Gallows Express

by Peter Brandvold

  Blood leaking from the hole in his right cheek, the bank robber stood stock-still, gaping at Hawk as he flicked his thumb weakly across the hammer of the Smithy while feebly trying to raise the gun once more for a shot. Hawk quickly ejected the spent cartridge, seated a live one, and finished the bank robber by slamming a .44 bullet through the dead center of the man’s chest.

  “Jane!” intoned the rancher, Boatwright, as he bolted toward his daughter. “Oh, for chrissake—are you all right, honey?”

  The girl sobbed as she continued to lie on the street while her father knelt beside her, placing a hand on her back while glaring up at Hawk, his lips set in a hard line beneath his gray-brown, handlebar mustache. Hawk automatically released the lock on the Henry’s loading tube, beneath the forestock, and began feeding fresh shells to it.

  Instead of more gunmen, however, he saw a good dozen people lining the boardwalks up and down the street, staring toward him and the dead men and the Boatwrights warily. A couple of horsebackers were riding in from the east—three men in rough trail garb—and they were slowing their horses as they came within fifty yards of the bank, staring stiffly, curiously over the bobbing heads of their ranch ponies.

  Hawk saw Reb Winter standing out front of the Venus House, near the ghostly-looking gallows, and he beckoned the young man. Reb tramped toward him, grinning shyly but also with boyish delight at the dead man as he approached.

  “That was sure some fine shootin’, Gid!”

  Hawk locked the sixteen-shooter’s loading tube as he continued to gaze around at the milling crowd, a low hum rising along both sides of the street as the growing nighttime crowd began discussing the recent robbery attempt and shootings.

  “Reb, will you take these men over to the undertaker?” He glanced up the street, in the direction of the sprawling, stable-like shack hunched beneath a large sign announcing HY BOOKER, BLACKSMITH AND UNDERTAKING SERVICES. “Here’s for your trouble.” He flipped the big lad a double eagle. “Tell Booker that in return for burying these fellas, he can have their horses and guns and other valuables on their persons. Any other valuable besides stolen money, that is.”

  As Reb eagerly set to work dragging the broad-chested man eastward by his ankles, Hawk lowered his rifle and started up the street.

  “Look here!”

  Boatwright was striding up behind Hawk while a woman who’d probably been shopping in the ladies hat shop just east of the bank tended his daughter. Hawk turned sideways as the rancher in the long buffalo coat stopped before him. He was nearly as tall as Hawk, and the handlebar mustache gave him a regal flourish.

  He squinted his eyes angrily, his leathery cheeks flushed with fury.

  “Who in the hell are you, and what right do you think you have to endanger my daughter’s life like that?”

  “I didn’t endanger it, Mr. Boatwright,” Hawk said, digging behind his sheepskin vest for a cheroot. He canted his head toward the man Reb was dragging away. “He did. I saved it. Don’t bother thanking me, though. Comes with the territory.”

  Hawk bit off the end of his cigar and strode away toward the sheriff’s office, ignoring all the lingering gazes being cast his way from up and down both sides of the broad main street.

  The sun dropped behind the Wind River and Medicine Bow Mountains, and the velvet night spread across the sage- and rabbit-brush-carpeted knolls and low mesas of the broad valley in which Trinity nestled.

  The pianos in the town’s saloons and rustic fleshpots pattered noisily, as though in accompaniment to the coyotes yipping from the surrounding, star-dusted hills. Traffic on the street was confined mainly to foot traffic, though horseback riders came and went infrequently.

  Hawk had set a hide-bottom chair on the jailhouse’s gallery, and he sat out there now, bundled in his three-point capote against the descending, high-country cold. He had a fire going in the office’s wood stove, and a pot of coffee chugged away atop it—fuel for his night’s vigil over the town. Until he got Trinity back on its leash, he wouldn’t be getting much sleep.

  That was all right. He didn’t need much sleep these days. . ..

  He held his rifle across his knees in his gloved hands as he sat kicked back in the chair, boots crossed on the gallery’s spindly pole rail. A tall, thin-shouldered man came down the street from his right, angling toward the whorehouse that called itself the Venus, where a thin crowd of men had been coming and going since sundown. There were a couple of other pleasure parlors in Trinity, but the Venus seemed to be doing the best business this evening.

  Men looked at him askance as they came and went, probably wondering who the man was sitting on the jailhouse porch with a rifle in his lap. Most probably knew and had probably heard about the dance out front of the bank earlier, as well. Maybe that’s why he hadn’t heard any signs of trouble in town.

  At least, not yet. The night was still young. And the liquor and women would flow until well after midnight. . ..

  As the tall man passed the jailhouse and approached the Venus, the front of which was partly obscured by the gallows standing between it and the sheriff’s office—a great platform sitting there darkly, ominously, as if in silent testimony to Hawk’s presence here—a couple of the shadows standing around outside the place said, “Evenin’, Reverend.”

  Another man said, “You sure you wanna go in there, Reverend? Why don’t you go on home? Just don’t seem right. . . .”

  “Get out of my way!” boomed a stentorian voice.

  The Venus’s front door opened, showing a wedge of orange lamplight and causing the sounds of the piano being played inside to grow momentarily louder before it closed. A couple of the men standing outside chuckled but mostly without mirth, it seemed.

  Shambling footsteps sounded to Hawk’s left. Tightening his grip on the Henry, he glanced in that direction to see a bulky figure in a flat hat moving toward him along the various boardwalks lining the north side of Trinity Street. He knew Reb Winter’s gait well enough to know that it was the young handyman approaching now, holding something before him in his hands.

  “Evenin’, Gid.”

  “Reb, how you doin’ this evening?”

  “Oh, all right, I reckon,” the young man said, having as much trouble as usual in getting the words out. “I brought you a plate of food from the Poudre River House. Seen you sittin’ out here, and figured you was gettin’ hungry.”

  “That I am, Reb.” Hawk reached behind him to lean his rifle against the front wall of the jailhouse, then accepted the oilcloth-covered plate that the big man held toward him. “Much obliged. What do I owe you?”

  “Mr. Lundy said it’s on him. Sort of a welcome-to-Trinity present, I reckon. He done heard about what you did out front of the bank, and I reckon he’s one of them who’s right happy we finally have us a lawman who’ll brook no bullshit from the likes of the Jethro Mays bunch.”

  Reb chuckled with childish glee.

  “Mays was the name, huh?”

  Reb nodded. “They used to do a lot of thievin’ in this area, but Sheriff Stanley and his deputy, Freeman, run ’em out. They musta heard Stanley was dead. . . .” He chuckled again. “But hadn’t heard he’d been replaced yet.”

  Hawk wondered if they had heard that Stanley had been replaced, and hired Harvin to kill his replacement before he got to town. He’d likely never know the answer to the question, however, so he let it go.

  “You liked Stanley, Jed?” Hawk asked as he dug into the food.

  Reb nodded. “He was a good man. Fair and honest. Sure wish he coulda run the Tierneys outta the county, like he run the Mays Bunch out.” The big younker ran a hand across his nose then gestured at the half-open door. “You want me to pour you a cup of coffee to go with that?”

  Hawk nodded as he swallowed another bite of the venison liver and onions. “I’d be right obliged.”

  When Reb had brought Hawk his coffee, he excused himself, saying he had to get back to the hotel where Mr. Lundy was butchering out a fresh-killed antelope fo
r stew the next day.

  Hawk thanked the boy again for the food and coffee, and when Reb had lumbered off, Hawk continued to shovel the succulent liver into his mouth. He didn’t care for beef liver, but he loved the taste of fresh venison, especially when it was only lightly fried in butter and smothered in onions and fried potatoes, like it was here.

  He’d finished his meal and taken his plate into the office, where he’d refilled his coffee cup, then sat back down again in his porch chair. He’d make a few rounds again soon, but he’d fortify himself with another cup of the piping-hot coffee first.

  Reaching into his shirt for a half-smoked cigar, he froze the movement when he saw a dark-clad figure moving toward him from the other side of the street. The figure approached the porch, and Hawk saw the mass of auburn hair tilt back as she lifted her head.

  The light from the doorway behind him showed a young woman in her early twenties with a blanket wrapped around her shoulders. The bottom of the blanket flapped around a pair of nice, bare legs and the incongruous tops of brown stockmen’s boots. He could tell that her shoulders were bare and that beneath the blanket she was wearing little more than a pink corset and camisole edged in black lace.

  She stopped at the bottom of the steps, set a boot heel on the bottom step, and lifted a smoldering quirley to her lips, sucking in a lungful of tobacco smoke. She seemed nervous as she stared eastward along Trinity Street, which had become lit with clumps of burning oil pots and torches suspended from poles and awning posts.

  “Can I help you, miss?” Hawk said, pulling the cigar from his shirt pocket and sticking it into his mouth.

  The girl turned toward him and blew a long plume of smoke at him. She had a long face with a straight, clean nose and the discerning, faintly jaded eyes of a working girl. Her hair, which appeared naturally curly, tumbled down around her shoulders. The light from inside the sheriff’s office revealed dark brown eyes and a mole on the girl’s dimpled chin.

  “Maybe,” she said, showing a crooked front tooth. “Maybe not.” She sucked the quirley again quickly and blew the smoke out. “I heard what you did over to the bank earlier.”

  Hawk stared at her, waiting, scratching a lucifer to life on his right-side holster.

  “Look,” she said, “I heard over at the Venus, where I work,” she emphasized, rolling her eyes, “who you are. Some lawman gone rogue. And that you’re right handy with a gun. I also heard you’re our new sheriff. Well, I got a favor to ask.”

  14.

  A FAVOR

  THE girl from the Venus stared up at Hawk, awaiting some response.

  Hawk drew on the cigar, blew smoke out over his boots crossed on the pole rail. “I’ll help if I can, miss. What do you want me to do?”

  “My friend Claire works over at the Venus with me. It was her brother, Echo Lang, who Brazos Tierney and his pals murdered that night Stanley arrested ’em. While they was still passed out. Anyway, Claire thinks Brazos is gonna come in and kill her. And I’d really, really appreciate it if you’d go over there and try to reassure her that you won’t let him do that.” She blinked and stared at Hawk with subtle beseeching. “And that you’re gonna go out there to his pa’s ranch and kill the son of a bitch.”

  “I didn’t say I was gonna go out there and kill the son of a bitch,” Hawk said, staring at his cigar coal. “What I intend to do, Miss . . .”

  “Call me Cassidy.”

  “What I intend to do, Miss Cassidy, is fulfill Sheriff Stanley’s wishes of bringing him in here to Trinity and to hang him from that gallows that was constructed just for him and his pals Hostetler and ‘One-Eye’ McGee.”

  “I don’t understand,” Cassidy said, shaking her head. “Why don’t you just kill ’em?”

  Yes, why? Hawk thought vaguely. That’s what he would have done under normal circumstances. But he seemed to have tucked the young sheriff Stanley and the man’s wife and child into a special, sweet place in his otherwise dark heart. And despite his doubts that the law had much practical application out here on the wild frontier, he felt a deepseated urge to honor the man’s memory as well as that of his family by fulfilling Stanley’s desire to hang Tierney and friends legally.

  Hawk would finish the job that Stanley had started, in Stanley’s honor, though he had no illusions that he could really bring peace to the area without employing his usual, more practical methods.

  “Rest assured, Miss Cassidy, Brazos Tierney will hang. And he will cause no more trouble for you or your friend Claire or anyone else around Trinity.”

  “Yeah, well, would you mind telling that to Claire?”

  Hawk frowned at her curiously.

  “You see, Claire’s locked herself in her room.” Cassidy tossed her head to indicate the Venus on the other side of the street. “With a bottle, an opium pipe, and a gun. She won’t come out. Afraid Brazos’ll get her.”

  “Why is she so certain Brazos has it in for her?”

  “Because when Stanley was getting ready to hang Brazos and his pards, she yelled somethin’ smart at him from the balcony up yonder. You shoulda seen the look he gave her.”

  Cassidy slowly shook her head and took another quick puff off her cigarette. “After Brazos gives someone that look—that marble-cold, dead-eyed look—why, their life ain’t worth a pound of dried mule shit. Besides, he never did like Claire. Always had it in for her and Echo. Said they was uppity. Always said he was gonna kill ’em both one day.” Cassidy gave a fateful snort. “Well, one down . . .”

  Hawk stared out over his boots at the Venus, the front of which was now lit by several flares and a couple of burning oil pots on the second-floor balcony. The buzz of male conversation rose from the front stoop, and Hawk could see the hatted silhouettes there, here and there the umber glow of a drawn cigarette.

  Hawk dropped his boots down off the porch rail. “Reckon this would be as good a time as any to start introducing myself around town.” He gained his feet and shouldered his rifle, rolling his cigar to one corner of his mouth. “Lead the way, Miss Cassidy.”

  “Sure do appreciate it, Mr. Hawk.” Cassidy turned, and holding her blanket closed across her bosom, began retracing her steps toward the whorehouse. “Mrs. Ferrigno’s a right patient lady, but I’m afraid she’s fixin’ to give Claire the boot, since she ain’t been bringin’ in any money for nigh on two weeks now.”

  Hawk followed Cassidy around behind the gallows. As he approached the Venus’s porch, which was missing several planks and generally sat askew on its low stone pilings, the three men there broke their conversation off abruptly.

  Cassidy turned the knob of the front door and grunted as she shouldered the door open, its bottom raking across the warped pine puncheons, and a moment later Hawk found himself in the whorehouse’s dingy foyer. He could hear conversation through the cracked plaster walls around him, smell tobacco smoke and liquor as well as the cloying sweet aromas of marijuana and opium.

  “This way, Mr. Hawk.”

  Cassidy hung her blanket on a hook near the door—the heat of the place was almost stifling, likely so the girls could run around half-clad without catching colds—and started up the stairs at the far end of the hall. Cassidy’s dress was short, with accordion pleats and paper flowers sewn into the hem, her legs long and well-turned.

  They were halfway up the stairs when Hawk heard a loud pounding, and a woman’s husky voice yelled, “Claire, goddamnit. I’m tired o’ this shit! You open up this door right now. You got a job to do, girl!”

  Hawk followed Cassidy down the musty second-floor hall. The air here was a potpourri of perfume, tobacco, and strong tanglefoot, as it was downstairs, but up here there was also the unmistakable musk of sweat and sex. A door opened to Hawk’s left, and a man stepped out awkwardly, nearly running into the Rogue Lawman. Hawk’s gaze met that of Carson Tarwater, and the latter man’s lips spread in a bemused smile, his eyes glassy.

  “Ah, I see our new sheriff has finally made his way over to the best whorehouse in town.” Tarwate
r glanced at Cassidy. “And you couldn’t have chosen a more delightful hostess, Mr. Hawk.”

  Hawk glanced at the girl, who stood with one hand on her hip, smiling proudly. “He ain’t here for business, Mr. Tarwater. At least, right now he ain’t.”

  The girl raked a quick, coolly appraising glance up and down Hawk’s tall, lean frame, then jerked her thumb over her shoulder, toward a door at which a heavyset woman in a nondescript sack dress stood, leaning against the wall with a look of disgust on her pinched, haggard face. “The new sheriff’s come to see if he can’t coax Claire out of her room.”

  “Good luck,” Tarwater said. “I doubt that girl’s going anywhere until she sees first hand the bone-cold, limp-dicked carcass of Brazos Tierney.” The councilman pinched his hat brim to Hawk and Cassidy. “Good night.” He waved at the heavyset woman. “ ’Night, Mrs. Ferrigno!”

  “Good night, Mr. Tarwater. Hope you had a good time.”

  Tarwater shuffled down the hall and started limping down the stairs, his voice echoing in the narrow stairwell as he replied, “Beats the hell out of marriage—I’ll guarantee you that!” He laughed drunkenly as his wooden foot clomped on the steps.

  Hawk followed Cassidy over to the door where Mrs. Ferrigno stood. The woman extended a plump hand with short, pudgy fingers bulky with cheap rings. “I’m the head o’ this household, Mr. Hawk. Thanks for killin’ Jethro Mays. My whole life savings resides in that bank, and I intend to retire in another year or two and live the good life in San Francisco. As a society woman!” She laughed raspily, then canted her head toward the closed door. “Think you can get her outta there? Claire’s my best girl, but I don’t run a hotel for nonworking whores.”

  “Let me give it a shot.” Hawk stepped up to the door, tapped his knuckles against the center panel. “Miss Claire? It’s Gideon Hawk, the new sheriff of Medicine Bow County. Look, I know that Brazos Tierney has his sights set on you, but I want you to know you have nothing to fear. Tierney is finished.”