Hang Them Slowly

by William W. Johnstone

  “Why don’t you ask the other two? Find out what they want to do.”

  “They’re going to agree with me. I’m sure of that.”

  Aunt Sinead had been listening through the open window. She appeared in the doorway with the shotgun tucked under her arm. “That’s right, Sheriff. We’re not leaving the Three Rivers.”

  Jerrico began, “Ma’am, I’m just trying to talk sense here—”

  “Wait a minute, Sheriff.” Something had occurred to Rosaleen that made her back stiffen again. “You said you heard about what happened to Mr. Stewart. How did you hear?”

  “It’s my job to keep up with everything that goes on in the county,” Jerrico answered gruffly. “Some range rider drifted into town and was talking about it in one of the saloons. Word got back to me pretty quickly. I keep my ear to the ground, you know.”

  “It doesn’t matter where you keep your ear, Sheriff. You couldn’t have known about Stovepipe being killed. Wilbur brought the bad news straight back here. The only ones who knew about it were here on the Three Rivers, and they all went with my father and Vance to the Rafter M.”

  “No offense, miss, but you’ve got to be mixed up on that. Maybe Coleman ran into somebody on the way here and said something to them about it—”

  “Wilbur would have mentioned that,” Rosaleen said.

  Aunt Sinead said, “Dear, what are you talking about? I’m confused.”

  “You’re not the only one, ma’am.” Jerrico reached for Rosaleen’s arm. “Now come on. We’ll sort all this out back in Wagontongue—”

  “No.” She took a swift step backward and raised the carbine. “I’m not going to Wagontongue or anywhere else with you. I’ve finally figured it out. The only way you could know what happened to Stovepipe is if you talked to the man who ambushed him . . . or if you killed him yourself!”

  “Rosaleen!” Aunt Sinead said. “You can’t think—”

  Even in the dim light, Rosaleen had seen the way Jerrico’s muscles grew taut at the accusation.

  A cold edge came into his voice as he said, “That’s just loco, Miss Malone. I told you what happened. I’m sorry if you don’t want to believe me. But either way, it’s still too dangerous for you to stay out here tonight. You’re coming to town with me.”

  “No, I’m not,” Rosaleen said. “Get on your horse and get out of here, Sheriff. I’m giving you just enough benefit of the doubt that I don’t shoot you down right here and now.”

  “Threatening the law isn’t a very smart thing to do, little lady.”

  “Is that what I’m doing? Threatening the law? Or are you really something else, Sheriff?”

  The cold contempt she packed into the last word made Jerrico glare at her. He started to turn away toward the edge of the porch . . . only to whirl back, taking her by surprise as he grabbed the barrel of her carbine, shoved it to the side, and then wrenched it out of her hands before she could pull the trigger.

  “Oh!” Aunt Sinead said. She might not understand what was going on, but Jerrico’s sudden violence spurred her into action. She lifted the scattergun.

  Jerrico swung the carbine by the barrel. The stock slammed into the older woman’s head. Aunt Sinead dropped the shotgun and fell to the porch, knocked senseless by the vicious blow.

  “No!” Rosaleen cried. She threw herself at Jerrico, grabbed the carbine, and tried to wrestle it away from him.

  Asa charged out of the bunkhouse carrying his rifle. He was confused, but he knew he was going to protect the boss’s daughter if he could. “Get away from him, Miss Rosaleen!” the wrangler yelled. “I can’t get a shot—”

  Jerrico stopped trying to keep Rosaleen from taking the carbine away from him. He let go of the weapon and threw a punch. His right fist crashed into Rosaleen’s left cheek and knocked her back. She hit the wall behind her as the carbine fell to the porch between them. Stunned, she lost her balance and fell.

  She saw Jerrico whirl around as Asa’s rifle cracked. The bullet smacked into the wall. Jerrico palmed out his revolver and fired twice from the hip. Asa cried out as the bullets ripped through him. The impact twisted him around. He dropped the Winchester and collapsed with his face in the dirt of the ranch yard.

  Rosaleen regained her wits enough to make a lunge for the carbine. Jerrico’s foot came down on it before she could grasp it. With a shove, he sent it sliding away. It fell off the end of the porch.

  “You’re too damn smart for your own good, Miss Malone,” he said as he bent over to grab her arm with his free hand. Cruelly, he jerked her to her feet. She swayed and would have fallen again if not for his painful grip on her arm.

  With his other hand, he jabbed the muzzle of his Colt under her chin and tilted her head back. “You’re my hole card,” he told her. “No matter how things play out the rest of the night, I’ve got the upper hand as long as I have you. That’s why you’re coming back to Wagontongue with me.” He laughed. “I reckon I was telling the truth in a way. All I want to do is keep you safe—because that’s the easiest way for me to stay alive!”

  Her eyes flicked one way, saw Aunt Sinead’s motionless form on the porch, looked the other at the crumpled heap that was Asa, the old wrangler. Fury filled her and she started to struggle despite the gun threatening her.

  Jerrico cursed. “I don’t have time for this.” He pulled the gun back and chopped viciously with it, slamming the barrel against her head. A fiery explosion went off behind Rosaleen’s eyes, and then blackness closed in around her.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  Echoes of the booming shots rolled like thunder across the plains. At the edge of the Three Rivers range, about halfway between the headquarters of the adjoining ranches, Stovepipe reined in as he came to the eastern end of a long, shallow gap between two ridges. The scene of the ambush was far enough away from the Rafter M that Cabot and his men wouldn’t hear the shooting. If everything went according to Jerrico’s plan, Garrity’s gang would wipe out the men from the Three Rivers and then descend on the Rafter M to take Cabot by surprise and continue the slaughter.

  Then, when the killing was finished, the outlaws could get to work on stripping the range of cattle, looting both ranches until nothing was left. Once they disposed of the resulting massive herd, they would have enough money to slip over the border into Canada or go anywhere else they liked.

  Muzzle flashes came from the heights on both sides as the outlaws poured lead into a small clump of trees. Obviously, the men who had survived the initial ambush had taken cover in that growth.

  In the light from the moon and stars, Stovepipe spotted several dark, unmoving shapes lying in the gap. Dead men and dead horses, he thought grimly. There was no way he could tell if Wilbur was among the slain.

  The muzzle flashes from the ridges told him there were at least two dozen killers up there. Even taking them by surprise, Stovepipe couldn’t hope to deal with all of them before he was gunned down. He might be able to call on the paint for the last of its strength and make a dash for the trees, so he could join the men there, but one more gun wouldn’t help them.

  Although the idea of leaving his friends to carry on the fight stuck in Stovepipe’s craw, he knew it was the only chance for any of them to survive. He needed more men if he was going to turn the tables on the outlaws, and there was only one place he could get them.

  He turned the paint toward the Rafter M.

  * * *

  By having the men call out to each other during lulls in the firing, Wilbur had been able to do a head count of the defenders. Ten men were in the trees, not counting Keenan Malone, who had passed out from being wounded. A few of them had been winged, but not seriously.

  Andy Callahan was not among the defenders. The segundo hadn’t made out of the ambush. He had to be one of the men lying out there in the gap, dead or badly wounded.

  “Looks like you’re in charge, Vance,” Wilbur told the young man.

  “I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Vance replied. “You’ve got
a lot more experience at this sort of thing than I do, Wilbur. If you have any ideas, I’m perfectly willing to go along with them.”

  “That’s just the problem,” Wilbur said. “We’re pinned down here, and there’s not a damned thing we can do other than what we’re already doing. In the long run, that’s not going to do us any good. They’ll pick us off one by one.”

  “They haven’t so far. We need to hang on and keep fighting. Maybe something will happen.”

  Wilbur laughed. “See, I told you, you need to be in charge. You’re a lot more optimistic than I am.” He lifted the Winchester to his shoulder again and squeezed off another shot as he aimed at a muzzle flash on the northern ridge. “What we need is a miracle, and I reckon they’re gonna be in short supply tonight!”

  * * *

  During the time Stovepipe had been in those parts, he had never paid a visit to the Rafter M, but he knew where the ranch headquarters was. He had studied maps of the area before he and Wilbur had set out on their assignment. He always liked to have at least an idea of the lay of the land before he wound up hip deep in a case.

  Knowing where the Rafter M was and finding it in the dark were two different stories, though. Stovepipe had to rely on instinct as much as knowledge as he rode through the night.

  After a while he spotted the glow of lamplight in the distance. He patted the paint on the neck and said, “Not much longer now, old hoss.”

  Even in the darkness, Stovepipe could tell the headquarters of the Rafter M bore a distinct resemblance to that of the Three Rivers. The main house was built of logs rather than whitewashed planks, but the bunkhouse, the barns, the corrals, the smokehouse, and all the other outbuildings were arranged in a similar layout.

  Several dogs set up a barking fit as he rode in. Knowing that commotion would attract the attention of the spread’s residents, he brought the paint to a halt and sat in plain sight, unmoving so Cabot and his crew would see he wasn’t a threat.

  Men clad in long underwear and carrying guns emerged from the bunkhouse. The front door of the main house opened and Mort Cabot stepped out, wearing a long nightshirt and carrying a rifle.

  He called, “Who in blazes is out there?”

  “Hold your fire, Mr. Cabot. My name’s Stewart. I ride for—”

  “I know who you ride for! You’re one of those Three Rivers bastards, and you’re not welcome here! Talk quick or we’ll blow you out of the saddle!”

  “There’s a gap about five miles west of here, between a couple long ridges—”

  “Tomahawk Gap,” Cabot broke in. “I know it. What about it?”

  “Most of the Three Rivers crew is trapped there in some trees. They were ambushed by a bunch of outlaws and are tryin’ to hold them off.”

  Cabot snorted. “Why should I care about that?”

  “Because when those desperadoes finish wipin’ out Malone’s bunch, they’ll be on their way here to raid your ranch and kill you and all your crew.”

  Cabot was silent for a couple seconds, then he burst out in a laugh. “Haw! What a load of horse crap! The only varmints in these parts who want to kill me are Keenan Malone and his no-good polecat crew!”

  “You’re wrong,” Stovepipe said, remaining calm despite Cabot’s stubborn attitude. “The leader of the gang that ambushed the Three Rivers is a fella named Cort Garrity. You might have heard of him.”

  Cabot came closer. In the light that came through the open door behind the rancher, Stovepipe could see the frown creasing Cabot’s forehead.

  “I’ve heard of Garrity. Didn’t know he was in this part of the country.”

  “You weren’t supposed to know. Nobody knew except a couple of Garrity’s relations who threw in with him on a scheme to set you and Malone against each other and wind up lootin’ both ranches.”

  “Who in blazes are you talkin’ about?”

  “Sheriff Jerrico and one of his deputies, an hombre named MacDonald,” Stovepipe said.

  Silence hung over the ranch yard. After a moment, some of the cowboys who rode for Cabot started to mutter to each other.

  Cabot found his voice. “That’s the craziest story I’ve ever heard! Jerrico and MacDonald are lawmen.”

  “Pinnin’ on a badge don’t mean a man can’t break the law, as well as upholdin’ it. Everything I’ve just told you is true, Mr. Cabot. You’ve got my word on that.”

  “And just why the hell should I take the word of a shiftless grub line rider like you, Stewart?”

  Stovepipe took a deep breath. “Because my pard Wilbur and I actually work for the Cattlemen’s Protective Association. We’re range detectives, not just cowboys.”

  “You have any proof of that?”

  Stovepipe was glad Cabot hadn’t dismissed the possibility out of hand. “The boss of the Montana branch over in Billings is a man named Riley Wheelock. You’re probably acquainted with him, seein’ as you’re a member in good standin’ of the CPA.”

  “Yeah, I know him, but I reckon a lot of people do.”

  Stovepipe took a deep breath, not liking the card he was about to play but knowing it was the only one left in his hand. “Not everybody knows about his son Danny, though. Just his close friends, and some of the fellas who work for him, like me and Wilbur.”

  Cabot had taken a sharp breath at the mention of Danny Wheelock’s name. “That . . . unfortunate young man . . . is in an institution. Riley and his poor wife knew they couldn’t care for him properly. I don’t like to hear a friend’s bad luck bandied about.”

  “And I didn’t like bringin’ it up, but I needed to convince you I’m tellin’ the truth, Mr. Cabot. There’s a lot more goin’ on around here than you know about. You and Malone are the victims of a plot. I can tell you all about it, but I’d rather do that once you’ve gathered up your crew and we’ve headed out to Tomahawk Gap to turn that trap around on Garrity and his gang.”

  “You want us to risk our lives rescuing that son of a bitch Malone?”

  “I reckon he’d do it for you if the situation was the other way around and he was convinced it was the right thing to do.”

  Cabot stared up at Stovepipe as several seconds ticked by slowly. Then he turned toward the bunkhouse and shouted at his men, “Get dressed and get ready to ride! We’re heading for Tomahawk Gap!” He looked at Stovepipe again and added, “You’d better be telling the truth, Stewart. If this is a trick I’m gonna take great pleasure in skinning you alive!”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  Rosaleen groaned as consciousness seeped back into her brain. Her head pounded painfully. She didn’t know where she was, but she was lying on something scratchy and uncomfortable.

  When she forced her eyes open, the first thing she saw was a door made of iron bars. She was in a jail cell, a fact she confirmed by pushing herself up on an elbow and looking around. The scratchy surface underneath her was a cheap wool blanket spread on a thin bunk bolted to the stone wall.

  Iron bars formed the walls of the cell as well as the door. An empty cell was beside hers, and across an aisle were two more. A heavy wooden door with a small, barred window in it separated the cell block from the rest of the building. She knew she was in the jail in Wagontongue, even though she had never set foot in there.

  As Rosaleen sat up, that door swung open and Sheriff Charlie Jerrico sauntered through. He grinned at her through the bars and said, “I thought I heard a little noise back here. You’re awake, eh?”

  Rosaleen stood up. The pain in her head made the world swim dizzily for a moment, but anger kept her on her feet. She grasped the bars and glared at Jerrico. “You’re a disgrace to that badge you’re wearing.”

  The crooked lawman’s grin disappeared. “No, what’s a disgrace is how a man can risk his life over and over to keep folks safe, then have them begrudge him the sort of wages they’d pay a swamper to sweep out a saloon. I stayed on the right side of the law for ten years, and what did it get me? Not a damned thing!”

  “What about your self-respect?” />
  A bitter laugh came from Jerrico. “Yeah, that and a nickel’ll buy a man a beer. I probably would have gone along like I was doing anyway, if some distant kin of mine hadn’t showed up with an idea for making all of us rich.”

  Rosaleen forced her brain to work. “By setting the Three Rivers and the Rafter M against each other? Is that the idea you mean?”

  “Like I told you, miss, you’re too damn smart for your own good. But that doesn’t matter anymore. By morning, the crews from both ranches will be dead, and I’ll be well on my way to being a rich man. In a week or so, I’ll slip away, meet up with my cousins, and claim my share of the loot. Then Wagontongue will never set eyes on me again.”

  “You’re forgetting one thing. I’ll tell everyone what you really are.”

  He smiled again, sadly this time, and shook his head. “I don’t reckon you’ll have a chance to do that. It’s a pity, too. You’re a mighty pretty girl.” Jerrico shrugged. “But there are a lot of mighty pretty girls in this world, and most of them will be happy to enjoy the company of a man with plenty of money.”

  She had known right away that he planned to kill her, but hearing him put it plainly made a chill go through her. She backed away from the bars and said, “If you come near me, I’ll start screaming. Someone will hear me and come to see what’s wrong. They’ll want to know why you’ve got me locked up, and I’ll tell them everything.”

  “The town’s asleep. Nobody’s going to hear you. Anyway, I’m not going to hurt you . . . yet. I need to keep you alive, just in case everything doesn’t work out quite like I’ve planned. I told you, you’re my hole card.” Jerrico’s eyes were cold as ice as he added, “But once I’ve gotten word everything’s taken care of, I won’t need you anymore. It’ll be easy enough to wrap you up, put you in the back of a wagon, and take you somewhere you’ll never be found.”

  He was talking about disposing of her body, Rosaleen realized. She was sick with fear, but she wasn’t going to let him see that. She lifted her chin defiantly and said, “Somebody’s going to stop you. You can’t get away with something so awful.”