Ralph Compton Blood on the Gallows

by Joseph A. West

  Remorse drew rein, smiled and doffed his hat. ‘‘Buenos dias, senora. Como esta usted?’’

  The woman ignored Remorse, her eyes lifting to McBride. ‘‘It is not seemly or wise to speak with an angel of death. Therefore I will ask you: have you come to visit my son?’’

  McBride was taken aback. ‘‘Senora, I don’t think I know your son.’’

  ‘‘You know him. His name is Alarico Garcia. He saved you from the rope of Harlan the hangman. Alarico told me you were a tall man with wide shoulders and that you wore a strange, round hat. Who else could you be but the man my son described to me?’’

  ‘‘My name is John McBride, senora. And yes, I remember your son. He saved my life and I would be happy to see him again.’’

  ‘‘It is not far,’’ the woman said. ‘‘Just down the trail to the fort a ways, then among the cottonwoods growing around a stream that runs off the Rio Bonito. We will find him there.’’

  A flurry of rain spattered over McBride, and Remorse’s white hair was streaming across his face in a rising wind. The woman lifted a gnarled brown hand, held her shawl under her chin as her long skirt slapped against her legs. Her eyes were black and intent on Remorse.

  She pointed a bony finger at him, and said to McBride, ‘‘He can’t come with us, that one.’’ To the big man’s surprise, the woman bowed her head to Remorse and said quietly, ‘‘Muerte Santo, usted puede visitarme pronto.’’

  The reverend pushed the hair from his face with the fingers of his left hand. His face was pale and unsmiling, his good mood of the morning seemingly gone. ‘‘Como usted desea, senora,’’ he said. ‘‘Le vendre.’’

  Again the woman bowed, this time from the waist. She reached into the pocket of her skirt and produced a string of black rosary beads. She held them in her hand as she said to McBride: ‘‘We will go now.’’

  For his part McBride was baffled. He looked at Remorse and said, ‘‘Now, what was all that jabbering about?’’

  Remorse smiled. ‘‘She called me Muerte Santo, Saint Death, and asked me to visit her soon.’’

  ‘‘And what did you say?’’ McBride’s eyes were wide, like those of a man groping his way through a thick fog.

  ‘‘I told her I would.’’

  McBride shook his head. ‘‘Saul, you are one strange hombre.’’

  Remorse grinned faintly. ‘‘Aren’t I, though? Now go with the woman. It is not far. I will wait for you here.’’

  McBride, feeling it would be impolite to ride while the woman walked, climbed out of the saddle and fell into step beside her, leading the mustang.

  The rain was heavier now, the wind stronger. To the north the Capitan Mountains were shrouded in cloud. On both sides of McBride and the woman a shifting mist coiled around the mesas and drifted into the arroyos like a gray ghost. The rutted wagon road was filmed with mud that spattered the bottom of the woman’s skirt. She neither noticed nor seemed to care as she fingered her beads, her lips moving.

  After fifteen minutes the woman left the road and McBride followed. They walked across flat, sandy ground covered with purple prickly pear and cholla; then the land changed gradually into a greener stretch that slanted downward toward a mist-ribboned stand of cottonwoods.

  A gray fox nosing around the base of the trees lifted its head as McBride and the woman got closer. It watched them for a few moments, then vanished silently into the grayer mantle of the rain.

  ‘‘My son lies there,’’ the woman said. She indicated a sunken rectangle covered thinly with small rocks and polished pebbles from the nearby stream in the shape of a cross. There was no marker and the grave of Alarico Garcia lay at a distance from the cottonwoods where the ground was less likely to flood during the spring snowmelt that would happen soon.

  McBride took off his hat and stood by the grave. No words of comfort for the woman came to him and he was silent.

  ‘‘That is where my son sleeps,’’ the woman said. ‘‘He had just reached his eighteenth year when the hangman and the others came for him.’’ She shook her head. ‘‘So young. They killed five other men in our village, but I buried Alarico here. He and his wife used to visit this place often because they said it was so lovely and peaceful.’’

  McBride now found himself on firmer ground. War talk came more easily to him. ‘‘Who was with Harlan? Do you know their names?’’

  The woman nodded. ‘‘Sí, I know their names. With Harlan came the banker Jared Josephine and his son. I heard him called Lance. There were two others, men I’d never seen before.

  ‘‘Our village is a couple of miles from here, on the Rio Bonito, and Harlan came and asked for the men who had set you free from his jail. He told us if the guilty men didn’t step forward he would choose ten men from the village and hang them. My son and the men who had been with him at the jail stepped forward, wishing to save others from death. Then the hangman and the rest drew their guns and shot them all down.’’

  ‘‘Senora,’’ McBride said, ‘‘I don’t have the words to tell you how sorry I am. Alarico was a fine young man. I promise you, I will do my best to avenge his death.’’

  ‘‘Alarico talked about you often, the big, ugly gringo with the kitten and the funny hat. He made me laugh. That is why I wanted you to visit him. Now you must stand at his grave and tell him what you just told me, that you will avenge his death.’’

  ‘‘I will tell him that. But, senora, how did you know I would be on the wagon road?’’

  ‘‘One of the men from the village saw you in Lincoln. He told me you would probably return to Jared Josephine’s town. I walked to the road and I waited. I was willing to wait a long, long time.’’

  McBride was oddly touched. ‘‘Senora, is there anything I can do for you?’’

  The woman shook her head. ‘‘No, my life is over. But you will get justice for my son, and then I will lie down on my bed and turn my face to the wall. Soon your friend, Muerte Santo, with his white hair and eyes that never show mercy, will come for me.’’

  The big man managed a smile, slight and strained under his ragged mustache. ‘‘Senora, my friend’s name is Saul Remorse. He was a railroad lawyer in . . . in a city far to the east of here. After his wife died he traveled west and became a preacher, a padre. He’s not what you think.’’

  The woman’s drawn, prematurely aged face lifted to McBride, and rain rolled down her furrowed cheeks like tears. ‘‘You’ve told me what he was, senor. But I know what he is.’’

  Chapter 25

  The woman was obviously disturbed, and John McBride let it go. ‘‘Can I walk you back to your village?’’ he asked.

  She shook her head. ‘‘No, that is not needed.’’ She touched his chest lightly with her fingertips and looked into his eyes. ‘‘Listen, senor, what I am about to tell you might be important or it might not be. It may help you bring down Jared Josephine and his nest of murderers and thieves or it may not. Two miles to the north of Josephine’s town is the Capitan Pass. To the west of where the pass first begins to cut into the mountains, there is a house that sits by itself, hidden by trees. Go there, talk to the woman you find at the house. She has a baby with her.’’

  Thunder rumbled in the distance and the branches of the cottonwoods by the stream shook. ‘‘What can this woman tell me?’’ McBride asked.

  ‘‘Maybe nothing, maybe much. Go there. Talk to her.’’

  Without another glance, the woman turned on her heel and walked back toward the road. McBride stood and watched her go, the rain hissing around him. He turned and looked down at the grave.

  ‘‘I’ll get Harlan for you, Alarico,’’ he said. ‘‘Him at least, and maybe the rest of them. That’s a promise.’’

  He gathered up the reins of the mustang and stepped into the saddle. But when he reached the bend of the wagon road, Saul Remorse was not there.

  McBride sat his horse and his eyes searched the high country around him. He saw only an empty wilderness of mesas streaked with bands of red and y
ellow, blue, distant mountain peaks and hanging meadows where juniper, piñon and wildflowers grew, all this behind a shifting mantle of rain.

  Where was Remorse?

  Maybe a tracker like old Bear Miller could have found him, but McBride had no such skill. He settled for a guess—that Remorse had grown tired of waiting and had headed for Rest and Be Thankful. He was probably idling on the trail, waiting for McBride to catch up to him.

  That explanation was as good as any, and McBride left the wagon road and took a dimmer trail that angled northwest toward town. He rode through slanting rain, the thunder he’d heard at the grave still a distant booming. The ground here was about five thousand feet above the flat and rising. Thickets of trees and huge, tumbled boulders crowded the trail on both sides of him, and a few miles to the north the slopes of the Capitan peaks were forested with oak and ponderosa pine. Higher, yellow bands of aspen trembled in the wind and above those, spears of fir and spruce spiked the sky.

  McBride saw no sign of Remorse on the trail and when the rooftops of Rest and Be Thankful came in sight he drew rein and considered his options.

  Remorse was probably in town, but the reverend could take care of himself. In any case, he wouldn’t make any gun moves until McBride joined him.

  Capitan Pass was just a couple of miles to the north, and the Mexican woman had said someone was there who might be able to help him. Did she really know something about Jared Josephine that could help bring him down? It was not yet noon, plenty of time to talk to the mystery woman and get back to town well before dark.

  McBride made up his mind. He’d ride to the pass and hear what the woman had to say. That is, if she’d talk to him. A big, rough-looking man riding an ill-favored, eight-hundred-pound mustang might not be the most welcome of guests for a lone female.

  Well, maybe he could put that ol’ McBride Irish charm to work—if he could still find it.

  McBride studied the entrance to the pass, which yawned open in front of him like the doors of a great stone cathedral.

  A mile high, on the cold, gray rocks of the flanking mountains, a rain-lashed wind tossed the branches of the aspens and on the higher plateaus the spruce bent and straightened, then bent again in an elegant minuet. Against an iron gray backdrop, massive black clouds scudded over the peaks, but the thunder had fallen silent for now.

  McBride rode closer to the pass, then swung west, skirting the foothills. The woman had told him he’d see a solitary house hidden by trees. He saw nothing but shadows in the arroyos and impenetrable, dark olive screens of juniper, mesquite and piñon.

  Then he smelled wood smoke, just a fleeting tang in the wind.

  Reining up the mustang, McBride lifted his head and let the morning talk to him. There it was again, the musky odor of burning wood. His eyes searched the foothills and after a few moments he saw a drift of smoke rising behind a stand of trees, hanging briefly in the air until it was shredded by wind and rain.

  He kneed the mustang toward the trees, swung wide around them, and almost rode into the side wall of a log cabin. McBride made his way to the front and drew rein. The cabin had two curtained windows and a well-made pine door with a small glass panel. A pole corral stood a ways off and there was a lean-to barn and a few other small buildings. A water pump was situated near the front of the cabin where it would be handy, overhung by the branches of a solitary cottonwood. The place looked homey and well cared for, the only jarring note a freshly painted sign next to the pump that read:

  PRIVATE PROPERTY

  KEEP OUT

  McBride suddenly felt exposed out there in the open. The woman who lived in the cabin obviously did not care for visitors and she might be unneighborly enough to back up her warning sign with a Sharps big fifty.

  He sat his saddle in the rain, thinking that maybe he should just ease on out of there and return another day when the gal was in a friendlier state of mind.

  But McBride never got a chance to act on that thought.

  Suddenly a young woman appeared in the doorway, a Volcanic thirty-shot carbine in her hands. The beautifully crafted rifle did not match the ugly expression on her face.

  ‘‘What do you want?’’ she demanded. The woman was dark, Mexican and very pretty. The brass-framed, .38-caliber Volcanic was rock-steady, pointed right at McBride’s chest.

  He touched his hat brim, slowly. ‘‘Name’s John McBride, ma’am,’’ he said, smiling, hoping his charm would shine through.

  ‘‘Never heard of you, now be off,’’ the girl said, moving the rifle muzzle upward only an inch to make her point.

  Realizing that some fast talking was in order, McBride said quickly, ‘‘Senora’’—suddenly he realized that he’d never asked the old woman her name, but it must surely be the same as her son’s—‘‘Senora Garcia said I should talk with you.’’

  ‘‘What about?’’

  To McBride’s relief she showed a sudden flare of interest and he took a wild stab at an answer. ‘‘Jared Josephine.’’

  Something happened in the girl’s eyes that told McBride he’d struck a nerve.

  ‘‘How do you know Beatriz Garcia?’’ the girl asked.

  ‘‘I knew her son, Alarico. He saved my life a while back.’’

  Now recognition dawned in the girl’s dark eyes. ‘‘You were the gringo in the jail, the one who tried to save the shepherd boy.’’

  McBride nodded. ‘‘Yes. I’m becoming pretty famous for that total failure.’’

  The woman lowered her rifle. ‘‘My name is Julieta Milena Santiago. You can put your pony up in the barn, then please to come inside.’’

  McBride did as he was told and returned to the cabin. The little house was plainly furnished but clean and to McBride’s joy a pot of coffee simmered on the stove. Off to one side, near a window, was an obviously store-bought cradle, an unusual purchase in the West where such things were made by a male relative or by the father himself.

  Julieta was replacing the Volcanic in a gun rack, but she followed McBride’s gaze and said, ‘‘He’s asleep.’’

  McBride stepped softly to the cradle and glanced inside. The baby lay on his back, his upraised hands making two tiny fists. ‘‘How old is he?’’ he asked.

  ‘‘Just three months. His name is Simon.’’

  ‘‘Congratulations,’’ McBride said. ‘‘And that’s a crackerjack name. He’s a beautiful baby.’’

  For a fleeting moment, he saw a wound in Julieta’s eyes; then it was gone.

  ‘‘Coffee?’’ she asked.

  ‘‘Please.’’

  McBride sat at the table and set his hat beside him as the girl brought cups. She poured coffee for them both, then asked, ‘‘What did Beatriz tell you about me?’’

  ‘‘Nothing really, just that you had a baby and lived near Capitan Pass.’’ McBride tried his coffee, found it good, then said, ‘‘Was this your husband’s idea, to live way out here?’’

  Julieta’s voice was level, cool. ‘‘I do not have a husband.’’

  ‘‘Sorry,’’ McBride said, frantically searching for the right words. ‘‘I just thought—’’

  ‘‘No need for apology. The baby is not mine.’’

  Relief flooded through McBride. He had not made a mess of things, at least not yet. ‘‘Ah, so you just take care of him.’’

  ‘‘Yes, I take care of him.’’ The girl’s beautiful brown eyes were level on McBride’s. ‘‘I do it for money.’’