Shadow of the Hangman

by J. A. Johnstone

  “Are you going after them, Colonel?”

  “Yes, at first light. I’ll ride with Samuel, Shawn, and the vaqueros, and I plan to bring those fiends all to justice, including the woman.”

  “Her name is Dora DeClare, and she says you hanged her father,” Lorena said.

  “I don’t recollect the name,” Shamus said. He whispered DeClare a few times, turning it over in his mind, then said, “No, I don’t remember.”

  “She told me you hanged him for a rustler,” Lorena said.

  “I hanged a lot of rustlers,” Shamus said.

  “She means harm to you and Dromore, Colonel. I think she’s a woman to be feared.”

  “Not after tomorrow. If the law doesn’t hang her, she’ll go to prison for a long time, her and that Texas gunfighter.”

  Lorena sat forward in the bed. “Colonel, they might shoot Patrick and Jacob, just out of spite.”

  “I’ll hit them so hard and so fast they won’t have time,” Shamus said. “One of my vaqueros is the best tracker in the territory. I’ll run them to ground, never fear. They won’t get a chance to shoot.”

  “It’s thin, Colonel.”

  Suddenly, Shamus looked old and very tired. He nodded. “Yes, I know it is.”

  “You’re worried,” Lorena said.

  “I’d be telling a lie if I said otherwise.”

  “Colonel, what are the chances of Patrick and Jacob surviving?”

  Shamus tried to make his whole face a confident smile. He failed miserably because he knew Lorena was an intelligent woman and wanted it straight.

  “Fifty-fifty,” he said.

  “Maybe less?”

  “It depends on the gunfighter. A man who fights for wages might cut and run, or he might not.”

  “If he doesn’t run?”

  “Then there might be one chance in ten that he won’t shoot my sons,” Shamus said.

  Lorena swallowed hard. “Shamus, I’m scared.”

  “So am I,” the colonel said. “So am I.”

  “He says he’s coming with us,” Samuel O’Brien said. “Wants to be tied to his horse.”

  “I’m not going to try and talk him out of it,” Shawn said. “Are you?”

  “Hell, no,” Samuel said. “He says maybe the gunfighter will cut and run.”

  “Maybe. But he could kill Pat and Jake just for the fun of it.”

  “We’re going about this the wrong way,” Luther Ironside said, helping himself to whiskey. “The way the colonel is setting it up, it’s too dangerous.”

  “For whom?” Shawn said.

  “Jake and Pat, that’s for whom,” Ironside said.

  He pulled his chair and sat. “It’s a job for one man. In, shoot the gunfighter and the gal, then out with Pat and Jacob.” Ironside looked at Samuel, then Shawn. “We ride in there with an army like Grant taking Richmond, and we could end up with a lot of men dead on the ground.”

  “There’s sense in what you say, Luther,” Samuel said. “But the colonel wants to lead the charge. He’s got his heart set on it.”

  Ironside nodded. “That’s his style, charge regardless. Sure, we killed a whole heap of Yankees during the war doing just that, but we also lost a lot of lively lads who wore the gray. The colonel’s about to repeat his mistake.”

  “Mistake?” Samuel said.

  “Yeah,” Ironside said. “It’s a mistake to think we can charge into the camp of that woman—whatever her name is—and rescue Pat and Jake without them taking lead and maybe getting themselves killed.”

  Shawn looked at his brother. “Sam, I think Luther is right. I’ll do it by myself.”

  “I was thinking I’d do it,” Ironside said.

  “Maybe the three of us,” Samuel said. “Ride out without telling the colonel.”

  “How’s Lorena, Sam?” Shawn said.

  “She’s doing just fine,” Samuel said. “Why do you ask?”

  “Because your place is here with her,” Shawn said.

  “Right now she needs her husband by her side. Luther, since you’re so all-fired set on going, we’ll do it together.”

  “Two ain’t one,” Ironside said.

  “We do it together or you stay home, old man,” Shawn said.

  Ironside opened his mouth to speak, but thought the better of it. When Shawn made up his mind about a thing, he meant it.

  “All right,” he said, “let’s saddle up.”

  “Where’s Pa?” Shawn said.

  “He’s in the chapel, talking to Ma,” Samuel said.

  “He’s worried,” Shawn said.

  “Damn right he’s worried,” Ironside said. “He knows he could lose two sons, and that would kill him faster than any bullet.”

  “Stall him, Sam,” Shawn said. “Stall him for as long as you can.”

  “I’ll do my best. But the colonel’s a mighty stubborn man, and he doesn’t take to being stalled.”

  Shawn and Ironside rose to their feet but stayed where they were as the butler tapped on the door and stepped inside.

  “A gentleman wishes to see Shawn,” the man said. “He says his name is Ernest Thistledown.”

  “Thistledown!” Shawn said. “What the hell is he doing here?”

  “There’s one way to find out,” Samuel remarked. And to the butler he said, “Show him in, please.”

  Thistledown, meek and insignificant, sidled into the study; his body was postured into a walking apology. “I’m so sorry to intrude,” he said.

  “I thought you’d be back east by this time,” Shawn said. He gestured to the decanters. “Can I get you a drink?”

  “A brandy would be excellent,” Thistledown said. He rubbed his hands together. “Against the inclement chill of the evening.”

  Shawn introduced Samuel and Ironside, handed Thistledown his brandy, and then said, “What brings you to Dromore?” He hesitated a moment and added, “I was just about to leave.”

  The little man sat in a chair proffered by Ironside, who towered over him like a grizzled giant, and said, “I’m here to confirm a story, Mr. O’Brien, hence my unwarranted intrusion into, as it were, the bosom of your family.”

  Samuel cast Shawn an amused, quizzical look. He’d heard his brother speak of Ernest Thistledown, the feared bounty hunter, but this little man seemed about as dangerous as a mouse’s shadow.

  “You heard about Lum?” Shawn said.

  “Admirably put, Mr. O’Brien, succinct and to the point. Yes, indeed, I’m enquiring about the man named Lum. I was accepting the hospitality of a rancher south of here when one of his drovers rode in and said that a Dromore servant girl had killed a man who was trying to . . . well, shall we just say subject her to a fate worse than death.”

  “Word gets around,” Ironside said, suddenly irritable.

  “Well, drovers talk to drovers, I suppose,” Thistledown said. “The gentleman in question said he’d been told the attacker’s name was Lowe or Lawson, but he wasn’t sure. But it sounded close enough to Lum to cause me considerable agitation.”

  “It was Lum, and it was my wife who shot him, not a servant girl,” Samuel said.

  “Is he dead for certain, Mr. O’Brien?”

  “As dead as a bullet in the brain can make a man,” Samuel said.

  Thistledown considered that, then said, “And the body of the deceased? Is it, as they say, still in situ?”

  “Yes. We’re sure as hell not going to bury the lout.”

  “Of course, and quite right, too,” Thistledown said. He sipped his drink, then said, “This is a matter of some delicacy, Mr. O’Brien, but did your lady wife say where the . . . ah, assault took place?”

  “In an arroyo in the Santa Fe foothills,” Samuel said. “Head north along the west wall of Apache Canyon, and you’ll be in the general area.”

  “My employers will expect me to confirm that Lum is in fact the deceased person,” Thistledown said. “Even though, in all good conscience, I can’t claim the kill.”

  Samuel looked into the littl
e man’s eyes, saw a glint of steel, and realized he’d been wrong about him. It was the fact that he looked so harmless that made Ernest Thistledown so dangerous.

  “You can ride along with Luther and me,” Shawn said. “We’ll point you in the right direction.”

  Ironside looked Thistledown over, not liking what he saw. “You heeled?” he said.

  “Yes, but I left my weapon at the door. I didn’t think it would be mannerly to step into your parlor with a sawn-off shotgun hanging from my shoulder.”

  “Unhealthy,” Ironside said.

  “Quite,” Thistledown said. He turned to Shawn. “May I inquire why you are night riding?”

  “My brothers Jacob and Patrick have been kidnapped,” Shawn said, “by friends of yours, Dora DeClare and her brother. They’ve got a Texas gunfighter with them.” He picked up his hat from the table beside him. “We’re going to save my brothers.”

  “The gunfighter’s name is Luke Caldwell,” Thistledown said.

  Shawn was taken aback. “Are you sure?”

  “When a man shoots at me, I tend to remember his name.”

  Ironside’s eyes asked a question of Shawn. “He’s one of the best there is,” Shawn said. “Lightning fast on the draw and a born killer whose conscience doesn’t trouble him none.”

  “Then we’re doing right,” Ironside said.

  Shawn nodded. “Yes, Luther, we’re doing right.”

  “I have a score to settle with Dora DeClare and Luke Caldwell,” Thistledown said. “They scared me, and I don’t like being scared.”

  Shawn headed for the door. “You’ll have to keep up. Where we’re headed isn’t country for a buggy.”

  “I’m riding my horse,” Thistledown said. “Reluctantly, but there it is.”

  “You finally trade for a real horse?” Shawn said.

  “No. It’s the same animal.”

  “Then it’s a mule,” Shawn said.

  “Well, whatever it is, to my considerable discomfort, that’s what I’m sitting on,” Thistledown said.

  Chapter Forty-two

  “Something has happened,” Dora DeClare said. “Lum should be back by now with the woman.”

  “Maybe he’s taking her to Old Mexico,” Luke Caldwell said, grinning, “on account of how he’s fallen madly in love with her.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” Dora said. “Something’s happened to him.”

  “You think the little lady loved him to death?” Caldwell said.

  Dora rose to her feet. In the reflected firelight she looked like a pillar of flame. “We’ll get those two up onto the mesa,” she said.

  “Now? In the dark?”

  “Yes, now, Luke. And then you head for Dromore.”

  “Shouldn’t we wait and see if Lum gets back first?” Caldwell said. “The O’Brien woman could carry our demands.”

  “Poor Lum is not coming back,” Dora said. “I think the O’Brien brothers were out looking for these two and stumbled on him. The damned barbarians must have shot him out of hand or strung him up, like they have so many others.”

  Caldwell got to his feet. “All right, we’ll play it your way, Dora. I just hope you’re right.”

  “Luke, don’t think,” Dora said. “You’re not equipped for it. Just get the O’Briens out here, and we’ll head onto the mesa.”

  Caldwell stepped into the cave, a knife in his hand.

  Jacob was in bad shape and seemed to be unconscious, but Patrick glared at the Texan with hate in his eyes.

  Caldwell was amused, and he grinned as he reached down and cut the rope that bound Patrick’s ankles. “We’re getting out of here,” he said.

  “Where is Lorena?” Patrick said.

  “Who knows?” Caldwell said, studying Jacob’s body, a trussed-up comma of bruises and blood on the cave floor. “Maybe they killed each other.”

  He dragged Patrick to his feet. “Get out,” he said.

  “What about my brother?”

  “I’ll take care of him. Now get out of here, and don’t try any fancy moves. Dora is waiting for you outside with a rifle.”

  Patrick could barely move, his cramped legs stiff and sore. He took a couple of stumbling steps, then stopped as Caldwell cut Jacob’s ankles free. “Be careful with him,” he said. “He’s been tied up for a long time. He won’t be able to walk.”

  “Then he’ll crawl,” Caldwell said. “Now get out of here or I’ll put a bullet into you.”

  A couple of vicious kicks to his ribs drew only a groan from Jacob, but no movement. Caldwell grabbed him by the shirtfront and dragged him out of the cave.

  “This one’s in bad shape,” he said to Dora, who held a rifle on Patrick.

  “You kept him tied up and denied him water,” Patrick said. “What did you damned animals expect?”

  “Give him water,” Dora said. She motioned to Patrick with the rifle. “Another word out of you and I’ll shoot you in the belly,” she said. “I assure you, it will take you many painful hours to die.”

  “What do you want from us?” Patrick said.

  “Money,” Dora smiled. “And Dromore in ashes.” The woman’s madness was obvious, and Patrick said nothing. He knew if he said a word she would shoot him—and display no emotion as she pulled the trigger.

  Jacob groaned as the water moistened his bloody mouth and reached his parched throat. He opened his eyes and looked around him. But Patrick couldn’t tell if he knew where he was, or who he was.

  “Can he stand?” Dora said.

  Caldwell dragged Jacob to his feet, but he immediately fell in a heap, like a marionette whose strings had just been cut.

  “You’ll have to put a loop on him and drag him up to the mesa behind your horse,” Dora said. “Hurry, we don’t have any time to lose.”

  The moon had dropped lower, and the sky was radiant with stars. A north breeze, bringing with it a tang of pine, stirred the air around Patrick’s cheeks and made him realize how good it was to be alive. He wondered if Lorena felt that same breeze, or was her face, the color of marble, turned to a sky she could no longer see.

  The thought disturbed Patrick so badly he was barely aware of the noose Caldwell dropped around his neck. The gunman passed the end to Dora, and then he looped a second rope across Jacob’s chest under his armpits.

  Caldwell left and returned leading two horses. He waited until Dora mounted, then said, “Tie the rope around your saddle horn, and if he gives you any trouble just drag him. Once he figures he’s strangling, he’ll walk willingly enough.”

  Caldwell mounted and took the gradual slope that led to the top of the mesa, dragging Jacob’s inert body behind him. Dora followed, and Patrick felt the cruel jerk and tightening of the noose around his neck. He stumbled after the woman, his boots seeking traction on the grass and gravel rise.

  The hopelessness and futility of his situation filled Patrick with despair. He saw no way out, no path to freedom for him and Jacob. In the books he’d read as a child, the hero tied to a burning stake as the cannibals danced around him always escaped. “With a single bound he was free,” the authors wrote, as though it was the easiest thing in the world.

  Trussed up as he was, he could make no bound, and no dash to freedom. He and Jacob were at the mercy of a killer and a madwoman, and Patrick felt only fear and the death of hope.

  The night air on top of the mesa was cool and clear, and the stars were above and around them.

  “Take them to the rim,” Dora said, “and tie their feet again.”

  Caldwell did as he was told, then backed away from the edge. He smiled at the woman. “If they as much as twitch, they’ll both go over,” he said.

  “Good. Now you know what you have to do,” Dora said. She stood at the rim, held on to the branch of a wind-twisted juniper, and peered over. “There are lights at Dromore,” she said. “What does that portend?”

  “Beats me,” Caldwell said. “Maybe the colonel is so worried about his sons and daughter-in-law he can’t sleep.”

>   “I hope so,” Dora said. “Soon his days of restful slumber will be over forever.”

  Luke Caldwell stared through starlight at the ravine ahead of him, a V of rock filled with brush and trees that slanted steeply to the flat. It would be a dangerous descent, but it would save time. He had to be back on top of the mesa by first light for Dora’s plan to work.

  A shard of Apache pottery, its color faded by time and weather to dark amber, lay at Caldwell’s feet. He kicked the triangular-shaped piece of bowl into the ravine, and it seemed like forever before he heard it shatter on the rocks below.

  Caldwell swallowed hard. One slip and . . .

  He started his downward climb.

  Chapter Forty-three

  “What was that?” Shawn O’Brien said.

  “Sounded like a rock,” Luther Ironside said. He turned his gaze to the dark bulk of the mesa outlined against the star-scattered sky. “Must be an animal up there. Cougar maybe.”

  “Damn it,” Shawn said, “I’m as jumpy as hell.”

  “Night riding was never one of my favorite pastimes,” Ironside said. “Did it a few times in the war, but I never took to it. It can spook a man.”

  “I’ll smell him,” Ernest Thistledown said.

  “Huh?” Ironside said.

  “I’ve been thinking about how I will find Lum’s body, if it is indeed he who has passed on,” the little man said. “But if the sun’s worked on him, he’ll stink.”

  “Thistledown,” Shawn said, “anybody ever tell you that you’re a real pleasure to be around?”

  “No. They have not.”

  “I wonder why?” Ironside said. “I mean, you being such a cheerful cuss an’ all.”

  “In my line of work, the needs of the client always come first,” Thistledown said. “They will ask, nay, demand, proof that Lum is dead and all danger from him has passed. Until I impart that information many people won’t sleep soundly o’ nights.”

  “He’s dead,” Shawn said. “Lorena shot him.”

  “The proof of the pudding, Mr. O’Brien. The proof of the pudding.”

  Shawn nodded. “All right, Thistledown, just follow your nose.”