Ralph Compton Blood on the Gallows

by Joseph A. West

  Remorse put his palms against his ears and said, ‘‘John, take that child to Julieta. Please!’’

  McBride sniffed and his face fell. ‘‘I think he’s done something.’’

  ‘‘All the more reason to take him to Julieta.’’

  McBride was dismayed. ‘‘But . . . but I’ll have to carry him all the way. He doesn’t smell too good.’’

  ‘‘You could always take him to Julieta facedown over a horse,’’ Remorse said.

  ‘‘Saul, I can’t do that.’’

  ‘‘You’ll have to carry him, then, won’t you?’’ Remorse winced as the baby’s shrieks reached a crescendo. ‘‘Please, John, just go!’’

  McBride held Simon out to Remorse. ‘‘Hold him while I go back for the horses.’’

  ‘‘I’d rather not.’’

  ‘‘I can’t get the horses and carry a baby at the same time.’’

  Remorse saw the logic of that, and gingerly accepted the screeching child, his face showing his distaste. ‘‘For heaven’s sake hurry,’’ he said.

  As McBride stepped to the door, the reverend called out after him, ‘‘Be careful, John. Thad Harlan is out there somewhere and he surely hates you.’’

  The mustang and Remorse’s gray had not wandered far, keeping to the shelter of the trees. McBride was uneasy over Remorse’s warning about Harlan. But he saw nothing menacing in the darkness, and the only sounds were the fall of the rain and the yips of the coyotes.

  He led the horses back to the cabin, left the mustang out front and put the gray in the barn. When he returned Remorse was still in the kitchen, his nerves frayed by the squalling baby.

  ‘‘Here, take him,’’ he said as soon as he set eyes on McBride. ‘‘Then go!’’

  ‘‘Doesn’t this kid ever sleep?’’ McBride asked, taking the kicking bundle from Remorse’s hands.

  ‘‘He won’t sleep so long as he’s hungry. That’s why you must leave at once.’’

  McBride hesitated a moment, then said, ‘‘Will you be all right . . . with them?’’

  Remorse nodded. ‘‘Yes. I’ll take care of them.’’

  ‘‘Saul, be gentle with Clare. She didn’t have much of a life and she died a terrible death.’’

  ‘‘I know. I’ll take care of her and the other two, John. Now, please leave.’’

  McBride rode away from the cabin into the night, the baby in his arms, inside his slicker. Simon cried constantly and loudly, but McBride tried to look on the bright side. If Harlan was out there somewhere, he wouldn’t come near a shrieking, smelly kid. He was a killer, but he wasn’t stupid.

  The rain hammering against him, lightning flaring in the clouds, McBride rode through the darkness. He figured the only sounds to be heard for miles around were the wails of the baby. Even the coyotes had fallen silent, drowned out by the relentless racket, and the mustang was acting up, irritated by the constant noise.

  But McBride was less annoyed than he’d expected. He was riding away from the horrors of the O’Neil ranch, and he felt that all the violence and dying was already fading into memory behind him. Even the baby in his arms was a symbol of life, not death, and that thought pleased him.

  As he rode past the buttes and peaks of the Capitan Mountains, they were hidden in the gloom, the slopes now and then shimmering white when lightning flashed.

  The baby was still crying incessantly, and McBride lifted him in his arm and asked, ‘‘Would you like me to sing you a lullaby, Simon?’’ He paused as the child howled, then said, ‘‘You do? Good, then I’ll sing you a fine old Irish rebel song.’’ He smiled. ‘‘You’ll like this, Simon.’’

  McBride tilted back his head, and in his tuneless baritone hollered at the top of his lungs:

  ‘‘And tell me, Sean O’Farrell, where the gath’rin’ is to be, At the old spot by the river quite well known to you and me.

  By the rising of the moon, by the rising of the moon, With me pike upon me shoulder by the rising of the moon.’’

  McBride looked down at the baby again. ‘‘How’s that, Simon? Want to hear more?’’

  His only answer was a rending caterwauling that was still tearing apart the fabric of the night as he rode up to Julieta’s cabin and the girl came rushing out to meet him.

  ‘‘What have you done to him?’’ she yelled.

  ‘‘Nothing,’’ McBride protested. ‘‘Well, I sang to him and he cried even worse. He’s hungry. I was going to fry him up some bacon or salt pork but Saul said he needs—’’

  ‘‘I know what he needs,’’ Julieta snapped. She took the baby from McBride and hurried into the cabin, but paused at the door and looked back. ‘‘Maybe you hadn’t noticed, Mr. McBride, but he has no teeth.’’ She shook her head, her eyes blazing. ‘‘Salt pork indeed!’’

  McBride stepped out of the saddle, aware that he’d just been scolded but having no idea why. He was the first to admit that he knew little about women and even less about babies, but Julieta’s reaction surprised him. He’d seen that Simon had no teeth, but he’d planned to cut up the salt pork in real small pieces so the kid could swallow them.

  He walked into the cabin and watched as Julieta prepared food for the baby. She looked incredibly pretty in a pink gingham dress and seemed to be recovering from her ordeal at the hands of the Apache.

  ‘‘There’s coffee on the stove,’’ she said. ‘‘You look like you could use some.’’

  McBride poured himself a cup and sat at the table, watching the girl feed the now silent baby. ‘‘So that’s what a pap boat is,’’ he said, nodding toward the ceramic dish in Julieta’s hand. He smiled. ‘‘Kind of looks like a gravy pourer . . . thing.’’

  ‘‘Who told you about a pap boat?’’ Julieta asked, surprised.

  ‘‘Saul Remorse. I’d never heard of it before.’’

  ‘‘Mother’s milk is best, but when there is none, this is what we do.’’

  McBride looked down at the coffee in his cup. It seemed to him that the silence stretching between him and the girl went on and on forever. Finally she said, ‘‘Tell me what happened.’’

  There was no easy way, and McBride said it straight out. ‘‘Clare O’Neil is dead.’’

  Another silence. McBride heard the tiny sucking noises made by Simon and he saw the sudden start of tears in Julieta’s eyes. ‘‘How did it—’’

  McBride told her.

  And when he was finished, he said, ‘‘Thad Harlan is still out there somewhere. I plan on catching up to him.’’

  Julieta bent and kissed the baby’s head, bathing him with her tears. ‘‘Poor little orphan,’’ she whispered. After a while her eyes lifted to McBride. ‘‘Clare’s mind was not in a good place. You knew about her and Dora Ryan?’’

  McBride nodded. ‘‘Yes, I knew about that.’’

  ‘‘I’m sure that Dora could have helped her, given time. The only problem was that time was something neither of them had. In the end Clare could only cling to her dream of passing the silver mine on to her son.’’

  Managing a smile, McBride said, ‘‘You’re holding a very rich young man in your arms there.’’

  ‘‘A child without parents. How rich can he be?’’

  ‘‘Will you raise him, Julieta? Be a mother to him?’’

  ‘‘Of course I will, and I’ll see that his inheritance is kept for him.’’

  ‘‘Maybe now that Jared Josephine is dead and his ambitions with him, you could move back to town. It’s lonely for a woman out here.’’

  Julieta shook her head. ‘‘This is my home. This is where I’ll raise Simon and watch him grow to manhood.’’

  McBride rose to his feet. ‘‘Julieta, you have courage, a rare kind of courage I can only guess at.’’ He smiled. ‘‘I only wish I was as brave.’’

  The baby was asleep and the girl placed him in his crib. She straightened and looked McBride in the eye. ‘‘Your own courage will soon be put to the test, I think.’’

  ‘‘Harlan?’’

 
; ‘‘Yes, him. A few nights ago I had a dream and at the time I did not know what it meant. I saw a gallows, covered in blood, and a man hanging, a man who had been whipped with a lash.’’ Julieta shuddered. ‘‘The man had your face.’’

  McBride felt a chill, but he tried to shrug off what the girl was telling him. ‘‘I’ll be careful, Julieta.’’ He smiled. ‘‘Take care of the baby.’’

  He stepped to the door and walked into the rain to his waiting horse. When he looked back, Julieta was standing at the door, watching him. A cold, green light showed in the sky to the east and McBride shivered.

  Chapter 33

  John McBride rode into Rest and Be Thankful at the coolest hour of the morning, just as the night was shading into a rainy dawn that made the town look like a smeared watercolor. The Main Street was a sluggish river of yellow mud and the gray buildings seemed to be dissolving slowly into a background of brush flats and distant blue hills.

  He rode into the barn, climbed down from the saddle and turned as Jed Whipple stumped toward him on his bandy legs. ‘‘Welcome, young feller,’’ he said. ‘‘Am I ever glad to see a paying customer.’’ He glanced over McBride’s shoulder. ‘‘Where’s the preacher?’’

  McBride grinned. ‘‘He’ll be along shortly. What’s been happening, Jed?’’

  ‘‘Happening? It seems every outlaw in town’s suddenly developed a bad case of ‘It’s time I was someplace else.’ Them dang Rangers raided every saloon in town last night, cussin’, shovin’ an’ arrestin’. Stillwater Jack Quinlan got hisself kilt. Sassed a Ranger, then drew down on him.’’ The old man shook his head. ‘‘Bad mistake.’’ He sighed. ‘‘Hoodoo Hester, as good a man with a knife as ever was, is lying over to the hotel with three bullets in him an’ he ain’t expected to live. He should’ve knowed better than to pull a Bowie on gunfightin’ men. Oh, an’ Tick Anderson, nice feller, ran with Jesse an’ Frank an’ them for a spell. Well, anyhoo, he jumped out a top window of the Silver Garter cathouse tryin’ to get away. Broke his fool neck an’ he ain’t expected to last out the day.’’

  ‘‘So the outlaws are leaving town in a hurry, huh?’’ McBride said.

  ‘‘Leaving? They’ve left. Well, except for a dozen of the worst of ’em the Rangers are holding over to the jail. One of the big mustaches told me they’re loading them boys into their wagon later this morning. He says they’ll take ’em back to Texas where they can get a fair trial and be hung legal-like.’’

  ‘‘You seen anything of Marshal Harlan?’’ McBride asked.

  ‘‘Neither hide nor hair. You huntin’ him?’’

  ‘‘Yes, I am.’’

  ‘‘Then more fool you, young feller.’’ He nodded in the direction of his office. ‘‘Coffee’s biled. He’p yourself.’’

  Whipple took McBride’s horse to a stall and when he returned McBride had coffee in a tin cup, holding it by the rim, waiting until it was cool enough to drink.

  ‘‘Know how them boys paid me for boarding their horses?’’ Whipple said. He didn’t pause for an answer. ‘‘Rangers’ scrip. They said it would be honored by the great state of Texas.’’ The old man spat into the mud as his feet. ‘‘I got as much chance of seein’ that money as a steer in a packin’ plant.’’

  McBride tried his coffee, burned his tongue and wished he’d waited longer. ‘‘At least they’re not planning to stretch your neck,’’ he said.

  Whipple nodded. ‘‘I got the preacher to thank for that. He does a powerful blessin’ and that’s a natural fact.’’

  Remorse led his gray into the barn just before noon and rousted McBride out of a stall where he’d been sleeping. When the big man had climbed groggily to his feet, the reverend replaced him with his horse, then said, ‘‘Want to give me a rundown, John?’’

  McBride repeated what Whipple had told him, including the death of Stillwater Jack Quinlan and the unfortunate injuries sustained by Hester and Anderson.

  ‘‘So the rats are bolting their hole?’’ he said, throwing his saddle onto the stall divider.

  ‘‘Seems like.’’

  ‘‘Harlan?’’

  McBride shook his head.

  ‘‘Be on your guard, John. He’ll be looking for you and after he finds you he’ll come for me.’’

  ‘‘He won’t need to look hard. I’ll go where he’ll be waiting. Tonight.’’

  ‘‘Want me to come along?’’

  ‘‘No, Saul. This is between me and Harlan.’’

  Remorse leaned his elbow on the divider. For the first time since they’d met, McBride thought the man seemed tired. And he looked older. ‘‘He’s faster with the iron than you, John,’’ he said. ‘‘Think about that.’’

  ‘‘I will, but I’ll wait until dark before I start fretting over it.’’

  It took a few moments, but Remorse said finally, ‘‘Just so you know that the offer stands. If you want me to tag along, you only have to say the word.’’

  McBride nodded. ‘‘I appreciate that, Saul, but I owe Thad Harlan. It’s something I have to do myself.’’

  ‘‘So be it, then.’’ Remorse patted his flat stomach. ‘‘I’m hungry. Let’s go eat.’’

  Whipple stepped out of his office and stopped the two men at the livery door.

  ‘‘Reverend,’’ he said, ‘‘your blessin’ me an’ all worked. Them Rangers left me alone, didn’t even ask where I’d come from or nothin’.’’

  Remorse placed his hand on the old man’s shoulder. ‘‘Jed, they recognized the glow of heavenly purity in you. I’ll wager they said among themselves, ‘There goes a man who has done more than his share of everything that’s wicked in this world, but now he keeps to the righteous path. We will leave him in peace.’ ’’

  ‘‘Damn right,’’ Whipple said, pleased. ‘‘I ain’t wicked no more, at least no more’n most folks.’’

  ‘‘Jed, you are a shining example to us all,’’ Remorse said. ‘‘Keep up the good work.’’

  As Whipple stood in the doorway of the stable, doing his level best to look saintly, McBride and Remorse left for the Kip and Kettle restaurant. ‘‘Soon to be under new management,’’ Remorse noted as they stepped inside.

  The only other customers were a couple of Rangers, stragglers since the others had already left. McBride felt hard eyes on him as he and Remorse sat at a table and ordered coffee, bacon and eggs.

  The waitress poured them both coffee, then left to place their order. One of the lawmen began to rise from his chair. He was a gangly, loose-limbed man who seemed to get up piece by piece, then reassemble himself when he reached his feet. He walked to McBride’s table, his spurs ringing.

  ‘‘Howdy, boys,’’ he said, little friendliness in his greeting. Then he saw Remorse’s clerical collar, his guns hidden by his slicker. Surprised, he touched the brim of his hat. ‘‘Reverend.’’

  ‘‘What can we do for you, my son?’’ Remorse asked.

  The collar had changed the Ranger’s attitude. Now he smiled under his sweeping mustache as he said, ‘‘Not much work for you in this town, Reverend. The outlaws skedaddled out of here so fast they cut holes in the wind.’’

  ‘‘So we heard from the gentleman who owns the livery stable,’’ Remorse said.