Lynch Law

by Len Levinson

  “It’s shots,” replied Finch, standing behind him.

  “I know it’s shots, you damned fool, but who the hell’s firin’ ’em?”

  “Sounds like it’s comin’ from outside the canyon.”

  Atwell looked in the direction of the shots. He and his men still were in the canyon, following the trail left by Stone.

  “Sounds like trouble,” he said. “Let’s go.”

  They ran across the canyon floor, heading for the passageway that led to the outside. The shots hadn’t sounded like a gunfight, but as if somebody was giving a signal.

  Atwell worried Dawson would fire him if Stone got away, because it wasn’t easy to get a good foreman job. He might have to become a cowboy on some lesser spread someplace, and that’d be hard to take after the soft life he’d enjoyed as Dawson’s ramrod.

  They came to the passageway, and Atwell moved through it swiftly, but instead of seeing his horses picketed nearby, there was nothing.

  “Shorty!” he said. “Where the hell are you?”

  There was no answer. Atwell looked off into the prairie and saw the dark forms of horses. Suddenly shots were fired. Atwell dropped to one knee.

  “That you, Atwell?” called the voice of Clint Standfield.

  “It’s me all right.”

  “Fire your gun so’s I kin see where you are.”

  Atwell pulled out his pistol and fired a shot into the air. Two horses galloped toward him from the prairie straight ahead.

  “Look—it’s Shorty!” said Finch.

  Atwell looked in the direction Finch was pointing and saw a figure lying on the ground. Atwell walked toward the figure and gazed down. It was Shorty all right, his throat slit open and his tongue sticking out.

  Two riders approached out of the night, reined their horses, and looked at Shorty.

  “What the hell happened to him?” Standfield asked.

  “Somebody carved him up, looks like.”

  Atwell took off his hat and scratched his head. Dawson would be furious. He looked up at Standfield. “What the hell’re you doin’ out here?”

  “Dawson sent us to see if you caught Stone yet, but I guess you ain’t. I’d better go back and tell him.”

  “I’ll tell him myself. You and Burkers round up the horses.”

  Standfield and Burkers rode off to collect the horses, and Atwell rolled a cigarette. Looks like I’m out of a job, he thought. I wonder if they’re doin’ any hirin’ over at the HC.

  Cynthia Delane lay in bed and stared at the ceiling. Craig had returned to his bed an hour ago, leaving her alone, and somehow Cynthia couldn’t fall asleep. Maybe it was the coffee she’d drunk with dinner, or maybe it was her troubled mind. She wore a white diaphanous nightgown and was covered with a light sheet. Her windows were open and a cool breeze floated through the room, causing the curtains to billow in the air. She wondered if she’d done the right thing by agreeing to stay with Craig in Texas, because she realized she felt no great passion for him and never had. She liked him as a friend or brother, but not a husband.

  She’d thought passion was silly when she’d married Craig, and her love for Craig was spiritual. They shared many similar interests, and their union had brought together two fine old New York families, but now Cynthia craved something more.

  Craig was too gentle, too nice, too much of a gentleman. They had good communication, but not so good that she could tell him what she wanted. Besides, she didn’t want to tell a man what to do. She wanted a man who knew what to do.

  John Stone seemed like a man who knew what to do. He walked through the world as if he owned it. Cynthia closed her eyes and thought how wonderful it’d be to have a man like John Stone sweep her up in his arms and carry her away.

  The snoring of Hank Dawson reverberated throughout the big ranch house. He was in a deep sleep without dreams when he felt someone shaking his shoulder. He opened his eyes and saw a dark form above him.

  “I got bad news,” Atwell said. “Stone got away.”

  Dawson sat up in bed as the clock downstairs struck three. He still was wearing his clothes, and the odor of death clung to them. “How’d he get away?”

  Atwell explained how Stone had killed the injun and Shorty, and stolen a horse. “I guess I should’ve left more men guardin’ the horses, but I wanted to have as many with me as I could, in case we had a shootout with Stone in the canyon.”

  “He outsmarted you.”

  “Reckon he did.”

  Atwell thought for sure he was going to be fired as Dawson rolled out of bed and lit a lamp. Then he used the flame from the lamp to light a cigar. His pants were drooping low on his hips so he thumbed his suspenders back onto his shoulders. He paced the floor back and forth a few times, then stopped and turned to Atwell.

  “First of all,” he said, “get the undertaker and preacher out here first thing in the morning. Next, hire a bunch of injuns to track down John Stone. I figger Stone’s headed for Mexico, so make sure you got all the main trails covered. Then send a few men to each town around here, in case Stone shows up lookin’ for supplies or a fresh horse. You say he’s got one of our horses?”

  “That’s right, sir.”

  “It’s got my brand on it. Make sure everybody knows they’re supposed to be lookin’ for a stranger on a Circle Bar D horse. And I’m uppin’ the reward. From now on it’s five hundred dollars to the man who gets Stone dead or alive, and dead is as good as alive as long as I got the son of a bitch. If you don’t have enough men, hire as many as you need, but get me John Stone.”

  Atwell walked out of the room, and in the corridor smelled the odor of Wayne’s putrefying body permeating the house, getting into every nook and cranny.

  At least he hadn’t been fired. Dawson needed his old ramrod. Atwell put on his hat as he descended the stairs to the ground floor. He crossed to the front door and made his way to the bunkhouse, his spurs jingling in the stillness of the night.

  He opened the door and heard snoring and wheezing from the men who hadn’t been out yet.

  “Everybody up!” he hollered, stamping his foot on the floor. “We got work to do!”

  The men groaned as they rolled around and opened their eyes, trying to see in the dim light.

  “What’s goin’ on?” one of them asked sleepily.

  “On yore feet, you bunch of bastards! Mr. Dawson is offerin’ five hundred dollars to the man who gits John Stone dead or alive!”

  John Stone saw the buildings of the HC Ranch sprawled out ahead of him in the night. He pulled back the reins of his horse, and the animal snorted and danced around on the grass.

  He knew Delane would have at least one guard posted to watch for Indians. He also assumed some if not all of Delane’s men were working part-time for Hank Dawson, reporting De-lane’s activities, because Dawson would want to keep an eye on the man who headed the Consortium. Stone would have to get into the house and talk with Delane without Delane’s hired hands knowing about it.

  He couldn’t take the horse with him because it carried the Circle Bar D brand. Stone guided the horse toward a cotton-wood tree, dismounted, pulled off the saddle, and stashed it under the tree. Then he slipped off the bridle and reins. The horse was naked, looking at Stone curiously. Stone patted the horse’s mane. “Go far away from here,” he said. “Don’t give me away to the Dawson gang.”

  Stone whipped the horse in the ass with the reins, and the horse leapt away in surprise. It broke into a gallop and ran off into the night.

  Stone listened to the sound of its receding hoof beats, and then the only sound was the chirping of crickets. He threw the saddlebags over his shoulder and carried the rifle in his right hand, setting off for the ranch nestled in the valley below him.

  The Circle Bar D Ranch was the scene of frantic activity. Some men galloped toward the border, hoping to catch Stone on the way down, and others rode toward the towns in the area, in case Stone showed up in one of them. Every man wanted that big five-hundred-dollar reward. />
  Dawson watched the men ride away while smoking a cigar next to the bedroom window. His lamp was lit, bathing the room in a soft glow. The putrescent odor of his son’s corpse filled the house.

  He saw Atwell ride out of the barn, followed by four men. Atwell passed in front of the ranch house and waved at Dawson, but Dawson didn’t bother to wave back. Atwell was on his way to Dumont to fetch the undertaker and preacher, to hire Indian trackers and more men.

  Dawson had been tempted to fire Atwell, but controlled his temper because he didn’t have anybody better. But he’d replace him first chance he got. He needed somebody smarter. In Dawson’s opinion, most cowboys were drunken fools. They worked like slaves for their miserable wages, then spent it all on whiskey and whores, incapable of thinking beyond next weekend.

  Stone was only one man, and he couldn’t hope to elude the small army that Dawson was sending out to catch him. “You’ll never get away from me,” Dawson muttered. “I’ll catch you no matter how long it takes, and how much it costs.”

  Pausing in the shadow of a tree, Stone looked at the HC ranch house and knew he couldn’t simply walk up to the front door and knock. Somehow he’d have to get into the house without awakening the guards.

  He saw open windows on the second floor. A large tree beside the house had branches that extended to the roof of the house. Stone heard a sound and froze in the shadow of a pile of wood. The door to the bunkhouse opened and a cowboy staggered out, half asleep, on his way to the privy. Stone held his rifle ready and watched the cowboy enter the privy and close the door. Soon thereafter the door to the privy opened again and the cowboy reappeared, making his way back to the bunkhouse.

  The cowboy entered the bunkhouse and Stone waited a few minutes until everything settled down again, then crouched low and ran toward the tree that grew beside the ranch house. Slinging the rifle over his shoulder, he jumped up and grabbed a branch, swung his legs back and forth, and hoisted himself onto it.

  The grounds surrounding the ranch house were still quiet. The guard probably was asleep. Stone waited a few moments, then climbed to the roof, stepped onto it, and made his way to the nearest open window.

  He came to the opening and saw a large bed with a white canopy. From the distance, he couldn’t discern whether one or two people were in the bed. He swung one of his long legs over the sill and entered the bedroom, then unslung his rifle, holding it ready to fire.

  The sweet fragrance of ladies’ perfume arose to his nostrils, and he heard a feminine sigh. He could see only one person in the bed now, and it was Cynthia Delane, rolling over onto her back, sweeping the thin sheet off her.

  Stone stood still; he didn’t want to frighten her. Cynthia finished her movement and lay supine. Stone waited a few seconds, then approached her slowly, his finger tight against the trigger, in case a cowboy with a gun in his hand burst through the door.

  Cynthia had thrown the sheet off her, and her nightgown raised high above her knees. A strap of her nightgown had fallen off her shoulder, and nearly all her right breast was exposed. Stone stopped beside the bed and looked at her. She was nearly naked and he hadn’t been with a woman for a long time. Her dark hair was tousled on the pillow and her mouth was half open.

  She was another man’s wife, and he was pledged to another woman himself, but he couldn’t help gazing at her with lust in his heart. The fragrance of her body rose to his nostrils and made him dizzy.

  His life was in danger and he needed these people to help him. He had to calm down and awaken Cynthia without alarming her.

  Meanwhile, in the depths of her sleep, Cynthia felt something was wrong. She didn’t know what it was—only a vague uneasiness—but it prodded her to consciousness. She opened her eyes and saw a big man standing over her.

  At first she couldn’t believe he was there. Then she realized she wasn’t dreaming, and a man indeed was in her bedroom leering at her! She opened her mouth to scream.

  Stone clamped his hand over her mouth. She tasted his salty fingers and could feel the tremendous strength of his body.

  “It’s me, John Stone,” he said. “Please calm down.”

  She recognized his voice, and he removed his hand from her mouth.

  “I need someplace to hide,” he said. “Will you help me?”

  Cynthia saw his face in the moonlight filtering through the window. “Of course we’ll help you,” and then realized she was half naked in bed. She pulled down the hem of her gown and raised the silken strap to her shoulder, arose from the bed, and put on her robe. “We were worried about you. Let me get Craig.”

  “Some of your people might be working for Dawson. Don’t tell anybody I’m here.”

  She left the room, and Stone sat on a chair beside the bed, thinking of Cynthia lying resplendent in bed. There’d been a moment where he’d almost grabbed her.

  Cynthia returned to the bedroom with Craig, who wore a blue and white striped robe, and his eyes were heavy-lidded from just being awakened.

  “My God—this is a surprise!”

  “I don’t want to put you to any trouble,” Stone said, “but I had no place else to go.”

  Delane patted him on the shoulder. “You came to the right place. We’ll take care of you. Last thing we heard, you were going to be lynched. We saw you pass by the New Dumont Hotel, surrounded by Dawson and his men. How’d you get out of it?”

  Stone gave them a quick rundown of what happened. “I didn’t know where to go, because the countryside is full of Dawson’s men. You’re the only people I know in this area.”

  “Your worries are over,” Craig said. “You can stay in our guest room. I’ll get Bernice, our maid, to fix it up for you.”

  “Can you trust her?”

  “Of course we can trust her. What makes you think we can’t?”

  “I wouldn’t be surprised if some of the people who work for you are also working for Dawson. He controls everything and everybody in this area. You and he are in negotiations, aren’t you?”

  “I don’t think he’d spy on me.”

  “I wouldn’t put anything past him. He’s ruthless and a little crazy, especially now that his son is dead. You mustn’t let any of your people know I’m hiding here.”

  “We can trust Bernice,” Cynthia said. “We brought her with us from New York, and she doesn’t know anybody around here. She’s worked for my family for years.”

  Cynthia left the room, and Craig looked at Stone.

  “Are you hungry?”

  “I could use a drink.”

  Cynthia returned to the room with Bernice, who wore a nightcap with her robe.

  “This is John Stone,” Cynthia said to Bernice. “He’ll be staying with us for a while, but nobody must know he’s here. Please make up the guest room for him.”

  “Before you do that,” Craig said, “bring us some whiskey and my box of cigars.”

  Bernice left the room, and Craig lit the lamp on the dresser while Cynthia sat on the bed.

  “Mind if I roll a cigarette?” Stone asked.

  “Not at all, but would you prefer a cigar?”

  “I’d rather have a cigarette.”

  Stone took the tobacco pouch from the saddlebags and rolled a cigarette as Cynthia gazed at his broad shoulders. Stone radiated raw masculine vitality, and she could feel it across the room. Craig was a scarecrow compared to him. What had she been thinking about when she married Craig?

  She’d been a girl, and had a girl’s needs. Now she was a woman, and had a woman’s needs.

  Stone raised his head and looked directly into her eyes, and it was like two streams of fire meeting in outer space.

  Chapter Nine

  The casket was white pine, unpainted, with the lid nailed shut, and the odor of Wayne Dawson’s rotting corpse seeped through. Ladies in long dresses held their handkerchiefs to their noses.

  Hank Dawson stood beside the casket, his hat in his hands, his head lowered as Reverend Skeaping delivered the funeral oration. A few feet fro
m the casket was the deep hole into which the casket would be placed, and the onlookers thought the sooner Wayne was buried, the better, because the stench was getting worse in the hot sun.

  “Dear Lord,” said Reverend Skeaping, his white chin whiskers quivering with emotion, “please gather unto yourself the soul and spirit of our dearly departed Wayne Dawson. He was a good man, kind to all who knew him, a friend to those who needed friends, and he has been taken from us cruelly, in the very prime of youth. Remember all the kind things he did in his young life, and forgive him the unkind things, because deep down he was a decent boy.”

  Reverend Skeaping’s voice droned on, and the assembly stood solemnly, knowing he was lying about Wayne Dawson, because Wayne had been a hellion with a vicious streak a mile wide. Everyone present except Hank Dawson was glad Wayne was dead.

  “Ashes to ashes and dust to dust,” the Reverend Skeaping said. ‘The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away. The righteous shall live at the right hand of the Lord forever and ever. Amen.”

  Reverend Skeaping winked at Thomas O’Neil, the undertaker, and O’Neil cleared his throat. The six cowboys from the Circle Bar D lowered the casket into the grave.

  The casket came to rest at the bottom of the grave, and the cowboys grabbed shovels, tossing dirt onto it. Hank Dawson stepped forward and looked into the grave, tears rolling down his cheeks. Wayne was gone and there was no bringing him back. Hank let out a sob and closed his eyes, as clods of earth filled the hole in the ground.

  Bernice stood over the hot stove, frying bacon and eggs. She wore an apron and her funny little maid’s hat from New York City.

  Cynthia entered the kitchen, eating an apple. “Bernice, I want to talk with you.”

  Bernice flipped over the strips of bacon so they could cook on both sides. “What is it, ma’am?”

  “I know Mr. Delane spoke with you about this last night, but I want to make sure you understand that you mustn’t say a word about Mr. Stone to anybody, do you understand?”

  “I understand, ma’am.”

  “Just make believe Mr. Stone isn’t here, because you wouldn’t want anything to happen to him, would you?”