Good Day For A Hangin' (Remington Book 2)

by Robert Vaughan

  “Arnold Presley? I’ve got paper on you down at the office. I’ve come to take you in.”

  “You gone crazy, Sheriff?” One of the card players said. “You got no right to bust in here on our card game like this.”

  “I have every right,” the sheriff said. “I’ve got a wanted poster on you in my office, and a gun in my hand. What more do I need?” The sheriff looked over at Ned and his deputies, and Ned realized then why the sheriff had sent them over here. He wanted their backing when he made his arrest.

  Beck started to pull his pistol, but Ned put his hand out to stop him.

  “Ain’t we gonna help him?” Beck wanted to know. “If he has papers, and we’re sworn officers of the law, it’s our duty to help.”

  “We’ll be more help by staying out of it,” Ned said. “If we jump in now, what’s going to happen to Ben after we’re gone? Let’s let him play it out.”

  “Come on, Presley. Let’s go,” the sheriff said. Three of the four card players got up slowly from the table and moved back out of the way. The fourth player, the man Ned figured to be Arnold Presley, remained seated. His hands were still on the table in front of him, still holding the cards.

  “Aw, now, Sheriff, you done went ’n busted up a winnin’ hand,” Presley grumbled.

  “Money won’t be doin’ you any good where you’re goin’,” the sheriff said. “Stand up and face me; then, with your left hand, unbuckle your gun- belt, slow ’n easy.”

  Presley stood up and turned to face the sheriff. For a moment it looked as if he had a notion to try him.

  “I’d advise you not to try anythin’ foolish,” the sheriff said. “Give yourself up peaceful ’n’ you’ll at least get your day in court.”

  “Whose court? Judge Binder’s court? You know he’ll let me go, Sheriff. He did the last time, he’ll do it again.”

  Sheriff Mason grinned. “Binder ain’t the judge no more. They got a new man... a man named Barnstall. Some of your friends have already run into Judge Barnstall. You remember Cullimore, don’t you? And Sisley and Woods?”

  “Yeah, I know ’em. They’re pretty good boys.”

  “Was pretty good boys,” the sheriff replied. “Barnstall hung ’em. Ever’ one of ’em.”

  Presley’s face blanched. “What are you talkin’ about, Sheriff? You plannin’ on sendin’ me up before a hangin’ judge?”

  “That’s about the size of it,” the sheriff said. “Now shuck out of that gunbelt.”

  Ned was watching the drama unfolding before him when he heard a sound, a soft squeaking sound as if weight were being put down on a loose board. He looked up to the top of the stairs and saw a man standing there, aiming a shotgun at the back of the sheriff.

  “Ben, look out!” Ned shouted. When he shouted his warning, the man wielding the shotgun turned it toward Ned.

  “You squealin’ son of a bitch!” he shouted. The shotgun boomed loudly.

  Ned had no choice then. He dropped his beer and pulled his pistol, firing just as the man at the top of the stairs squeezed his own trigger. Ned and the others had jumped away from the bar as the shotgun fired, and it was a good thing, because the heavy charge of buckshot tore a large hole in the top and side of the bar right where the three men had been standing. Some of the shot hit the whiskey bottles and the mirror behind the bar, and pieces of glass flew everywhere. The mirror fell except for a few, jagged shards that hung in place where the mirror had been, reflecting twisting images of the dramatic scene before it.

  Ned’s shot had been more accurately placed, and the man with the shotgun dropped his weapon and grabbed his neck. He stood there, stupidly, for a moment, clutching his neck as blood spilled between his fingers. Then his eyes rolled up in his head and he fell, twisting around so that, on his back, headfirst, he slid down the stairs, following his clattering shotgun. He lay motionless on the bottom step with open but sightless eyes staring up toward the ceiling.

  The sound of the two gunshots had riveted everyone’s attention on that exchange, and while their attention was diverted from him Presley took the opportunity to go for his own gun. The bar was suddenly filled with the roar of another handgun as Presley shot at Sheriff Mason.

  The sheriff had made the mistake of looking at the man Ned shot, and it was nearly his last mistake. Fortunately for the sheriff, Presley’s aim wasn’t as good as Ned’s -had been, and the .44-caliber ball from his gun whistled through the crown of the sheriff’s hat, whipping it off his head but doing nothing more.

  Sheriff Mason recovered quickly from his moment of distraction and whirled back toward Presley, returning his fire. The sheriff’s bullet struck Presley in the forehead, and the impact of it knocked Presley back on a nearby table. He lay belly-up on the table with his head hanging down on the far side, while blood poured from the hole in his forehead to form a puddle below him. His gun fell from his lifeless hand and clattered to the floor. Sheriff Mason swung his pistol toward the three men who had been playing cards with Presley, thumbing back the hammer as he did so.

  “Any of you men aimin’ to take a hand in this?” he asked gruffly.

  “Not me, Sheriff,” one of the men said, throwing up his arms.

  “No, not me, either,” a second one shouted. He, like the other two men, threw up his hands.

  Gunsmoke from the four charges had merged to form a large, acrid-bitter cloud that drifted slowly toward the door. Beams of sunlight became visible as they stabbed through the cloud. Ned heard rapid footfalls on a wood walk outside; then several people stepped in through the swinging doors, drawn by the excitement. They looked at the two bodies on the ground, then at the sheriff, who still had his gun drawn. No one said a word; they just looked at him in shock. This wasn’t the sheriff they had known.

  “I wanna thank you, Marshall,” Sheriff Mason said. “Thank you for stayin’ out while you could... and for comin’ in when you did. And for remindin’ me of my duty,” he added.

  “Glad to be of service,” Ned replied.

  “Don’t worry none about your prisoner,” the sheriff Went on. “He’ll be here when you get back. Sam,” he added, speaking to the bartender.

  “Yes, Sheriff,” Sam answered. Ned noticed there was a newfound respect in the bartender’s voice.

  “Whatever these fellas eat or drink is on the county. I’ll take care of the tab.”

  “In thut case, laddie, I’ll be havin’ a wee bit o’ steak to be goin’ with the pork chops I already ordered,” McKirk said.

  Chapter 8

  Ned and McKirk were sitting in the sheriff’s office drinking coffee when Beck came back from the livery stable. He had taken Gerner’s horse down to be boarded, paying for it by giving the liveryman a chit that could be exchanged in federal court for money.

  “I looked through Gerner’s saddlebags,” he said. “I found this here piece of paper...thought you might make somethin’ out of it.”

  Ned took the paper from Beck and looked at it for a moment.

  “It’s a receipt for a pair of boots,” he said. “Bought at the Boots and Saddles shop in Tahlequah.”

  “Tahlequah? That’s out in the Nations,” Beck said. “I thought these yahoos lived here in Arkansas.”

  “Maybe they have a place out there too. People in their line of work often have more than one place to go.”

  “Whatta you think?” Mason asked. “Are the three of you going on to Tahlequah?”

  “Maybe. Tell me, Ben, does the train go all the way to Tahlequah? I saw track laid when I come through there a few days back.”

  “Yep, not a reg’lar run, but they been carryin’ people and stock back and forth,” Ben said. “Ain’t hooked up to Fort Smith yet, but track’ll take you to Tahlequah anyways.”

  “Have ye a plan in mind, laddie?”

  “Yes,” Ned said. “John Angus, you and I are going to put our horses on the stock-cars and take the train to Tahlequah. Tom, you’re the best tracker of the three of us; I want you to stay here, then start toward Tahlequa
h on horseback. When McKirk and I get there we’ll look around, see if they have a place there, then start back on horse to join up with you. If we get lucky, we’ll trap them between us.”

  Ned Remington sat looking out the window of the train as the terrain rolled by. He didn’t really like riding a train; he found it too boring. Horseback was the way to travel... on horse you were part of the world. In a train you just sat quietly while the world passed you by.

  In Huntsville, a young man wearing an ivory-handled pistol, leather chaps, and highly polished silver rowels got on the train. Like a strutting peacock, he swaggered back and forth through the car a few times, but Ned paid little attention to him. In Springdale a very pretty young woman boarded the train. As she boarded she smiled shyly at Ned. There was something about her that reminded him of his Katy, and he felt a tug at his heart as he thought of his daughter, sitting in a stupor, back in the convent. The pain had been reactivated when Sheriff Mason asked about her. That happened often when he would run into old friends, friends he had not seen in a long time, who didn’t know about his tragedy. He hadn’t yet found an easy way to handle that.

  The peacock evidently knew the girl. He called her by name—Lucinda—and he moved to sit near her. Ned put them and his own heartache out of his mind and began to think of the promise he had made to Judge Barnstall to bring his prisoners back within a week. That already seemed unlikely. He hated to fail at anything, even a self-imposed deadline. He might not get them as quickly as he thought he would, but he would get them. He was certain of that.

  “Tahlequah! We’re comin’ into Tahlequah, folks,” the conductor said, walking quickly through the car. Ned had been dozing, and McKirk nudged him.

  “What? What is it?”

  “I would let ye sleep on, laddie, but the conductor says we’re coming to Tahlequah. We’d be wantin’ to get our horses now.”

  “Yeah, you’re right,” Ned said, stretching. “Conductor, how far are we?”

  “Just a mite under two miles, sir,” the conductor answered.

  “Thanks.”

  “Go ahead, I’ll join ye. I’ll just get a wee drink of water first.”

  Ned got up and walked forward toward the stock car while McKirk headed for the water scuttle at the rear of the car. When Ned stepped out onto the vestibule he saw the girl and the peacock standing on the platform between cars.

  “Please,” the girl was saying. “Please, just leave me alone.”

  “Come on, I seen the way you was lookin’ at me at the dance last week. You ain’t foolin’ no one by playin’ hard to get.”

  Ned had already put his hand on the door to go into the next car when he heard the exchange, and he stopped and looked back at them. He was reluctant to interfere in any discussion between a man and a woman because he knew that playing reluctant was often part of a woman’s courting ritual. In this case, however, the expression on the young lady’s face and the tone of her voice told him that she wasn’t playing a game. She was serious when she told the peacock she didn’t want to be bothered.

  “Mister, why don’t you be a good boy? Go on back in the car and leave the lady alone,” Ned said.

  The peacock looked toward Ned as if shocked that anyone would butt in.

  “What did you say to me, old man?”

  “I told you to go on back into the car and leave the lady alone.”

  “Why don’t you just go to hell?” the peacock said menacingly. He turned back to the girl as if dismissing Ned, but Ned wouldn’t be dismissed. He stepped across the gap between the two cars, then grabbed the peacock by the scruff of the neck and the seat of his pants.

  “Hey, what the...” the peacock shouted, but whatever the fourth word was going to be was lost in the rattle of cars and his own surprised scream as Ned threw him bodily off the train. The peacock hit on the downslope of the track base, then bounced and rolled through the rocks and scrub weed alongside the train. Ned leaned out far enough to see him stand and shake his fist, but by then the train had swept on away from him.

  “He’ll be all right,” Ned said. “He’ll have a little walk into town, is all.”

  The girl laughed and even above the sound of the train he could hear the musical lilt of her laughter. God, what he would give to hear Katy laugh like that!

  “What is it?” McKirk asked, stepping onto the platform then. “What happened?”

  “The fella with the silver just got off the train,” Ned said. He looked at the girl. “I hope I wasn’t out of line, miss. I hope you were serious when you told him you wanted him to leave you alone. I mean, you did seem to know him. At least, I heard him call you by name. It’s Lucinda, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, Lucinda Gray. My father owns a hotel in Tahlequah, that’s why I know him. His name is Jack Kimmons, and he comes to the dances at the hotel on Saturday nights. I know him, but believe me, he is no friend of mine.”

  “Kimmons, is it? Gurl, did you say his last name be Kimmons?” McKirk asked.

  “Yes,” Lucinda said. She looked at the two men curiously. “Why? Does that name mean something to you?”

  “As a matter of fact, it does,” Ned said. “Bill Kimmons is one of the men we’re looking for. Do you know him?”

  “I know of him,” Lucinda said. “Bill Kimmons is Jack’s older brother. I’ve never seen him at any of the hotel dances, and for that I am very glad. Why are you looking for him?”

  “He got into some trouble back in Missouri,” Ned said.

  “Oh, you’re both marshals,” Lucinda said, noticing their badges for the first time.

  “Yes. Do you know where we might find Bill Kimmons?”

  “I don’t know where they live. You might try the Bucket of Blood. It’s a saloon. You can’t miss it, it’s painted blood-red. That’s where the real bad men are, most of the time.”

  “Bucket of Blood?” Ned’s eyebrows knitted. That was one he had missed when he passed through with Switcher. It was just as well. It was illegal to sell whiskey in the Nations. He’d have to tell Barnstall about it.

  The train started slowing down.

  “Excuse me,” Lucinda said. “I must get off here. I want to thank you again for coming to my rescue, but please, be careful. People like Bill Kimmons and his friends don’t have much regard for the law.”

  “Thanks for your concern,” Ned said. “And the information.”

  Ned and McKirk didn’t have to ask directions. From the moment they took their horses off the train they could see the Bucket of Blood. It sat, like a ripe tomato, at the far end of Tahlequah’s main street. No more than a minute later they were tying their horses to a hitching rail in front of the place.

  “Come on, Angus,” said Ned, “we’re going to break the law. This saloon’s on the wrong side of the border.”

  The bartender drew a mug and set it, with foaming head, in front of Ned. He put a shot glass of scotch in front of the tall man with the red beard. Ned slid ten cents’ worth of silver across the counter, then drank the first one down without taking away the mug. He wiped the foam away from his lips and slid the empty mug toward the bartender.

  “That was for thirst,” he said. “This one’s for taste.”

  With the second beer in his hand, Ned turned his back to the bar and looked out over the saloon. Unlike the elegant saloon back in Jasper, this one was fairly new, having only recently graduated from a tent. The bar and the plank floors still smelled of fresh wood. There were half a dozen tables scattered about; a card game was in progress at one of them, while the others held only drinkers and conversationalists. A bar girl sidled up to them. She was heavily painted and showed the wear of her profession. There was no humor or life left in her eyes, and when she saw that neither Ned nor McKirk appeared to show interest in her, she turned and walked back to the table she had come from.

  The piano player wore a small, round derby hat and kept his sleeves up with garter belts. He was pounding out a rendition of “Buffalo Gals,” though the music was practically lost am
idst the noise of two dozen conversations. Ned was on his third beer when the batwing doors swung open and Jack Kimmons came in. He had scratches and bruises on his face, and his clothes were dirty and torn.

  “Jack! What the hell happened to you?” someone asked.

  “Some son of a bitch pushed me off the train,” Jack said.

  Everyone in the saloon laughed.

  “Goddammit! It isn’t funny!” Jack said. “I was just standin’ there on the vestibule, mindin’ my own business, when he sneaked up behind me and shoved me off.”

  “You weren’t minding your own business,” Ned said. “You were making unwanted advances toward a young woman.”

  Ned’s voice cut above the laughter and the buzz of the saloon, and it suddenly grew very quiet. Jack looked toward the bar and saw Ned.

  “You!” he said in a choked voice. “You’re the one did this to me! Pull your gun, you bastard! I’m going to shoot your eyes out!”

  There was a quick scrape of chairs and tables as everyone scrambled to get out of the way. Only McKirk didn’t move away from Ned. McKirk looked over at the bartender, who had ducked down behind the bar.

  “Bartender, would ye be for pouring me anither scotch?” McKirk asked in a calm voice.

  “Mister, are you crazy?” the bartender hissed. “Get out of the line of fire!”

  With eyes of ice, McKirk looked back toward Jack Kimmons, who was standing in the doorway with his arm crooked, his hand hovering just above his pistol.

  “Are ye talkin’ aboot the mon in the doorway there?”

  “Yes, for God’s sake.”

  “Oh, dinna fret none aboot thut. I’m not in the line of fire. As soon as that lad over there twitches, Ned’ll put ’im down. Nae, this is the safest spot in the room.” Several people gasped at McKirk’s calm words.

  “Would ye be pourrin’ my scotch now?”

  The bartender raised up just far enough to hand McKirk the bottle.

  “Thanks,” McKirk said. Calmly he poured a glass, then looked toward Jack, still standing in the doorway. Jack, like the others, had heard McKirk’s calm declaration, and now he was hesitating. His hand was shaking visibly.