Ralph Compton Blood on the Gallows

by Joseph A. West

  At first McBride thought the man would ride on, but at the last moment he drew rein, standing his big sorrel on the street a few yards from the jail.

  Without lifting his head, he said quietly, ‘‘Lance Josephine wants you to hang.’’

  McBride said: ‘‘I know. He made that pretty clear.’’

  ‘‘It is for what you did to his face, and for shaming him in front of his woman.’’

  McBride made no reply and the man said, ‘‘My name is Madaleno Vargas Lopez, and I do not wish to see you hang.’’

  ‘‘Mister, that makes two of us,’’ McBride said.

  ‘‘Jared Josephine is a powerful man, mucho hombre. He is one of those who wants to see you dangle from a rope, I think.’’

  ‘‘I guess maybe he does at that.’’

  The Mexican’s horse tossed its head, the bit chiming. In one of the saloons, accompanied by a banjo, a baritone was singing ‘‘Bonnie Jennie Lee,’’ and somewhere a dog barked, followed by a yelp, then silence.

  ‘‘There was a death tonight,’’ Lopez said. ‘‘Jared Josephine and Marshal Harlan think it was a small death, and maybe it was. What is the life of a poor Mexican boy to such important men?’’

  McBride looked out at the street. There was no one on the boardwalks but for a bearded man who staggered out of one saloon and into another.

  ‘‘They hanged the boy,’’ McBride said. ‘‘I saw his mother down by the cottonwoods.’’

  ‘‘Yes, the marshal hanged him, for his offense was great in his eyes. The boy was with his sheep in a gully out by Lobo Creek. But one of Mr. Josephine’s big dogs escaped from his home and attacked the sheep. The boy shot the dog with his rifle.’’ Lopez raised his head and moonlight revealed the hard bones and furrowed skin of his narrow face. He could have been any age. ‘‘It was a good rifle, a single-shot Allan and Wheelock. I know, because I gave it to him for his fourteenth birthday.’’

  ‘‘How did Jared Josephine find out what had happened?’’

  ‘‘The boy told him. He rode his pony into town and stood in Mr. Josephine’s parlor with his sombrero in his hands and told him. He said he was sorry he had to shoot the dog, but it had already killed a ewe and her three lambs. He showed Mr. Josephine the Allan and Wheelock and said he should take it to make up for the loss of his dog.’’

  ‘‘But Josephine refused. He wanted the boy dead.’’

  ‘‘The dog was worth much money but the life of a Mexican boy is cheap. His mother, my sister, grieves for her son. Her husband died a year ago and now she has no man in the house. She will die soon, I think. From sorrow.’’

  McBride’s uneasy eyes searched the street. ‘‘You better go now, Mr. Lopez. If Thad Harlan catches you talking to me, it could go badly for you.’’

  ‘‘You tried to save the boy tonight.’’

  ‘‘Yes, I tried. That was all. I tried and I failed.’’

  ‘‘Marshal Harlan will bring you food tomorrow morning. You will not be hanged until the day after because Lance Josephine wants time to build a gallows. There are many hard, lawless men in this town and he wishes them to see what happens to anyone who dares defy him.’’

  ‘‘Only a tinhorn thinks like that,’’ McBride said. His eyes reached out into the gloom. ‘‘But how do you know these things?’’

  ‘‘I have eyes in this town, and ears. No one notices the dark little Mexican people who swamp the saloons and clean the hotel rooms, but they see and hear everything.’’

  Lopez was silent for a few moments, then said, ‘‘But you will not hang, John McBride. There are men of my people who hate Marshal Harlan and Mr. Josephine as much as I do. When the marshal comes to feed you at sunup, they will be here and they will set you free. You will go with them and hide in the hills.’’

  Hope rose in McBride, but it was as fleeting as a cloud passing over the face of the sun. ‘‘I can’t ask you to do that. Many of your people could die.’’

  ‘‘Then they will lay down their lives willingly. What kind of lives do they have when Jared Josephine takes half of what they earn . . . half of the newborn lambs, half of the corn they grow, half of the few coins that jingle in their pockets? One day, when they told him they would pay him no longer, he and his riders shot many of the men, outraged many of the young women and burned many of the poor straw houses. My sister’s husband was among the dead, and after that the people rebelled no more. At that time I was riding herd for John Slaughter in Texas, but now I am back.’’

  Fate leads the willing and drags along the unwilling, and though he was reluctant to risk the lives of men who did not even know him, McBride realized argument was useless. Lopez had his mind made up and he would not budge.

  ‘‘Then I’ll see you in the morning,’’ he said.

  The man shook his head, a small, sad smile on his lips. ‘‘No, you will not. I will be dead by morning. Others will set you free.’’

  McBride was silent, searching for the man’s meaning. Finally he gave up and said, ‘‘I don’t understand.’’

  ‘‘It is simple,’’ Lopez said. ‘‘Tonight I ride with my gun. The boy was one of my family, and since his father is dead, it falls to me to avenge his death. I will seek out Thad Harlan and draw down on him.’’ He had turned his head to the jail window and McBride could feel the man’s eyes on him, invisible in the shadow of his hat brim. ‘‘I am no pistolero and Harlan is a famous man of the gun. He will kill me, but I will die gladly, knowing that I have done my duty.’’

  ‘‘No, wait, go with me into the hills,’’ McBride said, alarmed, his hands on the bars of the jail window. ‘‘I don’t want to see a brave man ride to his death. Hell, later I’ll gladly help you kill Harlan.’’

  Lopez smiled and touched his hat. ‘‘Adios, mi amigo. We will not meet again.’’

  The man swung his horse away from the jail and McBride called out after him, pleading. But one by one his words fell into the muddy street, unheeded, as though he were tossing rocks.

  Less than fifteen minutes later he heard a gunshot, then two more, close and fast.

  McBride let his head sink to his hands, which were still clenched, white-knuckle tight, on the prison bars.

  He knew with certainty that another day would come aborning with the dawn light . . . and he knew, with the same certainty, that Madaleno Vargas Lopez was dead.

  Chapter 9

  John McBride, the calico kitten curled against his chest inside his slicker, slept standing on his feet, his shoulder against the wall. Slowly, like a clock winding down, the noise in the saloons gradually faded and the town grew silent. Rats stirred in the corners of the jail, scurrying, and a hungry coyote trotted along the street, picking its way through the mud. The moon made its way across the sky, painted the buildings the color of gunmetal and cast angled, navy blue shadows in the alleys. Across from the jail a single reflector lamp stayed lit for several hours, then guttered out, and a thin string of smoke lifted from the soot-stained chimney.

  McBride slept on. . . .

  The wind was from the west, blowing off the vast malpais of the Tularosa Valley, carrying dust and the promise of the day’s heat. Above the tarpaper roofs of Rest and Be Thankful the sky slowly changed from black to pale lemon, streaked with ribbons of scarlet and jade. The dawn light teased McBride, shining in his face, trying to pry open his eyelids.

  He woke with a start, remembered where he was and looked around him. Nothing had changed. Apart from the shaft of light that slanted through the window and illuminated part of the filthy cot, his prison was in darkness. The place still smelled like an outhouse in summer, but the stench seemed less. He was either getting used to it or the ravenous rats had cleaned up.

  Then he remembered Lopez.

  The man was dead. Had McBride’s slender hope of rescue died with him?

  There was no one in the street and the boardwalks were empty of people.

  Where was Harlan? Where were the Mexicans?

  An hour dragged past. McBri
de caught a whiff of frying bacon in the air and across the street a merchant opened his store, then used a hook at the end of a long pole to pull down a faded yellow awning. The man walked to the edge of the boardwalk, holding the pole like a spear, and looked up and down the street. Unsatisfied by what he saw, he shook his head and stepped inside.

  A few minutes later Harlan arrived at the jail holding a tray covered with a red and white checkered cloth. He stood outside the jail window and looked at McBride. ‘‘Sleep well?’’ he asked.

  ‘‘What do you think?’’

  Harlan grinned. Under his mustache his canine teeth were large and pointed, giving him the look of a hungry carnivore. He lifted a corner of the cloth. ‘‘Fried salt pork, sourdough bread and coffee. Suit your taste?’’

  ‘‘Did you kill a man last night, Harlan?’’

  The marshal was taken aback. ‘‘How did you know?’’

  ‘‘Heard shooting. I reckoned it had to be you that pulled the trigger.’’

  Harlan’s slicker slapped around his legs in the wind. ‘‘He was a Mexican and don’t hardly count. If I was a man that cut notches on his gun, I guess I would let that one slide.’’

  Harlan made a motion that signaled he was about to move to the door, but McBride’s voice stopped him. ‘‘When are you going to let me out of here?’’ He was probing, but already knew the answer.

  ‘‘Day after tomorrow,’’ the lawman answered. ‘‘That’s when I take you out and hang you.’’ He grinned again. ‘‘No breakfast that morning, McBride. I don’t want you spoiling a perfectly good hanging.’’

  ‘‘What’s the charge against me that calls for the rope?’’

  ‘‘You mean you don’t know? Breaking Lance Josephine’s nose was an act of lawless violence. That’s a hanging offense in this town.’’

  ‘‘You’re the law, Harlan. You could stand up for me.’’

  The man shook his head. ‘‘Josephine wants you dead and so does his father, the mayor. I’m not about to get in their way.’’

  ‘‘Harlan, you’re just like Lance Josephine,’’ McBride said, trying to punish the man. ‘‘A two-bit tinhorn and low-down back shooter. When did you last shuck the iron on a named man? I’d guess never.’’

  The marshal looked as if he’d been slapped. The skin of his face tightened and his eyes looked like blue steel. ‘‘Hard talk coming from a saddle tramp and a no-good Yankee at that. Boy, I’m going to enjoy hanging you. I plan to draw it out, just for your benefit.’’

  ‘‘If I don’t kill you first,’’ McBride said, meaning every cold word.

  For a fleeting moment it looked like Harlan would forgo the pleasure of a hanging and shoot. But the man fought a battle with himself and visibly relaxed. He lifted the cloth from the tray and threw the food into the street, plates and coffee cup clinking into the mud. ‘‘No breakfast for you, McBride. And if you give me any more sass, there will be no supper either.’’

  Bitterly remembering Lopez, McBride said, ‘‘Harlan, you go to hell.’’

  The lawman smiled. ‘‘Come the day I hang you, you’re going to be a mighty hungry man.’’

  Harlan turned on his heel. Then, his honed gunman’s instinct warning him, he started to swing around again, his face alarmed. He never made it. The butt of a rifle, wielded by a young Mexican man, crashed into the back of his head. Harlan did not make a sound. He fell facedown into the mud and lay still. Another Mexican bent over the unconscious marshal and quickly searched his pockets. He came up with the key to the jail door. As McBride watched from the window, a Mexican came into view, leading his saddled mustang.

  These men were not flashy vaqueros in tight, embroidered finery, but simple peasants in homespun white cotton pants and shirts, leather sandals on their feet. They were small men, very dark, but they looked lean and tough as rawhide.

  The key scraped in the lock, and one of the Mexicans stuck his head inside. ‘‘Rapidamente, mi amigo,’’ he yelled. ‘‘Vayamos!’’

  McBride needed no second invitation. He held the kitten against his chest and stepped outside. The Mexican who had downed Harlan said to him urgently, ‘‘Mount up. I will take care of this one.’’ The man held a knife in his hand. He rolled the lawman on his back, and readied himself for a killing slash across Harlan’s throat.

  ‘‘No,’’ McBride said. ‘‘Let him be. We’ll get him another time.’’

  The young Mexican looked puzzled. ‘‘But this is the man who killed Senor Lopez and hanged the sheepherder boy from my village.’’

  ‘‘I know, but let him live for now,’’ McBride said, wondering if he was doing the right thing. But he knew he could not bring himself to slaughter a helpless man, even a sorry piece of trash like Thad Harlan. ‘‘His time will come,’’ he said.

  It looked like the young Mexican was about to argue, but finally he shrugged and sheathed his knife. ‘‘A man has a right to be killed at his best moment,’’ he said. He bent over Harlan again and yelled, ‘‘Listen well! My name is Alarico Garcia and I will wait. Then I will kill you.’’

  The marshal muttered a curse, tried to rise but groaned and sank into the mud again.

  McBride fought an inward battle, hating himself for hating the man at his feet and for not destroying him.

  Garcia straightened and motioned toward McBride’s horse. ‘‘Mount. We had better go.’’

  McBride climbed into the saddle and put the calico kitten on the saddle in front of him. ‘‘Sammy,’’ he said, ‘‘I hope you’re a better rider than I am.’’

  The Mexicans had disappeared but Garcia emerged from behind the jail, mounted bareback on a bony dun. ‘‘We will go now,’’ he said.

  The young Mexican led the way out of town, heading east where the rising sun spread a fan of golden light above the peaks of the Capitan Mountains.

  After an hour, as a cool, fresh wind carried the scent of spruce, aspen and high-growing pines, Garcia motioned McBride to follow and rode up the slope of a shallow bench. He drew rein when he reached the ridge. Ahead lay mile after mile of flat plateau country that would eventually lose itself in the vastness of the Llano Estacado. Rabbitbrush, scarlet Apache plume, cholla and prickly pear grew everywhere, along with mountain mahogany and gray oak.

  McBride stopped beside the other rider, a covey of startled scaled quail scattering away from his mustang’s hooves. The sun had completed its climb over the mountains, but the bright promise of the day was already fading as ash-colored clouds gathered in the denim blue sky.

  Garcia pointed. ‘‘Deadman Canyon is ten miles to the southeast. You can hide out there until it’s safe.’’

  The young man read the reluctance in McBride’s face and the sudden stiffness in his back. ‘‘Thad Harlan is already hunting you and he will be close,’’ Garcia said. ‘‘With him he will have many men, all of them famous outlaws, fast with a gun and good trackers. If he catches you out in the open you’re a dead man.’’

  McBride made no response, considering.

  He was still on the payroll of the New York Police Department’s bureau of detectives, and still a duly sworn officer of the law. The town of Rest and Be Thankful meant nothing to him, but cold-blooded and cruel murder had been committed there. As he’d been told often since his arrival in the West, he was way off his home range, but if he did not try to bring Thad Harlan and Jared and Lance Josephine to justice, who would? He admitted to himself that it would make sense to turn his back on the problem, let it go and simply ride on without any choices to make at all.

  It was a way, maybe the sensible way. But at that moment in time, in this place, Detective Sergeant John McBride decided it would not be his way.