A Gunman Rode North

by William Hopson

  "I can only catch me one bird at a time and right now I got my net on the prize of them all."

  "On Tom Harrow? Have you lost your senses, Sheriff?"

  "Just getting 'em back, maybe," retorted the sheriff. "Come along with me over to my place, Judge, while I put Tom in the log jail. There's been an injustice and I thought you might want to straighten it out." He looked at Jeb Donnelly again, his eyes glinting. "You heard what I said, Donnelly. You walk soft until I talk to the judge. If he says what I think, I just might be back after you."

  The sheriff left the horse in front of his modest home and the three of them went through the front yard with its beds of carefully tended flowers. His wife had always loved mountain flowers and Stovers still grew them in profusion during summer. In the front room he removed the handcuffs from Harrow's wrists and nodded for him to sit down.

  Judge Eaton sank his gaunt frame into a deep chair, thinking it would soon be time for supper at Clara's, and took a cigar from a box on the table. He lit it and leaned back, drawing slowly on the long cheroot; listening while the sheriff told him the whole story as he had reconstructed it from the very beginning.

  Stovers told it with a blunt, steadily rising anger. He reminded the judge that he had wanted to hang Kerrigan and that he, Stovers, had threatened to resign as United States Marshall and wire President Grant.*

  * Author's note: This was a common occurrence in those days when there was no Appellate Court to appeal to. It was the only recourse left to a man condemned to the gallows, and President Grant received many such appeals from men condemned by U.S. judges in the various Territories.

  Tom Harrow smiled and smoked his own cigar and said nothing. Eaton glanced at him now and then, but mostly he watched the sheriff's blazing eyes.

  "So that's about it," Stovers finished. "I've been digging away at this thing for two years, but never could get any concrete proof of what I knew to be the truth. Not until Tom got caught in a corner down there in the old fort a little while ago and admitted the whole business in front of witnesses, after which he figured to kill Lew and then make a run for it. I couldn't get hold of any bronco Apaches to prove he sold them guns and ammunition to kill innocent men and women and kids. Not any more than I can prove he shot Bear Paw Daly after the old fellow led him to the new strike. Judge, you drove down here in your buggy and brought the U.S. prosecutor with you and held awful damn' quick court when I sent you word I'd captured Lew Kerrigan. I told you Tom had collected the territorial reward for some reason that turned out to be the strike, but you refused to admit it in court as evidence. Now what I want to know is where's the prosecutor and how soon you're going to bring him down here again to hold trial?"

  Judge Eaton didn't answer for a few moments. He finally removed the cigar from between his few remaining front teeth and said quietly, "And what I wish to know, Marshal Stovers, is what you're going to do about Kerrigan having complete freedom in Clara's house, after killing two more men right here in the settlement? You've arrested one man you claim is a murderer, but what are you going to do about the other?"

  "LeRoy was a notorious California horse thief taking Harrow's money to catch, cripple, or even kill outside the law," snapped back the angry sheriff. "I've arrested Pete Orr a half-dozen times during the past two years, for everything from drunken fighting with deadly weapons to killing a miner. But you always ruled in your court in Dalyville that direct evidence was insufficient. Well," he added in grim satisfaction, "I reckon I won't have to get you any more evidence on him now. I'm asking you again what you're going to do about clearing Kerrigan's record and what you're going to do about this smooth scoundrel sitting here?"

  "And I'm asking you again what you are going to do about the gun-fighting killer in Clara Thompson's home," Eaton thundered. "Coming in here with an Apache Indian I always regretted not sending to the gallows. An escaped murderer who killed a brave prison guard, using a file the murderer Kerrigan smuggled into his cell."

  He was, Joe Stovers saw resignedly, working himself up to the fine pitch of outraged anger that had made him both famous and feared among the thirty-one thousand whites in Arizona. "I'll do my duty toward this man. You do yours toward Kerrigan and the Apache. Let me remind you again, Stovers, that my appointment as U.S. District Judge came straight from President Grant, as did that of Judge Parker of Fort Smith, Arkansas, who but recently sentenced six foul murderers to hang from the gallows all at the same time!" *

  * Author's note: This occurred in September of that year, 1875.

  Joe Stovers let out an angry blast of breath and jerked on his old hat, something he never did in the presence of his wife's picture above the fireplace. "I'm going out and saddle up my other horse. Will you accept the responsibility for the prisoner's custody while I'm gone, or do I take him out in the back yard and throw him in the log lockup?"

  "I assure you he won't escape," Judge Eaton replied acidly.

  "Good. With Tom in custody awaiting trial, I can talk Lew Kerrigan out of burning Dalyville, and if the troops get here from Fort Stanton, Loco will lit for one of his hideouts."

  He went out and closed the door behind him. Judge Eaton reached over and de-ashed his cigar tip and then puffed thoughtfully. He looked an inquiry as Harrow laughed softly.

  "I refuse to see anything amusing in your present situation," he remarked coldly.

  "Just wondering," Harrow smiled, "having had considerable experience with the opposite sex, if Joe isn't mooning over Clara Thompson and badly frustrated because she won't forget her husband, and him being so old and ugly anyhow?"

  But Eaton only frowned disapprovingly, holding that such a coarse remark was entirely out of place. He waited a moment, frowning again, and then looked straight at Harrow.

  "This situation," he said severely, "has gotten completely out of control, for which I hold you solely responsible. How could you have conducted yourself in such a stupid manner over there in the old fort?"

  "I slipped badly, no doubt about that," Harrow admitted worriedly. "But I can still come out on top if the cards fall just right."

  "I'll overlook your obvious assumption that I'll free you; something you'd better not depend upon, my friend. Just what 'cards' are you referring to, may I ask?"

  "You've got to free me," Harrow said almost desperately. "I can't depend upon the Governor now. He's under fire from every little newspaper in the territory for selling political jobs, and he knows I can't help him put out that fire with any more money."

  "And just what do you propose that I do in the matter?" Eaton asked quietly, but with an undercurrent of meaning that turned Harrow a bit cold inside.

  "Free me of all charges because of hearsay evidence not being acceptable to a United States Court. Kerrigan is still alive, isn't he? Jeb Donnelly is here in Pirtman, a sworn-in deputy sheriff. You have the judicial power to appoint him a United States Marshal, as you did Stovers—at six cents per mile to walk over to Clara's house and arrest Kerrigan and ten cents a mile to bring him back," he added with a forced laugh.

  "And you have Ace Saunders and three more men to swarm in on the Apache hiding over in the fort," the judge added with unconcealed sarcasm.

  "I tell you, we can get Kerrigan alive! He knows the location of another pocket, when it might take years of combing those canyons down south of here to find it. If you give him the choice of hanging or revealing the location, he'll take us there in a hurry. And this time I won't gamble at making a mere three hundred and fifty thousand. I won't be buying railroad stock. I'll go back to Wall Street and sell a million dollars' worth of gold stock to the robbers who fleeced me! I'll beat them at their own game!"

  Eaton laid aside the dead cigar, as though it suddenly had become bitter in his mouth. He uncoiled his gaunt frame from the depths of the chair and began to pace thoughtfully back and forth in the comfortable living room, black coattails rustling around his thin knees.

  He said aloud, looking at the walls with antelope and deer heads staring from
bright glass eyes, "You're a criminal, Harrow. Your money is gone, you've lost a very lovely lady, you're a thief and a—"

  "I can get Kitty back anytime," Harrow interrupted, laughing.

  "That's the second time you've brought up a subject of which I heartily disapprove," Judge Eaton answered curtly.

  He stopped in front of Harrow and his gaunt shoulders straightened themselves, and the same fanatical gleam too many men had seen in his eyes just before sentence was passed flamed down. Harrow had the sudden, panicky feeling that he was already tried and convicted.

  "Now you listen to me!" snapped Judge Eaton, and leveled a forefinger at Harrow. "If ever in this world any scoundrel deserves to be sent to the gallows, you are that scoundrel. Ever since I was appointed United States District Judge for this part of the territory, honest men, aware of Arizona's reputation for harboring more outlaws and wanted men than any other territory or state, have applauded my code of being ruthless with ruthless men like you, Mr. Harrow! They named me 'The Hanging Judge,' and I've let that reputation speak for itself."

  He paused, took a turn down the room to the fireplace and came back.

  "I've known for a long time the sordid political conditions surrounding the Territorial Governor's office in Tucson. When I sentenced Lewis Kerrigan to life in prison at hard labor, I stipulated that he be sent not to the House of Correction at Detroit but to the territorial penitentiary at Yuma, the United States Government to pay for his keep. As such, the Governor of Arizona had no legal authority to 'parole' the prisoner into your custody. But he stretched a few points of law and took a bribe from you while I turned my back. I did so to put him into position for the criminal charges of malfeasance in office I shall make before next election. I'm sure he'll be quite anxious to withdraw from any race when I announce my own candidacy."

  Harrow rose to his feet, but he was unable to express the sudden astonishment in his eyes before Judge Eaton changed the subject abruptly.

  "How broke are you, Tom? How much money have you got? Right now?"

  "Very, very little," Harrow admitted, and shook his head.

  "How much?" snapped the judge.

  "About six thousand in tiny gold bars hidden in Dalyville," Tom Harrow answered desperately, somehow knowing it wasn't near enough. "All that's left of ten thousand I had smelted to hand out as gifts to the right people. The Governor has one."

  "I want twenty-five thousand," came the inexorable reply. "I can't risk my whole carefully planned political goal upon the exigencies of your own desperate hopes. I've protected Pete Orr and the rest of the scum, but I need more money to campaign in threadbare clothes of a poorly paid man while I put out money to those who can help me. Well?"

  It was Harrow's turn to pace to the end of the room. He came up by the huge fireplace, free of ashes and carefully swept clean, and rested his left elbow on the mantel near a picture of Joe Stovers' dead wife.

  "I haven't got any more, Yeager," he said low-voiced, and shook his head. "It's all gone but that."

  "Very unfortunate, but I cannot run the risk of a loose tongue such as yours in the years to come, Tom. Not even in prison. I'm holding you for trial for complicity in the murder of the men Kerrigan killed." It was tantamount to a death verdict.

  "Wait!" cried Harrow, and again he was in the clutch of the old fear. He said desperately, "I'll get you the money, Yeager!"

  "When?" the judge asked and raised a dubious eyebrow and sniffed.

  "Possibly within an hour. As soon as Kerrigan is out of Clara's house."

  "Do you think I'm child enough to believe she has such an amount, and you could secure it by bold robbery, and then I accept it from you?"

  "I'm not speaking of Clara. Carlotta Wilkerson has the money. I gave her twenty thousand dollars when we became engaged. She has it with her now in goldback currency, over at Clara's house. If we can get Kerrigan out of there, I'll get it!"

  "Hmmm," the judge said briskly. "This puts an entirely different complexion on matters. I am freeing you of all charges for lack of evidence. But to make certain of everything, I am removing Stovers as United States Marshal, filing charges of malfeasance in office against him for his conduct in the Kerrigan case, and issuing a court order restraining him from carrying out further official duties. I shall appoint Jeb Donnelly to take Stovers' place; and your other men as his deputies to help apprehend Kerrigan when he attempts to burn Dalyville, which probably will be tonight. You'll take him tomorrow and find your new source of renegade Apache gold, Tom. Then bring him back to me—in chains. As one of my last official acts before I resign office to take over complete political control of Arizona, I'm going to send Kerrigan to the gallows!"

  "My God!" Tom Harrow whispered in soft amazement, staring at the man he'd known for more than two years, viewing him as a not-too-well-paid man content to accept; the money Harrow had paid him at regular intervals. He'd never dreamed that such thoughts had ever entered the bony, partly bald skull of the tall man in the threadbare coat.

  He shook his head a couple of times as though to clear it. "You in the Territorial Governor's office and me with a million dollars' worth of gold stocks in a new strike. Yeager, we'll own Arizona!"

  "I'll own one half of your gold stocks by proxy," the judge said matter-of-factly, and actually smiled. "I'll want those men brought here to swear them in. Make certain they don't go near Clara's place until Kerrigan leaves. I wish it were time for supper," he complained. "I've suddenly a very healthy appetite for some more of Clara's fine cooking."

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Kerrigan finished eating the kind of meal he hadn't been used to in a long time, with smiling apologies to Clara for the amount of food consumed. By the time he finished, Clara Thompson had silently wrapped up a package of food to be taken to Kadoba, still under cover somewhere down in the old fort.

  He and Clara were alone in the kitchen. She sat across the table from him now, her coffee unwanted and untasted. Both of them had the feeling that he was leaving for the last time.

  "And you won't give up this mad idea of yours to ride to Dalyville tonight and burn it, Lew?"

  He shook his head. "No, Clara. The whole thing seems to be a blot on my soul—that is, if a man like me has one any more. Kitty will probably give you the details anyhow, so I might as well tell you that I came to Arizona in the first place with a changed name because circumstances made a Texas gun fighter out of me. I could have been contented over here. I could have forgot that your heart will always be buried over there in the cemetery; but I couldn't tell a woman like you, who'd been the wife of a fine officer, that there were five graves strung out behind me. That's what made it so easy when Kitty came along. But Tom Harrow played his cards the way he did, and now there's nothing left but to run for it again."

  "Tom is in jail, Lew," she reminded him. "I'm certain Joe Stovers and Judge Eaton can find something in the law to send him to prison and to vindicate you for what you had to do. This is all finished, if you'd let it be that way."

  He smiled at her and squashed out the butt of his cigarette in the saucer holding his coffee cup. "I'm not afraid of what Jeb Donnelly will do now. But I am afraid of Ace Saunders. I know how a man like Ace thinks. I thought the same way when I trailed down the murderers who shot my mother. He's the man who'd have ridden in at a dead run and busted that war party of Apache bucks wide open long enough to get me out of there, simply because I was a white man. He saw me kill his best friend, but he waited here in the house to find out what I was going to do about Kitty's lack of faith. He'll never give up hunting me, and it's got to be settled before I go."

  Movement came from the parlor doorway and Carlotta came in from her lower floor room next to Clara's. She carried a small black valise in one hand. She placed it on the table before him and opened it.

  She said simply, "Lew, when I became engaged to Thomas, he gave me twenty thousand dollars in certificates. He was a very wealthy man, my future husband, and I accepted the money because I needed it. That m
oney came from the diggings in Dalyville. The money is of no use to me any more, and I feel that it belongs to you. It's all here, a little over eighteen thousand dollars."

  He stared at her and then slowly shook his head, picking up, instead, the food package for Kadoba.

  "You won't accept it?" she asked in surprise. "But you'll need it for your defense."

  He shook his head again.

  "Carlotta," he smiled at her, "Joe Stovers is holding all the money he received for my cattle, less five hundred dollars I want Kitty to have to go back East. He can send me the rest of it when I light again somewhere else."

  "Then you're not going after that Apache gold?"

  "I don't need it, Carlotta. Joe Stovers has enough for me to start all over again, if I get clear tonight."

  He shifted the food package underneath his left arm and padded to the back porch, tall even in the moccasins. He turned and a smile softened briefly the harsh outlines of his embittered face, and to Carlotta Wilkerson the brown eyes weren't cold and penetrating and hostile as they had been down in the hotel hallway at Yuma. She had felt sympathy for him there; her heart went out to him now.

  "Things weren't in the cards, I guess," he said, and then he was gone. Running low down the trail to the gap in the wall, crouched over like an Indian. The two women stood in silence as a red horse and an Apache pony shot into view and went out at a gallop; out past the tiny cemetery with its well-kept grave and bright flowers.

  Kerrigan turned and waved once to them and then he and the Indian were swallowed up in the forest on the floor of Thompson Canyon; heading north to put the torch to an all but abandoned mining camp in a gulch stripped bare of its gold.

  They must have been under observation from over in town, for almost immediately five men went trotting on foot to the fort; Jeb Donnelly and Ace Saunders to saddle their horses, the three men who'd ridden guard to hook up Tom Harrow's red coach.