Ralph Compton Blood on the Gallows

by Joseph A. West

  Now McBride asked the question that had been on his mind. ‘‘Why are you telling me this, Saul?’’

  ‘‘Because Shem, a little fatigued by his exertions, is at this moment relaxing in Rest and Be Thankful and he plans on calling you out.’’

  McBride was startled. ‘‘Why?’’

  ‘‘Because you’re the man who killed Hack Burns. Good ol’ Shem thinks gunning you will look real good on his curriculum vitae.’’

  McBride’s eyes were wide. ‘‘You waited this long to tell me?’’

  ‘‘Told you, it plumb slipped my mind.’’

  ‘‘How good is he?’’ McBride could have bitten his tongue. He did not really want to hear the answer and when it came it was even worse than he feared.

  ‘‘Shem Trine is good, real smooth and fast on the draw and he hits what he aims at. He’ll gun you, John, step over your body and then go have breakfast.’’

  Shem Trine . . . Thad Harlan . . . Lance Josephine . . . all of them fast guns. McBride saw the odds stacking against him and suddenly he felt downright vulnerable.

  ‘‘And Shem isn’t the only one,’’ Remorse continued cheerfully. ‘‘Right now I could name maybe six hard cases who want to call you.’’

  ‘‘Why now?’’ McBride asked. ‘‘I mean all of a sudden, why does every tinhorn gunman in town plan to draw down on me?’’

  ‘‘Well, it took a while for the news to get around that you’re the ranny who gunned ol’ Hack. I’d guess Thad Harlan spread the word to those he knew wanted to build a rep.’’

  McBride stared into the rain, then at the drips ticking off the overhang. A gusting wind stirred the flames of the fire and gently rocked the coffeepot sitting on the coals. Remorse picked up the pot and set it in a safer place.

  ‘‘You got something on your mind, John?’’ he asked. ‘‘I mean about where we go from here.’’

  ‘‘No, but I’m open to suggestions.’’

  ‘‘We stay right where we are for five, six days until we see if your telegram got any results. Our time won’t entirely be wasted because we can ride out from time to time and keep an eye on Julieta’s place.’’

  McBride looked around him moodily, at the wet lava rock and the dripping sagebrush. ‘‘Set here, in this place? For six days?’’

  ‘‘We’ll be comfortable enough. Back in Lincoln I imposed on Bartholomew’s good nature to pack us food for the trail. He sacked up enough coffee and salt pork to keep us fed for a week.’’

  ‘‘Saul, I gave Jared Josephine five days to get out of town, and he’s already used up one of them.’’

  ‘‘So, you let him have a couple of extra days to pack up his stuff and leave. He’ll think that’s real nice of you.’’

  The reverend’s sarcasm was not lost on McBride, but he finally saw the logic of Remorse’s suggestion. If his telegram did what it was supposed to do, it would certainly make their job a lot easier. It was worth the wait.

  After a while Remorse said, ‘‘John, Shem Trine is troubling you, isn’t he?’’

  McBride’s face was stiff. ‘‘Yes, he troubles me. Him, Harlan, Lance Josephine and those six other hard cases you mentioned.’’

  ‘‘You don’t think you’re good enough with the Colt?’’

  ‘‘No, I don’t. Despite all you hear about Hack Burns, I have never thought I was good enough with the Colt.’’

  ‘‘Well, you’re right about that. You’re nowhere near good enough.’’

  The unexpectedness of Remorse’s remark made McBride laugh. ‘‘Reverend, you surely know how to reassure a man.’’

  ‘‘Just stating fact, John. But don’t worry, I’ll be with you and I’m more than good enough.’’

  McBride smiled and Remorse’s eyes met his. For a fleeting, terrifying instant before Remorse looked away, McBride felt he was drowning in a bottomless pool, plunging into blue depths that lay dark and cold and hidden. He shivered, the unbidden thought coming to him that he was looking into the eyes of a man long dead.

  He shook his head, clearing that image from his mind, chiding himself for his own vivid imagination. And Remorse said, ‘‘Is something the matter, John?’’

  ‘‘No, nothing. Nothing at all.’’

  The reverend stared into the teeming rain, his white hair streaming, the skin of his face drawn back tight against the skull. ‘‘Something’s the matter,’’ he said.

  He took his Bible from his saddlebags and began to read, as McBride’s unsettled silence echoed between them like a tolling bell.

  On the fourth day of their six-day wait, McBride watched Saul Remorse practice with his guns. The reverend was lightning fast out of the shoulder holsters, but he worked for an hour on his draw, shucking, then reholstering the Remingtons, his hands a constant blur of movement, his eyes intense, focused. Finally he fired, shooting from the waist, and the ten fist-sized lava rocks he’d lined up exploded one by one into ashy powder. It seemed to McBride that the racketing drumroll of the big revolvers lasted only an instant, about as long as it took him to blink.

  The noise of the shots still clanging in his ears, McBride whistled through his teeth. ‘‘Saul, that’s some shooting.’’

  Remorse smiled as he spun the Remingtons back into the holsters. ‘‘Now you, John.’’ He found five more rocks and set them up on a shelf of lava. ‘‘Let me see how you work.’’

  McBride scanned the distance between himself and his targets. ‘‘A bit far, isn’t it?’’

  ‘‘Twenty yards.’’ Remorse shrugged. ‘‘If you can hit a rock at twenty you can kill a man at five.’’

  McBride took up his erect, police-taught shooting stance, his Colt straight out in front of him at eye level. He aimed carefully, held his breath, and fired. He hit four of the five rocks, his miss close enough to scar the lava an inch to one side of the target.

  Remorse nodded his approval. ‘‘Not at all bad, John. But let’s hope when the ball opens you’re not called upon to shoot in a hurry.’’

  ‘‘Are you talking about a fast draw?’’ McBride asked testily, feeling damned by the reverend’s faint praise.

  ‘‘No, I’m talking about survival,’’ Remorse said.

  Chapter 28

  The six days were over.

  McBride and Remorse rode into Rest and Be Thankful just as dawn was breaking and the sky was aflame with gaudy streaks of scarlet and purple. The town was quiet at that early hour, the streets deserted, puddles left by an overnight rain reflecting bloodred. There was no wind and the air smelled of packed humanity, of overflowing outhouses, stale beer, staler perfume and everywhere the heavy, musky odor of human sweat that seemed to impregnate the soft pine planks of the saloons and dance halls.

  When the two men walked their horses into the livery, Jed Whipple was there to greet them.

  ‘‘Thought you boys had rode on,’’ the old man said. ‘‘I got to say, the town’s been mighty quiet without you.’’ Whipple’s eyes moved to McBride. He grinned. ‘‘I got to talk to you about your cat, best dang ratter I ever had. He’s only the size of a nubbin’ but he goes right fer them big gray-backs that rustle around in the corners. Since you’ve been gone I’d say he’s done fer an even score of them.’’

  Whipple’s eyes took on a shrewd look. ‘‘How much would you take fer a blue-ribbon, rat-killin’ cat like that ’un?’’

  The calico chose that moment to leave the shadows of the barn and twine himself around the old man’s ankles, purring. It didn’t look in McBride’s direction.

  ‘‘His name is Sammy,’’ he said. ‘‘Have you been feeding him good?’’

  ‘‘He eats what I eat,’’ Whipple said. ‘‘Beans an’ salt pork, an’ bacon when I can afford it. He gets his fair share.’’

  ‘‘Then he’s yours,’’ McBride said. ‘‘Take good care of him.’’

  Whipple touched a crooked finger to his forehead. ‘‘Thankee, Cap’n. He’ll have a good home here with me. And he’ll be company, like.’’

  ‘�
�Where is Jared Josephine?’’ This from Remorse.

  ‘‘Pulled out late last night, driving a Studebaker wagon with a canvas cover. His son, Lance, was ridin’ point and Marshal Harlan was on flank.’’ Whipple’s eyes lifted to Remorse. ‘‘They had an Indian with them, a feller called Tashin who’s been hanging around town for the last three, four days. The word is that up until recently he was a scout for the Army. I heard he’s half Apache, half Comanche and all son of a bitch.’’

  McBride felt his spirits leap. ‘‘He’s pulled out, Saul. Josephine must be planning to travel far if he’s hired himself a scout.’’

  Remorse shook his head. ‘‘John, I’m pretty sure we didn’t scare him. If Jared left town last night it’s for a different reason.’’

  ‘‘He’s headed for the silver mine to stake his claim?’’

  ‘‘That would be a fairly good guess.’’

  McBride looked stricken. ‘‘Or could he have heard about Julieta and the baby?’’

  ‘‘Uh-huh. That would be a reason for hiring an Apache tracker. He wants to find them.’’

  ‘‘But who could have told him?’’

  ‘‘Maybe Clare O’Neil herself if Jared beat it out of her. I’m willing to bet she may have been tied up and gagged in the back of Josephine’s wagon.’’

  Whipple said, ‘‘Ahem.’’ Then he said, ‘‘Sorry to interrupt you boys, but there could be another reason why ol’ Jared and them skedaddled. Strangers began to drift into town yesstiday. They’re hard cases all right, but they don’t seem to be outlaws. Well, at least they ain’t lookin’ over their shoulders all the time.’’

  ‘‘Recognize any of them?’’ Remorse asked.

  ‘‘Nah. They’re tall, lanky fellers carrying Winchester rifles and long-barreled Colts. They all got big mustaches and rowels on their spurs the size o’ tea-cups. That’s all I can tell you.’’

  ‘‘Sounds like Texans,’’ Remorse said. His eyes met McBride’s. ‘‘Maybe your telegram arrived where it was intended after all.’’

  Whipple said, ‘‘I got their wagon behind the barn and a dozen of their horses, two to a stall. Them boys ain’t exactly what you’d call big spenders. The brands ought to tell you something.’’

  Remorse stepped into the shadows of the barn and returned a couple of minutes later. ‘‘Texas brands all right, most of them.’’

  ‘‘Then they’ve got to be Rangers,’’ McBride said. ‘‘Inspector Byrnes came through for me.’’

  Whipple’s face fell. ‘‘You mean to tell me them strangers in town are Texas Rangers?’’

  Remorse nodded. ‘‘McBride sent for them, or at least he asked Inspector Byrnes of the New York Police Department’s bureau of detectives to send for them. He figured the Rangers would more likely heed a telegram from a world-famous sleuth and dime novel hero like Thomas Byrnes.’’

  Whipple, who had ridden outlaw trails in the past, took time to figure out the implications of the Ranger invasion for himself and the town. His unfocused eyes moved to the open barn door. Talking more to himself than Remorse and McBride, he said, ‘‘The Rangers have been helping the Army round up loco ol’ Nana an’ his Chiricahuas an’ runnin’ ’em back to the San Carlos. Must have been a passel of them Texas boys right close on the border.’’

  The old man looked at McBride, his face brightening. ‘‘Hell, what am I worried about? There’s maybe a couple hunnerd outlaws in town right now and only twelve Rangers. Them big mustaches is bucking some mighty long odds.’’

  ‘‘Ever hear of Pat Dooling, Mr. Whipple?’’ Remorse asked. ‘‘A few years back, a bunch of outlaws decided to tree a town that looked just like this one. They shot up the place, killed a couple of citizens and generally terrified folks. So the mayor sent for the Rangers. When the afternoon train pulled in, Pat Dooling was the only passenger. The mayor was horrified. ‘They only sent one Ranger?’ he asked. Dooling said, ‘How many riots do you have?’ When the mayor said only one, Pat said, ‘Then you only need one Ranger.’

  ‘‘Right after that, Dooling buckled on his guns, cleaned up that town and took the next train home.’’

  Remorse nodded toward the interior of the barn. ‘‘I saw a saddle back there with the initials PD on the skirt. If it is Pat Dooling, he and eleven other Rangers are all it’s going to take, Mr. Whipple.’’

  And he smiled as he saw the old man’s face fall again. All at once Whipple’s voice was unsteady, his washed-out eyes haunted. ‘‘Reverend, in my day I’ve been a wicked, sinful man, killing, robbing and hoss stealing, to name just a few. And I’ve dallied long with loose women and drank ardent spirits to excess.’’ He took a couple of steps toward Remorse. ‘‘I don’t know what’s going to happen to this outlaw town with the Rangers here an’ all, and I don’t know what’s going to happen to me, so I need to ask you something.’’

  ‘‘If it’s a boon you seek, Mr. Whipple, ask away. You’ve always taken good care of my horse.’’

  ‘‘Give me your blessing, Reverend.’’

  ‘‘With the greatest of pleasure,’’ Remorse said. ‘‘I always favor a man who fervently wishes to return to the straight and narrow path of righteousness.’’

  The reverend put on a great show of blessing Whipple. As he made a cross in the air, he was an incongruous sight in his clerical collar, flowing white hair, butt-forward Remingtons holstered on each side of his chest.

  When the blessing was done, Whipple said, ‘‘Thankee, Reverend, it feels real good to be back in the fold.’’

  ‘‘Hallelujah, brother.’’ Remorse smiled benignly, resting his hand on the old man’s head. ‘‘And amen.’’

  McBride gathered up the reins of the mustang. ‘‘I’m going after Josephine,’’ he said. ‘‘I’m concerned about Julieta being out there by herself.’’

  ‘‘An excellent thought, John, and I’ll ride with you. But first, some breakfast. I’m all used up after six days of nothing but salt pork and coffee.’’

  ‘‘I could eat a steak and maybe six eggs myself,’’ McBride said. He sounded uncertain. ‘‘I guess we can spare the time.’’

  ‘‘Of course we can. Now, let’s head for the nearest restaurant.’’

  McBride noticed that the Kip and Kettle Hotel was still open, as though the death of Dora Ryan had not mattered in the least. He suspected that Jared Josephine had taken over the place and it was business as usual.

  At Remorse’s insistence, since it was the nearest restaurant, they ate their steak and eggs in the hotel dining room, among a crowd of hungry, if sullen and hungover, fellow diners. There was no sign of the waitress, Mrs. Davis, whose husband had been killed by Lance Josephine. In her place was a young, pretty redhead who took their order efficiently and was quick with the coffeepot.

  McBride and Remorse ate their steak and eggs in record time, then walked outside to the hitching rail. Remorse began to tighten his cinch but froze as a voice snarled behind him, ‘‘Step away, Reverend.’’

  McBride walked from behind Remorse’s gray and saw a small, thin man standing in the street, flanked by two grinning hard cases. He recognized one of the men as Ed Beaudry, the kitten tormenter he’d tangled with when he first rode into town. Beaudry seemed none the worse for wear, though his gleeful grin was almost toothless.