Hang Him Twice

by William W. Johnstone

  Her head tilted toward the corner. Which made sense. They would be waiting for Dooley to step onto the landing. Instead, Dooley stepped out the door, ducked underneath the hitching rail, and began unfastening the reins to the bank robbers’ horses. The one at the far end, the one that one of the outlaws had had to stop from running away when the shooting commenced, was now tied to the column. That was fine with Dooley. After releasing the last from the rail, he grabbed the reins around the column, pulled them free, and swung into the outlaw’s saddle, firing a shot into the ground that sent the other horses screaming and galloping down the street from whence they had come.

  “The horses!” someone screamed, or maybe, most likely, Dooley just imagined it. After all, the thundering of hooves, the ringing in his ears again, and the commotion all around him practically made hearing voices impossible.

  The horse Dooley had mounted, reared, and wanted to follow his comrades, but Dooley pulled hard on the reins, kept his seat, and forced the gelding around the corner.

  He leaned low in the saddle, practically hanging over the horse’s neck, and saw the two linen-duster men. One was halfway up the stairs to the office of the lawyer, the gunsmith, and whoever else rented from the bank. The other was on the corner. Dooley fired at the one on the corner, but missed. Then he lost his grip and came crashing to the ground, rolling free from any hooves that might crack bone, and coming up to his knees.

  It had been a foolish play, Dooley realized. And here is where he paid the price and the piper.

  But he told himself that he would die game.

  The gun in his left hand pointed at the duster-wearing owlhoot on the corner. The gun in his right hand aimed, more or less, at the duster-wearing killer halfway up the stairs. He had never been much of a hand at shooting two guns. His left hand always failed him, and—especially given that his left palm bled like the dickens from that shard of glass from the window of the gunsmith’s office—failed him now. That bullet went nowhere near the killer, nowhere, in fact, even near the corner. The Colt in his right hand might have hit the wall to the bank. On the other hand, it might have missed the bank completely.

  Yet Dooley could not believe what he saw.

  The man on the corner spun around, discharging both barrels from his scattergun into the boardwalk, blowing a hole through the planks, and then crashing into the hole he had just made. He did not stir.

  The killer on the stairs slammed against the wall, blood suddenly drenching the front of his pale-colored muslin shirt that he wore underneath his tan-colored duster. Still, that man, grimacing, brought up the Remington he still gripped in his right hand. He aimed, but not at Dooley, at something that must have been behind Dooley.

  Dooley just stared at his own guns and quickly brought both up to shoot the man on the stairs. Before he could pull a trigger on either gun, though, another shot barked, more blood erupted from that muslin shirt, and this time the robber tumbled down the stairs and rolled off the corner into the dusty street.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  Quickly, Dooley spun around, and somehow he managed to smile. Butch Sweeney stood on the corner of the boardwalk across the street, and quickly jacked another round into his .44-40 carbine. From that angle, Dooley knew that Butch had shot down the bank robber who had rolled down the stairs. But the one with the shotgun? He looked the other way, and the frown quickly became a grim frown. Shoving one revolver into his waistband and dropping the other from his bleeding left hand, Dooley hurried across the street to the corner of the grocery store. Butch Sweeney’s boots pounded on that boardwalk as he ran, too.

  Dooley reached Julia Cooperman Miller first, and took the Henry rifle she held. Her face had gone stark white, and those eyes, so vacant, unfocusing, scared Dooley out of about ten years. She stepped back, and Dooley reached for her, dropping the rifle into the ground, but Butch Sweeney got to her first, taking her in his arms as she fainted dead away.

  Butch shouted something. He looked like he might faint, too.

  A few doors began to open, and the rushed talk of excited Leadville citizens reached Dooley’s ears. He stepped back, stared down the alley behind the grocery. There was no time to think things through, and Dooley pointed down that alley, speaking to Butch in rapid-fire sentences, while staring at the corner to the bank building. So far, no body had poked a nosy head around the corner.

  “Get her out of here, Butch,” Dooley said.

  “But . . . where . . . ummmm . . . ?”

  “Just get her out of here. Before someone sees her. No telling what that no-account husband of hers will do to her if he finds out she saved my bacon.” It struck him later that there was no telling what George Miller would do to Butch Sweeney. Then, moments later, he realized he could tell exactly what George Miller would do to Butch.

  He pointed down the alley. “Now, damn it!” he barked, and the color returned to Butch’s face. He scooped up Julia’s legs—er, limbs—letting his Winchester bounce on the ground. Butch moved quickly now, and rounded the corner and took off at an awkward, bowlegged gait just before Mr. John Price’s sweaty, pale face appeared at the corner.

  First, Dooley picked up the Henry that Julia had dropped, and he leaned it against the windowless wall of the grocery store. Next, he found a handkerchief in his trousers pocket and pressed it against the cut in his left palm. He loosened the string tie around his paper collar, pulled the tie free, and used it to tie the handkerchief as tight as he could make it against his palm. By that time, several other heads had dared to show their petrified faces, and even a few, including bank president John Price, had managed to force their entire bodies out onto the street.

  Dooley picked up Butch’s Winchester with his left hand—it wasn’t as heavy as the Henry, which he lifted with his right, and walked toward the gathering group of concerned citizens. He did not dare stay too close to the alley, fearing some busybody might see Butch and the sickly Julia before they had found a place to disappear.

  “Goodness gracious,” the fat banker said, staring at the dead men—the two killed by Butch and Julia, and the third Dooley had blown off the landing. “That’s four of the robbers accounted for.”

  “Six,” Dooley said.

  The faces stared at him with no comprehension. He tilted his head toward the upstairs. “Two more are up yonder.”

  “Goodness,” said a man in a white collarless shirt with brown stockings protecting the clean sleeves. “You killed all six.”

  “Nah,” said a miner in overalls and a slouch hat. “Nah. Some redheaded gent must’ve gunned down one of them.” He spit tobacco juice onto the dust. “I seen him leverin’ that Winchester he’s a-holdin’ and firin’ away.”

  The eyes searched for Butch Sweeney.

  Dooley cleared his throat. “That was Butch Sweeney.” Dooley nodded at the dead man nearest the staircase. “Saved my hide, Butch did. Got this one before he could drill me. You all know Butch Sweeney. He runs the stage line to Denver, the one the late Chester Motz used to own. Good man, Butch. Saved my hide. Saved the bank’s money.” Although, by now Dooley figured those six men had not come to Leadville to rob any bank.

  He searched the faces as more and more appeared, but he did not see the deputy U.S. marshal, the Denver Telegram scribe, or George Miller.

  “But . . .” a minister asked, “where is the stagecoach driver?”

  “Ummmm.”

  “Where are the vigilance committee?” the grocer said as he made his way from the other side of the street. “What good is paying for a vigilance committee when they do nothing until after a crime has been committed?”

  Dooley saw this as a way to give Butch Sweeney more time.

  “You mean to tell me you pay those boys on that vigilance committee?”

  “Certainly,” banker John Price answered.

  “Well, wouldn’t it make better sense to have a town marshal to enforce the law?” Dooley asked.

  “Marshals don’t last long in this town,” the grocer said.r />
  “But I have preached many a sermon that hemp is not the answer,” the parson said. “If we are to have law and order in Leadville, we need a real man, a real officer of the court, a real man to combat the evil that comes to silver towns such as ours.”

  “Jim Trader was a real man, a real officer of the court,” said another merchant, “and he’s buried in Evergreen Cemetery with his deputy.”

  The miner spit again. “So where did that redheaded feller run off to?”

  Dooley gestured vaguely behind him.

  “I sent him to make sure there were no other robbers in that gang,” he lied.

  They stared at him.

  “It just made sense to me that when a gang robs a bank, they have some lookouts posted in the town.”

  They stared at one another, and a few made comments, some heads bobbed, and none shook.

  Dooley figured he had bought Butch Sweeney all the time he could, because the miner and the grocer were walking down the street, the miner having to step over the dead men, which meant the grocer reached the end of his building and glanced down the alley.

  “Which way did he go?” the grocer asked as he turned around. That gave Dooley time to breathe again. Butch and Julia had gotten somewhere. He didn’t know where, but at least they were safe for now. No one would suspect Julia of having killed the fifth of the six men.

  He exhaled.

  “You’re wounded,” a woman cried out.

  Dooley started to look at his left hand, but somewhere from down the street, another voice sang out sharply:

  “The other bank’s bein’ robbed!”

  That got Dooley’s attention. There were two banks in Leadville, and Dooley’s money was in the other bank, Tim Shaw’s bank, the one being robbed now. Despite his still bleeding, and really hurting, left hand, he hurried, carrying both rifles, and rounded the corner of the grocery. Two men, mounted on brown horses rearing and spinning around in the street in front of the bank, fired pistol shots in the air, yelling and cursing.

  “Get off the street, ya sons-a-dogs!”

  “Show yer face again, and I’ll blow it off!”

  Another man stood in the street, holding three horses.

  Doors closed. Women screamed. Men yelled for the vigilance committee.

  Dooley took one quick glance at the county clerk’s office, but seeing the door still shut and the curtains still closed, he cursed and offered the Henry to the miner.

  “Not me.” The big man raised his hands. “I ain’t got no money in that bank. Hell, I ain’t got no money in no bank, not even more than . . .”

  Dooley did not listen to the rest, but scanned the crowd for someone willing to help. The preacher prayed. Mr. John Price, bank president, only started sweating more. The other people—the few who had not fled when the bank robbers started shooting in front of Leadville’s other bank—either ran up the stairs and hid in the bloody, bullet-riddled floor above the bank, or hurried into the alley down which Butch Sweeney had carried Julia, or fell on their bodies and covered their ears and heads.

  Swearing underneath his breath, Dooley moved down the boardwalk, past the grocery store, looking inside to see the grocer pull down the shades on the plate glass window. He should have taken time to close the shutters before running inside the store, because one of the brown-horse riders noticed Dooley, got his horse under control, and started cutting loose at Dooley.

  One bullet buzzed past Dooley’s ear before punching a hole in the glass and the green shade. Dooley dived into the little entryway, braced his back against the wood, and lowered the Winchester carbine. Another bullet from the outlaw clipped the wood above Dooley’s head. He dropped to a knee, worked the lever of the Henry, and came around quickly, squeezing the trigger, not bothering to aim, working the lever. One shot. Two. Three. Four. Then he came back to his hiding place as three or four more bullets—he couldn’t count the shots, could barely hear or see from all the bitter smoke the .44 caliber rifle had just belched and that infernal ringing again in his ears.

  Glass shattered again, and Dooley levered another round into the Henry. He stopped, trying to remember how many shots Julia had fired, how many he had just wasted at the robbers in the street, and, even more important, how many rounds did a rimfire Henry rifle hold.

  Sixteen, he seemed to recall. At least, that sounded right. That is, of course, providing the .44 caliber rifle had been fully loaded when the ruckus all started. He could check the tubular magazine, or he could just decide to go with the Winchester, but he didn’t know how many shots were left in that weapon, either.

  There was no time. The ringing left his ears, and he heard the thunder of hooves. One of the robbers had spurred his brown horse. A bullet sent splinters flying from the boardwalk just inches from Dooley’s feet.

  He raced backward to the other side, bringing the Henry up. Smoke and flame belched from the hard-charging rider’s Colt. The man rode with his teeth clenching the reins, pistols in both hands, the smoke from the bucking weapons obscuring his black-bearded face. A bullet grazed the inside of Dooley’s right thigh. Ignoring that, he told himself to take his time, draw a clear bead, don’t panic . . .

  Don’t panic.

  Like that was impossible with a man riding a horse hell-bent for leather trying to fill you with holes.

  The rifle roared, slamming the stock against Dooley’s shoulder, and Dooley stepped out of the smoke, levering another shell—or so he hoped—into the Henry. He swung the rifle around, taking aim, as the horse thundered past him, but quickly leaped back. That was just in time. Another bullet whistled and slammed into the wood. The horse went galloping down the street, past the county clerk’s office—shades still down, door still closed—and out of town.

  The horse carried no rider. Dooley turned, saw the man lying spread-eagled in the street, still clutching pistols in both hands.

  He let out a sigh and wiped sweat from his brow.

  But this soiree was far from finished.

  One rider lay dying, probably dead, maybe just seriously injured, maybe just playing possum. Dooley looked at the man again. No, he was most definitely dead. And he wasn’t bearded at all. That was just powder smoke darkening his face.

  Five horses. That likely meant five riders. One dead. Dooley figured four were left.

  Unless, he thought, he had been right and that the gangs—either one or both, or maybe they were working on this together—had posted lookouts down the street, as he had suggested to the crowd earlier.

  Hooves sounded again, and Dooley figured he was right. Because this time the sound did not come from Leadville’s other bank, but down the street from whence the dead robber’s horse had taken off.

  A bullet roared, and Dooley knew he was about to be caught in a cross fire.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  The man coming from the road that led out of town rode a strong palomino steed, reins in his teeth, too. His right hand held a long single-shot rifle, his left a Remington .44. The handgun roared, and Dooley blinked. He wasn’t shooting at Dooley at all, but aiming at the robbers.

  It would be an image Dooley would remember for the rest of his life, mainly because it happened to be on the cover, a few years later, of one of those dime novels.

  Lead and Dead in Leadville;

  Or, Buffalo Bill’s Duel with Death

  My, how magnificent Buffalo Bill Cody looked that morning, long hair blowing in the wind, the front brim of his hat turned upward, determination etched in his face, murderous intent in his eyes, charging like a brave lancer in one of those novels by Sir Walter Scott, not that Dooley Monahan had ever read any of those. In fact, he never would really read Lead and Dead in Leadville, either, just skim the pages hoping to find his name somewhere in the account.

  Which he never did.

  Another pistol barked, but that one came from down the street, and the sound of another galloping horse reached Dooley’s ears. He stepped around the corner, to see the bad man on the other brown horse cha
rging, too, just like two knights charging each other in a scene from one of those medieval stories Dooley had heard about, but never read, and certainly never seen.

  Both the outlaw on the brown horse and Buffalo Bill on the palomino fired at the same time, Cody shooting his pistol, the bank robber one of his two six-shooters. Dooley fought back a shriek and grimaced as the splendid gelding Buffalo Bill rode fell onto its front knees, sending its rider flying off the horse, which somersaulted down the street but somehow, miraculously, avoid crushing Buffalo Bill into the dirt. While that was happening, the rider of the brown horse jerked, and fell from his saddle, bouncing in the dirt as the horse turned sharply to avoid being cannonballed by the somersaulting palomino. The brown horse never slowed, just changed its course and took off down the road out of town, just as the other brown horse had done.

  The palomino rose quickly, stunned, and just stood in the middle of the street.

  Buffalo Bill Cody sat up, his hat off his head, blood flowing from a cut across his forehead, the Remington lying in the dust far out of his reach. Somehow, the famed scout still held the Springfield rifle in his left hand. The outlaw Cody had shot off his horse sat up. He still held one of his pistols. The two men were perhaps fifteen feet from each other.

  “Cody!” Dooley yelled, and stepped toward him. “Look out!”

  Dooley had to look out himself, because the man who had been holding those three horses had abandoned that post and now took a shot at Dooley. The slug practically parted Dooley’s hair.

  Dropping to a knee, Dooley turned his attention away from Buffalo Bill, brought the Henry up, and fired as he dived behind a water trough. The gunman also shot wildly this time, and he took cover behind the barber pole.

  Coming up, Dooley jacked the Henry’s lever, came up, and fired again, hitting one of the pole’s white stripes. Out of the corner of his eye, Dooley saw the outlaw in the street rush his shot. Dirt flew up between Buffalo Bill’s outstretched legs as the scout swung the Springfield rifle and pulled the trigger. The gun roared like a cannon and the outlaw flew backward, landing on his back and practically carving a ditch as the momentum of the .45-70 bullet drove him a few feet toward a doctor’s office.