Hanging in Wild Wind

by Ralph Cotton

  “You take one; I’ll take the other,” said Shalen with a grin. “Don’t let them get away.”

  “What are you men doing?” Judge Olin asked, stepping barefoot out of the hotel door, wearing his trousers, his nightshirt half-stuffed down into the waist of his pants, one suspender hooked over his thick shoulder. He carried the big horse pistol swinging in one hand.

  “Cleaning up,” said Shalen, “just like you told us to.”

  Rader pulled the trigger and sent Chug Doherty flopping back dead on the ground before he saw the judge walk out onto the street. Judge Olin quickly looked away as if he hadn’t seen what Rader did.

  “All right,” said the judge, looking all around. “But I’ll have no shenanigans, be forewarned—” He stopped as he saw a two-horse buggy racing into town from the direction opposite that of the attack. “Whoa. What have we here?”

  He stood at the head of the armed townsmen until the buggy slid sidelong to a halt a few feet away. The buggy driver sat quietly. Beside him a man in a black suit stood up with a hand planted atop his derby hat and said, “By God, sir! Good show.” He looked all around at the dead renegades and outlaws, then said, “I came as soon as I heard the shots.”

  “Well, that’s good of you,” Judge Olin said, his horse pistol at ready. “Now, who the blazes are you?”

  “Who am I?” the man took a stiff attitude. “I’m Devon Hollister, sir. I’m the chairman of Western Railways, Frontier Division—the man with the balls and the bank book.” He stepped down from the buggy and stood only inches from the judge’s face. “Would you like to see either of them, sir? If so, which do you prefer?”

  The judge gave a belly laugh. “Begging your pardon, Mr. Hollister. I should have recognized you from the periodical covers. Welcome to Wild Wind. I’m Territory Judge Lawrence Olin. I’ve heard wonderful things about you.”

  “Yes, I’m certain you have,” said Hollister, looking past the judge and off along the street. “Where is Hansen Bell? I’m here to observe progress and give direction.”

  “Bell is dead,” said the judge, “murdered by outlaws. But there’s a young detective, Clayton Longworth, at the sheriff’s office who has proven himself quite well.”

  “Bell, dead, you say?” Hollister stopped and looked all around. “In that case I’ll decide whether or not we’ll want to pursue an investment in this godforsaken hole.” He looked the big judge up and down. “I’ll also decide how well this Longworth person has proven himself,” he added gruffly.

  “Of course you will,” said the judge, gesturing a thick hand toward the sheriff’s office. “Just let me know how my office can assist you.”

  Chapter 25

  Before Ceran had ridden a mile out of Wild Wind, he saw Charlie Jenkins cutting across the flatlands two hundred yards to his right, riding in the same direction. The two looked at each other and continued spurring the horses on until their trails intersected a half mile ahead. They loped the last few yards and brought the horses to a halt at the crest of a sandy, low rise.

  “I don’t want you thinking I ran out on you, Silva,” Jenkins said as soon as they’d stopped their horses. “That was a flat-out trap waiting to be sprung on us.” He handed Ceran his bandana from around his neck and watched him fold it and stuff it inside his shirt against his bloody shoulder wound.

  “I know,” said Ceran. “They had us set up like tin ducks. You did the smart thing getting out of there.” He looked back toward Wild Wind, unable to say much, since he himself had fled and left all his men to fend for themselves. “Did you see Quintos or any of his men get out alive?”

  “Yeah, I saw him and Two Horses and somebody else cutting out over in that direction, heading for the hills,” said Jenkins. “I didn’t try to catch up to them.”

  “It’s just as well,” said Ceran. “After this, I never want to see his cowardly face again.” He offered no explanation as to why Quintos had suddenly become a coward. But it didn’t matter to Jenkins; he’d just as soon never again talk about what had happened. “We’re only riding with our own kind from now on,” Ceran said.

  “Did any more of our men make it out alive?” Jenkins asked.

  “I don’t know,” said Ceran, the two turning their horses toward the hill line in the distance. “If they did, they’ll show up. Don’t forget, I still owe some of them money.”

  “I haven’t forgot,” said Jenkins. “I’m one of the ones.”

  “Right,” said Ceran. He paused, then said, “Your money’s safe. Don’t worry about it.”

  “I’m not worried,” said Jenkins.

  “What’s that mean?” Ceran asked. He stopped his horse and looked at Jenkins.

  “Nothing,” Jenkins said. He shrugged. “I just mean I’m not worried about getting my money, is all. With so many dead, there’s plenty more of it now.”

  “You think I planned this?” said Ceran, getting more agitated, more angry and paranoid. “You think I wanted to get my men killed just so there’d be more money for me?”

  “Hell no, Silva!” said Jenkins, seeing that the outlaw leader was starting to rage out of control. “All I’m saying is that we—”

  “I know what you’re saying, you son of a bitch,” said Ceran, his Colt streaking up from its holster.

  “No, Silva, no!” Jenkins shouted.

  Two miles back on the stretch of flats, the ranger watched through his battered telescope. He saw Jenkins fly from his saddle and hit the ground; he saw Ceran grab the reins of Jenkins’ horse to keep it from racing away. Then he lowered the field telescope from his eye and shook his head. Another one down, he told himself, collapsing the telescope between his gloved hands.

  Now that he saw Ceran had two horses, he knew this could turn into a longer chase than he might have first anticipated. But that’s all right, he told himself. He wasn’t going to push the stallion in order to catch up to the outlaw. He nudged Black Pot forward and kept the big animal at a steady pace.

  It was afternoon when Ceran rode up off the flatlands onto the hill trail, leading the spare horse behind him. He traveled along the rocky trail until afternoon shadows stretched long across the hill peaks and the valleys and canyons below. At dark he moved back deep beneath a cliff overhang and built a small fire that went unseen from the trail or from the flatlands below.

  But having followed the outlaw for most of the day, the ranger moved up closer as night set in and led Black Pot along a path that lay above the overhang. From there he watched the flames for a few minutes, then stood and dusted his trouser seat and said quietly, “Come on, Black Pot. It’s time we go calling.”

  Moments later, huddled at the campfire beneath the overhang, Ceran had dozed off for a moment, his head lowered onto his forearm, his other hand pressing the bandana against his shoulder wound. But he awakened instantly and sprang to his feet, Colt in hand, when a sound from the trail pierced his veil of sleep. He listened intently as he slipped away from the glow of the fire into the surrounding darkness and behind a rock at the edge of the overhang. Once behind cover, he slipped the Colt back into its holster, eased his big bowie knife from his boot well and waited.

  A full five minutes passed before he heard another sound in the night. This time he made out the faint sound of a hoof clicking against stone on the rocky trail. He stood poised, tense and ready, knife in hand as he heard the quiet sound of footsteps walking up the last few feet toward his camp. Whoever it is deliberately left his horse behind in order to slip in on me, he reasoned.

  All right, let’s see what good it did you. . . .

  As the silhouette came into view in the grainy moonlight, Ceran leaped forward. In spite of his shoulder wound, he grabbed the man by the hair below his hat brim and jerked his head back, exposing his throat. He swung the knife in a vicious, sidelong stab. But the dark figure ducked even with Ceran holding him.

  Instead of the big blade slicing through the soft tissue of the throat, it sank four inches deep into the man’s ear and stuck there. The sudden i
mpact of the blow caused Ceran to turn loose the handle as the man staggered aimlessly, screaming at the top of his lungs.

  Damn it! So much for quiet. Ceran leaped forward, caught the screaming man by his shoulders and hurled him across the ground into the firelight. The screaming man landed facedown, the knife sticking from his ear, blood squirting with each rapid beat of his heart.

  Ceran ran over, leaped atop the man’s back and began bashing his face and forehead on the rock shelf beneath the overhang. “Shut up . . . you son . . . of a bitch!” he bellowed, until the man’s voice fell silent and his body fell limp beneath the outlaw leader.

  “Jesus!” Ceran said, knowing the screams had been heard out across the flatlands below. He had used a knife in order to keep from being heard and having to break camp and travel on. Now, that’s exactly what I must do, he told himself. He wiped a hand across his blood-smeared face and breathed deep, trying to catch his breath.

  “That is Dad Lafrey,” said a deep voice from the edge of the darkness.

  Ceran jerked around toward the voice, his fingers already grasping for his holstered Colt, but it slipped off because of the thick blood covering his hand. “Damn it, Bloody Wolf!” he said, recognizing Quintos and Two Horses, the two of them staring at him as they stepped forward from the edge of the grainy light. “Don’t ever sneak up on a man that way.” As he spoke he wiped his hand on his trouser leg.

  “We didn’t,” said Quintos, “he did.” He nodded toward Dad Lafrey lying dead, his face flattened against the bloody rock shelf, the big knife sticking from his ear.

  Ceran stood and shook his head. “I liked Dad. He should have known better than to do that.”

  “He does now,” said Quintos. He dismissed the matter and walked over to the fire. Two Horses remained standing, rifle in hand, as if keeping watch on Silva Ceran.

  “You know, first thing in the morning I was going to come looking for you, see if you or any of your warriors made it out of Wild Wind,” Ceran said, wiping his gun hand some more, this time on his shirt.

  “The town was armed and waiting for us,” said Quintos. “I want to cut off my ear for ever riding there with you.”

  “I was as surprised as you were, Bloody,” said Ceran, stepping sidelong around the fire to get closer to him. Two Horses’ eyes moved right along with him. “I never seen a town so stoked up, or well prepared for a fight.”

  Quintos stared into the low flames and said, “I asked myself, did Silva ‘the Snake’ Ceran take me and my men there knowing we would be killed?”

  “No. Hell no, Bloody,” said Ceran. “I went there for my woman and for the money.”

  “But we got neither,” said Quintos, still not raising his eyes from the flames.

  “That’s the breaks of this game,” said Ceran. “But there’s money there. I know there is. We just didn’t get it.”

  “You made money,” Quintos said flatly.

  “Oh?” said Ceran. “How do you figure I made any money in Wild Wind?”

  “It came to me on the trail that all the money you would have to share with your men, you would not have to share if they were all dead,” Quintos said in the same flat tone.

  “Well, that’s one way of looking at it, I suppose,” said Ceran. “But here’s another way: you and Two Horses and I can ride to where I stashed that money. We split it up and go our own ways.” He offered a slight wry grin. “You can buy arms to kill the white man. I can go to Mexico and get so high on mescal and mescaline that I can’t even count my toes.”

  Quintos nodded slowly. “You think quick. That is good. That is why I came to ride with you. I also heard that you are a man to be feared and held in honor. I said to myself, Here is a man who will show us how to make the money we need.”

  “Well, Bloody,” Ceran said with a thin smile, “riding with me is what you’re doing. We are going go get some money.”

  “I know,” said Quintos, standing slowly. “But now that I have witnessed how you are, I want to kill you so bad that it makes my head hurt.”

  Ceran watched Quintos’ hand ease toward the Colt sticking out of his waist sash. “Hey, you stupid Injun,” he said in harsh tone. He saw Two Horses’ thumb go over his rifle hammer and cock it. “You and this idiot kill me, you’ll never see that money.”

  “I know,” said Quintos. “But there are things more important than money.” He started to grab the Colt; Two Horses started to swing his rifle up. Ceran’s hand stood poised, ready to go for his own Colt, noise be damned. But they all stopped at the sound of a rifle lever jacking back and forth from the edge of the firelight.

  “Everybody freeze up,” said the ranger. But he knew it was a waste of time telling them.

  “Freeze up?” Ceran turned toward him with a sneer, his hand going for his gun butt. But Ceran’s wound slowed him down. Sam saw that his first shot wasn’t meant for Silva Ceran. Quintos had also turned toward him, his Colt already coming up out of his sash.

  Sam’s rifle shot hit Quintos dead center, sending him flying backward, his heart’s blood spraying on the jagged wall of the overhang. The ranger levered his rifle as he swung it toward Ceran, seeing the outlaw’s drawn Colt explode toward him in a blue-orange streak of fire. But Ceran’s shot went wild. The ranger’s aim was deadly.

  Silva Ceran fell backward onto the rock shelf less than two feet from Dad Lafrey’s bloody corpse.

  Quickly levering another round into his rifle chamber, Sam swung toward Two Horses, who had only managed to get his cocked rifle half raised as the ranger’s Winchester seemed to stare at him with ill intent. “Drop it,” Sam said, seeing there was time to hold his shot and keep from killing him.

  Two Horses let the rifle fall from his hands. But instead of standing still, he began chanting and dancing slowly in place. “I do the death dance, to honor you as a great warrior,” he said, gesturing his hand toward the bodies on the rock shelf.

  “No dancing. Stop it,” said the ranger.

  But Two Horses didn’t stop. He bowed slowly, letting his hands sweep low, close to the edge of his high-topped moccasins. “This is what my people do when we know we are in the presence—”

  “I’ve already seen it,” the ranger said, cutting him off. The rifle bucked again in his hands. Two Horses flew backward and hit the ground, his hand managing to pull the knife from his boot well even as the Winchester’s bullet struck him dead.

  Sam lowered the rifle, walked over to the fire and stooped down beside a boiling pot of coffee. He picked up a clean cup sitting nearby and rounded his gloved thumb inside it, inspected it. Then he picked up the coffeepot and poured a cupful, and sat slumped beside the fire. “Don’t mind if I do . . . ,” he said under his breath.

  Chapter 26

  It was late evening the following day when Tommy Tinkens ran into the sheriff’s office, out of breath, and said to Longworth and Shelly Linde, “He’s back! He’s back! You said to tell you when he’s back!”

  “Tommy, take it easy,” said Shelly, catching the boy before he fell forward into the desk.

  Longworth gave Shelly a look of dread as he stood and walked toward the front door. “Maybe I ought to meet him alone,” he said, taking his hat from a peg on the wall and putting it on his head.

  “I’ll—I’ll wait here while you tell him everything,” Shelly said in a worried voice, her arms looped around the small boy’s shoulders.

  Longworth just looked at her.

  “You are going to tell him about me?” she asked, not wanting to say too much in front of the boy.

  “I’ll tell him what I need to tell him,” Longworth said. As far as he was concerned, he wouldn’t tell the ranger or anybody else about what Shelly had done. It’s nobody’s business, he convinced himself. Besides, the ranger had almost certainly figured it out for himself. He didn’t need to be told. Some things go without saying between lawmen, he told himself.

  Out front, a few townsmen started to walk up to the ranger as he slowed on the dirt street, leading the bodie
s of Silva Ceran and Quintos tied across their horses behind him. But as Sam slowed and veered toward the hitch rail out front of the sheriff’s office, the men lingered back, looking hesitant to get too close to him.

  As Longworth walked over, looked up and took the reins to the two dead outlaws’ horses from him, he said, “We wondered if you’d run into much trouble out there. Some of the men wanted to ride out and see. I told them to give you another day first.”

  “Obliged,” Sam said, still looking all around at the men standing back, some of them drifting away. “It was better I went alone.” He gestured toward Ceran and Quintos’ bodies. “There’s the main two. There’s three more strung out between here and the high trails.”

  “I can send somebody out,” said Longworth. The ranger nodded. He looked around at the front of the hotel, where workmen were already repairing the fallen balcony.

  “Where’s Judge Olin?” he asked.

  “He’s gone,” said Longworth.

  “He’s gone? What about the court—the trials?” he asked.

  “He held court this morning,” said Longworth. “Now he’s gone. He left right afterward.”

  Sam looked surprised. “He didn’t want me to testify?”

  “He said he knew everything you had to say,” said Longworth. “There was no jury. Everybody threw themselves at the mercy of the court.”

  “We figured they would,” Sam said. “But still . . .” He looked all around the street again. “What’s going on here?”

  “We need to talk, Ranger,” said Longworth. “Why don’t you step down? We’ll go inside.”

  “Talk about what?” Sam said, feeling suspicious but not knowing why. He made no effort toward stepping down from his saddle.

  “It’s been a fast day,” said Longworth. “Mr. Hollister, from Western Railways, came to town after you left yesterday. He heard about everything that went wrong and started to fire me on the spot. But the judge came to my defense and saved my job.” He paused, then said, “He not only saved my job; I managed to get a promotion out of the deal.”