Lynch Law

by Len Levinson

  Stone felt somehow he’d let McDermott down. He should’ve talked him out of going into Eagleton. He’d known there was danger. He could smell it.

  Stone saw movement ahead, and dropped to his stomach behind a bush. He raised his rifle to his shoulder and sighted down the barrel. Nothing happened. Stone waited several minutes, ready to fire his rifle, but there was no more movement. Maybe it was a bird, or a small animal.

  He rose to his feet again and continued to move across the floor of the canyon, holding his rifle tightly, ready to fire.

  Tom Reece and Billy Finch searched the base of the mountains on the other side of the canyon. They were dismounted, carrying rifles, poking in bushes, and peering around boulders.

  “I’m gittin’ sick of this shit,” said Reece. “Let’s have us a smoke.”

  “We’re supposed to be lookin’ fer John Stone.”

  “To hell with John Stone.”

  “I want that two hundred dollars.”

  “He could be ten feet away right now, and we wouldn’t see him. You can’t find somebody at night.”

  Finch looked around fearfully under the brim of his big hat. “Let’s have that smoke,” he said. “These boulders look like a good place.”

  They sat behind the boulders and leaned their rifles behind them. Reaching into their pockets, they took out bags of tobacco.

  “I’m gittin’ plumb tired,” Reece said. “I want to roll up in my blanket and get some shut-eye.”

  “Atwell might find us.”

  “So what if he did? I ain’t afraid of that son of a bitch.”

  Reece’s paper tore as he was rolling the cigarette. He threw the torn piece over his shoulder and reached for another. Meanwhile, opposite him, Finch watched the paper fly through the air. He expected it to bounce off the wall, but somehow it kept going, seemingly through the wall.

  “What the hell was that?” Finch asked.

  “What the hell was what?”

  Finch arose and walked toward the wall. He raised his hand and it went right through.

  “Well I’ll be damned.”

  “What’s the matter?” asked Reece, turning around.

  “There’s a cave here.”

  Reece stood and walked toward the opening. They looked inside and saw pitch-blackness.

  “Are you thinkin’ what I’m thinkin’?” Reece asked. “Maybe this is where Stone went. Let’s go back and tell the others.”

  “What the hell for? You wanna share the two hundred dollars with them? Let’s get Stone for ourselves.”

  “He killed the injun.”

  “We’re white men, and we can handle him. Are you afraid?”

  “Hell no, but I don’t feel like goin’ up against him with just you.”

  “I thought you said you wasn’t afraid.”

  “Let’s get the others in on this. John Stone ain’t nobody to fuck with. He killed a lot of people tonight.”

  Finch turned around and cupped his hands around his mouth. He was about to yell when Reece clamped his hand over his mouth.

  “Wait a minute!” Reece said. “What if this cave is only three feet deep? You might call everybody over here for nothin’, and make fools of us. Let’s at least check it out a little bit on our own.”

  Finch could see the sense in that. “Okay.”

  Reece entered the narrow passageway, pointing his rifle straight ahead. He took a step, and then another step. The passageway inclined to the right. Reece pawed ahead with his rifle, and it didn’t touch anything.

  “The cave keeps going,” Reece said.

  “I think I’d better go back and tell the others.”

  Reece looked into the darkness. John Stone could be straight ahead, his gun cocked, and Reece wouldn’t be able to see him. “I’ll wait for you right here,” Reece said.

  Finch turned around and called out. “We found a cave!”

  There was a pause for a few seconds, and then he heard Atwell’s voice echoing through the night. “Light a fire so’s we can see where you are.”

  Finch gathered some twigs and set fire to them with a match. It wasn’t much of a fire, but it could be seen in the darkness. Soon the sound of horse’s hooves came to Reece and Finch. Standfield and Burkers galloped up, and a few moments later Atwell arrived, followed by the rest of his men.

  The men climbed down from their horses and pulled their rifles out of the boots.

  “What the hell you got here?” Atwell said, stepping forward.

  “This cave,” said Finch, pointing to it.

  Atwell didn’t see any cave. He dismounted and walked toward the spot Finch indicated, reaching out tentatively with his foot, and it vanished in the darkness. Now he saw it, but didn’t want to be the first one in. Stone might be waiting in there, rifle in hand. The only thing to do was get down on his belly and crawl. He was ramrod and had to lead the way.

  “Shorty,” he said, “stay with the horses. The rest of you follow me.”

  He crawled into the passageway, expecting to run into a wall, but the passageway inclined to the right and it turned over onto itself like a big snake. Atwell heard his men behind him, grunting and scraping over the floor of the passageway. He expected a bullet to blast into his head at any moment. Finally he saw a shaft of moonlight and realized he’d passed through the base of the mountains.

  “There’s a canyon in here,” he said. “Stay ready. Stone might be just ahead.”

  Atwell moved forward cautiously and came to the edge of the passageway. His men crowded behind him.

  Reece pointed straight ahead. “There’s somethin’ lyin’ out there.”

  Atwell saw a shadow in the shape of a man lying next to bush. “Follow me,” he said.

  He crept toward the shadow, and his men followed cautiously. The canyon was dark and silent as they moved deeper into its stillness. Atwell drew close to the shadow. “It’s the injun.”

  Red Feather lay on his back, his arms spread out and his throat cut from ear to ear. He’d been stripped of weapons and ammunition, and now Atwell knew what happened to Stone.

  He pointed to the tracks on the ground with the barrel of his rifle. “Spread out and go after him. Watch yore step—you can see what he’s done to the injun.”

  Atwell stepped forward, following the tracks that led into the canyon. His men came behind him, examining rocks and bushes around them. The moonlight glinted on the barrels of their guns as they advanced deeper into the canyon.

  Stone, behind a nearby boulder, watched them disappear, following his old trail. If they stayed on it, they’d roam the canyon for hours. A coyote howled on a distant ridge, and Stone waited, to make sure they were far away.

  Finally he came out of his hiding place and stepped toward the passageway, listening for sounds of someone coming the other way, then moved through it silently, alert for danger, and upon reaching the end peered into the rolling hills.

  He saw the boulders where he’d hidden, and a hundred yards beyond them were horses crowded together and saddled. Nearby a man sat cross-legged on the ground, his rifle lying across his knees. The man’s head was inclined forward and it looked as though he was asleep.

  Stone pulled the Indian’s knife out of the sheath in his boot, and held it blade up in his fist. Then he got down on his belly and crawled toward the guard.

  The guard raised his head, and Stone stopped. It appeared as though the guard heard something. The guard looked in Stone’s direction.

  “Who’s there?”

  Stone lay still on the ground. The guard arose and walked toward him, leaning forward, holding his rifle. Stone could drill him through the eyes with his rifle, but the sound would give him away.

  The guard stopped ten feet from Stone, stood rooted to the same spot for a few seconds, then turned and walked toward where he’d been sitting. He dropped to his haunches and stared aimlessly into the night.

  Stone had to creep up on the guard, but the night was still and sound carried far. He crawled forward, and the gu
ard’s head snapped around. The guard rose to his feet, and Stone gripped his knife tightly in his hand. The guard appeared to be looking directly at him.

  “What the hell’s goin’ on?” the guard said.

  The guard advanced cautiously, and Stone lay on the ground in front of him, moonlight dappling his body and making it look like a pile of rocks.

  Suddenly Stone sprang to his feet and lunged forward.

  “Hey!” shouted the guard, raising his rifle.

  Stone slammed the rifle down and jabbed the knife into the guard’s jugular. A sigh passed between the guard’s lips, then his knees became jelly and he fell to the ground at Stone’s feet. Stone wiped the blade of the knife on the guard’s trousers, dropped the blade into his boot, and ran toward the horses.

  They were picketed a short distance away, and Stone appraised them quickly, settling on the biggest one. He untied the others and slapped their haunches, shooing them away.

  Stone tightened the cinch on the big horse, then untied the reins and climbed into the saddle. He prodded the horse with his spurs, and the animal moved off into the dark, billowing night, leaving behind the dead guard with his eyes wide open, staring sightlessly at the moon.

  Chapter Eight

  Hank Dawson snored loudly as he sat on the chair in his son’s bedroom. The lamp flickered, casting dancing shadows, and the heads of dead animals mounted on the walls seemed to be winking.

  Dawson hadn’t eaten, changed his clothes, or taken a bath since he’d come in from the trail. He’d just sat with the body of his son and gradually dropped off to sleep.

  The sound of his snoring reverberated through the house as he dreamed of Wayne as a little boy. Hank bought Wayne a puppy, and Wayne pulled the puppy’s tail and ears. The puppy died about a month after Hank bought it, and little Wayne cried when a cowboy buried it in the backyard. Hank dreamed about how he’d held Wayne in his arms and comforted him. He told him he’d buy another puppy to replace the dead one, but little Wayne played rough and killed that one too.

  Hank Dawson awoke with a start, and the first thing he saw was the form of his son lying on the bed. Rigor mortis had set in and Wayne was stiff as a board. Hank Dawson took out his pocket watch, and it was midnight. Why had there been no word about John Stone?

  Dawson arose and approached the bed, looking at his son. It still was hard for him to believe Wayne was dead.

  He walked toward the door, and one of his men dozed on a chair in the corridor. Dawson kicked a leg of the chair, and the man went sprawling toward the carpet, reaching for his gun as he went down. At the last moment he recognized his boss standing above him. He smiled sheepishly and returned his gun to its holster.

  “Guess I must’ve dropped off.”

  “You better be careful I don’t drop you off ‘n a cliff. Any word from Atwell?”

  “I ain’t heard nothin’, Mr. Dawson.”

  “Go out and see what he’s doin’. Then report back to me.”

  Dawson descended the stairs and headed for his office. In the moonlight near the window he poured himself a glass of whiskey, drank it down, then filled another glass, carrying it upstairs to Wayne’s room.

  The stench hit him when he opened the door, and he realized it had become much stronger during the past few hours. He hadn’t noticed, because he’d been in the room all that time, but now it was horribly apparent. He couldn’t go back.

  He continued down the corridor to his own room, furnished with a big brass bed, rustic chairs, a dresser, and a desk. As in his son’s room, the heads of dead animals were mounted on the walls.

  He placed the glass of whiskey on his night table and sat on the bed, pulling off his boots. Then he lay back on the bedspread and closed his eyes.

  He’d find Stone even if he and his men had to search every square foot of Texas.

  Cynthia sipped the remaining champagne in her glass. She sat on one of the upholstered chairs in her living room, and Craig lay on the sofa opposite her, his feet propped up on a pillow. He picked one of the cookies off the plate on the coffee table beside him, and dropped it into his mouth.

  “I think I’m going to bed,” Cynthia said.

  Craig arose from the sofa and took her hand, kissing her cheek. They walked toward the stairs as Bernice cleared away the empty bottle, glasses, and plate of cookies.

  Craig and Cynthia made their way down the corridor to her bedroom. The cool breeze ruffled the chiffon drapes that covered the windows as Craig lit the lamp on the dresser. The room carried the fragrance of Cynthia’s French perfume.

  The centerpiece of the room was a huge canopied bed that had cost a small fortune to ship from New York. Its bedposts were ornately carved and the fabric of the canopy was pure white satin.

  “Unbutton me, would you, Craig?”

  Craig opened the back of her dress, revealing her smooth white skin blemished only by one mole on the nape of her neck. Craig bent over and touched his lips to the mole. She closed her eyes and felt the tip of his tongue, thinking of John Stone.

  It was strange how he kept intruding himself into her mind. It was as though he were the third person in the room. Somehow she couldn’t stop thinking about him.

  Craig peeled the dress off her shoulders, kissing and urging her toward the bed, and together they sank onto the mattress, rolling over, embracing.

  Ahead was a gully with a stream running into it. Stone pulled back on the reins and the horse stopped in front of the flowing water. Stone climbed down from the saddle and let the horse drink. He pulled the saddlebags off the horse and sat on the ground, to see what they contained.

  Opening the flap, he reached inside and found three biscuits. He groped around more and pulled out a handful of jerked beef. Hungrily he stuffed the food into his mouth, barely chewing it. In the other saddlebag he found an unopened bag of tobacco, some cigarette papers, and a box of matches. He was tempted to have a smoke, but a light would carry far at night. He decided to forgo the pleasure until morning.

  He continued searching the saddlebags and found a clean pair of socks and a shirt too small for him, and a folded sheet of thick paper. He unfolded the paper and held it up to the moonlight. It was a map of the area.

  Stone studied it while his horse slurped water and flicked a fly off his haunch with his tail. Stone located Eagleton and found the approximate location of the mountains where he’d tried to hide. From the mountains he determined his approximate current position. The big question was where to go from here.

  McDermott’s plan had been to go to Mexico, and Stone thought that was still a good idea. He looked up at the sky, saw the Big Dipper, and found the North Star. If he slept by day and traveled by night, he ought to reach Mexico in a week.

  Stone learned long ago in the war that you must never do what your enemy expects. He looked at the map again and thought maybe he should head north, or west, or even east. Somehow he had to trick Dawson and his Indian trackers.

  The best alternative would be to find a safe place to hide for a week or two until the trouble blew over. Dawson couldn’t have his men searching constantly. Sooner or later he’d have to get on with the business of operating his ranch.

  If only there were a cave someplace, or if he had friends someplace. Then he realized he did have friends in the area: the Delanes. Hadn’t Delane said his HC Ranch was west of Dumont?

  Stone held the map up to the moonlight and looked for Dumont, a mere dot on the map, and then heard hoof beats in the distance.

  He reached for his rifle and got down. He and his horse were in the gully and couldn’t be seen unless the riders came directly into it with him. Stuffing the map into his shirt, he climbed toward the top of the gully and looked onto the prairie.

  He saw the shadowy indistinct shapes of two riders in the distance, heading toward the mountains, and he figured they must be Dawson’s men, because who else would be riding hard that time of night?

  Stone hoped his horse wouldn’t make any noise. He took off his hat and he
ld his head low so his silhouette couldn’t be seen in the moonlight. The riders seemed to be unaware of his presence and continued to head toward the mountains. A few minutes passed and the night swallowed them up. Stone couldn’t hear their hoof beats anymore.

  He dropped to the bottom of the gully and took out the map again, holding it in the moonlight. Dawson’s men would scour the countryside for him, and he needed a hiding place.

  He found Dumont on the map and looked to its west: a chain of mountains and another dot. Beside the dot was written: HC Ranch.

  Stone kneeled at the stream and took a drink of water. He still felt sore from the beating, but at least was alive.

  He threw the saddlebags over the hindquarters of the horse and climbed into the saddle. Pulling the reins to the side, he headed for the HC Ranch.

  The riders who’d passed Stone were Clint Standfield and Al Burkers, two of Dawson’s men. They rode their horses hard because they knew Dawson was anxious for the latest news.

  They approached the base of the mountains where Stone had disappeared, and saw horses scattered about. Standfield and Burkers looked at each other in surprise. Horses normally were picketed together. How come these horses were loose?

  “Atwell!” Standfield hollered. “Where the hell are you?”

  There was no answer, and Standfield scowled. He pulled back the reins of his horse, and so did Burkers. Their horses slowed to a stop.

  “Where the hell is everybody?” asked Burkers, who wore a thick black mustache.

  “Damned if I know,” said Standfield, a blond. “It don’t look good to me.” He took out his pistol and fired a few shots in the air. “That ought to bring ’em, if they’re still around.”

  Burkers drew his pistol and fired two shots, then paused and fired two shots more. The sound of the shots echoed back and forth among the mountains.

  “What the hell’s that?” Atwell asked, raising his head.