A Time For Hanging

by Bill Crider

  Lane knew nothing would ever get to him like the shooting of Morales had gotten to Danton, so why was he worryin' about the damn kid?

  Then he thought of a reason he might be worried. What if the kid hadn't done anything, and whoever killed that Randall girl was still on the loose? That might make a difference. It might mean that someone else could get killed.

  He put that thought out of his mind. If people couldn't watch out for themselves, that wasn't Lane Harper's fault. He was going to take care of the fella who really mattered -- himself -- and to hell with the rest of 'em.

  That was why they had to get the Morales kid, he guessed. They had to show that they were right and that they were takin' care of themselves in the way they were supposed to, and takin' care of the rest of the town, too.

  But what if there was another killin' and they were proved wrong?

  Harper took off his hat and wiped his shirt sleeve across his forehead.

  We weren't wrong, he told himself. We done the right thing. And if we didn't, no one would know it when the kid was dead. That was a good enough reason to find him and get him out of the way once and for all.

  He clucked to his horse, getting her into a trot. He needed to catch up with the others.

  He had already forgotten hearing the shots.

  28.

  Harper caught up with them just as they found the mule.

  It was grazing on some dead grass that stuck up from between the rocks at the bottom of a narrow gully.

  "How you reckon he got down there?" Frank asked no one in particular. He was slightly embarrassed that he had lost the mule's trail. They had only found the cussed thing by accident.

  "Hell," one of the cowhands said, "you never know about a mule. I wouldn't be surprised if it flew."

  There was a hackamore on the mule's head. A rope was attached to the hackamore.

  "You reckon the kid was ridin' it?" Len Hawkins asked. "I sure as to God don't see him anywhere."

  "He coulda fell off," a cowboy ventured. "Might be lyin' somewhere in that ditch."

  "I bet he ain't," someone else said. "I don't think anybody could ride with a riggin' like that."

  "You can't never tell about a meskin," another said. "They might ride like that, for all you know."

  "More likely that sorry beast was tied up somewheres with that rope and just pulled loose."

  Len Hawkins thought that was probably true. "That means the kid's back at the house and they set this mule to lead us off. Good thing we didn't all come after it, or the kid'd be hid somewhere else by now and we might never find him."

  "I still think we better check things out around here," Frank said. "Just in case he fell off. You said he was beat up pretty bad."

  "Yeah, he was," Hawkins said. "What do you think, Lane?"

  Harper thought that the kid was back at the house, just like Len did, but he didn't want to take a chance on missing him if he wasn't.

  "We better look," he said.

  The men got off their horses and went down into the gully, sliding on the dirt and the small stones that formed its sides. The mule didn't pay much attention to them. It just kept on eating, grabbing the tufts of dry grass in its thick yellow teeth and pulling it into its mouth.

  "Damn," one of the cowboys said. "Wouldn't nothin' in the world but a mule eat that stuff. It ain't nothin' but spear grass and burrs."

  "That's why you oughta be on a mule if you're gonna take a trip through a desert," Frank said. "You can count on the mule gettin' through it. 'Course, you might not."

  The men walked in both directions, but there was no sign of Paco in the gulley. It widened out finally and there were places where a mule could easily have walked down into it, but there was no way to tell if the mule had been there. The ground was just too hard.

  "We better go on back," Lane said. He suddenly remembered the two shots that he had heard. "That kid ain't nowhere around here."

  "Not unless he fell off the mule on the way to this gulley," Frank said. "As beat up as you say he was, he mighta died on the way."

  "If he did, the buzzards'll find him before we do," Hawkins said. "Let's go back."

  They were climbing out of the gulley when someone asked what to do about the mule.

  "Leave the damn thing here," Hawkins said. "It'll get home by itself, and if it don't, it can starve."

  "Not much danger of that, long as there's some of that dead stuff around to chaw on," Frank said. "It'll be O. K."

  They mounted up and left the mule, which watched them incuriously as they rode away. Then it dipped its head and began to pull patiently at the grass.

  #

  Moran gave an occasional look at the porch as he walked his horse around the property, but he wasn't too interested in the fate of the cowboy. Moran was pretty sure the fella was going to die. Not many people survived two shots in the chest like that.

  Kinda funny that the preacher was the one to kill somebody, though, Moran thought. And even funnier that the preacher could use a gun like that. It was out and fired and back in the holster before you could hardly blink your eye. Where'd a preacher learn to shoot like that, anyhow?

  He steered the horse around the little corral.

  Nothin' there to look at.

  He saw Ross leave the porch and go inside the house. Hell, he should know the kid wouldn't be in there. The sheriff didn't have any reason to lie about that.

  There was a sort of a chicken house, not much more than a lean-to, really in back of the house. Moran rode over to it. he could no longer see what was going on in front, but he didn't care.

  There was a bit of shade in the chicken house, but that was about all. A couple of nests, too, and one of 'em looked like it had an egg in it.

  A roost made of a couple of sticks with crosspieces nailed on was leaning against the chicken house. The roost was thick with dried chicken droppings and the ground beneath it was covered with them. The smell bothered Moran, and he turned the horse away to inspect the skimpy bushes the grew around the edges of the property.

  As he rode back around the house he could see that several other people had arrived there. He wondered vaguely who they were, but he was sure they were of no consequence to him.

  The boy wasn't in any of the bushes, and Moran hadn't expected him to be. There was just one other place to look, and Moran had been saving that. There was a little shed, hardly big enough for anybody to be hiding in, that the gambler was going to check last. If there really was anyone hiding on the place, the shed was where they'd be.

  He rode over there.

  The door was latched on the outside, but that didn't mean anything. Moran got off his horse and pulled his .44. He wanted to have it ready just in case. He cocked the hammer.

  He pulled the stick out of the hasp, flipped the hasp back, and opened the door, his pistol ready.

  Paco Morales shot him in the face.

  #

  Lane Harper heard the shot. "Goddamn, they're shootin' again!"

  "Again?" Len Hawkins said. "What the hell do you mean by that?"

  "I forgot to tell you. I though I heard some shootin' a while back, when I was behind you."

  "That's a hell of a thing to forget," Frank said. "Let's get on back there, fast."

  The cowboys put the spurs to their horses, drawing their guns and whooping as they rode. Len and Harper trailed behind, holding on to their shotguns as best they could, eating dust.

  #

  Paco saw the man coming through the glare of the sun. He pulled his eye away from the hole and got ready. His mother had told him to hide, but he was not going to hide. He was not going to let them just come in the shed and find him there, trying to cover himself like a coward. He was ashamed that he had gone so far as to get inside the shed. He should have stayed outside and confronted the men from the beginning.

  He did not know the man who was getting off the horse, but that did not matter to him. If the man opened the door, he was an enemy. Paco was going to treat him as such.


  The thought of killing the man did not frighten Paco. He believed that the man would certainly kill, or at least take him back to the jail to await hanging. Paco was not going back, even if he had to kill to prevent it.

  Then the man got off the horse and when he drew his gun, Paco was even more certain of what he had to do. This was not the time to think about a fair fight. His life was on the line, and he was not going to give the man a chance.

  Paco heard the stick being taken from the hasp. His finger tightened on the trigger.

  The door swung open.

  Paco pulled the trigger.

  Vincent was watching when it happened, as was Consuela Morales. There was something in her eyes that told the sheriff that her son was in that shed, and he almost called out a warning, whether to the boy or to Moran, he wasn't sure. He hesitated for just a second, and then it was too late.

  There was the booming of a rifle and the back of the gambler's head flew off.

  Moran's hands went up in the air, and his pistol went flying up as the gambler took three steps backward, his whole body wobbling like he was trying to keep his balance. You could tell he wasn't going to be able to do it, though.

  Sure enough, he fell, but he didn't fall backward. He tilted that way; then he tilted forward and fell on his face, what was left of it.

  His pistol hit a little before he did, discharging a single shot into the air.

  Turley Ross whirled around jumped off the porch, running toward the shed by the time the echo of the shot had died, drawing his pistol as he ran.

  Vincent hesitated for a moment and then went after him, knowing pretty much what had happened. He didn't want to get involved in it, but it was too late to worry about that. He was going to have to stop Ross before something worse happened.

  The preacher twitched the reins of his horse, turning its head toward town. Without a backward glance, he rode out of the yard, no longer interested in the proceedings. His job was done.

  Harl Case sat on the edge of the porch, shaking his head. He put down the shotgun. He knew that he wasn't going to use it. Not now. Not ever.

  Benteen did not know what to do. He put his arm protectively around his daughter, while Willie Turner looked around for a place to hide.

  Consuela Morales stood there on the porch, crying silently, tears running down her cheeks.

  Vincent caught up with Ross halfway to the shed and jumped for him, grabbing him around his broad shoulders and bearing him to the ground.

  Ross got to his feet and shook Vincent off like a dog shaking off water. Vincent fell on his back, losing his breath. He hadn't realized Ross was so strong.

  By now, Jack was on his way to help. Ross heard him pounding across the dirt and pulled his gun.

  Vincent heard the hammer cock. He was still gasping for breath and couldn't get up, but he knew he had to do something. He tried kicking at Ross' ankle just as Ross pulled the trigger.

  He connected weakly, but it was enough to throw Ross' aim off. The bullet intended for Jack plowed up the earth in front of him instead.

  Jack got his own gun out, but he couldn't shoot on the run; the risk of hitting Vincent was too great.

  Ross turned and fired two shots at the shed. He missed the door, but both bullets cracked through the wooden sides of the building.

  Vincent thought that he heard a cry from inside, but he wasn't sure. He got to his knees and drew his gun.

  He might have gotten off a shot, but just then the riders came thundering back down the trail. Vincent didn't want to hit any of them.

  For that matter, he didn't want to hit Turley Ross. He didn't want to shoot anyone at all. He wanted to be sitting back in his hot little jail, thinking about what he'd be eating for lunch. He was right the middle of what he'd spent years trying to avoid, and it was even worse than he'd thought it would be.

  Ross was running toward the riders, yelling at the top of his voice.

  "He's in the shed! He's in the Goddamn shed!"

  The men were reigning in, trying to stop from running Ross down. The horses were shying away from the body and the smell of blood.

  As soon as they got their horses stopped the men had their guns out. Harper was trying to cock the sawed-off, and Len Hawkins was working on the double-barrel.

  "He's killed the Goddamn gambler!" one of the cowboys yelled. "Let's get the little bastard."

  Jack ran past Vincent, who was headed for the shed. By the time Vincent got there, Jack was already standing in front of the open door.

  "You in there Paco?" Vincent said.

  "I am here," Paco answered weakly. "I have been shot."

  "Damn," Jack said. "They beat the hell out of him, and now he's shot."

  "I thought you didn't have much of a taste for this kinda thing anymore, Jack," Vincent said.

  "I didn't think so either," Jack answered. "But I think the kid oughta get a fair shake. So far, we ain't done too much for him."

  Consuela Morales was wailing something from the porch, but Vincent couldn't understand her. Lucille Benteen was standing with her over the body of Charley, trying to comfort her.

  Benteen and Willie Turner were walking slowly across the yard.

  It might have been Consuela's wails that attracted Harper's eye to the porch. "Jesus. Did he kill Charley, too?"

  "Naw, the preacher did that," Ross said. "But that don't matter. That kid's right here. We gotta take care of him."

  "Why did the preacher kill Charley?" Frank asked. "What the hell did Charley do to the preacher?"

  Ross shook his head in disgust. "I said that don't matter. What matters is that we got the kid right here in that shed."

  The interior of the shed was dark and Vincent and Simkins were standing in front of the door. No one could see exactly what was inside, if anything.

  "That right, Sheriff?" Len Hawkins said. "Is that kid in there?"

  "He's in here," Vincent said, trying to hide the nervousness in his voice. "I'll be takin' him back to town. You boys just ride on off now."

  "We ain't goin' nowhere without that kid," Ross said. "Get outta the way, Sheriff. You, too, Jack."

  Vincent kept his voice as steady as he could. "We're not moving, Turley. We're the law, remember?"

  "Bullshit," Ross answered. "You let that boy get away once, and you'd do it again. We don't aim for it to happen that way. We're gonna see that he gets what's comin' to him and gets it right now. That right, fellas?"

  The cowboys cheered him. A couple of them fired their pistols in the air.

  "See what I'm tellin' you, Sheriff?" Ross said. "We're the law now. There's a time for talkin' and there's a time for hangin'. This here's a time for hangin'. Who's got a rope?"

  Three or four of the cowboys pulled their lariats loose from the saddle ties and slapped them against their legs or waved them overhead.

  "Here we go, Turley!"

  "Use mine, fellas. It ain't even broke in yet!"

  "This'un here's just made for neck stretchin'."!

  Vincent looked at Jack. He didn't know what to say to his deputy, but Jack didn't seem to need any encouragement. His face was set and determined.

  I guess it's my job to be standin' here, Vincent thought. He wondered if they'd kill him or just beat him, the way they'd beaten Paco. Either way, there were too many of 'em. He knew he didn't stand a chance, but the thought of leaving never entered his head. He didn't want to be there, but he was the sheriff. One way or the other, he was in for the finish.

  It didn't have to be that way for Jack, however.

  "You better go on back over to the house, Jack," he said.

  Jack smiled crookedly, his scarred face twisting. "Naw, I think I'll stay here. If I'd just let 'em kill him last night, we wouldn't be in this mess."

  Vincent grinned back at him. "That's one way to look at it, I guess. You think you're worth all this trouble, Paco?"

  There was no answer from inside the shed.

  29.

  Paco tried to answer, bu
t he could not. His mouth had gone suddenly dry, and the dream of the fire was returning, seeping into his head against his will, though he tried to remain awake. He knew that he was bleeding from the bullet wound, but there was so much pain in his body that he could not even tell where he had been hit.

  He could hear the horses screaming and kicking at the stalls that trapped them.

  The bales of fire began to fall, and Paco began to flee down the endless corridors of the barn.

  #

  "Reckon he's dead?" Jack said.

  "I don't know," Vincent said, thinking that it would be a hell of a note if he and Jack were to die defending a kid who was already past saving. It made about as much sense as anything else that had happened, he guessed.

  "Why don't you get that gambler out of the sun," he told Jack. The deputy put his gun away and grabbed the dead man under the arms, trying to avoid the bloody remains of his head. Then he dragged him over to the side of the shed while Vincent stood in front of the door.

  Moran's boots dragged little trails on the dirt, and Jack laid him down in the shade. Then he came back to stand with the sheriff.

  By that time, Benteen and Willie had arrived to join them at the door.

  Willie plainly didn't want to be there. His eyes were darting to the left and right, looking for a way to escape, but Benteen had a firm grip on his upper arm and there was no way he could get free. The sight of Moran's body clearly wasn't making him feel any better.

  "This ain't your fight, Benteen," Vincent said. "Charley and that damn gambler are already dead. No use in you and Willie windin' up the same way."

  "We won't," Benteen said. "Willie here has something he wants to say."

  Benteen was sorry he had ever come to the Morales place. He knew now that he had been wrong, that he had been stupid to believe that getting the Morales boy out of the way would make things all right for Charley and Lucille. Charley was dead, and maybe he deserved to be, but Benteen did not have to contribute any more to the stupidity and the violence that Liz Randall's death had begun. Hearing Willie's story had convinced him that he had to extricate himself from a situation that he had found disagreeable in the first place. Now he had been given a chance to stop the rock from rolling down the hill, and he was going to take it.