Shadow of the Hangman

by J. A. Johnstone

  “They were begging for it, Josh,” Shannon said.

  “You’re a good boy, Shade,” Dora DeClare said. “So I’m sure they were.”

  “Hell, I also killed me a woman and her two kids,” Shannon said, a note of pride in his voice.

  “When, last night?” Dora said.

  “No, the night before that, I think. Father tied me up in the barn afterward, but I escaped, and then I done for him.”

  Dora said nothing, but her slender throat moved as she swallowed hard, and she didn’t look at her brother or Shannon. The last thing she wanted was to meet Shannon’s stare, the one that ripped her clothes off and left her naked, or read the madness in his alabaster eyes.

  “Dora,” Shannon said, grinning, “I guess now you’ll spank me for being such a bad boy, like you done before, huh?”

  “Yes, Shade, after I wash that bloody shirt of yours and fix you something to eat.”

  Shannon looked around the cabin. A table lamp that still glowed through the glassy morning light added pinpoints of yellow to his suddenly haunted eyes. “Where is Luke Caldwell?” he said.

  “He’s out,” DeClare said. “Scouting around, I guess.”

  “I don’t like him,” Shannon said. “And he doesn’t like me.”

  “Luke doesn’t like anybody,” DeClare said. “Anyway, I hired him for his gun, not to go around liking folks.”

  “I will have to kill him one day,” Shannon said.

  DeClare smiled. “Wait until he guns Jacob O’Brien. Then you can have at him.”

  “What does he look like, this O’Brien feller?” Shannon said.

  “Why do you want to know?” DeClare said.

  “After I done the whore at Lou Rose’s saloon—you know where that is?”

  “I’ve heard of it.”

  “Well, a tall, thin feller took a couple of pots at me, then chased me,” Shannon said. “It was dark, but I caught a glimpse of moonlight a couple of times and saw him and another man on my back trail.”

  Suddenly, DeClare leaned forward in his chair, his pale, thin face alarmed. “You didn’t lead O’Brien here, did you?”

  “No, I lost him in the hills.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Of course I’m sure.”

  “Describe the man you saw,” Joshua DeClare said.

  “Like I said, a tall, thin man, got a Comanche’s face on him except for the blue eyes and big mustache. Wears a puncher’s outfit, worn-out and ragged, and totes his gun on his right hip.”

  DeClare eased back in his wheelchair. “Could be O’Brien, could be a hundred other men.”

  “If it’s him, he doesn’t scare me none,” Shannon said.

  “You ran from him, Shade,” Dora said.

  “It was the thing to do at the time. Next time I won’t run.”

  “Shade,” Dora said, “give me your shirt. Then go outside and wash at the pump. Bacon and eggs all right with you?”

  “Anything you cook is all right with me, Dora.” Shannon removed his shirt and passed it to the woman. Their fingers touched, and Dora felt her skin crawl.

  After Shannon left, Dora watched him from the window as he stood splashing water on his face and chest at the pump. Without turning she said, “Josh, he’s a monster.”

  “We need him, Dora.”

  “Can you control him?”

  “Yes, I can. And if not me, Luke Caldwell will.”

  DeClare spoke to his sister’s stiff back. “Dora, remember that the real monster here is Shamus O’Brien.”

  “That’s something I’m not likely to forget.”

  DeClare was silent for a while, as though marshaling his thoughts. Then he said, “Dora, fate, destiny, whatever you want to call it, brought Shade Shannon back to us. Now we’ll use him again, this time to tear the very heart out of Dromore. When it’s done, I’ll kill him like the mad dog he is.”

  Dora turned from the window, blew out the oil lamp on the table that had been competing uselessly against the morning light, and said, “How does a bright young army officer become Shade Shannon?”

  DeClare took time to light his pipe. “According to Luke Caldwell, the story goes that he found the bodies of four of his soldiers after they’d been worked over for days by Apache women,” he said. “The soldiers had died real slow, a bit at a time, and their intestines—”

  “Josh, I understand,” Dora said. “You don’t have to draw me the picture.”

  DeClare smiled. “All right, then here’s the short version: Something snapped in Second Lieutenant Shannon’s mind that day. The way Luke heard it, Shade started screaming, and he didn’t stop for three days and two nights. Finally, he went into some kind of deep sleep, and when he woke the man was gone and the monster had taken his place.”

  “It was then he raped a woman,” Dora said.

  “Yes. As Shade says, he ‘done her good.’ He must have done her real good because his father had to call in old favors to get him out of a court-martial and a hanging. He took him back to the Shannon ranch.”

  “And then we met him,” Dora said. She glanced out the window where Shannon was toweling his face and hair. “When do we turn him loose on Lorena O’Brien?” she said.

  “When the time is right,” DeClare said. “But, never fear, it will be soon.” He frowned in thought. “My inclination is to wait until after Patrick O’Brien swings.” He looked at his sister, his eyes bright. “The hurt to Shamus will be all the greater then.”

  “God willing,” Dora said.

  DeClare’s anger flared, and his skeletal hands slapped the arms of his chair. “What has God got to do with it?” he said. “We serve a far more powerful prince, do we not? Do you want him to destroy you, tear you limb from limb?”

  Dora’s wide, frightened eyes revealed her alarm. “Joshua, please don’t talk like that. It . . . it scares me when you say those things about the master.”

  “You think I’m mad to tell you such things, don’t you, Dora?”

  “I think Father’s death nearly drove you to the brink of insanity.” She smiled and laid her hand on her brother’s thin shoulder. “But you’re better now, Josh, much better.”

  “And this wasted body of mine, how do you explain it?”

  “Josh, you know how it happened.”

  “Tell me.”

  “Your horse reared, then fell on top of you.”

  “Was it God’s will?”

  “It was an accident, Josh.”

  “No, it was God’s will that I be a cripple.” DeClare’s eyes burned with black fire, and his mouth tightened into a pale line. “That is why I’ve turned my back on him.”

  Dora glanced at her brother’s shriveled legs and the unholy light in his stare, and she shivered as though she’d stepped into an icy breeze. “The master wouldn’t turn on us, would he?”

  “Of course not, I was merely joking. No need to be afraid, Dora,” DeClare said. “It is Shamus O’Brien’s boast that Dromore has stood against rustlers, Apaches, blizzards, droughts, and floods. We’ll see how it stands against me and all the dark powers I can summon.”

  Dora DeClare felt her stomach spike, from fear or dread or both. Suddenly, she was caught in the terrible twilight shadows that lurk between madness and evil. She glanced outside at Shannon, who stood in the yard beckoning to her, grinning. No, not caught. Dora knew she was no innocent victim. She was part of it, part of the madness, part of the evil, and blood stained her hands. Where and how it would end she had no way of knowing.

  She opened the door and stepped outside. Shannon’s marble eyes were lost behind dark glasses that glowed red, reflecting the scarlet-rippled sky. Suddenly, she felt sick to her stomach as her mind and body revolted at what she was about to do. Shannon, a mad man at home in a mad world, bent over his knees, groaning, his pants around his ankles as she paddled him.

  And the man who caused all this was Shamus O’Brien, and she cursed him, cursed him to the deepest caverns of hell.

  Him and all his vile br
ood.

  “Is that Shade Shannon I hear hollering?” Luke Caldwell said.

  “Dora is giving him a beating,” DeClare said.

  “He’s a freak,” Caldwell said.

  “I know, but right now we need him.” He looked at the tall, loose-limbed Texas gunman. “Is it done?”

  “It’s done.”

  “You made sure?”

  Caldwell’s lean, grim face didn’t change expression. “When a man’s got the hilt of a Green River knife sticking out of his throat, he don’t need much convincing that he’s dead.”

  DeClare smiled, a humorless grimace that didn’t reach his eyes. “So, we wait until Patrick O’Brien swings, then Shannon will bide his time and jump the lovely Lorena first chance he gets.” He clapped together his thin, blue-veined hands. “Our plans proceed apace, do they not?”

  For a few moments Caldwell didn’t speak, then he said, “All the O’Brien brothers are good with the iron, but the one you have to look out for is Jacob. He could spoil your plans pretty damn quick.”

  “I know that he’s fast on the draw-and-shoot.”

  “Maybe the best there is. And he’s as mean as eight acres of rattlesnakes, and he likes to shoot first and talk later.”

  “Can you take him, Luke?”

  “Maybe. I don’t know. But it would be close, and he’d put lead in me, count on that. Jake O’Brien won’t die easy.”

  “Then we’ll have to find a less dangerous way to dispose of him, won’t we?” DeClare scowled in thought, then brightened. “I know, we’ll talk to Shannon. He’ll find a way.”

  “Talk to him yourself. If he takes down his pants to show us his gage d’amour, I swear I’ll put a bullet up his ass.”

  DeClare shook his head. “Harsh talk, Luke, harsh talk indeed.”

  “Listen,” the gunman said, “you want Shamus O’Brien ruined, right?” He saw DeClare nod and said, “Then let me ruin him for keeps. I can lay up on the mesa with a rifle and scatter his brains as soon as he sticks his head outside.” Caldwell allowed himself a rare smile. “For sure, that’ll spoil his day.”

  DeClare nodded. “Your suggestion is not without merits, Luke, but it’s too easy. Dora and I want to rip O’Brien’s heart out, destroy his soul, have him suffer the fires long before he reaches hell.” The cripple’s face was vicious. “A dead man can’t suffer. I look forward to the day when O’Brien sits amid the ruin of Dromore and all his dreams and ambitions lie in ashes at his feet. Perhaps on that day he’ll blow his own brains out, but before he does I will make him whimper the name DeClare. Damn him, he’ll rue the day he first heard it.”

  “Josh, you and your sister make pretty powerful enemies,” Caldwell said.

  DeClare smiled. “Yes, and we place our trust in a pretty powerful friend.”

  Chapter Nine

  “You’re thin, Jacob, too thin,” Shamus O’Brien said. He scowled as his disapproving eyes scraped from the crown of his son’s uncombed head to the toes of his scuffed, down-at-heel boots. “What do you eat when you do eat? Lizards?”

  Jacob smiled. “When there’s nothing else around, Colonel. But Lorena made me such a fine breakfast this morning it’ll more than make up for my missed meals.”

  “And you’re dressed in rags, patched all together like a Dublin beggar,” Shamus said, refusing to let go of the subject of his son’s sorry appearance.

  Samuel came to his brother’s assistance. “Pa, not every man is like Shawn, always dressed up as though he’s going to a wedding or a preaching.”

  “More’s the pity,” Shamus said. He shifted in his wheelchair and grimaced, the old Apache lance head in his back punishing him. “Jacob, your brother told you about Patrick.”

  “Yes, Colonel, he did.”

  “He won’t hang,” Shamus said.

  “On that we both agree, Pa,” Jacob said.

  “I want you in Georgetown, keeping a watch on things,” Shamus said. “I don’t want those damned vigilantes to spring any surprises on us.”

  Jacob nodded. “I’ll stay on the scout.”

  Shamus’s probing blue eyes pinned Jacob to his chair like a butterfly in a display case. “What do you feel, son?” he said.

  Jacob didn’t hesitate. “The air is black, Colonel, hard to breathe.”

  “Where?”

  “Here and in Georgetown. Other places.”

  “You have the gift, and your mother, God rest her soul, had it before you.”

  Jacob said nothing, and the colonel continued, “Ireland is a poor, oppressed country, but she freely gives her sons and daughters what little she has. Your portion was the gift of second sight and the love of music.”

  Jacob remained silent. The colonel would eventually get around to what he really wanted to say.

  Then Shamus said it. “I feel someone wants to do Dromore great harm, and that the trumped-up charges against Patrick were just the start.”

  “Not everyone has reason to love Dromore,” Jacob said.

  “No, indeed,” Shamus said. “But in the past our enemies have always come at us with guns. I sense—no, Jacob, tell me what you feel.”

  “I told you already, Colonel. The air is thick and black. I feel like I’m walking through the smoke of burning bodies.”

  Samuel was startled. “Hell, Jake, what does that mean?”

  “It means he senses evil, as I do,” Shamus said.

  “What kind of evil?” Samuel said. “I swear, you two are making my skin crawl.”

  “I don’t know what kind of evil,” Jacob said.

  “Lawyer Dunkley talked about evil, said he was afraid of it,” Samuel said. “I didn’t understand him, either.”

  The Dromore black butler stepped into the study. “Excuse me, Colonel,” he said. “There is an officer of the law here to see you. His name is Sheriff John Moore.”

  “Show him in, and please ask Mr. Shawn to join us and Mr. Ironside.”

  “Mr. Ironside is still out with the herd, sir,” the butler said. When Shamus waved a dismissive hand the man bowed and left.

  “Moore must have some news,” Shamus said.

  Neither Jacob nor Samuel spoke, aware that news can be good but can also be bad.

  The butler led John Moore into the study, and the lawman stood for a few moments in silence and turned his hat in his hand.

  “Damn it, man, take a seat,” Shamus said. “Samuel, give the sheriff a drink. He looks like he can use one.”

  Moore gratefully accepted both chair and bourbon. His face was gray with fatigue and his eyes were glazed with disbelief and fear, like a man who’d just received a death sentence.

  “Well, speak up, Moore,” Shamus said. “Don’t keep us in suspense.”

  Shawn stepped silently into the room and sat near the window. He was wearing a gun, unusual for him when he was at home.

  Watching him, Jacob drew his own conclusions from the Colt at his brother’s hip. Shawn felt something, too, and it troubled him.

  “I’ve got bad news, Colonel,” Moore said. He took a gulp of whiskey.

  “Out with it,” Shamus said. “Is Patrick all right?”

  “He’s fine,” Moore said. “And he’s guarded by a man I can trust who has faith in scatterguns.” The sheriff took a deep breath. “Colonel, Lucas Dunkley is dead. Murdered.”

  He talked into the stunned silence that followed. “Happened sometime yesterday afternoon, I reckon. A person or persons unknown stuck a knife in his throat.”

  “I spoke to Lucas yesterday,” Samuel said. “He was afraid somebody would try to kill him, and he told me he’d pack a gun.”

  “He lied. Lucas didn’t have a gun,” Moore said. “And if he had, he wouldn’t have known what to do with it.” He caught and held Samuel’s eyes. “The widow of the man you killed . . . Mrs. Harris?”

  Moore had framed the statement as a question, and Samuel answered it. “How is she doing?”

  “She ain’t doing nothin’, Sam. Her and her two kids are dead.”

&nbs
p; “But how . . . I mean . . . who?”

  “There ain’t no ‘who.’ The how is that her cabin caught fire and she and the kids burned to death,” Moore said.

  “An accident?” Samuel said.

  “Seems like,” Moore said.

  The sheriff turned his attention to Shamus. “Colonel, I got more bad news. Captain Miles Shannon is dead.”

  Shamus jolted upright in his chair. “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, how?”

  “We think it was his crazy son.” Moore blinked. “Bashed the captain’s head in with an iron bar, then fled the scene.”

  “You’re talking about Shade Shannon, right?” Jacob said.

  “Yeah, I am, Jake. You know him?” Moore said.

  “After he murdered his father, he stabbed a whore to death at a dugout saloon south of here.”

  “You were there?”

  “Yeah. Another man and I went after him, but we lost him in the dark.”

  Shawn shook his head. “Well, this has been real pleasant. Bless you, John, you’ve got to visit more often. You’re such a cheerful body to have around.”

  Moore sighed. “Sorry, it seems that in my line of work all I get is bad news.”

  Shawn rose to his feet. “All right, Sheriff, tell us again how Dunkley died.”

  “It ain’t complicated, Shawn, a Green River knife to the throat.”

  “Hardly a self-inflicted wound then?”

  “No, somebody else done it. A man wouldn’t kill his own self like that.”

  “Now think carefully, John, before you answer. Do you think Dunkley was killed to stop him telling what he knew?”

  “About what?” Moore said, his face wary.

  “About who really raped and murdered Molly Holmes.”

  “It’s possible,” Moore said. “Anything’s possible.”

  “Could Shade Shannon be Molly’s real killer?” Shawn said.

  Moore didn’t hesitate. “Well, yeah, I guess he could be, but there’s no way of proving it.”

  “Maybe Lucas Dunkley had the proof.”

  Jacob said, “John, did you search Dunkley’s office?”

  Moore shook his head. “No. I didn’t reckon I’d any need to.”