Hanging in Wild Wind

by Ralph Cotton

  “Pleased to meet you, Your Honor,” said Longworth, shaking the judge’s thick hand.

  “We would have been here before dark were it not for a washout along the hill trail,” the judge said, rubbing his hand on his coat again as soon as Longworth turned it loose. “Pleased to make your acquaintance, Detective,” he added, as if in afterthought. He looked all around the street. “Where is Detective Bell this evening?”

  “I’m afraid Chief Detective Bell has been killed, Your Honor,” the ranger said quietly. “His killer is inside in a cell.”

  “Chief Bell killed, you say?” The judge looked around again at the gathered townsmen and put two and two together. But rather than mention what he knew was going on, he said instead, “I see I must have arrived at the ending of a public event—some sort of target shoot, no doubt.”

  Shalen stepped forward and said, “It is what it looks like, Judge. We were about to lynch a band of murdering dogs.”

  “I see,” the judge said in an understanding tone. “Take it upon yourselves to deliver justice, as it were?” As he spoke he turned and ambled over to Shalen.

  “Yes, sir, exactly, Judge Olin,” said Shalen, feeling encouraged by the judge’s tolerant demeanor. “We pride ourselves in knowing right from wrong, and in being able to take care of—”

  Longworth winced at the sound of the judge’s big hand slapping a hard, full swing across Shalen’s unsuspecting face. The ranger stifled a slight smile, watching the young townsman fly sidelong and turn a flip in much the same way Samples had earlier when Sam’s bullet had hit him.

  “How dare you intercede in matters of the law!” the judge raged down at the half-conscious Shalen. Olin pounded a thick finger on his chest. “This is my world! You do not . . . do not presume to compromise it. How dare you, sir!” He turned his glare at two townsmen standing nearby. “Get this man onto his feet so I can smite him down again!”

  The townsmen hurriedly drew Shalen to his feet. He stood wobbling in place. The judge drew back his open palm. But before he could administer another slap, Shalen melted back to the ground.

  Turning, tugging at the open collar of his white shirt and black tie, the judge said, “If there is any other man who thinks he can usurp the power of my court, let him step forward and look me in the face. I will consequently box his jaws forthwith.” The townsmen milled and backed away, some dropping coiled ropes to the ground.

  “The judge does have his ways,” Sam said quietly to Longworth, the two of them watching, Longworth in rapt fascination.

  Inside the cells, Kitty and Paco had both dropped from their windows at the sound of the talk and scuffling boots moving from the street into the sheriff’s office. “We are all screwed,” she repeated under her breath, having said the same thing only moments ago when she realized that it was not Ceran and his men riding into town. “Silva isn’t coming. . . .”

  “Right this way, Your Honor,” she heard Longworth say, as the four men stepped inside and Selectman Tyler closed the front door behind them. Longworth picked up a burning lantern from atop the desk and walked a step ahead of the judge, who was followed by the ranger. Selectman Tyler followed the ranger.

  “I’m certain these two lawmen would have tidied up some if they’d known you were coming, Your Honor,” Tyler said nervously.

  “These two young lawmen are doing fine work, Tyler,” the judge said gruffly over his thick, broad shoulder. “You are damned lucky to have them here.”

  “Yes, of course. My feelings exactly,” Tyler said meekly.

  In preparation for the judge coming to her cell, Kitty fluffed her disheveled hair and tugged her shirt down off one shoulder. She formed a sensual, seductive smile and sat poised on her cot. “My, my, who is this big, handsome man coming to . . .” She looked crestfallen as the judge walked right past her cell as if he hadn’t seen her. He stopped out front of Cadden Cullen, who stood clinging to the bars with both hands, sobbing quietly, his head bowed against the bars.

  “Why is this man crying?” Judge Olin asked Longworth.

  Longworth looked dumbfounded.

  “My poor brother is dead,” said Cadden, raising his eyes, which the ranger noted right away were dry, in spite of his pitiful weeping.

  The four looked over at the still body lying on its cot. “Step to the side, Cadden. We’re coming in,” said Longworth, already unlocking the padlock in order to loosen the chain on the door.

  Eyeing the Colt holstered on Longworth’s hip, Cadden did take a short step back. But Sam could see his intentions were to grab the gun, probably the judge too as a hostage, and make an escape. In foresight, Sam reached through the bars as the door swung open, slapped one handcuff around Cadden’s wrist and hooked the other cuff around an iron bar.

  Judge Olin saw the ranger’s move and the surprised look on the outlaw’s face. Shaking his large head, he gave a deep chuckle as he followed Longworth into the cell. “I never feel so safe as when I know this young ranger is around.”

  Chapter 23

  Down the hall from his own room, in the judge’s room, the ranger and Territory Judge Lawrence Olin spent most of the night seated at a small table, discussing the events that had taken place in Wild Wind. In the soft, round glow of an oil lamp, the judge spoke over a tall glass of Old Bourbon Whiskey, a cup of strong black coffee and, on the side, a three-pound apple pie from the restaurant. In return, the ranger spoke over a cup of coffee, a half-filled shot glass of Old Bourbon sitting close at hand.

  With a large serving spoon in his huge fist and a checkered napkin stuffed down into his open shirt collar, the judge looked contemplative as he chewed, then swallowed, then took a gulp of steaming coffee.

  “I call where we’re sitting tonight as being at the high point of the legal triangle, Ranger Samuel,” the judge said in his gruff, guttural voice. “The triangle of truth, if you will.”

  The ranger only gave him a curious look.

  “Down there, in the dirt, is where most law is broken.” He stabbed the big spoon in the direction of the dark street below. “Who broke it, how and why it was broken, is all weighed and considered over there, in more civilized surroundings—a court of law.” He swiped the spoon straight across the air toward the new sheriff’s office, a temporary place for court to convene until a better location was established.

  “But before the matter goes from the dirt to the court, it has to come up here to me, on high.” He grinned and drew another line with the spoon, from down toward the sheriff’s office upward toward himself, almost touching his head. “You see it, don’t you?” he said, stifling a slight belch as he drew a triangle with the spoon, connecting all three points.

  “I see it.” Sam nodded. He continued to watch attentively as the large man lifted the edge of his napkin from his massive chest and wiped it across his thick lips. Setting the coffee aside, Olin raised the water glass of Old Bourbon to his lips and drank.

  “Now then, Ranger Samuel,” he said, “while you have the rare, if somewhat dubious, privilege of presiding up here beside me, explain exactly what happened down there in the dirt.”

  Sam said in a measured tone, “Your Honor, I can’t tell you exactly what happened. I can only give you my opinion, my hunch, on the matter.”

  “Ah, but you see, Ranger,” the judge said, “your opinion, your hunch, might be as close as we’ll ever come to knowing the truth about who killed Dr. Ford, or the detective chief.” He pointed a thick finger and advised critically, “So be careful with your words. They may carry the weight of life or death for these people.”

  “You sound like you’re making me judge and jury for all four of them,” Sam said.

  “Yes, that is what I’m doing,” said the judge. “There will be no jury, of course.” He shrugged. “These outlaws never want to throw their lives at the mercy of a jury. That was their jury standing out front with ropes and torches last night. They’ll throw themselves at the mercy of the court.”

  “On you,” Sam said.

&nb
sp; “On me,” Judge Olin said, almost tapping the pie-smeared spoon on his chest. “I sit at the top of the triangle. Here is where the measure of mercy is weighed and portioned—here, in the hour of night.”

  Sam nodded, deliberately not looking at the glass of Old Bourbon in the judge’s hand, or at the brown-tinted bottle sitting nearly empty beside the remnants of uneaten apple pie.

  “I will not go to bed tonight until I know what my verdict is going to be.” Judge Olin grinned, then took a deep breath and insisted, “So, you must tell me the truth, the whole truth and all the truth that will ever be known on this matter, Ranger Samuel.”

  Sam started to reach over and pick up the shot glass, but he changed his mind and sipped his coffee instead. Judge Olin took note of his action and smiled faintly to himself.

  “The way I see it, Your Honor,” he said, setting his glass back down but keeping his hand around it, “the woman and the Cullen brothers had no part in killing the doctor or Chief Bell. They just happened to be breaking jail at a time when Paco Stazo and the Comanchero were doing the killings.”

  “That’s what she would have had me believe,” said the judge, considering the conversation he’d had earlier with Kitty in her cell. He smiled. “I have to admit she was persuasive, especially when she implied what fun she and I might have after the trial.” He chuckled in reflection and shook his head.

  “She’s scared, Your Honor,” said Sam, “and she’s playing the only card she has.”

  “She is a striking woman, Ranger, and no doubt a fine piece of tail, as they so crudely say,” the judge said. “Wouldn’t you say?” He smiled and took another deep drink of Old Bourbon. “Now, don’t tell me she didn’t offer it up to you as well.”

  “She did,” said the ranger. He shifted in his chair, never comfortable in such conversations. “I turned her down, Your Honor.”

  “I know you did,” said Judge Olin, “otherwise she wouldn’t be in jail in Wild Wind. I didn’t mean to imply that she has prejudiced your opinion on the matter with her feminine charm.”

  “Obliged, Your Honor,” said Sam. “All that aside, I believe she’s innocent.”

  “Innocent of killing the doctor and the detective chief, perhaps,” the judge shrugged. “But what about the man Weeks, the one you said you found at the water hole where she’d left him?”

  “I’d have to call it self-defense,” Sam said with a deep sigh. “I know that’s giving her an awfully broad benefit of the doubt.”

  “Indeed it is,” said the judge. He grinned again. “But I’ll either give you that for her sake, or I’ll give her that for your sake. I believe the woman has gotten to you a bit.”

  “Maybe she has, some,” Sam said. “But it’s not like you think.” He reconsidered the shot glass of Old Bourbon, picked it up and tossed it back. “When I found her dead horse along the trail, I went through her saddlebags. I found a locket with a picture in it of her as a young girl. She didn’t say it’s her, but I know it is.” He paused, then said, “It keeps coming back to my mind—that young face, the clear, innocent eyes. . . .” His words trailed.

  After a silent pause, the judge cleared his throat and said, “All right, now. She didn’t kill the doctor or the detective chief that we can prove. Although she and her allies, all four of them, were prowling loose at the time of the two murders. This man Weeks was self-defense, although we have no way of proving that, except her word on what happened.” He gazed at the ranger skeptically. “Are there any other murders she’s been around that we cannot convict her of?”

  The ranger slid the empty shot glass aside and sipped his coffee. “You asked me, Your Honor,” he said. “I’m telling you what I think.”

  “Indeed you are, Ranger,” said the judge. He reached over with his spoon and swiped up the last thick, moist bite of sugary apple pie and wolfed it down. He chased it with a swig of Old Bourbon, followed by a drink of coffee. Then he wiped his mouth again on the edge of the napkin, which he jerked out from beneath his collar.

  “You needn’t worry, Ranger Samuel,” he said. “I’m not known as a hanging judge, except in cases where the amount of evidence is too high to question.” He raised a thick finger for emphasis. “But make no mistake, she’s going to jail.”

  “For how long?” Sam asked.

  The judge shrugged. “I’ve convicted her tonight. I’ll sentence her come morning.” He winked and shoved back his chair. He started to rise, but he stopped and asked, “What about that jailbreak? How did they get out of the cells?”

  “Cadden Cullen had the key, Your Honor,” Sam said. “How he got it across the room to open the cells, I don’t know.”

  “You don’t know?” The judge studied him closely. “But you have a theory—another hunch?”

  “It would be best if Longworth talked with you about that jailbreak, Your Honor,” said Sam. “I wouldn’t want him feeling like we’ve left him out.”

  The judge studied his face for a moment. Seeing that the ranger wasn’t going to offer any more on the matter, he said, “No, we wouldn’t want that.”

  It was daylight when the ranger awoke, back in his own room. He dressed in the gray hour of dawn and walked to the sheriff’s office, rifle in hand. When he knocked quietly on the front door, Longworth unlocked the door and opened it, standing in his sock feet as the ranger walked in and shut the door behind himself.

  “How did your talk with the judge go?” Longworth asked, leaning his rifle back against the edge of the desk, where he’d spent the night sleeping.

  “He’s a talker,” Sam said, keeping his voice down in order to prevent the prisoners from hearing him. “He feels like we’ll never know exactly who did the killings here. None of the four is going to admit to it or tell on the other.” As he spoke he leaned his rifle against the desk alongside the detective’s.

  “So, they’ll all four hang?” Longworth asked.

  “In most any other territory, yes,” Sam said. “But the judge is not known for hanging.”

  Longworth considered it. “Then they’ll all go to prison for the rest of their lives?”

  “Yep,” Sam said.

  “I don’t know if that’s better or not,” said Longworth. “Hanging might be more humane.” He shook his head slightly. “Did you tell him what you thought happened—what we thought happened, that is?”

  “I told him,” Sam said. “I can’t tell whether he agreed or not.”

  The two had discussed the possibility of Kitty and the Cullen brothers managing to escape while Paco Stazo and Buckles were going about the killing of Detective Bell and the doctor.

  “If I didn’t believe it happened that way, I’d have an awful lot of guilt weighing me down,” Longworth said, not realizing that the ranger knew about Shelly Linde and the cell key.

  Sam just looked at him, offering no reply.

  “What did he think about the cell key?”

  “The cell key?” Sam said, appearing to have given little more thought on the matter.

  “Yes. I mean about how the prisoners might have gotten it and let themselves out,” said Longworth, trying not to sound as concerned and anxious about the matter as the ranger knew him to be.

  “It was getting late,” said Sam. “We didn’t talk much about it.”

  “Oh . . . ,” said the detective.

  “I’m going to talk to Kitty,” Sam said quietly. “Try to give her an idea that she isn’t going to hang. Maybe it’ll settle her down some.”

  “Settle her down?” Longworth said skeptically. “I don’t think anything bothers her.”

  “I think all this bothers her,” said Sam. “She just tries hard not to let it show.”

  Longworth stepped over to the woodstove, picked up the coffeepot and shook it as if to make sure it was empty. The ranger turned away from him and walked back to the cell where Kitty sat on the edge of her cot, smoking a cigarette in the gray morning gloom.

  “Morning, Ranger,” she said quietly, beneath a low buzz of snoring coming f
rom the other two cells.

  “Morning, Kitty,” Sam replied in a lowered voice to keep from waking the others. “You’re up early.”

  “Why not?” Kitty shrugged. “Care for a smoke?” She opened her hand and showed him three other cigarettes she had already rolled for later.

  “Obliged, but no, thanks,” said Sam.

  “What can I do for you this morning, Ranger?” she asked. There was the slightest hint of a proposition in her voice, even though the ranger was certain she hadn’t intended it to be there. Maybe she can’t help herself, Sam thought, or maybe I can’t help but interpret her that way.

  “I spent some time talking to Judge Olin about you, Kitty,” he said.

  “Oh . . . ?” She took a draw; the cigarette’s fire rose and fell. “What about me?” She blew out the smoke.

  “Do you want to talk from here?” Sam asked.

  “No,” said Kitty. “Why don’t you come inside?”

  “I’ve got a better idea,” said Sam. He stopped talking and waited.

  Kitty sighed, stood up and walked over to the chained and padlocked cell door. “Why is it I can never get you to go along with me on anything, Ranger?” She reached her hand for his as he held on to a bar.

  “Hardheadedness, I suppose,” Sam said. He dropped his hand before she could take it. He stood with a few inches and a wall of iron bars between them. “I told the judge I didn’t believe you had a hand in the two killings here,” he said almost in a whisper.

  “Yeah?” she replied in the same tone, eyeing him as if wondering what he might expect in return. “I never tell the law anything,” she said guardedly.

  “I’m not asking you to,” Sam said. “I told him that because I believe it’s true—that’s all.”

  “Yeah?” she repeated, still uncertain. “Then I’m obliged, Ranger.” She eyed him more and asked, “What about Weeks? Did you tell the judge about him?”

  “Yes, I did,” said Sam. “And I told him I believed it might be self-defense, just like you said.”