by Steve Hayes
To Andrea,
With Love
Contents
Title Page
Dedication
BOOK ONE
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
BOOK TWO
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
BOOK THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
By the Same Author
Copyright
BOOK ONE
CHAPTER ONE
It was not the first hanging he had ever witnessed.
Out on the range and in towns and pueblos all across the Southwest he had seen outlaws, rustlers, murderers and even two innocent men dangling from the end of a rope.
But this was different. This time the victim about to be hanged from the limb of a Rio Grande cottonwood was a sheriff.
From the crest of the ridge he’d just ridden over, Ben Lawless could see a tin star glinting on the lawman’s black vest. What was equally unusual, the person about to whip the horse out from under the sheriff was a boy of no more than fourteen. Clad in old jeans and a sun-faded denim shirt, the cinnamon-haired, freckled youngster sat bareback on a piebald as if he had been born on it.
Lawless hesitated, wondering if he should interfere. Hell, he owed the law nothing. Truth was, he’d had many run-ins with sheriffs himself and over the years had become familiar with the insides of more jails than he cared to remember. But during those years he had also witnessed several lynchings and they always turned his stomach. And though there was no angry mob gathered about this sheriff, only a callow, grim-faced boy, it was still a necktie party and Lawless pulled his rifle from its scabbard, aimed quickly and fired.
At the same instant the youngster whipped the sheriff’s horse on the rump with a stick. The horse lunged forward, leaving the sheriff dancing in mid-air – then the bullet cut the rope and the big lawman fell to the ground.
The startled boy whirled his pony around and looked in the direction of the shot. He saw a tall, whip-lean, dark-haired man astride a dust-caked grullo watching him from atop the ridge; a man whose face was hidden by the brim of his black, flat-crowned Stetson; a man who, despite the intense heat, had his shirt buttoned up around his neck; a man holding a well-oiled Winchester ’73 from which smoke curled.
‘Damn you to hell!’ the boy said and yanked the revolver on his hip.
Lawless dived from the saddle and rolled behind a rock. ‘Drop it,’ he shouted. ‘I don’t want to have to shoot you.’
The boy fired twice, the bullets ricocheting off the rocks and whining past Lawless before vanishing into the desert.
‘Son, I’m warning you for the last time: drop your iron.’
The boy answered by firing two more rounds. Both bullets missed Lawless but chipped flakes from the rocks close to his head.
Irked that the youngster wouldn’t obey him, Lawless snapped off a shot. The .44-.40 bullet knocked the1874 Remington Army revolver from the startled boy’s hand and it fell on the ground. Rising, Lawless levered in another round and covered him with the rifle. ‘Either you’re deaf, son, or just plain eager to die.’
‘I ain’t deaf,’ said the boy. Leaping from the piebald, he dived for his gun.
Lawless continued firing, each bullet sending the old cedar-handled revolver spinning across the sun-baked dirt. As he fired he walked down the slope toward the boy – who, frustrated, finally stopped scrambling after his elusive six-gun. Defiant to the bone, he stood glaring at the tall man.
Lawless confronted him, more puzzled than angry. ‘What the hell’s wrong with you, boy? You so all-fired anxious to hang this hombre you’re willing to die for it?’
‘Why not? Way my life’s going right now, dying don’t seem so bad.’
Lawless saw a lot of himself in the rebellious boy and lowered his rifle. ‘No matter how big your problem is, son, dying isn’t the answer. Now get back on your pony and ride out of here.’
‘What about my pistol?’
Lawless picked up the revolver, fired the last two rounds in the air and tossed the gun to the boy. ‘Here. Now, ride.’
The boy grabbed the halter rope and swung up on to his horse. ‘I told Sis they’d be hiring gunmen next. Now, maybe she’ll believe me.’ He kicked the piebald into a gallop and rode away.
‘Much obliged to you, mister.’
Lawless turned and saw the sheriff was now sitting up. He had also removed the noose from around his neck and was no longer choking. But he was embarrassed by his predicament and tried to hide it behind a rueful grin.
‘Reckon you’re wondering how a young pup like him got the jump on me?’
‘Crossed my mind,’ Lawless admitted. He spoke softly, choosing his words carefully, in an educated, faint southern drawl that belied his grubby, trail-soiled appearance. Taking out the makings he calmly built a smoke, making no attempt to help the sheriff get up.
The lawman grasped the trunk of the cottonwood, locked his fingers together and with a painful grunt pulled himself to his feet. He stood there, wobbly-legged for a few moments, gingerly rubbing his neck where the rope burns showed.
‘Young Joey, he was hiding among those rocks yonder.’ He pointed at some broken boulders. ‘Must’ve heard I was coming back from Deming today.’ His voice was raspy and he had to clear his throat and spit before he could continue. ‘Anyways, he caught me napping in the leather and got the drop on me afore I could drag my shooter. I figured he was going to gun me down cold. But I was wrong. He and his sister’s hatred has gotten piled so high that just shooting me wasn’t enough. They want to see me hang.’
‘Maybe it has something to do with the gunmen you’re hiring?’
The sheriff snorted disgustedly. ‘Ain’t a lick of truth to that, mister. I got me a good reliable deputy and I could round up a posse quicker than you can say deputize. Nah.’ He scratched his shaggy mane of iron-gray hair. ‘It’s just a young’un’s mind all twisted up with lies fed to him by his sister and their old man, when he was alive. No more, no less.’
Lawless spat out a stream of smoke but didn’t say anything. He was as tall as the lawman but leaner and harder, and moved with grace of an Indian fighter. There was nothing memorable about his angular face except for his eyes: they were the color of the desert and just as unforgiving. Life in the saddle had taught him to embrace loneliness and enjoy silence as only a loner can. It also taught him to trust no one, rely on no one, and be self-sufficient. It had taken years of discipline to learn these painful lessons. But once he had, it gave him a quiet, unshakeable confidence that made men think twice before bracing him.
‘I’m Tishman,’ the sheriff said, offering his hand. ‘Buck Tishman – though most folks call me Tish.’
Lawless didn’t respond. He stared at the sheriff, his stoic expression making it impossible to tell what he was thinking. Then, as if grudgingly coming to terms with himself, he shook the lawman’s meaty, callused hand. But he said nothing.
Neither did the
sheriff. He’d looked into the eyes of countless men in his life, many of them dangerous, some even deadly, but never had he felt as uneasy as he did now. It was like staring into the yellow eyes of a wolf, a wolf that knew it could kill him any time it wanted yet for some reason was letting him live.
But Sheriff Tishman had not survived as a lawman into his fifty-third year because he was reckless or a fool. Stroking one tip of his drooping gray mustache, he said cautiously, ‘I didn’t catch your name, mister.’
‘Didn’t give it.’
‘Uh-huh.’ The sheriff sighed, a long resigned sigh that seemed to come clear up from his boots. Then he cleared his throat again and gently massaged his bruised neck. ‘Been my experience,’ he said hoarsely, ‘that when a fella don’t tell you his name, he’s most likely hiding something. You hiding something, amigo?’
‘If I was,’ Lawless said, ‘you’d still be dangling from that rope.’ He turned toward the ridge and whistled. The grullo tossed its long dark mane and obediently came trotting down the slope toward him.
The sheriff watched as the slate-gray horse stopped beside Lawless. ‘You trained him good, mister. I admire that. Me, now, I don’t have the patience to train a hog to eat.’
Lawless didn’t say anything.
‘He’s in real fine condition, too.’
Again, Lawless didn’t respond.
‘I always say you can tell a lot about a man by the way he treats his horse.’
Lawless had heard enough. Tucking his rifle into its scabbard, he grasped the reins and stepped into the saddle. He mounted in one slow fluid motion, eyes never leaving the lawman, right hand poised above his Colt. It was a gun-fighter’s mount, economic, deadly and full of controlled violence. Once in the saddle he looked down at the sheriff, said quietly, ‘Name’s Lawless. Ben Lawless.’
The sheriff frowned, trying to place the name. ‘Sounds familiar.’
‘It’ll come to you,’ Lawless said, adding: ‘Be riding on now.’
‘If you got no objections, I’ll ride along with you.’
Lawless shrugged indifferently, tapped the grullo with his spurs and rode off.
Sheriff Tishman watched him go, his expression a mixture of curiosity and uneasiness. He then collected his horse, mounted and galloped after him.
CHAPTER TWO
The two rode in silence, knee-to-knee, for several miles. They rode at a slow mile-consuming lope, following the trail through ancient red-walled canyons and across the flat, yellow desert with its clumps of mesquite and ocotillo, the midday sun broiling their backs, the only sounds made by their horses’ hoofs and their saddles creaking – along with an occasional screech from one of several red-tail hawks drifting on the thermals high overhead.
‘Where you headed?’ the sheriff finally asked him.
‘Borega Springs.’
‘And then?’
‘West.’
‘West, where?’
‘Just west.’
‘And I’ll wager if I asked you where you come from you’d say “just east”?’
‘Southeast.’
‘Mexico?’
‘Chihuahua.’
‘Pistolero?’
‘I’m not that good.’
‘Sure you ain’t. I mean any damn fool can cut a rope with one bullet from fifty maybe sixty yards off.’
‘Any damn fool can make a lucky shot, too.’
‘You don’t look like no damn fool to me,’ Sheriff Tishman said. ‘And you don’t look like a man who needs luck, neither.’
Lawless didn’t say anything. But inwardly he was amused. He’d aimed at the branch from which the rope hung, hoping to break it, and instead hit the rope. But he saw no reason to admit that to the sheriff.
‘Either way, mister, luck or skill, I owe you my life and—’ The lawman broke off as it suddenly came to him and snapped his fingers, exclaiming, ‘Got it!’
He turned to Lawless to say something and realized he was looking into the muzzle of a Peacemaker. Startled, he raised his hands.
‘Whoa, easy, amigo.…’
Lawless, satisfied there was no threat, holstered his Colt .45 almost as swiftly as he’d drawn it.
The sheriff lowered his hands. ‘Mite touchy, ain’t you?’
‘If you’re going to ride with me,’ Lawless said, ‘don’t be making any sudden moves. Entienda?’
‘Entienda.’ The sheriff whistled softly to himself, marveling at how fast Lawless had cleared leather. He’d seen all the top guns in his time – Clay Allison, Doc Holiday, John Wesley Hardin, Latigo Rawlins – but none seemed faster than the tall, quiet man riding beside him. Not wanting to provoke him but anxious to satisfy his curiosity, the sheriff put his hands on his saddle horn, where Lawless could see them, said: ‘I don’t like to pry, amigo, but are you kin of Will Lawless?’
‘Cousin.’
The sheriff nodded, satisfied. ‘I knew the name sounded familiar. Ever ride with him?’
‘You asking me if I’m an outlaw?’
‘That weren’t my intention.’
‘Is it your intention to arrest me if I say yes?’
‘Hell, no.’ The sheriff chuckled, bit off a plug of chaw and with his tongue wedged it against his cheek. ‘I’m so slow on the draw you’d think I had molasses in my holster. Besides, you just saved my life. Be mighty churlish of me to pay you back by making you a guest of the county.’
They started up a steep rocky rise, both slowing their sweating mounts so as not to wear them out.
‘I never ran across your cousin, Mr Lawless, but from all the rumors I’ve heard he was faster than summer lightning.’
Lawless didn’t answer, hoping his silence would end the conversation.
‘I also heard a rumor he was mean to the core and that when he was drunk, which was mostly always, he’d shoot anyone he took a dislike to – including women, children and dogs.’
‘You heard wrong.’
‘How so?’
‘Will doesn’t need to be drunk to shoot anyone. He plain enjoys killing, drunk or sober.’
‘Ah-huh.’
Again, Lawless hoped that would end the conversation.
‘Ever hear what happened to him?’
‘Didn’t know anything did.’
‘Rumor I heard … the rurales stretched his neck down in Sonora some place.’
They had reached the top of the rise. Lawless reined in his weary grullo and gave him a breather. ‘For a man who doesn’t like to pry,’ he said wryly, ‘you sure hear a lot of rumors.’
The big lawman grinned. ‘Never said I didn’t like to listen.’
Or talk, Lawless thought.
They rode down the other side of the rise, between clumps of cholla and mesquite, and started across a flat expanse of scrubland that ended at the outskirts of Borega Springs.
Still two miles away, the sprawling mish-mash of adobe and plank buildings shimmered in the heatwaves. Originally a dirt-hole pueblo known as a haven for outlaws and border trash, the town, like so many towns in the Southwest, had become respectable upon the arrival of the Santa Fe railroad. But despite law and order and an honest, conscientious town council, Main Street remained sun-scorched dirt in summer and ankle-deep mud in winter, and there were permanent ruts in it caused by the now-bankrupt Barlow – Sanderson stage line.
‘Ever been here before?’ the sheriff asked as they rode along.
Lawless shook his head.
‘Nice little town. Folks are right neighborly. Do anything for you. Fella could do a lot worse than settle here.’
‘I’ll remember that,’ Lawless said, ‘if I don’t like Arizona.’
Sheriff Tishman sighed like he’d been pushed into a corner. ‘Lookit, mister, if you’re dead set on riding west, reckon I should warn you that you’ll be passing right by their spread.’
‘Whose?’
‘The Morgans – Joey and his sister, Violet.’
‘Want me to give them your regards?’
‘Only if you�
�re anxious for a bellyful of buckshot.’
‘That was a joke, Sheriff. Where’s your sense of humor?’
‘Reckon I lost it back there a’ways, mister, when young Joey looped that noose around my neck.’
They rode on in silence, their shirts black with sweat, their lathered horses laboring in the intense, windless New Mexico heat.
Seeing the frown on Lawless’ weathered, stubble-darkened face, the sheriff said, ‘I know what you’re thinking, amigo. You’re thinking I’m one of them corrupt lawmen in the pocket of a greedy banker trying to steal the Morgans’ ranch.’
Lawless, thinking exactly that, didn’t answer.
‘Truth is I’m the farthest thing from it.’
‘So that’s not why the boy strung you up?’
‘Hell, no. Well, maybe. Who knows? Hard to tell what either of ’em are thinking these days, them being so full of hate.’
‘Must be tough on you, you being so warm-hearted and all.’
The sheriff grunted, immune to sarcasm, and spat tobacco juice at a lizard sunning itself on a rock.
‘Fact is it does bother me some. I don’t like folks hating me – for any reason. I pride myself on being an honest, simple, Sunday-sit-in-church citizen … a lawman trying to do what the good folks of Borega Springs pay me to do – keep the peace without ruffling too many feathers.’
‘Warm-hearted and modest.’
The sheriff chuckled. ‘You sure do know how to prod a man, mister.’
Lawless looked at him, cold-eyed. ‘So you’ve never tried to drive the Morgans off their ranch?’
‘Not in a month of Tuesdays – though the day’s fast coming when I’ll have to serve them with foreclosure papers.’
‘They’re being kicked off their property?’
‘Dispossessed. It’s all legal.’
‘Legal doesn’t always make it right.’
‘True.’
Inwardly, Lawless boiled at the thought of anyone losing their land. But his expression remained calm; almost disinterested. ‘When are you serving them?’
‘Any day now. You’re thinking it again,’ the sheriff said, as he saw an angry glint in Lawless’s eyes. ‘But you couldn’t be more wrong. It’s the dead opposite in fact. The bank’s bent over backwards to help them young’uns keep their land. Held off on calling in the note months after it was due and even assured all the storekeepers that the Morgans’ credit was still good. Hell’s fire, no sooner than they’d laid their father to rest, Mr Edfors – that’s Brian Edfors, the fella who owns the bank – was kind enough to offer Miss Violet a loan so she could buy more livestock and hopefully turn things around. But no, rather than accept his help, she turned him down flat. On top of that Joey tried to shoot my deputy when he rode over there to tell them they had to vacate the ranch.’
