Calvin stared at the archway for a long minute after the tall figure had disappeared. Then he opened a desk drawer and reached for the small flask he kept there. It usually took a lot to jolt the phlegmatic lawman, but there was something about Smart and his enthusiasm for his work that gave him the creeps.
The sun seemed to take forever to rise, and when it finally did peer above the jagged line of the Big Horns, it was misshapen and red, an ominous sun strangely in keeping with the lethal business all were here to witness today.
Tight-lipped and pale as he stood in the thick arch of the jailhouse doorway, Sheriff Jobe Calvin cleared his throat and repeated, “Let’s go, Lane.”
“What’s the big rush? Going someplace?” Lane cracked, but his attempt at jocularity sounded thin. Ever since the hangman had left the jailhouse after fitting his device to the condemned man’s neck, Lane had appeared a trifle shaky.
“It’s finally caught up with him,” Calvin had said to the turnkey. “Wouldn’t surprise me if he falls apart altogether before we get the rope around his neck. The toughest ones always bust open the widest.”
Now Calvin nodded to his offsider, and Haley checked the thongs that held Lane’s arms behind him, then pushed him towards the door.
The mob was waiting as they emerged; men, women and children. The young boys had climbed to vantage points to get a good view, and all sweltered in the early heat, impatient and growing more restless by the minute. More than an hour had passed since the first impatient man had cried, “Bring him out and get on with it!” Other voices had then taken up the chant. The vociferous defenders of Dusty Lane were not in evidence this crimson morning. If they were present they seemed to have been caught up in the general excitement.
A hush fell as the condemned man appeared. Someone gave a cheer which faded when a grubby urchin picked up a stone and threw it at the bound figure on the jailhouse stoop. Calvin shouted as the boy scuttled back into the crowd. Haley thrust Lane forward, and the trio stepped into the street and started towards the gallows that stood before the courthouse. Only then could the condemned man hear the dry clacky voice of Reverend Niles Dunstan reading from a leather-covered book before the gibbet.
“St. John of God, pray for him.
St. Camillus the Merciful, pray for him.”
The sun climbed hotter, and some said it would be the hottest day of the entire summer. The great glaring orb of the Arkansas sun glowed redly on the hundreds of faces, on the rude gallows where raw yellow wood oozed gum, on the dusty black of the preacher’s coat, on the towering, forbidding figure waiting at the top of the gallows steps, on the solemn features of the undertaker, his assistant and big Hank Brazos, all standing in line by the gleaming black funeral coach and four.
“Holy Abraham, pray for him.
St. John the Baptist, pray for him.”
A man said hoarsely, “You don’t look so cocky now, Dusty boy!”
Another laughed. “How’s about one of your jokes now, Dusty?”
“Look at the way he’s sweatin’.”
“And so he should. Hanging’s too good for a varmint like that.”
“They oughta hang him twice.”
“The poor man. Why don’t they put a sack over his head?”
“They will, ma’am, they will.”
“Look, he’s making it up the steps under his own steam. Told you Dusty had guts.”
“St. Ignatius, pray for him.”
The onlookers grew strangely quiet as the condemned man reached the platform. The silence spread like the shadow of a cloud across the mob, filling the main street, a heavy stillness staining the town. The silence held as the hangman fixed the hood and began adjusting the rope. Then an enormous fat woman with a mottled red face gave vent to the blood lust that lay like an obscene current just below the surface of the mob. “Hang him!” she bellowed, and the crowd seemed to tremble.
A moment’s silence, then the cry was taken up by a freckle-faced kid in a tree. “Hang him!” Mrs. Danneker, the mild-faced washerwoman: “Hang him!” The barman from the Big Dipper: “Hang him!” All together: “Haaang him!” It was hysterical and it was mindless.
“From the agonies of the damned, deliver him, O Lord.”
“Time’s up, Reverend,” the sheriff said in a hoarse voice, and the hangman climbed down the steps to take hold of the rope that operated the trapdoor.
“Haaang him!” the mob shouted.
Sheriff Calvin nodded.
The executioner glanced about him to make certain that nobody was too close to the plank that would fly free. He held his hand high, then jerked, throwing his weight back on his heels. The braces flew free, the plank dropped and Dusty Lane fell. His knees drew up, almost touching his chin, then he straightened, jerked once and went still, slowly gyrating on the rope’s end.
Only then were they silent, looking a little ashamed now after clamoring to see this terrible thing happen. In the deepening hush there was but one voice:
“From eternal fires, spare him, O Lord …”
Chapter Seven – Hang ’Em High
THE VIEW OF the gallows from the upper terrace of Merle Bronson’s place on the corner of Federal and Blacksmith Streets was one of the best in town. But today it was exclusive, confined to the six men to whom the execution was of great importance as well as interest, plus a couple of Merle’s prettiest girls for decoration, and Joey the barman who kept the drinks coming.
Merle’s was an expensive looking place in front, with small, English-type windows. Originally it had been the home of a prosperous cattle buyer, where the elite of growing Spearhead met to socialize and be seen. Though the respectable days were long gone, Merle’s was playing host to three of the most important men in all of Spearhead County today. Actually, there were two trios, but only one meant anything to Merle.
This trio sat at a cloth-covered table behind the iron lace balustrade, partially screened from view from the street below by a matched pair of potted plants. Today, they had wanted to see rather than be seen. It had been Hardy James the cattle buyer and founder of the Spearhead-Mississippi Cattle Combine who’d suggested they display discretion in viewing the hanging. Spearhead might read some untoward significance in the Combine taking such a keen interest in the execution of Vic Clanton’s murderer, he’d suggested, and Cleve Garroway and Kell Hawkin had agreed.
It was Hawkin, a neatly dressed man with a heavy hooked nose and bright black eyes, who leaned forward a little over his blended whisky now to watch the black funeral coach leave for the undertaker’s. Jubal Trogg was driving the team, with the solemn figure of J. Repose Buckhout seated stiff and erect beside him on the high seat. The crowd, so excited and noisy before, was strangely hushed as the vehicle rolled slowly towards the parlor where the body would be boxed prior to interment in Boothill on the west side of town.
As the vehicle rumbled from sight, the shipping magnate’s eyes swung back to the gallows where the executioner was taking down the rope.
“Nice job of work,” he approved, leaning back.
“Neat,” agreed Hardy James, a prosperous looking man of fifty who had travelled all the way from New Orleans just to be here this morning. He tapped the rim of his glass with a thumbnail, making a small ringing sound. “I admire efficiency in all things, don’t you, Cleve?”
The tallest of the three, a rawboned, heavy-shouldered man with a jaw like a rock, cattleman Cleve Garroway, nodded, looking pleased with himself. “That I do, Hardy, that I do,” he said quietly. Then he lifted his glass. “Maybe it’s time to propose a toast. How about ... to a tricky job well done?”
“And to the last big job to be done,” Hawkin added with a shrewd and secret glint in his speckled eyes.
“Not overlookin’ that for a moment, Hawkin,” the cattleman agreed. And they drank.
It was silent for a time then at the little table, each man content to savor what indeed had been “a tricky job well done.” They smiled as they nursed their black cigars. All were past
middle age and each had spent his youth in violence. Each now wore the solid front of respectability; rancher, cattle buyer, shipping tycoon—Combine founding fathers. But the ruthless streak that had helped each reach his position of eminence, and which ultimately had drawn them to each other to form the cattle corporation, was still a part of them. Call them gamblers, profiteers of their time, with few morals and exceedingly quiet consciences, they were men of the frontier breed who were determined to fashion the land into their own mold, and they laid their hard cash on the line to do it.
The mob was dispersing rapidly when Cleve Garroway finally broke the silence. Flicking ash from his fifty cent cigar, the Combine boss glanced across at the other table where the three killers sat smoking, then said quietly: “Raven is anxious to get on with the next job. I told him he’d have to wait.”
“Indeed he shall,” declared James, who though poorly educated, effected what he fondly thought to be a college accent. “Having gone to such elaborate lengths to frame Lane and distract public attention from the Combine, we must now take advantage of our situation.” He counted on his fingers as he went on, “Channing and Clanton, both taken care of. But we still have Whitney, and Whitney always was the most dominant member of the A.C.A., as well as being the most suspicious and heavily protected. The A.C.A. is hurt badly, but it isn’t dead. While Whitney is alive, those mule-headed ranchers will stick to the A.C.A., as you well know. What we must do now is let things simmer down. Give the county and Whitney time to fully absorb what happened here this morning. We must wait until Whitney begins to relax, starts taking a few chances. Then Raven can earn his next fee, but not before. Agreed?”
“Agreed,” the rancher and Hawkin murmured together. Then the shipper glanced across at the other trio a little apprehensively. “He’s probably waiting on an official decision from the three of us. Would you care to pass it on to him, Cleve?”
He made it seem like a casual suggestion, but Hardy James and Garroway knew Hawkin was deeply afraid of the slender, white-faced young man seated across the balcony with his gun-hung henchmen. James was leery of the killer too, but made a better job of concealing it. If the truth were known, even the rugged, two-fisted Garroway who had sought out and hired Raven initially, was probably a little afraid of the hired gun as well, as indeed any sane man would have to be. But if this were so, the cattleman never let on, and his manner was easy and relaxed now as he reached for a fresh cigar.
“I’ll take care of it, boys. I know how to handle this rooster.”
“I’m glad somebody does,” murmured Hawkin, who though anxious to get to the top of the heap in the cattle business, could be squeamish about some of the bloody mechanics involved in getting there. He reached for his hat.
“Well, if there is nothing else, gents, I’ll be getting back to the office.”
“Me too,” said Hardy James. “All right, Cleve?”
The rancher nodded his big head. “I’ll contact you both in about a week to discuss the Whitney deal.”
The two men smiled and started for the doors. They nodded to the gunmen who were seated with the girls. Hulking Sam Hogan and the ’breed Jim Crow Ritter returned their nods, but Raven stared at them as if he’d never seen them before. There was no doubt about Garroway’s prize killer—he was a weird one and no mistake. Early in their association, Kell Hawkin had observed that Raven was the sort of man who should be kept in chains and released only when there was a job to be done. Having already witnessed a frightening explosion of the gunman’s temper at the Garroway spread when a hand accidentally insulted him, Hardy James had seen no reason to disagree.
But if Raven didn’t impress those who paid his blood money, the same didn’t apply to Pretty Lucy. Pretty Lucy, who’d been working for Merle only a week, had taken a great fancy to the lithe gunfighter who lived in back of Merle’s private quarters of the bordello whenever he was in town.
“Are you gonna relax now that your flash friends have gone?” the girl asked as the door closed behind the pair. She’d been trying to capture the killer's interest all morning, but what with the hanging and Raven’s indifference was making little progress.
“No friends of mine,” came the whispery response. “Besides, they’re not all gone.”
The girl turned and glanced at Garroway. “Who is he, anyway?”
“A big man,” Raven purred. “Could end up the biggest ...” He caught the cattleman’s eye and Garroway beckoned him across.
“Nice job of work, Raven,” Garroway drawled, inclining his head towards the gallows.
Slim shoulders shrugged. “Seen one hangin’, you’ve seen ’em all, I always say.”
“I suppose so. But at least it seems to prove you were wrong about your suspicions of the hangman.”
Another shrug. When Raven had first glimpsed the tall executioner walking past the bordello yesterday, he’d tabbed him immediately as a phony. Elroy Smart wore no weapon, yet Raven had insisted that the man had the look, the walk and the eye of a gun-thrower. Raven had sounded so sure that Garroway and his friends had experienced some concern about Elroy Smart, but that had been effectively nullified by the professional expertise with which the man had dispatched Dusty Lane.
“Maybe I guessed wrong,” was as far as the gunman was prepared to go. Then he lifted an eyebrow. “Any change of plans?”
“Still the same. I talked it over with Hardy and Kell. We wait.”
Raven idly fingered the walnut butt of the Colt .45 that had dispatched Vic Clanton, Sam Eastman, Bart Channing—and more men before that than Cleve Garroway could even begin to guess at. For a moment it seemed that the gunslinger might turn ugly, but unpredictable as always, he finally broke into a frosty smile.
“I suppose I don’t give a damn, Garroway. We’re fixed nice here. How long do you reckon?”
“A week. Ten days at the most. We’re givin’ Whitney time to relax his guard.”
Raven dropped a small booted foot from the chair beside the rancher. “All right, big man. You’ll keep in touch, huh?”
Garroway got up, towering over his killer, and grinned. “See you soon, Raven.”
“Now then?” persistent Lucy smiled at the killer when Garroway had gone. She leaned against the railing beside him and traced a red fingernail down the back of his gun hand, looking up at him archly. “Somethin’ wrong with me sugar? Don’t I make you all kinda tingly inside?”
“Maybe.”
“Then what’s holdin’ you back, sugar? You and me could be just great together.”
What was holding Haven back appeared just as Lucy slipped her arm through his. Merle Bronson was a handsome woman in her early thirties, tall and richly contoured, her beauty marred only by a jagged white scar that traced a line from her left ear and almost all the way across her throat. Sometimes Merle covered the disfiguring scar with a pearl choker, sometimes she didn’t bother. The scar was a legacy left her by her late husband, whose natural talent for carving up women had finally led him to the gallows. Despite the scar, Merle was considered one of the most desirable women in Spearhead, in or out of the bordellos, though it was well known that she was simply not available.
Few knew why Merle’s favors could not be obtained by blandishments, flamboyant gifts or hard cash other than it was said she had a lover. The few who knew who the lover was never dared make any advances to the handsome Merle.
Raven didn’t move as the woman halted in the doorway to stare at them, even though he caught the glint in Merle’s brown eyes. Lucy saw no reason to disengage her arm either, for she didn’t know all the house rules; she’d been there only a week.
Which was as long as she was destined to stay. Her face blank now, Merle Bronson came across the terrace, her right hand covering the big glass ring she wore on her left hand. Seated at the table with Hogan and Jim Crow Ritter, Judy and Belle exchanged an apprehensive glance. They knew the house rules and they knew Merle. Casual customers to the bordello often wondered why Merle didn’t employ bodyguards, bu
t those who knew the madame well were aware that Merle didn’t need them.
“Why, this is nice and cozy,” Merle smiled, drawing up before them. She was much taller than Lucy; at six feet she was four inches taller than Raven.
Lucy’s red lips parted slightly as she got the first whiff of trouble. She glanced up at Raven who was smiling faintly at Merle, and was pulling her arm free when the ringed fist exploded against her jaw.
The girl fell, blood streaming from the gash in her cheek. Shocked, she struggled up, clutching at the railing. Her face still wearing the blank expression, Merle Bronson drew her fist back intending to strike again, but the gunslinger intervened. Moving with the fluent grace that marked all his actions, he blocked the blow with his right forearm, then gently thrust Merle back.
“Take it easy, Merle,” he whispered. “You don’t want to damn well knock her into the street.”
“Why the hell not?” she blazed back at him. “What was she doing, hanging onto you like that anyway?” Without waiting for a reply, she turned to the terrified girl. “You’re through, sister! You’ve got fifteen minutes to pack and get the hell gone!”
Lucy didn’t argue. With a fearful glance at Raven, she fled across the terrace and disappeared through the doorway, leaving Merle Bronson to turn her fury on her lover. “Were you encouraging her? By God, if you were I’ll—”
“I said take it easy,” the killer murmured. “It was nothin’, Merle, you can ask any of ’em here. She was just being friendly.”
“Well, she won’t get the chance to get friendly again.”
Raven sighed, reflecting yet again that Merle had to be the most jealous woman west of the Big Muddy. She had always been that way, ever since they had first met in her place in St. Louis, just after the law executed her husband. She had taken him in when he arrived one midnight at her house, shot full of holes and close to death. That very night, a strange, sick love had been born and it had continued sporadically over two years and through a dozen bordellos since. When Raven was away on one of his lethal missions, he could do what he liked with whoever he liked. But when he was with Merle, he had to watch his step.
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