Hang Them Slowly

by William W. Johnstone

  “Cabot!” Vance dropped his hand to the gun he had returned to its holster.

  Quickly, Stovepipe lifted a hand. “Take it easy, Vance. You fellas are on the same side now. I was right about somebody else pullin’ the strings behind all this trouble. I had a hunch who it might be, but now I’m sure.”

  “Wait a minute,” Vance said. “It was the crew from the Rafter M that rescued us just now?”

  “That’s right,” Cabot said. “It was a bitter pill to swallow, too, throwing in with the Three Rivers, but I see it was the right thing to do.”

  Stovepipe pointed a thumb at one of the ridges. “Those bushwhackers came from a gang o’ rustlers and outlaws headed up by a fella named Garrity. They’re the ones who’ve been wideloopin’ cows from both spreads. Garrity wasn’t the big boss, though. That’s Charlie Jerrico.”

  “The sheriff?” Wilbur practically yelped.

  “It’s a long story,” Stovepipe said. “I’ll tell you all about it once we’ve gathered up the wounded and are headin’ back to the Three Rivers.”

  CHAPTER FORTY

  Now that they didn’t have to worry about getting shot because Cabot’s men were standing guard over the few outlaws who hadn’t been killed in the battle, Stovepipe, Wilbur, and Vance were able to check on Keenan Malone’s condition.

  Wilbur lit a match and held it up while Stovepipe knelt next to the unconscious cattleman. He pulled Malone’s bloodstained shirt aside to reveal the puckered bullet hole in the older man’s torso. There was no exit wound on Malone’s back.

  “Bullet’s still in there,” Stovepipe said. “No way of knowin’ how much damage it’s done. I hate to move him because that might make the slug shift around, but there ain’t nothin’ else we can do. We need to get him back to the Three Rivers and get the doc out from Wagontongue.” Stovepipe rested his hand on Malone’s chest above the wound. “Heart’s beatin’ pretty good, and he seems to be breathin’ all right. I reckon he’s got a chance . . . if we don’t kill him gettin’ him back there.”

  Mort Cabot came up behind the three men. “I can go back to the Rafter M and bring a wagon out here. Might be easier for him to ride in it.”

  Stovepipe considered the idea and then shook his head. “Obliged to you for the offer, Mr. Cabot, but that’d take too long. We’re as close to the Three Rivers headquarters as we are to yours. We’ll put him on a horse in front of me, so I can hang on to him and keep him from bouncin’ around too much.”

  “I’ll do that, Stovepipe,” Vance said. “You’re wounded, too, you know, and probably exhausted on top of it.”

  “I am startin’ to feel a mite tired. All right, Vance, bring your horse up and get on. Some of the rest of us will lift him in front of you.”

  That delicate operation was accomplished quickly but carefully, without jolting Malone any more than necessary.

  Cabot said to Vance, “I saw that Andy Callahan was killed in the ambush. Sorry. He was a good man . . . for a Three Rivers man. I guess that leaves you in charge, since Malone is laid up.”

  “I suppose there’s no getting around it,” Vance said. “So, speaking for the Three Rivers . . . thank you for your help, Mr. Cabot.”

  “Don’t go getting the idea we’re all gonna be friends now,” Cabot said gruffly. “But I don’t suppose it’ll hurt to give each other a hand now and then, when it’s really necessary. We’ll gather up the wounded and the dead and bring them back to your spread, along with those prisoners.” He shook his head. “Not sure what we’ll do with them, since we can’t trust the law in Wagontongue anymore.”

  “There’ll be new law in Wagontongue before mornin’,” Stovepipe said as he swung up into the saddle of his borrowed horse. “I reckon you can count on that.” He set off along with Wilbur and Vance, leaving the other Three Rivers hands behind to help Cabot and his men.

  Wilbur glanced back and said, “You think they can get along and work together after they’ve been at each other’s throats for so long?”

  “Cabot knows what’s been goin’ on,” Stovepipe said. “He’ll keep both sides in line, I reckon.”

  “Speaking of what’s been going on . . . you said you’d spill the story once we started back,” Wilbur reminded him.

  “Yeah, I did, didn’t I?”

  For the next several minutes, Stovepipe explained everything that had happened since Wilbur had ridden away from Eagle Flats. Stovepipe told his companions about backtracking the bushwhacker who had turned out to be the deputy named MacDonald, and everything he had learned from eavesdropping on MacDonald’s conversation with Cort Garrity.

  “Wait a minute,” Wilbur said. “They’re all related? Garrity, MacDonald, and Charlie Jerrico?”

  “That’s right. Jerrico and MacDonald used to ride the owlhoot trail themselves, before they started packin’ stars.”

  Wilbur shrugged. “Some men go back and forth across that line. I never saw how they could, myself.”

  “Most of ’em go back to their roots, sooner or later. Jerrico and MacDonald surely did. MacDonald confessed the whole thing to me later, when I got the drop on him.”

  “Where is he now?”

  “He figured to turn the tables on me.” Stovepipe shook his head. “Turned out to be a bigger job than he could manage.”

  Wilbur grunted. “Can’t say as I’m sorry about that. So who does that leave on the loose? Just the sheriff?”

  “As far as I know. We got to rattle our hocks into Wagontongue anyway to fetch the sawbones for Mr. Malone. We’ll round up Jerrico while we’re at it.”

  “You really think he’ll let himself be rounded up peacefully?”

  “Probably not likely,” Stovepipe said.

  * * *

  As they approached the Three Rivers headquarters, Vance said, “Rosaleen’s going to be upset when she sees her father is hurt. We need to let her know right away that he’s still alive.”

  “She and Aunt Sinead will take good care of him while Wilbur and me are fetchin’ the doc,” Stovepipe said.

  “What about me? I’m coming with you.”

  “No need for that. You can stay at the ranch in case the ladies need any help.”

  “You’re just trying to protect me,” Vance said. “You think you’ll have to shoot it out with Jerrico.”

  “Could happen,” Stovepipe said with a shrug. “Somebody’s got to keep the Three Rivers runnin’ for a while, Vance, and I reckon that job’s gonna fall to you. Otherwise your pa’s gonna have to find somebody else to take over, and he might not be happy with Wilbur and me if he does.”

  “You might need help—” Vance began, then stopped abruptly. “What am I saying? You’ve been two or three steps ahead of everybody all along, Stovepipe. You don’t need my help.”

  “I wouldn’t go so far as to say that. Seems I recollect plenty of times it came in mighty handy havin’ you around.” Stovepipe’s voice hardened. “But this final hand is our game, mine and Wilbur’s. We’ll play it out.”

  They came in sight of the ranch buildings a few minutes later. The dogs barked, as usual, but the place was dark, surprising them. No one emerged from the house or the bunkhouse, either.

  Stovepipe spotted a couple of dark shapes on the porch. “Hold on,” he said as he reined in. “Vance, you stay here with Malone.”

  “Is something wrong?” Vance asked.

  “That’s what we’re gonna find out.”

  Stovepipe and Wilbur dismounted and stalked toward the house with drawn guns. The shapes on the porch didn’t move, and as the two range detectives came closer, Stovepipe smelled something that made an icy finger drag along his spine.

  The scent was like copper, and it set his teeth on edge. He had smelled it before and knew what it was.

  Wilbur sniffed the air and said quietly, “Stovepipe, is that . . . ?”

  “Yeah. Fresh blood. A lot of it.”

  They had reached the bottom of the porch steps. The two shapes still hadn’t moved. Stovepipe reached in his shirt pocket
with his left hand and fished out a lucifer. He snapped the match to life with his thumbnail and held it up so its garish light splashed over the two bodies lying on the porch.

  Aunt Sinead and Asa, the old wrangler, were both dead, their throats slit in hideous wounds that had caused blood to pool around them. It looked like Asa had been shot a couple times, too.

  “My God,” Wilbur whispered. “Who . . . who’d do such a terrible thing?”

  “I reckon we both know the answer to that,” Stovepipe said. “There’s only one hombre who could’ve done this.”

  “Jerrico. But why?”

  From where he sat on horseback with Malone, Vance called, “Stovepipe, what’s wrong? Is that . . . is that someone lying on the porch?”

  “It’s Aunt Sinead and Asa,” Stovepipe replied. “Sorry to tell you this, son, but they’re both dead. Murdered.”

  “Oh, God.” Vance’s voice was taut with pain and grief. “Is . . . is Rosaleen with them?”

  “No sign of her. Stay out here. Wilbur and me will go in and have a look around.”

  The next few minutes were sheer torture for Vance as he waited for the two range detectives to come back out of the house.

  Finally, they emerged and Stovepipe said, “She ain’t here.”

  Vance heaved a sigh of relief. “You looked everywhere?”

  “Everywhere in the main house. I reckon we’d better check the bunkhouse and the barns.”

  That took even longer, but when they were finished, they were confident Rosaleen was no longer at the ranch headquarters.

  “Let’s get Malone inside,” Stovepipe said as he came up to the horse where Vance sat holding the wounded old cattleman. “We’ll put him on that big sofa in the front room. It’s practically a bed, and it’ll be easier than carryin’ him upstairs. Easier on him, too.”

  “We have to find Rosaleen,” Vance said as he carefully lowered Malone into the arms of the range detectives.

  “I got a pretty good idea where to look,” Stovepipe assured him. “Jerrico’s got her.”

  “Why?” Vance asked, repeating the same question Wilbur had voiced earlier.

  “To use as a hostage in case things didn’t work out the way he wanted them to. I reckon he’s waitin’ in Wagontongue to get word from MacDonald or Garrity. He don’t know yet they’re both dead.”

  “He plans to kill her,” Vance said, anguish in his voice.

  “Not as long as she’s still some use to him. She’ll be all right until he finds out what happened.”

  Grunting a little under Malone’s considerable weight, Stovepipe and Wilbur carried him into the house and gently placed him on the sofa. Wilbur lit a lamp, and Stovepipe took a quick look at Malone’s wound.

  “Don’t look like it’s been bleedin’ again. Still appears he’s got a chance if we can get the doc out here to tend to him pretty quicklike.” Stovepipe turned to Vance. “You’re gonna have to stay here so you can keep an eye on him. Make sure he’s as comfortable as you can get him. That’s all any of us can do for him.”

  “Stay here?” Vance repeated. He shook his head. “I can’t do that. Jerrico has Rosaleen. I’m going to Wagontongue to kill him.”

  “You’re a brave young fella, Vance, but you’re no gunfighter. Jerrico’s a hardcase killer. You best leave him to me and Wilbur. He’s our meat.”

  “But Rosaleen—”

  “We’ll bring her back safe to you. You got my word on that.” Stovepipe paused. “Besides, how do you reckon she’d feel about you if she knew you rode off and left her pa here badly wounded with nobody to look after him?”

  Vance glared at him for a moment, then said, “Damn it. You’re right about that. And I suppose you’re right about me not being any match for Jerrico, too. But be careful, Stovepipe. Once he realizes the game is over and he’s lost, there’s no telling what he might do. He might kill her just for spite.”

  “I doubt that. He won’t hurt her as long as he thinks he can use her to get away with a whole hide.” Stovepipe clapped a hand on Vance’s shoulder, gave it a reassuring squeeze for a second, then he and Wilbur strode back out to their horses and mounted up.

  “You must be done in, Stovepipe,” Wilbur said as they rode away from the Three Rivers. “All you’ve done for more than twelve hours straight is ride and fight.”

  Stovepipe chuckled. “Naw, you’re forgettin’ I got to rest for a spell when I passed out from bein’ shot in the head.” His voice hardened. “I’ll be all right as soon as I finish this one last chore.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  It was after midnight by the time Stovepipe and Wilbur reached Wagontongue. The buildings were dark, even the Silver Star and the other saloons. Those establishments might stay open all night on Saturday and payday, but not otherwise.

  The exception was the sheriff’s office and jail, where a light still burned dimly in the front window.

  “Jerrico’s waitin’ up for news from his kin,” Stovepipe said quietly to Wilbur when they had dismounted a couple blocks away. “If he was to hear that everything went off as planned, he’d kill the girl and dispose of her body.”

  “Hard to believe anybody’s that cold-blooded, even a crooked lawman,” Wilbur said. “But after I saw what he did out there at the Three Rivers . . .”

  “He’ll get what’s comin’ to him.” Stovepipe drew his gun and checked the loads. “Let’s go see what we can find out. We’ll stay in the back alley for now.”

  They approached the jail from behind, gliding through the shadows like ghosts. Stovepipe spotted a faint glow up ahead. After a moment he could tell it came through a barred window. That window must open into one of the cells, he thought, and the light filtered back from the lamp that was burning in Jerrico’s office.

  Wilbur was too short to peer through the window, but Stovepipe was able to grasp the bars and lift himself high enough. His eyes were adjusted to the dim light, but from this angle there was nothing to be seen. He took a chance and hissed, “Miss Rosaleen!”

  A startled gasp came from inside the cell. Stovepipe heard some rustling around, and then suddenly the young woman’s face appeared on the other side of the bars.

  “Stovepipe!” she whispered urgently. “Is that really you?”

  “It sure is,” he told her. “Wilbur’s with me, too.”

  “And Vance?”

  “No, he had another chore to take care of, but he’s all right. The trouble’s almost over, Miss Rosaleen.”

  “Sheriff Jerrico is the one behind all of it. He . . . he’s really an outlaw. He’s an evil man.”

  “Yes’m, we know.” Stovepipe didn’t tell her about the murders of Aunt Sinead and Asa. Time enough for that grief later, after Rosaleen was safe. “We’re gonna deal with him right now. You just hold on a few more minutes, and we’ll have you outta there.”

  “I . . . I don’t know how to thank you, Stovepipe—”

  “Don’t worry about that. Just keep your chin up.” He let go of the bars and came down off his toes. Turning to Wilbur, he said, “We need to find a crate or somethin’ for you to stand on. That way you can guard the gal through this window. If Jerrico tries to come into the cell block after her, you fill him full o’ lead.”

  “I’d be mighty happy to,” Wilbur said with grim resolve.

  However, before they could find anything for Wilbur to stand on, they heard the swift rataplan of hoofbeats entering the settlement.

  “Somebody’s in a hurry,” Wilbur said. “That’s usually not good.”

  “No, it ain’t,” Stovepipe agreed. “Come on.”

  They started to circle the jail, but before they reached the mouth of the dark passage beside the stone building, the hoofbeats came to a stop and Vance Armbrister called, “Jerrico! Come out of there, you murdering skunk!”

  “Blast it,” Stovepipe muttered. “The boy couldn’t do what he was told.” He yanked his gun from leather and charged forward.

  Shots blasted from inside the jail.

  St
ovepipe and Wilbur reached the corner in time to see Vance fling himself from the saddle and weave toward the building, returning Jerrico’s fire. The youngster didn’t lack for courage. He was charging right into a hail of bullets and hammering out return shots of his own.

  Then Vance cried out. He fell to a knee and dropped his gun, but he didn’t go all the way to the ground.

  The door of the sheriff’s office swung open. Charlie Jerrico stepped out, a sneer on his face. “You’re a fool, kid,” he called to Vance. “Riding into town and trying to shoot up the sheriff’s office. It’s no wonder you got yourself killed. You must have gone loco. That’s what people will think, anyway.”

  Jerrico hadn’t noticed the two range detectives. Wilbur started to lift his gun, but Stovepipe put out a hand to stop him.

  Vance looked up at the crooked lawman. Blood dripped down his left sleeve as he said, “You’ve lost, Jerrico. Everybody knows what you did—Malone, Cabot, Stovepipe and Wilbur, the rest of the crews from the Three Rivers and the Rafter M. It’s over. Garrity and MacDonald are dead. The rest of your bunch is either dead or taken prisoner. You’re the only one left, you son of a bitch. Where’s Rosaleen?”

  Clutching the bars of her cell door, she was listening to the confrontation through the window in the cell block door and the open front door. She cried, “Vance! Vance, I’m in here!”

  Jerrico’s face twisted in a hate-filled snarl as he half-turned toward the door, then tried to snap back around. Vance was already lunging for the gun he had dropped, scooping it up and angling the barrel toward Jerrico as the lawman pulled the trigger. Vance’s shot crashed out a hair after Jerrico’s.

  The slug from the sheriff’s gun plowed into the street inches from Vance, but the young man’s bullet went home, ripping into Jerrico’s torso and slanting up through his heart. Jerrico took a stumbling step forward and tried to lift his gun for another shot, but it slipped from his nerveless fingers before he could pull the trigger. He reached the edge of the boardwalk in front of the office and plunged off, falling facedown in the street.

  He didn’t move again.