Hang Them Slowly

by William W. Johnstone

  “You should’ve figured out by now we don’t stand on a lot of ceremony around here. The Three Rivers is sort of like a family.”

  Vance grinned. “I like the sound of that.”

  As they ate, Stovepipe asked, “Has your pa gotten over that close call you had with that ol’ bull?”

  “I don’t think he’ll actually get over it for a while, but he’s sort of run out of steam, I guess you’d say. He’s stopped huffing and blowing about it.” She sounded crestfallen as she added, “But now I may never get to help with the ranch work again. To tell you the truth, I’ve thought about how I might be the one running this place someday.”

  “You really think so?” Vance asked.

  “What, you don’t think I could do it? You don’t think a woman could run a ranch just as well as a man?”

  “I didn’t say that, but it’d be pretty unusual, wouldn’t it? I don’t know how a salty bunch of cowboys would take orders from a woman.”

  “They’d take those orders and like them, if I was the one giving them. I can be pretty salty, too, you know.”

  Stovepipe said, “I ain’t doubtin’ it. ’Course, in the case of the Three Rivers, it ain’t really up to anybody out here. The spread’s owned by some hombres back east, ain’t it?”

  “That’s true. But when the time comes for my father to step down, I plan to make my case to the owners.” Rosaleen shook her head. “That’s a long time in the future, though. Dad’s never going to retire until his health forces him to, and he’s still in his prime.”

  “Well, if that’s what you want, all I can say is good luck to you,” Vance told her. “Maybe I’ll still be around here when that day comes.” He grinned a little sheepishly. “Although I’ve never really stayed in one place for too long at a time.”

  Night had fallen by the time they finished the meal. Rosaleen wrapped up the food that was left and stuck it in one of Stovepipe’s saddlebags.

  Vance was frowning as he said, “You’re going to have to drive that wagon back to headquarters in the dark by yourself.”

  “Yes, and I’ve lived on this ranch my whole life and know every foot of it as well as I know the inside of our house. Besides, my carbine’s up on the seat, too, if I run into any trouble.”

  “I don’t know, Rosaleen—”

  “I told you, you didn’t have to call me miss. I didn’t say you could start fussing over me. I get more than enough of that from Dad, thank you very much.”

  “Speakin’ of your pa,” Stovepipe said. “After what happened today I’m a mite surprised he agreed to let you come out here.”

  “You’re assuming I told him. All I said was that I’d talk to Aunt Sinead and see to it you fellows got some supper. He was in his office, hunched over some paperwork, when I left.”

  “Then there’s liable to be some fussin’ when you get back.”

  “Yeah,” Wilbur said. “It’s a sure bet the boss has realized by now what you did.”

  “I’m not worried. In case Keenan Malone hasn’t figured it out by now, he’s not going to run every little bit of my life!”

  A few minutes later, Rosaleen climbed to the seat, turned the wagon around, and got the team moving. She lifted a hand to wave good-bye in the light of a rising moon.

  As the three cowboys stood and watched her go, Vance said, “Maybe I’m worrying too much, but I still don’t like the idea of her driving around by herself at night like this.”

  “Neither do I,” Stovepipe said. “That’s why I’m gonna go after her.”

  “She’s liable to pitch a fit if she knows you’re following her.”

  “She won’t know unless Stovepipe wants her to,” Wilbur said. “He’s sneaky that way.”

  Rosaleen was quickly out of sight, although the faint sound of the team’s hoofbeats could still be heard.

  Stovepipe drifted toward his paint. “You boys go ahead and start ridin’ around that herd. I’ll be back in a while and spell one of you. I probably won’t follow Miss Rosaleen all the way to headquarters.”

  “What about that hunch of yours that there might be trouble tonight?” Wilbur asked.

  “I ain’t forgot. I ain’t fond of splittin’ our forces this way, but we’ll just have to do the best we can. You fellas keep a sharp eye out while you’re ridin’.” Stovepipe rubbed his chin. “Never know what you might run into.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Stovepipe had been right about riding nighthawk being a peaceful job . . . at least most of the time. Vance was enjoying it. The air had a pleasant hint of coolness about it after the heat of the day. A few night birds sang in the trees up on the hillsides.

  Vance and Wilbur sang, too, low-voiced ballads as they circled the herd, one always opposite the other. Those were the only sounds other than the faint thudding of hoofbeats and an occasional bawl from one of the cows.

  So far Vance’s stay on the Three Rivers had gone about like he’d expected it to . . . with the exception of Rosaleen Malone. He hadn’t expected her at all, and his reaction to her was even more surprising. He sure hadn’t come looking for romance, but when he first laid eyes on her, it felt like somebody had just slugged him hard in the gut. His heart had started pounding, and he couldn’t quite seem to get his breath.

  Vance wasn’t a total innocent. He had been involved with women before, but none had been anything like Rosaleen. When he’d seen that bull bearing down on her, intent on trampling the life out of her, the fear he felt froze the blood in his veins. All he’d been able to think about was saving her, no matter what the risk might have been to his own life.

  He jogged along slowly, thinking he would have liked to follow her back to the Three Rivers headquarters and make sure she got there safely, but he knew Stovepipe was more suited to the job. Vance would have bumbled along and somehow tipped off his presence to her, he was sure of that. Knowing she was proud, he also knew she would be offended they didn’t think she could get back by herself.

  The thoughts running through his mind didn’t keep him from continuing to sing. He preferred a more sprightly tune, but the purpose was to keep the cattle calm, not to entertain him. He finished one melancholy ballad and launched into another one. Most of the songs were about cowboys’ lost loves—probably a good reason for that. It wasn’t exactly a life favorable to romance and settling down.

  * * *

  Stovepipe tracked as much by instinct as by his senses. He could hear the team’s hoofbeats and the faint rattle of Rosaleen’s wagon wheels, and occasionally he caught a glimpse of the vehicle in the moonlight. But as much as anything else, he just knew he was on the right trail. Everything worked together. It was a skill he had developed over a lot of years.

  Being alert didn’t stop his mind from drifting to Vance Brewster. Stovepipe felt a natural liking for the young cowboy, but at the same time something was off about him. The boy was asking for trouble, too, by allowing himself to fall for Rosaleen Malone the way he so obviously had. Stovepipe was pretty sure her pa had somebody better in mind for his daughter than some forty-a-month-and-found cowpuncher. Maybe not anybody in particular at this point, but somebody better than that, anyway.

  Stovepipe turned his thoughts in a different direction, pondering the trouble that had descended on those parts in the past months. He and Wilbur had heard about the missing cattle, the potshots taken at cowboys out riding the range, the escalating animosity between the Three Rivers and Mort Cabot’s Rafter M.

  Since they had drifted in and signed on with the Three Rivers, Stovepipe hadn’t yet laid eyes on Cabot, but he wondered if he might recognize the man from somewhere else, maybe even someone he’d known by another name. If that proved to be the case, it could provide some answers to the questions gnawing at him.

  * * *

  As Vance rounded the herd, he was pointed back in the direction Stovepipe had gone and spotted a rider coming toward him. It didn’t seem like enough time had passed for Rosaleen to have made it all the way back to headquarters, but Stove
pipe had said he might not follow her the entire distance. Vance wanted to find out, so he broke away from the herd momentarily and rode toward the man on horseback.

  The moonlight was deceptive, especially since a few clouds drifted through the sky and created shifting shadows. Vance was fairly close to the newcomer before he realized the horse wasn’t Stovepipe’s paint. He hauled back on the reins, cried out, “Hey!” and reached for the gun on his hip. “Who are—”

  Colt flame bloomed in the darkness as the man opened fire.

  * * *

  Stovepipe hadn’t seen Cabot, but he had gotten a couple good looks at Dax Coolidge and was convinced of one thing.

  The man was a killer.

  Whether or not the rest of the Rafter M hands were as bad, Coolidge was a gun-wolf, plain and simple, and sooner or later, Stovepipe would have to deal with him.

  That grim thought was percolating in his head when instinct and senses worked hand in hand once more to make him haul back on the paint’s reins. He had heard something out of place. As he turned his head to look back in the direction of the pasture where the gather was being held, he heard it again.

  A gunshot, followed swiftly by several more.

  * * *

  Vance was no fast gun, but he was young and his reactions were good. As the stranger charged him, he ducked. Bullets whined over his head and past his ears. He yanked his well-worn old revolver from its holster, lifted the gun, and started thumbing off shots with it.

  The big revolver boomed like thunder. As the pealing reports rolled across the pasture, the gathered stock began to shift, lurching a little one way and then the other. More of the cattle started to bawl nervously.

  Muzzle flashes dotted the night as more attackers swooped in from the shadows. Across the outside of his upper left arm, Vance felt an impact and slashing pain that twisted him halfway around in the saddle. He knew he’d just been shot but didn’t think the wound was serious.

  It certainly wasn’t going to keep him from putting up a fight.

  * * *

  Stovepipe’s gaze darted toward the wagon carrying Rosaleen Malone. He felt himself being tugged both ways. He wanted to make sure the girl was safe, but sporadic shots continued to drift through the night, telling him that hell was breaking loose behind him. His friends were in danger.

  Biting back a curse, he wheeled the paint around and sent it plunging through the night in a hard run.

  * * *

  Although it was difficult, Vance forced his left arm to work, hauling on the reins and pulling his horse in a tight turn as he continued firing with his right hand. He could see three or four men on horseback. They spread out as they rode toward him, and he knew they intended to surround him.

  Over the gun-thunder and pounding hoofbeats, Vance heard Wilbur’s ringing shout. “Hang on, Vance!”

  The little redheaded cowboy galloped around the herd and flashed into view a moment later, riding like a demon as he controlled his mount with his knees. His hands were busy with the Winchester that spouted flame and lead as fast as he could work its lever and pull the trigger.

  As he joined forces with Vance, the raiders jerked their horses back toward the trees. It seemed like they were meeting more resistance than they’d expected.

  Vance’s revolver was empty. He took advantage of the momentary lull to dump the empty brass and thumb fresh rounds into the weapon. “Looks like they didn’t expect us to put up this much of a fight!” Excitement made his heart pound and sent his blood coursing along his veins. He was afraid—only a fool could hear that many bullets whining around him and not feel at least a twinge of fear—but he was exhilarated, too.

  Wilbur twisted around in his saddle as shouts and gunfire broke out on the far side of the herd. “It was a trick!” he cried. “They wanted to get us both on one side so they could stampede those cows at us!”

  The dark mass of the herd shifted suddenly, Any excitement Vance felt quickly vanished, replaced completely by fear. Three hundred cattle didn’t amount to a huge herd, but if they stampeded and swept over him and Wilbur, the two cowboys would wind up looking like something that wasn’t even human, their bodies chopped, flattened, and ground into the dirt.

  “Head for the trees!” Wilbur dug his heels into the roan’s flanks and sent the horse leaping forward as the cattle surged toward them.

  He picked up speed, Vance right behind him as they fled in the same direction the raiders had gone a couple minutes earlier. Trying to say out in front of the stampede, Vance and Wilbur made almost perfect targets as they raced toward the gunmen hidden in the trees.

  Orange flame gouted from the shadows. Wilbur angled his horse from side to side to make it more difficult for the hidden gunmen to hit him, and Vance followed suit. That maneuver slowed them down and allowed the stampeding cattle to rumble closer.

  Vance had heard people talk about being caught between a rock and a hard place. It was one of those situations if ever there was one!

  Suddenly, like an unexpected bolt of lightning from a clear blue sky, Stovepipe flashed in from the side and shouted, “This way, boys! We got to turn ’em, not run from ’em! I’ll cover you!”

  It was one of the most magnificent sights Vance had ever seen. Stovepipe and the paint seemed linked together as if man and horse could read each other’s thoughts. The paint ran full-out and never missed a step as Stovepipe twisted in the saddle, thrust his Winchester at the trees, and unleashed a long, rolling wave of flame and lead.

  Wilbur and Vance turned their mounts to ride to the inside of Stovepipe’s gallant race. All three headed across the face of the stampede.

  Wilbur called, “Get the leaders!”

  They aimed for the spooked steers in front of the others. Wilbur and Vance angled in, turned their horses back into the flow of the stampede, and matched the frantic pace. A misstep would be fatal for both horse and rider.

  Wilbur yelled, snatched his hat off his head, and leaned over to swat one of the racing steers with it. The animal pulled away from him, but Wilbur crowded in, forcing the steer to turn more and more.

  Turning a stampede back on itself was the only reliable way to stop a dangerous panic. Vance followed the same tactics, and in moments, the cattle were curving back and moving away from the trees at the edge of the pasture. It was only a matter of time until the breaking point was reached and the stampede would collapse into a milling mess.

  But . . . the stampede hadn’t started by itself. Men on horseback had started it. They came out of the trees and galloped along the edges of the turning herd, opening fire on Stovepipe, Wilbur, and Vance.

  The three cowboys were still caught between forces that wanted them dead.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  “Keep ’em bunched,” Stovepipe shouted to Wilbur and Vance. “I’ll hold off those other fellas!” He jammed his empty Winchester into the saddle boot, whirled the paint, and surprised the pursuers by charging straight at them. His Colt leaped into his hand and geysered flame.

  Three attackers came up on horseback. Stovepipe didn’t know how many were still hidden in the trees or whether more riders were on the other side of the herd, but it was clear that he and his companions were heavily outnumbered.

  That didn’t matter. Stovepipe intended to keep fighting. He knew the rustlers wouldn’t want to leave any witnesses behind, so surrendering wouldn’t do any good.

  Besides, the idea of backing down always stuck in his craw. If his number was up, he intended to go out fighting.

  He came upon the three pursuers quickly, In order to avoid a collision, they had to split up and let him gallop between them. Shots slammed in his direction as he spurted through the opening. He felt one of the slugs sizzle through the air beside his ear, but none tagged him.

  He reached back a little with his gun, fired, and hammered a bullet into a man’s shoulder. The would-be killer reeled in the saddle and had to grab the horn with his free hand to keep from falling off.

  A bullet plucked at t
he side of Stovepipe’s shirt as he jerked around in the saddle and triggered again. One of the riders hunched over, obviously wounded in the midsection. Like the first man, he almost fell from his horse. He wound up clutching the animal’s mane to stay mounted.

  That left just one man to face Stovepipe. Having seen the tall, lanky cowboy’s deadly accuracy with a six-gun, he decided he didn’t like the odds. He whirled his horse and lit a shuck.

  The other two men, already wounded—one of them perhaps seriously—didn’t want any part of it any longer. They swayed in their saddles but managed to turn the horses and gallop after their companion.

  Stovepipe let them go. He could have thrown a few shots at them to hurry them on their way, but he was more concerned about how Wilbur and Vance were doing with the stampede. He headed toward the herd.

  The spooked cattle had slowed as they continued turning. The stampede was almost under control. Stovepipe rode after his two friends, noting that the gunfire from the trees seemed to have stopped as well. Either the rustlers had decided it wasn’t worth the blood they were spending to steal those cattle . . .

  Or they had already gotten what they came for.

  The herd began to mill instead of run as the stampede collapsed on itself.

  Stovepipe rode up to the obviously weary Wilbur and Vance. “Mighty good job, fellas. Vance, it takes a good hand to help stop a stampede without gettin’ hisself trampled.”

  “Thanks, Stovepipe, but you’re the one who came up with the idea.”

  “What happened to those rustlers?” Wilbur asked. “Why’d they stop shooting at us?”

  “Reckon they must’ve lit a shuck. We’d best take a look at this herd and see how many head are left.”

  “Wait a minute. You mean—?”

  “I mean when those varmints lit out, they may not have left by themselves.”

  “Blast it!” Wilbur said. “We don’t have to count. In all the commotion, they took off with some of the stock, didn’t they? I can feel it in my bones, Stovepipe!”

  “I’m gettin’ the same feelin’, but we’ll take a look to be sure.”