Alias: The Hangman From Hell

by Franklin D. Lincoln

The Kid braced his hand against the top hinge and pulled the door open a crack. As he had hoped, there was no sound. He peeked through the crack and could see the deputy still sitting in his chair at the end of the hall. He had stood his shotgun against the wall, leaning back in his chair with his head resting against the wall behind him. His eyes were closed and his chest arose and fell slowly as he slept.

  This was about the twelfth time The Kid had peered out waiting for the lawman to go to sleep. Finally, the time was right to make his move.

  All was quiet this time of night, for it was sometime past one o’clock in the morning. It had been more than four hours since he had left Belle Bonner at the Eureka Café. When he had left the dining room he had found himself still under the watchful eye of Clay Shaw. The lawman was across the street and made no secret of his presence. He tipped his hat to The Hangman and smiled wryly.

  As much as Laredo had wanted to head straight to the livery, get his horse, and ride out of town as fast as he could, he knew had no choice but to head back to the hotel and his room. He would have to wait for his chance.

  Finally, the time was right. Knowing that if he tried to get past the sleeping deputy, he might awaken him. He had another plan. Silently, he closed the door, returned to the bed and donned the long black coat and black hat. Then blowing out the light of the hurricane lamp on the stand next to the bed and turning to the window, he looked out into the street below. The town was mostly dark now, except for the scattered street fires that had been set as nighttime illumination and the light from the open saloons farther down the street. Once in a while a shadow emerged from the saloon and an occasional rider rode by.

  Carefully he gripped the lower portion of the half opened window and pushed the frame upward. He had tried the window earlier that night and found that though it had been stuck shut for quite some time, that with a little extra push he had been able to break it loose and raise it half way. The cool night air had breezed through and the tinny sound of a honky tonk piano filtered in.

  Checking one more time, to be sure no one was out there where he could be seen, he shoved himself out the window, head first with his backside to the street. He would have to take a chance for a few moments that no one entered the street while his back was turned, but hopefully the darkness of the black coat and hat would conceal him in the shadows.

  He stretched his body upward and grasped the overhang of the roof above him. He bunched his muscles and heaved upward, pulling his lower body through the window frame. His arms felt the sudden weight of his body as his feet came through, and half dangled until they quickly found a perch on the window sill.

  Pushing his hands downward on the roof and bending his legs against the sill, he gave a vigorous shove and pushed himself up onto the roof. The sheets of roofing were hard and gritty and still slightly warm from the hot day before. He rolled onto his side and stretched out along the roof, parallel to the street. He lay quiet and motionless for a few moments, keeping his head down to keep any shine from his face hidden.

  Gradually he turned his head enough to see into the street. A flash of light from the saloon’s batwing door’s opening, spilled into the street. Two drunken cowboys staggered to their horses and after a few unsuccessful attempts, they managed to mount their horses and ride down the street toward the hotel. They were swaying in their saddles and singing as they passed by.

  Then all was quiet again. Laredo crawled slowly and silently to the edge of the building on an alley side. Checking to make sure he was not near a window, neither upstairs or down, nor was there any debris in the alley below, he gripped the edge of the overhang and lowered himself, backside first over the edge and hung full length , bracing his feet against the clapboard side of the hotel. Looking down past his dangling feet he could see there was a good eight foot drop beneath him. He knew full well that he was chancing injury, but he had to try.

  With a deep breath and a tight lip, he released his hold on the roof edge and dropped. The ground came up with amazing speed and he let his knees bend as he hit the ground, landing on his heels and falling backward against the wall of the gunsmith shop next door. He slid down the wall into a sitting position, landing with a whump and his head banging back against the wall. His rear was sore, his back was stinging, and his head ached, but other than that he seemed to be in good shape. He wiggled his feet and moved his legs. He hadn’t broken or sprained anything. He let out a deep breath and sat silent; listening to see if anyone had heard what little noise he had made and might be approaching. After a moment, almost sure there was no movement in the street, he climbed to his feet, brushed himself off, and moved to the mouth of the alley, where he could peer out into the street. It was still quiet and empty.

  He turned and moved to the rear of the alley. There was no sense taking a chance of being spotted while walking down Main Street, so he would make his way along the rears of the town buildings until he reached the livery. He would get his horse, saddle and saddle bags and light a shuck out of town as fast as he could. He knew he would probably have to deal with the livery hostler on duty, but he was only one man and he would have to handle it.

  It took about ten minutes to reach the corral behind the livery, but it was uneventful. He crawled between the wooden rails of the corral. The horses milled around and some neighed, disturbed by his presence. His horse was not among them. When he checked the rear door of the livery, he found it was locked from the inside. This meant he would have to circle around to the front and risk being spotted from the street, but he had to chance it.

  Carefully, he slid along the side wall of the livery, keeping low and blending into the shadows. When he finally, reached the street, he pressed his back flat against the wall at the corner of the building, he peered out. The front door of the livery was open and a faint light seeped into the street. All seemed well and The Kid moved quickly around the corner and dashed into the livery.

  A coal oil lantern hung from a hook just inside the door and to the left. The Kid stood just outside the glow of its beam, in the shadows. He glanced around quickly, expecting a hostler on duty. There was none. Just a crudely written note tacked to the upright beam that held the lantern. It said, “Be back in morning. Tend to your own.”

  The Kid sighed and smiled to himself. So far so good. He lifted the lantern from its hook, held it high and started to walk back to the stalls. He stopped up short as strands of hay dripped from the hay mow above him. Was someone up there? He waited a moment, listening intently. There was no sound. His eyes searched the scaffolding above him and he saw a few more strands of hay filter through a crack. Still there was no sound. Maybe it was just a breeze, he told himself, but somehow he couldn’t quite convince himself. He moved on toward the stalls. His horse was in the first one to the left. Good. His saddle and gear were draped over the half height stall wall. He found another hook on the upright and re-hung the lantern. He turned to enter the stall, crossing in front of the light, just as he heard a sound behind him as the front door creaked a little further open. More street light flooded in.

  He whirled in one swift motion, pushing back the tails of his coat and reaching for his pistol; his ears recognizing the sharp metallic click of a hammer being pulled back, cocking a weapon. He dropped to his knee just as a pistol bellowed. Muzzle flash added additional light to the interior and the slug smashed the lantern globe above him. It crumbled into a myriad of pieces and fell to the straw littered floor.

  The Kid already had his pistol out. It thundered twice and the shadow at the front of the livery ducked back out of sight into farther shadow, while returning two more shots of his own. Laredo rolled first to one side and the other as the slugs plowed into the wooden floor a hair’s breadth away at each side sending splinters into the air close to his face. Laredo rolled to his back and raised half sitting, cocking the hammer and squeezing the trigger as fast as he could. He poured three rounds into the darkness. He heard a yelp and saw a sudden movement as a shadow flitted through
the open door. He pushed himself to his feet for pursuit, but suddenly he became aware of the flames licking up between his legs. The broken lantern had set fire to the straw that was strewn on the floor. He quickly glanced around for some empty feed sacks to beat the flames with, but found none. He sheathed his weapon and whipped his saddle blanket from the side wall of the stall and went to work.

  He had finally beaten out the last of the flames when he suddenly realized that, there was still light in the interior of the livery. Instinctively, he whirled around. He froze stock still, his blanket still in his hand and drooping to the floor. The livery door had been pushed wide open and light from the street outside washed in. A gathering had crowded around the opening. Some townspeople were carrying lanterns. Standing in front of them staring at The Hangman From Hell were two men wearing badges; Sheriff Fred Logan and Deputy Clay Shaw. They both had their guns out.

  *****

  Chapter Ten