Ralph Compton Blood on the Gallows

by Joseph A. West

  ‘‘How do we finish it?’’ McBride asked.

  ‘‘When you dance at the end of a rope, McBride. Then it will be finished.’’

  McBride smiled. ‘‘Tell me something, Harlan—why do you hate me so much?’’

  ‘‘Because you disobeyed me. When you first came to this town I told you to ride in, ride out and say nothing. You ignored that advice and all you’ve done is cause trouble. After I hang you, we can all get back to normal.’’

  ‘‘You’re forgetting something,’’ Remorse said.

  ‘‘That getting back to normal business—you won’t be around to see it. I plan on killing you before I ride on, Thad. You are beyond saving.’’

  ‘‘Then say your prayers, white-haired preacher man, because it ain’t going to happen the way you think.’’

  ‘‘You can’t shade me, Thad. You know that.’’

  ‘‘Could be I can, and you know why?’’

  ‘‘Tell me.’’

  ‘‘Because I got hell on my side,’’ Harlan said.

  He swung his horse away and rode slowly up the street. Crows lining the peaked canvas roof of the Lone Star Dance Hall squawked and quarreled as Harlan drew near, then fell silent, their heads turning, glittering black eyes watching him as he passed.

  McBride saw it and felt a chill he could not explain.

  A smiling clerk lifted a hinged panel at the end of the bank counter and ushered McBride and Remorse to Jared Josephine’s office. The clerk scratched on the door and a man’s voice boomed, ‘‘Come in!’’

  The clerk opened the door and McBride and Remorse stepped inside. The door shut silently behind them.

  Josephine sat behind a huge mahogany desk and his son Lance stood at his side. McBride saw with some satisfaction that the younger man’s nose had set crookedly on his face, spoiling his good looks.

  For his part, Lance stared at McBride with eyes that glowed with hatred and the naked desire to kill.

  Jared rose and walked around his desk, beaming, his hand extended. ‘‘Welcome, gentlemen, welcome.’’

  Remorse accepted Jared’s hand and shook it briefly, but McBride suddenly found something of great interest on the toes of his dusty boots. He was aware of Josephine dropping his hand and sensed rather than saw the scowl on the man’s face.

  Josephine’s affability returned quickly and he said, ‘‘Lance, quickly, chairs for the gentlemen.’’

  Sullenly, Lance placed two straight-backed chairs in front of the desk and his father bade McBride and Remorse to be seated. After the men sat, Jared resumed the comfort of the red leather, brass-studded chair behind his desk. His eyes moved to Remorse.

  ‘‘Reverend, your reputation proceeds you, sir, a man of the cloth who uses his gun to right wrongs wherever they occur in the western lands. Very commendable, sir, very commendable indeed.’’

  Josephine’s eyes were flat, the color of lead.

  ‘‘And you, Mr. McBride, what are you? Another doughty champion of the poor and oppressed?’’

  ‘‘I was passing through until you decided to hang me,’’ McBride answered. ‘‘Then your son and your town marshal tried to kill me, and very nearly succeeded. Putting it in terms you’ll understand, I’d say I’m looking to get even.’’

  ‘‘Pshaw! Let bygones be bygones, forgive and forget, I say.’’ Josephine waved a dismissive hand. ‘‘Mr. McBride, life is too short to harbor a grudge. We must move on. Yes, onward and upward, that’s the ticket.’’

  He reached into his desk drawer, an action that brought Remorse upright in his chair, his eyes wary. But Josephine produced only a long envelope. ‘‘Sixteen hundred dollars, the bounty on three wanted and desperate men. Thank goodness they had left Rest and Be Thankful and were no longer my responsibility. Your actions were justified, gentlemen, no doubt about that.’’ He handed the envelope to his son. ‘‘Lance, give that to the reverend.’’

  Remorse put the envelope in his shirt pocket without looking at the contents and said, ‘‘Josephine, why did you ask us to come here?’’ There was no friendliness in his voice. ‘‘You could have given the money to Harlan. Unless you think you can talk us into a bank loan.’’

  Josephine smiled and glanced up at Lance. ‘‘The reverend has an excellent sense of humor, has he not?’’

  Lance said nothing, his eyes unwavering on McBride. The man’s hate was a palpable, malignant presence in the room.

  ‘‘Ah well,’’ Jared said, his angled gaze scorching,

  ‘‘it seems my son is a little out of sorts today.’’ He looked at Remorse again and managed a smile. ‘‘As to your question, Reverend: why did I ask you here? First let me first say this: on the face of it, for a man of your . . . ah . . . inclinations, you think there is much work to be done in Rest and Be Thankful. After all, this is basically an outlaw town.’’

  Remorse nodded. ‘‘Your assessment is correct.’’

  Jared Josephine was short, stocky, his gray hair thick and cropped short like an iron helmet. His face looked as if it had been roughly hewn from granite with a butter knife and his eyes were without light. It was the face of a man who did not believe in negotiation, but would rely only on the application of raw brute force. And it was the face of a man who had so much wealth and power he believed he would never die.

  ‘‘Reverend,’’ Josephine said, ‘‘being a man of the cloth, you will understand what I’m about to say. Rest and Be Thankful, as the name implies, is a haven, a sanctuary, for outlaws of every stripe. They come here from all over the West to recover from their unlawful exertions, lick their wounds—’’

  ‘‘And spend their money,’’ Remorse said.

  ‘‘Exactly.’’ Josephine smiled. ‘‘They give a large percentage of their ill-gotten gains to me, one way or another. Reverend, this town is booming.’’

  ‘‘Why are you telling me this, Josephine?’’ Remorse asked.

  ‘‘Because I wish you to refrain from . . . ah . . .’’

  ‘‘Smiting?’’

  ‘‘Excellent word! Yes, refrain from smiting wrong-doers while they are within the town limits. Once they leave’’—Josephine shrugged—‘‘well, do as you please.’’

  ‘‘And in return?’’

  ‘‘You and McBride go on my payroll. The outlaws in this town expect protection from lawmen, bounty hunters and others who would do them harm. So far, my son’s fast gun and Marshal Harlan’s rope have done just that. But I need a couple more revolver-savvy men to ensure that the peace around here is maintained, especially since a new venture I’m working on will come to fruition soon and I’ll require additional guns.’’

  Josephine waited for a reply and when none was forthcoming, he said, ‘‘Here’s my proposition: one hundred and twenty dollars a month and every time I ask you to kill a man you get a fifty-dollar bonus. Come now, gentlemen, I can’t say fairer than that.’’

  Remorse turned to McBride. ‘‘John?’’

  The big man rose to his feet. ‘‘Josephine, I’m willing to let bygones be bygones.’’

  ‘‘That’s first-rate,’’ Josephine said, beaming. ‘‘Mc-Bride, you’re true-blue.’’

  ‘‘And this is what I want in return,’’ McBride said, as though he hadn’t heard.

  ‘‘Anything within reason. Go ahead, young man.’’

  ‘‘I want you and your son out of this town within five days. You can take with you one rifle and what you can carry on a single pack mule.’’

  Josephine looked baffled, unable to believe what he was hearing, and Remorse’s delighted laugh did not help his state of mind. Beside him, his son stiffened, his eyes blazing.

  ‘‘Are you . . .’’ Josephine almost choked on his words and had to start again. ‘‘Are you threatening me?’’

  ‘‘I’m doing exactly that.’’

  ‘‘Why, you piece of worthless trash, I chew up low-lifes like you and spit them out into the dirt.’’

  ‘‘Five days, Josephine,’’ McBride said. ‘‘If you’re
still here after that time, I’ll find you and kill you.’’

  Lance brushed his coat away from his gun, a searing anger in him. ‘‘Pa, let me take him right now.’’

  Remorse was on his feet. ‘‘Boy, skin that Colt and there will be dead men on the floor.’’ He smiled. ‘‘The Josephine line could suddenly become extinct.’’

  ‘‘Let it be, Lance,’’ Josephine said. ‘‘Our time will come.’’ He slammed back his chair and stood. ‘‘Get out of here, both of you.’’

  Remorse touched his hat. ‘‘Thanks for the job offer, and God bless you.’’

  ‘‘Get out!’’

  ‘‘Five days,’’ McBride said. ‘‘Remember.’’ Josephine’s face was black with rage. ‘‘McBride, this was ill done. You’ve just signed your own death warrant.’’

  Chapter 23

  ‘‘You make friends easily, don’t you, John?’’ Remorse said. They were standing outside Josephine’s bank and the reverend was smiling.

  ‘‘I’m bringing it to a head, Saul,’’ McBride said. ‘‘Now I’m going to talk to Dora Ryan and make her the same offer I made to Jared Josephine.’’

  ‘‘Garter gun.’’

  ‘‘Huh?’’

  ‘‘Dora will have a garter gun. I guarantee it. Probably a Derringer.’’

  McBride nodded. ‘‘I’ll keep that in mind.’’

  ‘‘I’m heading to the courthouse,’’ Remorse said. ‘‘I want to check on something.’’

  ‘‘I’ll meet you back at the livery in an hour,’’ McBride said. ‘‘After I talk with Dora I have a feeling I’ll have worn out my welcome in this town.’’

  ‘‘Keep your powder dry, John, and keep turning your head. You’re a marked man, you know. Pity you don’t have a dog. A dog will watch a man’s back.’’

  McBride grinned. ‘‘I’ve got a cat.’’

  ‘‘Not quite the same thing, though, is it?’’

  McBride turned to walk away, then stopped. ‘‘Saul, I need to send a wire, but I don’t want to do it from here. Every word will get back to Jared Josephine.’’

  ‘‘Lincoln is the closest town,’’ Remorse said. ‘‘After we meet at the livery we can head down that way. It’s only an hour’s ride.’’

  ‘‘All right, we’ll do that,’’ McBride said. Suddenly he was looking forward to seeing Lincoln. Billy the Kid, the carefree Prince of Bandits, had made a daring escape from there.

  The clerk with the patent leather hair and smug smile was on duty at the Kip and Kettle. He was asleep, his crossed feet propped up on his desk. McBride slapped the man’s shoes, and he woke up with a start.

  He didn’t look pleased to see the big man looming over him. ‘‘I thought you was dead,’’ he said, getting to his feet. ‘‘You lose that cat?’’

  ‘‘Sorry to disappoint you on both counts.’’ McBride smiled. ‘‘I’m still alive and the cat is at the livery stable.’’

  The clerk pretended to be busy with a ledger and didn’t look up as he said, ‘‘What can I do for you?’’

  ‘‘I’m here to see Miss Ryan.’’

  ‘‘She’s in her suite and left orders that she is not to be disturbed.’’

  ‘‘What’s the room number?’’

  ‘‘That is confidential.’’

  Now the clerk lifted his eyes to McBride, and found himself looking into the muzzle of the big man’s Colt.

  ‘‘Mister,’’ McBride said, ‘‘I’m pretty sick and tired of this town and everybody in it, including you. Now, do you tell me the room number or do I scatter your brains all over the floor?’’

  The man’s attitude changed immediately. He swallowed hard and gasped quickly, ‘‘Room twenty-five. Top of the stairs, then right.’’

  ‘‘What’s your name?’’ McBride asked, smiling as he shoved the gun back in his waistband.

  ‘‘Silas, Silas Wyllie.’’

  ‘‘Thank you, Silas. You’ve been a big help.’’

  McBride took the stairs two at a time, then walked along the hallway to Dora’s room. He rapped on the door. No answer. He knocked again, louder this time.

  Suddenly Wyllie was at his elbow, looking worried. ‘‘Miss Dora will fire me for this,’’ he said. ‘‘She left strict instructions that she wasn’t to be disturbed on any account.’’

  ‘‘Is anyone with her?’’

  The clerk hesitated, conflicting emotions tangled on his face.

  ‘‘Is anyone with her?’’ McBride repeated.

  ‘‘A woman.’’

  ‘‘What woman?’’

  Wyllie looked miserable, like a sad, white-faced clown. ‘‘Miss O’Neil,’’ he said finally.

  McBride nodded. He tried the door but it was locked. He took a step back and kicked it in. The shattered door slammed back against the wall with a crash that made the clerk shriek in alarm.

  Dora Ryan lay facedown and still on the floor near the curtained window. She was wearing a red silk robe that did little to conceal the blood that gleamed wetly around the blade of the knife buried in her back.

  McBride stepped past the body and checked the bedroom. It was empty.

  ‘‘Oh Lordy, this is terrible,’’ Wyllie wailed, fluttering his hands. ‘‘Poor Miss Dora.’’

  Ignoring the man, McBride kneeled beside the body. Denver Dora Ryan had been dead for quite a while, an hour at least. Four inches of steel blade had entered her back between the shoulder blades and she must have died very quickly. The knife was a cheap, Sheffield-made Bowie, available by the dozen in any general or gun store.

  Wyllie was bent at the waist looking at the body, wringing his hands.

  ‘‘Did you see Clare O’Neil leave?’’ McBride asked.

  The clerk shook his head, his bottom lip trembling. ‘‘No, no, I didn’t.’’

  ‘‘You were asleep. Could someone have slipped past you?’’

  Wyllie shook his head and a strand of greasy hair fell over his face.

  ‘‘Did you hear anything?’’

  ‘‘No, nothing. I . . . I was asleep.’’

  ‘‘Is there another way out of the hotel?’’

  ‘‘Yes, there’s a stair at the end of the hall that leads to the alley.’’

  McBride rose to his feet and walked along the hallway. At the end was a door that opened onto a timber landing and a flight of stairs to the alley. There was no one in sight.

  He returned to the room where Wyllie sat on a chair with his face in his hands. ‘‘Go tell the marshal what happened,’’ he said.

  When the clerk looked up, his face was stained with tears. ‘‘What do I tell him?’’

  ‘‘Just what you told me.’’

  Wyllie got to his feet and brushed past McBride. He turned at the ruined doorway. ‘‘Miss Dora didn’t deserve this,’’ he said. ‘‘She was a real nice lady.’’