The Shadow of a Noose

by Ralph Compton

  “Let me get this straight now. You really want a straight-up gun fight? No tricks or nothing?”

  “That’s right, Byler,” Danielle said calmly. “You and me, no tricks.” She braced her feet beneath her, knowing what was about to come.

  Byler slipped the pistol from his holster, cocked it quietly, then said, “Well then, why didn’t you just say so in the first—” He slung the door open and leaped out into the dirt, his pistol already out and up. Danielle’s Colt streaked out in a cross-hand draw, her first shot hammering into his chest, slamming him back against the plank door frame. The second bullet hit his chest less than an inch below the first, just as his hand struggled to right his pistol toward her. Her next three shots jerked him along the front of the shack, his boots and body twisting in a crazy dance.

  “There now, Pa,” Danielle whispered, “I’m back in the hunt.” She reached down to the hot, smoking pistol, punching out the empty cartridges and replacing them. Then she walked back to the cedar stump, sat down with a long sigh, and stared at the bloodied body in the dirt until darkness fell around her.

  Chapter 7

  The Arkansas River, June 27, 1871

  It was midmorning when Duncan Grago rode up from the river trail. Danielle had cleaned up around the door of the shack and dragged Julius Byler’s body out of sight, a few yards up the rocky slope behind the shack. She had also taken Byler’s horse from the open-front stall and sent it away with a slap on its rump. As soon as Duncan Grago rode into the yard, she started right in on him in a way to keep him off balance. “What the hell took you so long?” she demanded in a testy voice. “You should have been back last night.”

  Duncan was taken aback and offered a weak defense. “Damn, Danny, I got caught in a rain outside of Fort Smith. Nothing to get riled about! I figured you’d realized it might be morning before I get back.”

  “If all you boys do is sit around and wait for one another, I ain’t sure I want to be a part of this bunch,” Danielle hissed. She reached out with a boot toe and kicked a rock across the yard. “I’m like Byler when it comes to waiting. I can’t stand it.”

  Duncan Grago stepped down from his mount and looked all around the yard and the front of the shack. “Where is Byler?” His eyes stopped for an instant at the sight of a fresh bullet hole in the front wall of the shack, where one of Danielle’s shots had gone through Byler and lodged there.

  “How the hell should I know?” Danielle snapped in reply. “We got into it last night after you left. He said this shack wasn’t big enough for both of us. Wasn’t going to let me inside. I had to straighten him out.”

  “You—you killed him?” Duncan Grago took on a curious look.

  “No, I didn’t kill him,” Danielle lied, “but I should have. The son of a bitch threw down on me with his rifle. I creased his scalp and he ran off.” She narrowed a cold stare at Duncan Grago. “If you’ve got a complaint about it, get it said.” Her hand rested on the butt of one of her Colts.

  “To hell with him.” Grago shrugged. “I only came here because Newt asked me and Sep to bring Byler with us. If he don’t like our company, he can do otherwise, I reckon.” Duncan Grago looked relieved as Danielle dropped her hand from the pistol. “I’m glad you didn’t kill him, though. Him and Newt’s been friends for years.”

  Her voice still tight and cutting, Danielle said, “Look at me, Dunc. Do you think I’m a fool? I wouldn’t kill one of your gang unless I had to.”

  “I understand, Danny,” Duncan said, his right hand raised as if to hold her at bay. “I was just speculating is all. There’s no problem between us. We’re amigos, far as I’m concerned.”

  “Good then.” Danielle pretended to cool down and spread a guarded smile to herself. “I like you, Duncan. I hope we can ride together without any misunderstandings. The last amigo I had went bad on me. I had to leave him lying in the dirt with his brains spilling out of his hat.”

  Duncan Grago wasn’t used to somebody talking this way to him. This gunslinger had him rattled. He was used to being the one telling the tough stories, making everybody a little wary of him. Danny Duggin was a whole other thing. Duncan liked him, but he was scared to death of him, if the truth was known. “We’ll never have that kind of problem, Danny,” he said. “You and me are cut from the same cloth. We’re both mean as hell, and we’ll die that way, eh? Ain’t that right?” He offered a bold grin, putting a lot of chin into it.

  “Yeah,” Danielle said, “for me, anyway. I’m still wondering about you.” She said it half jokingly, leaving Duncan guessing where he really stood with her. “Now are we ready to ride or not?” Danielle stepped over to where she’d reined Sundown to a weathered post in the ground.

  “Sure thing,” said Duncan Grago, stepping back up into his saddle. “But don’t you want to eat something first?”

  “We’ll eat on the trail,” Danielle said, making it sound like an order. “Unless you can’t go a few hours on an empty belly.”

  “Me? Hell, I’m fine. Had some coffee and jerked beef at daybreak.”

  “That’s good to hear, Dunc,” Danielle said over her shoulder, nudging the mare forward and taking the lead. “Get up here beside me. I don’t like nobody fanning my trail.”

  “Sure thing, Danny.” Duncan Grago sidled his horse closer to Sundown. “I was thinking on the way back here. It’s a long ride to where we’re headed. Maybe we ought to swing in somewhere and rob us a bank or something. What do you think?”

  Danielle only stared ahead. “We’ll see, Dunc,” she said. “We’ll see.”

  Mobeetie, Texas, July 10, 1871

  By the time Jed and Tim Strange rode into the small town of Mobeetie, Texas, they had been out of supplies for the past four days, living once more on jackrabbit and creek water, much to Jed’s dismay. They found the Riley spread, but Jacob Riley and his regular drovers had ridden out a few days ago to deliver a small herd to an army encampment near the Mexican border. The old ranch blacksmith, Bar ney Pitts, had speculated to the boys that it would be another three or four days before Riley and his men would return. Pitts had offered Jed and Tim a spot in the bunkhouse and a place at the table, but until the two knew they would be working for Riley, their pride would not allow them to accept Pitt’s hospitality.

  “It would have been different if we were experienced cowhands,” Tim said as the two of them rode along the dusty street of Mobeetie, “but if we ended up not getting the job, staying there would be no more than a handout.” He looked sidelong at Jed. “Pa always said if a man takes one handout, he’ll soon take another.”

  “I know we did the right thing turning it down,” Jed said with a grimace, “but it sure would be nice looking at some food that didn’t smell like rabbit for a change.”

  As Jed spoke, Tim saw something ahead of them above a boardwalk that caused him to stop his bay in its tracks. “Well, get ready to eat, Brother Jed,” said Tim. He nodded at a hand-painted sign swaying on the hot breeze out front of a busy saloon. “Do you see what I see?” The sign read: EAT YOUR FILL WITH THE PURCHASE OF A FIVE-CENT MUG OF BEER.

  “I see it,” Jed replied in a hushed tone, “but I don’t believe it.”

  “I do,” Tim said, batting his heels to his horse and pushing it forward. “Come on, Jed, let’s get in there and eat before they change their mind.”

  At the crowded hitch rail out front of the saloon, they jumped down, spun their reins, and started up toward the bat wing doors. But they had to jump to one side as the doors flew open and a burly bartender hurled a drunk through the air, then stood back dusting his hands as the man rolled in the dirt street and rose up onto his knees cursing loudly.

  “Don’t mind him, boys,” the bartender said to Jed and Tim. “Go on in and make yourselves to home.”

  On the street, the drunk raged, shaking a grimy fist in the air. “Yeah, that’s it, go on inside! See what you get for your nickel beer! These sonsabitches will rob yas blind! Look what they’ve done to me!” He jerked the inside lini
ng up out of his empty pocket. “Don’t think they won’t do it to you, too! The rotten sonsabitches!”

  “Well, you boys coming in or not?” the bartender asked, throwing open the bat wing doors for them.

  “Much obliged,” Tim said, stepping inside with Jed right behind him. Both of them stood in awe for a second at the sight and sound of a spinning betting wheel and the rattle of a snappy piano through a blue haze of cigar smoke.

  “Find yourselves a spot and squeeze, in boys. Drink and eat your fill,” the bartender said, stepping past them across the sawdust floor and disappearing around behind the crowded bar.

  The twins looked at one another and seemed to snap out of a trance. “He don’t have to invite me twice,” Jed Strange said, eagerly moving to the crowded bar where men raised sandwiches thick with roast beef and fried chili peppers. The two of them managed to secure enough elbow room to rake up slices of bread, and had begun piling on the beef when across the bar the same bartender looked them up and down as he spoke.

  “You got to order a mug of beer, boys. That’s the only rule to it. The rest is on the house.”

  Tim reached his hand down into his boot well as he chewed a mouthful of meat and bread. He pulled out the two folded dollar bills from inside his damp sock—all that was left of the fourteen dollars they’d drawn from Elvin Bray before leaving St. Joseph. He peeled the two damp dollars apart and handed one to the bartender. “Must we both buy a beer, or can we share one?” Jed asked.

  The bartender snatched the dollar and smiled behind his thick, dark mustache. “Both of you have to buy one if you both plan to stuff yourselves on my wife’s roast beef.”

  “Give us each a mug, then!” Tim said, grinning and shoving the other dollar down into his shirt pocket. Down the bar from them, a hefty man named Mose Epps, who had a reputation as the town bully, gigged his drinking buddy with his elbow and nodded at Jed and Tim Strange.

  “Look at these two sodbusters, Randy,” Mose Epps said, making no attempt at keeping his voice lowered. “They act like they ain’t et in a month.”

  The other drinkers heard him above the din of the crowd and the rattle of the piano, and most ignored his rudeness. But his drinking buddy, Randy Farrel, laughed loud enough to get Jed and Tim Strange’s attention. They looked up from counting their change in Tim’s palm and, seeing Mose Epps’s expression of disgust and the man beside him laughing, the twins gave them both a questioning look.

  “That’s right, you heard me,” Epps said scornfully. “I said you two act like you ain’t et nothing for a month. Now what about it?” He stood with his hand on the pistol at his hip. Three drinkers at the bar between Epps and the twins picked up their beer mugs and slunk back out of the way.

  Tim swallowed a mouthful of roast beef and bread, then washed it down with a gulp of beer. “Mister, you’re mighty close to being right about that,” Tim said, making light of the insult. “My brother here claims he’s been seeing jackrabbit in his sleep for the past four nights.”

  A couple of the drinkers offered a nervous laugh, hoping Mose Epps would see the humor of it and let these haggard-looking boys alone. But Epps would have none of it. He stared coldly at the twins as he raised his beer mug, drained it, and sat it down solidly on the wet bar top. “Give me another, Frank,” he said to the bartender. “I’ve got enough sense and manners to not take your generosity on the cuff.”

  “Leave it alone, Mose,” Frank the bartender said in a lowered voice. He filled Epps’s mug, slid it before him, and picked up the nickel from the bar. “Lunch is on the house for one and all, you know that.”

  “Yeah, I know it,” Epps said, raising his voice for the twins’ benefit. “But it’s meant to draw business, not to draw a couple of look-alike saddle tramps in so’s they can line their flues.”

  The saloon fell silent save for the clicking of the spinning wheel. Even the piano player had to turn his attention to the bar. Tim and Jed Strange stopped chewing their food. Jed reached out and sat his beer mug on the bar. “Tim, let’s go,” he whispered. “This is just a come-on, to get folks to gamble.”

  “Now you’ve got it,” Mose Epps sneered. “Nickel beer and free food is for the rollers, not for a couple of—”

  “Hold on now,” the bartender said, cutting Epps off. “Nickel beer and lunch is for anybody shows up. Boys, enjoy yourselves,” he insisted to Tim and Jed Strange. “You don’t have to gamble to eat and drink here. You’re welcome all the same.”

  “Much obliged, sir,” Tim Strange said to the bartender, keeping a cold stare fixed on Mose Epps. In a tight, calm voice, he said to Epps, “Let’s get back to what you said about look-alike saddle tramps.”

  Mose Epps was used to bullying his way around in the streets and saloons of Mobeetie, Texas. Although the white-hot fire in Tim Strange’s eyes told him he might have pushed the wrong man this time, Epps wasn’t about to let himself get backed down in front of the drinking crowd. “You heard me just fine the first time, sodbuster,” Epps growled, his hand wrapping around the butt of the big two-handed horse pistol standing high on his stomach. “Now, if you don’t want me to box your jaws, you both better crawfish out that door and—”

  His words stopped at the sight of Tim’s Colt, out of its holster now and cocked at his chest. The move was so sleek and fast, Mose Epps didn’t even have time to grip his pistol, let alone try to draw it. “But I want to hear you say it again, that part about look-alike saddle tramps lining their flues,” Tim said. “I dare you to, you bag of hog guts.”

  “Easy, Tim,” Jed whispered beside him. “He ain’t worth killing.”

  Mose Epps stood stunned, helpless before the barrel of the cocked Colt. A few feet to his side, Randy Farrel started to inch his hand toward the pistol on his hip, but just as suddenly as Tim Strange had drawn and cocked his pistol, Jed Strange now did the same. “Don’t do it, mister, please,” Jed said to Farrel, “or I will kill you.” Randy Farrel’s hand crept back up chest-high, and stopped there in a show of submission.

  “Now you,” Tim said to Epps. “I’m still waiting. Are you going to say it again, or crawfish out that door the way you told us to?”

  Epps’s lips twitched as he tried to form a nervous smile. “Boys, I don’t know how this got so out of hand. I was just making a little joke, you know? I didn’t mean nothing by it.”

  “Yeah, you did,” Tim said, not letting Epps off the spot. “I know your type. You like to belittle a man every chance you get. But when it comes down to guts and muscle, you’ve got neither one. That’s when you decide to call it a joke.”

  “Please, buddy, I’m sorry,” Mose Epps said in a low, shamed voice, not wanting the whole saloon to hear him beg.

  “That’s better,” Tim said. He stalked forward, his eyes ablaze, and poked the tip of his barrel against Mose Epps’s sweat-beaded forehead. “Now crawl out of here,” Tim hissed, “before I blast the top of your head off!”

  Mose Epps back-stepped across the floor, his face flaming red in humiliation, all eyes watching him. Once he had stepped through the bat wing doors, with Randy Farrel right behind him, Tim and Jed holstered their Colts and turned to the bartender. The saloon still stood in hushed silence. “Sir,” Tim said to the burly man behind the bar, “I apologize if we took advantage of you here. We’ve been on the road awhile, and the sight of that sign out front got the best of us, I reckon.”

  The bartender shook his head with a sigh of relief. “Boys, that sign means exactly what it says. Buy a nickel beer and eat your fill. To hell with Mose Epps. This is my place. I make the signs and the rules. Now drink up, and eat all you want.” He looked around at the other patrons, who still stood back in stunned silence. “Well, what are you all waiting for?” the bartender said, waving them closer to the bar with both arms. “Next beer is on the house.”

  Jed reached out and stacked roast beef between two more pieces of bread, this time eating a little slower. Tim drained his beer mug and pushed it forward for a refill. “That was some wicked
gun-handling, boys,” said a voice beside them. They both turned to see a smiling face, and watched the man lower a black cigar from his lips and let out a long stream of smoke. “Permit me to introduce myself,” the man said, his grin widening. “I’m Arno Dunne, and I couldn’t help but notice how quick you boys grabbed up a handful of iron.”

  Tim and Jed had both settled down now, but they still had their bark on. More interested in eating than making conversation, Tim only acknowledged Arno Dunne with a nod, saying over a mouthful of food, “He was in the wrong, mister. That’s the short of it.”

  “I agree,” said Dunne, having to speak to their backs as both the twins had turned away from him. “It’s a bad mistake, getting in a man’s way when he’s hungry. You had very right to drop him once his hand went to his pistol butt.”

  Tim and Jed turned back to Dunne as the piano struck up a fresh tune. “I knew it wasn’t going to go that far,” Tim said. “He was a windbag and a bully, and just needed to be took down a notch.” This time as Tim ate and spoke, he noticed the brace of polished Colts on Arno Dunne’s hips.

  “He may be just a barroom bully,” said Dunne, “but I wager you haven’t seen the last of him. This is his perch. He’ll have to make a move to save face here.”

  “Well, we hope you’re wrong, Mr. Dunne,” said Jed. “We came looking for food, not trouble.”

  “Call me Arno, boys,” Dunne insisted. “I didn’t catch your names.”

  “I’m Tim, this is my twin brother, Jed. We’re just in town for a couple of days. We came to look for work at the Riley spread.”

  “The Riley spread, eh?” Arno Dunne seemed to think about something for a second, puffing his cigar. Then he said, “I hate to tell you, but Riley’s not going to be hiring anybody for a while. If that’s your only prospect for work, I’m afraid you’ve drawn a blank.”

  “How do you know?” Jed asked.

  “Word has it him and his boys were hit by rustlers while they was taking a herd down to the army. If I know Jacob Riley, he’ll be hunting down his cattle if it takes him a month. Meanwhile there’ll be no work at his place.”