Good Day For A Hangin' (Remington Book 2)

by Robert Vaughan

  “All right, I’ll do it,” Flatt vowed.

  “You better get a extra horse,” Kimmons suggested. “Get a extra horse for ’im, ’cause like as not the sheriff’ll have his put away somewhere.”

  “I reckon you’re right,” Flatt agreed.

  Up in Jasper, Ned and McKirk could hear the music of the band from halfway down the street. Ned hummed along with the music as his boots trod loudly on the boardwalk. “It’s a pretty tune,” he said.

  “Aye, ’tis a lilting air, I’ll agree,” McKirk said. “Though ’twould sound better on the pipes.”

  “Those infernal things would run everyone off,” Ned said.

  “Ha’ ye nae ear for music, then, laddie?”

  They were waiting for what they were sure would be an attempt to rescue Tom Gerner. Beck, still favoring his wound some, was in the jail watching Gerner. Ned and McKirk had been patrolling the town all day. It was Saturday night, and there was a dance in the Morning Star Hotel. The music had drawn the two lawmen to the hotel, to be sure, but they also knew that the crowd of dancers would be a good place for the outlaws to hide until they were ready to make their move.

  McKirk tipped his hat to the wife of one of the townspeople as the couple approached the hotel; then, gallantly, he held the door open for them.

  Inside, the lights glowed, the music played, and men and women laughed and whirled about on the dance floor. Ned and McKirk stood just inside the door for a moment, looking out over the sea of girls in butterfly-bright calico and men in denim and homespun. Ned saw one particularly pretty young girl, and in his mind’s eye the girl became his daughter. Katy...surrounded by half a dozen admirers. Katy...wearing a light blue dress, embroidered with beads of many colors. Katy...standing tall and beautiful, attracting men to her like bees to a flower.

  The music stopped and one of the musicians lifted a megaphone.

  “Ladies and gents! Choose up yur squares!” he called.

  The pretty young girl—Katy, in Ned’s mind—was chosen and the squares were formed. The music began, with the fiddlers loud and clear, the guitars carrying the rhythm, the accordion providing the counterpoint, and the Dobro ringing out over everything. The caller began to shout. He laughed and clapped his hands and stomped his feet and danced around on the platform in compliance with his own calls, bowing and whirling as if he had a girl and were in one of the squares himself. The dancers moved and swirled to the caller’s commands.

  “I’ve looked at ever’ face in here, laddie, and they are nae here,” McKirk said.

  With McKirk’s words, the spell was broken. It was no longer Katy; it was just another pretty girl at another Saturday dance. His Katy was back in Missouri, trapped in her own private hell. Ned sighed.

  “All right, let’s go back out on the street,” Ned said. “You go up Main, I’ll go down First.”

  “Aye,” McKirk agreed.

  In the darkness, two hundred yards away from the last building on Main Street, three men stood looking toward the soft lights of the town. Out here the sound of the band was barely audible. They heard a woman’s scream, not of fear, obviously, because it was followed by her laugh which carried clearly above everything else. Overhead, a sudden blaze of gold zipped across the sky.

  “Oh, shit,” Flatt said. “A failin’ star. That means bad luck.”

  “Yeah, well, just make sure it’s bad luck for someone else,” Newsome said. “Now, you know what to do?”

  “Yeah. I’m gonna walk in real slow, leadin’ the two horses so’s no one notices me. Then I’m goin’ into the sheriff’s office, and if he’s there I’ll lock ’im in his own jail and get Gerner out.”

  “Don’t do no shootin’. Half the county’s at that dance. One shot would bring them down on you like ducks on a june bug,” Kimmons cautioned.

  “Don’t worry. I know what I’m doin’,” Flatt insisted.

  Newsome and Kimmons stood in the darkness and watched as Flatt, leading the two horses, walked slowly down toward the town.

  “That boy ain’t got sense enough to pour piss out of a boot with the directions written on the heel,” Newsome said.

  Kimmons laughed. “Seein’ as how they ain’t none of us can read, I don’t know what good the directions would do any of us anyhow.”

  “What we ought to do is just leave,” Newsome said. “Leave him and his cousin in there.”

  “We ain’t leavin’ ’em,” Kimmons said.

  McKirk heard them before he saw them. There was the unmistakable sound of at least two horses, walking slowly, quietly, down the street. He was curious why anyone would try to keep their animals so quiet when the rest of the town was a cacophony of sound.

  McKirk stepped in between the general store and the newspaper office. Back in the shadow between the two buildings, dressed in his black trousers and waistcoat, he completely slipped from the view of anyone who might be on the street. He watched until the two horses were even with him; then he saw that the man leading the horses was Ephraim Flatt. He looked around quickly, making certain that the others weren’t with Flatt. When he saw that Flatt was alone, he stepped out into the street with a pistol in each hand. He didn’t even have to speak. All he had to do was cock the weapons. The cold, metallic sound of the turning cylinders spoke for him.

  Flatt dropped the reins and stuck both arms straight in the air.

  “I knowed it,” he said. “Soon as I seen me that failin’ star, I knowed it was gonna be bad luck.”

  Chapter 11

  The night creatures serenaded each other as Newsome and Kimmons waited outside Jasper. A cloud passed over the moon, then moved on, bathing the little town in dull silver. The dance had ended some time ago and now the band was quiet, though someone was playing a piano and its ringing sound could be heard out here, a counterpoint to the melody of the whippoorwills and owls. It had been almost two hours since Flatt went in to get Gerner.

  “Where the shit is he?” Newsome asked, pacing around nervously in the darkness. “He said it was going to be so easy. Why ain’t he back?”

  “We’re gonna have to go in after ’im,” Kimmons said.

  “To hell with ’im. To hell with Flatt an’ his cousin.”

  “We’re goin’ in after ’im,” Kimmons insisted.

  “All right, all right, we’ll do what you say,” Newsome gave in. “But if anythin’ goes wrong, it’s your fault.”

  Ned’s head slipped forward and he jerked it back, realizing he had just dozed off. He looked over at McKirk, and McKirk’s chin was down on his chest, a rhythmic breathing indicating that he was asleep.

  “Scottie, wake up,” Ned said.

  McKirk raised his head, then stroked his beard and let a long sigh of air escape from his lips.

  “Aye, laddie, ’tis not human to go as long with nae sleep as we have.”

  “We’ll sleep in the morning,” Ned promised. “I don’t want to miss it if the other two decide to come in.”

  “Dinna ye worry none,” McKirk said. “If they come in, we’ll be ready.”

  Ned and McKirk were in the shadows between two buildings, positioned right across the alley from the back of the jail. Flatt and Gerner were in the same cell, and their window opened onto this alley.

  Since Tom Beck and Sheriff Mason were in the front of the jail, Ned didn’t think the outlaws would try to go through that way. If there were going to be an attempt made tonight, it would be made back here. When the attempt came, Ned would be ready.

  They sat quietly for several more moments; then McKirk spoke.

  “Lad, I seen the way ye was lookin’ at the young lass at the dance tonight.”

  “Did you, now?” Ned asked.

  “Aye. And I know what ye was thinkin’. Ye was thinkin’ o’ your own sweet dotter an’ wonderin’ why it couldn’t be her there, ’stead o’ the pretty young lass that was.”

  Ned was shocked that McKirk was so perceptive. He hadn’t spoken a word; how was McKirk able to guess so accurately what he had been t
hinking?

  “I suppose you’re right,” Ned said in a gruff voice. “Such thoughts often trouble me.”

  “Dinna fret yourself so much about Katy. The Lord will nae give the lass more to bear than she can handle. I’m thinkin’ there’s a peace in her heart that, like the prayer book in the old church says, passeth all understandin’.”

  “Maybe you’re right,” Ned agreed. He was touched by McKirk’s sympathy.

  “Aye. An’ maybe I talk too much,” said the man who spoke so little.

  The two men were quiet for several more moments; then they heard a quiet, shuffling noise somewhere down the alley. Ned put his hand on McKirk’s arm, and both were instantly alert.

  Ned and McKirk stared down the alley until they saw shadows moving within the darkness. A moment later the shadows materialized into Bill Kimmons and Jake Newsome. The two outlaws moved to the jail window.

  “Ephraim!” Kimmons called out in a loud stage whisper. “Ephraim, Tom! You two in there?”

  “Bill, is that you?” Flatt’s voice replied. “I knowed you’d come for us. I knowed you would.”

  “Hang on, we’ll have you out in a jiffy,” Kimmons called back.

  Ned and McKirk crossed the alley then and were no more than five feet away when Newsome turned. “Bill, it’s them!” he warned.

  Kimmons whirled around with his hand in front of him. Ned saw the soft, dull gleam of a knife blade. “It’s a little Arkansas toothpick for you, my friend,” Kimmons said, smiling evilly. Kimmons was crouched a little, right arm out, blade projecting from across the upturned palm between the thumb and index finger, with the point moving back and forth slowly and hypnotically. Kimmons danced in and raised his left hand toward Ned’s face to mask his action. He feinted with his right, the knife hand, outside Ned’s left arm as if he were going to go in over it. In the same movement, when Ned automatically raised his left arm to block, Kimmons brought his knife hand back down so fast it was a blur, and he went in under Ned’s arm.

  The knife seared Ned’s flesh like a branding iron along his ribs and opened a long gash in the tight ridges of muscle. The cut began to spill blood down his side, and Ned could feel it pooling at his belt. Out of the corner of his eye, Ned could see that McKirk and Newsome were also engaged in a fierce struggle.

  Ned brought his left hand down sharply, almost by reflex, and knocked away the knife Kimmons was now holding with an air of careless confidence. He heard the knife clatter against the side of the building. Now they were even...hand to hand…except Ned was cut and Kimmons wasn’t.

  Kimmons put his hands up to protect himself, but Ned saw a quick opening that allowed him to send a long left to Kimmons’s nose. Ned felt the nose go under his hand and he knew he had broken it. The nose started bleeding, and in the light that spilled from the window of the jail Ned could see the blood running across Kimmons’s teeth. It was a terrible-looking sight, but Kimmons continued to grin wickedly, seemingly unperturbed by his injury.

  With the cut across his ribs, Ned wasn’t as flexible as he normally was. The exertion was painful, and he was having to favor his side. As a result, Kimmons seemed to be holding his own in the fight. Ned kept trying to hit the nose again, but he was unable to connect.

  Though Kimmons had sustained the one blow to his nose, he now began to think he was winning the fight. He started swinging wildly, believing that if he could connect with just one blow he could put Ned out.

  After four or five such swinging blows, Ned noticed that Kimmons was leaving a slight opening for a good right punch, if he could just slip it in across his shoulder. On Kimmons’s next swing, Ned timed it perfectly. He threw a solid right, straight at the place where he thought Kimmons’s nose would be. He hit the nose perfectly and had the satisfaction of hearing a bellow of pain from Kimmons. It was an effective and bruising punch, but it cost Ned; he felt his side open up and winced as sharp pain shot through him. Steeling himself against the agony in his side, he threw a whistling left into Kimmons’s stomach and, when Kimmons dropped his hands, followed up with a right to the chin, dropping Kimmons like a sack of flour.

  Ned turned to see how McKirk was doing with Newsome, just in time to see McKirk throw a hard left to Newsome’s Adam’s apple. Newsome choked, then fell to his knees. McKirk followed that with a roundhouse right to the jaw, and Newsome fell across Kimmons, both men lying unconscious in the dirt behind the jail.

  “Maybe I ought to follow you three men around,” Dr. Swinney suggested. “I could make a living just patching you up.”

  Ned, McKirk, and Beck were in Sheriff Ben Mason’s office. Ned and McKirk had their shirts off. Ned had a bandage wrapped all the way around his waist; McKirk had a bandage on his arm.

  “Both you men will be carrying scars from this one.”

  “What about our four prisoners, Doc?” Ned asked. “Any reason why they can’t make the trip back to Missouri?”

  Dr. Swinney chuckled. “I know you probably don’t like hearing this, being as you boys won the fight. But they’re in better shape than you are.” Swinney looked over at Tom Beck. “All three of you, considering the wound in your hip.”

  “My hip feels fine, Doc, honest,” Beck said.

  “I’m sure it does, and it’s healing very well. You did a good job treating yourself out there. I couldn’t have done better if I had been there. But it’s a pretty tough ride back to where you’re going, and all three of you have been injured. I’m just saying take it easy, that’s all. Don’t do anything that might open the wounds up again?’

  “Nothin’ to it now, Doc,” Ned replied. “We got the ones we come after. We’re just gonna take ’em home.”

  “Marshal, you want me to ride as far as the border with you?” Sheriff Mason offered. “Just in case some of their friends try somethin’?”

  Ned smiled. A week ago Sheriff Mason had been barely willing to let them lodge Gerner in his jail. Since that time he had gained some self-respect.

  Jasper was going to be a better place for its citizens to live in now.

  “Thanks, Ben, but we’ll make it just fine,” he said. He smiled again. “If the county’s got another meal in the kitty, I will let you buy my deputies and me one last breakfast before we start out.”

  “Come on, I’ll eat with you,” Mason said. “I know just the place.”

  Breakfast consisted of fried eggs, biscuits, gravy, salt pork, a side of potatoes, strawberry preserves, and coffee. McKirk wasn’t the only one to eat hearty. Not only was the food exceptionally good, Ned and the others realized they were about to go on the trail again. Since they had no intention of stopping to hunt, jerky and water would be their fare for most of the time.

  There was an added treat to the breakfast. It was served by the same pretty young girl Ned had watched at the dance the night before. Sheriff Mason informed Ned that the girl’s father had died of dropsy two years ago and she and her mother had survived by turning their house into a restaurant.

  “More coffee, Marshal?” the girl asked sweetly, bringing the coffeepot over to the table, holding it with a pot holder against the heat.

  “Yes, thank you,” Ned said.

  “Marshal, this is Miss Amy Matthews. Amy, these are U.S. marshals from Judge Barnstall’s court. Marshals Remington, McKirk, and Beck.”

  “I’m pleased to meet you,” Amy said shyly.

  “I’ve a daughter about your age,” Ned said. “You remind me of her.”

  “Please tell her I said hello,” Amy said.

  “Yes, I’ll do that,” Ned said. He had surprised himself by speaking of Katy like that. Most of the time she was a painful side to his life that he preferred to keep hidden. But he found comfort in speaking of her with this girl, and he was glad that he wasn’t jealous of the girl’s ability to enjoy life.

  “Ah, ladies,” McKirk said as the girl returned to the kitchen, “if God made anythin’ nicer to look at than a purrty lass, he saved it for his own self,” McKirk said.

  “If you think the
girl is pretty, you should see her mother,” Mason said.

  “Well, now,” Ned teased. “Are you showing an interest in the girl’s mother?”

  “No, not really.”

  “Why not? You said she was a widow, didn’t you?”

  “I...I...by God, I don’t know why not,” Mason said, smiling broadly. “Maybe I thought I wasn’t good enough. But I reckon maybe I am now, thanks to you.”

  “Don’t thank me, Sheriff. You did it yourself,” Ned said. He finished his cup and set it down, then looked at the others. “Well, gentlemen, we’ve got a long way to ride and a disagreeable bunch to take with us. What do you say we get under way?”

  “I’m ready,” Beck said.

  “Aye, me, too,” McKirk added, standing up. The three U.S. marshals and the Arkansas sheriff left the restaurant and started across the street to the jail to pick up their prisoners. None of them noticed the man who was watching them from just behind the corner of the livery stable.

  Chapter 12

  Poke Cates sat on his horse on a low hill just west of Jasper. Poke, Brewster, Athens, Jack Kimmons, and Curly had spent the night camped just out of town. Early this morning Poke had ridden into town to have a look around. Poke was chosen to go into town because he was the only one that Marshal Remington and his deputy, McKirk, hadn’t seen when the two lawmen visited the Kimmons place near Tahlequah.

  “Well?” Jack asked.

  “It’s just like we figured,” Poke said. “The sheriff’s got all four of them boys locked up now, an’ the word is that Remington’s gonna move ’em back up to Missouri to be hung.”

  “Damned if I’m gonna let that son of a bitch take my brother up to Missouri,” Jack swore.

  “When are they plannin’ on leavin’?” Athens wanted to know.

  “This mornin’, I reckon. I heard the liveryman tell the colored boy he’s got workin’ for ’im to get the horses ready.”

  “D’ya get us any grub to take along?” Athens asked.