Hang Them Slowly

by William W. Johnstone

Stovepipe, Wilbur, and the rest of the Three Rivers crew spent the next day preparing for the drive. Unlike the epic cattle drives from Texas to Kansas during the decade following the close of the Civil War, this journey would be much shorter. They would start early in the morning and with luck would have the cattle in Wagontongue late that afternoon, where they would be driven into the holding pens to await the arrival of the railroad cars that would carry them east to the slaughterhouses. The crew would spend the night in town. A few punchers would remain to help with the loading when the cars came in, while the rest would return to the ranch the next day.

  Malone had plenty of guards posted on the herd around the clock, but the rustlers didn’t make another try. That came as no surprise to Stovepipe. He, Wilbur, and Vance had dealt the gang a pretty severe blow, and the outlaws would probably spend some time licking their wounds before they attempted another raid.

  Stovepipe’s gut told him the gang hadn’t given up and left that part of the country, though. More trouble was coming; it was just a matter of when.

  * * *

  The morning of the drive dawned bright and clear, perfect weather. The crew had breakfast well before the sun was up.

  As they were leaving the house after the meal, Malone said, “Stewart, Coleman, hold up a minute.”

  “Yeah, boss?” Stovepipe said as they turned back.

  “I’ve got plenty of men to chouse those cows where they’re goin’. I want the two of you to stick with my daughter and Brewster.”

  “They’re takin’ the wagon to town?”

  “That’s right. Rosaleen can drive. She was able to handle a team by the time she was six years old.”

  Stovepipe smiled. “I don’t doubt it. You figure they’re liable to run into trouble on the way to Wagontongue or after they get there?”

  “I don’t know, and that’s why I want the two of you to ride in with them. Coolidge should still be locked up, but Cabot’s got other gun-wolves ridin’ for him, and I don’t trust any of ’em. I trust the Brewster boy— he’s shown that he’ll stick up for Rosaleen—but there’s somethin’ about him . . . Sometimes he seems almost like a greenhorn to me, even though he claims he’s been ridin’ the chuck line for several years.”

  “Well, we can keep an eye on ’em if that’s what you want.”

  “Yeah,” Wilbur said, “we’re not gonna argue about getting out of eating trail dust all day.”

  “Don’t know how those two younguns will be feel about bein’ saddled with a couple nursemaids, though,” Stovepipe added.

  “As long as my daughter’s safe, that’s all I care about,” Malone said.

  Stovepipe and Wilbur went out to the bunkhouse and found Vance awkwardly trying to strap on his gunbelt.

  “You can leave that hogleg here if you want,” Stovepipe said.

  Vance shook his head. “After everything that’s happened, I’m not going anywhere without being armed.”

  “Yeah, but Stovepipe and I are gonna be ridin’ into town with you and Miss Rosaleen,” Wilbur said.

  Vance’s forehead creased in a frown. “Chaperones, eh? Or bodyguards?”

  Stovepipe chuckled. “Maybe a little bit of both. But we’re goin’ to Wagontongue with the two of you, anyway. Boss’s orders.”

  After a moment, Vance shrugged. “Fine. I can’t say as I’ll mind the company. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t looking forward to spending the time alone with Rosaleen, but it’s a lot more important that she stay safe.”

  “That’s a practical way to look at it.”

  “Anyway,” Vance said with a grin, “I’ll still get to sit beside her on the wagon, won’t I?”

  * * *

  The rest of the crew, including Malone and Callahan, were gone by the time the wrangler had hitched the team of horses to the wagon. Their mounts saddled and ready to go, Stovepipe and Wilbur were standing beside the wagon with Vance when Rosaleen came out of the house wearing a riding skirt, shirt, vest, and hat. She carried her carbine.

  “Dad told me you two were coming with us,” she said to Stovepipe and Wilbur. “I appreciate it . . . even though I think Vance and I can take care of ourselves.”

  “I don’t doubt it, miss,” Stovepipe said. “Not to be indelicate about it, but Wilbur and me, we ain’t complainin’ about not havin’ to stare at the hind ends of a bunch of cows all day.”

  “Come on,” Rosaleen said as she climbed onto the wagon seat without giving Vance a chance to help her. “We can get to Wagontongue by the middle of the day and take care of our business with the sheriff before Dad and the herd come in later.”

  The little group set off for town. As Malone had said, Rosaleen handled the reins skillfully and kept the team moving at a good pace. The trail was wide, hard-packed without too many ruts, and easy to follow. The morning was pleasant.

  Stovepipe and Wilbur rode on ahead, staying about fifty yards in front of the wagon. Their eyes moved constantly, scanning the range around them for any signs of potential trouble, but the landscape appeared to be peaceful and deserted.

  “You’re trying to give those two a little privacy, aren’t you?” Wilbur asked after a while.

  “Well, mostly just scoutin’ ahead,” Stovepipe said, “but if it gives them a chance to talk amongst themselves, I don’t reckon that hurts anything.”

  “You’re just a big ol’ rangeland Cupid, aren’t you?”

  “You don’t see me wearin’ a diaper and carryin’ a bow and arrow, do you?”

  Wilbur shuddered. “No, and I’d just as soon not even think about a sight like that. But you can’t deny that you’re trying to put those two together, and I’m not sure why. It’s just asking for trouble, Stovepipe. Malone’s never gonna go along with it, and you know that.”

  “Maybe. We’ll see. Anyway, when you’re talkin’ about a couple young folks like that, if they’re bound and determined to get together, there ain’t a whole heck of a lot anybody can do to stop it. Put the gal under lock and key, maybe, but usually that just makes her want the fella even more.”

  “And you’re an expert on romance.”

  Stovepipe laughed. “Not hardly! Some things you can’t help but see, though. Vance has got it bad for that gal, and she’s startin’ to feel the same way about him. Should be interestin’, before it’s all over.”

  Wilbur blew out an exasperated breath. “Interesting is one word for it, all right.”

  Since the wagon was able to travel much faster than the herd, it was only midday when the vehicle and the two riders reached Wagontongue. Rosaleen drove to the livery stable where they would leave the wagon while they were in town. Stovepipe and Wilbur turned their mounts over to the liveryman, as well.

  “Do you want to get some lunch first,” Vance asked Rosaleen, “or should we go talk to the sheriff?”

  “Let’s go talk to Sheriff Jerrico. I want to get that over with. I’ll feel better knowing that Dax Coolidge is behind bars and is going to stay there for a while.”

  They walked along the street toward the sheriff’s office. Stovepipe noticed some of the townspeople giving them odd looks and wondered what that was about. If it was anything important, they would find out soon enough, he decided.

  The door of the sheriff’s office opened as they approached. Jerrico stepped out, just settling his hat on his head. He stopped short and scowled as he saw Stovepipe, Wilbur, Vance, and Rosaleen.

  “Howdy, Sheriff,” Stovepipe said. “Told you we’d bring back Vance and Miss Malone so you can talk to ’em and get the straight story about what happened with Coolidge—”

  “It doesn’t matter anymore,” Jerrico broke in. “Coolidge isn’t here. I had to let him go.”

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  It was almost impossible to surprise Stovepipe, but even he looked astonished at the unexpected news. After a moment, he said, “What’re you talkin’ about, Sheriff? You said you’d hold Coolidge until you had a chance to talk to these two young folks about what happened out at the Three Rivers.”<
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  “I know what I said,” Jerrico replied, clearly impatient and annoyed. “I meant it, too. But then Mort Cabot heard that I had Coolidge in jail and came into town stomping and bellering like an old bull. He had his lawyer with him, and they claimed I had no right to keep Coolidge locked up.”

  “Of course you did,” Vance said. “You can hold someone for questioning for as long as you deem it necessary.”

  Jerrico’s brawny shoulders rose and fell in a shrug. “That’s how it seemed to me, too, and I argued up a storm with them. But then Cabot went to see the judge and browbeat him into ruling that I had to either charge Coolidge or let him go. I couldn’t charge him just on hearsay evidence—”

  “Wilbur and me saw him fixin’ to shoot Vance,” Stovepipe said. “That ain’t hearsay.”

  “And neither of you denied that Brewster was holding a gun. Any jury would call that self-defense.”

  Wilbur said, “So you turned him loose.”

  “I didn’t have any choice. For what it’s worth, Coolidge had a falling-out with Cabot and drew his time. He said he was leaving these parts.”

  “He argued with Cabot right after Cabot got him released from jail?” Stovepipe asked.

  “That’s right.”

  “What about?”

  “Because Cabot told him to go back to the ranch and stay there,” Jerrico said. “He warned Coolidge not to disobey his orders and go anywhere near the Three Rivers again.”

  Vance said, “So Cabot claims he didn’t send Coolidge over there that day?”

  “That’s the way it sounded to me,” Jerrico said with another shrug. “I didn’t ask him any specific questions about it. By that point, it seemed like a waste of time. Now, if there’s nothing else, I was on my way to eat lunch . . .”

  “I reckon that’s all, Sheriff,” Stovepipe said, then added, “Just one more thing. All that happened yesterday?”

  “Yeah.”

  “And you ain’t seen Coolidge since?”

  “Not hide nor hair. Maybe he really did light a shuck.”

  That was possible, Stovepipe supposed, but he wasn’t quite prepared to believe it just yet.

  “Now what do we do?” Vance asked as Sheriff Jerrico walked off.

  “Not much we can do,” Stovepipe said. “Coolidge is gone. He’s a low-down rat who oughta be locked up, but that ain’t gonna happen now.”

  Rosaleen said, “I don’t like the idea of him being loose again. There’s no telling what he might do.”

  “If he tries anything, he’ll regret it,” Vance said, mustering up a little bravado. In spite of that, however, all of them were worried.

  “We might as well get something to eat,” Wilbur said, not letting anything interfere too much with his appetite, as usual.

  “And then we can go down to the depot and let ’em know the herd’ll be here later this afternoon,” Stovepipe said. “Did your pa make arrangements for rollin’ stock, Miss Rosaleen?”

  “No, but I can handle that. I take care of some of his business. He’s always made sure I know about everything that goes on concerning the ranch.”

  Vance said, “It sounds like he’s grooming you to take over for him one of these days.”

  “And what would be wrong with that?”

  Vance held up both hands, palms out. “Nothing. I didn’t mean to imply there was. A woman running a ranch would be . . . unusual, I suppose, but that doesn’t mean there’s anything wrong with it.”

  Rosaleen smiled. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to respond quite so sharply. I’m just used to people underestimating me.”

  “Nobody who’s been around you much, I reckon,” Stovepipe said.

  * * *

  They had a good meal at one of the cafés, then walked to the redbrick depot at the southern edge of town. If Vance and Rosaleen were still upset about Sheriff Jerrico releasing Dax Coolidge, they didn’t show it.

  The stationmaster was a short, round-faced, cherubic hombre with a fringe of fuzzy white hair around his bald dome. He looked up from his desk with a friendly smile when Rosaleen came into the office, followed by Vance, Stovepipe, and Wilbur.

  “Miss Malone, it’s always a pleasure to see you. Is your father with you?”

  “Not right now, but he’s on his way to town with about five hundred head he’d like to ship out, Mr. Helton.”

  The stationmaster’s smile disappeared. “Five hundred head?” he repeated. “Coming in today?”

  “That’s right. Of course, we understand it may take a day or two to get the cars here to load them up . . .” Rosaleen’s voice trailed off as she saw the way Helton was shaking his head.

  “Miss Malone, I wish you or your father had let me know about this ahead of time.”

  “I don’t understand. There’s never been any problem before.”

  “The railroad has only so much rolling stock available, you know, and yesterday Mr. Cabot came in and made arrangements to ship some of his cattle in the next few days. I’m afraid it’ll be a week or more before we can accommodate the Three Rivers.”

  “Cabot!” Rosaleen said. “That . . . that . . .”

  While she was sputtering to find words in her anger, Vance stepped forward. “Let me understand this. Cabot has all the available cattle cars reserved, is that correct?”

  “That’s right,” Helton said.

  “But he doesn’t have a herd ready to ship now. I saw the loading pens as we came in. They’re empty.”

  “He said it might be a few days—”

  “But the Three Rivers herd will be here today,” Vance said.

  “It’s not first come, first served,” Helton said defensively. “Mr. Cabot put down a deposit. The Three Rivers will just have to wait.”

  Rosaleen said, “If we have to keep our cattle in the pens for a week or more, that’ll cost just about everything the ranch will make selling the herd.”

  “There’s nothing I can do about that,” Helton said.

  “You can’t send a wire and arrange for more cars to be brought in from elsewhere on the line?” Vance asked. “This is a big railroad. Cabot can’t have tied up every single cattle car it owns.”

  “I’d have to bring in cars from another division. I can’t do that without orders from the general manager of the entire line.”

  “Wire him and ask.”

  Helton sighed. “All right, but he’s just going to turn down the request. I know how these things work, young man.”

  “So do I.” Vance turned to Rosaleen. “It’s going to be all right. I’ll see to it.”

  She didn’t seem to hear his promise. “Dad should have made the arrangements earlier, I guess. It just didn’t occur to him that Cabot would try to tie him up like that . . . Wait a minute! I don’t believe for a second this is a coincidence. Somehow, Cabot knew we were bringing in a herd. He shouldn’t have known, but he did.”

  “Coolidge,” Stovepipe said. “I reckon now we know why he was on Three Rivers range that day. He was prowlin’ around, seein’ if anything was goin’ on. He must’ve spotted the gather before he ran into you, Miss Rosaleen.”

  “And he told Cabot,” she said. “But I thought he quit riding for the Rafter M.”

  “Maybe he did,” Stovepipe said with a shrug. “He could’ve still passed along what he knew to Cabot before he rode out.”

  Clearly uncomfortable at hearing all this, since he had to do business with both ranches, the stationmaster asked, “Is there anything else I can do for you folks?”

  “You can’t do anything else, when you haven’t done anything to start with.” Rosaleen leaned her head toward the office door. “Come on.”

  The four of them paused outside the depot.

  Rosaleen sighed. “I don’t know what we’re going to do now. Nothing has worked out. Coolidge is gone instead of being behind bars where he belongs, and that herd is going to be stuck here for a week or more, eating up all the profit.”

  “You were going to stay at the hotel tonight anyway,” Vance
said. “Why don’t you go ahead and get a room so you can rest for a while before your father gets here with the herd? I’ll walk you over there.”

  She looked at him defiantly. “I thought you were going to somehow make everything all right. Isn’t that what you claimed in there?”

  Vance looked a little crestfallen. He swallowed and said, “I, uh, I reckon I was a little too full of big talk. I’m just a saddle tramp, after all. There’s not really anything—”

  “Oh, hell, I know that,” she snapped. “I guess you’re right, though. Might as well get a hotel room and wait for Dad to get here.”

  Vance nodded and walked with her toward the hotel, heading diagonally across the street and leaving Stovepipe and Wilbur behind.

  “Poor varmint,” Wilbur said. “He looked like a puppy dog somebody kicked. I reckon that’s what happens when you go around acting too big for your britches.” He squared his shoulders. “What say we go get a drink?”

  “Maybe in a little while,” Stovepipe said as he scratched his jaw. “Somethin’ else I got to do first.”

  “Blast it. I know that look. What’s going on inside that head of yours, Stovepipe?”

  “I ain’t rightly sure myself, but I reckon it’s time we found out a few things.” He turned around and headed back into the train station in a loping walk. Wilbur hurried to keep up with him.

  Stovepipe went to the window with a Western Union telegraph operator on the other side of it. The lanky cowboy said, “I need to send a wire.”

  “That’s what we’re here for.” The eyeshade-wearing operator handed Stovepipe a pencil and a telegraph form. “There’s nobody waiting, so you can stand right there and write it out if you want.”

  Stovepipe licked the pencil lead and quickly printed his message in block letters. Wilbur leaned forward and tried to read it, but Stovepipe’s shoulder was in the way. When Stovepipe was finished, he slid the yellow flimsy back through the window to the operator. He took it, counted the words, did a quick mental calculation, then quoted the price. Stovepipe laid a coin on the counter.

  A moment later, the telegraph key was clattering as the operator sent the message over the wire.

  “Blast it. I never could tell what was in a telegram just by listening to the key,” Wilbur said. “Are you gonna tell me what this is all about, Stovepipe?”