by Scott Connor
Lenox stood, still clutching the rope, and then repaid Lincoln for his good idea by swirling the rope around Lincoln’s ankle. He pulled it tight and dragged Lincoln across the ground towards the stake.
Lincoln was still groggy, but he fought to right himself and just managed to force himself into a sitting position when he reached the stake. He regretted the move when Lenox turned on his heel and delivered a swinging kick to his chin that slammed Lincoln on his back.
Lincoln floundered, disorientated and groggy. He waved his arms as he ineffectually tried to ward Lenox off, but Lenox avoided his flailing arms and darted in to grab Lincoln from behind.
He dragged Lincoln to the stake, placed his back to it, and swirled the rope over the top until he’d secured him to it.
While Lenox stood back to admire his handiwork, Lincoln shook his head, clearing his thoughts. His blurred and swimming vision sharpened so that he could see the grim-faced Lenox standing over him.
Lincoln tugged on his bonds, but Lenox had secured him well. He reckoned with enough time he could loosen the rope, but Lenox’s blazing eyes and suffused face suggested he wasn’t going to give him that time.
‘Time to die, Lincoln,’ he said.
Lenox turned on his heel, went purposefully back to his horse, and returned with his gun. He raised and straightened his arm, and then aimed at Lincoln, who glared back up at him.
‘Killing a lawman is a big mistake,’ Lincoln said. ‘First Sheckley Dolby and then me. When will this stop?’
‘I’ll stop when varmints like you stop abusing my wife,’ Lenox shouted.
‘Abusing?’ Lincoln snorted. ‘That wasn’t the way it was.’
‘Quit whining. Sheckley begged for his life, but it did him no good.’
‘From what I’ve heard of Sheckley, he wouldn’t beg. He cared for Sarah.’
Lenox sneered. ‘He didn’t care for her or he wouldn’t have done what he did.’
Lincoln considered the gun, noting that Lenox still hadn’t cocked it, presumably as he waited for Lincoln either to confess to his imagined crimes or plead for his life.
‘Done what?’ he asked.
‘You know what he did,’ Lenox roared, his face darkening by the moment. ‘You’re all the same.’
‘We weren’t,’ Lincoln said, his voice becoming calmer as Lenox’s became more desperate. ‘We were just two men who happened to stop by at the trading post while you were away, and found a woman starved of affection.’
Lenox narrowed his eyes. ‘What are you trying to say?’
‘I’m saying Sarah has needs, and just because you can’t satisfy—’
‘Enough!’
Lincoln reckoned annoying Lenox by baiting him would get him killed either quickly or painfully, but at the moment he didn’t have a choice. He also started to see that in an odd way Lenox cared for Sarah and that he didn’t know the reason for her activities while he was away, or wouldn’t admit it to himself.
‘How many more men must you kill because of her? How many have you killed?’
‘Just Sheckley, and now you.’ Lenox raised the gun and sighted Lincoln’s chest.
‘What about Sheriff Pringle? Did you kill him?’
‘Sheriff . . .’ Lenox flinched back, his mouth opening wide in shock. ‘What about him?’
‘Ben was like Sheckley. He was another man who cared for your wife. He’d been coming to Black Point once a month for the last ten years.’ Lincoln raised his eyebrows. ‘You used to leave town every month, didn’t you?’
Lenox roared with frustration. He thrust his arms up high, imploring the heavens to strike Lincoln down, and then darted his gun hand down, but instead of firing he hurled the gun at Lincoln.
The weapon flew past his cheek before skittering across the ground. Then Lenox fell to his knees and placed his forehead to the ground, bleating with what sounded like animal noises.
The truth appeared to have broken Lenox and Lincoln reckoned when he’d stopped berating himself he would either leave as a defeated man or beat him to death with his bare hands. So Lincoln tugged on his bonds, trying to free himself so he could make a run for the gun.
With his hands tied around the stake he had to squirm, but he managed to kneel and then stand as he pushed the rope up the stake behind his back. Then he levered it over the top, but before the rope could coil down to the ground Lenox looked up, and his eyes were glazed.
‘Is this true?’ he asked, his voice low and pained. He didn’t look at the rope that was still settling on the ground. ‘Did others like Ben love her?’
‘They did, and she them,’ Lincoln said. He moved to the side so that he could see the discarded gun, judging that he could reach it before Lenox did as long as he went for it first and moved quickly.
‘What can I do?’ Lenox implored, again looking skyward and giving Lincoln the chance to take another pace towards the gun. ‘What can I—?’
A gunshot tore out and Lenox went spinning away to land on his side, a red hole marring the center of his forehead.
Lincoln looked to the side to see the masked man had stood up and was pacing down to them, his gun drawn and smoking.
Lincoln set off to try the long and possibly hopeless run for the discarded gun, but the man darted his gun to the side to aim it at him, giving him no choice but to give up on the attempt.
Instead, Lincoln stood tall and watched him approach. Every step closer helped to confirm to Lincoln that his adversary was wearing a mask.
‘What do you want?’ Lincoln asked.
The masked man stopped walking. Lincoln waited for an answer, but only silence greeted him.
‘Why are you doing this?’ Lincoln continued.
The man behind the mask continued to look down at him, the gun barrel not wavering from its steady aim at Lincoln’s forehead.
‘Then if you’re not going to answer my questions you’ll just have to shoot me.’ Lincoln jutted his chin proudly, determined to die with dignity.
A flash of teeth appeared in the mask’s mouth gap suggesting the man had smiled. Then he drew the gun back into his hand and with a twirl of the wrist dropped it back into his holster. He took steady paces backwards.
‘Who are you?’ Lincoln shouted after him, and this time the man stopped.
‘Have you heard of the man they couldn’t hang?’ he said with laughter in his tone. Then he paced away, his form gradually melting into the gathering gloom.
Chapter Fifteen
It took Lincoln an hour to scrape through his bonds and free himself by which time night had fallen and the masked man had long gone.
It took him another hour to orient himself to the stars and find the nearest trail, and another three hours after that before he made it back to the trading post.
To his relief, Sarah was uninjured and she threw herself into his arms and sobbed. With her voice muffled as she buried her head against his shoulder she reported that she hadn’t even known what had happened to him and had guessed that maybe he had gone off in pursuit of Lenox.
He told her the bad news of Lenox’s eventual demise, to which she responded with the relief he’d expected. Later, Lincoln gathered a few hours of restful sleep.
In the morning they headed out to collect Lenox’s body. This time they completed his burial.
After that, Lincoln had no reason to stay at the trading post.
He departed for Independence, although the obliging and now relaxed Sarah promised him a warm bed and a full belly if he should ever pass this way again.
Before leaving Lincoln resolved to do just that and then took his leave of her.
Late in the day he rode back into Independence. On the way, he’d pondered on what he’d learnt while he’d been in Black Point.
He had resolved to talk to the surviving people in the photograph first. He asked around and found out that Billy Stone was out of town today. Nobody had seen Mayor Ellison recently, but Judge Murphy’s whereabouts were familiar to everyone.
So L
incoln headed into the Rising Sun saloon. The customers quieted and then glared at him; clearly Alex’s unfortunate demise was still a sore point around town.
Lincoln noted that one person wasn’t looking his way, and in fact the customers were giving this person a wide berth –Murphy was drinking himself into a stupor at a corner table.
With the eyes of everyone in the saloon on him, Lincoln headed over to his table.
‘Have you seen Mayor Ellison?’ he asked, sitting opposite him.
Murphy looked up at him with bleary and red-rimmed eyes, taking an inordinate amount of time to focus on him until he eventually grunted with recognition.
‘I haven’t seen him much. He spends all his time in his office. Not that I can blame him. We’re all hated these days after what happened to Alex.’ Murphy sniffed and rubbed his watering eyes. ‘I sentenced the wrong man to hang.’
Lincoln sat opposite him. ‘Why did you do it?’
‘You know why. You’ve been to Black Point.’
‘Are you admitting you knew the events of ten years ago were resurfacing?’
‘The truth always comes out. I should have known that.’
‘What is the truth?’ Lincoln waited while Murphy downed his glass of whiskey and poured himself another, but the judge still didn’t provide an answer and instead slumped down with his head lowered. ‘Then tell me about the man they couldn’t hang.’
‘Leave me,’ Murphy said.
‘Was he Quincy Allen? Is he really dead? What actually happened ten years ago? What—?’
‘Leave me!’ Murphy roared, pointing with a shaking hand in the general direction of the door.
When Lincoln didn’t move, he grabbed the nearly empty whiskey bottle and hurled it at him. Even from so close his aim was poor and the bottle skidded across the table before smashing to the floor.
Murphy looked at the broken glass with tears brimming over, almost as if he was sad to see good whiskey go to waste. Then with as much dignity as he could muster he lurched to his feet, pushed his way past Lincoln, and snaked a path to the door.
‘Who is the man they couldn’t hang?’ Lincoln said to Murphy’s back.
Murphy stopped, confirming he’d heard the question, and then continued on his way to the door.
Lincoln was about to follow him, but found that a man had left the bar and was considering him with interest. This in itself was unusual as everyone else was now ignoring him with studied disdain.
‘So you want to know about the man they couldn’t hang, do you?’ he said, offering a gap-toothed smile.
Lincoln nodded cautiously, recognizing the man as being a harmless old-timer, Charlie Thompson, possibly the oldest person in town, and a man who’d sell his soul to the devil if the payment came in whiskey. Lincoln followed him to the bar where he bought him a whiskey and then wasted no time in questioning him.
‘Tell me about him,’ he said.
‘You bought me only one drink,’ Charlie said. He licked his lips with a greedy glare lighting his eyes. ‘That doesn’t mean I have to talk to you.’
‘No matter what people say about me, I’m the only man who’d buy you anything. Talk or that’s the only drink you’ll get off me.’
‘You speak plenty of sense.’ Charlie chuckled. He downed his drink and smiled hopefully. When Lincoln refilled the glass he continued. ‘People are still calling Jack Porter that.’
‘So he’s still around?’
‘I guess. I haven’t seen him much these last few days.’
‘Either way I don’t mean him. I mean the previous man they couldn’t hang.’ Lincoln waited and then prompted. ‘Quincy Allen perhaps?’
‘It was him, but he got himself hanged some ten years back so that boast didn’t count for nothing.’
‘Then why the boast?’
‘Before they got him he thought he was above the law. Every crime that happened he was behind it. Except nobody could prove nothing. He was just too careful.’ Charlie winked. ‘Any witnesses knew what’d happen to them if they talked.’
‘I understand, but eventually somebody did talk.’
‘Yeah, Wesley Jameson spoke up against him, and it sure was good for everyone that he did after Quincy shot up all four of his own brothers.’
‘I heard there were only three.’
Charlie considered and then shrugged. ‘Perhaps I remembered it wrong. It was a long time ago.’
Lincoln poured Charlie another drink, but then noticed the shadows of several people were spreading across the bar and his neck burned with the impression that these people were looking at him.
He turned to find that several men were standing around him. At the front was the surly form of Independence’s deputy sheriff Alan Curtis.
‘You’re asking an awful lot of questions,’ Curtis said.
‘That’s what lawmen do, so you wouldn’t know that.’
Curtis sneered and then cocked his thumb to the side, ordering Charlie to move away. Charlie didn’t waste a moment in grabbing his glass and scooting down the bar.
‘I know what this lawman is about to do,’ Curtis said.
Lincoln noted that the men around Curtis all had the arrogant look of hired guns and that they were bunching their fists. Lincoln stood tall.
‘Curtis, you’re a lawman in name only and I’m minded to arrest you for getting in a real lawman’s way. Now, move!’
‘You can’t order me do that, now that I’m not a deputy sheriff no more.’ Curtis provided a huge grin. ‘But that’s only because I’m now a sheriff.’
Lincoln snorted. ‘Who pinned a badge on you?’
‘Mayor Ellison.’ Curtis smirked with obvious relish.
‘Pinning a badge on a turd doesn’t make that turd a sheriff.’
As the men around him grunted a laugh, Curtis gritted his teeth.
‘You can’t speak to me like that no more,’ he said, bunching his fists.
‘Mayor Ellison once told me it wasn’t fitting for two lawmen to brawl in public.’ Lincoln looked Curtis up and down. ‘That’s no problem, seeing as you’re not a real lawman.’
Curtis rocked forward, seemingly ready to take out his anger on Lincoln, but then outside a gunshot ripped out. Within the saloon there was the usual combination of people moving towards the window to see what had happened combined with others moving away to avoid being caught in any cross-fire.
Lincoln roughly bundled Curtis aside and pushed customers away to reach the batwings. He saw that the incident was already over.
A lone man lay crumpled in a heap on the hardpan, facing away from Lincoln, his legs drawn up to his chest.
Lincoln issued a quick order for everyone to stay inside and then headed through the door.
Few people were outside and all of them were gravitating towards the body with none of them holding a drawn gun. Neither was anybody moving away from the body.
Lincoln would question the witnesses later, but as he approached the body he winced. It was Judge Murphy.
He ran and skidded to a halt beside the body, seeing that Murphy was clutching a smoking gun. He knelt and rolled him over to find that Murphy was still breathing, but only shallowly.
Murphy looked up at Lincoln with glazed eyes.
‘Who?’ Lincoln asked.
‘Me,’ Murphy said, his voice weak and barely audible. ‘I guess I’ve had so much whiskey I can’t even shoot myself right.’
Murphy let the gun fall from his grasp and moved for his jacket, but he was too weak to do whatever action he’d been trying to perform. His hand dropped and his head lolled.
Lincoln looked over his shoulder and saw Curtis pacing towards him. He turned back and completed Murphy’s movement by moving his jacket aside. Sticking out of his inside pocket was a photograph.
Lincoln didn’t need to examine it to know what it was, but he still pocketed the picture. He turned to face the advancing Curtis.
‘Step away from him,’ Curtis said.
‘He shot himself.’ Linc
oln backed away a pace.
‘That’s what you would say, but now I’m back in town I’ll work that out for myself.’
As Curtis moved in and bent over Murphy’s body Lincoln backed away. As the crowd moved in towards them, he noted that many people were eyeing him with suspicion.
Then he flinched in surprise when a hand clutched his shoulder, halting him.
‘Leave while you still can,’ a voice whispered in his ear. ‘Curtis will need someone to blame for that death and he hates you.’
Chapter Sixteen
Lincoln glanced back. Jack Porter was standing behind him.
‘I was in the saloon with dozens of witnesses,’ Lincoln said. ‘Even Curtis wouldn’t try to twist the truth that much.’
Jack shrugged and headed away.
‘Then I’ll leave you to your fate.’ Jack stopped for a moment. ‘As it appears you don’t want to hear the truth.’
Lincoln was minded not to follow him, but Curtis cast a suspicious glance at him and then beckoned one of the hired guns to come closer so he could talk to him.
With much nodding and waving in Lincoln’s direction, Curtis issued the man with his orders, and Lincoln had no doubt that Jack was right about their nature. So Lincoln slipped into the gathering crowd and hurried after Jack, catching up with him after a dozen quick strides.
Jack merely glanced at him and smiled as if he’d known all along that Lincoln would come with him.
‘What is the truth?’ Lincoln asked.
‘I know who killed Ben Pringle.’ Jack raised a hand as Lincoln asked for a name and then pointed ahead to the stables. ‘Only when we can’t be seen or heard.’
Lincoln complied with Jack’s wishes and stayed quiet until they reached the stables. He took a quick glance around the stalls confirming that nobody was inside and then turned to Jack.
‘All right, tell me what you know,’ he said.
Jack nodded and started walking in small circles, rubbing his chin and looking as if he was arranging his thoughts. Lincoln tapped a foot on the ground as he bided his time.
His patience had worn thin and he was about to demand that Jack hurry up and talk when a creak sounded behind him. Lincoln swirled round, seeing a man holding a sack leap out at him from the shadows.
