“I’ll starve that thing or go down tryin’,” said Lynn, half to himself. “Why the hell do men get such ideas, Hawkins?”
“Well, there’s such a thing as law and order, Texas. Or maybe you ain’t heard.”
“Law and order?” spat Lynn. “You ready to high-tail it?”
“Now look,” said Hawkins, “I ain’t exactly squeamish but if McCloud ever gets an idea who done this thing, he’d hang us too. ’Course it’s a good idea. If there’s a robbery while your kid brother is in jail, then it’ll look fishy that he done the others. But maybe ever’body will see through that.”
“We’re takin’ a chance,” said Lynn. “By the way, is that ’dobe house across from the gallows there where Fanner McCloud lives?”
“Yeah.”
“Okay, let’s go. You get a couple horses off that hitchrack . . .”
“My God!” said Hawkins in alarm. “You ain’t goin’ to steal horses too!”
“Why not? My buckskin needs a rest. If you won’t then here I go.”
And he suited action to the word and returned shortly leading a dun and a roan whose owners were getting loudly drunk in the Diamond Palace Saloon.
Hawkins mounted with misgivings. But if the truth be known he was a little frightened of this nerveless, ice-eyed devil who had blown in from the tumultuous south.
An hour later they were deep in the darkness of a canyon along which ran the stage road to Pioneer. The wind was soughing lonesomely through the scrub pines and far off an owl added his mournful dirge to the spooky scene.
Hawkins shuddered. “What do you want me to do?”
Lynn glanced at a tall black rock which loomed over the roadway. “I’m going up there. You stand easy in that clump of brush ahead and once I drop on the stage, you swerve in and pull in the lead hosses. And don’t miss because we don’t want no runaway.”
“All right,” said Hawkins faintly.
Lynn hid his mount in a patch of trees and then crept up to the top of the tall rock. He lay down to watch the road to the east.
The wind whispered and rustled his neckerchief and the owl, scenting trouble, soared away on silent wings to hoot one final time in the dim distance. After that it was quiet. Lynn could see nothing of the ex-sheriff and could only hope that the man would do his appointed job. Otherwise there might be trouble. This road was narrow and at the curves the drop into the stream below was something close to a hundred feet.
Pondering over his future courses to keep from getting too tense with waiting, Lynn passed the time. At long last he heard a rumble of wheels and the rhythm of hoofs and jingle of harness. In a few minutes the headlamp of the stage jogged into view. Because of the treacherous road the driver was taking it easy. The messenger was almost asleep, gun loosely against his chest and chin down.
Lynn crept to the very edge above the road. The lead horses passed under him. Then the next team and the third. The moment had arrived. With the box just below him he leaped. For an instant he felt that he had waited too long and would hit the road. But before the thought was wholly formed his boots slammed against the top of the stage and he lunged for the backs of the two men.
The instant he struck, training made the messenger whirl about. He was in no position to use his gun except for a butt thrust. He stabbed hard. Lynn snatched the weapon and pulled. He stood the messenger straight up and before the man would let go, Lynn sent a right crashing to his jaw. The fellow staggered, relinquishing his hold to grab for his assailant.
The driver, hands full of reins, sent a white-eyed glance at Lynn and sought to disentangle a hand so that he could draw.
Lynn had the messenger’s coat front and the fellow flailed with wild fists while they tottered on the precarious footing. Letting go with one hand, Lynn took aim. His blow was perfect. The messenger went limp and Lynn dropped him down to the confinement of the baggage rack.
Lynn snatched the weapon and pulled. He stood the messenger straight up and before the man would let go, Lynn sent a right crashing to his jaw.
By this time the driver was ready, all reins in one hand, foot hard on the brake and fingers wrapped around his Colt. He almost completed the draw before Lynn seized him and flung him outward over the rocky ground. The man strove to save himself and the Colt clattered to the dusty road. Lynn snatched him back again and banged his head against the edge of the seat. The driver sighed and relaxed. Lynn straightened him out.
It was the work of a moment to shoot the dispatch box off and into the dirt.
Hawkins had the heads of the lead team and had brought them to a quiet stop.
Lynn signaled with a wave of his hand. The driver was coming back to life and Lynn wasted no time. He dropped to earth, scooped up the box and sprinted up the slope to his waiting horse. He forked leather and dug spur to race down the bank toward Hawkins, who was already moving rapidly away.
Behind them a passenger sent a wild shot with a hopeful oath. The messenger came around and pumped his magazine empty. But Lynn and Hawkins were gone.
Lynn stripped the bandana from his face and flung it to the trail. He laid on with his quirt.
“I hope you know what you’re doin’,” said Hawkins. “Men have hung for less than this.”
“I hope I do too,” said Lynn.
“You mean you ain’t sure?”
“Is anybody ever sure of anything? Come on, fellah, ride or them delirium tremens of yours’ll come true for certain.”
An hour later, Hawkins and Lynn Taylor were part of the astounded crowd who heard the driver’s lurid tale of the holdup.
“An’ so I shoots at him point blank but he just laughs at me. He beats me over the head with his gun and grabs the box. . . .”
Lynn grinned a little to himself.
Somebody in the crowd said, “Hell, is that goin’ to start all over again? I thought we had the ringleader.”
McCloud was on the high boardwalk before the saloon, his narrow face half alight from the oil lantern on the stage. “It’s some of his pals, that’s all. Don’t get nervous, gents. We got the situation in hand. And when they see us hangin’ Frank Taylor, they’ll know we mean business.”
“Who do you think done it?” said somebody else.
“I got my ideas,” said McCloud, looking down at Lynn who stood by the stage wheel.
Hawkins whispered, “Maybe we better beat it. He’s got men enough to do anything he wants and . . .”
“Shut up,” said Lynn. “You’ll play this thing through or I’ll tip McCloud it was you.”
“You wouldn’t!” gasped Hawkins.
“Sure I would,” said Lynn with a pleasant smile. “Now take it easy.”
“Sure. Sure,” said Hawkins, his teeth beginning to chatter. “Sure, I’ll take it easy.”
Chapter Three
AT two o’clock the following afternoon, Lynn Taylor sat at the window of his hotel room and watched ranchers and their riding crews pour into Pioneer for the hanging. They came to make a holiday of it and as one outfit greeted another, cliques began to form while men swapped their experiences since last meeting. Here and there fights started, to be quickly stopped. Along the high boardwalks men stopped to argue about the hanging and from snatches of conversation which floated up from the walk, Lynn found that the country was divided upon the guilt of Frank. Those few who had known him well were loud and vociferous in their declaration of its impossibility. But in the main, blinded by lust for “justice” and carried forward now by mob spirit, cattlemen began to applaud McCloud’s swift stopping of the crime wave, damning the apparent incompetence of Hawkins in the same breath.
A few discussed the holdup of the night before and McCloud went about dropping remarks that he knew the guilty party. He preferred to act wise and mysterious about it and was quite successful in creating face by the attitude.
Lynn heard the door open behind him and whirled, hands darting to his guns. But it was Hawkins. He came swiftly through the room and to the point.
“
Taylor, you’ve got to get out of here. Somebody’s got the idea that you pulled that stage job and, after all, you did. If you don’t take it on the run, there’s goin’ to be two gibbets decorated instead of one.”
“Fanner McCloud knows where to find me.”
“Yeah, but Fanner McCloud’s no fool. He knows it’ll cost somethin’ to pick you off. Frank wasn’t such shucks as a gunman. Maybe McCloud figures that if you’re in the crowd when they start to hang Frank, he can sing out and you’ll have so many around you you won’t have a chance to get away.”
“Yeah. Maybe so. Did you get my note to Frank?”
“Sure. He’s standin’ up under it pretty good. God, but that kid sure has got faith in you, Texas. Before you came he was half out of his head but now he’s quieted down. He says, ‘Tell Lynn I ain’t worryin’ none now.’”
Lynn turned back to the window and looked up the street toward the buying pens where cattle were bought for the north trailing. About fifty head of longhorns were there now, restless with all the noise of the town.
“Maybe it isn’t very smart to stay around,” said Lynn.
“Now you’re talkin’,” said Hawkins.
Lynn stood up and tightened the thongs on his thighs. He took out his guns and gave each cylinder a spin to check the loads. Giving them a border roll, he slipped them into their holsters.
Hawkins did not trail him very far, parting from him at the back of the hotel. Lynn was amused at Hawkins’ reluctance to be seen with a marked man.
The livery stable was three buildings down the street and Lynn leisurely made his way toward it. He entered the pungent interior from the rear and looked around. Seeing nothing out of order he approached Glitter’s stall. He was so deep in thought that he sensed rather than heard the swish of a rope.
He spread out his arms and ducked. But he was too late. The man in the loft had made a true cast and with a jerk he brought Lynn’s arms to his sides. Even then Lynn made a stab at his guns but the rope pulled him off his feet.
On his knees in the straw, he glared with angry eyes at the two who stepped watchfully from an empty stall. They were McCloud’s men. The other in the half-loft dropped down into a broken bale and took up his lariat slack as he approached his captive.
One of the others went back of Lynn and flipped the guns away, thrusting them into his waistband. He turned to saddle Glitter but the stallion had other ideas which he expressed with a slashing kick. The fellow withdrew hastily.
“Saddle your own, Texas.”
The man with the rope eased up. Slowly Lynn did as he was told. Three other mounts were led from their stalls already saddled.
“Are we going places?” said Lynn.
“Think we want a lynch mob to spoil this hangin’?” said a fellow with reddish eyes and a discolored mustache. “We got law an’ order around here and you ain’t goin’ to mess it up. You’re goin’ to have a legal trial tomorrow when things quiet down and then we’re goin’ to hang you.”
“That’s tellin’ ’m, Stew,” said the man with the rope.
“I get it,” said Lynn. “When there ain’t so many in town to see what you call justice. Mind tellin’ me what for?”
“For robbin’ the stage last night, that’s what for.”
“After the driver leaves. Is that it?” said Lynn.
“Maybe there’s such a thing as bein’ too smart,” said Stew.
“I heard somethin’ said about somebody findin’ a neckerchief on the road with an ‘M’ on it,” said Lynn.
Stew looked uncertain. “That don’t prove nothin’.”
“It did to the driver and you’ve had him dead drunk ever since.”
“C’mon,” said Stew, impatiently. “We ain’t got all day.”
Lynn mounted up, shedding the rope. The cavalcade headed for the front of the stable.
“Don’t try nothin’ fancy,” warned Stew. “Just ride east like nothin’ was wrong. If you make a break, we’ll find plenty of reason to plug you. Get goin’, Texas.”
They went into the brilliant sunlight of the street and in the press of horsemen who still continued to come into town, the three riders following close on the heels of one were scarcely noticed.
At a trot, Lynn headed for the open country, his three guardians staying close to him.
“You mind tellin’ me where we’re goin’?” said Lynn, over his shoulder.
“To Fanner’s ranch, if you got to know. An’ we don’t like missin’ the hangin’ any more than you do.”
For five miles, Lynn proceeded with a great docility which gradually lulled the watchfulness of his captors. They were going through a heavily wooded pass which led to a plain beyond and it was necessary to duck to avoid being brushed out of the saddle by pine boughs.
They were in single file now, Lynn still ahead for the reason that the men disliked riding with their backs to him. They rounded a bend in the thickly shrouded trail and for a brief instant, Lynn was masked from the rest. And in that instant he did two things. He dug spur to the buckskin and grabbed a bough over his head, swinging up, sent by the surge of his mount.
With a startled snort, Glitter charged away. The sound was enough to send three sets of spurs driving home. Heads down to miss the swinging bough, the trio dashed ahead.
Stew was the last in line. A bomb dropped on him, knocking him out of the saddle. A hand crushing against his mouth stifled any sound he might have uttered. His mount raced on, still furnishing hoofbeats to assure the others.
Lynn was up first. He yanked Stew to his feet and slammed him down again with a solid blow to the jaw. Stew grunted and twisted into a ball and then lay still.
With a quick movement Lynn retrieved his guns out of Stew’s belt and holstered them.
Ahead the others broke into the open and were astounded to see that they pursued a riderless horse. They looked back to find a riderless mount behind them and with a yell they pivoted and charged again into the woods.
Lynn stood in the center of the trail. The first saw him and drew. The second pulled up and chopped down. Four shots sounded almost as one. And smoke rolled from the muzzles of Lynn’s guns.
He holstered them quietly and placed his fingers in his mouth to whistle. Glitter came in a moment, stepping gingerly around the two things on the trail and giving the nervous, masterless mounts a disdainful glance.
Lynn glanced at the sun. The shadows were very long and he had five miles to go.
Swinging up, he dug spur, and with Glitter’s hoofs kettledrumming a mad staccato, raced through the hills toward Pioneer.
Chapter Four
McCLOUD had appointed himself hangman, being less squeamish in such matters than other men. He was well aware that he made a fine showing there on the gallows platform with all the country gathered in the street and square about it.
From the jail came a tight group of vigilantes, forming a square around the prisoner. The crowd gave way. Here and there somebody jeered, but the jeers lessened into undertone expressions of wonder. The prisoner was not at all downcast. Though he had a hard, Texas way about him at all times, Frank Taylor was bright of eye and he unceasingly looked at the people he passed as though a word of greeting was ready on his lips. He was completely detached from his role of a doomed man. The attitude was variously interpreted as nerve and callousness but McCloud, with an inward grin, was confidently in possession of Frank’s hope and its disaster.
Solemnly the guards marched their captive up the thirteen steps and each step the prisoner’s boot touched gave forth a hollow, dismal sound which echoed across the silent crowd.
When Frank reached the platform, the new planks creaked and that sound too was abnormally loud. A few in the crowd found their voices and yelled but they too fell silent after a moment.
McCloud was spreading the noose, fondling his hangman’s knot with loving care. He had a black cap tucked in his belt and when Frank came up to him he pulled it out.
Frank Taylor’s young face was beginni
ng to show a trace of worry. His eyes grew restless as they searched the face-paved expanse on all sides.
“You won’t find him,” said McCloud in a whisper. “I took care of that.”
Frank faced him, suddenly white with anger. “You’ve murdered him!”
McCloud went into action. He tried to slip the black cap over Frank’s head but he could not. Three guards leaped up the steps to hold Frank in firm grips. The cap was pulled down in place. Roughly they shoved Frank to the trapdoor and then McCloud, with help, slid the noose over his head and drew it tight.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” said McCloud with pious intonation. “I hope this’ll be a lesson to you. This’s the fate of evildoers in Pioneer. We ain’t had no justice here in a long time, but by God we’ve got it now! This gent tried to grab all the cows and all the gold in sight and so we ain’t got no use for such an unrespectable citizen in a respectable town and here and now we are about to terminate his youth after a fair and legal trial durin’ which he was proved guilty as hell of all them things that’s been happenin’. The law has tooken its course. Amen. Boys, the . . .”
There came a shriek from the outskirts of the crowd and then a mad rush away from the east end of the street. Suddenly the cry spread with the wings of terror and men leaped hastily for cover.
Fifty longhorns, horn rattling on horn, hurtled toward the gallows, excited by the yells about them but terrified by the shrieking fiend behind them who slashed them with a quirt and made a whirlwind with a serape.
“Yee-yip-yipyip-yippi yi!” yelled Lynn.
And the crowd fled before the approaching wall of beef. They were afoot and the consequences of that fact swept away all reason. Long before the front rank of the herd touched the gallows, all spectators had vanished and could be seen clinging precariously to roofs and false-fronts on either side of the square while others peered from doorways, ready to bolt again.
Isolated on the gallows were McCloud, three guards and their victim.
Shadows From Boot Hill Page 2
