Ralph Compton Blood on the Gallows

by Joseph A. West

  ‘‘Course, the girls are left,’’ the Ranger said. ‘‘Plenty of preaching to be done there.’’

  ‘‘Indeed,’’ Remorse said. ‘‘I believe my words will soon be falling on fertile ground.’’

  ‘‘Amen, brother.’’ The Ranger’s eyes moved and held on McBride, but he spoke to Remorse. ‘‘This man your assistant?’’

  ‘‘Yes, he is, and a more pious and gentle soul you’ll never meet.’’

  ‘‘Is that right?’’ the Ranger said. ‘‘He sure don’t look it.’’ He took a step back from the table as the waitress brought the food. ‘‘Just be careful while you’re here, Reverend,’’ he said. ‘‘There might be a few bad ones still skulking around who would seek to do harm to a man of the cloth.’’

  ‘‘The Lord shall be my sword and shield,’’ Remorse said.

  ‘‘Yeah, well, maybe you should have your assistant there carry a club. Remember, outlaws prey on the innocent and defenseless like your good self.’’

  ‘‘Thank you for your kind consideration,’’ Remorse said. ‘‘And from now on I’ll make sure my assistant carries a stout stick with him at all times.’’

  McBride was amazed that through it all Remorse had kept a straight face.

  The rain settled into a dank, depressing drizzle, and a numbed silence settled over the town of Rest and Be Thankful. McBride and Remorse shared rocking chairs under the front porch of the Jas. Wilkie & Sons General Store, watching the empty street.

  Down at the Sideboard Saloon a forlorn red-haired girl in a blue dress stood just outside the batwing doors. She stepped onto the boardwalk, glanced up at the gray sky and went back inside. The wind gusted, creaking the painted sign above McBride’s head, then lost interest and died away to nothing. Black shadows stretched everywhere, staining the backdrop of a gloomy day and a gloomier town.

  ‘‘Your cat didn’t come out to see you at the stable,’’ Remorse said. He sounded bored.

  ‘‘I guess he figures he’s got more important things to do.’’

  ‘‘Oh, like what?’’

  ‘‘Catch rats. Whipple says he’s the greatest rat-catching cat of all time.’’

  ‘‘He’s pissant size. He’s too small to catch a rat.’’

  ‘‘He’s game, though, and that makes up for his size. At least that’s what Whipple says.’’

  ‘‘Really?’’ Remorse said. ‘‘Isn’t that interesting?’’ His tone of voice told McBride that the man didn’t find the cat’s derring-do interesting in the least. He was trying to make small talk. The serious words would come later. When it got dark.

  Remorse looked around him as he built a cigarette. ‘‘The town is dying around us. I can feel it.’’

  ‘‘What will happen to it, you think?’’ McBride asked.

  ‘‘Six months from now it will be a ghost town and only ghost people will remain here. Six years from now the buildings will start to fall down. Eventually all that will remain will be a few grassy mounds and some rusted scraps of iron. People will ride by and never know a town once stood here.’’

  ‘‘Sad, when you think about it,’’ McBride said.

  Remorse lit his cigarette. ‘‘Some towns deserve to die. This was one of them.’’

  With agonizing slowness, the long day shaded into evening. Bartenders with slicked-down hair and brocaded vests lit lamps outside the saloons. They knew nobody would come, but the routine of years died hard. The lamps cast pools of light on empty boardwalks that seemed to silently echo the thud of booted feet. The rain sought out all the quiet places where it hissed with a sound of dragons, and somewhere a clock chimed five, announcing a time that no one heard.

  Remorse rose to his feet and stepped into the nearest saloon, his empty chair still rocking behind him. He returned a couple of minutes later with a glass in each hand. He gave one to McBride. ‘‘Brandy,’’ he said. ‘‘It will help.’’

  ‘‘My nerves?’’ McBride asked, smiling, hoping to convince Remorse that there was no fear in him.

  The reverend took his seat again. ‘‘It will just help.’’ He laid his glass on the boardwalk beside him and began to build a cigarette. ‘‘Harlan’s draw will be quick, real sudden,’’ he said, not looking at McBride, concentrating on tobacco and paper. ‘‘If he tries too hard, his first shot will not be real accurate. If you can take the hit and keep standing, maybe you can outshoot him.’’

  ‘‘Maybe I can?’’

  ‘‘He’s good, John, real good.’’ Now Remorse turned his head. ‘‘I should be there.’’

  ‘‘It’s Harlan and me, Saul. That’s how it’s going to happen.’’ McBride tried his drink. ‘‘It’s good,’’ he said.

  Remorse nodded. ‘‘Hennessey. When outlaws are in the money they can afford the best.’’ He lit his cigarette. ‘‘Check your gun now, John, and load the sixth chamber. You’ll need all the bullets you can get.’’ He waved a hand, the cigarette in his fingers curling blue smoke. ‘‘Now, I can probably get you a shotgun from Harlan’s office. Shove that in his belly and the fight will go out of him.’’

  McBride had checked his Colt and slid a round into the empty chamber. ‘‘I want Thad Harlan to make his fight,’’ he said, shoving the revolver back in his waistband. ‘‘I aim to kill him tonight and rid the earth of his shadow.’’

  Remorse flicked his cigarette butt into the muddy street. ‘‘It’s time, John,’’ he said. ‘‘He’s there, standing among the trees where the dead men hung. He’s waiting for you.’’

  McBride no longer asked the reverend how he knew such things. All he could do was accept the man’s word for it and act accordingly. He drained his glass and rose to his feet. ‘‘Saul,’’ he said, ‘‘if I don’t come back, get in touch with Inspector Byrnes. He knows how to contact my young Chinese wards.’’

  Remorse looked up at McBride. White hair drifted across his face like falling snow. ‘‘I’ll take care of it, John.’’

  A silence stretched between them; then McBride touched his hat and said, ‘‘I’ll be seeing you, Reverend.’’

  The man nodded, his eyes on the street as McBride walked away. ‘‘Take the hits, shoot straight.’’

  Without looking back McBride waved, and out in the darkness the coyotes were howling a requiem for a dead thing.

  Chapter 34

  The thunderstorm had come from the southwest, born among the volcanic pinnacles of the White Mountains, sired by cool rain and tremendous up-drafts of hot desert air. Massive parapets of cloud that shaded quickly from gray to black rolled off the peaks and followed the old wagon road to Fort Stanton. The storm then prowled restlessly to the north . . . and vented its rage on the town of Rest and Be Thankful.

  Thunder clashed and lightning lanced from the hidden sky as John McBride walked into the cottonwoods by the creek. He made no attempt to seek cover. Thad Harlan knew he was coming and he would wait.

  The bodies of the bounty hunters and the Mexican boy had been cut down and only frayed strands of rope stirred in the wind. Rain fell in sheets and McBride’s boots squelched in mud. He stopped, his ears straining to hear above the clangor of the storm. Around him the night was a wall of darkness. He could see nothing except in those brief moments when lightning shimmered like white fire among the trees.

  McBride was keeping his gun hand dry inside his slicker, but sweat was doing what the rain could not. He wiped his palm on his shirt, more scared than he could ever remember.

  ‘‘Is that you, John? Over here!’’

  The rasp of Harlan’s voice coming from his left.

  He groped his way in that direction, his heart pounding in his ears. After making his way around cottonwoods he stepped into a small, grassy clearing. Close by, he heard the rush of tumbling water in the creek.

  ‘‘Harlan, where are you?’’

  His only answer was the fall of the rain and the wind stirring the trees. Then: ‘‘Over this way, John.’’

  Harlan was now to his right. McBride heard the man’s mock
ing laugh.

  ‘‘Damn it, Harlan, show yourself!’’ he yelled.

  The voice was behind him! ‘‘Soon, John, when I’m good and ready.’’

  McBride spun, drawing the Colt as he turned. He triggered a shot into the darkness.

  Harlan’s jeering laugh rang through the trees. Then silence.

  Thunder roared followed by a flame of lightning. McBride left the clearing and stepped into the trees again. He pushed his back against the trunk of a cottonwood and waited.

  A minute ticked past. . . .

  The roar of a gun. Three bullets thudded into the tree an inch above McBride’s head. He dove for the ground, rolled and ended up flat on his belly in thin brush. He wiped rain from his eyes with the back of his gun hand, his scared gaze searching the dark. He saw nothing but a confining stockade of blackness.

  ‘‘That was just a friendly warning, John.’’ Harlan’s voice, behind him again. ‘‘Don’t go getting uppity on me and start shooting again.’’

  ‘‘Harlan,’’ McBride hollered, ‘‘I’m going to kill you for what you did to Clare O’Neil and the Mexican boy.’’

  Harlan laughed. He was changing position again, somewhere to McBride’s right.

  ‘‘You can’t kill me, John.’’ The man was moving silently through the trees. ‘‘First you, then the preacher and then I’ll take what I want.’’

  Where was he?

  McBride tried to keep Harlan talking, trying to get a fix on him. ‘‘You won’t get the mine, Harlan. It belongs to Clare O’Neil’s son.’’

  McBride opened and closed his fingers on his gun butt. Talk, Harlan, talk!

  ‘‘I’ll get it—’’

  McBride rose to one knee, fired at the sound of the man’s voice. Fired again.

  ‘‘Once I kill the brat and the Mexican girl, who’s to stop me claiming the mine as my own?’’

  It was as though nothing had happened! Harlan’s tone had not changed. He sounded relaxed, a man enjoying himself.

  ‘‘I’ll be so rich, with so many sharp lawyers, that no one will dare to dispute my claim to the mine. Do you understand that, John?’’

  McBride was silent. Maybe if he didn’t move or talk Harlan would not be able to track his whereabouts so easily.

  ‘‘John, do you understand that?’’

  Was Harlan trying to ferret him out?

  ‘‘All right, John, so you don’t want to talk anymore. That’s just fine by me. Now stop cowering in the brush and stand on your feet. Die like a man.’’

  It came to McBride then that Harlan didn’t know where he was. He stood silently and brought his Colt up beside his head, his mouth dry as chalk. Now, if Harlan would just make a move . . .

  The noose snaked out of the darkness and settled around McBride’s neck. Suddenly he was being pulled upward, the rough hemp cutting into his throat. Gagging, fighting for breath, he tried to kick himself free, but the noose tightened. His toes left the ground and he was swinging. Behind him he heard Harlan grunt with exertion as he pulled on the rope.

  A galaxy of stars exploded in McBride’s brain as he strangled. He heard Harlan’s wild shriek of triumph . . . then a loud crack and a violent crash.

  McBride hit the ground hard. Behind him Harlan was shrieking, bubbling screams that soared through the tops of the trees and burst into the air like a flock of crows.

  Staggering, McBride climbed to his feet. He tore the noose from his neck, lifted his head and breathed in great, shuddering gulps of air. As lightning flashed he saw his gun lying nearby. He picked up the Colt and his gaze searched the gloom ahead of him. Now that his eyes had adjusted to the dark, he made out the vague shape of Thad Harlan. The man was on his back, a thick tree limb on top of him.

  Harlan was no longer screaming, but his lips were stretched back from his teeth, fighting pain. Wary of the man’s gun, McBride stepped closer.

  ‘‘Help me, John,’’ Harlan whispered. ‘‘Get it off of me.’’

  Thunder banged and lightning streaked the sky. The rain battered against McBride as he looked down at Harlan and put it together. Unable to support McBride’s weight, the tree limb had shattered. Harlan had been standing right underneath and when the branch fell, a sharp, splintered point had plunged deep into his belly, staking him to the ground.

  The man’s eyes were wide with fear, stunned by the bizarre manner of his dying. His face was gray and his mouth was full of crimson blood.

  ‘‘Help me, John,’’ he said again.

  McBride raised the Colt. ‘‘By rights I should leave you here and let you die like a dog,’’ he said.

  ‘‘Help me, John . . .’’

  Too late, McBride saw the gun in the man’s hand. He and Harlan fired at the same time. He felt the burn of Harlan’s bullet across the thick meat of his left shoulder, but his own shot was right on target. Harlan’s head exploded in a fan of blood and bone. He arched violently, straining against death, then fell back, his eyes staring blindly into nothingness.

  McBride stepped away a few yards, then turned his face to the healing rain.

  It was over.

  ‘‘This is yours, John, I believe.’’

  Saul Remorse held out McBride’s Smith & Wesson.

  ‘‘Where did you find it?’’

  ‘‘In Harlan’s office. I was tired of looking at your empty shoulder holster.’’

  McBride took the revolver and looked around him. It was not yet noon, but the day was already hot, the sky a blue china bowl stretching from horizon to horizon.

  Rest and Be Thankful drowsed in the sun, like a tired old man who knows his time is almost over.

  It was three days after the death of Thad Harlan, and Remorse was moving on. He stood by his horse’s head, the reins in his hand. ‘‘I’ve written to a lawyer I once knew in Boston. I trust the man to make sure that Clare O’Neil’s son’s ownership of the mine is protected. He will also set up a fund to support Julieta until the kid comes of age.’’

  McBride smiled. ‘‘That’s real decent of you.’’

  ‘‘Oh, and I almost forgot.’’ He handed McBride an envelope. ‘‘This is for you.’’

  ‘‘What is it?’’

  ‘‘Eight hundred dollars, half of the reward Jared Josephine gave me for killing those three outlaws.’’

  McBride shook his head. ‘‘Saul, I can’t take this. I did nothing. I didn’t even draw my gun.’’

  ‘‘You were there. You put your life on the line just as I did.’’ Remorse smiled. ‘‘Anyway, the money isn’t really for you, it’s for those young wards of yours. It will help keep them in that finishing school for a while longer.’’

  ‘‘Saul, I . . . I don’t know what to say.’’

  ‘‘I do. Say good-bye, John. I’m leaving.’’

  Remorse was once again dressed in black broadcloth, his clergyman’s collar in place. His Remingtons were hidden under his coat.

  ‘‘Maybe our trails will cross again, Saul,’’ McBride said. ‘‘Though I hope to settle somewhere and prosper in the hardware business.’’

  ‘‘Yes, do that, John,’’ Remorse said. ‘‘Settle down somewhere and meet a fine woman. I ride trails you can’t follow, long trails that end in places you don’t ever want to be.’’ He swung into the saddle, touched the brim of his hat and smiled. ‘‘Take care, John McBride.’’