Hanging in Wild Wind

by Ralph Cotton

  “Tomorrow?” The doctor’s smile flattened. “I’d feel better not having to count on tomorrow, Detective, if you don’t mind my saying so.” He cut his eyes toward the sound of the drunken mob outside the door.

  “I see your concern,” said Longworth. He looked to Sam. “Ranger, have you any money on you?”

  Sam reached into his trouser pocket and pulled on some folded bills. Without counting he said, “Doctor, there’s twelve dollars. Is that enough?”

  “More than enough, Ranger,” the doctor said. “I’ll have your change tomorrow, if all goes well here.”

  “You keep the change, Doctor,” Sam said. He picked up a short, double-barrel shotgun he’d loaded earlier and laid atop the oak desk.

  Looking at Shelly and the doctor, Longworth stood close to the door and said loudly, “I’m bringing Miss Shelly and Dr. Stanton out. I want to know nothing’s going to happen to them.”

  “Send them out, Detective,” said the voice. “We’re not animals. They won’t be harmed.”

  “I’m not going,” Shelly said suddenly. She looked at Longworth. “I’m staying here. It’s the least I can do after what happened.”

  Longworth shot the ranger a guarded glance and said to her, “Miss Shelly, you’re nervous and you don’t know what you’re saying. Now, please, you go on out of here with the doctor, and go home.” Again he shot Sam a glance. Sam looked down and checked the shotgun in his hands.

  The townsmen stood in a half circle surrounding the front door. Some of them held torches and ropes in one hand and rifles or shotguns in their other. In spite of their drunken rage, they allowed Shelly Linde and Dr. Stanton to walk slowly through their midst without incident. The doctor carried his shotgun at port arms, his canvas bag hanging from his shoulder.

  At the outer edge of the men, Shelly stopped and looked back at Longworth, who stood on the boardwalk, rifle in hand, a foot in front of the ranger, who stood quietly observing.

  “Clayton,” Shelly said, “I—I need to say something here.”

  “Go, Shelly!” Longworth insisted, taking a step forward. “There is nothing for you to say here. Now leave!”

  Sam watched, knowing what was going through both of their minds.

  “We wouldn’t hurt Miss Shelly for the world,” said a red-faced townsman named Dean Shalen, who held at his side a rope with a hangman’s knot tied in it. “All we want is a share of justice for these buzzards killing our doctor and Chief Bell.” He held up the rope and shook it by its noose.

  “Please, Shelly.” Longworth jerked his head toward the restaurant.

  “Come along, Miss Shelly,” the old horse doctor said, coaxing her. “These lawmen need to do their jobs without having to worry about us being in their way.” Taking her by her arm, he directed her away from the angry crowd and out of the flickering torchlight.

  “What did Miss Shelly have to say?” Elliot asked. He had discarded his hat to keep it from irritating his swollen forehead.

  “Nothing,” said Longworth, tight-lipped. “She’s scared and upset.”

  “It sounded like she had something that needed saying,” Elliot persisted.

  “She didn’t,” Longworth snapped back. He stared hard at the faces around him. “Neither do any of the rest of you. Now break up and go home before we start doing things we’ll regret.”

  The two younger men, Robert Samples and John Rader, now stood at the head of the gathering. Fred Elliot, Joe Clancy and some of the older townsmen had lagged back and given them the lead. Selectman Tyler had managed to disappear as soon as the talk of lynching had begun.

  “We’re not going anywhere until we’ve hung those murderers from the boardwalk rafters,” said Samples, nodding upward toward the timber framing.

  “It’s not going to happen,” said Longworth. He jacked a round into his rifle chamber just to make his point. “We wait for the judge.”

  “Like hell we do,” said John Rader. “The judging has all been done. It’s sentencing time now.” He took a step closer, noose in hand.

  Longworth answered his step with one of his own. His rifle butt came up to his shoulder and he took aim at Rader’s heart from a distance of less than ten feet. “I will drop you dead where you stand.”

  Rader stopped; the crowd hushed.

  Behind Longworth, Sam stayed calm, motionless. But his gloved thumb reached over both hammers of the short, double-barreled shotgun and pulled them back slowly, quietly.

  Breaking the silence, Robert Samples said, “He’s bluffing . . . I think.”

  “You think?” said John Rader. His whiskey suddenly left him flat, and his eyes took on a strange look. He wanted to take a step back, but he didn’t know how to go about it.

  “Don’t worry, John. I’m backing you,” Samples said, then realized he’d just said the wrong thing to a man looking down the open bore of a Winchester rifle.

  Inside the cells, Kitty stood on her cot, listening intently through a barred window. In Paco and Buckles’ cell, Paco did the same thing. Even all the way at the rear of the building, the two could hear the angry talk out front as it amplified and rolled down the alleyway to them.

  “What’re they saying?” Cadden asked, unable to climb onto his cot and up to the window on his wounded leg.

  “Shut up so we can hear them,” said Paco.

  “It sounds like Longworth and the ranger have them cooled down,” Kitty said. She went back to listening.

  Out front, Samples looked the ranger up and down as he said to Longworth, “We know how you sent this tinhorn ranger to the Belleza Grande to bully everybody out of doing what needs to be done. But that’s not going to work this time.” He turned his cold, hard stare to the ranger’s eyes and said, “I’m in no way afraid of this gun-toting territory lackey.”

  “Really?” The ranger took a step forward, and Samples stepped back. But the young townsman kept his right hand poised at his holstered Colt.

  “Don’t think you’ll catch me off guard, Ranger,” Samples said. “I’m not some saddle tramp you can throw through a window. I’m fast enough to take you down if I have to.”

  “Really?” the ranger repeated. “Then what’s all this arguing for?” He took another step, making a show of uncocking the shotgun. “Why don’t the two of us settle this thing between us like gentlemen?”

  “Like gentlemen?” Samples asked, confused.

  “He means a duel,” said Rader.

  “Yeah, I know,” said Samples. He turned his stare back to the ranger. “Suits me, Ranger, if you’ve got that kind of guts.”

  Good enough . . . Sam sensed a relief come over the crowd. The thought of two men shooting it out seemed to settle them, as long as they weren’t one of the two. But he’d take what he could get. He wouldn’t kill this man if he could keep from it. But he’d sure put a bullet in him, if that was what it took to resolve this.

  “Then let’s get to it,” Sam said. He stepped down from the boardwalk and leaned the shotgun against a post.

  “My God, you’re not serious,” said Fred Elliot.

  “Most serious,” said the ranger, stepping sidelong to the middle of the street. Robert Samples did the same only twenty feet away.

  “But—but this is madness!” Elliot said. “It’s not civilized.”

  “Not civilized?” Sam stared at him and the others, ropes and rifles, pistols and shotguns in their grasps.

  Elliot got the point and looked embarrassed. “You know what I mean,” he said. “You can’t fight a duel to see whether or not we hang these murderers. This makes no sense at all.”

  “Back off, Elliot,” said Samples.

  “Ranger, you’re a lawman,” Elliot said. “For God’s sake! Don’t do this.”

  “Get out of the street, Elliot,” the ranger said grimly. “You’ve been aching to see somebody die. You’re getting your chance.”

  Chapter 22

  Cadden limped back and forth in his cell, incapable of sitting still and unable to climb up and listen for hi
mself. “What the hell’s going on out there?”

  Kitty kept her ear turned to the barred window as she said, “It sounds like the ranger just challenged one of the townsmen to a gunfight?” She sounded as if she didn’t believe what she’d heard.

  “No,” said Cadden. He stopped limping back and forth and stood staring through the bars at her.

  “Yes,” Paco said from his position at his own barred window. “I did not hear the ranger say it; he talks too low. But I heard the townsman accept his challenge.”

  “Listen up!” Kitty said suddenly. Her eyes took on a look of deep concentration in the direction of the trail into town.

  “What is it?” Cadden whispered.

  “Horses’ hooves, I think,” Kitty said, her head cocked in the opposite direction of the alleyway and the angry words from the street.

  Paco listened intently with a tight grin of satisfaction coming to his dark face. “It’s about time,” he whispered to himself.

  Cadden limped over to Price’s cot and shook his shoulder slightly. “Listen, brother. It sounds like riders coming. Maybe Kitty and her boyfriend will get us sprung out of—” Having gotten no response, he stopped and leaned down closer. “Price . . . you okay there, brother?” he said, worried.

  “Keep it down,” said Kitty, “I’m trying to hear what’s coming.”

  “Oh, man,” Cadden said in a saddened voice. “My poor brother, Price, is dead.”

  “All right, he’s dead,” said Paco. “Now shut up about it.” He turned his attention back to the growing sound of horses’ hooves.

  Out front, in the middle of the dirt street, the young townsman spread his feet shoulder width apart and shook out his gun hand as if to loosen it up. Longworth stood watching, not sure what to think. Sam’s move had taken him by surprise, but he knew he had to back his play. What choice did he have? At least there were fewer guns pointing at him now that the townsmen had all turned to the ranger and Samples.

  “Somebody give us a count,” Samples said, squared off toward the ranger, eyes locked on him.

  “A count?” said Fred Elliot, who had backed away and stood staring, stunned in disbelief. “A count to what?”

  “How about to three, Ranger?” Samples asked, sounding calm and ready. “Does three sound right to you?”

  “Three?” Sam seemed to consider it as he eased his Colt up from his holster, inspected it, cocked it, and raised and leveled it toward the young townsman.

  “Yep, it sounds all right to me,” he said.

  The Colt bucked in his hand; an explosion of orange-blue flame erupted from the barrel. The bullet nailed Samples high in his shoulder, spun him backward and flipped him over. His right boot flew up eight feet in the air and hit the ground a second behind him. His hat sailed away like a freed bird.

  “Good God almighty!” said Joe Clancy. “You killed young Samples!”

  “No, I didn’t,” Sam said with quiet confidence. “He’s alive.” He swung the Colt toward the rest of the townsmen. “If you’re his friends, you’ll get Dr. Stanton before he leaves town. See to it this man gets proper medical attention.”

  “Oh, is that it, Ranger?” John Rader asked in an ugly tone. “You shoot a man down like a dog, to get all of us—”

  He stopped and backed away as Sam raised, cocked and leveled the big Colt toward him.

  “There’s nothing fair about this!” Dean Shalen shouted. “You didn’t stick to the rules. You cheated the man.”

  “You thought this was a sporting event, an adventure of some sort?” Sam asked. He swung the Colt from Rader to Shalen.

  Fred Elliot tried to be the voice of reason. “Ranger, what they’re saying is, you didn’t give the man a chance to defend himself.” He shrugged. “You just shot him.”

  “So I did,” said Sam. “Sort of the way all of you want to kill those prisoners without giving them a chance to defend themselves in a court of law.”

  “Come on, Ranger. That’s different and you know it,” said Elliot.

  “It’s only different if you want to look at it different ,” said Sam. He gritted his teeth and swung the Colt toward Elliot. “Is anybody going after that horse doctor? We’re going to be needing him real bad, real soon.”

  “Don’t shoot, Ranger,” Elliot said, raising his hands chest high. “I’ll go get him. The rest of you stand down. Don’t give him a reason to kill you.”

  Longworth stood staring as Elliot loped away down the dirt street to catch up with Dr. Stanton, not realizing the doctor had walked only a short few yards into the darkness and eased down behind a wagon to offer the ranger and the detective cover if they needed it.

  Longworth couldn’t believe what he’d just seen. But he had to admit, it took everybody’s attention away from the lynching—for the moment anyway. He wondered what other tricks the ranger had up his sleeve.

  Dean Shalen said to the others, “All right, fellows, he can’t kill all of us. When I say the word, everybody rush them both. Don’t stop even if I go down. Don’t stop until you’ve got the prisoners ready to swing from a rafter.”

  All right, he’s next . . . , the ranger told himself, leveling the Colt back at Shalen.

  Shalen started to make his move, but the feel of pounding hooves on the ground beneath his feet caused him to stop and look off down the trail out of town.

  “What the hell is this?” he said. He turned away from the ranger and stared toward four glowing lights swaying overhead above the trail.

  “It’s those murderers’ gang!” a frightened townsman called out in a shaky voice. “They’ve come to kill us all and set them free!”

  “Oh no,” said Mama Jean, who’d been standing back from the crowd, watching. “It is not man—it is the devil! He rides on four balls of fire! His horses are half man, half demon!” She crossed herself and kissed the tip of her thumbnail. Tears ran down her plump, trembling cheeks.

  Silva Ceran . . .

  The ranger shot Longworth a look; the detective reached around, snatched the ranger’s shotgun from against the building and tossed it to him. From the darkness, Elliot and Dr. Stanton came running. The doctor had dropped his bag in the middle of the street and carried his shotgun high and ready.

  “He who craves battle has found it,” the horse doctor called out in biblical tone.

  “Hold it,” the ranger said in a quiet voice. “It’s not outlaws.”

  “Who is it, then?” Shalen asked. All of the armed townsmen had turned toward the rumble of horses’ hooves and the creaking of wood and metal.

  Every man ducked slightly at the loud crack of a whip along the dark trail. The four fiery lights rose and fell in a circling glow.

  Mama Jean whispered again with her thumb pressed to her lips, “It is the devil. . . .

  “It’s a stagecoach,” said the horse doctor with a dark chuckle.

  “A stagecoach, at this time of night?” said Longworth, stepping sidelong on the boardwalk, but keeping himself between the door and the crowd on the street.

  “It’s the judge’s coach,” Sam said with a sound of relief in his voice that only Longworth noticed.

  The torches slumped in the townsmen’s hands as the big Studebaker coach began braking to a halt in a roil of dust and flickering firelight. The four horses pulling the coach came to a thundering halt, three of them as black as the night, the fourth a pale white dapple.

  “It’s the judge’s horses, all right,” said Joe Clancy, sounding more sober than he had all evening. He jerked his bowler hat from his nearly bald head and swiped a thin wisp of hair sideways.

  Longworth stepped back over to the door, shook it to make certain it was locked, then stepped down onto the street beside the ranger. He brushed a hand down the front of his black linen coat and looked himself up and down.

  The ranger gave him a nod, letting him know he looked presentable.

  As the coach settled in its rise of dust, the shotgun rider scurried down from the passenger’s side, yanked a thickly built foots
tool from its steel hook and hurried around to the door. He set the footstool in the dirt beneath the door and sawed it back and forth into place. Then he reached out and swung the door open. All of this he did with a sawed-off shotgun in his gloved hand.

  The townsmen milled and stared. Ropes with nooses tied in them dropped lower and closer to the men’s sides, in order to get them out of sight.

  The shotgun rider called out as a thick leg reached down toward the footstool, “His Honor, Territory Judge Lawrence Olin.”

  “They all know who I am, Mr. Burns,” said a gruff, husky voice. The judge, a three-hundred-thirty-pound man in a flowing black suit, a twisted black tie and a white shirt open at the collar, stepped out and down onto the ground.

  The townsmen stood in rapt silence as the huge man ambled closer to them and stopped and looked at the torches, firearms and ropes in their hands.

  Selectman Tyler, who seemed to have vanished earlier, appeared as if from out of nowhere. He stuck his long hand out to the judge and shook hands vigorously. “Your Honor, what a pleasant surprise this is. We weren’t expecting you for another two weeks.”

  “Yes,” the judge said. He rubbed his released hand up and down on his suit coat, his eyes still going warily from man to man. “Apparently I’ve arrived with not a moment to spare.”

  Longworth and the ranger watched as the judge’s eyes sought them out. As the crowd moved away to make a path for him, the large man strode over to the two lawmen and stopped and looked them up and down appraisingly.

  “Young Ranger Samuel Burrack,” he said with a stiff, thin smile. “I’m happy to see that no one has . . . well, that no one has killed you as yet.”

  “Not as yet, Your Honor . . . not that they haven’t tried,” Sam said respectfully. His eyes went past the judge to the townsmen. But only for a second. Then he gestured to Longworth and said, “This is Detective Clayton Longworth, Your Honor.”

  “One of Western Railways’ employees, I presume,” the judge said, taking over the ranger’s introduction. “One of the reasons I have traveled here ahead of schedule. “I’ve heard so many good things are happening here, I could not wait to see for myself.”