A Time For Hanging

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A Time For Hanging Page 13

by Bill Crider


  Vincent decided to try an appeal to the Randall. "Preacher, you know this ain't right. The Bible teaches forgiveness, not takin' the law into your own hands. Vengeance is the Lord's, ain't that what it says?"

  The sheriff had appealed to the wrong man. In his addled state, Randall did not recall any scriptures that encouraged forgiveness.

  He looked at Vincent with his dead eyes and began to speak. HIs voice was quiet at first, but it rose in volume and power as he went along. "And the Lord God said to Moses, 'If men strive, and hurt a woman with child, so that her fruit depart from her, and if any mischief follow, thou shalt give life for life!'"

  "Amen!" Ross Turley yelled.

  "'Eye for eye!'" Randall said.

  "Amen!" Turley yelled again, and this time Harper and Hawkins joined in.

  "'Tooth for tooth!'"

  "Amen!" They were all yelling now, except for Charley Davis, Harl Case, and Benteen.

  "'Hand for hand!'"

  "Amen!" Davis was with them by now.

  "'Foot for foot!'"

  "Amen! Amen!"

  "'Burning for burning!'"

  "Amen, Preacher, Amen!"

  "'Wound for wound!'"

  "Amen, Amen, Amen!"

  "'Stripe for stripe!'

  "You said it, Preacher! Amen! Amen!"

  Randall fell silent, sitting rigid and staring straight ahead, but the other men were practically dancing in their saddles, laughing, talking, reaching out and slapping one another on the shoulder, yelling "Amen!" over and over. Vincent hadn't seen or heard anything like it in his whole life. He was sure sorry he had said anything to the preacher about forgiveness and revenge.

  When they had calmed down some, Turley Ross said, "I guess that just about says it all, don't it, Sheriff? You gonna try and stop us now?"

  Vincent felt like he might puke. "I ain't gonna stop you. I'm just sayin' that Paco ain't here." He wondered where Mrs. Morales was, what she and the little girls must be thinking.

  "I'm sayin' he is here," Ross said. "I'm saying we're gonna find him."

  "Wait a minute, Turley," Harl Case said. "Why would the sheriff lie to us? If the boy's gone, we'd just be wastin' our time here."

  "I thought you'd gone home to suck your sugar tit, Harl," Ross said. There was laughter from the cowboys and from Harl's friends.

  "He's got a point, though, Turley," Len Hawkins said. "What if the kid really did ride outta here on that mule? He's just gettin' that much further ahead of us while we mess around."

  Turley thought about it for a minute. "O.K. You may be right. Maybe we oughta split up. Some of us can search the place here, and the rest go lookin' for the mule. We got any trackers in this bunch?"

  The big cowboy called Frank spoke up. "I ain't no injun, but I can read sign some. Anybody can show me where that mule started from, I can make a show to follow it."

  "Yeah," Hawkins said. "If we can't find where the mule started from, maybe it didn't start at all."

  That idea distracted them for a minute, but they soon found what most of them agreed to be fresh tracks around a little corral built of mesquite sticks not too far from the house. Vincent didn't help them. He stood on the porch and watched.

  Turley thought maybe it would be best if Harper and Hawkins went with Frank and the cowboys. "That way you can spread out some more if he's really out there and if he's smart enough to try layin' a false trail."

  Everyone agreed that seemed like a good idea, and the men rode off, whooping and hollering. That left Randall, Moran, Benteen, Davis, Ross, and Case to search the property.

  "Not very damn much to search," Ross pointed out. "Just the house, that shed over there, anyplace in the bushes where he might be hidin'."

  "I'm tellin' you, he's not here," Vincent said from the porch.

  "Yeah, you said that," Ross told him. "But we're gonna look just the same."

  "Not me," Harl said. "I've had enough of this, Turley."

  "Well, that's just fine with me, Harl. Why don't you go on home and knit yourself a shawl."

  Harley's face burned, but he didn't say anything. He also made no move to leave.

  "I'll do no searching, either," Benteen said. "I'm only here to see that things are done right."

  Vincent thought that was a damn weak excuse, and he wondered if the man believed it.

  "That's all right, Mr. Benteen," Ross said. "We've got enough fellas here to do the job."

  Not counting Randall, Vincent thought. Randall didn't look up to doing anything beyond what he was doing, sitting there like some kind of a statue.

  "Davis, why don't you ride around, see what you can scare up in the scrub," Ross said. "Moran, you look in that shed. I'll look in the house myself."

  Vincent knew that this was it. The direct challenge. He would either have to back down and let Ross in the house, or draw on him.

  Then he thought of something that might delay the confrontation if not prevent it entirely.

  "Mr. Benteen," he said. "Did you know the Randall girl was pregnant when she died?"

  "What?" Benteen said, startled. He braced his hands on his saddle horn and leaned forward.

  "You heard what the preacher said, didn't you? About hurtin' a woman with child? He wasn't just talkin' the Bible there. He was talkin' about his daughter."

  "Maybe so," Benteen said. "But what does that have to do with me."

  "I thought maybe you knew about Liz and Charley."

  "I think you better shut up now, Sheriff," Charley said. "Mr. Benteen knows I ain't seen Liz for quite a spell."

  "That ain't what you told me, Charley," Vincent said.

  "What is this?" Ross said. "What's that have to do with anything?"

  "Plenty," Vincent said. "Charley's probably the one that got her pregnant."

  "What?" Benteen said. "What are you --"

  "Goddamn you, Sheriff!" Charley said, his hand going for his gun.

  Charley was fast, a lot faster than Vincent, who never thought of Charley drawing on him in the first place.

  But Charley was not as fast as Kid Reynolds.

  The preacher was confused in his mind, almost three people in one -- a preacher whose daughter had outraged him, a man seeking revenge for the death of a loved one, and Kid Reynolds, who was going to get that revenge.

  Despite the fact that he hadn't handled a gun in so many years, neither Charley nor Vincent had cleared leather before Randall drew with a speed and skill that would have been the envy of many a man who practiced every day.

  Randall's pistol boomed twice, and two shots hit Charley squarely in the chest.

  Charley was gripping the reins with his left hand when the bullets hit him. His hand clenched, pulling backward. The horse reared and turned in a tight circle, reacting to the sudden tugging pressure on the bridle in its mouth. Then it pitched once and the reins slipped out of Charley's suddenly limp fingers as he slid off the saddle to the hard ground, landing on his back, the dark blood staining the front of his shirt.

  The horse plunged off across the yard.

  Vincent had his pistol out by then, but Randall had holstered his own weapon. He edged his horse over to Charley and looked down at him.

  "'Rejoice, O ye nations, with his people: for he will avenge the blood of his servants, and will render vengeance to his adversaries."

  Charley lay full length in the dust, his right leg twitching. He was trying to reach his pistol, but he couldn't move his arms. The dog came running from beneath the porch and stood over Charley, barking in his face.

  "Sonofabitch," Charley said. "Sonofabitch."

  20.

  Benteen and Ross got Charley up on the porch out of the sun while the preacher sat on his horse and watched.

  Vincent went inside for Mrs. Morales to see if she had anything to dress Charley's wounds with, not that he thought it would do much good. Charley was lung-shot, you could tell. You could almost hear the air whistlin' in and out of the wound.

  Moran wasn't much help. He didn't give a
damn about Charley, and he was pretty much disgusted by the whole affair. He thought he'd ride around a little, look over the property, see if he could locate the kid. Moran figured that nobody would miss him. They were all too busy looking after the dying ranch foreman.

  "Goddamn it, Charley," Benteen said. "Why didn't you tell me?"

  "Don't know," Charley said. It was obviously an effort for him to speak. "I didn't kill that girl, though."

  "'Course you didn't kill her," Ross said. "We know who killed her. This is all the sheriff's fault."

  "It's our fault," Harl said. He had put the shotgun down. "We shouldn't've come here. It was the wrong thing to do."

  Consuela Morales came out of the house with some water and clean rags. She helped Vincent take off Charley's shirt, and then she bathed the wounds. They looked worse than Vincent had first thought.

  "How's it look?" Charley said. He kept his eyes averted, looking at Benteen and Vincent.

  "It ain't good," Benteen said.

  "No use lyin'," Vincent said. "You prob'ly ain't gonna make it, Charley."

  "Figgered. Hurts like hell. Wish you'd kept your damn mouth shut, Sheriff."

  "Yeah," Vincent said. "Me, too. I shoulda known that preacher was crazy."

  "Hell," Charley groaned. "I never saw a man as fast as that. And him a preacher."

  "You messed with his daughter," Benteen said. "If you'd messed with mine, I'd've killed you too." He was struck with a sudden thought. "Goddamn. Did you mess with my daughter, you sonofabitch?"

  Charley coughed and bright red blood flowed over his chin. Consuela wiped it away. She was sorry for the man, but he should not have come there looking for her son. The livery stable man, Senor Case, was right about that. Now that they had come, one man was already dying; there might be more before the day was over.

  "I didn't mess with Lucille, not ever," Charley said when she had wiped the blood away. "I didn't mean for Liz to get pregnant, either. She went to the doc, but there wasn't anything he could do."

  He coughed again, and again the blood came out. Consuela wiped it away.

  "You didn't kill her, though," Ross said. "You said you didn't kill her."

  "No. Hell no. I didn't kill nobody."

  "A dyin' man don't lie," Ross said. He stood up and went into the house. Vincent didn't try to stop him.

  Charley coughed one more time. He died just as Willie, Jack, and Lucille rode into the yard.

  #

  Lucille didn't cry.

  She didn't know why, but she just couldn't, not after she heard about Liz being pregnant. How could Charley have done that and not said anything? she wondered. To look at him lying there, you'd think he was as innocent as a baby, with those clear blue eyes. Later, she'd cry.

  "We'd better go on home," Benteen told his daughter. His plans for her were ruined, and he no longer so the need for finding the Morales boy. "There's been enough dying here already. I'll send Rankin for Charley when we get back to town."

  "We can't go yet," Lucille said. "Mr. Turner has something to say."

  "That's right, Sheriff," Jack said. "I wouldn't've come out here otherwise."

  "Don't worry about that, Jack," Vincent said. "What's this about Willie?"

  "He says the Morales boy didn't kill Liz Randall," Lucille said. "He was there."

  "Is that the truth, Willie?" Vincent said.

  "Who the hell cares what a drunk says?" Ross said, emerging from his fruitless search of the house. "He wouldn't know the truth if it spit in his face."

  "I know some things, all right," Willie said. "I can't remember ever'thing, but I can remember some things."

  "What do you know about Liz Randall?" Vincent said.

  "I know that boy didn't kill her," Willie said, trying to sound as if he believed himself.

  "How the hell do you know that?" Ross demanded.

  "I was there," Willie said.

  "You sayin' that you killed her?" Ross asked.

  "No, I ain't sayin' that. I'm sayin' I was there. I saw her body, and then the meskin kid came along. I hid from him, but then he heard me in the bushes and ran off. He didn't do anything.

  "You ain't nothin' but a damn drunk," Ross said. "You don't know what you saw or when you saw it. I think you're lyin'."

  "He's not lying," Lucille said. "Why would he lie?"

  That stopped Ross for a minute, and Vincent said, "You didn't see who killed her?"

  "I can't remember that part," Willie said.

  "See what I'm tellin' you?" Ross said, his confidence restored. "You can't believe a word he says. He don't know what he saw and what he didn't see. I still think it was the kid."

  "You can't be pos'tive, though," Harl said.

  "We saw the kid, caught him in the act. He was there. He done it." That settled it as far as Ross was concerned.

  Then he turned to Vincent. "And because you got things stirred up here, you've gone and got Charley Davis killed. It's as much your fault as anybody's. If you'd let us be, the preacher wouldn't've shot him."

  "If you hadn't brought 'em out here, Charley would still be alive," Vincent said. "Maybe it's your fault as much as it is anybody's."

  "I don't know who you think'd believe a thing like that," Ross said. "Now you do what you want to with Charley and the preacher. I'm gonna help Moran find that kid."

  #

  Paco was asleep when the shots were fired.

  He didn't know how it had happened, but somehow he had drifted off. He was sweating heavily, and he had been dreaming of being in a burning building. It was a barn of some kind, with a high, beamed ceiling and a loft from which burning bales of hay were falling all around him, flying apart into flaming balls as he ran down a seemingly endless corridor of stalls filled with screaming horses that reared and kicked at the stall doors. The dream was so real that he could almost smell the smoke and hear the frantic neighing of the panicked horses.

  The shots caused him to jerk awake, his hands clenching on the rifle, and he was momentarily disoriented. It was as if he were still in the burning barn, and he fought to get to his feet to flee the flames that were licking out at him, the bales that were falling like blazing comets.

  The pain in his arm and side let him know that he was not going to get up very fast, and then he came to himself. He remembered that he was in the tiny shed, that he was hiding from men who wanted to kill him, and that he had to be alert to everything that happened.

  He got his eye to one of the cracks in the wall, and he could see there were people in the yard, men on horses, and that some of them were looking at another man who was on the ground. Paco didn't know for sure what had happened, but it seemed that the man had been shot.

  Why he had been shot was not at all clear, until Paco saw that one of the men was the preacher. These men had come for Paco, but they had killed someone else.

  Paco watched as the wounded man was carried to the porch. He saw that the preacher did not dismount to help, nor did one of the other men, someone whom Paco did not recognize.

  That man, when the others were occupied with the wounded one, left the preacher and began to ride his horse slowly around the yard. Paco soon lost sight of him.

  Other riders came into the yard. One of them was Jack Simkins, whose face was easily recognizable, and one of them was Willie Turner. Paco did not know the woman.

  There was some sort of argument on the porch. Paco wondered what it was about. Maybe they were arguing about him, about where he was. He had to be ready for them. If they came for him, he would not hesitate. His finger found the trigger of the rifle, and it pressure comforted him.

  #

  Lane Harper heard the shots and pulled up on the reins. His horse came to a stop, and Harper listened to see if there would be any more shooting.

  He had gotten behind the other riders when he had stopped to go off down a side trail that led into a dry wash, but he hadn't found anything. When he rode out again, the others had gone on ahead and turned a bend that led them around a s
izeable hill; they probably hadn't heard anything.

  When no more shots came, Harper wondered if his ears were playing tricks on him. If they'd found the Morales kid there'd've been more shots than two, wouldn't there?

  Harper smoothed his moustache with the thumb and first finger of his right hand, wiping the sweat on his shirt when he was done. He hoped they would find the kid soon and do what they had to do.

  He wondered for the first time why he was so eager to do it. The kid had never done anything to him. Was it because of the first killing and the fact that Harper had played a part in covering for the gambler?

  Or was it because they had beat the kid so damn bad last night and wanted to prove they had a right to do it?

  Harper didn't know, but when he thought about it, both reasons seemed pretty damn weak to him. He wondered if he was getting yellow, like Harl Case, or Mr. Danton.

  Not that he would ever have called Mr. Danton yellow to his face, but Lane thought that was what the man was, all right. He had got so that he was scared even to come to his own place of business, all because of the shootin' that had occurred there. He had just about turned the whole thing over to Lane, and now all Mr. Danton wanted to do was sit in his little house with the shades drawn and get drunk. The few times he'd come back to the saloon, Lane could smell the liquor on him, though he was the very one who'd told Lane that the one thing a saloon keeper couldn't afford to do was to drink.

  It was advice Lane had taken to heart, even more so after seeing Danton the last few times he'd come into the saloon. Lane drank, but never more than a couple of shots a day.

  Lane couldn't figure Mr Danton. The man was a good boss; he paid on time, and he kept his nose out of the bar business and let Lane run it the way it ought to be run. He had his pick of all the girls who worked the saloon. But the shootin' had taken it out of him. He was more like a ghost now than a man; come to think of it, Lane hadn't seen him in the daytime for more than a year. He came to the saloon only after dark, after most of the citizens were off the street. Lane wondered briefly if Mr. Danton had ever run into Liz Randall on his moonlight walks to the saloon, but he dismissed the thought.

 

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