“I can see that,” Kate said. She turned to Flossie, who stood at her side, and said, “Bring the carriage. We’ll go after the crowd and try to stop them.”
“It’s begun, Kate,” Frank said. “I don’t think anybody can stop it.”
“We’ll most certainly give it a try,” Kate said.
* * *
By the time Kate Kerrigan hobbled into her carriage, the buckboard and its attendant crowd were halfway to the wild oaks. The rain had increased to a steady downpour and Kate hoped it would dampen enthusiasm for a hanging. Shorty Hawkins kept an oilskin slicker under the driver’s seat and Flossie put this on as she took up the reins. After a struggle Kate pulled up the canvas top behind her and found some shelter.
“Flossie, whip up the horses and catch the buckboard if you can,” Kate said.
“Yes, ma’am.”
The carriage lurched forward and then it rocked violently as a cloaked woman jumped inside. Her hood slid back off her head and Kate came face-to-face with Ingrid Hult. The woman looked pale, and her eyes were reddened as though she’d cried recently. She turned and yelled to Flossie, “Catch up to them and don’t even think about sparing the horses.”
“Yes, ma’am,” the girl said. She cracked the whip, and the team took off at a trot that quickly became a canter.
“I didn’t think you’d show,” Kate said.
“You know why I’m here?” Ingrid said.
“Yes. To confess to the murders of Davy Hoyle, Andy Porter, and Buck Nolan and to save an innocent man’s life.”
“You’re well informed, Mrs. Kerrigan,” Ingrid said. “And you’re correct. It all ends today.”
That last statement should have rung an alarm bell in Kate’s mind, but surprised as she was by the woman’s sudden appearance it did not register. Only a moment later, when it was too late, did she realize what it meant.
A single revolver shot racketed into the morning, and startled, Kate said, “Flossie, stop!” And then to Ingrid, “Where did that come from?”
“No, Flossie, drive on,” Ingrid said. She turned to Kate. “It was nothing, Mrs. Kerrigan. Nothing at all.”
CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE
Judicial hangings in the West were pure theater since they were well attended, and the crowd had to be entertained as they watched the law at work. After a prayer, and maybe the singing of a hymn or two, the condemned man could usually be cajoled into a speech that would please the ladies in the audience. The doomed man, previously coached by the presiding lawmen, would say that whiskey and fallen women led him to this pass . . . but he had a good mother. That last would bring nods of approval from the matrons present and a few would shed a tear after the trapdoor was sprung. The ceremony seldom varied, and more often than not the condemned died with at least some of his dignity intact.
But a lynching practiced no such niceties.
The condemned man was usually abused and derided as he was dragged to the noose and then hauled aloft by willing hands to strangle to death, the jeers and catcalls of the crowd the last thing he ever heard. That was to be Cloud Passing’s fate as the crowd cheered and a noose was slung over a tree branch and dangled just six feet off the ground. Unless Frank Cobb and the Kerrigan brothers stopped the hanging the Cheyenne was a dead man. Easier said than done. Frank knew he could rely on the KK punchers, but Bill Cody’s people were crying for blood, especially the cowboy performers, since the murders had happened to three of their own.
As a couple of men eagerly hung the noose around Cloud Passing’s neck, six or seven others grabbed onto the rope to haul him off his feet and let him swing. The Cheyenne stared at Frank through the rain, and their eyes met. There was no accusation in the Indian’s gaze, just resignation and perhaps disappointment.
Frank had given Cloud Passing his word, and in the West a man’s word counted for everything. To go back on it now would leave a scar on Frank Cobb’s conscience that would never heal. Trace Kerrigan looked at him, horrified, and Quinn was trying, unsuccessfully, to pull men off the rope. A blue-chinned Cody cowboy grabbed Quinn by the shoulder, yanked him around, and landed a right on his chin. Quinn staggered back and then fell. Trace, his pent-up anger boiling over, went after the cowboy, blocked the man’s wild punch, and delivered a right hook to his chin. Before Trace had time to recover his stance, several of the Cody men, including a huge roustabout, came at him. Trace blocked a punch, ducked under another, and then for his pains took a roundhouse to his midsection from the roustabout that doubled him over. The KK hands ran to Trace’s aid and the fighting became general. Close to a hundred men whaled at each other with fists and boots while a couple of hundred more, of both sexes, cheered them on.
Frank Cobb glanced at Cloud Passing. The Indian lay on the ground where he’d been dropped when the fight started and for now at least he was safe. Frank drew his Colt, fired into the air, got little response, and fired again. This time the muddy, battered combatants dropped their fists and glared at him.
“I’ll shoot the next man who throws a punch,” Frank said. He looked at Trace and Quinn, who had been in the thick of the scrap and were bloodied, and added, “And I don’t give a damn who you are.”
All of the KK hands wore guns, as did a few of the Cody people, but most knew of Frank Cobb by reputation, a draw fighter with bark on him who was a dangerous man to cross.
Bill Cody stepped between Frank and the others and said, “That’s enough, you damned fools. Stop it now before someone gets killed.”
Then a voice from the crowd, “Mr. Cody is right. Let’s get on with the damn hanging and stop fighting among ourselves.”
This was greeted with yells of agreement and beat-up men with bloody noses and black eyes picked themselves up off the ground and after a deal of handshaking, agreed that they should call a truce and get busy with the task on hand . . . hanging a black-hearted, murdering savage.
Frank Cobb still had his Colt in his hand. He’d thought it through and made up his mind. He would keep his word to Cloud Passing even though it meant a killing . . . and even his own death.
But the chiming harnesses of Kate’s carriage horses made every head turn, and Frank holstered his revolver. Still at a distance, Ingrid Hult stood up in the carriage and called out, “Stop the hanging! The murderer is here. Right here.”
Everyone stood still in the rain, and for a second time Cloud Passing’s moccasins thudded to the ground as the rope was released.
Kate’s carriage rattled to a halt, and Ingrid Hult pulled her red cloak around her and stepped out into the crowd. “I’m here,” she said. “I killed the three cowboys. I’m the one you should hang.”
Bill Cody stepped to the girl’s side. “My dear young lady, what are you telling us?” he said.
“They raped me, raped my sister, and she killed herself afterward,” Ingrid said. “There were four of them, and I tracked down and killed one of them in Kansas. I discovered that the other three were with the show, and I killed them one by one. I scalped them to make it look like an Indian was to blame. But I won’t let an innocent man hang for my crimes.”
Ingrid’s speech was greeted by a stunned silence. Frank Cobb emphasized the fact that Ingrid had told the truth by stepping to Cloud Passing and removing the noose from his neck.
“Cobb,” the Cheyenne said. “No more pretend.”
Frank smiled. “Never again, Injun. Never again.”
Bill Cody had assumed his leadership role. His voice stern, he said, “Young lady, did you also murder Slide McKenzie?”
The girl shook her head. “No, it was Jim Benson who shot him. He did it for me. McKenzie was bartending in the saloon where I killed the first”—she spat out the word—“rapist. McKenzie threatened to tell you, and we were afraid that you would turn me over to the Rangers.”
Bill was shocked. “My dear, laws are made to be broken and I’ve broke most of them, and that is why I would never welcome the Texas Rangers here. We would have handled such an affair ourselves.”
Kate Kerrigan signaled to Flossie to help her out of the carriage. By now everyone in the crowd, including Kate, was thoroughly soaked, but no one had drifted away, held in place by the drama that was unfolding.
Supported by Flossie and helped by a cane, Kate limped toward Ingrid, who turned to her and smiled, and Kate remembered why she’d liked this beautiful girl on sight.
“Ingrid,” Kate said, “no matter how you wish to handle this crisis in your life I’ll help you every way I can. We can hire the best lawyers in the country and go to trial, or you and Jim can leave the United States for a while and start a new life. I have relatives in Ireland, a rough-and-ready bunch to be sure, but they’ll welcome you with open arms.”
“Splendid suggestions, Kate, first rate,” Bill Cody said. “A stay in the Emerald Isle might just be the ticket, Ingrid. Your first step in what could become, after the passage of time, the gateway to a new and joyous life.”
Rain plastered Ingrid’s blond hair to her forehead. Her lips trembled. “Thank you, Mrs. Kerrigan. I think we’ll do that. Thank you, thank you for both me and Jim’s sakes.”
CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX
“Well, I’ve lost two of my best, but the show must go on,” Bill Cody said as he sat in Kate’s parlor, amber bourbon glowing in the crystal glass in his hand.
“Yes, it’s a long journey to Ireland, to be sure. And a whole new life ahead of them. But at least they’ll have each other,” Kate said.
“I’m sure it’s for the best, Kate,” Bill said.
Winifred the parlor maid tapped on the door and then showed Frank Cobb inside. The segundo made a routine report about moving part of the herd to winter pasture, and after Kate nodded her approval, Bill Cody said, “Now that I have you both together I have an announcement to make that’s of the greatest moment.”
“I declare, that sounds exciting, Mr. Cody,” Kate said.
“It is exiting, as all of Buffalo Bill Cody’s proclamations are,” Bill said. “I fear that recent melancholy events have robbed my people of a certain—how shall it say it?—“joie de verve, to wit, that gaiety, high spirits, élan, and zest for life they were wont to display. In short, they’re glum.”
“And you have a plan to remedy this situation?” Kate said.
“Once again, dear lady, you have gone directly to the heart of the matter,” Bill said. He flicked an atom of cigar ash off a glossy, knee-high boot and said, “I plan to put on a Wild West show for the KK ranch, the very show, and I mean this most earnestly, that I will stage for the crowned heads of Europe during my tour next summer.” Bill beamed and sat back on his chair. “How is that for Cody gratitude?”
Kate laughed and clapped her hands as she bounced back and forth in her chair and said, “Huzzah!”
Emboldened by Kate’s enthusiastic reaction, Bill said, “And you will see, for the very first time on any continent, my new spectacular, Buffalo Bill Saves the Denver Stage, with a cast of hundreds, maidens in distress, bloodthirsty Indians, brave cavalrymen, stampeding bison, and, of course, my gallant self astride a noble white charger.”
Once again, her eyes alight, Kate applauded, laughed, and cried, “Three cheers for Buffalo Bill!”
For his part, Bill took all this as only his due. He stood, shook his silver hair over his shoulders, and struck a gallant pose.
Frank Cobb said, “When is the show, Bill? I need to make sure all the hands are free on that day.”
“One week from this very day, Mr. Cobb, rain or shine, though inclement weather stands aside when Buffalo Bill takes the stage.”
* * *
Despite a thunderstorm that soaked the audience and spawned mud that more than once threatened to overturn the Denver stage, Kate Kerrigan and the rest of the KK agreed that Bill Cody’s Wild West show had been a great success. Even Cloud Passing got into the act and did a very credible job as Chief Yellow Hand. He allowed Bill to slay him and then obligingly died with considerable melodramatic display. Bill would later say that the Cheyenne got so worked up it took two full days to return him to a semblance of normality. “But he’s a star,” he said. “They’re going to love him in London.”
* * *
“You will travel to Europe, Kate. Your mind is made up?” Hiram Clay said.
“This summer,” Kate said. She smiled. “Yes, my mind is made up.”
“Well, all I can do is to say good luck and wish you bon voyage. I’ll pray for your safe return,” Clay said. “You own the steamship company, so your crossing will be a pleasant one. You’ll be waited on hand and foot.”
Kate laughed. “I don’t own White Star, Hiram, I only have shares in the company. But I’m sure the service will be first rate.”
“London. You’ll stay in London?”
“Yes, for a few weeks while Bill Cody’s show is there, and then I’ll visit the old country. Ireland is beautiful in any season, but the summer is . . . well, as close to heaven on earth as it gets. More tea?”
Clay waited until his cup was refilled and then said, “Kate, I worry about you alone in London. I’ve heard some very bad things about the East End. For some reason Governor Oran Roberts and the Rangers keep informed about happenings abroad, and they tell me that women are murdered regularly in what’s called the Whitechapel slum district. So please, stay away from there.”
Kate smiled. “I most certainly will. And besides, I always carry my trusty derringer.”
“I hope you will tell us of your adventures when you return from your wanderings in foreign lands,” Clay said.
“You can be assured of that,” Kate said. “I plan to have many to tell.”
Turn the page for an exciting preview!
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For generations, the Jensen family has staked their claim in the heart of the American West. Now the legacy continues as twin brothers Ace and Chance Jensen find justice . . . swinging from a hangman’s noose.
THE BAD ALSO DIE YOUNG
In a court of law, it takes twelve jurors to convict a killer. Two of them are Jensens. It all started when those Jensen boys, Ace and Chance, got roped into jury duty. It should have ended when justice was served with the killer dancing on the end of a rope. But no. This is just the beginning of the death sentence for Ace, Chance, and the ten other terrified jurors.
A JURY OF TWELVE MEN AND DEAD
He’s one of the most notorious outlaws in the west. He’s also the brother of the hanged killer. Now he’s here in town—and plans to slaughter the jurors, one by one. There’s just one hitch:
Ace and Chance aren’t getting ready for Judgment Day.
They’re gunning for justice—Jensen style . . .
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CHAPTER ONE
“Nice, peaceful-looking town,” Chance Jensen commented as he and his brother approached the settlement.
“Think it’ll stay that way after we ride in?” Ace Jensen asked.
“Why wouldn’t it?”
“I’m just going by our history, that’s all. Seems like every time we show up in a place, hell starts to pop.”
Chance made a scoffing sound. “Now you’re just being . . . what’s the word?”
“I was thinking crazy,” Ace said.
The brothers drew rein in front of a livery stable at the edge of town, halting Ace’s big, rangy chestnut and Chance’s cream-colored gelding in front of the open double doors.
Not many people would have taken them for twin brothers, despite the truth of their birth. When they swung down from their saddles, Ace stood slightly taller than Chance and his shoulders spread a little wider. Dark hair peeked out from under his thumbed-back Stetson. The battered hat matched his well-worn range clothes and the plain, walnut-butted Colt .45 Peacemaker that stuck up from a holster on his right hip.
A flat-crowne
d brown hat sat on Chance’s lighter, sandy-colored hair. He preferred fancier clothes than his brother, in this case a brown tweed suit and a black string tie. A .38 caliber Smith & Wesson Second Model revolver rode in a shoulder holster under the suit coat, out of sight but handy if Chance needed to use it . . . which he could, with considerable speed and accuracy.
Both Jensen brothers possessed an uncanny ability to handle guns that had saved their lives—and the lives of numerous innocent people—in the past.
A tall, rawboned man in late middle age ambled out of the livery stable to meet them. He wore overalls and a hat with the brim pushed up in front. Rust-colored stubble sprouted from his lean cheeks and angular jaw, and a black patch covered his left eye. “Do you gents for somethin’?”
“Stalls and feed for our horses,” Ace said.
The liveryman studied the mounts for a second and nodded in approval. “Nice-lookin’ critters. Be four bits a day for the both of ’em.”
Ace took two silver dollars from a pocket and handed them over. “That’ll cover a few days. My brother and I don’t know how long we’ll be staying here in . . . ?”
“Lone Pine,” the liveryman said. “That’s the name o’ this place. Leastways, that’s what they call it now.”
“Did it used to have another name?” Chance asked.
A grin stretched across the man’s face. He chuckled and said, “When it started, they called it Buzzard’s Roost.”
“That sounds a little sinister,” Ace said.
“Just a wide place in the trail, back in them days. Couple saloons and a store. Owlhoots all over New Mexico Territory—hell, all over the Southwest—knew you could stop at Buzzard’s Roost for supplies and a drink and maybe a little time with an Injun whore, and nobody ’d ask any questions about where you’d been or where you planned to go. Folks who lived here would forget you’d ever set foot in the place, happen the law come lookin’ for you.”
Hate Thy Neighbor Page 24
