the bellow of drunken men.

  It sounded to McBride like the town was holding a wake for the dead dog. No one was grieving for the Mexican boy, only the veiled women who were now lost in the moon-slanted darkness among the hanging trees by the creek.

  An hour passed, then two. The kitten explored the cell and made soft, distressed mewing noises, liking the place no better than McBride. For his part, the big man stood, sleepless, by the window and watched the town ignore the arrival of midnight, hell-bent on sins of the flesh that came easy but never cheap.

  He heard the lone horseman before he saw him, the hooves of his mount splashing slowly through the liquid mud of the street. The clouds were breaking apart and the man rode through shifting columns of moonlight. His chin was sunk on his chest and he looked neither to his left nor right. He wore a poncho and a wide-brimmed sombrero and his face was in shadow.