Lynch Law

by Len Levinson

  Reverend Skeaping lit his pipe, and his head disappeared in a cloud of blue smoke. Then he arose through the smoke and walked toward the kitchen, leaving behind the fragrance of his tobacco.

  “We’re safe,” Craig said. “All we have to do is wait for the next stagecoach.”

  Cynthia agreed absentmindedly, thinking about John Stone. He was somewhere in town, possibly close by, and she wished she could see him again. Reverend Skeaping returned with a plate heaped high with biscuits, and a bowl of butter, placing both on the table.

  Cynthia and Craig dived on the biscuits and butter like ravenous animals, and Reverend Skeaping puffed his pipe contentedly, feeling at peace with the world.

  Five hundred yards away, in the depths of Chinatown, John Stone explained his escape plan to Jimmy Wing, who listened attentively and then said, “I think you should wait a few days.”

  “I can’t wait a few days. I’d rather make a run for it.”

  “It will take at least a day to make all the preparations, and today is almost finished, so you will have to leave tomorrow night at the earliest. Is all right?”

  “Is fine, but there’s just one problem—I can’t afford to pay for the horse and saddle, but maybe you can collect from Craig Delane. He’s a friend of mine and should be good for the money.”

  “Mr. Delane and his beautiful wife have had many misfortunes since they saw you last,” Jimmy Wing explained. “Dawson’s cowboys burned his ranch to the ground.”

  Stone was stunned by this information. “I should never’ve gotten them involved,” he said. “It’s my fault.”

  “Everybody is responsible for what he does,” said Jimmy Wing. “The Delanes will probably leave Dumont with their lives, at least. We cannot be so sure about you.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  It was ten o’clock at night, and Cynthia had just awakened. She was lying next to Craig on the bed in the guest room of the rectory, and had been sleeping since four o’clock in the afternoon.

  Craig mumbled something in his sleep. The doctor had cleaned and bandaged his wound, but he had a fever. She touched her hand to his forehead, and it was hot, covered with perspiration.

  She felt desolate and abandoned, and knew a great ordeal lay ahead. Somehow she and Craig would have to get out of town, and there was no telling what Dawson might do.

  She didn’t think she could depend on Craig. He’d been acting as if his mind had cracked. She realized now that a woman should marry a man who wouldn’t break under pressure.

  It wasn’t because she was weak herself and needed somebody to take care of her. She could take care of herself, but she wanted a man who could take care of himself too.

  Craig was a hothouse flower. Until now, everything had been easy for him. He’d come out west to prove himself, and failed the test. She’d help him any way she could, but their married life was over.

  She remembered the feeling she’d had when she’d been with John Stone in the guest room of the HC Ranch, and had an irresistible urge to hug him, but managed to fight it down.

  Men were no mystery to her, and she’d seen the mad gleam of lust in his eyes. He wanted her too, but wouldn’t make advances to the wife of a friend.

  What if she’s weren’t a wife anymore? There’d be nothing to stop them. Love was a rare and magic thing, and no one could make it happen. Years could pass, and she might never have that feeling again. It was possible she’d become an old maid and die alone. She’d had a great-aunt like that.

  She wished there was some way she could see John Stone, so she could tell him she wasn’t married anymore. Then he could stop his search for a dream woman, and have a real woman who’d hold him tightly and love him with every ounce of her being.

  Her heart beat faster, and she smiled. She was getting carried away. Stone and she’d never discussed philosophy, religion, politics, child-rearing, or any of the important subjects. She didn’t even know his interests, or even if he had interests.

  But she already had somebody who shared her interests, and it wasn’t enough. She wondered if somehow she could reach John Stone. It would be dangerous to go to him in Chinatown, but something told her she ought to try, because she might never meet another John Stone in her life.

  She rolled out of bed, wearing a white cotton nightgown Mrs. Bunberry had lent her. Folded on the chair were clean jeans and a shirt, and she put them on, tying a red bandanna around her throat. She looked at herself in the mirror and combed her hair, then put on a wide-brimmed cowboy hat with a braided horsehair band.

  Craig stirred on the bed, and she froze in the shadow, looking at him, his thin legs illuminated by a shaft of moonlight. He rolled over and was still again, and she opened the door, passing into the corridor. She made her way to the dining room, unlatched the door, and was greeted by a chorus of crickets as she stepped into the backyard.

  A half-moon floated in the sky, outlining a silvery mountain range on the horizon. She walked around the house, passed through the alley, and came to the street. Removing her hat, she eased her head out from behind the building and looked toward the saloon district, and could hear faint strains of piano music. Chinatown was to her left in the darkness at the edge of town. She pulled her hat low over her eyes and stepped onto the sidewalk, imitating the slow, rolling gait of a man as she headed toward the shadows of Chinatown.

  Hank Dawson sat in the moonlight next to his son’s grave, drinking a jug of whiskey. He hadn’t put up a headstone, and only a mound of brown earth covered the spot where Wayne lay buried in the ground.

  Dawson had bought the best casket available, but it was wood and the rats probably had chewed through it by now. He imagined them tearing Wayne’s flesh apart with their tiny teeth, and worms crawling into Wayne’s ears.

  A tidal wave of sorrow struck him in the heart. Life was miserable now that Wayne was gone. His vast wealth, his land, and his cattle didn’t mean so much to him anymore.

  Wayne had been a good boy, all a father could ask for. He liked all the things men liked, and enjoyed life, whereas Hank Dawson mainly liked to eat, and had been eating more than ever since coming home.

  Beside him, wrapped in a napkin, was the roasted leg of a turkey. He unwrapped the napkin and took a huge bite, working his jaws, mashing the meat into paste. Hank had been happy when Wayne was alive, because Wayne would tell him the things he did, and it was as if Hank had done them himself.

  Now everything had turned grim, and the turkey tasted like dust in his mouth. It wasn’t fair the way the boy had been taken away from him, and burning the HC Ranch had given him no great satisfaction. He needed his pound of flesh, and it could only come from John Stone.

  John Stone was in Dumont, but where? He might stay hidden for weeks or months, and Dawson knew that the vigilance of his men would slacken after a while. Perhaps Stone might slip out of town on a dark night, and then Dawson would never be able to track him down.

  Dawson sipped whiskey and felt himself getting angry. It wasn’t often that his goals were thwarted. Sometimes he thought Wayne was looking down at him reproachfully for not avenging his death.

  Wayne had been killed, but no one had paid. Maybe it was time to start spilling blood. There was nothing like death to bring people to their senses.

  He knew his men would end up in the saloons and whorehouses of Dumont no matter what his orders were, and decided to move his headquarters to town and supervise the hunt personally. If he was serious about avenging Wayne’s death, he’d get up off his fat ass and throw some terror into the hearts of the good citizens of Dumont.

  He drained the jug of whiskey and rose unsteadily to his feet. Staggering from side to side, he got his bearings and stumbled toward the bunkhouse, where a light shone in the window. As he drew closer, he heard one of his cowboys playing a guitar and singing a song about the senoritas of Laredo.

  Dawson threw open the door of the bunkhouse and saw a group of men gathered around the table playing cards, while others snored in their bunks. The
guitarist at the window stopped playing at the sight of Dawson.

  “Where’s Atwell?” Dawson asked.

  “In his bunk.”

  The cowboy pointed, and Dawson ambled back to where Atwell slept beneath his blanket, a faint smile on his face. Dawson shook Atwell’s shoulder roughly.

  In a sudden movement, Atwell pulled his gun from underneath his pillow and pointed it at Dawson’s nose, then recognized who he was.

  Dawson stank of whiskey and stale sweat, and his beard carried bits of turkey. “Round up every man on the spread,” Dawson ordered gutturally. “We’re going to tear up Dumont, until we find John Stone.”

  Cynthia walked along the darkened sidewalk, passing a drunk sleeping in the gutter, then came to a long row of buildings locked and shuttered for the night.

  At their end was Chinatown, deserted, with nothing to indicate a strange race from a far-off land lived here. Cynthia knew it was extremely dangerous to wander around Dumont at night, but was driven by a deep need.

  She thought of knocking on the first door, and awakening the people inside, but realized that might cause a commotion, and she didn’t want to attract attention to herself. Maybe there’d be somebody awake at the rear of the buildings.

  She turned into the first alley, making her way toward the shaft of moonlight shining through the tree at the end. Halfway through the alley she noticed a figure sprawled on the ground. Stopping, she realized it was a midget Chinaman with a pigtail, wearing a black beanie, sleeping soundly.

  Suddenly the Chinaman became aware of her presence and woke up, his eyes bulging at the sight of her. He screamed, jumped to his feet, and ran on stubby little legs toward the backyard, his pigtail dancing in the moonlight.

  Cynthia followed him toward the privies and sheds in the backyard. All buildings were darkened, and she pinched her lips together, wondering what to do next, when she became aware of a dim orange light in a window not far away.

  She made her way to it, passing a wagon, a chicken coop, and a stack of firewood. The light shone through the window of a room on the ground floor of a small building. She approached the door and knocked.

  The door opened and a tall, slope-shouldered Chinese man stood before her. “What you want?” he demanded.

  “Could you take me to John Stone? It’s very important that I see him.”

  The door slammed in her face. Turning, she saw another light glowing behind a small window. It hadn’t been on before, and she moved toward it, wondering what to say.

  She knocked on the door, and footsteps came to her from the other side. The door was opened by a small man wearing glasses and a black robe.

  “I must see John Stone,” she said. “It’s very important.”

  He stared at her for a few moments, then bowed and said, “Come in.”

  She entered his room. Incense burned in a pot beside a mat on the floor, and in the corner was a two-foot black statue of the Buddha seated in meditation.

  “What is your name?” the Chinese man asked.

  “Cynthia Delane.”

  “I am Mew Fong. Please follow me.”

  He opened a door and plunged into a long, dark hallway, and she followed, her heart beating wildly.

  John Stone sat at the table in the cellar and studied a map to determine where he would go next. He’d rejected south to Mexico because he thought Marie would more likely be in the United States. There was no point going east, because that was where he’d started from. The choice was between north and west, but he’d just come from the north on the wagon train, so he’d go west to New Mexico and Arizona.

  Tomorrow night he’d be on his way. The horse would be saddled behind the building, and he’d sneak out at two or three in the morning, making his run for the Pecos.

  His lungs felt clogged and weak, from breathing the musty air of the cellar. He longed for the clear air of the prairie, the sunlight, and the vast seas of buffalo grass.

  He heard a sound above his head and reached for the shotgun. Blowing out the lamp, stepping back into the corner, he pointed the shotgun at the stairs.

  The trapdoor opened, and he saw a pair of men’s cowboy boots and a pair of pants. The figure stepped lower, and Cynthia Delane emerged, illuminated by light from the office above.

  “John Stone?” she asked, peering into the darkness.

  He was astonished to see her and came out of the corner, holding the shotgun. The trapdoor closed above them, and an expression of tense expectation was on her face.

  “How did you find me?”

  “A Chinese man brought me here.”

  “Where’s Craig?”

  “He was shot in the hand by Everett Lorch.”

  “You took a big chance coming here.”

  “I had to talk with you.” She looked into his eyes and moved closer. “I’m leaving Craig,” she said, and waited for him to take the hint.

  “What happened?”

  “I don’t love him.”

  “Maybe you’ll change your mind, once you return to New York.”

  “My mind is made up.”

  She was a few feet away, and they were alone, with a bed in the corner. He reached for his bag of tobacco, thinking it over, and she realized with dismay that if he had to think it over, he wasn’t feeling what she was feeling. A few awkward moments passed.

  “I think I’d better be going,” she said, trying to regain her composure.

  “There’s no hurry. Have a seat.”

  Confused, she sat at the table opposite him. Their eyes met and he looked away.

  “What are your plans?” she asked.

  “I’m making a run first chance I get.”

  “Dawson’s men are all over town. You’ll have your hands full.”

  “That’s the way it’s always been.”

  “It won’t be easy for us to leave either. Dawson’s angry because we helped you. Craig and I didn’t realize what we’ve been up against out here. We’ve really been rather naive, but then I suppose I’ve been naive all my life. I never should’ve married Craig.”

  “You seem to get along well.”

  “There’s more to life than just getting along well.”

  They sat in silence for a few moments, afraid to make a move.

  “Well,” she said, “I wanted to find something out, and I did. Guess I’ll be on my way. It’s been nice knowing you, John Stone. Maybe someday, in some other place, we’ll meet again, who knows.”

  She arose and walked unsteadily toward the stairs, and he didn’t know whether to run after her or remain still. She stopped at the foot of the stairs and looked at him quizzically for a moment, then climbed the steps and knocked on the trapdoor.

  He watched her pass from sight, and the trapdoor closed again. Lighting his cigarette, he sat at the table and stared into space.

  Cynthia walked home, trying to keep from crying. She’d offered herself to him, and now felt ugly and unwanted. The woman he wanted most was in his pocket, and Cynthia was second-best, thrown away, and now what kind of life could she expect?

  She had to leave Craig; there was no doubt about that. She didn’t love him and had to be true to herself, but it’d be no fun as an old maid. Her future was uncertain, and she couldn’t even be sure she’d get out of town alive.

  She passed along the darkened sidewalk when suddenly a shadow moved in a doorway beside her, a hand shot out and grabbed her arm so tightly it hurt.

  She screamed and found herself looking into the leathery face of Everett Lorch. “Where d’ya think you’re goin’?” he asked with a sneer.

  Craig felt someone shaking his shoulder and opened his eyes. The face of Reverend Skeaping floated above him in the darkness. “Hank Dawson and his men just rode into town. Thought you might want to know.”

  Craig turned to Cynthia, and she wasn’t there. “Where’s my wife?”

  “Don’t know.”

  He called her name, but there was no answer. Worried, he got out of bed and pulled on his boots, then follow
ed Reverend Skeaping through the rectory and into the church, passing the silent pews to the windows in front.

  Craig looked out a window and saw horsemen in front of the New Dumont Hotel. One of them dismounted, and he was round as a barrel. Hank Dawson shuffled toward the steps of the hotel, and then his men climbed down from their saddles. An enormous crowd was in the street, over a hundred armed men.

  “Looks like trouble,” Reverend Skeaping said. “You’d better hide in the root cellar.”

  Craig returned to his room and strapped on his gun. Then he sat on the bed and tried to think of what had happened to Cynthia. Where had she gone?

  He couldn’t hide in the root cellar while Cynthia was roaming around in the night. Arising from the bed, he put on his hat and walked toward the door.

  Dawson entered the lobby of the New Dumont Hotel and saw his gunfighters and cowboys lounging about on sofas and chairs. When they spotted his monstrous figure, they sat straighter and tried to appear alert although it was two o’clock in the morning. Lorch walked toward him, hat in hand. “I caught the Delane woman comin’ from Chinatown,” he said. “We think she was talkin’ to John Stone.”

  Dawson followed Lorch down the hall, remembering his Indian scouts tracking Stone to that Chinese restaurant. They entered an office, and Cynthia sat in the corner. Other cowboys were in the office guarding her, and a bottle of whiskey sat on the desk.

  Dawson walked toward Cynthia and looked into her eyes. “Where is he?”

  Cynthia didn’t reply, repelled by the odor coming from his mouth, the hair sprouting out of his nose and ears, and his unbelievable massive grossness.

  He raised his hand to slap her face, and she sat stoically, looking him in the eyes. Dawson lowered his hand.

  “You’re sure she was coming from Chinatown?” Dawson asked Lorch.

  “Saw her myself.”

  He looked at her. “What were you doing in Chinatown this time of night?”

  “Taking a walk.”

  One of the cowboys chortled, and Dawson turned down the corners of his mouth. He doubted she knew Chinese people well enough to visit, so she must’ve gone to see John Stone, which meant Jimmy Wing had out bluffed him the other night.