Hang Them Slowly

by William W. Johnstone

  Climbing into the saddle seemed like a formidable task, but Stovepipe knew he had no choice. “Steady there, old hoss,” he told the paint. “I know you’re a mite spooked on account of I probably smell like a slaughterhouse, but this ain’t the time to cut any capers.”

  He got a foot in the stirrup, held on tight to the horn, and swung up into the saddle. The paint moved around a little, which caused Stovepipe’s head to spin again, but it settled down after a moment. He took up the reins and said, “All right. Let’s go.”

  Every time a hoof hit the ground, a fresh jolt of pain went through his skull. He ignored them as best he could and kept moving. As he rode south, the hills began to look more familiar, and he knew his guess about the location was correct. After a while, the large burned area came into sight.

  Off to the east, he spotted a horse grazing. As he rode closer, he recognized Coolidge’s mount, but he didn’t see the gunfighter. He left the horse and headed toward the hills.

  He found Coolidge’s body before he reached them. The piece of rope holding him on the horse had given out. Broken pieces of it were still attached to each ankle. Coolidge had been busted up quite a bit by being dragged, but he hadn’t bled all that much. The only really bloody place on his clothes was on the back of his shirt where he’d been shot. Stovepipe figured that the gunman was already dead while he was bouncing along tied to the horse, his heart stilled by the high-caliber round that had cored through it.

  Coolidge wouldn’t be answering any questions, but that didn’t mean Stovepipe was at the end of the trail. Somebody had lurked in those hills and taken advantage of the opportunity to ambush them. The fact that Coolidge had been shot first told Stovepipe it hadn’t been a rescue attempt. Above all else, the rifleman had wanted to make sure that Coolidge died.

  To Stovepipe, that smacked of an effort to be certain Coolidge wouldn’t talk. The gunfighter’s allies, whoever they were, hadn’t been exactly loyal to him.

  Having seen no sign of Wilbur, Stovepipe was starting to hope the redhead had gotten away. He knew that under normal circumstances, Wilbur would never desert him, no matter what. But . . . if Wilbur had seen him shot in the head, had seen all that blood covering his face, and been convinced he was dead, it was possible he might have lit a shuck. In that situation, he just might have headed back to the Three Rivers to fetch help.

  Since he couldn’t be sure of that, Stovepipe wasn’t going to wait around for anybody to show up. He squinted at the hills to the east.

  That blasted bushwhacker had been up there somewhere, lurking around until he could carry out his deadly errand. He was bound to have left a trail when he rode off, satisfied that at least Coolidge was dead, anyway.

  Stovepipe intended to find that trail.

  * * *

  Wilbur thought he might run into some of the Three Rivers punchers before he got all the way back to headquarters, but as luck would have it, he didn’t. It was the middle of the afternoon when he rode in. Most of the crew was out on the range somewhere else.

  Rosaleen and Aunt Sinead were home, as was Asa. The two women and the old wrangler stepped out of the house and barn, respectively, to see who was riding in. Rosaleen realized something was wrong as soon as she saw Wilbur, hatless and riding stiffly because of the pain in his left hip and leg.

  “Wilbur!” she exclaimed as she rushed down the steps. “Where’s Stovepipe?”

  “Dead,” Wilbur said in a voice strained with painful emotion. “He was bushwhacked and shot in the head.”

  Rosaleen stopped short, gasped, and brought a hand to her mouth in horror. “Dead?” she repeated in a half-whisper, clearly unable or at least unwilling to accept it.

  “I reckon so.”

  Asa had reached the side of Wilbur’s roan. He reached up and said, “Let me give you a hand there, son.”

  With the wrangler’s help, Wilbur climbed down from the saddle.

  Rosaleen couldn’t help but see how awkwardly he was moving. “You’ve been hurt, too.”

  “It’s nothing,” Wilbur said in a gruff voice. He touched his gunbelt where the thick leather was torn. “A slug glanced off my hip and banged it up a mite. I’ll be all right. All the crew out working?”

  “That’s right. Dad and Vance are with them.” Rosaleen paused. “Did you find Coolidge?”

  “We found him, all right.”

  “And . . . and he’s the one who killed Stovepipe?”

  Wilbur shook his head. “No, that was somebody else, some bushwhacker we never even caught a glimpse of. He killed Coolidge first, then shot Stovepipe. Nearly ventilated me.” He took a deep breath. “I need to round up the other fellas. We can go back over there, maybe pick up the varmint’s trail. Somebody . . . somebody will need to bring in Stovepipe . . . and Coolidge, too, I suppose. I’ll just get a fresh horse—”

  “You won’t do any such thing,” Rosaleen broke in. “You can barely stay on your feet, Wilbur.”

  “Rosaleen is right, Mr. Coleman.” Aunt Sinead had come down from the porch to join them. “You need to come inside. I’ll give you some coffee with a nice jolt of Irish whiskey in it, and I should probably take a look at that injury, too, just to make sure you’re not hurt worse than you think you are.”

  “Blast it,” he said, “I need to fetch the hands—”

  “I’ll do that,” Rosaleen said. “Asa, saddle a horse for me while I go get my riding gear on.”

  The old wrangler looked and sounded hesitant as he said, “I dunno, Miss Rosaleen—”

  “Dad’s not here and neither is Andy Callahan . . . or Vance, for that matter. That means I’m in charge.”

  “Do what she says, Asa,” Aunt Sinead said. “She’s just going out on Three Rivers range to look for her father and the other men. That shouldn’t be dangerous.”

  “I dunno,” Asa said again. “Bushwhackers runnin’ around and folks gettin’ shot . . . seems like all hell’s bustin’ loose, ladies, if you’ll pardon my French.”

  “It’s busting loose, all right,” Wilbur said. “And after what happened to Stovepipe, I intend to see that it blows sky high.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  A short time later, Rosaleen was on her way, riding hard toward the south where most of the crew was working. Vance and her father were there, and she wanted to see both of them very much. She was upset at the news Wilbur had brought, and it would help to see the two men she cared the most about in the world.

  She hadn’t really thought about it, but even though she had known Vance for only a couple weeks, he had risen to that level in her estimation. Sure, she’d been angry with him for lying about who he really was, but she had known from the first she would forgive him for that . . . as soon as enough time had passed. Evidently, she had reached that point, because she really wanted him to put his arms around her and tell her everything was going to be all right.

  It seemed impossible to believe Stovepipe Stewart was gone. Rosaleen hadn’t known him all that much longer than she’d known Vance, but even so, she had grown quite fond of him. Already, he had become like an uncle to her. Despite his easy drawl and low-key manner, he had such a commanding presence that any time he was around he made everyone feel like things were under control.

  Rosaleen wasn’t sure she would ever feel that way again.

  She came in sight of several men on horseback and recognized them as Three Rivers punchers. As she rode up to them, they touched the brims of their hats and nodded to her.

  She didn’t have time for pleasantries. “Where are my father and Mr. Armbrister?”

  “Last time we saw’ em, they were over yonder about half a mile,” one of the cowboys said as he pointed to the west. “Is somethin’ wrong, Miss Rosaleen?”

  She didn’t answer, galloping off in the direction the man had indicated. A few minutes later she found Vance and her father riding together, hazing a small bunch of cattle along one of the streams.

  “Rosaleen, honey, what’s wrong?” Malone greeted her as she gall
oped up to them.

  “Mr. Stewart’s been killed,” she said bluntly.

  “Stovepipe!” Vance exclaimed. “No!”

  Rosaleen nodded. “Mr. Coleman brought the bad news back to the house. They found Dax Coolidge over in the hills east of Eagle Flats and captured him, then someone ambushed them and killed Coolidge and Stovepipe. Wilbur barely got away.”

  Malone couldn’t stop the curses that erupted from his mouth. Vance was silent, but he got a grim and determined look on his face.

  When Malone paused, Vance said, “Does Wilbur know who ambushed them?”

  Rosaleen shook her head. “They never got a look at him. He shot Coolidge first, so Wilbur thinks the man’s real goal was to shut him up. They were bringing Coolidge back here to question him about who he’s been working for.”

  “We all know the answer to that!” Malone said. “Rafter M! Cabot’s behind this, sure as hell! He probably had a man watchin’ Coolidge with orders to shut him up if he got caught.”

  Vance nodded. “That makes sense.” He sighed. “Stovepipe . . . I can’t believe he’s dead. He just seemed . . . I don’t know . . . indestructible, like he’d just go on forever.”

  “We can’t let Cabot and his bunch get away with this,” Malone said. “So far, everything they’ve done has been bad enough, but now they’ve killed one of us. We can’t let that stand.”

  “No, we can’t,” Vance agreed. He looked up at the sky. “It’ll be dark before we can round up all the men and get back to the ranch. But that’s all right. Cabot probably won’t expect us to do anything once night has fallen.”

  “Are you sayin’ what I think you’re sayin’, son?”

  “I’m saying every man needs to strap on a gun and fill his pockets with ammunition. The Three Rivers crew is riding tonight . . . and we’re going to rain down hell on Rafter M!”

  * * *

  Stovepipe had a pretty good idea where he, Wilbur, and Coolidge had been when the ambush took place. Judging from that, he estimated the bushwhacker’s line of fire. His eyes followed that mental line and saw that it ran almost across the top of a knoll covered with boulders, brush, and trees. He nodded. That was close enough to be within the margin of error, and the knoll was certainly a good place for the hidden rifleman to have lurked while he drew a bead on Coolidge’s back.

  Stovepipe headed for that brushy height. The terrain forced him to weave back and forth some, but it didn’t take him long to reach the knoll. He dismounted and went up the slope on foot, leading the paint.

  His head still hurt, but having a puzzle to solve always distracted him from whatever physical woes he might be suffering. This case was no different. He ignored the pain and concentrated on searching for the trail he hoped to find.

  At the top of the knoll, he hunkered on his heels and studied the ground. It was too rocky to take many prints, but as he looked around, he spotted something gleaming in the late afternoon sunlight and reached under a bush to pull out a long brass cartridge case.

  It was from a .50 caliber round, all right. Considering the distance and the accuracy the bushwhacker had displayed, Stovepipe had had a hunch the man was using a Sharps buffalo gun. This confirmed it. There was a good reason for calling a rifle like that a Big Fifty.

  Stovepipe didn’t find any other shells. He figured the ambusher had picked up the rest of them but missed this one because it had rolled under the bush. A few more minutes of searching turned up the butt of a quirly, which meant nothing—most men rolled their own instead of smoking store-boughts—but it was another indication that someone had waited there for a while.

  Standing up, Stovepipe turned and looked out across Eagle Flats. The marksman had had a perfect field of fire from up there. Killing Coolidge with one round had been good shooting. Coming so close to ventilating the two range detectives while they were on the move was even better. But Stovepipe had survived, and since he hadn’t seen any sign of Wilbur, he hoped his partner had, too.

  Stovepipe led the paint down the far side of the hill. He found hoofprints under a tree at the bottom of the slope where the bushwhacker had left his horse. Stovepipe grunted as he looked at the prints. He recognized them, which came as no real surprise.

  He had seen these same hoofprints before, more than once.

  Stovepipe roamed around until he found tracks leading away from the spot then mounted up and followed the trail deeper into the hills. The bushwhacker had headed northeast.

  That wasn’t the way to Rafter M headquarters, Stovepipe mused. That didn’t surprise him, either, since he had never been convinced Mort Cabot was behind all the trouble. Blaming Cabot for everything was just too damned convenient, in Stovepipe’s opinion.

  The sun continued to sink toward the mountains in the west. Stovepipe felt frustration growing inside him. He didn’t know how long he lain unconscious in the sage, but it seemed likely the bushwhacker had a good-sized lead on him. He probably wouldn’t be able to catch up before nightfall, and in the rugged terrain he couldn’t hope to track his quarry in the dark.

  While it was still daylight, he would close the gap as much as he could. He had forgotten all about the ache in his head as he focused his attention on following the sign the bushwhacker had left behind. The man hadn’t been very careful about covering his trail. More than likely, he had figured he was safe from any pursuit.

  That sort of overconfidence could prove fatal.

  Stovepipe still hadn’t caught up when the shadows of dusk settled down over the landscape. He followed the trail as long as he could but finally had to rein in and heave an exasperated sigh. He would have to wait until morning to resume his task. Wandering all over those hills in the dark wouldn’t accomplish anything.

  He leaned forward, patted the paint on the shoulder, and said quietly, “Looks like you’ll get to rest up for a spell, old hoss.”

  Suddenly, he lifted his head sharply and sniffed the air. It carried a faint tang of smoke. He might not be able to see well enough to trail anymore, but he could still follow his nose.

  Somebody had built a campfire up above him. There was no guarantee it was the man who had shot him and killed Dax Coolidge . . . but who else would be roaming around those hills tonight?

  “Sorry, son,” he told the horse. “Looks like we ain’t stoppin’ just yet, after all.”

  He rode forward slowly, trying not to make too much noise. Sound carried at night, and Stovepipe didn’t want whoever had made that camp to know anyone was around until he was sure who it was.

  The smell of smoke grew stronger. Stovepipe tracked it just as he had the smoke from Coolidge’s campfire earlier that day. When he thought he was close enough, he tied the paint’s reins to a sapling and went ahead on foot. Too close and the quarry’s horse might scent the paint and raise a ruckus, warning the man someone else was around.

  When Stovepipe was close enough to hear the faint crackling of flames from the campfire, he dropped to hands and knees and crawled forward until he could peer through a small gap in some brush. He saw the glow of the fire, which had been built in front of a huge outcropping of rock.

  A horse was picketed over to one side. The animal had been unsaddled, and lying next to the saddle on the ground was a scabbard containing a Sharps buffalo gun. As far as Stovepipe was concerned, that was proof positive he had found the bushwhacker.

  As he watched, a man walked over to the fire and hunkered down beside it to put a coffeepot at the edge of the flames. The man’s hat was pushed back on curly dark hair. The reddish light from the fire revealed an angular, lantern-jawed face. Stovepipe had seen the man first in the Silver Star saloon and on a few occasions since then, in Wagontongue. He didn’t know the man’s name, but he knew who he was.

  The bushwhacker was one of Sheriff Charlie Jerrico’s deputies. He was so confident no one would find him up here, he hadn’t even removed his badge.

  Before Stovepipe could do anything else, the thud of hoofbeats drifted to him through the night air. The dep
uty heard it, too, and moved his hand to rest on the butt of the revolver at his hip.

  Someone was coming.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  Vance hadn’t calmed down any by the time they got back to the ranch house. He still couldn’t believe Stovepipe was dead. In a short period of time, the two range detectives had become his best friends. They had saved his life several times, and saved the life of the woman he loved as well.

  And now Stovepipe was gone. Someone had to pay for that. Since Mort Cabot was the most likely person to be responsible for the ambush, that put him squarely in Vance’s sights.

  At least, it would before the night was over, Vance vowed as he rode in at the head of the group of cowboys, along with Keenan Malone.

  Wilbur limped onto the front porch as the men rode up.

  Vance dismounted and hurried to the stocky redhead’s side. He gripped Wilbur’s shoulder and said, “Is it true?”

  “Yeah, I’m afraid so,” Wilbur said, nodding. “Shot in the head and bleeding like that, I don’t see how he could have survived.”

  Vance frowned. “But you didn’t actually see his dead body? Didn’t check to see if he was breathing or his heart was beating?”

  “Damn it! Don’t you think I’ve been kicking myself ever since I got back for not doing exactly that? That bushwhacker had a bead on me, though. He’d already come within a fraction of an inch of shooting me out of the saddle a couple times. And by the time I finally got out of range, Stovepipe’s horse had run off and I didn’t know where they’d gone.”

  “I’m sorry, Wilbur,” Vance said. “I know I sounded like I was blaming you, and I didn’t mean to.”

  “It’s all right.” Wilbur sighed. “I’m blaming myself, and I reckon I always will be from now on.” He squared his shoulders as Malone jointed them on the porch. “What are you going to do?”

  “We’re ridin’ on the Rafter M. I figure we’ll go fast, hit ’em hard, take over the place, and then put a gun to Mort Cabot’s head and make him confess to all the evildoin’ he’s responsible for.”