Ralph Compton Blood on the Gallows

by Joseph A. West

  ‘‘I don’t want to hide out,’’ he said finally. ‘‘I want to strike at Harlan, Josephine and the rest of them.’’

  ‘‘Then hide first and fight later. Right now you are angry, as I am, but anger is never a good counselor. It urges you to stand and fight, but can a dead man harm the men you mention?’’ Garcia smiled, more to make his point than display humor. ‘‘Besides, you have no weapons. What will you do when Harlan catches up with you? Throw rocks at him?’’

  McBride nodded his uncertainty. ‘‘You make a good point. Without a gun I wouldn’t last long.’’

  ‘‘Yes, I make a good point, and here’s another—if we hope to reach the canyon alive we must ride.’’

  ‘‘Then lead on,’’ McBride said, dying a sad little death. How could a man without a gun stand up to a vicious killer like Thad Harlan and his hard-bitten posse? And even if he was armed, what chance would he have?

  The obvious and simple answers to his questions made the big man smile grimly. The reply to the first was he couldn’t. And as for the second . . . the answer was slim to none.

  Towering, stratified walls of rock sloped away on each side of him as McBride followed Garcia into Deadman Canyon. The young Mexican found a dim game trail that angled across flat, desert grassland broken up by scattered boulders and stands of mesquite, ocotillo, saltbush and yucca.

  Within the canyon the day was stiflingly hot and humid and McBride rode with his slicker across the back of his saddle. The sun was hidden by a layer of thick cloud and the air smelled of sage and the coming rain.

  ‘‘We go there,’’ Garcia said, pointing to a narrow arroyo that cut deeply into the base of the cliff. ‘‘And pray the rain starts soon and washes away our tracks.’’

  It was ten degrees cooler in the arroyo, its high, rocky sides covered in bunchgrass and struggling spruce. After thirty yards, the gulch made a sharp bend to the north, then opened up on an acre of lush grass and a single cottonwood, fed by water trickling through the canyon wall.

  Under a wide granite overhang was a ruined, windowless cabin. Its log roof had long since collapsed, but the rock walls still stood and a warped pine door hung askew on one rawhide hinge.

  ‘‘You will be safe here,’’ Garcia said. ‘‘When Harlan has called off the chase I will come back for you. Tomorrow maybe, or the day after.’’ He reached behind his saddle and held out a bulging sack. ‘‘Here is food. It is not much, but we gave you what we could spare. There is a small pot for coffee.’’

  ‘‘I appreciate it,’’ McBride said. He looked uncomfortable for a moment, then said, ‘‘Can you leave me your rifle?’’

  It was the young Mexican’s turn to look uneasy. ‘‘I am sorry, McBride, but this is the only rifle in my village. We need it to hunt our meat and perhaps defend us from Thad Harlan and his gunmen.’’

  Feeling small for asking, McBride smiled and said, ‘‘I understand. It’s unlikely Harlan will find me here in any case.’’

  Garcia glanced at the threatening sky. ‘‘It will rain soon, and that will be good for you. Now I must get back to my village. My wife will be worried.’’

  ‘‘Be careful, Alarico,’’ McBride said. ‘‘Ride wide of Harlan.’’

  The young man touched the wide brim of his straw sombrero. ‘‘I will be careful. Adios, mi amigo.’’

  McBride watched Garcia leave, a sense of loss in him. He climbed out of the leather and set the kitten on the grass. As the little animal went off to explore, he unsaddled the mustang and let it graze.

  Taking the sack Garcia had given him, McBride pushed the door aside and stepped into the rock house. The roof beams were charred by fire and most had collapsed into the single room in a V shape. Only to his right was there a clear area, a corner above which a couple of logs were still in place.

  McBride walked outside and picked up half a dozen heavy rocks. He went back into the cabin, spread his slicker over the corner beams above him and weighed it down with the rocks. Rain was already falling, but if he could start a fire, he figured he’d be cozy enough.

  He had not eaten since the night before and was ravenously hungry. He checked the contents of the sack: several corn tortillas, slices of jerked beef and a small paper package of coffee, twisted shut at the top, and another, even smaller, of sugar. It was little enough, but then impoverished Mexicans who lived constantly with hunger had little to give and McBride would not allow himself to feel ungrateful. It was food, freely given, and it would do.

  He set the sack in the corner, then looked around for the makings to start a fire, wishful for coffee with his meal. There was dry wood in plenty scattered under the fallen beams and McBride piled these beside the sack. He found an abandoned pack rat’s nest, and though he didn’t recognize it as such, he was pleased. The dry twigs and straw would light easily.

  The calico kitten came in from the rain, and under the meager shelter of the slicker McBride fed it tortilla and jerky. He was alarmed at the amount the little cat ate. ‘‘Sammy,’’ he said after the kitten finally quit and curled up near him to sleep, ‘‘I swear, you’ve just eaten enough for two strong men.’’

  Throughout the daylight hours, McBride constantly checked the canyon but he saw no sign of Harlan and his posse.

  Although this part of the arroyo was hidden from anyone riding through the valley, McBride was uneasy. Restless now as the day shaded into early evening, he stepped out of the cabin and into heavy rain that drummed a tattoo on the top of his plug hat. A surging wind shook the branches of the cottonwood and tugged at the stream that ran from the arroyo wall, spraying fragile fans of water droplets into the cooling air. The sky was iron gray, grimed with black, like the sooty thumbprints of a giant.

  McBride reached the mouth of the arroyo and his anxious eyes searched the rain-swept valley. His shoulder holster, lacking the weight of the Smith & Wesson, brought him no comfort, and within him nagged an unquiet fear, the kind that always makes the imagined wolf bigger than he is.

  A few minutes later his state of mind did not improve when he saw Thad Harlan ride into the canyon, the gloom crowding close around him.

  The lawman was staying near to the north wall of the Deadman, opposite McBride. The marshal rode head up, alert and ready, his Winchester across the saddle horn. The rattling rain raked into him, but Harlan seemed oblivious of the downpour, his eyes scanning the rugged strata of the ridges on both sides of him.

  McBride took a step backward, losing himself in the shadows of the arroyo. As he watched, the marshal swung out of the saddle and dropped to a knee. He bent his head to the ground and his fingertips delicately brushed at the grass. After a few moments he lifted his head, gazing speculatively into the flat land ahead of him and then to the soaring rampart of the south wall of the canyon.

  Finally Harlan stepped into the saddle, his slicker and hat streaming water. For several minutes he held his mount where it was, man and horse standing perfectly still, like an equestrian statue of iron in the rain.

  McBride swallowed hard. A magnifying glass had been a necessary part of his equipment during his time as a detective on the NYPD. But Thad Harlan needed no such help. Despite the rain, the man was reading the clues left by the passage of his and Garcia’s horses and his hunter’s instinct was telling him his prey was close.

  Like a mouse mesmerized by a cobra, McBride was fixed to the spot, his scared eyes on the lawman. Did Harlan know he was being watched? Did he know exactly where his quarry was holed-up? Would he soon turn and charge directly at the arroyo, his rifle blazing?

  In the end, McBride’s fear saved him from himself. There are two kinds of men, those who get paralyzed by fear and those who are afraid but bite the bullet and go ahead anyway. After an inward struggle, John McBride chose the latter.

  His eyes searched the ground around him and found what he was looking for, a couple of fist-sized rocks. He picked them up and stepped back to the entrance to the arroyo, ready to sell his life dearly.

  He was just i
n time to see Thad Harlan ride away. The lawman was heading out of the canyon.

  A rock in each hand, McBride watched until horse and rider dissolved into the shimmering, silver veil of the rain and the darkening land became empty again.

  Harlan would return. McBride knew that with certainty. The lawman had not known exactly where he was but, like a predatory animal, had been aware of his presence.

  He’d be back come the dawn . . . and he’d bring company.

  Chapter 10

  John McBride returned to the cabin, the calico kitten running to greet him like a long-lost friend. The big man smiled. ‘‘Let’s get a fire going, Sammy. It’s going to be a long night.’’

  The light was fading, shading into a deep purple gloom. Shadows crept along the canyon wall and pooled like black ink in every rocky crevice and ridge.

  McBride’s mustang had sought shelter from the rain under the branches of the cottonwood but continued to graze on the sweet grass around the base of the tree.

  Campfires were a challenge to McBride. In the dime novels he’d read back in New York, a stalwart frontiersmen like Wild Bill Hickok or Billy the Kid could have a ‘‘large and cheery blaze burning in a rude prairie hearth ere the blushing maiden at his side had time to sigh.’’

  McBride’s experience with maidens, blushing or otherwise, was limited, but his experience with campfires was not. In the past most of his attempts to start a blaze ended in abject failure. He’d wind up surrounded by spent matches, tasting the dry ashes of yet another defeat.

  But to his joy, the pack rat’s nest caught fire easily and burned hot. He quickly fed sticks into the blaze and soon had a good enough fire going to attract the kitten that sat and blinked like an owl into the flames.

  It was now full dark, but the fire spread a fluttering crimson glow around the corner of the cabin and cast Sammy’s long shadow on the dirt floor. The slicker spread on the rafters kept out most of the pelting rain, apart from a few random drops that fell, sizzling, into the flames.

  McBride boiled up coffee, poured in the sugar and let it boil some more. He ate tortillas and jerked beef, then drank sweet, scalding hot coffee straight from the pot. He stared into the fire, considering his alternatives.

  Harlan and whoever was with him would not return to the canyon until first light. He would have to be gone by then. A few hours of sleep and then he’d saddle up and head . . . where?

  McBride thought that through, and made his decision. He would ride north, back in the direction of town. It was the last thing Harlan would expect. The man must figure McBride’s only option was to head through the canyon for the open, long-riding country to the east. But in darkness and teeming rain he could pass within yards of the marshal and his posse and go unnoticed.

  Once free of the canyon and Harlan he would stop somewhere and again consider his choices. Though right now, apart from a vague idea of exposing Jared Josephine as a murderer, they were mighty limited.

  In the meantime, riding north was an excellent plan and McBride liked it. He drank the last of his coffee and stretched out by the fire. A couple of hours of sleep; then he’d saddle the mustang and leave Deadman Canyon behind him forever.

  The kitten woke McBride, pushing its furry forehead against his own. The big man opened his eyes, trying to recall where he was for a few confused moments.

  Then he remembered, daylight fully wakening him.

  Daylight!

  McBride jumped to his feet, alarm hammering at him. He had overslept and the sun was already rising. The fire had died out long ago and above his head the slicker bulged, heavy with rainwater. He stepped quickly to the door of the cabin. The mustang had wandered from the cottonwood and was grazing a distance away, almost lost in a mist that clung around him like smoke. Jays quarreled in the tree branches, sending down showers of water, and the stream tumbled over the rocks, making a music that was all its own.

  There was no sign of Thad Harlan or his men.

  Panicked now, McBride tugged down his slicker, getting soaked in the process, then saddled his horse. The mustang balked, reluctant to leave a place where there was good grass and water, but McBride shoved Sammy into his buttoned slicker and dragged the little horse toward the entrance of the arroyo.

  Had he left it too late?

  The mist may have slowed Harlan some, but he wasn’t betting on it.

  Death’s warning whispered thin in McBride’s ears, preparing him for the worst, as he stopped at the entrance to the arroyo and his long-reaching eyes searched the canyon.

  Five men, looking like ghost horsemen in the writhing mist, stood their mounts not a hundred yards away. Above them there was no sky, just a thick, rolling cloud of haze that seemed to rise forever, tinged pink by the invisible morning sun.

  McBride led the mustang back to the cottonwood, then quickly returned to the mouth of the arroyo.

  Thad Harlan was talking, pointing farther along the canyon. Beside him, the white of his bandaged face visible in the murk, was Lance Josephine.

  Finally, his talking done, Harlan kneed his horse forward, followed by Josephine and two other men. The remaining rider sat his horse for a few moments, then swung directly toward McBride.

  Harlan was searching the arroyos!

  Easing back, McBride led the mustang back to the cabin and let Sammy loose. He ran back into the entrance and found the two rocks he’d picked up and then dropped the night before.

  The rider had drawn rein and now he slid his rifle out of the scabbard. Then he kneed his mount forward again.

  McBride took one rock in each fist and faded back toward the bend in the arroyo, his heart banging in his chest. He considered trying to climb to the top of the ravine, but immediately dismissed the idea. The walls were too steep and muddy and he’d never make it. If Harlan’s gunman caught him when he was halfway up he could nail him to the slope with lead.

  The rider would have to turn the bend, riding through mist, and that was the obvious ambush point. McBride stepped quickly to the other side of the turn and hefted the rock in his right hand. One throw and he’d be done. If he missed, he was a dead man.

  McBride had played a little baseball for the NYPD’s detectives’ team and had been considered a pretty fair pitcher. He loosened up his right shoulder and waited.

  A few tense seconds slipped past. McBride heard the steady fall of a horse’s hooves coming up the arroyo. He took a deep breath, the rock sweaty in his right hand. A frail wind touched his face and rustled restlessly in the cottonwood. The air smelled of mud and last night’s rain, and mist clung close to him like a clammy shroud.

  The hoofbeats were much closer now. . . .

  Every nerve and muscle in McBride’s body tightened and his heart thumped hard against his ribs. He touched a dry tongue to drier lips, suddenly wanting this to be over.

  Soon ...

  A horse’s head appeared, blaze-faced, wearing an ornate silver bridle. Then its neck . . . and then a rider, a fat man, sitting well back in the saddle.

  McBride and the rider saw each other at the same instant. As McBride threw the rock, the fat man was frantically trying to bring up his rifle. The rock, heavy granite flecked with volcanic iron, crashed with tremendous force into the rider’s left cheekbone. The man threw up his arms and tumbled off his horse without a sound. He fell heavily on his back and his mount trotted past McBride, its reins trailing.

  Quickly McBride stepped close to the fallen man, picked up the bloody rock and looked down at him. His cheekbone was smashed, that much was obvious. But the man was still conscious, his spiking gaze on McBride’s face filled with pain and anger. He was very fat and his eyes were dark brown, rare in a gunman. Creases at the corners of his mouth suggested a man who liked to laugh and did so often. He looked jolly and hearty, a fellow to drink with.