Shadow of the Hangman

by J. A. Johnstone

  “He was a Wellstone,” Dorn said, as though that explained, and excused, everything.

  “You’re Texas boys, huh?” Shawn said, trying to talk down what was shaping up to be a shooting situation.

  Dorn and his brother ignored him, their eyes on the hotel door.

  The night wind had risen, and the Wellstone brothers’ dusters slapped against their boots. Dorn was wearing a soft black slouch hat, and the right brim continually flattened against the crown. The lamps on either side of the hotel door guttered and cast shadows that formed dancing circles on the timber deck of the porch.

  “Where the hell is he?” the younger brother said. He kept flexing the fingers of his right hand, a movement that Jacob decided was caused by nervousness.

  “He’ll be out soon enough,” Dorn said.

  “Suppose he escapes out the back?”

  “He’ll be out, Clem,” Dorn said. “A man in his line of work can’t be branded a stinking, yellow coward, even though he is one.”

  Ernest Thistledown stepped out of the hotel door a few moments later.

  Jacob, attuned to men who fought with a gun, noticed a telling transformation. Thistledown seemed to stand taller, and the man was relaxed, showing no fear. His shotgun hung from his right shoulder by a leather strap that was attached to the stock and barrel.

  “You know why we’re here and why we called you out,” Dorn said.

  “I believe so, Dorn,” Thistledown said.

  “We’re here for Billy,” Dorn said.

  “Billy was a rapist and a murderer, Dorn. He was a piece of human filth. Don’t die because of him.”

  “Damn you, he was a Wellstone,” Dorn said.

  And he drew.

  Jacob had seen skilled gunfighters in action, and he’d come up against a few himself, but again and again he’d replay in his mind what Thistledown did that night and wonder at it.

  As Dorn skinned his Colt, Thistledown was already diving to his right. Even as he fell, he swung the shotgun into play and cut loose. The heavy bucks hit Dorn square in the belly, and the man cried out in fear and pain as he fell on his back. Thistledown hit the porch deck hard, but he twisted his body, landed on his shoulder, and triggered the scattergun again. The younger Wellstone brother thumbed off a shot at the same time. It was a miss that splintered its way into the hotel wall. Clem Wellstone, eighteen years old, hit in the chest, didn’t even have time to scream before he rode buckshot into eternity.

  The fight was over in a couple of seconds, and the echoes of gunfire surrounded Georgetown as men and women spilled out of the saloons to see what the shooting was about.

  Thistledown rose to his feet and, in a gunfighter’s automatic response, reloaded his shotgun. He looked at Jacob. “They could’ve walked away from it,” he said.

  Jacob nodded. “I reckon they were notified.”

  Dorn lay on his back and now he lifted his head, black blood in his mouth. “Thistledown, you bastard. You’ve done for me.”

  “It would appear so,” the little man said. “And it sorrows me, Dorn.”

  But the man called Dorn didn’t hear. He was as dead as he was ever going to be.

  The gawking crowd on the boardwalk in front of the saloon across the road from the hotel parted as a man forced his way through.

  Short, portly, and belligerent, he stopped to look at the two dead men, then his eyes found Jacob and Shawn in the gloom. “If there’s a shooting scrape, O’Briens are sure to be involved,” he said.

  “Not this time,” Jacob said. He nodded toward Thistledown. “Meet Mr. Ernest Thistledown from Boston town.”

  The portly man glared at Thistledown. “You did this?”

  “I’m afraid so. Who the hell are you?”

  The portly man puffed up, self-importance swelling the brocade vest under his frockcoat. “I am James Wentworth, Chairman of the Georgetown Vigilance Committee and proprietor of the Lucky Seven Saloon and Dance Hall across yonder.” He stabbed a finger at Thistledown. “Explain yourself and the dead men.”

  “Not much to explain,” Thistledown said. “Those two called me out.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I killed their brother Billy. He was low down, but I don’t know if Dorn and Clem were the same way. It doesn’t matter a hill of beans now, one way or the other.”

  “Who were they? I mean last names.”

  “Lying there at your feet are the Wellstone brothers, out of west Texas,” Thistledown said. “They were cattlemen.”

  Wentworth was now flanked by a couple of hard cases from his saloon, skull-and-knuckle fighters wearing white aprons and scowls. He shifted his attention to Jacob and Shawn. “Did you see this?”

  “Sure did, and it was a clear-cut case of self-defense,” Jacob said. “Like Thistledown says, those two rannies called him out, then drew down on him. He didn’t have much of a choice.”

  “Will you two put that in writing, said documents to go before the entire committee?” Wentworth said.

  Jacob answered that question with one of his own. “Where’s the sheriff?”

  “You tell me.”

  “I don’t know where he is,” Jacob said.

  “Moore took your brother from the jail,” Wentworth said. “Nobody in town saw him leave, and since then he’s been missing. The committee has men out hunting him. They will also search Dromore, of course.”

  Shawn smiled. “Good luck with that.”

  “You’ve got no authority outside of this town, Wentworth,” Jacob said.

  “In or out of town, twenty rifles pack a lot of authority, Mr. O’Brien.” Wentworth turned and said to his men, “One of you two get the undertaker.” After the man left, he addressed Thistledown again. “The Vigilance Committee is hereby confiscating the horses, saddles, and firearms of the dead men, the proceeds to pay for their funerals.”

  “Gonna bury them in high style, huh, Wentworth?” Jacob said.

  Mr. Wentworth, his eyes suddenly hard and penetrating, said, “Mr. O’Brien, a word of warning, sir. I don’t yet know what your business is in Georgetown, but I should tell you that it is the Vigilance Committee’s suspicion that you and your brother may have aided and abetted the removal of one Patrick O’Brien, rapist and murderer, from jail and were then involved in Sheriff John Moore’s disappearance. Therefore I strongly advise you to remain here at the hotel until the committee’s investigation is complete.” His face ugly, he continued, “In other words, don’t even think about leaving town for the next few days.”

  “Wentworth,” Shawn said, anger flashing in him, “you’re true blue, a stand-up fellow.”

  “You have been warned,” Wentworth said, “and you’ll be watched.” He turned the full force of his authority on Thistledown again. “Once I get the O’Briens’ affy-davy that these killings were in self-defense, you will get out of Georgetown and never come back.” He scowled his authority. “Do you understand?”

  “Perfectly,” Thistledown said. “A pity because this is such a nice, friendly burg.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  For the hundredth time that day, Sheriff John Moore wondered if he was doing the right thing. Now, as the moon rose higher in the sky and bladed the hill country around him with mother-of-pearl light, he sat his horse and tried to think the thing through.

  He figured he was about two miles west of the Pecos and the village of El Cerrito. He’d spent the previous night on the trail, riding in circles before he’d bedded down, but confused thoughts had clamored in his head and given him no rest.

  He should already have led a Georgetown posse to Dromore and taken Patrick O’Brien back into custody, instead of following a hunch that had as little substance as a will-o’-the-wisp.

  Was it because he feared a showdown with tough old Shamus O’Brien? Moore sat his saddle, stared hard at the moon, and allowed that was a possibility. As was his way, Shamus would not back off. He’d protect his son and men would die.

  “You among them, John,” Moore said aloud. �
�And that’s why you’re skulking out here in the long grass. Damn it, man, you’re a low-down yellow dog.”

  The sound of his own voice lashed Moore, flayed him with remorse.

  Was he using the burned man only as an excuse to run away?

  “Damn it! No!” he yelled. His face in his hands, he listened to the echoes of his voice, mocking him again and again.

  Moore reached into his shirt pocket under his vest and found his next-to-last cigar. He stuck it between his teeth and lit it. The familiar, musk-perfume odor of the smoke helped soothe and settle his reeling brain.

  He’d been a lawman a long time and knew from experience how to read a man. Years back, when he met John Wesley Hardin for the first and only time, he looked into his eyes and pegged him for what he was—a born killer. He’d pegged the burned man as well. Only, when he’d looked into his eyes he’d stared into hell.

  That’s why he was here, Moore told himself. He wasn’t afraid of Shamus or any man, but the burned man had made him shrink inside, as though he was looking at death come for him.

  Yes, that was why he was here—to face his fear and overcome it.

  Moore drew deeply on his cigar. The tip glowed crimson, then faded to an ashy, ruby glimmer.

  He had worked it out, and that pleased him. He was a rational man facing an irrational fear; that was all.

  But then, wasn’t it wise to be afraid in the presence of evil?

  And the burned man was evil. He had no doubt about that. Evil surrounded the grotesque figure like a vile stench.

  Moore nodded. Yeah, he was doing the right thing. Patrick O’Brien could wait. Hell, the kid was innocent anyhow. It was time to talk to the burned man and find out what had brought him to the territory.

  Perhaps it was he who’d murdered Molly Holmes and maybe lawyer Dunkley.

  Stranger things had happened.

  The Mexican peon was a night traveler like himself, and by his smile, inclined to be friendly. The man sat a donkey and had a rooster in a cage balanced precariously behind him.

  “Is El Cerrito close?” John Moore said.

  The Mexican nodded. “Not far. I go there.”

  “Then we’ll ride together,” Moore said, happy to hear a human voice besides his own.

  The peon said, “There is a cantina in El Cerrito. It has mescal.” He shrugged and made a sad face. “But no whores.” He smiled. “Of course, I’m a respectable married man, so I do not think of such things.”

  Moore grinned. “Whores are all right. At least they’re honest. They give you the bill right up front.”

  “Sí, this is true,” the Mexican said. He waved a hand to the north. “The bandits who come down from the hills are very good to their whores.” He shook his head. “But very bad to their wives.”

  The Mexican seemed to be a talking man, and Moore decided to press him. “Señor,” he said, “have you seen a man in the village, a big Americano with a—”

  “Burned face,” the peon said.

  “Yeah, that’s him.”

  The peon made a cross on his chest, and when he looked at Moore his black eyes were haunted. “He lives with the crippled artist and his sister. Do not go near that house, señor, it is the abode of el Diablo.” The Mexican hurriedly crossed himself again. “It is a gate to hell.”

  “What goes on there?” Moore said.

  “Do not go into that house,” the peon said. “Be warned. You will be taken down to the fires of hell.”

  For a while the two men rode in silence, the only sound the creak of Moore’s saddle and the back-and-forth yips of a pair of hunting coyotes.

  The moonlight had grown brighter, and now it sculpted the landscape into sharp edges of silver and black. The wind spun around the big lawman, and his horse tossed its head, the bit chiming, as it smelled the river and the shoaling fish in the shallows. Behind the peon the rooster flapped in its cage and squawked.

  “There is the house, señor,” the Mexican said. “By the cottonwood.” A small man on a small donkey, he turned and looked up at Moore. “Turn back now,” he said.

  Moore smiled. “I figure I’ll take a look, maybe talk to the burned man.”

  Horrified, the peon said, “Que Dios te proteja, señor.” He threw Moore one last fearful glance, then kicked the burro into a shambling trot. Alarmed, the rooster squawked louder and beat frantically at the wicker cage.

  Sheriff John Moore dismounted and tied his horse to a dead skeletal juniper that was lost in shadow. He drew his long-barreled Colt and walked toward the adobe on silent feet, surprising in a man of his girth.

  The breeze rustled in the cottonwood as Moore made his way to the back of the house. Behind him the two-story barn loomed like a black cliff, and ahead he saw a rectangle of light spill on the ground from a window hidden by a brick chimney stack.

  Moore had no plan, no aim in mind, other than spying on the burned man. He had the vague hope that he would catch him doing something illegal, but he was also aware that the man might be sitting in an easy chair, a-reading the Book of Psalms, the odors of his pipe and his sanctity mingling in the room.

  Well, there was one way to find out. He stepped toward the window, his feet quiet on sand. If Moore had been on talking terms with God, he would’ve prayed that he’d catch the burned man cutting off a virgin’s head or something.

  But in the event, he saw something much different. . . something that both chilled him to the bone and stirred his manhood.

  The window was covered with a black roll-up blind that had not been pulled down all the way, leaving a three-inch gap at the bottom. Moore kneeled, removed his hat, and peered inside.

  He looked into a small kitchen, but the door that separated the kitchen from the dining room was wide open. Moore took in everything in his first, stunned glance.

  A woman, wearing nothing but candlelight, lay on her back on a dining table that was covered in a purple sheet of some glossy material. The burned man, huge and naked, chanted over her. The woman joined in the chant, drowsily, as though she was in a deep trance. Her hair spread around her head like a golden halo, and her scarlet lips were wet and parted.

  Two men watched, one in a wheelchair. The other wore a blanket that covered his head and made him look like a praying monk. Both onlookers chanted strange words that Moore didn’t understand, and then he looked from them to the wall beyond the table where a large crucifix hung upside down from a nail.

  The burned man tilted his head and raised his arms, his soft chant now a frenzied series of shouts. It seemed to Moore that the woman rose from the table and hung in the air, but he figured his eyes were deceiving him.

  . . . The blow seemed to come out of nowhere. Moore felt something hard whip across the back of his skull. He tried to rise, his Colt coming up, but a second, crashing blow hit him on top of the head and forced him to the ground. He heard grunts, saw the silhouette of a tall man, his arm rising and falling as the blackjack hit him again and again.

  Moore, a strong, game man, could no longer struggle to get to his feet. His head reeled, pain bursting his skull open, and he let darkness take him. The ground yawned open around him and he fell, tumbling into darkness shot through with streaks of scarlet, into a pit that had no bottom . . .

  Chapter Seventeen

  Shawn O’Brien tumbled off the bottom step of the hotel porch, but, after an ungainly little dance, regained his balance before he fell.

  “Too much beer, Shawn?” Jacob said, smiling.

  “Seems like,” Shawn said, his chiseled features set in a frown. “Damned step is warped. That’s dangerous.”

  Jacob nodded. “For a beer-drinking man, I guess it is.”

  “Brother,” Shawn said, falling into step beside Jacob, “I don’t know if you realize it or not, but sometimes you can be a real pain in the ass.”

  Jacob smiled as they stepped onto the boardwalk and headed in the direction of Lucas Dunkley’s office.

  As they walked past a general store, the clock inside chimed
twice. One of the saloons had already closed, and only a few stalwarts held out at the second. Shawn reckoned aloud they must have ugly wives at home, and Jacob allowed that was probably true.

  “What do you expect to find, Jake?” Shawn said.

  “Nothing,” Jacob said, “that’s what I expect.” He turned and looked at his brother. “But you never know.”

  The street was in darkness, and a lone coyote had come in close and was sniffing around in the shadowed alley next to the Bon-Ton restaurant across the street. Occasionally a man laughed in the saloon, but the town was quiet enough that the O’Brien brothers’ spurs rang on the boardwalk like silver coins.

  The shades were drawn in the window of the lawyer’s office, and to Jacob’s surprise when he tried the door it was unlocked.

  “So much for John Moore’s efficiency,” Shawn said.

  “Yeah,” Jacob said, “but good for us.”

  He opened the door, stepped inside, and Shawn followed. Jacob thumbed a match into flame and risked lighting the oil lamp on Dunkley’s desk. The shades were heavy, and only someone passing by would see the light, unlikely at this hour. Just in case, Jacob turned down the wick until only a soft glow illuminated the office.

  “What are we looking for?” Shawn said.

  “Anything at all that might give us a clue to what Lucas knew,” Jacob said.

  His brother eyed the dusty stacks of files and heaped-up law books and said, “That’s a tall order.”

  “Then get to work,” Jacob said. “And don’t sit on Lucas’s chair. It looks like he bled out pretty good after he was stabbed.”

  The desk and chair were thickly covered in dried, black blood. Shawn shook his head. “Poor guy didn’t know what hit him.”

  “He knew all right,” Jacob said, head bent, thumbing through a file. “A knife in the throat takes its time to kill a man. He nodded. “Lucas knew all too well what hit him.”

  An hour’s search turned up nothing. Solemn as a courthouse clock, a night rain ticked on the law office roof, and the lamp flickered as the oil ran low. An errant wind gusted raindrops against the window, the loudest sound in the room.