Twelve Dead Men

by William W. Johnstone

  Finally, after a few minutes that seemed like an eternity, he hung there limply, his arms dangling at his sides. The sharp reek of evacuated bowels filled the air around him. His eyes were still open, but they stared straight ahead sightlessly.

  Fontana’s sobs were the only sound in the room until McLaren said, “Tie that rope to the piano and leave him there. It ought to hold him up.” He turned to look at the horror-stricken townspeople who had been snared in his web. “I want you all to see him! Take a good look! This is what happens to people who cross Otis McLaren!” He kicked the still senseless form of Crackerjack Sawyer. “As soon as this old geezer wakes up so he’ll know what’s going on, he’s got the same thing in store for him. I ain’t leavin’ here until there are twelve dead men hangin’ from that balcony! That’ll be their gallows!”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  There had been no more shouts from inside the saloon since McLaren’s ultimatum. Ace glanced over at Chance and could tell from the strained look on his brother’s face that Chance was having a hard time controlling his emotions. His anger, and his fear for Fontana, might make him do something foolish.

  As much as Ace hated the thought of splitting up, it might be the best thing. “Chance!”

  “What?”

  “From where you are, you can back off without them getting a good look at you from inside the saloon. Do that and head down to the newspaper office.”

  “What the hell for? You really think a reporter is what we need right now?”

  “The three of us are no match for McLaren and his men. If it comes down to a fight, we’re going to need all the help we can get. Lee can help you spread the word. Gather all the reinforcements you can, but don’t just come marching back up the street with them. We’ve got to be careful and not let McLaren know what we’re doing.”

  “I’m not a damn fool,” Chance snapped. “I won’t tip him off. Not as long as he’s got Fontana for a hostage.”

  Despite Chance’s mention of Fontana, Ace could tell she wasn’t the only thing on his brother’s mind. Chance had started thinking about fighting back, which was the best thing for him. For all of them, really. No matter what, they couldn’t give in to Otis McLaren’s demands. It was unlikely the vicious outlaw would honor any deal he made.

  A much bigger chance was that McLaren would try to take his vengeance on the entire town. He might even try to burn Lone Pine to the ground . . . assuming the rain ever stopped, that is.

  No sooner had that thought crossed Ace’s mind than he realized the downpour had slacked off considerably over the past few minutes. The thunder and lightning were farther away as the storm moved to the east. The sky overhead was lighter, although gloom still hung thickly over the town as the afternoon waned.

  An evening of violence and death lay just ahead, unless Ace, Chance, and Miguel could figure out some way to turn the tables on Otis McLaren.

  “Don’t do anything crazy while I’m gone.” Chance faded back into the shadows along the wall of the building where he had taken cover. In moments, he disappeared as he headed for the newspaper office.

  From behind the wagon, Miguel asked, “You have some sort of plan, Ace?”

  “Not yet,” Ace admitted. “How about you?”

  “I knew I wasn’t the right man for this job,” Miguel said in indirect answer to the question. “Marshal Dixon would have figured out something by now.”

  “Marshal Dixon probably never faced a crazy-mad killer with that big a gang behind him,” Ace pointed out. “Chance has gone to round up some of the other folks in town. We’ll even up the odds before we try anything.”

  “There aren’t enough fighting men in town to even up those odds. Not when you consider the sort of men McLaren must have with him.”

  “Then we’ll just have to do the best we—”

  Ace stopped short as he realized somebody was coming out of the saloon.

  * * *

  Chance hated being wet and filthy, and under other circumstances he might have been angry at Otis McLaren for causing him to fall in the muddy street and probably ruin his clothes. However, he would have gladly taken a bath in a hog wallow if it meant Fontana would be free.

  He had barely gotten the opportunity to do more than admire her from a distance, like all the other men who listened to her sing and appreciated her beauty. But the few conversations they had shared, the frank looks that had passed between them, told Chance the potential was there for more. Much more.

  If she lived through the ordeal.

  The rain had tapered off to nothing more than a steady drizzle by the time he reached the newspaper office. The front door was locked, and no one answered when Chance hammered his fist on the panel.

  Knowing that Lee and Meredith Emory had their living quarters in a small house behind the newspaper office, Chance circled around the building and saw lights burning in the windows. He knocked on the door, and Meredith opened it a few moments later.

  “Chance!” she exclaimed in surprise at the sight of the muddy, bedraggled figure on the doorstep. “What in the world—”

  “Did you hear the shot earlier?”

  “Shot? I—No, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  Chance didn’t explain but asked another question. “Is your brother here?”

  “Of course. Lee!” Meredith stepped back and told Chance, “Come in.”

  “I’ll drip water on your floor,” he warned.

  “Somehow I have a feeling that’s going to be the least of our concerns.”

  Lee Emory came into the room through an open doorway. “Chance? What are you doing here? You look like you’ve been swimming in the mud.”

  “Close enough. There’s trouble down at the Melodian. Bad trouble.” Chance paused. “Otis McLaren has come to town after all, just like his brother threatened. He’s taken over the saloon and is holding everyone in it hostage, including Fontana.”

  “Good Lord! We have to help them. I have an old gun in the closet—”

  “A gun with which you’re a terrible shot,” Meredith interrupted him. “Lee, you know you’re a better fighter with words than you ever were with bullets.”

  “Maybe,” Emory admitted with a grimace. “Why did you come here, Chance?”

  “Because you can help spread the word. Let the town know what’s going on. Warn the men they may need to protect their families and help us fight the gang McLaren brought with him.”

  “What does he want?” Meredith asked.

  “He’s demanding that the town turn over the twelve jurors from his brother’s trial. He claims to have two of them already. I suppose Hank Muller is one of them, but I don’t know who the other one is.”

  Meredith put a hand to her mouth in horror. “He plans to kill all the jurors?” Her frightened gaze went to her brother.

  “For a start,” Chance said. “I don’t know what he intends to do after that, but I reckon it won’t be anything good.”

  “Otis McLaren is a madman,” Emory said. “He may plan to wipe out the whole town to avenge his no-good brother.”

  Chance nodded. “I wouldn’t put it past him.”

  Meredith said, “Lee, you’re not going anywhere near that saloon.”

  Her brother smiled faintly. “That’s where you’re wrong. I’ll do what you ask, Chance, and help you round up some reinforcements, but I’ll be taking along that gun anyway.”

  “Lee, I told you—”

  “This town has been our home for a long time, Meredith. These people are our friends and neighbors. I’m not going to turn my back on them.” He lifted a hand to stop her when she tried to protest again. “But I’m not going to just waltz in there like a lamb going to slaughter, either. Don’t worry about that. Otis McLaren’s going to find that he’s got a bigger fight on his hands than he bargained for, and I’m going to be part of it.”

  “I hope you’re right, Lee,” Chance said, “because there are a lot of lives riding on us.”

  * * *

&
nbsp; Ace wiped rain from his eyes as he watched the batwings swing open and a man step slowly and uncertainly through them. He stumbled toward the edge of the boardwalk with his hands held up in front of him.

  “Don’t shoot!” the man called. “For God’s sake, don’t shoot!”

  Ace recognized Solomon Horton, although the lawyer looked rumpled instead of dapper and appeared to have lost all his smug self-confidence.

  “Horton, what the hell are you doing?” Miguel asked.

  “He . . . he sent me out here to talk to you. McLaren did, I mean. He sent me.”

  “Stop babbling. You’ve got a message from him?”

  “Yeah, I . . . He told me to tell you . . . He’s going to hang all twelve jurors, just like Pete was strung up. He already . . . Oh, God! He already killed Hank Muller!” Horton covered his face with his hands, as if by doing that he could shut out all the terrible images that were playing in his mind. The shudder that went through him proved that he couldn’t. He lowered his hands and went on. “They put a rope around his neck and hauled him up under the balcony. He . . . he strangled to death while . . . while we all watched . . .”

  “That’s what he plans to do to all the jurors?” The strain in Miguel’s voice testified to the depth of the horror he was experiencing.

  “Yes. He has Crackerjack Sawyer in there, and he says he’ll do the same to him as soon as Crackerjack wakes up. They knocked him out earlier, when they first rode into town.”

  From behind the rain barrel, Ace asked, “How does McLaren know who the jurors are?”

  Horton swallowed hard. “I . . . I told him. I had to! He put a gun to my head! He would have killed me if I didn’t answer his questions.”

  “I’m guessing you’re the reason he’s here,” Miguel said.

  “I didn’t have any choice. Pete wrote a letter to him, told me where to send it. He said his brother would get it and come to help him. I was afraid not to. You . . . you know what Pete was like!”

  “You son of a bitch.” Miguel’s voice was choked. “You betrayed the whole town. What else does McLaren say he’s going to do?”

  “Once he’s finished with the jurors, he’s going to kill you and . . . and the judge . . . and Timothy Buchanan. I don’t know if he plans to . . . hang you . . . but he says you have to pay for what happened to Pete, too. He’s even going to kill old José.”

  “And if we don’t cooperate with him? If the jurors don’t turn themselves over to him?”

  “He’ll kill everybody in the saloon,” Horton said. “Then he’ll start on the rest of the town. And he won’t stop until everybody in Lone Pine is dead and the town is just . . . is just smoldering ashes . . .”

  Ace figured that was what McLaren planned to do anyway, whether he got any cooperation or not. Once the killing started, the orgy of blood and death would continue until the entire settlement was wiped off the map. It would be one of the worst massacres in the history of the frontier.

  With that bleak prospect facing them, Ace thought they might as well go ahead and fight. It was a matter of figuring out the best way to go about that battle.

  “What do you want me to tell him?” Horton asked miserably.

  “Tell him we’ve got to have some time to think it over,” Miguel said. “And we’ll need his word that if he gets what he wants, he won’t hurt anybody else.”

  Ace knew Miguel was stalling for time. It was the only thing they could do until they had time to mount some sort of counterattack.

  Holding his hands up again, Horton turned toward the batwings. “They said—”

  “I heard what they said,” Otis McLaren growled from inside the saloon. A gun barrel was thrust over the top of the batwings and blasted orange flame from its muzzle.

  Horton cried out in shock and pain as the bullet slammed into his chest and knocked him backwards. He fell off the boardwalk and landed in the street as mud splashed up around him. The rain turned the front of his shirt pink as blood welled from the wound. The lawyer’s arms and legs twitched a couple of times, and then he lay still.

  The gun barrel disappeared. “Reckon now you know I mean business,” McLaren called, “even though a damn lawyer ain’t much of a loss. He should’ve done more to help Pete. Do I get those other ten jurors . . . or do I start throwing bodies out into the street?”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  Fontana sat with her back against the bar and Orrie’s head cradled in her lap. The wound on the piano player’s head had stopped bleeding, but there was a lot of dried blood on his face. He hadn’t regained consciousness. His chest rose and fell fairly steadily, though, so at least he was still alive.

  That was more than could be said for Hank Muller. Fontana was careful to keep her eyes averted from the horrible sight of the saloonkeeper hanging from the balcony. She knew she would never be able to erase from her memory the image of Muller’s face as he died. It would haunt her for as long as she lived.

  Muller wasn’t the only one who had died. From where Fontana sat, she could look under the batwings at the entrance and see a little of the dark, motionless shape that was Solomon Horton’s body. She knew that Horton had brought his own fate on himself by representing Pete McLaren and contacting Otis McLaren, but she felt a little sorry for him anyway. Otis McLaren had gunned him down viciously . . . the same way McLaren did everything, apparently.

  So far he hadn’t killed anyone else, but she knew it was only a matter of time.

  McLaren’s men had herded all the prisoners in front of the bar and ordered them to sit down on the floor. That way they were in a nice, compact group and could be slaughtered with ease. That was what was waiting for all of them, unless somebody came up with a plan to stop the killing. Miguel Soriano and the Jensen brothers were still out there on the loose. Fontana had placed her faith in them.

  Crackerjack Sawyer had been grabbed by the ankles and dragged over to the bar. The old liveryman was still unconscious, like Orrie. They had hit him so hard he might never wake up.

  Considering what McLaren had planned for him, that was the kindest alternative.

  The man who had captured Fontana upstairs seemed to be McLaren’s second in command. She had heard McLaren call him Gyp. Maybe he wasn’t mostly Indian after all. Maybe he was a Gypsy. She had run across them from time to time.

  It didn’t really matter, she told herself. The blood of a cold-blooded killer ran in his veins, and that was really the only heritage that was important.

  Gyp went over to McLaren and asked, “How much longer are you gonna wait, boss? It’ll be dark outside soon, especially with all those clouds. That’ll make it easier for those bastards to try to sneak up on us.”

  The rain had all but stopped, but a thick overcast still hung in the sky.

  A harsh laugh came from McLaren. He was sitting at a table with his long legs stretched out in front of him and crossed at the ankles. His high-topped boots were midnight black just like the rest of his outfit. “They’re not going to try anything. They don’t have the guts. You forget, Gyp, I lived in this settlement for a long time. I know the sort of cowards you’ll find here. They never stood up to me back then, did they? Hell, that’s one reason I left and never came back until now. I was tired of all the crawlin’ and grovelin’ they did! It made me sick.”

  “You been gone from here a long time, though, Otis. Maybe folks have changed.”

  McLaren let out a disgusted snort and shook his head. “A place doesn’t change that much.”

  “They put your brother on trial and strung him up. That don’t sound like grovelin’ to me.”

  McLaren’s head snapped up. For a second Fontana thought Gyp had gone too far. She wouldn’t have been surprised to see McLaren’s gun come out with the speed of a striking snake and spout death at his segundo.

  But the dark rage on McLaren’s rugged face eased, and he said, “It’s a hell of a lot easier to pass judgment in a trial than it is to stand up to a man who’s eager to kill you. They thought once they hang
ed Pete, they wouldn’t have anything else to worry about. I reckon they’re figuring out by now that they were wrong.”

  A few feet away from where Fontana sat with Orrie, Crackerjack stirred. His eyelids began to flutter. He hadn’t moved much yet, nor had he made a sound, but she could tell he was starting to come to.

  Moving slowly in the hope that she wouldn’t draw any attention from McLaren’s men, she reached over and rested a hand on Crackerjack’s shoulder. She squeezed lightly. As long as McLaren didn’t realize he was conscious, the old liveryman was safe.

  If he let out a groan or tried to sit up, he was doomed. McLaren would hang him from the balcony, just as he had Hank Muller.

  Crackerjack’s eyes opened. Fontana squeezed harder on his shoulder. He turned his head to look toward her, but his eyes were bleary and unfocused. She shook her head a little, praying that he would see her and be able to tell what she meant by the gesture. She couldn’t move too much, or McLaren’s men would notice what was going on and her efforts would backfire.

  Crackerjack didn’t say anything. His eyes closed until they were slits, but Fontana could tell he was looking around as best he could and trying to figure out what was going on.

  Over at the table where McLaren was sitting, Gyp asked, “So how much more time are you gonna give them?”

  “Not long,” McLaren promised. “Don’t worry, Gyp. Before the night’s over, you’ll get what you want.”

  Gyp turned his head to stare long and hard at Fontana. She felt her blood turn to ice in her veins as he said, “I’m lookin’ right at what I want, boss.”

  * * *

  Ace and Miguel had retreated from their cover when Chance came back with Lee Emory, and the four men were having a council of war in the alcove that housed the entrance to Donald Barr’s general store. Barr had poked his head out to see what was going on, taken one look at the grim faces of the four men, and closed and locked the door, pulling down the shade that blocked them from seeing inside.