Hang Him Twice

by William W. Johnstone

  “Oh,” Dooley said, “hell.”

  * * *

  He had corked the bottle and dropped it back into the drawer—out of sight, far from temptation, that sort of thing. The rye he had consumed had little effect on him, or on Butch, but Dooley stressed the story Butch would have to tell over and over again.

  “You shot one man. I gunned down the other. Got that? Julia was nowhere around. You didn’t see her. She wasn’t there. You shot one man. I shot the other. Then I sent you to find help. That’s all there is to it. Got that?”

  “Sure,” Butch said.

  “We have to keep her out of this. No one can ever know what happened. This is for her protection.”

  “Damn it, Dooley, stop treating me like a greenhorn on his first cattle drive. I know what I’m doing. I’m not about to put Julia in something uncomfortable.”

  Damn, he could use another hit of whiskey about now, but Dooley nodded. After sighing, he forced a wide grin. The smile did not last long at all.

  “What about Miller’s rifle?” Butch asked after a moment. “How do we explain that?”

  “We don’t,” Dooley answered. “She wasn’t there—Julia, I mean. All we saw were bank robbers. They must’ve broken into Julia’s . . . no . . . George Miller’s place first. Got that rifle there. I took it off a dead bank robber. That’s all I know.” He liked that idea. Nodding his head at his own plan, he repeated it to Butch. “I took the Henry off a man I shot. That’s all we know about that big ol’ .44. Got it?”

  Butch nodded.

  “Repeat it.”

  Butch repeated it, verbatim, and went back to petting Blue, who had rolled over on his back and gave Butch a fine opportunity to rub the shepherd’s belly.

  Dooley took that moment to head back to the door. Silently turning the knob, he then pushed the door open and looked into the hall. It remained empty, and Dooley listened but heard nothing out of the ordinary from the hotel lobby.

  “All right,” he said, and heard Butch Sweeney rise, tell Blue to stay, and cross the room. Sweeney pulled on his hat, took a deep breath and exhaled, and stepped into the hall.

  “Butch,” Dooley called out after the young cowboy took a few steps toward the stairs. The kid turned around, and Dooley made himself smile. He extended his hand.

  “Thanks for all you did for . . . her,” Dooley said.

  They shook, and Dooley added:

  “And thanks for saving my hide.”

  Butch nodded grimly, saying, “You’d have done the same for me, pard.”

  Which made Dooley feel a hell of a lot better.

  * * *

  He wasn’t certain exactly what he had accomplished, though. Helped stop two bank robberies, maybe, if those vermin actually wanted to rob two banks. Gotten sweet young Julia into a compromising situation. Had her kill a man in Dooley’s defense. Had almost gotten Buffalo Bill Cody killed. The leaders of Leadville would not have enjoyed having that blight on the mining metropolis’s record.

  When they made it downstairs, the Leadville reporter saw Dooley and snagged him, to lead him to the hotel café for a private interview. Better him than that lying reprobate from the Denver Telegram, Mr. Pinkerton. Dooley made it outside, shook a few hands with some citizens, rushing past them, trying to ignore their compliments.

  Hell, he had just killed or helped kill ten human beings. Granted, they were scum and would gladly have done him in, but shooting a man to death just never set well in Dooley’s gut. And he had gunned down far too many humans in his time.

  Outside, he breathed a little easier. The dead were off the street. The town tried to fall back into its standard routine. Dooley made it to the livery without running into George Miller, the deputy marshal, the Denver Telegram scoundrel, or even Harley Boone. He told the liveryman that he would saddle General Grant himself, and that’s what Dooley did, trying to keep his mind off all that had happened this morning.

  One of Leadville’s church’s bells began to ring.

  It was noon.

  Eventually, he made it to his mine, where Jarvis told him what needed to be done, what needed to be signed, what he needed to know. The foreman then came in and told him what also needed to be done, and what he might want to know, and what he probably didn’t want to know but needed to know.

  Mostly, Dooley thought about Julia. He sure hoped she was all right, and that maybe, just maybe, she might be able to block out what had happened on the town’s streets that morning. He wanted to see her. But that, he knew, was impossible.

  He cursed George Miller. Then Jarvis brought in more papers that he needed to sign, and when the door had closed and Dooley found himself alone in his office, he leaned back in his chair, closed his eyes, and dreamed about how great it would be if he were back riding the ranges for some half-arse cattle outfit in the Texas Panhandle, or up in Wyoming, or along those rolling plains of western Nebraska. Where a man had only to do his work, and had no worries about much of anything.

  He did not wait around after the last whistle blew. Instead, he pulled on his coat and hat and was out of the office before even Jarvis was ready to call it a day. Dooley resaddled General Grant and put the fine horse into a lively clip as he rode back into Leadville. He had to fight the urge to run and check on Julia. Instead, he returned General Grant to the livery, grabbed a bite to eat at the Chinese eatery, took the side streets and alleys and even the back staircase to his room in the hotel.

  It didn’t help.

  A man was waiting for him in the darkened hallway. He held a rifle in his hands.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  “Mr. Monahan,” the man said, “might I have a moment of your time?”

  Dooley’s right hand had a hard grip on the butt of his revolver, but the Colt remained holstered. He recognized the rifle first, that big Henry .44 that Julia had brought to save Dooley’s hide. He also recognized the green satin tie the man in the black broadcloth suit wore.

  The rifle’s barrel pointed at the floor, and the man did not even have his hand in the lever or a finger on the trigger as he lowered the Henry. His left hand, which had been gripping the long rifle, now hung against the black trousers.

  As he fished the key to his room out of his vest pocket with his left hand, Dooley studied the big segundo for Leadville’s vigilance committee. He wasn’t about to take his eyes off him, and he backed his way to the door.

  “The rifle’s empty, Mr. Monahan,” the vigilance committee member said.

  It certainly was unloaded when Dooley had shucked it what seemed like a lifetime ago. But that didn’t mean the man in the black had not reloaded it.

  “I mean you no harm,” the man said.

  Dooley had turned the key, now held the doorknob, and he nodded at the man and said, “I’m about to open this door. I have a dog inside. And when he sees that Henry, he’s likely to rip your jugular with his fangs. Were I you, mister, I’d put that weapon on the floor and keep your hands spread out far from your body.”

  He did not wait. Dooley jerked the door open and learned how to breathe again when the Henry clattered hard on the hallway and the man’s hands went not far from his body but high over his head.

  * * *

  “That’s your dog?” the man asked.

  Blue managed to rise off his bed, but he merely stretched and wagged his tail.

  “Blue’s a good dog,” Dooley said as he turned up the kerosene lamp on the wall. “And just be glad you weren’t holding this . . .” He tossed the rifle he had picked up onto the bed and closed the door behind him.

  The man managed to choke out a laugh as Dooley gestured at the chair Butch Sweeney had taken earlier in the day.

  He removed his hat, laying it atop the dresser, and Dooley took off his coat and hat and hung both on the rack in the corner. He kept his gun belt on, but he did motion at the dresser. “I can offer you a drink,” Dooley said, and wondered why he had offered a stranger whiskey.

  “Will you have one?” the man asked, being sociable.<
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  Shaking his head, Dooley remembered how much of a dent he and Butch Sweeney had put into that bottle earlier in the day. Gunfights tended to lead to hefty consumption of rye. And, typically, a hefty consumption of rye, or bourbon, or Scotch, or gin, or moonshine, led to gunfights.

  The man sat down. “Then I shall decline your generous offer.”

  Dooley struck a match on his thumb and lighted two candles and then sat on the corner of the bed, using the pillows as a backrest. Blue jumped up onto the bed and demanded to be petted, but Dooley refused, told the dog to get back to his spot, and Blue obeyed.

  “Good dog,” the man said.

  In no mood for politeness, Dooley said, “Why do you want to see me?”

  “The name’s Wolfe,” the man said. “Adam Wolfe. I own several properties here in Leadville, including the livery on the north side, some lots heading toward the cemetery, and the Silver Palace Saloon.”

  Dooley nodded. For a minute, he thought the man might demand that Dooley, as a wealthy silver baron, pay for all the damages done to his grog shop.

  Instead, Mr. Adam Wolfe said, “And I’m chief alderman for the vigilance committee.”

  Dooley did not know vigilantes had aldermen. He said nothing and absently began tapping the fingers on his left hand against the stock of the Henry rifle.

  “I assume that is your rifle, Mr. Monahan,” Wolfe said.

  Dooley stopped tapping. He studied the man gravely. There was a plate on the stock, nickel, maybe silver, with cursive engraving on that stock that spelled out George Miller’s name on one line and Skagway, Alaska Territory, on the second line. The man knew damn well this was not Dooley’s rifle, so Dooley kept his right hand close to the butt of his Colt.

  “No,” Dooley said. “I never saw it before I took it off one of the men I’d killed in that robbery.” To drive the point home, he gripped the Henry with his left hand, dragged it over the blankets, and sat the rifle on his lap. Pretending to read the engraving, he told Alderman Adam Wolfe: “This must be George Miller’s gun. The robbers must have broken into their place before they tried to rob the two banks.”

  “Indeed,” said Alderman Wolfe.

  Dooley found an opening, and he took it. “Maybe you ought to return it to that . . . county clerk.”

  “Perhaps you would enjoy those honors,” said the alderman.

  Dooley felt his stomach twist and he ground some enamel off his teeth. “No,” he said after getting a solid grip on his composure. “No, that’s not the job for me. That’s a job for the vigilance committee.”

  “I see.” The man nodded at the Henry and held out his hands.

  After starting to toss the rifle across the room, Dooley stopped himself and worked the lever three times. No rimfire shells were ejected, so the gun indeed wasn’t loaded. Only then, after lowering the hammer, did Dooley toss the heavy rifle back at Mr. Wolfe, who caught the heavy weapon and laid it across his lap. “You, sir, are a careful man.”

  Dooley did not reply.

  Now Adam Wolfe got to the point.

  “The vigilance committee met a few hours ago with the town council and the mayor.” He shifted in his seat, recrossed his legs, and finally leaned forward. “We’ve decided that something must be done to combat the lawless element in Leadville.”

  “Isn’t that your job?” Dooley asked.

  “After the fact,” the man explained. He crossed his legs again. “When we discover undesirables amongst us, we take action.” Dooley had seen such results of that action: men hanging from rafters, wagon tongues, tree limbs, or balconies. “But there are no peacekeepers in Leadville. That is something we need to rectify.”

  Dooley felt his stomach twisting and turning, so now he crossed his legs one way, then the other, and wet his lips and said, “You’re not thinking about hiring that deputy marshal from Denver, are you?”

  The man spit into the spittoon. “Hardly. A man who thinks a raging gun battle is a circus charade wouldn’t last one night in Leadville.”

  He felt better. Then became squeamish again. “And . . . um . . . George . . . Miller?” Dooley nodded at the Henry.

  The man blinked. Thought. Blinked again. “Oh, no . . . Miller . . . yes . . .” He saw the name on the plate on the rifle’s stock. “He wasn’t at the meeting. He’s a county clerk. We’re talking about the city proper. Leadville, and the mining district to, say, Chalk Creek. What happens outside that jurisdiction is the county’s concern or the state of Colorado’s. The sheriff in Granite can take care of that . . . for now. We have high hopes that Leadville will, perhaps soon, become the seat for Lake County. But . . .” He frowned and shook his head. “Not without law and order. Having nine outlaws shot down in the streets while trying to rob two banks is not the kind of publicity we need.” He made himself smile. “Not that I’m saying it would be better had we let those bandits escape with our silver and currency. But we need to establish the presence of law in our grand city. What we need is not vigilantes stringing the riffraff up in the dead of night. We need a lawman. A marshal. A man who knows how to handle a gun and shows nerve and complete resolve in the direst of circumstances. A legend. A brave marksman.”

  Dooley found himself nodding. To his surprise, he happened to agree with everything Alderman Adam Wolfe was saying. High time somebody said this.

  When Wolfe stopped, Dooley said, “Buffalo Bill Cody’s definitely your man.”

  “Cody?” The alderman looked as if he had been poleaxed.

  “Yeah.”

  “Well . . .” Wolfe appeared to be considering that, but quickly shook his head. “I supposed Cody would make a marvelous lawman, but he is leaving to join his theatrical troupe in San Francisco tomorrow.”

  “What?”

  “Yes, he had planned on leaving earlier, but found himself winning at poker. The investment on his grubstake of you allowed him to stay longer than he anticipated. However, he says now that he definitely plans to ride out for Denver tomorrow, take a stagecoach to Cheyenne, where he shall catch the westbound train and return to treading the boards, as they say in the business.”

  Dooley frowned. He would miss that great scout.

  “He is drinking now in my saloon.”

  “I’ll have to pay him a visit, shake his hand, say good-bye.”

  “He would certainly enjoy that.”

  “A great man, Buffalo Bill.”

  “The best.”

  “Yes,” Dooley said, “he most certainly is. Well, then maybe Butch Sweeney could pin on that tin star.”

  “Sweeney?” The man shook his head. “You mean the stagecoach driver?”

  “Absolutely. He killed one of those men this morning when he was about to do me in. I’d say Butch Sweeney is your man.”

  “Then who would drive Butch’s stagecoach?”

  Dooley glanced at the chest of drawers. Maybe he could tolerate another shot of rye.

  “Mr. Monahan,” the alderman said. “The mayor, the city councilmen, and the aldermen on the vigilance committee were in complete and total agreement that you, sir, yes, you, you would be the perfect man to become the first town marshal of Leadville.”

  Dooley went numb. Surely he had misheard. Or maybe Adam Wolfe had gone around the bend, as the saying went. Dooley worked his jaw, his tongue, and his brain, and said, “Me?”

  “Don’t act modest, sir,” Wolfe said. “You have a reputation across the frontier territories and states as a man who knows his business.”

  But, Dooley wanted to tell him, my business is cowboying. . . or was . . . till I found all that damned silver.

  “Your reputation as a bounty hunter has no equal. Confound it, sir, you are the man who rid the West of Jason Baylor and his evil brothers, not to mention Hubert Dobbs, Frank Handley, and Doc Watson. I hear that you single-handedly saved a wagon train from cutthroat Sioux warriors in eastern Wyoming Territory. Aren’t you that Dooley Monahan?”

  He exhaled a long sigh. “But . . . I’m . . . um . . .”

 
; “We all saw what you did today. Yes, yes, I know, yes, Buffalo Bill Cody came through with grand heroics, and Butch Sweeney managed to gun down one of those robbers. But you killed the rest of them, didn’t you? Except for that one Marshal Price gunned down . . . a man unarmed and likely no threat and, were he not a federal lawman, would likely be getting hemped around midnight by our vigilance committee.”

  Dooley thought sadly about Julia.

  “You stopped them from bankrupting this town.”

  Dooley had a hard time believing that Leadville, as rich as it was, would ever go broke no matter how many banks would be robbed.

  “Well . . .” Dooley said.

  The man rose suddenly. He grabbed his hat and put it on. “Why don’t you talk this over with Buffalo Bill Cody? Maybe he can persuade you to come to this town’s rescue . . . again. Come with me, sir. The Silver Palace Saloon will buy your drinks.”

  Well, Dooley told himself, I sure could use another drink right about now.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  “I’d bring you with me, Dooley, to San Francisco for our California tour, and wherever the hell else we’re bound for this summer. But I got no part for you in the play.” Buffalo Bill smiled at Blue, who sat at Dooley’s side at the poker table in the corner of the Silver Palace Saloon. “Can your dog act?”

  “I don’t think so.” Dooley had to make himself smile. He knew what Buffalo Bill was doing, trying to make Dooley feel better, comfortable, and take his mind off what had happened in Leadville that morning. It wouldn’t work, of course, but Dooley was glad to call Cody a friend.

  Cody splashed amber liquor into Dooley’s glass, and his own. There were no cards on the table, and nobody sat there right now except Cody and Dooley. There had been several men there when Dooley, Blue, and Alderman Wolfe entered the place—which did not look hardly like the final scene of a bank robbery that day—but Wolfe had enticed them away from Cody’s spotlight for free drinks at the bar.