Rattler's Law, Volume One

by James Reasoner

  West stared at her apparently lifeless form. She lay next to him, her eyes closed, her head lolled back. But then he spotted a strong pulse beating in the clean lines of her throat and knew that she had only been knocked out.

  Flint had reined in when West's horse was shot out from under him. West saw him sitting on his horse nearby and yelled, "Go on, Flint! Get out of here!"

  The marshal didn’t have time to reply. A rifle cracked, the bullet whistling close to Flint's head. From the veranda of the ranch house, Lance McGill yelled, "Hold it, Flint! I won't miss the next time!"

  McGill held a Winchester, the barrel trained on Flint. Slowly, the marshal sighed and reluctantly dropped his Colt. McGill's men rode from behind the house to surround the three of them.

  "Sorry, Jordy," Flint murmured.

  "I'm the one who's sorry, Lucas," West replied as he sat on the ground cradling Anabel's head in his lap. "I reckon it was all for nothing..."

  "No. You did what you had to do." Flint's voice held no bitterness, no recriminations. But it was too late now to save Rachel. Both of them knew it was just too damned late.

  16

  Lance McGill ordered Lucas Flint to dismount and walk slowly to the veranda. Then the rancher motioned with his Winchester to Jordy West to follow the marshal. West gently lifted the unconscious Anabel and carried her toward the house. Three of McGill's men came from the porch and walked behind them, training their guns on the two men. Out of the corner of his eye Flint noticed a cowhand scoop up his gun and hunt for West's.

  When Flint and West reached him, McGill ordered one of his men to open the side door and lead them into the parlor. Once there, West eased the unconscious Anabel onto the sofa.

  The rancher entered the room and grinned triumphantly. "I should have known you were mixed up with West somehow, Flint," he said. "You just couldn't leave things alone, could you? And you had to drag West into it with you."

  "Nobody dragged me into anything," West said hotly. "I helped Flint because he's been right about you all along. You're a no-good rustler, McGill, and I reckon I'm about the only one on this ranch who didn't know it."

  "Not the only one," the rancher replied. "But the others who didn't know are miles away at the line shacks. I sent them off yesterday after I brought Anabel here. So there's nobody around to help you two." He jerked the barrel of the Winchester and spoke to his men. "A couple of you search them, make sure they don't have any hidden weapons."

  Flint and West had to stand still while McGill's men carried out his instructions. A moment later, one of them said, "No guns or knives on them, boss, but look at this!" He held up the tally book, which he had found under West's shirt.

  McGill snatched the book from the cowboy's hand. "Dammit!" he exclaimed. "You're bold as brass, aren't you, West? You figured you'd get enough evidence on me to send me to prison, didn't you?"

  "Or hang you," West shot back.

  McGill laughed. "Nobody's going to hang except that Coleman woman. Once nine o'clock comes around, this case is going to be closed for good. Nobody's ever going to have a reason to poke in it again. But just for your information, Flint, I didn't kill Yeager. Didn't have a damn thing to do with it."

  Flint frowned. McGill sounded sincere and lying at this point was senseless now that they were McGill's prisoners. Besides, the rancher had freely admitted he was behind the rustling, so why would he deny being involved in Yeager's murder if it were not true?

  But that would mean that Rachel was guilty, and Flint refused to accept that. Unless someone else, someone he had not even considered, had killed the mayor.

  "Take them upstairs and lock them up, all three of them," McGill ordered harshly. "I'll let you live until nine o'clock, Flint. That seems appropriate. Then I'll dispose of you and West."

  "What about Anabel?" West asked, his face grim.

  McGill leered. "You know I planned to marry the girl. I still do."

  West tensed, and Flint said in a low voice, "Not now, Jordy. Anabel's liable to get hurt." The marshal knew how close his newfound friend was to charging at McGill, regardless of the consequences.

  West took a deep breath. "All right," he murmured. "I'll wait to settle the score with you, McGill."

  The rancher laughed again. "You'll wait, all right. Until nine o'clock..."

  Inside the small cellblock in the sheriff’s office, Bob Dedrick was saying solemnly, "I'm sorry, Rachel. It's time."

  A block away from the sheriff’s office on the courthouse square, several hundred people milled around, waiting impatiently. The surrounding streets were clogged with horses and wagons, and the sunlit morning air rang with talk and excited laughter. Children ran among the adults, their games and horseplay taking them underfoot and prompting parents to snap at them irritably. If a band had been playing, the gathering could have been mistaken for a Fourth of July celebration.

  Standing on the platform in front of the gallows was Kashton Wellington Newcomb. The immaculately groomed hangman was dressed in his best suit, his hat brushed and his boots polished. But his normally cheerful expression was missing, and his face was frozen in grim lines. He had never felt less like cracking a joke in his life. It was five minutes before nine o'clock.

  Newcomb had awakened long before dawn and tossed restlessly until the sky began to grow bright. In the gray half-light, he dressed and left his hotel without eating breakfast. He combed the town—checking at the Ewers Hotel, stopping at the livery stable where Flint had rented his horse—to see if Lucas Flint had returned. He found no sign of the marshal. No one had seen the man from Abilene since he left Cheyenne two days earlier.

  Even then, with several hours to spare, Newcomb had sensed that Flint was going to be too late to intervene. There would be no last-minute miracle. At nine o'clock Sheriff Dedrick would lead Rachel Coleman to the gallows to meet her fate. Those last few hours raced by. Newcomb had never known time to pass so quickly. The appointed hour was upon them.

  As he waited, he rested his hand on the new lever and thought about all the work he had done on the mechanism the day before. He replaced all the broken parts and tested it carefully to make sure everything was as it should be. Now, feeling the smooth lever in his hand, the hangman was as certain as he had ever been in his long career that the gallows would do exactly what he wanted it to do.

  The crowd began to babble excitedly, and Newcomb knew that Rachel and Dedrick had emerged from the jail. Peering over the heads of the spectators, he spotted them walking slowly toward the square, the crowd parting before them.

  In the lead was the young deputy, Jeremy. His face was pale, and he was carrying a shotgun. Dedrick walked right behind him, beside Rachel. The sheriff had one hand on Rachel's arm. She was clad in a simple but elegant dress, and Newcomb saw with a pang that she was carrying a small bunch of flowers. Her hands were not tied or cuffed. Her head was high, her features calm and composed. She had never looked lovelier, he thought. He wished he could have gone to the jail earlier and spoken to her one more time.

  Two deputies, armed with shotguns, brought up the rear of the little procession. They made sure that the crowd didn’t press in too closely around the sheriff and the prisoner.

  Newcomb stared at the approaching group, unable to take his eyes off Rachel. He saw that as people were struck by Rachel's dignity, they stopped speaking, and the hubbub began to subside. Finally, Newcomb thought, the crowd realizes just how serious this is.

  Jeremy reached the bottom of the stairs, turned, and took up his position on the left side. Rachel and Dedrick moved past the deputy and ascended the steps slowly but surely. As Rachel climbed to the gallows, Newcomb could see her eyes, could read the fear she was concealing from the crowd. He felt his chest tighten.

  Dedrick led Rachel across the platform to him. The sheriff took a deep breath and said, "Mr. Newcomb, I am hereby turning this prisoner over to you so that you can carry out the sentence imposed by the court."

  Newcomb nodded gravely and said, "Thank you,
Sheriff. Now, if you will kindly step back..."

  Nodding abruptly, Dedrick released Rachel's arm. He turned, strode to the stairs, and walked briskly down them.

  Rachel and Newcomb were alone on the platform. That was how it usually was, Newcomb thought, although sometimes the local authorities stood closer in case of trouble. No one expected Rachel would cause any problems, though. With the huge crowd gathered around the gallows, she had no place to go if she tried to escape.

  Newcomb murmured, "Hello, Rachel."

  "Good morning, Kashton," she replied, her voice surprisingly strong. "It's going to be quite a lovely day, isn't it?"

  He glanced at the deep blue sky and said, "Yes, I believe it is."

  "I don't blame you for any of this, you know."

  Newcomb nodded. "I know."

  "Have you seen Lucas? I thought he would be here."

  "I'm afraid no one has seen him, Rachel. He may have run into trouble, wherever he was headed."

  "I hope he's all right. He's a good man. We didn't always get along, but I knew my sister wouldn't have married him if he wasn't a good man."

  "I'm sure he did everything he could," Newcomb replied. He reached into his pocket and took out a folded black hood.

  The sight of it provoked a reaction from the crowd. As the muttering grew, Newcomb slipped it over Rachel's head while he spoke soothingly to her. Then he caught the dangling noose and slid the loop quickly over her head. Newcomb tightened it with practiced ease.

  That grim chore done, Newcomb went to the head of the stairs and looked down at Dedrick. The sheriff was gazing at a pocket watch he held in his hand. Dedrick glanced at Newcomb and nodded gravely.

  Newcomb went back to Rachel. He put his hands on her shoulders and shifted her position a few inches on the trapdoor. Then, his face showing no emotion, he walked to the lever at the edge of the platform.

  No sound came from the crowd.

  The hangman gave the lever a sharp tug. It slid over smoothly, clicking into place. Newcomb kept his eyes on the lever, not looking at Rachel and the trapdoor.

  Someone in the crowd gasped, and then the spectators burst into a roar of cheering and outrage.

  Slowly, Newcomb lifted his head and looked toward Rachel. She was still standing on the platform with her back straight and her head held high. The trapdoor had not budged.

  Beyond her Sheriff Dedrick appeared at the top of the stairs, a surprised and anxious expression on his face. As he came across the platform, he asked urgently, "What happened?"

  Newcomb shook his head. "The trapdoor didn't work," he said simply.

  "Well, try it again, man!" Dedrick snapped.

  Newcomb complied. He pushed the lever back into its original position, then pulled it sharply toward him. Once, twice, three times he repeated the action, and at each attempt the results were the same. The trapdoor stayed firmly in place.

  "I don't understand it," Newcomb said, shaking his head. The noise of the crowd thundered around the gallows so that the hangman had to shout to make himself heard. "I worked on the mechanism all day yesterday. Everything was perfect."

  In the crowd people were yelling and jeering, upset that they would apparently miss the spectacle they had traveled all the way to Cheyenne to see. Glancing nervously at the angry mob, Dedrick turned to the hangman and growled, "Dammit! You'd better do something about this, Newcomb."

  "I can repair the problem, but it'll take time," Newcomb replied grimly. "You'd better get your prisoner back to the jail before some of these folks decide to have their own lynch party."

  Dedrick nodded. "You're right." He turned to his deputies and called, "Jeremy! You and the others get up here!"

  Newcomb strode over to Rachel and pulled the black hood off her head. She met his gaze squarely, a tiny smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. "I seem to have cheated the hangman," she said dryly.

  "For now," Newcomb grunted. He loosened the noose and lifted it over her head.

  Dedrick caught his arm. "When can you have this thing fixed?" he demanded over the hubbub of the crowd.

  "Probably in a couple of hours, but to be certain you'd better allow a little more time than that."

  Dedrick nodded and turned to face the spectators. "Settle down, you people!" he roared. Then he noticed Jeremy climbing the steps. He reached out and grabbed the young deputy's shotgun. Pointing it toward the sky, Dedrick touched off one of the barrels, and the thunderous blast silenced the crowd. The sheriff called out, "The hanging's been rescheduled for twelve o'clock noon! If anybody wants to cause trouble, we can always find another noose!"

  No one in the crowd said a word. On the fringes of the throng, people began to drift away, muttering quietly among themselves.

  Dedrick handed the shotgun back to Jeremy. "Get her back to her cell," he snapped. "And don't let anything happen on the way."

  Jeremy nodded. The other deputies and he led Rachel down the steps and back toward the sheriff’s office. Dedrick cast a long, warning look at Newcomb, then followed.

  Slowly, the hangman took off his coat and draped it over the railing around the edge of the platform. Then he went down the stairs, ducked underneath the gallows, and got to work.

  Lucas Flint stood at the window of the room where the prisoners had been taken. McGill's men had not tied his hands, so he was able to reach into his pocket and take out his watch. He glanced at the sun, then opened the watch and stared at its face. The hands told the story plainly. It was five minutes after nine.

  The watch had been given to him by the citizens of Wichita for his years of service as their marshal. That had been several years ago, long before he had come to Abilene. In all those years, the watch had never failed to keep good time.

  Flint took a deep breath, snapped the watchcase shut, and slipped it back into his pocket. Closing his eyes, he slowly reached up and rubbed his temples. He felt tears welling behind his eyelids and knew they were for Rachel.

  It was too late. Rachel was gone now, as much a victim of someone's evil plot as Mayor Russell P. Yeager had been.

  Behind Flint, Jordy West and Anabel Yeager were sitting on the bed, holding hands, and talking quietly. Anabel had told West and Flint that this was the room where she had been held prisoner the night before. She knew how secure it was and showed them that the window had been nailed shut.

  The lovely blonde had regained consciousness a few minutes after they were locked in, and other than a headache, she seemed to be suffering no ill effects from her fall. The first thing she wanted to know was what McGill intended to do with them.

  "He says he's going to marry you," West told her.

  Anabel shuddered. "I'll kill myself first," she declared.

  West shook his head. "No. That wouldn't solve anything, Anabel. Someday, the truth will catch up with McGill, no matter what happens to us. You've got to stay alive so that you can see that justice is done."

  She smiled weakly. "That's quite a burden you're placing on me, Jordy."

  West glanced at Flint's stiff back as the marshal stared out the window. "You may be the only one who can help bring the truth out, Anabel," he said softly.

  Now, nine o'clock had come and gone, and all they could do was wait.

  The time passed with agonizing slowness. McGill had evidently decided to torture them even more and drag this out. There was nothing for any of them to say. Flint stood at the window, peering out and thinking his own thoughts, while West and Anabel huddled together and tried to draw what comfort they could from their closeness.

  An hour passed before the three of them heard footsteps approaching in the hall. Flint turned from the window and regarded the two young people sitting on the bed. "I'm sorry I got you into this," he said. "I was just trying to help Rachel."

  West shook his head. "It's all McGill's doing, not yours, Lucas."

  "I don't intend to just give in and let McGill do whatever he wants," Flint said. "As soon as Anabel is in the clear, I'm going to try to jump one of them."r />
  West nodded, a muscle twitching slightly in his jaw. "Damn right. I'm with you, Lucas."

  Anabel clutched at his arm. "But Jordy, if you cause trouble, they'll kill—" She stopped abruptly, realizing that was exactly what McGill was planning to do.

  "It's all right, darling," West said, squeezing her hand.

  The key rattled in the lock, and the door swung open. Lance McGill stood framed in the doorway with a shotgun in his hands. "Downright touching." He sneered as he took in the scene. "I figured you and Anabel might have made better use of that bed than just sitting on it, West. Wouldn't have bothered me. I don't mind getting used goods."

  "Damn you," West growled as he came to his feet.

  McGill leveled the shotgun at him. Behind the rancher, several armed cowhands trained their weapons on them. "Just come out of there real slow," McGill ordered.

  West put a hand on Anabel's shoulder. "You stay here," he said. "No need for you to see this."

  McGill shook his head. "No, I want the girl to come, too. You won't be leaving my side after this, Anabel. You might as well get used to it."

  Surrounded by armed men, Flint and West could do nothing. McGill took Anabel's arm and held it while the other men prodded Flint and West down the stairs, through the door, and onto the veranda.

  There were several horses tied to the rack in front of the house. McGill said, "All right, get them mounted up and take them to Horsehead Meadow. That's the most isolated part of the ranch. Nobody's going to find a couple of fresh graves there."

  "Sure, boss." One of the hands nodded.

  Before anyone could step off the porch, the sound of a galloping horse made everyone pause. McGill snapped, "Hold it!" as a rider raced his animal up the trail and sped into the clearing in front of the house. The man was a Trident hand, and he had just about ridden his horse into the ground. The exhausted animal glistened with sweat and stood with its sides heaving while the man dropped from the saddle.