Shadow of the Hangman

by J. A. Johnstone

  But where the hell was he?

  Beyond the cave entrance Jacob saw steep, pine-covered hills, but little else revealed a location.

  He figured that Dora DeClare and her brother must have left their camp at the base of Glorieta Mesa sometime during the night, knowing that a search party from Dromore would be sure to find them.

  The obvious escape route was east across the Pecos and into the hills, maybe even Apache Canyon.

  Jacob tried to move again, tugging at his bonds until sweat popped out on his forehead. But it was no use; he’d been trussed like a chicken by somebody who knew his business, probably that subhuman monster Lum.

  A smoking man, Jacob had the tobacco hunger, and he was wishful for coffee. He had a feeling that he’d little hope of obtaining either.

  Time passed and the fire burned down to an ashy glow. Then a shadow appeared in the cave entrance, and Dora stepped toward Jacob. She had a pan of water in one hand, a white rag in the other. When she kneeled, her split skirt showed more knee and thigh than was necessary.

  “Poor Mr. O’Brien,” she said, “does your head hurt?”

  Jacob said nothing, and the woman continued, “You’ve got dried blood on your head and down the side of your face. It looks like you’ve been a very naughty boy.”

  As the woman wet the rag and dabbed at his head, Jacob said, “Where am I?”

  “Well, you’re in the hills west of Apache Canyon,” Dora said. “Lum and Mr. Caldwell got you up on your horse and helped bring you here.”

  “Where are they now?”

  “My, my, questions, questions, questions. They went back to the mesa, of course.”

  “My brothers will find them,” Jacob said.

  “Perhaps, but I think not.” Dora leaned back, smiled, and said, “There, you look much better now.” The water in the basin was pink.

  Jacob nodded toward his shirt pocket. “I’ve got the makings in there. Untie me so I can have a smoke.”

  “I’m afraid not, Mr. O’Brien. You must remain bound.” Dora lightly laid her fingertips on Jacob’s thigh. “It’s for your own safety, you know.”

  “Then roll one for me.”

  “Sorry, I don’t know how.” Dora frowned. “Oh, poor dear, you look so disappointed.” She smiled. “I know, I’ll do something nice for you and make you happy again.”

  The woman laid down the basin and began to fumble with the fly buttons of Jacob’s pants. “What are you doing?” he said.

  “Something nice, as I told you.”

  “No,” Jacob said. “No, don’t do that.”

  “Oh, fiddle-dee-dee, I won’t hurt you.”

  “No!” Jacob yelled, angry as his body betrayed him.

  Dora’s open, seeking mouth on his silenced him.

  “There, wasn’t that pleasant?” Dora said, wiping saliva from the mouth with the back of her hand.

  “Why the hell did you do that?” Jacob said.

  “To prove something.”

  “Damn it, woman, to prove what?”

  “That you’re willing to sell your soul as cheaply as the rest of us.”

  “You forced me.”

  “Forced you? Was that how it was? It didn’t seem that way to me.”

  “I didn’t sell my soul to you, woman. I tried my best to resist you.”

  “You sold it cheaply, Mr. O’Brien, and to a woman you hate. How weak you are. How weak all men are. You disgust me, every single man jack of you.”

  Dora stepped to the entrance to the cave, her head bowed because of the low roof. Behind her, Jacob said, “Damn you, I’ll see you in hell.”

  The woman turned. “Why, of course you will, Mr. O’Brien. Where else would you expect to see me?”

  Jacob was in two kinds of pain. The knowledge that his own moral weakness had betrayed him was a special kind of agony, more torturous than the lancing aches that racked his cramped back and especially his hands.

  Outside the cave evening had come, but Jacob could see nothing beyond the hatful of fire at the entrance. He heard nothing, no voices, not even the coyote and owl noises of the night.

  He wondered with a kind of sickness if they were just going to leave him here and let him starve to death. Or did dying of thirst come earlier? He couldn’t remember. He was already very thirsty. Hey, maybe a bear would wander into the cave and end it real quick. If that happened he’d just have to grin and bear it. Jacob giggled. Now that was funny. Even Shawn couldn’t make such a good joke.

  Where was Shawn? With Samuel and Luther Ironside and them up on the mesa, searching for him. Well, they wouldn’t find him, because he wasn’t there! Hah, you’re looking for me in all the wrong places, dolts!

  Dora stepped into the cave again. “I’m a little worried about my brother,” she said. “He’s a bit off his food, and he says he has a headache. He’s such a frail creature, Mr. O’Brien, but a fine painter.”

  “I could use some water,” Jacob said.

  “Yes, I know you could,” Dora said. She smiled at him and left the cave again.

  “Damn you!” Jacob yelled. The shout made his parched throat drier, and he began to cough, spasms that shook his body and made the ropes dig into him even tighter, merciless.

  He leaned his head against the hard rock, and the sound of trickling water made his thirst unbearable.

  “Find me, Pa,” he whispered. Depression, deep and dark, covered him like a black cloak. “Please find me.”

  Chapter Thirty-six

  “See any trace of him?” Samuel O’Brien said.

  “Nothing,” Luther Ironside said. “And we’re losing daylight.”

  “The vaqueros and me have been all over the mesa and the flat to the east,” Shawn said. “Seen nothing of him.”

  “If it was Apaches, they could’ve carried him away with them,” Ironside said.

  “God forbid,” Samuel said. “More likely he’s chasing somebody. Jacob is a mean ranny to tangle with, and he’ll go after a man.”

  “I guess we could make one last sweep of the mesa before dark,” Shawn said.

  Samuel shook his head. “Waste of time, Shawn. If we haven’t found him by now, then he’s long gone.”

  “I bet you’re right, boss,” Ironside said. “Jacob’s chasing after somebody. Hell, he could be halfway to Mexico by now.”

  “The colonel isn’t going to like it, us giving up on him,” Shawn said.

  Samuel waved a hand, taking in the land to the east and south, miles of craggy peaks, deep shadowed canyons, and dense pine forests. “We’d need a regiment of cavalry to find him out there, and even then it would be next to impossible,” he said.

  “Then what do we do now?” Ironside said.

  “Pray, I guess,” Samuel said. He reached down and patted his horse’s neck. “Sarah says she’ll only trust herself on a tired horse when she rides out with Lorena tomorrow. After the day he’s had, this old boy will be good and tired.”

  Ironside, looking worried, said, “Sam, you know I’m not a praying man.”

  “Then have a drink on Jacob,” Shawn said. “That works just as good.”

  “Damn it, boy, that’s what I’ll do,” Ironside said. “Not because I care to indulge, you understand, but for Jake’s sake, like.”

  Samuel said, “Luther, you’ve always been known as a man who only takes strong drink in a good cause.”

  “Damn right, Sam,” Ironside said, pleased.

  “I’m concerned, Luther,” Shamus O’Brien said. “What do you think happened to my son?”

  Ironside shook his head. “The worst is that he was captured by Apaches, Colonel.”

  “Jacob wouldn’t be taken alive by Apaches,” Shamus said. “He knows better than that.”

  Samuel said, “Then he went after somebody he figured was a danger to Dromore.”

  Shamus nodded. “That sounds more likely.” He sighed. “Then all we can do is wait.”

  Patrick, pale and ten pounds thinner, looked lost in the great leather armchair by the
study’s fireplace. “I feel responsible for all this,” he said. “Suppose that was a Georgetown posse up on the mesa and they arrested Jacob for breaking a condemned prisoner out of jail.”

  Shamus looked at Ironside. “What do you think about that, Luther?”

  “I guess it’s possible, Colonel. I never did trust that Wentworth character. He’s got sneaky eyes.”

  “Pa,” Patrick said, “I told Lorena I’d go riding with her tomorrow morning. Maybe she could leave me in the hills for a spell and mosey over to Georgetown and talk with Sheriff Moore. He’s always been partial to a pretty gal.”

  “You’re not fit to ride anywhere,” Shamus said.

  “I’m sick and tired of being cooped up in the house,” Patrick said. “That new girl Sarah says she isn’t much of a horsewoman, so we’ll take it easy.”

  “Then don’t ride Rat’s Ass, Pat,” Ironside said. “That damned mustang of yours will try to buck you off every time.”

  Patrick’s eyes smiled behind his round glasses. “Me and Rat’s Ass have an understanding,” he said. “I don’t use spurs on him, and he doesn’t pull dirty tricks on me.”

  “What do you think, Samuel?” Shamus said. “Lorena is your wife.”

  “Lorena is Dromore, and she’ll be all right, Pa. She’ll wheedle information out of Moore. As Pat says, he has an eye for a well-turned ankle. It’ll do Pat good to get out for a while, and Lorena is looking forward to riding. She hasn’t been in the saddle since young Shamus was born.”

  “Well, I’ll take your word for it,” the colonel said. “Then Lorena will talk to John Moore and see if the damned vigilantes were involved in Jacob’s disappearance.” He slapped the arms of his wheelchair. “By God, if they were—”

  “I’ll make sure Lorena knows to say that loud and clear to Moore, Colonel,” Samuel said, smiling.

  The evening rain had ended, and the morning held promise of a bright day. Patrick, who’d reckoned he’d lain abed too long, delighted in the smell of the horses in the barn and the Havana tobacco tang of leather.

  He was still very weak, and a vaquero helped him saddle Rat’s Ass, all the time assuring Patrick that the yellow mustang was the meanest, orneriest critter to ever cast a shadow on the earth.

  Patrick swung into the saddle, and after the vaquero passed him his gunbelt he hung it on the horn.

  It was a mistake that would cost him dear.

  The two women were excited to be riding again, and the weather cooperated fully. The sun climbed higher in the cloudless sky, but the morning was not yet hot. Summer wildflowers added sweetness to the air, and the pines, bathed by rain, smelled fresh and clean, the breeze carrying their scent from high mountain meadows.

  “There was a time when we’d see buffalo here,” Patrick said, looking around him. “Vast herds of them. But now they’re all gone, and Dromore cattle graze where the buffalo once did.”

  “Progress, I suppose,” Lorena said. “But it’s a great pity.”

  “When the buffalo died, so did the Indians,” Patrick said. “The Sioux and Cheyenne left their bones on the prairie alongside the buffalo. You can find them if you look long and hard enough.”

  “You’re fond of Lo, Patrick?” Sarah said.

  “No, I can’t say that I am. But I’m sorry he’s gone. Sorry the buffalo are gone, too.”

  Patrick bent his head and thought, and then came up again, smiling. He said, “Lo, the poor Indian, whose untutored mind sees God in clouds or hears him in the wind.”

  “Did you just make that up, Patrick?” Sarah said. “It’s pretty.”

  “No, it’s the opening line of a poem written by an English poet named Alexander Pope. Back in the old days the mountain men loved the poem, but they figured Lo was the poor Indian’s name.”

  “Oh, dear, I won’t call the Indians that again,” Sarah said.

  Patrick grinned. “I wouldn’t worry about it. Being called Lo is the least of their problems.”

  Patrick led the way southeast, then led the women north when he reached Hurtado Mesa. Ahead lay the Pecos, and beyond the river the craggy El Barro peaks stood outlined against the sky.

  The Pecos was low at that time of the year, and they rode out of cottonwoods into a foot of water rippled by a sluggish current.

  Patrick stopped and let the mustang drink. A moment later, the horse collapsed under him and Patrick heard the flat echo of a rifle as he hit the water.

  Chapter Thirty-seven

  “Patrick!” Lorena yelled. She kicked her horse forward, and water cascaded from its high-stepping hooves. Behind her Sarah sat her mount, pointing, her mouth open in a soundless scream.

  Patrick got to his feet, looking for his gun. The mustang had fallen onto its right side, and the gunbelt lay under the motionless body. He dropped to his knees, and his hands reached under the saddle. The holster was nowhere to be found.

  Anyway, it was too late.

  A huge man with a horrifically burned face pointed a rifle at Patrick’s belly and said, “Get your hands in the air or I’ll drop you right where you stand.”

  Patrick saw Lorena struggle with another man, slashing at him with her riding crop. Suddenly, Lorena relaxed in the sidesaddle, but it was no submission. She kicked her horse into motion and was almost clear of her attacker when the man dived on her back, and the two hit the river, sending up fountains of brown water.

  “Go get ’er, Luke,” Lum yelled, grinning. “Throw that filly.”

  Lorena rose to her feet, and again her riding crop slashed at the tall man. He raised an arm to protect his face and waded close to her. When he judged the distance was right, the man backhanded the woman across the face, and she fell at his feet.

  “Damn you, Lum!” Caldwell yelled. “The other one’s getting away!”

  Sarah had regained the bank, bouncing awkwardly on a frightened horse. Lum threw his rifle to his shoulder and fired. The bullet thudded into a cottonwood, and then Sarah was among the trees and out of sight.

  “Let her go,” Lum yelled. “You’ve got the one we want.”

  Patrick had been fishing again around his dead horse. This time he found what he needed: his round spectacles glinting on the river’s sandy bottom. He settled the dripping glasses on his nose and yelled at Caldwell, “If you’ve hurt Lorena, I’ll see you hang.”

  “Told you it was her,” Lum yelled.

  And Patrick knew with terrible certainty he’d made his second mistake of the morning.

  “Oh, you poor dear, you’re soaked, just soaked,” Dora said, her hand on Lorena’s shoulder. “Lum, bring her to the fire and let’s get her dry.”

  Lum pushed Lorena to the fire, then pushed her onto her knees. He grinned at Dora. “When?”

  “Soon,” Dora said. “But take her into the woods somewhere. I don’t want to see it.”

  “She’s a beauty, though, ain’t she?” Lum said.

  “Yes,” Dora said, “she is very beautiful indeed.”

  Lum looked at Caldwell. “After I’m finished you can have a taste.” He grinned. “If there’s anything left of her by then.”

  Caldwell said nothing, but he reached up, grabbed Patrick by his shirtfront, and dragged him off Lorena’s horse. “What do you want done with him, Dora?” he said.

  “And which O’Brien are you?” Dora said.

  “Patrick. What do you want from us?”

  “Much.” Dora smiled. “Much will be expected of you.” She waved a hand. “Tie him up, Luke, and put him in the cave with his brother. You’ll be company for each other, Patrick.”

  “My brother is being held prisoner here?”

  “Not a prisoner. He’s my guest, as you are.” After Patrick was dragged kicking into the cave, Dora smiled at Lorena. “Now we can talk woman to woman. Won’t that be nice?”

  “What do you want?” Lorena said. Her mouth was bruised and her bottom lip split and bleeding. “Ransom money?”

  “Oh, dear, no,” Dora said. “I have much bigger plans for you.” She rais
ed her slim, elegant hand and ticked off fingers. “And Jacob and Patrick and . . . Samuel and Shaun . . . and Shamus and baby Shamus.” Dora let her hand drop. “Oh, I have so many plans.”

  Lum took a knee beside Lorena. With his forefinger he traced her porcelain skin from cheekbone to chin. When Lorena shrank from him, eyes filled with horror, he scowled and said, “You’ll make it easier on yourself if you make nice to me. It won’t hurt so much, you understand?”

  “Lum, not yet,” Dora said. “Lorena and I have so much girlie talk to get through.” She kneeled. “Now, I just love your riding habit. English, isn’t it? And the silk top hat is just too, too precious. Who is your dressmaker? Pray tell.”

  “If it’s not ransom money you’re after, then what do you want?” Lorena said. Her voice was steady, but her eyes were bright with alarm.

  “Ah, such a modern woman,” Dora sighed. “I do declare, all business, all the time.”

  “What do you want?” Lorena said, her voice rising.

  From inside the cave, Jacob yelled, “Leave her alone, damn you.”

  Dora looked at Caldwell. “Keep him quiet. Don’t kill him, but gag him with something.”

  To Lorena she said, “You asked me what I want, and the answer, to state the case clearly, is revenge.”

  “I never did anything to you,” Lorena said.

  “No, you didn’t, but your father-in-law did, and by proxy, your husband and now you.”

  Lorena’s eyes were frantic. “I don’t understand,” she said.

  “What’s not to understand, my dear? Shamus O’Brien hanged my father as a rustler, and now it is my plan to destroy the gallant colonel and all he holds dear.”

  “But . . . but why me?” Lorena said.

  “Ah, because you are part of my plan, are you not?”

  “Plan . . . ?” Lorena said. She’d been thinking of something else.

  “Yes, my plan,” Dora said. She stared hard at Lorena again. “Now, how to explain it to a simpleton? Ah, yes, start at the beginning, I suppose. Well, listen, dearie. You’re married, so you know what intercourse is? Huh . . . don’t you? Or should I use that horribly common word? Do you know what that is?” Dora nodded, smiling. “Why, of course you do. I think I see a little blush on your pretty cheeks.”