Lynch Law

by Len Levinson

  “I am distraught. Aren’t you distraught?”

  “Of course.” He reached over and placed his hand on her shoulder. “This’ll all be over in a few days.”

  “I hope we can last that long.”

  Everett Lorch sat on a bale of hay in the barn and lit a cigarette. He’d sent Curly Soames to the Circle Bar D early in the morning, and now it was nearly suppertime and Curly hadn’t returned. Throughout the entire day he’d expected Hank Dawson to show up with his men. What the hell happened?

  He knew Hank Dawson wanted to get his hands on Stone, so Lorch had to assume Dawson hadn’t received the message he’d written, but why? Where was Curly?

  Lorch listened to the men hammering nails into the privy. It was only a two-hour ride to the Circle Bar D. Lorch didn’t know what had gone wrong, but had to do something.

  He took out his notepad and wrote:

  JOHN STONE IS HIDING OUT AT THE HC RANCH ON THE SECOND FLOOR IN THE GUEST ROOM

  He tore the sheet of paper out of the pad and folded it. Then he walked out of the barn, approaching Carruthers and Hannah, repairing the privy.

  “Put yore shirts on and saddle up yore horses,” Lorch said, handing Carruthers the note. “I want you to deliver this, in person, to Hank Dawson.”

  Carruthers took the note, opened it up, and looked at it, but he couldn’t read. He and Hannah put on their shirts.

  “Hurry up!” Lorch told them.

  Carruthers and Hannah strapped on their gun belts and dropped their hats on their heads. They walked toward the corral to get their horses.

  Lorch figured Dawson should get the message around nightfall, and then the fun would start.

  Chapter Ten

  The sun was a giant orange ball sitting on the tree line to the west of the HC Ranch, sending streaks of violet and gold through the sky. Craig Delane glanced at it through a window as he climbed the stairs to the second-floor corridor of his ranch house. He walked down the corridor and knocked on the door of the guest room.

  “Come in.”

  Delane entered the room and saw Stone stood near the bed; he’d been pacing when Delane knocked.

  “Sounds like you’re restless up here,” Delane said. “Guess it’s no fun being confined to a room this size all day.”

  “I’m leaving as soon as it gets dark,” Stone told him. “Think I’d be safer on the open range. Sleep during the day and ride by night, and in a few days I’ll be far away. I’ll have to ask you to lend me a horse and some supplies. I’ll send you a check as soon as I get settled.”

  “Don’t worry about that,” Craig replied. “Are you sure this is the right thing to do?”

  “I don’t want to get surrounded in this house.”

  Craig looked out the window. “It’ll be dark in about another hour. I’ll take care of everything.”

  Craig descended the stairs and saw Cynthia in the living room, reading a magazine.

  “John has decided to leave as soon as it gets dark,” Craig said. “Bring him his supper, while I have the men saddle a horse.”

  Carruthers and Hannah galloped underneath the carved wooden sign that said circle bar d. It was night as they made their way to the main ranch house, lamps burning in the windows. Tethering their horses to the hitching rail, they walked toward the front porch.

  Jesse Atwell sat in the darkness, smoking a cigarette, and arose as they approached.

  “What’re you fellers doin’ here?” Atwell asked.

  “Got a message for Mr. Dawson, from Lorch,” Carruthers said. “Lorch told me to give it to Mr. Dawson in person. He said it’s important.”

  “Follow me.”

  Atwell led them into the house and through the corridors to Hank Dawson’s office, opened the door, and saw Dawson seated on the big armchair in front of his desk, a cigar perched between his sausage fingers. Dawson’s face was haggard; his eyes had dark, wrinkled pouches underneath them.

  “What is it?” Dawson growled.

  “These men have a message for you from Everett Lorch at the HC.”

  Dawson looked at Carruthers and Hannah, his eyebrows knitted together. Carruthers stepped forward and handed the piece of paper to Dawson, who unfolded it and read the words scrawled by Everett Lorch. Dawson’s eyes widened and he sat straighter in his chair as he read the note again. A faint smile appeared on his face as he turned to Atwell.

  “Saddle up as many men as you can,” he said, “and make sure they’re fully armed.”

  Cynthia carried the tray into John Stone’s room. “Supper.”

  He took the tray and sat on the chair beside the window. Before him was a slab of roast beef, mashed potatoes, sliced carrots, and a pot of coffee.

  She sat on the chair opposite him. “Craig said you’re leaving us.”

  ‘Time to move on.”

  She watched him eat, and something told her he wasn’t going to make it.

  “You don’t think you’ll be safer here?”

  “I’ll be hard to find on the prairie.”

  He placed a forkful of mashed potato into his mouth. She wanted to rush over and take him in her arms. The door opened and Craig walked in.

  “My foreman is saddling my best horse,” he said. “I’ve named him Thor, and he’s got tremendous speed and endurance. I don’t think you’ll be disappointed in him.”

  “I don’t want to take your best horse,” Stone said.

  “I can always get another. It’s the least I can do.”

  “Wish I could pay.

  “It’s been our pleasure, isn’t that right, Cynthia?”

  In the barn, by the light of a lamp, Everett Lorch threw a saddle onto Thor, the fine black stallion that Craig Delane had bought from one of the local horse breeders. He pulled the straps down and tightened the cinch.

  Then he took a step backward and sat on a barrel, wondering what to do next. He knew why Craig Delane told him to saddle the horse. John Stone was going to make a run for it.

  Lorch wasn’t a great gunfighter, but knew how to shoot straight. He wondered if he should kill John Stone as he was trying to leave. Just drill him in the back and bring him down, then collect five hundred dollars.

  Lorch debated the pros and cons with himself. It’d be dangerous, because if he missed, Stone would surely kill him as he’d killed so many others.

  There was one other option. Four other cowboys were in the bunkhouse, having supper. Maybe he could let them in on the secret. Together they could rush Stone and kill him, and split the five-hundred-dollar reward. That’d give each of them one hundred dollars.

  There was a hitch. Stone was fast. He’d killed many cowboys since arriving in Dumont County. Lorch was torn between fear of Stone and greed for money.

  He heard footsteps approaching.

  “Lorch!” called Craig Delane. “Do you have Thor ready?”

  “He’s right here!”

  “Bring him outside!”

  Lorch didn’t have time to rustle up the boys in the bunkhouse. If he was going to stop Stone, he’d have to do it alone. Grabbing the bridle of the horse, he led him toward the door and saw in the darkness three figures approaching across the yard.

  Lorch walked out of the barn, and Thor clip-clopped beside him, jerking his head up and down. Delane was on the left, his wife was in the middle, and John Stone was on the right, carrying a rifle in his hand and saddlebags over his shoulder, huge in the moonlight. Five hundred dollars was a lot of money, but Lorch decided that his life was worth more.

  Delane grasped Thor’s bridle. “You can go to the bunkhouse now, Mr. Lorch,” he said.

  Stone stepped in front of Lorch. “Do you know who I am?”

  “I think so,” Lorch replied, and felt a shiver up his spine.

  “Keep your mouth shut.”

  “Right,” Lorch said. “Yessir.”

  Lorch walked toward the bunkhouse. He didn’t want to go up against John Stone.

  Stone, Craig, and Cynthia stood with Thor in front of the barn. The mo
onlight cast long shadows all around them.

  “I appreciate all you’ve done for me,” Stone said to Craig and Cynthia. “Don’t know how I would’ve made it without you.”

  “Good luck to you,” said Craig, holding out his hand.

  Stone shook it, then turned to Cynthia. She moved forward and hugged him. “Be careful.”

  He gave her a squeeze, and never wanted to let go. They released each other, took a step back, and gazed into each other’s eyes one last time. There was a lump in Stone’s throat as he climbed on top of Thor. He wheeled him around and rode away from the barn, heading for the open prairie.

  Craig and Cynthia stood side by side and held hands, watching him disappear into the night.

  Twenty minutes later, Craig and Cynthia heard a rumble in the distance. At first they thought it might be thunder, but it became a continuous roar, the sound of horses galloping across the plains.

  Craig and Cynthia lowered their forks, looked at each other, and rushed to the window of the dining room.

  Forty riders rounded the bend next to the barn and charged toward the front of the house. They pulled back on their reins, bringing their horses to a halt in a huge cloud of dust, then dismounted, yanked their rifles out of their scabbards, and surrounded the main house.

  Hank Dawson, followed by several of his men, walked toward the front door.

  “Go to your room,” Craig said to Cynthia. “I’ll take care of this.”

  “I want to be with you.”

  Craig saw the determination in her eyes. There was a loud knock on the door.

  Bernice entered the living room. “Should I get it?”

  “No,” said Craig. “I’ll go.”

  Craig decided not to arm himself and give them an excuse to shoot him. There was another louder knock. He pulled down the points of his vest and walked toward the front door, Cynthia following him.

  They heard Hank Dawson’s booming voice: “Open up this damned door or I’ll break it down!”

  Craig grasped the knob of the door and pulled it open. He saw Hank Dawson in front of him, a rifle in his hand, and a crowd of men behind Dawson.

  “We want him,” Dawson said. “Git out of the way.”

  Dawson nodded to his men and they rushed the door, pushing Craig and Cynthia to the side. Dawson’s men invaded the house, heading for the staircase, grim-faced and hard-looking, climbing the stairs to the second floor.

  Craig stepped in front of Dawson. “Where I come from, people don’t enter other people’s homes without an invitation.”

  Dawson pointed his rifle at Craig’s belly. “I ought to kill you.”

  Craig looked down the long barrel of the gun, and Cynthia blanched.

  “You knew John Stone killed my son,” Dawson said evenly. “Why did you hide him?”

  “He was our friend,” Craig replied.

  There was a commotion upstairs, and Dawson heard slamming and banging as his men tipped over beds and knocked dressers onto their sides. They opened closet doors, threw clothing out, and peered up fireplaces.

  “Let me through!” said a voice behind him.

  Dawson turned and saw Everett Lorch making his way through the crowd of Circle Bar D cowboys on the front porch. Lorch was followed by the other cowboys who were ostensibly employed by Craig Delane, but who really took their orders from Dawson.

  Lorch came to a stop in front of Dawson. “Stone left about a half hour ago!” Lorch pointed north. “He went thataway!”

  “Why did you let him get away?”

  “He had the drop on me.”

  Dawson stepped into Craig’s living room and cupped his hands around his mouth. “You men git down here! He’s got away!”

  The men rumbled down the stairs. Dawson turned to Craig and Cynthia. “I’ll take care of you after I get Stone.”

  Dawson stomped across the porch, as his men followed, carrying their rifles and guns. They all climbed onto their horses.

  “Let’s git him!” Dawson bellowed.

  Dawson shoved his spurs into his horse, and the animal bounded away. Dawson’s men followed, heading north after John Stone. Craig and Cynthia watched them go, and their hoof beats receded into the night.

  Craig and Cynthia turned around, and Bernice stood at the end of the vestibule, light from a lamp aureoling behind her.

  “It was you who told them, wasn’t it?” Cynthia asked.

  Bernice said nothing. She looked down at the floor.

  “You’re fired,” Cynthia said. “I’ll expect you to leave in the morning.”

  The stars in the Milky Way blazed like fire, and Stone had the whole night ahead of him. Thor moved steadily beneath him, and Stone could sense the great power of the animal. A coyote howled in a cave nearby, and Stone rocked back and forth in the saddle, holding the reins in his right hand. He’d take his chances on the open plains any day.

  His thoughts drifted back to Cynthia Delane, and he was glad he’d never tried anything. He’d escaped a powerful temptation, and in a corner of his mind wished he’d given in, because she’d been so lovely.

  He heard something, and his ears perked up. It was a low roar somewhere behind him, barely perceptible. He pulled Thor to a halt, and the animal snorted, twisting his head from side to side because he wanted to keep going.

  “Be still,” Stone said.

  Thor understood, raising his massive head and twitching his ears. Stone turned around in his saddle. The roar became louder, and Stone heard it more distinctly. He’d heard that sound before, and his heart sank, because he knew what it was: a large number of horses galloping, like a squadron of cavalry, in the night.

  Stone sat in his saddle and wished it was the wind in the trees, or an approaching storm, but he was an old cavalry soldier and knew horses when he heard them. They were behind him, headed his way. He didn’t know how they’d found him, and there was only one thing to do.

  He touched his spurs to Thor’s withers, and Thor lunged forward, stretching out his long, powerful legs, plunging them into the ground. Stone crouched low in the saddle as the horse galloped across the plains.

  A few miles behind him, men rode hard through a forest of trees opulent with leaves, the hooves of their horses pounding into the ground and tearing it apart. The moon shone down and the wind threatened to rip their hats off.

  Hank Dawson rode in front, peering ahead for any trace of John Stone. Twelve Indian trackers rode a hundred yards in advance of the main body of men, yipping and yelling, adding to the excitement of the chase. They shook their rifles in the air, and each hoped to kill John Stone for the five-hundred-dollar reward.

  Hank Dawson rode a big muscular horse who strained his neck forward with every leap he took. Dawson flew through the air, wind whistling in his beard. “Faster!” he shouted. “Don’t let him get away!”

  Thor broke his stride, faltered, and Stone was nearly thrown out of the saddle. Thor slowed down and began to limp. Stone pulled back on the reins, bringing the horse to a halt.

  He climbed down from the saddle and checked the horse’s legs, as the hoof beats behind him became louder, and then saw the loose shoe.

  Stone turned around and brought the horse’s hoof between his knees. He pulled out his pistol, held the barrel in his hand, and used the grip as a hammer, banging in the nails, his strokes rang sharply into the night. Stone checked the horseshoe again, and it was tight. Holstering his gun, he jumped into the saddle, and Thor already was running away.

  A shot rang out, and a bullet whizzed over Stone’s head. He turned around and could make out the heads of riders appearing over the rim of a hill. If he could see them, they could see him. He cursed the loose horseshoe as he hunkered down in the saddle.

  Thor galloped over the prairie, and Stone heard the yelling of Indians behind him.

  ‘Taster,” he murmured into his horse’s ear as he crouched lower in the saddle. “We’ve got to get away!”

  The men in the posse fired, and he recalled what had happened the
last time they’d chased him. They’d shot his horse out from underneath him, and if he didn’t have that mountain range nearby, they would’ve run him down and killed him.

  He unfolded the map of the territory in his mind, and it occurred to him that the town of Dumont was only a few miles away. Dawson and his men would catch up with him eventually, and he’d have to make a stand someplace. The town of Dumont would be as good a place as any. He could hide, play hit-and-run in the alleys, take many of Dawson’s men with him before they got him.

  He estimated the location of Dumont and pointed Thor in that direction. A bullet cracked over his head, and he dropped lower in the saddle. Then he remembered Hong Fat, the Chinese waiter in Gallagher’s Restaurant where the whole mess began. Maybe he could find Hong Fat, and Hong Fat could hide him.

  A bullet kicked into the ground about ten feet away and another whistled past his ear as he worked his body smoothly with the motions of Thor. Together they streaked across the plains toward Dumont.

  Hank Dawson saw his Indian scouts veering off to the right, and realized that Stone had changed the direction of his run. Dawson and his men followed the Indians and galloped off in the new direction, their legs flapping against the ribs of their horses.

  Dawson wondered why Stone had changed course. The darkness and intensity of the chase had disoriented him. Jesse Atwell, his ramrod, was riding at his side, and Dawson turned to him.

  “What’s up ahead?” Dawson called out.

  “Dumont!” Atwell replied.

  Dawson’s face creased a smile as he realized where he was. He raised his immensity a few inches higher in his saddle and yelled, “He’s a-headin’ toward Dumont, boys! We got him where we want him now!”

  Chapter Eleven

  The lights of Dumont glittered in the night, and John Stone rode toward it, hoping he could find shelter. Thor ran steadily, gobbling up miles in his pounding hooves, and gradually was pulling away from Dawson and his men.

  But Stone knew he couldn’t elude them forever. Thor would tire before long, and Dawson held all the high cards. Dawson could buy fresh horses easily, whereas Stone couldn’t. Dawson had an army of spies working for him, and Stone was alone.