Good Day For A Hangin' (Remington Book 2)

by Robert Vaughan

  “Are ye still there, laddie?” McKirk asked. He took a swallow of his scotch, then wiped the back of his hand across his mouth. “If I were ye, I would nae stay aroun’. Aye, look at ye, now. Sure, and ye got the shakes so bad Ned here’s likely to make a mistake. He’s likely to think you’re goin’ for your gun, when really all you’re doin’ is peein’ your pants.”

  Several in the saloon laughed.

  Jack opened and closed his fingers several times; then, quickly, he turned and hurried back through the doors. His retreat was greeted with the laughter of everyone in the saloon.

  “Step up to the bar, boys,” someone shouted joyfully. “The drinks are on the house. Any time I can see either one of the Kimmons boys backed down like that, it’s worth a round.”

  “Beer!”

  “Whiskey!” two dozen voices called as everyone in the place hurried to the bar.

  The man who had bought the drinks came down to stand beside Ned and McKirk.

  “What brings you fellas to Tahlequah?”

  “A federal warrant,” Ned said easily.

  “A federal warrant? What the hell are you talking about. What...” Suddenly the man stopped and licked his lips. He saw the badges Ned and McKirk were wearing. “You’re the law,” he said.

  “We are.”

  “If I’da knowed that, I’da never bought a round of drinks.” He turned to leave, but Ned put his hand on his shoulder and stopped him.

  “That’s not very sociable,” he said.

  “Ain’t my intention to be sociable. You aimin’ to close this place down?”

  “Never mind about that. Where can we find Bill Kimmons and his friends?”

  “You just braced down his brother. Wait around—maybe he’ll find you.”

  “I don’t want to wait. Where can I find him?”

  “I don’t talk to the law.”

  “Hell, tell ’em, George,” somebody else said. “We don’t owe none of them bastards out there nothin’, that’s for sure.”

  “You want ’em to know, you tell ’em,” George said.

  “The Kimmons got ’em a shack about a mile west of town. But you better be warned, they don’t live out there by theirselves. They got three more live with ’em. Fellas by the name of Newsome, Flatt, and Gerner.”

  “Gerner’s not there anymore,” Ned replied. “We left him in jail back in Jasper.”

  “And now you’re goin’ after the others?”

  “That’s right.”

  “You two are either the bravest men I ever saw...or the stupidest. I don’t know which.”

  Beck trailed the outlaws all day long, staying just agonizingly out of sight. He was close enough to them that the horse droppings were still moist, but he never got close enough to see them. Ned was right—they were headed straight for Tahlequah. If they kept going in the same direction and at the same speed, they’d be caught in the pinch between Beck and his two partners within another few days.

  That is, if they kept going the way they were. It had been Beck’s experience that men on the run seldom went anywhere in a straight line. That was why he was always very careful at every opportunity they had to leave the trail to make certain they hadn’t.

  Just before nightfall Beck rode onto a high bluff, then, dismounting, looked west toward the setting sun. Sometimes in the red light of sunset, trail dust from the horses would give off a glow that could be seen for many miles. That was what Beck was looking for. He didn’t see any glowing dust, but way in the distance he did see a curving glint of the railroad. From this point to the section of the railroad he was looking at was probably fifteen to twenty miles. Fifteen to twenty miles of rugged hills and gullies, rocks and creeks, tangled undergrowth and thick trees. Skilled woodsmen who knew the territory could hide in these Ozark mountain forests for thirty years if they wanted to and the best tracker in the world couldn’t find them. Beck knew that the men he was trailing were skilled woodsmen...and they knew the territory. But it never crossed his mind that he might not find them. He would find them, no matter how long it took.

  Beck turned away from his observation point. Below him, on the other side of the rim, was the Buffalo Fork River. He didn’t have to go see it, he could hear it. He had been following it most of the day and would probably trail along beside it for at least two more days. He walked back to his Indian pony and untied his bedroll. This was as good a place as any to spend the night.

  Early morning.

  The bluff rose beside the river like a huge black slab against the velvet texture of the sky. Overhead, the stars spread their diamond glitter across the heavens, while far in the east a tiny bar of pearl-gray light gave the first indication of impending dawn.

  The wind, which had moaned and whistled across the hills and through the hollows all night long, was quiet now, and a predawn stillness had descended over the land. The only sound to be heard was the rippling flow of the water, perhaps fifty feet below.

  Beck, who had camped on top of a bluff overlooking the Buffalo Fork River, picked up his bedroll and tied it behind the cantle. He opened one of the saddlebags and took out his old blue pot and a little sack of coffee he had bought in Jasper. He ran the crook of his arm across his lower jaw and felt a growing stubble of beard.

  “Damned if I ain’t gonna give the Scotsman a run for his money on growin’ a beard,” he said aloud. He preferred to be clean-shaven, but when he was on the trail it was easier to let it go than to lather up and shave.

  Beck got a fire going, then measured out a careful amount of the coffee. A moment later the air was permeated by the rich aroma of the brew. As he waited for it he looked over at his horse, standing quietly where it had spent the night. So well trained was his Indian pony that Beck never bothered to stake him out. He knew he would be there in the morning.

  “All right, horse, you tell me. Are we doin’ the right thing, or are the bastards gonna slip away?” With Ned and McKirk coming back from Tahlequah, he was sure they would catch up with the outlaws, unless they were a lot better than he thought.

  The horse blew, and pawed at the ground.

  “Yeah,” Beck said, grinning. He poured himself a cup of coffee. “That’s about what I thought you’d say.”

  The coals from his campfire glowed cherry red in the predawn darkness, and Beck threw some more wood on to enjoy its warmth. It had been cold and damp on the ground last night, and it would be another couple of hours until the sun was high enough to push away the morning chill.

  Suddenly, and for no discernible reason, Beck realized that he wasn’t alone. The hackles rose on the back of his neck, and he stiffened.

  “Come on in,” Beck said as calmly as he could.

  He heard a chuckle. “I figured we couldn’t get this close without you’d know we was here. Anyhow, we seen your fire, ’n smelt your coffee, ’n figured you’d be up to sharin’ a bit,” a voice called from the dark.

  “Which one do you be?” Beck asked.

  “I reckon we’ve met before. I’m Jake Newsome.”

  Beck cursed himself for not being more alert. He had been so deeply lost in thought a few moments earlier that his quarry had been able to approach this close without being seen or heard. He had suddenly gone from the hunter to the hunted.

  Beck looked over toward his horse. His gunbelt was draped across the saddle. He had not yet put on his guns this morning, so his best bet was to do nothing that would arouse the suspicions of his visitors. He held his arms out so they could see he was making no attempt to go for a gun.

  “Newsome, Flatt, Kimmons, come on in.” Beck pointed to the coffeepot suspended over the dancing flames of his fire. “There’s plenty of coffee here.”

  Beck turned to search the darkness for the intruders, but he saw nothing at first. Then he heard the sound of someone walking, and finally the three men emerged from the darkness into the golden bubble of light put out by the fire. All three were holding guns.

  “You been sticking on our trail like stink on shit,�
� Newsome said. “I don’t mind tellin’ you, we’re gettin’ damn tired of it.”

  “Where are your friends?” Kimmons added.

  “They’re around,” Beck answered.

  “Yeah, well, too bad we can’t say that about our friend, ain’t it? Where is he? Is he dead?”

  “You’d be talkin’ about Gerner?”

  “That’s right.”

  “I ’spect he is dead,” Beck lied. They might have the drop on him, but there was no way they were going to get any information out of him.

  “Did you kill ’im?” Flatt asked.

  “I might have. I tried hard enough.”

  “Tom Gerner were my cousin,” Flatt said. “He were my blood. I don’t take too kindly to folks killin’ my kin.”

  Newsome poured himself a cup of coffee, then took a drink, slurping it through his extended lips to cool it.

  “You done stepped on your dick, ain’t you, lawman?” Kimmons said, pouring himself some coffee, using a little tin cup he produced from his pocket.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Lettin’ yourself get caught by the folks you was tryin’ to catch. It’s kinda like the rabbit catchin’ the fox, ain’t it? Only we ain’t rabbits, an’ you damn sure ain’t no fox.”

  “You was right, Bill,” Newsome said. “You said you thought they was only one a-followin’ us right now, an’ sure ’nough, here he is, all alone. One of him an’ three of us. Now, ain’t that a good piece of luck for us?”

  “You ain’t played out your hand yet,” Beck said. “You might not be as lucky as you think.”

  Newsome laughed. “Oh yeah, I think we are. Tell ’im, Flatt. Tell ’im what we’re gonna do.”

  Flatt smiled broadly, showing broken, crooked, and stained teeth. “Well, now, what we’re aimin’ to do is just shoot you ’n take what you got. Your food, your bedroll, your saddle, your horse. We’ll sell it...make maybe sixty, seventy dollars out of the deal. You’ll be dead ’n out of our hair, and we’ll pick up a little money. That makes us come out the winner. What do you think of that?”

  Beck looked toward his horse and pistols, perhaps ten yards away. Kimmons chuckled.

  “You may be fast as greased lightnin’, Deputy, but them hoglegs o’ yourn is nigh thirty foot away and they’s three of us. You ain’t never gonna get to ’em. You really ought to be more careful when you’re trailin’ men like us. We’re smarter’n your average outlaw.”

  “Yeah.” Flatt chuckled. “Smarter’n the average outlaw.”

  “Can I say good-bye to my horse?”

  Newsome chuckled. “Good-bye to his horse. You get that? He wants to get over there by them guns. Go ahead, Deputy, try it. You might make it.”

  Beck looked long and hard at his pistols while the three outlaws chuckled at his predicament. Suddenly he made a feint toward his horse, then surprised them by jumping the other way. The three outlaws had been anticipating Beck’s move toward his guns, so they fired in that direction. Their guns flashed bright orange in the dim morning. It was twenty yards through the dark toward the edge of the bluff, and Beck headed for it on a dead run.

  “The son of a bitch went the other way!” Newsome shouted in frustration, and the outlaws’ three guns roared again, this time in Beck’s direction. Beck felt a sharp, stabbing pain and knew that one of the balls had caught him in the hip. He reached the edge of the cliff, then launched himself into the maw of darkness.

  “Where’d he go? Where’d the son of a bitch go?” Beck felt himself falling through black space, down, down, toward the water below. He hadn’t looked at the surface of the river last night. He didn’t know if he was plummeting toward a bloody and painful death on rocky cascades or the safety of a deep pool. He knew the chances were fifty-fifty it could be either one. He thought a quick prayer.

  Beck hit the water, then went under. It was so cold that it took his breath away... but, mercifully, there were no rocks. He had fallen cleanly. He felt a burning pain where the bullet had hit him, and he wondered how badly he had been hurt.

  Newsome, Flatt, and Kimmons were standing on the edge of the bluff, firing down into the blackness below. The great orange flame patterns of their pistols were lighting up the trees around them. Burnt powder and acrid smoke drifted up into their faces. After about three shots apiece, Newsome started yelling at the others to quit firing.

  “We ain’t doin’ nothin’ but wastin’ bullets,” he said. “We can’t even see down there.”

  “How far down is that, do you reckon?” Kimmons asked.

  “Who the hell knows? It could be two or three hunnert feet.”

  Flatt giggled insanely. “I bet he’s dead. I bet he’s flatter’n a pancake down there on them rocks.”

  “Throw a rock over,” Kimmons suggested.

  “Why would I want to do a damn-fool thing like that?” Newsome asked.

  “You can tell how deep a hole is that way,” Kimmons said. He picked up a rock and tossed it over. It was a relatively small rock and they never heard it hit.

  “Whooee!” Flatt said. “That rock ain’t hit yet! That son of a bitch is dead!”

  Newsome put his pistol back in his holster. “Get his horse and let’s go,” he said.

  The three men turned away from the edge of the bluff; then Kimmons let out a shout of anger.

  “Goddam!” he said. “The horse! The goddam horse is gone!”

  “Gone! Where could he have gone?”

  “He musta run away when we started shootin’,” Kimmons said.

  “Damn. That son of a bitch was so dumb he didn’t even tie up his goddam horse,” Flatt said.

  Beck let himself be carried about a mile downriver before he decided to come out. On at least three occasions the river ran into rapids and he was swept painfully across the rocks. By now he had so many cuts, bruises, and hurts that he wasn’t even sure which hurt was the bullet wound.

  Beck worked his way toward the riverbank, then grabbed an overhanging limb. Slowly, painfully, he pulled himself out of the water, then crawled until he was on a relatively flat piece of ground. He fell on his back, exhausted from his effort and shaking with cold. The frigid water did have one beneficial effect, however. The pain of his cuts, bruises, and bullet wound was held in check by the numbing cold. Beck closed his eyes and either went to sleep or passed out.

  Beck felt something poking his face. He turned his head, hoping it would go away, but the nudge returned. Finally the insistent nudging penetrated the fog of his brain and he gradually began to return to consciousness. He opened his eyes and saw his pony standing over him, poking at him with his nose. His gunbelt still hung from the pommel, his rifle still in its sheath. The sun was high and his clothes were nearly dry. He was beginning to get warmer. On the negative side, he could feel the pain of his injuries, especially the bullet wound.

  “All right, horse, I’m awake,” Beck finally said. He sat up, then lowered his pants to find the wound. The bullet had cut a groove in his hip, taking out flesh at a place where he had very little flesh to give. It looked exactly as if someone had taken a spike and scraped him about half an inch deep. It was painful and ugly, but at least there was no ball to remove. He looked around, found some moss, and made himself a poultice.

  Chapter 9

  The stagecoach trip from Springfield to Galena was not for the faint of heart. Passengers had to hang on as the driver whipped the horses over roads so narrow that the inside wheel hubs would be scraping mud and moss while the outside wheels were pushing pebbles over the edge to fall hundreds of feet. Sometimes the cutbacks were so sharp that to the passengers it appeared as if the team were going in the opposite direction.

  There were four passengers on the stage: an overweight, balding drummer who kept a cigar in his mouth for the entire trip, lighting a new one when the old one grew too small; a young woman going to Galena to teach school; an older woman who was the schoolteacher’s aunt; and Judge Barnstall.

  Judge Barnstall made the trip quite often an
d had learned a method of bracing himself against the lurches and lunges of the coach. The drummer had traveled enough that he, too, was pretty adept at shielding himself from the more violent blows of the stage, but the two women were having a very difficult time. Barnstall suggested that the women should separate, one of them sit by him and the other sit by the drummer. That way the men’s bodies could absorb some of the blows, sparing the ladies much of the punishment.

  “I don’t know if that would be proper,” the schoolteacher said. “Perhaps we had best stay just as we are.”

  Less than a mile and at least ten violent lurches later, the schoolteacher’s aunt stood up.

  “I don’t know about you, dear, but, proper or not, I’m going to take the kind gentleman’s suggestion.”

  Barnstall smiled as the old lady changed seats with him. A few moments later even the teacher was ready to admit that it had been a good move.

  “What kind of place is Galena?” the teacher asked.

  Judge Barnstall started to answer, but the drummer answered first.

  “I can tell you what kind of place it is,” he said. “It’s a place of evil and perdition. It’s a place where a judge has gone rampant. Why, just last week they hung three men right in the middle of town.”

  “You mean there was a lynching?” the teacher asked, horrified.

  “No’m, it wam’t no lynchin’. It was a hangin’ done by the new hangin’ judge they got down there, a fella by the name of Barnstall.”

  Barnstall looked at the drummer.

  “Do you know this judge?” Barnstall asked.

  “I ain’t never seen ’im yet. This here’s my first time into Galena since he took over from Lucius Binder. Ah, Judge Binder, now, there was a good man. A good man. He hardly ever found it necessary to hang someone.”

  “Perhaps these three men should have been hanged,” the teacher suggested. “If you have never met Judge Barnstall, you should at least give him the benefit of believing he’s a just man. After all, he is a judge, and he should be presumed to be worthy of the position unless he proves himself to be otherwise.”