Good Day For A Hangin' (Remington Book 2)

by Robert Vaughan

  “Do you really think there is a difference between justice and vengeance?” Mother Superior asked.

  “There is a difference,” Jim said. “But sometimes vengeance can be served by justice.”

  “I have heard that Judge Barnstall is a very hard man. Is it true that he sent three men to the gallows yesterday?’

  “Yes, Mother Superior. But never have three men deserved such a fate more than they.”

  “I pray for the day when justice can be administered with a more gentle hand,” Mother Superior said. “But I do understand that there is a proper place and time for the sword of Gideon.”

  “This is such a time, Mother Superior. Four men killed and raped a farmer’s family.”

  Mother Superior looked up. “James, are they the same ones?”

  “I don’t know. But the man who was murdered was Judge Barnstall’s uncle. It may not be the same people who murdered Ned’s wife, but Ned understands the pain Judge Barnstall feels. And when he brings these men in, vengeance will be served by justice.”

  “Yes, I can see why Ned might want to go after these men. Do you know where they went?” Mother Superior asked.

  “We don’t know, but they have to be somewhere close. They haven’t had time to get too far away.”

  “I just pray that Mr. Remington’s judgment is not impaired by thinking of his own sorrow,” Mother Superior said.

  “Have no fear about Ned’s judgment, or his skills,” Jim said. “He is the perfect man for this job.”

  “I suppose so. Still, when I look into Katy’s room and see him sitting there, so gentle, so loving with his daughter, it is hard to imagine him as a man who could deal with the violence of such men as you have described. I suppose you have come for him?”

  “Yes.”

  “He’s in his daughter’s room. He’s been with her since early this morning. Would you like one of the sisters to show you the way?”

  “No,” Jim said. “I can find it.”

  As Jim started to leave he saw Mother Superior looking at the package of licorice he had brought her. He smiled. “Go ahead, have a piece now,” he said, smiling.

  Mother Superior put it on her desk.

  “No,” she said. “Not until after vespers. If I’m to give in to a vice, I shall at least keep it under control.”

  Jim chuckled. “Whatever you say.”

  He walked down a long corridor to the last door on the right. He saw that the door was ajar, so he pushed it open quietly and looked inside.

  The room was dark. Katy sat in a rocking chair on one side of the room, rocking slowly, staring blankly off into space with those terrible frightened eyes Mother Superior had spoken of. She was humming a tuneless little song.

  On the opposite side of the room, standing there and looking out the window, Jim saw his boss, U.S. Marshal Ned Remington. From this angle a beam of light splashed through the window, and Jim could see that the cold, steely eyes that had been the last thing on earth more than one gunfighter had seen were now covered with a light sheen of moisture.

  Tears?

  It was not something any sane man would ever want to point out to Ned Remington.

  Jim cleared his throat.

  “Yeah, Jim,” Ned called. He looked toward his deputy. “Did you take care of things?”

  “Tom Beck and John Angus McKirk,” Jim said. “They’ll be in town today, ready to go.”

  Ned walked over to the bed and picked up his hat. “Good. I promised Judge Barnstall I’d have his prisoners back within a week.”

  “How is she?” Jim asked, nodding toward the young girl in the rocking chair. He knew how she was, hated himself for asking, but he felt that some recognition of her was required.

  Ned looked across the room at his daughter. He was silent for a long moment before he spoke. “Katy,” he said. “How old would you say she is?”

  “I...I wouldn’t say,” Jim replied.

  “She’s twenty-one,” Ned said. “Twenty-one and beautiful. By rights she should be married by now and I should be a grandpa. But look at her, Jim. She’s a child. My beautiful, smart, wonderful daughter is twenty-one and a child. No, not even a child, because when she was a child she could at least talk to me. When she was a baby her face would light up with a smile every time she saw me, or her...her mother,” Ned added painfully. He sighed. “She can’t even do that now. She can’t even smile.”

  Jim stood holding his hat in his hand, turning it slowly.

  “I’m sorry,” he said awkwardly.

  “No,” Ned said. “No, I’m sorry. I had no right to burden you with this. It isn’t your problem, it’s mine.” He stood up and walked over to Katy, kissed her lightly on the cheek, then smiled at Jim. “I know the men I’m going after are probably not the ones who did this to Mary and Katy. But I’ve no doubt that they would have done it if they had the opportunity. So you can understand when I say I’m going to take particular pleasure in bringing these bastards.”

  Chapter 4

  The town of Hollister had 104 inhabitants and two principal streets which formed a V where Turkey Creek began its final run before flowing into the White River. The town was made up of the usual collection of private residences and business establishments. Some of the buildings, by their substantial construction, showed a faith in the future of the town. Others, thrown together from wood scraps and canvas, indicated that the owners were less sure and were ready to move on at a moment’s notice.

  The Bank at Hollister, built of brick, occupied a position right at the intersection of the two streets. Right across from it was a hotel, made of wood, two stories high, with a second-story balcony that ran all the way around the building. Below the balcony, at street level, was a fine wooden porch with a dozen rocking chairs, half of which were occupied when Remington, Beck, and McKirk rode into town.

  A large painted sign hung over the porch, advertising the hotel rooms as the “most luxurious in the county.” The sign swung gently in the late-afternoon breeze and its squeaking could be heard all up and down the street. Just down the street from the hotel was Ma Morgan’s Restaurant, and next door to that, the Red Lion Tavern.

  “Let’s ask a few questions,” Ned said, and the three men dismounted in front of the hotel. Ned handed Beck the reins to his horse while he stepped up onto the porch. The man nearest him spit a quid into a spittoon that sat on the porch, then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. He was a man in his sixties with a long gray beard and a stained hat, pulled low over dark eyes. He looked up at Ned.

  “I’m Marshal Ned Remington, riding for Judge Barnstall’s court out of Galena.”

  “Marshal,” the man said.

  “I’m looking for four men. Could be that they’re right here in Hollister.”

  “I wouldn’t know.”

  “Their names are—” Ned started, but one of the others interrupted him.

  “Marshal, it won’t do no good to give us names. Don’t none of us know a soul what ain’t from right here in town.”

  “What if these men are from Hollister?” Ned asked.

  “Then we wouldn’t be likely to help you bring in one of our own, would we?”

  “You’d be doing the law a favor.”

  “Don’t owe the law no favors,” one of the men said.

  Ned looked around at Beck and McKirk, standing on the porch just behind him. He could get angry, threaten these loafers, but if he got information that way, how reliable would it be? He sighed and turned away from them.

  “What’d they do?” the first man asked.

  “Does it matter?”

  “It might. Iffen they took railroad money, or money from a Yankee bank, then I say more power to ’em.”

  “They murdered a farmer’s family,” Ned said. “But not until after they let him watch them rape his wife and daughter.”

  One of the other men squirted out a stream of tobacco and then leaned back in his chair to cut a new plug. “Why’n’t you say that in the first place?” he asked
.

  “Didn’t figure it made any difference.”

  “It does. Son of a bitches like that needs to be caught, no matter who they be.”

  “Yeah,” one of the others said. “Iffen you catch up with the bastards I hope you’re aimin’ to shoot ’em.”

  “I’m going to take them back to Judge Barnstall’s court and let him hang them,” Ned said.

  “Hangin’s too good for ’em. You ought to shoot ’em down like dogs.”

  “No, I agree with the marshal,” the first man said. “A bullet’s too quick. You ever see a man hang? See the veins pop out on his neck and in his arms? See him kick and squirm at the end of a rope? Hangin’s just what these fellas need.”

  “What were them names again?”

  “William Kimmons, Thomas Gerner, Jacob Newsome, and Ephraim Flatt,” Ned said. “The names mean anything to you?”

  The six men went into a conference, talking quietly among themselves for a moment; then the first one cleared his throat.

  “Ain’t them the same ones shot down Constable Miller last week?”

  “Yes,” Ned said.

  “I thought as much.”

  “Do you know where they might be now?”

  “Old man Newsome owns a farm beyond Kirbyville, near Blackwell’s Ferry Road. He’s got a boy named Jake. Reckon that’s one of your men.”

  “You know this fella Jake?” Ned asked.

  The old man squirted out another stream of tobacco juice. “Yeah, I know him.”

  “Have you seen him around? Do you know if he’s here?”

  “I ain’t seen him, but that don’t mean nothin’. Jake never was the sociable type. Truth is, he could be right out there at his pa’s house and most folks in town would never know it.”

  “I see. Thanks,” Ned said. “Thanks for your help.”

  Ned and the others remounted, rode fifty yards down the street until they came to the Red Lion Tavern. They tied their horses to the hitchrail, then, with three pair of boots clomping across the wooden sidewalk, shoved past the batwing doors and stepped inside. The saloon walls, the floor, the stairs leading up to the second floor, and the bar were constructed of raw unfinished wood. Behind the bar there was a long mirror, and above the mirror a painting of a reclining, fleshy girl in harem pajamas.

  An out-of-tune piano was grinding away at the back of the tavern. There were men at the bar and more at the half-dozen tables. Card games were going on at two of the tables, but the stakes were low and the laughter and banter that came from the players indicated that no one was taking the game very seriously. A girl was standing by the piano, leaning against the wall, looking out over the floor. She smiled when the three men first came in, started toward them, noticed the badges, then stopped and retreated to the piano.

  Ned and the others stepped up to the bar.

  “What’ll it be, gents?” the barkeep asked, running a damp cloth over the bar in front of them.

  Ned and Beck ordered beer, McKirk a scotch. “Would you know if Jake Newsome is around?” Ned asked conversationally.

  “You a friend of his?”

  “No.”

  “Then why are you looking for him?”

  “We want to ask him a few questions,” Ned said. It wasn’t until that moment that the bartender noticed the badges.

  “Oh,” he said. “Well, he ain’t no friend of mine, that’s for sure.”

  “Then you don’t mind telling us where we can find him.”

  “He might be out to his ol' man’s place,” the bartender said. “Charlie would know more about that than me.”

  “Charlie? Who’s Charlie?”

  “Charlie Bell,” the bartender said. He pointed to a man standing at the far end of the bar. The man was of medium height, in his fifties, bald-headed. He was nursing a drink, taking very small sips to make it last a long time. “Charlie works for ol’ man Newsome sometimes.”

  “Give him another of whatever he’s drinking,” Ned said as he moved down the bar toward Charlie.

  “Howdy, Marshal,” Charlie said before Ned opened his mouth. “Figured you fellas would be comin’ after Jake sooner or later.”

  “Why?”

  “The old man said his boy and that bunch he runs with, Flatt, Gerner, and Kimmons, got into a little mischief last week.”

  “If you call killing a constable mischief,” Ned said.

  “They’re sayin’ that was self-defense. They’ve even got a few witnesses who’ll stand up for ’em.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” Ned said. “That’s not why I’m after them. Are they out at Newsome’s house?” The new drink was put before Charlie, and he picked it up.

  “You didn’t have to buy me this, you know. I was gonna tell you ever’thin’ I know anyway. Jake ain’t no account, never has been, never will be. I can’t stay out there and work while he’s aroun’. I’d just as soon he be gone to jail somewhere. Be better for the old man, too, but you can’t get him to see that. He’s blind as a bat when it comes to gettin’ him to understand what a rotten lout his boy is.”

  “I guess some folks just got a blind spot that way,” Beck suggested.

  “How about it, mon?” McKirk asked, his frustration making the brogue more pronounced. “Would you answer the marshal’s question?”

  “You’re Scotch, ain’t you? Fought in the war with a Scotchman. Good man he was, too.” Charlie tossed the new drink down, not bothering to nurse this one as he had the other. “Jake’s out there,” he said. “He’s there, but the other three have gone back down to Arkansas. Fact is, Jake normally lives down there with them. He’s just up visitin’ his pa.”

  “If we get him, we’ll find out where the others are,” Beck said.

  “It ain’t gonna be that easy to get any of them,” Charlie said. “They’re always armed. Hell, Jake don’t go to the outhouse without he’s got a gun with him. He’s a good shot and as mean as they come. He could gut a man as easy as another man might gut a fish.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” Ned said. “We’re going after him.”

  Chapter 5

  Had the three men been making the ride for any other purpose, they might have taken the time to enjoy the beauty of the gentle Ozark hills. The road itself began alongside a wild and rushing stream whose surface was frothed white when tumbling over the rocks, clear and silver when running free. A short distance from town, the road began to climb, and they crossed another creek, which the locals named Coon, and mounted a wide, flat ridge. Cardinals and bluebirds flitted among the dogwood trees while monarch butterflies floated just above a field of daisies. The hills were dappled green and brown in close, blue and purple as they marched off into the distance. Here and there a large jut of rock would lift itself from the verdant growth around it, showing the remains of the cataclysmic fault that had created the Ozark Mountains at the dawn of the ages.

  They smelled the wood smoke before they saw it, spread out in a haze over a small meadow. Beneath the cloud of smoke was a house, one that had obviously been expanded in size over the years. The center part of the house was the oldest; then, protruding from both ends, there were added rooms. Because of the difference in the weathering of the wood it was easy to see where one construction left off and another began.

  Ned signaled a stop and the three riders sat astride their horses for a moment, looking down on the pastoral scene. The smell of cooking meat mingled with the smell of wood smoke, and they heard someone’s loud laugh.

  “‘Pears like they’re about to sit to supper,” Beck observed.

  “Aye, and better than the fare we had a bit ago, I’m thinkin’,” McKirk put in.

  The back door to the house opened and a woman stepped onto the porch, threw out a pan of water, then went back inside.

  “Damn,” Ned swore. “There’s a woman in that house...maybe kids.”

  “What are we gonna do, Ned?”

  Ned rubbed his chin for a moment, then pointed to the tree line around the clearing.

  “Y
ou two move on up as close as you can get without being seen. I’ll ride on down in the open, call him out. Maybe if he thinks I’m the only one here he’ll come out.”

  Beck and McKirk nodded; then, with Beck leading the way, the two deputies moved down to get into position. With his knees, Ned urged his horse down toward the cabin.

  Maybe this wasn’t the right person, he thought. This was obviously a family gathering, kinfolk sitting down to supper together. It seemed unlikely that a man who was close to his kin could brutally murder an entire family the way Jake Newsome was supposed to have done. Those kinds of men tended to be loners...people who didn’t fit in society. How could such a person be here in this house?

  The front door opened and a man came outside when Ned was no closer than sixty feet. The man was tall and thin, with a long, narrow gray beard and long, stringy hair. He was holding a shotgun loosely by his side, and he spit out a stream of tobacco juice as Ned approached.

  “That’s close enough, mister,” the man said. “Would you be Mr. Newsome?”

  “I would be. And this here is my land. What are you doing on it?”

  “Mr. Newsome, my name is Ned Remington. I’m a U.S. marshal. I’ve come to see your son, Jake.”

  “Jake don’t live here no more,” Newsome said. “He lives across the border, down in Arkansas.”

  Ned saw a curtain in the window move, caught sight of a gun barrel just on the ledge.

  “Would you have any idea where in Arkansas I might find him?”

  “Naw. He don’t live in no one place. He sort of wanders around a mite,” Newsome said.

  “I see,” Ned said. He touched the brim of his hat. “I thank you for your time, Mr. Newsome.”

  Ned turned to ride away. If he hadn’t been sure before that Jake was in the house, seeing the gun at the window convinced him. There was nothing to do now but spread the three of them around the house and keep an eye open. Jake couldn’t stay in there forever. When he tried to leave, they’d get him. Suddenly Ned heard the crashing of glass. He didn’t have to think twice about what it was. He felt the hackles rise on the back of his neck. With a shout to his horse he bent low over the neck and slapped his legs hard against the animal’s side. The horse bolted forward just as the sound of the gunshot reached him. A bullet whistled inches over his head. Had he not been bending over at just that moment, the bullet would have hit Ned in the back of the head.