Hang Them Slowly

by William W. Johnstone

  “And you think that’s what he’s after?”

  “I’d bet a hat on it.”

  They turned and rode back toward the Three Rivers headquarters, planning to continue their search for Dax Coolidge the next day. It was dusk by the time they trotted their horses up to the barn and swung down from their saddles.

  Old Asa, the wrangler, came out to take their horses. The ancient, one-eyed cowboy nodded toward the house and said, “The boss wants to see you two as soon as you get back.”

  “Figured as much,” Stovepipe said. “Thanks, Asa.”

  “Any luck findin’ the stinkin’ polecat who tried to hurt Miss Rosaleen?”

  “We didn’t catch up with him, but we’ve got a pretty good idea where to look for him.”

  Asa spat. “If you want to take me along, I reckon I could sit a saddle again, at least for a while. It’d be worth it for a chance to peel that son of a bitch’s hide.”

  “I’ll remember that,” Stovepipe said, although he had no intention of taking the ancient wrangler along on any hunt for Dax Coolidge.

  They went to the ranch house and knocked on the front door.

  Aunt Sinead opened it a moment later and said, “I thought it might be you boys. Keenan’s in his office, waiting for you.”

  “Where are Miss Rosaleen and Vance?”

  “They’re in there with him.” The older woman lowered her voice. “There’s been a lot of shouting. Keenan’s not one to keep his voice down when his dander is up.”

  Stovepipe laughed softly. The old cattleman wasn’t subtle, that was for sure. Men of his breed spoke plainly, said what they meant and meant what they said, often at great volume.

  The cowboys went along the hall to the office, where Stovepipe knocked again.

  From the other side of the door, Malone bellowed, “Who is it?”

  “Stewart and Coleman, boss,” Stovepipe said.

  “Get in here!”

  The tension in the room was obvious. Rosaleen sat in a big leather chair, while Malone and Vance were both on their feet. Vance stood near the chair where Rosaleen sat, while Malone paced back and forth agitatedly.

  He swung around to face the newcomers and scowled. “Took you long enough. Did you find Coolidge?”

  “Not yet, but we’ve got a pretty good idea where he’s been hidin’ out,” Stovepipe said.

  “He’s at the Rafter M, right?”

  Stovepipe shook his head. “I don’t reckon he is. I think he’s got a camp up in those hills on the other side of Eagle Flats. That’s about the end of Three Rivers range, ain’t it?”

  “Yeah, but it ain’t far from Rafter M range, either.” Malone made a curt slashing gesture. “It don’t matter. Coolidge ain’t our real problem. Mort Cabot is . . . and I got just the solution for him.”

  “What’s that?” Stovepipe asked, but he had a hunch he already knew the answer . . . and didn’t think he was going to like it.

  “We’re ridin’ over there tonight, and I’m gonna blow a hole in Cabot and any of his men who get in my way. Then I’m gonna burn the place to the ground. He wants to fight with fire, damn it, so I’m gonna give him fire right back!”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  Stovepipe exchanged a glance with Wilbur, then said, “Hold on, boss. You ain’t got no proof Cabot had anything to do with Coolidge startin’ that fire. You go over there and fill him full o’ lead, Sheriff Jerrico’s liable to arrest you for murder. You don’t want Miss Rosaleen havin’ to attend a necktie party where you’re the guest of honor.”

  “That’s what I’ve been trying to tell him, Mr. Stewart.” Rosaleen’s voice was still hoarse from all the smoke she had breathed. “I thought Vance might talk him out of this foolishness, but I was mistaken about that.”

  “Darn right you were.” Vance was hoarse, too. “Coolidge came mighty close to killing both of us, and if Cabot was responsible, he deserves whatever happens to him.”

  Malone gave an emphatic nod. “Those are fightin’ words, son . . . and I like ’em.”

  “Most important word there is if,” Stovepipe said. “If Cabot’s to blame. You don’t know that he is. Could be Coolidge was actin’ on his own. You all know how touchy the varmint is. He’s pretty close to bein’ plumb loco.”

  Malone glared coldly at him. “I don’t take kindly to the hands who ride for me puttin’ up arguments and contradictin’ what I say. Especially ones who ain’t been on the Three Rivers for more ’n a month. You better keep that in mind, Stewart.”

  Stovepipe looked at Vance. He was the only one who knew who the two range detectives really were. If he wanted to reveal that fact, Stovepipe and Wilbur couldn’t stop him.

  However, Vance didn’t say anything. He just stood there looking as angry and determined as Malone.

  “Sorry, boss,” Stovepipe said. “Didn’t mean to argue with you. It’s just that Wilbur and me like ridin’ for the Three Rivers, and we don’t want nothin’ to jeopardize that. I ain’t sayin’ Cabot’s innocent. I just figured it’d be a good idea to have some proof before we headed off to war.”

  “What sort of proof?” Malone asked with a frown.

  “Since Wilbur and me have a pretty good idea what area Coolidge has been hidin’ out in, why don’t you let us scout around some more, locate the place, and then keep an eye on it? If Coolidge actually is workin’ for the Rafter M, he’ll have to ride down there sooner or later. If he does, we’ll have proof Cabot’s behind what happened today. You could go to the sheriff with that.”

  “You mean sic the law on him?” Malone glowered. “I don’t cotton to that. Goes against the grain not to handle trouble on my own.”

  Rosaleen said, “That’s what the law is for, Dad. Things aren’t like they were when you and Mr. Cabot and all the other pioneers started your ranches here years ago.”

  “Maybe they ain’t the same in some ways, but some things never change,” Malone insisted.

  Rosaleen turned to look at Vance. “Please. You understand what I’m saying, surely.”

  “Why? Because I’m from back east and have never really had to fight for anything I wanted? That may be true, but I come from fighting stock, Rosaleen. My father battled for his fortune. Maybe it’s time I started fighting some real battles of my own.”

  “By getting yourself killed?”

  Malone said, “What in blazes has happened here? I’ve always been the one who’s had to stop you from flyin’ off the handle, gal, not the other way around.”

  “Maybe coming so close to dying today made me realize how precious—and how fragile—life really is.”

  “Maybe so, but what good is life if you have to back down from challenges in order to live it?”

  Not knowing how much longer they might go on wrangling, Stovepipe interrupted. “Give Wilbur and me one more day, boss. If we don’t find Coolidge and prove one way or the other whether he’s still workin’ for Cabot, you can raise hell and shove a chunk under the corner all you want to.”

  Malone snorted. “Mighty generous of you to give me permission to do that, Stewart, when last time I checked you worked for me and not the other way around!” His angry expression eased slightly, though, as he shrugged and went on. “But I suppose another day wouldn’t hurt nothin’. Shoot, by waitin’ to strike back, it might even throw Cabot off his guard a little. What do you say, Vance?”

  Clearly, Vance was furious over what had happened. He didn’t want to calm down and wait. He wrestled with his emotions and finally, reason won out and he agreed. “One more day. But if you don’t show any results, Stovepipe . . . well, I don’t know what’s going to happen. It won’t be peaceful, I can promise you that.”

  Stovepipe had won. “Deal.”

  * * *

  Fortified by a hearty breakfast and several cups of strong black coffee, the two detectives rode out before sunup the next morning. Wilbur had a bundle of Aunt Sinead’s biscuits and some bacon in his saddlebags so they wouldn’t go hungry at lunchtime.

  “Y
ou reckon Malone will keep his word and not attack the Rafter M?” Wilbur asked as they rode east away from the ranch headquarters.

  “He ain’t a man to go back on his word without a mighty good reason,” Stovepipe replied. “Before yesterday, I might’ve said Vance would keep him reined in, but ol’ Vance was as walleyed as a spooked horse himself. He was every bit as ready to go to war as the old man was.”

  “Well, sure. He’s in love with the girl, and Coolidge nearly killed her, not to mention how close Vance came to dying himself. It was a near thing, Stovepipe. The range could’ve run red with blood last night.”

  “We’ve headed it off for the time bein’. Now we’ve got to deliver, though. If we don’t find that gun-wolf’s hideout, things could still go to hell.”

  They angled north through the hills before they ever reached Eagle Flats, then cut east so as to cross the open ground several miles away from the scene of the fire that had almost taken the lives of Vance and Rosaleen. Stovepipe’s sense of direction was unerring. He led Wilbur into the rugged landscape and they began working their way south toward the narrow canyon where Coolidge’s trail had taken them.

  Any time there was a chance for them to move to higher ground, they did so, climbing gradually until they were well above the area where they had been the day before. As they rode onto a broad bench, Stovepipe wasn’t surprised to see a chasm cutting across the ground in front of them. He pointed it out to Wilbur and said, “Unless I miss my guess, that’s the other end of the canyon we found yesterday. Let’s get closer on foot and see if we can tell anything.”

  They dismounted, pulled their Winchesters from the sheaths, and let the reins dangle. The paint and the roan were well-trained and wouldn’t wander. With the caution they had developed over years of work that often required stealth, Stovepipe and Wilbur catfooted toward the canyon.

  Before they reached the brink, they dropped to hands and knees and covered the last few yards. Stovepipe took off his hat, set it aside, and risked a look. He could see about a hundred yards back up the canyon.

  There was no sign of Dax Coolidge or anybody else.

  Stovepipe turned to look at Wilbur and shook his head. He frowned and then sniffed the air. Pointing behind him, he indicated they should back off from the edge.

  When they had pulled back, Stovepipe whispered, “I didn’t see nobody, but I think I caught a whiff of wood smoke. Don’t see no smoke comin’ up, so Coolidge is probably keepin’ his fire pretty small, but he can’t get rid of the smell completely.”

  “I thought I smelled it, too,” Wilbur agreed, also in a whisper. “What do we do now?”

  “Let’s head back the other direction. Stay as quiet as you can.”

  They crawled along the top of the canyon, picking up the rifles and setting them down carefully so the metal didn’t clink against any rocks. After a few minutes, Stovepipe could tell the smell of wood smoke was getting stronger and figured Coolidge had fed a few twigs into his fire, maybe to boil a pot of coffee.

  Motioning for Wilbur to stop, Stovepipe dropped all the way to his belly and eased forward to look over the brink again. On the other side of the canyon, the rock wall bulged out enough for the overhang to form a cavelike area underneath it. A few curls of smoke drifted from under the rock. he heard a horse stamping and blowing. The animal sounded restless and impatient, probably with good reason. Likely, there wasn’t any graze up in that gloomy enclosure.

  Stovepipe slid back to join Wilbur and whispered, “He’s there, all right, or at least somebody is.” Quickly, he explained what he’d seen.

  “Now what?”

  “Now you’re gonna stay here and keep an eye on the place while I go back the other way and find a spot where I can climb down.”

  “You’re going after Coolidge on his own ground?” Wilbur didn’t think that was a very good idea. “Why don’t we just call on him to surrender? With us up here, he can’t get away. If he tries, we’ll drill him.”

  Stovepipe shook his head. “I want to take the varmint alive. That’s the only way he can answer questions. If we holler down at him, he’ll just fort up in there and we won’t have any way of gettin’ him out.”

  “We could bounce some slugs in there and make him think twice about being stubborn.”

  “And one of those ricochets might blow a hole clean through him, too.” Stovepipe shook his head. “Nope, I don’t want to risk it. You give me time to get in position and then chunk a rock down in the canyon to get his attention. He’ll come out to make sure nobody’s tryin’ to sneak up on him, and when he does, I’ll jump him and hogtie him.”

  “He’ll put up a fight, you know.”

  “Why, sure he will. But I’ll take my chances.”

  “And what if he kills you?”

  “Then it’ll be up to you, Wilbur. You can capture him or you can blow his lights out, whichever one seems like the thing to do at the time.”

  “Would it do any good to tell you to be careful?”

  Stovepipe shook his head. “Not a whole heck of a lot.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  Leaving Wilbur above Dax Coolidge’s camp, Stovepipe went back the other way, still being careful not to make any more noise than necessary. He didn’t want Coolidge to know anybody was around until he was ready to make his move.

  When he had put enough distance between himself and the camp, he stood up and loped the rest of the way. The canyon had enough bends in it that he was out of sight of Coolidge’s hideout. When he reached the end of the chasm, where the two sides pinched together, Stovepipe knelt and looked for a way to climb down. The rock wall had enough cracks, fissures, and knobs to provide handholds and footholds. He wasn’t very fond of climbing, but it had to be done. Not able to take it with him, he set the rifle aside.

  He searched for a good foothold. Spotting one, he rolled to his belly, slid his legs over the edge, and wedged the toe of his right boot into a crack. He grabbed hold of a tree root and reached down with his left foot to find another. His heart pounded in his chest as he slowly lowered himself. The canyon was a good forty feet deep, and its floor was stone. If he lost his grip and fell, the landing would bust him all to pieces, if not kill him outright.

  “Just make sure you don’t fall, old son,” he told himself under his breath to counter that grim thought.

  The descent was a slow, nerve-racking business.

  Finally, Stovepipe dropped the last few inches and heaved a sigh of relief when his boots were firmly on solid ground again. He stood there for a moment, breathing hard as his racing pulse slowed. When his nerves had settled down, he drew his Colt and started along the canyon toward Coolidge’s camp.

  He had told Wilbur to watch for his signal before tossing a rock into the canyon. Knowing his friend and partner was as reliable as the sun coming up in the east every morning, it was unlikely he would get impatient.

  Stovepipe reached a bend about fifty yards from the cavelike area under the overhang. He took his hat off and edged an eye around so he could take a look. A tiny fire flickered in the back of the shadowy area under the bulge of rock.

  Stovepipe caught a glimpse of Wilbur’s hat on the opposite wall. He reached around the bend and waved his own hat. A second later, Wilbur’s hat waved in a return signal to let him know the redhead had seen him.

  A few seconds went by, then a fist-sized rock arched out over the canyon and dropped down to strike the other wall, bounce off, and land on the canyon floor with a clatter.

  For a moment nothing happened. Then Dax Coolidge appeared, slipping out from under the overhang in a gliding crouch. Gun in hand, he turned toward the spot where the rock had fallen. He wasn’t wearing his hat, so Stovepipe got a good look at his face and recognized the hired gun beyond any doubt.

  As Coolidge stalked toward the area where he had heard the racket, Stovepipe eased around the bend. Moving as quietly as an Apache, he began closing the distance between himself and the gunman.

  Coolidge crouched, twist
ing from side to side as he searched for whatever he had heard. About twenty yards from his camp, he decided the noise hadn’t amounted to anything, probably just a rock that had fallen. He straightened from his crouch.

  Stovepipe had almost reached the overhang. He would have liked to be closer, since he was armed only with the Colt. All Coolidge had was a revolver, too, so they were on even terms.

  And with the element of surprise, Stovepipe had the advantage.

  He waited until Coolidge slid his gun into leather then leveled his own Colt and called out, “Hold it right there, Coolidge! Don’t make a move!”

  Most men would have followed orders when somebody had the drop on them, but Dax Coolidge wasn’t most men. He twisted toward the range detective and his hand moved to his gun in a blur of speed.

  Stovepipe had no choice but to press the trigger of his Colt. The gun roared and bucked in his hand, but Coolidge’s swift pivot had thrown off his aim. Blood flew as Stovepipe’s bullet nicked Coolidge’s left arm. The revolver in the man’s right fist still roared and spat flame.

  Stovepipe fired again as the slug whined past his ear. He wanted to wound Coolidge, not kill him. A dead man couldn’t answer any questions. He aimed low and fired. The bullet kicked up rock splinters inches from Coolidge’s foot as he moved.

  Coolidge fired again. Mixed with the boom of his revolver as it bounced off the canyon walls was the sharp crack of Wilbur’s rifle. The stocky redhead had joined the fight.

  The canyon’s close confines made a horrible racket of the echoes. The deafening reports were disorienting, pounding like fists against Stovepipe’s ears. Even worse, Coolidge was like a blasted phantom as he weaved back and forth. His reputation as a gun-wolf was well-deserved. He was as dangerous as any man Stovepipe had ever faced.

  Stovepipe whirled and darted under the overhang, figuring he might find some cover in the cavelike area. He wanted to prevent Coolidge from retreating in there, too. As long as Coolidge was out in the open in the canyon, Wilbur would bring him down eventually.