He met the men at the café, and after eating, they rode their horses to the jail and prepared the prisoner for the hanging.
The eastern sky was starting to become illuminated as they walked the prisoner out to the gallows. Torches had been lit, and lanterns were hanging from the gallows beam.
Jed and his brother Joe were standing away from the crowd and watched as Gary was pushed up the steps to the gallows. He was struggling and shouting as he called them foul names.
They finally got him into position, and the hangman slipped the hangman’s noose over his head and adjusted it to one side for a quick death. Then he placed the black hood over his head and stepped away.
A minister stepped forward and recited a verse in the Bible, said a prayer, and then stepped away.
Just as the hangman was about to pull the lever, Gary screamed out, “Jed, help me.”
The executioner pulled the lever, and the sound of the neck snapping echoed off the buildings as the crowd moaned.
Hunt looked over at Jed and Joe. Jed was wiping his eyes, and Joe was consoling him.
They lowered the body into a wagon, and Hunt instructed them to take the body to the mortician for a pine box. “The family wants to return him to Mississippi for burial.”
Hunt walked over to Jed and said, “They’re putting him in a pine box. Let’s go get his horse, and I’ll have them take the casket to the train depot.”
They rode to the stockyard, and Hunt signed for the horse. They saddled the horse and rode back to the office. Hunt gave Jed Gary’s bedroll, saddlebags, canteen, rifle, and pistol belt.
They rode to the mortician’s office and followed the wagon to the train depot. Jed made arrangements for the two of them, three horses, and the casket to Mississippi.
Jed walked out, looked at Hunt and walked over to him. “I wished we had met on better terms. You seem like a good man. Thanks for the help getting his horse and his body back.”
“You’re welcome, Jed. You and Joe are good men. I hope you’ll step forward and take a leading role in raising his son. With your guidance, hopefully he won’t follow in his father’s footsteps.”
“I’ll do my best, Marshal. Goodbye.”
He turned, and they walked to the train and watched the casket and horses being loaded. Then they entered the train as it blew its last warning whistle.
Hunt stood and watched as the train began moving. Clayton walked up and said, “Gary deserved to be hung. But his family doesn’t deserve the guilty feeling they are feeling.”
“Yeah, you’re right,” Hunt said. “Let’s go back to the office, I’ve got some missions for you men that need to be taken care of.”
The End
OTHER BOOKS WRITTEN BY
WL COX
Storm Warrior Hunt-U.S. Marshal
Storm Warrior II Hunt-U.S. Marshal II
Storm Warrior III Hunt-U.S. Marshal III
Storm Warrior IV Hunt-U.S. Marshal IV
Storm Warrior V Hunt-U.S. Marshal V
Storm Warrior VI Hunt-U.S. Marshal VI
Storm Warrior VII Hunt-U.S. Marshal VII
Storm Warrior VIII Hunt-U.S. Marshal VIII
Storm Warrior IX Hunt-U.S. Marshal IX
Storm Warrior X Hunt-U.S. Marshal X
Storm Warrior XI Hunt-U.S. Marshal XI
Storm Warrior XI I Hunt-U.S. Marshal XII
Storm Warrior XIII Hunt U.S. Marshal XIII
Storm Warrior XIV Hunt-U.S. Marshal XIV
Storm Warrior XV Hunt U.S. Marshal XV
Storm Warrior XVI Hunt U.S. Marshal XVI
Storm Warrior XVII Hunt U.S. Marshal XVII
Storm Warrior Vol 18 Hunt U.S. Marshal Vol 18
Storm Warrior Vol 19 Hunt U.S. Marshal Vol 19
Storm Warrior Vol 20 Hunt-U.S. Marshal Vol 20
Storm Warrior Vol 21 Hunt-U.S. Marsal Vol 21
Storm Warrior Vol 22 Hunt-U.S. Marshal Vol 22
Storm Warrior Vol 23 Hunt-U.S. Marshal Vol 23
Storm Warrior Vol 24 Hunt-U.S. Marshal Vol 24
Find these books on Amazon:
http://www.amazon.com/WL-Cox/e/B00EN3AFP0/ref=sr_tc_2_0?qid=1456028836&sr=1-2-ent
About the Author
WL Cox, born 1947 in Middletown, Ohio, and helped farm for the first 18 years of my life near Germantown, Ohio. I worked retail sales for over 40 years and spent 6 years in the Air Force as an engine mechanic. Always being an avid western fiction reader for most of my life led to the western fiction writer that I am today. I hope that the readers of my books get as much enjoyment from reading them as I get from writing them.
Snake in the Grass
A Steve Dancy Tale
By
James D. Best
Snake in the Grass
The boy appeared crazed. McAllen had merely asked to talk to the owner of the horses. His simple query had caused the young man to shout words McAllen could not understand. Either the wrangler had stolen the horses or had spent too much time in the sun without a hat. No matter, McAllen decided to look elsewhere. He turned to leave.
“Where the hell ya think yer goin’?” the wrangler demanded.
“I won’t bother you anymore,” McAllen answered, with a wave of his hand.
He held his daughter’s hand as they descended a pebble-strewn slope leading back to their own horses. The stones were loose and slippery, and he didn’t want her to fall.
He fell. His boots scooted right out from under him, and he found himself on the ground, looking up at his disapproving daughter.
“I thought you were holding my hand,” Maggie said. “I didn’t know I was supposed to keep you on your feet.”
McAllen was about to make a sharp retort, when he heard the wrangler chortling. McAllen, his daughter, and Steve Dancy were on their way to buy breeding stock for McAllen’s horse ranch. When they had approached this lone rider herding about twenty horses, he had yelled obscenities and behaved as if mad. Now the ill-mannered wrangler sat atop the small knoll, laughing at him. McAllen nearly marched up the incline to throw the rascal off his horse so he could also experience meeting the ground unexpectedly.
Instead, he turned toward his friend. He caught Dancy smiling as well. He glanced at Maggie, who quickly hid a grin. Damn. Everyone except him seemed to enjoy his mishap. He hated to appear foolish. The laughter from above became even more raucous. The wrangler bent at the waist, put his hands on his knees, and laughed as if he was at a vaudeville show.
“Shut up, mister!” his daughter yelled. “This is Captain Joseph McAllen, recently of the Pinkerton National Detective Agency. Stop your laughing … and if you stole those horses, you better git!”
“Maggie, hush,” McAllen said. “That’s none of his business. I must be a humorous sight. No harm in him laughin’.”
McAllen brushed himself off. When he looked up at the wrangler, the man no longer appeared amused. Instead, he seemed intrigued.
“Ya for hire?” he asked.
“No. I’m a rancher now.”
“Cattle or horses?”
“Horses. I like wranglers better than drovers. You’re the exception.”
“I’ll pay ya in horses. Look at this stock. Best this side of the divide.”
Maggie grabbed his arm and nodded toward the wrangler. The glint in her eye said she wanted to take him up on the offer.
He shook his head. Crazed men were best avoided.
When they reached their own horses, Dancy handed the captain and his daughter their reins without comment. McAllen was proud to see that Dancy kept an eye on the wrangler. He learned quickly. Dancy had arrived from New York City a few years before, and at first, was so citified that he didn’t even carry a firearm. He had hired McAllen and a team of Pinkertons to protect him in a rough encampment. McAllen had taken him under his wing and taught him the ways of the West. Back then, Dancy would have prattled away and ignored the wrangler. Now he remained wary of strangers, especially out in the middle of nowhere.
The three of them ha
d been traveling the trail east of Durango, hunting for horses to buy, preferably Spanish Barb. None of the ranches so far had owned appropriate stock. McAllen intended to breed an endurance horse for the Pinkertons, one that could carry a load and tirelessly pursue bad men. An animal not necessarily fast, but relentless. He not only had a supply contract with his old outfit, but he also owned six sections of good grazing property close to Durango. After his recent retirement, McAllen had built a rudimentary house and a first-class stable and corral system. Now he needed stock.
When they had happened upon this wrangler, McAllen’s innocent query had provoked an uncouth outburst. The man had yelled and screamed nonsense at the top of his lungs. Ordinarily, McAllen wouldn’t feel obliged to run away from a deranged man, but he refused to expose his daughter to danger. At sixteen, Maggie knew as much about horses as he did, but that wasn’t the main reason he’d brought her along on this trip. Back when he ran the Pinkerton operation in Denver, he barely saw her. While school was in session, she lived in Durango with his ex-wife and her preacher husband. During the remainder of the year, she lived on her aunt’s ranch, where she rode every day after completing laborious chores. McAllen had left the agency and Denver to start a ranch so he could be close to Maggie. He expected to have grandchildren one day—a distant day, he hoped, because for the present, he preferred his daughter’s attention undivided.
Now he was having second thoughts. He and Dancy could protect Maggie. The boy had calmed and seemed rational. Perhaps their approach had startled him.
McAllen turned back to the wrangler. “You need help herdin’?”
“Hell, don’t need no Pinkerton for that. These horses are well-broke.”
“What are you in need of?” McAllen asked.
“A mean son of a bitch.” He looked askance at McAllen. “Are ya a mean son of a bitch?”
“My pa’s no son of a bitch!” Maggie shouted.
“Beg pardon, ma’am. Didn’t know ya was sensitive.” He looked McAllen over. “So, can ya be a mean gentleman if the occasion calls fer it?”
“We’ll be on our way,” McAllen replied, deciding once again to move on.
In other circumstances, he might have inquired about the wrangler’s problem. He needed good stock, and this man was herding some fine horses. Building his stables had cost more than he had planned, and trading his skills instead of dollars for horseflesh could get him back on track. But he had Maggie with him, and the man changed moods faster than a signalman could swing a lantern.
He wheeled his horse around, one eye on the wrangler and the other on Maggie to make sure she followed his lead. She did. Good. Maggie idolized him and could go to extremes defending him. At times, she bragged about his accomplishments, but he preferred people ignorant of his background. Some might take it as a challenge and start a fight, while truly bad men deserved no forewarning.
“We can put three hours between us before we make camp,” Dancy offered.
McAllen nodded.
“Sorry ’bout my tirade,” called the wrangler. “Rustlers attacked me twice. Unnerved me, I fear.”
Maggie reined up. “You thought I was a rustler?”
“Not you, child. But yer pa looks like he could take what he wants.”
McAllen leaned down and jerked Maggie’s reins to prod her horse forward.
“Stop. Ya can have all these horses … all twenty-two of ’em.”
That stopped all three of them.
“Why would you do that?” Dancy asked.
“Ain’t gonna be killed for another man’s property. Ya can have ’em all … or the rustlers can scuttle ’em away. I don’t care no more. I’m getting’ away from ’em. These horses are a death sentence.”
He started to trot away, when McAllen called him back. “Tell me what happened.”
The young man pulled up and slowly walked his horse down the slippery incline to the trail. When he came close, McAllen noticed that under the scraggly beard, the wrangler appeared only a few years older than Maggie. A near-youngster alone on the frontier. He wasn’t crazed—he was panicked.
He spoke nervously. “Mr. Chapman sold these horses to Fort Garland … at least eighteen of ’em. He figured to find buyers for the other four on the trail. We were—”
“Why didn’t he use the train?” Dancy asked.
“Hell, Mr. Chapman figured by the time we herded ’em to the rail station and then to the Fort at the other end, we might as well herd ’em the full 130 miles. Cheaper too … and Mr. Chapman knows how to stretch a dollar.”
“Mr. Chapman the owner?” Dancy asked.
“Yep … was.”
McAllen looked back up at the grazing horses, then at the wrangler. “Chapman killed by the rustlers?”
“Yep. His son too. Nice ranch ’bout forty miles west. Wife died years ago. No idea who owns it now … or these here horses. That’s why I’m leavin’. Ya can have ’em if ya want.”
“How long you work for Mr. Chapman?” McAllen asked.
“Since a child. Parents killed in a Ute uprisin’ and Mr. Chapman took me in. A fine man.”
“This is how you repay a fine man?” McAllen said.
“I fought ’longside him, but he’s gone now. Nothin’ more I can do. He’s gone.”
“Where did you bury him?”
The youngster appeared ill at ease. “I didn’t. When the rustlers moved off, I ran. I caught up with the herd that’d been spooked and rode like a madman. Them horses followed me until we tired. That’s when the three of ya came ridin’ up. Thought ya was part of that bad bunch.”
McAllen reined his horse around and said, “Come on. We’re goin’.”
“Wait, don’t ya want the horses?”
“Naw. Need clear title for my customer. Let them go wild if you’re scared.”
“Can I ride with ya?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because you lack character,” McAllen said.
“The hell ya say. I fought. Hell, I hit one of ’em. Maybe kilt him.”
“You’re running away from a job you signed on to do. You didn’t bury Mr. Chapman and his son. Find your own way from here.”
“Mr. Chapman’s gone. It don’t matter to ’im. Those men might come back.”
“Did Mr. Chapman know your parents?” McAllen asked.
“Sure. They was friends of sorts.”
“And they were gone. It didn’t matter to them whether he took you in. Yet he did. You owe him more than a fast gallop away.”
“Damn you.”
The youngster stared at McAllen with cold fury.
“Joseph, you’re being too hard on the boy,” Dancy said. “He’s just been in a gun battle and saw his only family slaughtered.”
“Two gunfights … and I stood right at Mr. Chapman’s side through both. I’m not a coward, just … well, I don’t know. I got scared when it was over. Maybe I acted odd when you came up, but I didn’t shoot at ya.”
Nobody said anything for a moment, then McAllen asked, “What’s your name?”
“People call me Eli.”
“Well, Eli, show us the bodies.”
He looked down and then met McAllen’s eyes. “Okay. Let’s go bury ’em.”
Without further discussion, the four fanned out and drove the horses back in the direction Eli indicated. In about two miles, they came across a good grazing meadow with a stand of trees running along both sides of a creek. Eli pointed at the trees and shivered.
As they approached, Maggie asked, “How come you barely mention Mr. Chapman’s son?”
“Jack got shot right off. Scared me stiff. I’m sittin’ on my horse, and his head is splattered all over. Damn, there weren’t no hint of trouble.”
He shook his head as if he wanted to shake the memory loose.
“Mr. Chapman shoved me off my horse and yelled to grab my rifle and start shootin’. That was the first attack. After a quiet period, we thought we’d scared ’em off and mounted up to round up
the horses. As soon as we cleared the trees, the shootin’ started again. That time, Mr. Chapman and I had to fight ’em off in the open.” He bowed his head at the memory. “Maybe Jack could’ve won the battle. He was a good shot and fearless as hell.”
For the first time, he looked like he might cry. “I wanted to be just like him. He was twelve years older but treated me like family. I was only a hired hand to Mr. Chapman.”
McAllen stood in his stirrups and examined the field. He pointed, and they all rode in that direction. Mr. Chapman lay dead in the sage, not far from the tree line. McAllen looked around again and pointed toward the creek.
“Steve, would you collect Mr. Chapman’s horse?”
Dancy pulled his Winchester from the scabbard and rode off without further direction.
When McAllen dismounted, Maggie and Eli followed suit. Eli’s eyes flitted around trying to spot danger, but McAllen had already calmly surveyed the countryside and didn’t see any rustlers. That didn’t mean they couldn’t be hiding, which was why he had dismounted. A lower profile would present a more difficult target. They all pulled their rifles, including Maggie. She was an exceptional shot for her age.
Dancy soon returned with two saddled horses. They were beautiful animals. Mr. Chapman had evidently selected the best of the herd for himself and his son. Eli’s horse looked commonplace in comparison.
“The son’s over by those trees,” Dancy said.
“Okay, let’s get Mr. Chapman draped over his saddle. We’ll bury them together above the creek,” McAllen said.
A problem arose when they got the bodies together. No one had brought along a shovel. McAllen wasn’t about to dig a hole for two men with a tin plate. He examined the creek bed and saw that they could mound rocks over the bodies and use their plates to fill gaps with mud.
They got to work. McAllen sent Eli to haul rocks from the creek bed while he and Dancy stacked them up around the bodies. Maggie stood watch, her rifle cradled in her arms.
After an hour, they had just finished the job when they heard a shout from the other side of the creek.
Wanted: A Western Story Collection Page 20
