The Shadow of a Noose

by Ralph Compton

  Councilman Hundley still fumed silently as Sheriff Connally spoke to Hattie McNear.

  “The councilman tells me you saw Tim and Jed Strange leaving here this evening, Hattie. Is that so?”

  “Yes, Sheriff, I did see them whilst I was out searching for my cats,” Hattie McNear said, her eyes large and watery behind a pair of wire-rimmed spectacles. “One of them was winding a string around his finger.”

  “I see,” said Connally, cutting a glance to the broken stub of cord on the door shade. “Were they in any hurry, Hattie?” Sheriff Connally asked. “Which direction were they headed in?”

  “No, they didn’t seem to be in a hurry, Sheriff. They rode south. And I never said a word about thinking they might have done something like this.” She cut a harsh glance at Councilman Hundley. “I’ve known those boys since they were babies. They wouldn’t do such a thing.”

  “I know, Hattie,” Sheriff Connally said. “But it’s my job to ask questions.”

  Councilman Hundley interjected, saying, “It’s your job to get on those boys’ tail and bring ’em back here. This looks awfully suspicious on their part.”

  “Quit acting a fool, Councilman,” said Sheriff Connally. “They didn’t do this, and if they had done it, they’d be riding hell-bent right now. I’d never track them in the dark.”

  “Well,” Hundley huffed, “just what do you intend to do, besides have coffee, that is?”

  “I’ve sent somebody to find the telegraph clerk,” said Connally. “The first thing we’re going to do is send out a wire to the towns south of here. If Tim and Jed were riding south, they weren’t headed home. I know those boys wouldn’t do Elvin no harm, but I want to hear what they might know about who did. Come morning, I’ll get on their trail by myself, and see if I can’t locate them in a way that won’t scare the hair off their heads.”

  “I think you’re making a terrible mistake, Sheriff,” said Hundley. “How in the world do you know those two didn’t do this!”

  “I just know, that’s all,” Connally said in a firm tone. He turned to the faces pressing closer through the door of the office. “Let me ask you people,” he said, raising his voice above their murmurs. “Do any of you believe Tim and Jed Strange killed Elvin, or had something to do with this in any way?”

  “No,” the voices replied in unison. “Hell no!” one voice trailed behind the rest.

  Sheriff Connally turned to Councilman Hundley. “See? We all know these boys, and until something tells me otherwise, I’ll not jump down their backs and accuse them of being murderers.”

  “We’ll see about this,” Hundley hissed, his face turning beet red. He wheeled around and left, forcing his way through the throng of onlookers. He went straight to the telegraph office, a pencil stub in his hand, already writing down what he intended to say to the authorities in the surrounding communities.

  The South Trail, June 15, 1871

  Tim and Jed Strange had made good time before dark. They’d stopped at a small mercantile outside St. Joseph, where they knew the price of grain and supplies would be a little less expensive. They’d taken on some hardtack, coffee beans, three pounds of fresh pemmican, and dried red beans. After they’d left with their supplies tightly packed into their saddlebags, they made twelve more miles before darkness seeped in around them. They struck a camp not far from the banks of a river where they grained their gaunt horses and picketed the animals for the night. With a small fire glowing, the boys drank coffee and ate hardtack, being careful to ration themselves for the long unsure road ahead.

  Jed lay the battered ten-gauge rabbit gun on the ground beside him. “Tim,” he said, studying the fire and stirring a hickory stick into the small bed of embers, “do you suppose what Mr. Bray said is right, about how the road has a way of changing everybody, teaching them some hard lessons?”

  “I don’t know,” Tim said, attending to his Colt pistol, which he had disassembled on his spread bandanna close to the crackling flames. “All’s I know is Pa taught us how to shoot, ride, and rope, and Ma taught us to respect others and read the Good Book. I reckon all a person can do is take these things and go forward with them. That’s what Danielle done. We’ll have to get her take on the rest of it. Whatever lessons are out there, hard or otherwise, we’ll face them as we go. There’s no turning back from life. We both know that already.” He held up the Colt’s cylinder, having cleaned and oiled it, and rolled it back and forth between his palms, looking through it, inspecting each shiny part in the firelight.

  Jed, his own Colt already cleaned, inspected, and reassembled, nodded in agreement, and started to speak. But at the sound of one of the bays nickering low in the darkness, he fell silent and stopped stirring the hickory stick in the fire, looking furtively at his brother.

  “I hear it,” Tim whispered, his hands already working hastily, clicking parts back together on his Colt, then punching cartridges into it. Jed rose into a crouch, picking up the short-barreled rabbit gun, and stepped back out of the firelight, his thumb over the shotgun’s hammers, cocking them both at once. They heard the bays nicker softly again, and now heard the sound of footsteps brushing through a stretch of broom sage. Tim shoved the sixth cartridge into his pistol and purposely spun the cylinder loud enough to be heard, then he, too, rose to his feet.

  At the sound of Tim spinning the cylinder on his Colt, a voice called out from the darkness, “Hello, the camp!”

  Tim Strange let his hand hang down his trouser leg, shielding the pistol from view. He cut a quick glance at Jed standing in the shadows with the shotgun poised, then spoke to the inky night.

  “Hello as well,” Tim said, taking a step farther to one side, putting distance between him and Jed. “Come forward,” he added, his voice calm and friendly, yet his eyes searching the darkness with caution.

  A silence passed, then Sep Howard called out, “It don’t sound too friendly in there. We just heard you spin one up.”

  “Yes, you did,” said Tim Strange, “but not until we heard you slipping up unannounced.”

  “Sorry about that,” Duncan Grago called out, putting a short, friendly laugh into his voice. “We’re new around here, and don’t know the ways yet. Are we welcome?”

  Tim looked at Jed, not certain what to do, for it was only good manners to invite a fellow traveler in. Jed nodded slowly, then Tim called out, “Come on in. We’re having some coffee and hardtack.”

  “Much obliged,” Sep Howard said, stepping closer into the outer edge of firelight, Duncan Grago beside him. Watching them, Tim and Jed both could have sworn the two men had slipped their pistols into their holsters just as the light fell upon them. Sep Howard and Duncan Grago could both see that the two young men had not moved back to the campfire.

  Duncan Grago spoke. “Hell’s bells, who wants to eat a handful of hardtack this close to town?” He paused and looked back and forth at the two shadowy figures of Tim and Jed Strange. “Are you boys scared or what? Come on into the light. We’re pilgrims, same as you.”

  “No, sir, we’re not scared,” Jed said. He started to step forward, but then the sound of Tim’s voice stopped him.

  “Stand fast, Jed,” said Tim. He kept his attention on the two rough-looking gunmen as he spoke. Eyeing Sep Howard and Duncan Grago up and down, Tim could tell they were not newcomers to the ways of this country. “If hardtack don’t suit you, then I reckon you’ve come to the wrong place.”

  “Yeah, I reckon,” said Duncan Grago, rubbing his chin, leaning forward a bit, trying for a closer look at Tim and Jed. “Tell me, though, is that a new Colt you’re holding down your leg?”

  “This?” Tim moved the pistol just enough to make it clearly seen. “No, it’s just well kept, in case a rattlesnake raises its head. My pa built this Colt for just such a purpose.”

  “Let’s go, Dunc,” Sep said under his breath. But Duncan would have none of it, not yet. He laughed, speaking to Tim.

  “Then I expect your pa must be Samuel Colt, his-self,” he said.
<
br />   “You know what I mean, mister,” said Tim. “Colt made it, but my pa turned it custom to fit my hand and work slick as silk.”

  “Oh! I’d truly like to see it,” said Duncan Grago.

  “You’re fixin’ to,” Tim said, his tone of voice taking on a cold edge.

  Jed joined in, saying, “Yep, and this double barrel as well.”

  “Let’s go, Dunc,” Sep Howard whispered again, his voice growing tight and shaky.

  Duncan Grago hesitated for a second longer, then sneered, “Keep your sorry hardtack, then. We’re leaving.” He backed away a step and added sarcastically, “It’s getting plumb dangerous out here, all these plow jockeys carry firearms.” He chuckled and faded back into the darkness. “We’ll be looking for yas, though.”

  Tim didn’t answer, finding it more prudent to ignore the threat than to spark a shooting. He and Jed stood stone-still, listening to the sound of their footsteps move away through the broom sage. Jed faded backward into the darkness himself, circling to their right, where he put a hand on one of the bays’ muzzles, settling it. When he found the other bay, he unhobbled both of them, and led them quietly the few yards to the dark edge of the camp. He stood with the horses beside him, the rabbit gun in his hands. After another moment of silence he spoke in a hushed voice.

  “Newcomers, my foot. Did you get a look at them two? They’ve been on these trails longer than the dirt.”

  “Shhh,” Tim said, silencing him. They stood stone-quiet, the night around them still lying in deathlike silence. Then at length Tim spoke in a guarded whisper. “They’re still out there. Back the horses into the dark. I’ll kill this fire and bring our saddles and gear. This reminds me too much of what happened to our pa.”

  With Jed leading their horse, and Tim hurrying a few yards behind, wrestling with their saddles and loose sleeping rolls, they stopped at the river’s edge long enough to right their gear and sling their saddles up onto the bays. Suddenly, in the darkness from the direction of their abandoned campsite, came the sound of heavy gunfire. They ducked in reflex, but then stood back up watching the muzzle flashes as the two gunmen fired on the campsite in vain. From fifty yards away, Jed and Tim heard one of the gunmen’s voices call out to the other, “Stop shooting! They’ve slipped out on us!” Tim drew the cinch beneath his bay’s belly, speaking to Jed.

  “I reckon we just learned one of them hard lessons, didn’t we?”

  “Yeah,” Jed replied, “never trust strangers out here. That’s a shame too, because people ought not have to live this way.”

  “Come on,” Tim said, still keeping his voice low, “you can preach on the ills of the world once we’re farther away from those varmints.”

  Tracy Sidings, Missouri, June 17, 1871

  The town of Tracy Sidings had a temporary look to it, and rightly so. The railroad company had erected the town primarily for their workers, and as a repair station and water stop along the route between St. Joseph and Kansas City. Not far behind the railroad workers came the drinking tents and gambling shacks. Not far behind the shacks came the whores, the traveling minstrels, and the peddlers. Soon, sparse houses sprang up for the wives and children of the railroaders, who demanded more respectable living quarters. Like all such transient towns, the few residents of Tracey Sidings lived with the uncertainty of knowing that any day the railroad might change its operation and leave them all sitting stranded in its dust.

  Standing outside a makeshift telegraph office, the town’s acting sheriff, Martin Barr, stood watching the two young men ride in across the open plains from the north on gaunt-looking bays. In his left hand he held two telegraphs that arrived on the night of the fifteenth. Without taking his eyes off the approaching riders, he said to the telegraph clerk beside him, “Looks like this might be our killers coming here, Willard. The horses sure fit the description.”

  “Killers?” said Willard Chapin. “That depends on which telegram you want to believe. The one from Sheriff Connally said he only wants to talk to these boys.”

  “Yeah,” said Martin Barr, “but the one from the councilman says they’re looking pretty good for the crime. I’ll just follow my hunch and take them into custody.”

  Martin Barr hadn’t been wearing a badge very long and was only doing so now because the railroad had appointed him sheriff until the town could hold a proper election. Arresting a couple of killers was all Barr figured he needed to make a name for himself, dampening anybody’s chances at running against him for the position.

  “You might want to go along with Sheriff Connally on this thing,” said Willard Chapin. “He knows the people around St. Joe better than some councilman. He’s saying these are good boys, and that you better not crowd them. They’ve had lots of grief lately.”

  “Boys is right,” said Barr. “They’re fifteen years old if the councilman is correct. I don’t think they’ll be giving me any trouble.”

  “Still,” said Willard, “you’d be wise to take heed.”

  “Hush, Willard,” Barr said over his shoulder, still watching Tim and Jed Strange riding closer. “Get around to Copley’s Tavern, and tell some of them night switchmen and hostlers they’ve just been deputized. Tell them to bring their guns, if they’re sober enough to hear you.”

  Willard Chapin whistled under his breath and shook his head, but did as Barr asked him. Within minutes there were seven men with liquor on their breath and weapons in their hands. As the whiskey-lit railroaders showed up, Martin Barr had them spread out and take cover along the rutted street, forming a large horseshoe-shaped trap, into which Tim and Jed Strange would have to ride.

  “If that’s the sheriff up ahead,” said Jed Strange, “first thing we better do is tell him about those gunmen night before last.” Both of them had seen the group of railroaders appear then disappear, leaving the man with the large shiny badge on his chest facing them as they rode in closer.

  “Hold it, Jed,” said Tim, “something ain’t right here. Don’t go no closer.” They slowed their horses down to hardly a walk. Something about the determined way the man stood in the street caused Tim to turn his bay sideways to a halt. His brother followed suit.

  Jed sidled his horse a few feet away from Tim, letting his hand rest near his Colt. Tim called out loud enough to cover the distance between them and Martin Barr.

  “Morning, Sheriff! We’re just down from St. Joe.” Tim caught a glimpse of a railroader’s cap appear above the edge of a rain barrel, and he suddenly grew wary. Across the street, Jed saw a glint of gun metal, and felt his heart quicken a beat. “Is there something wrong here?” Tim asked Barr.

  “Come on in closer, boys, we’ll talk about it,” said Barr.

  “Like hell,” Jed whispered to his brother, seeing more signs of men in hiding along the boardwalk. “Tim, we’re covered over here.”

  “I know, over here too,” said Tim. “Sit tight.” He turned his voice back up, calling out to Martin Barr, “Sheriff, we’re not looking for any trouble. We’re just passing through.”

  “Nope, not today you’re not,” said Barr, his right hand on his pistol butt. “We got a wire from Sheriff Connally in St. Joe night before last. He said to take you two into custody till he gets here. Now ride in here slow-like, raise those pistols with two fingers, and let them fall.”

  But the twins only cast one another a glance before Tim spoke again to Barr. “What for, Sheriff? We haven’t broken any law that we know of.”

  “Then you better be advised that murder is breaking a law. Ride in closer and drop those pistols, right now. I’m not asking again.”

  “Murder?” Tim gave Jed a bewildered glance. “What’s he talking about?”

  The lump in Jed’s throat kept him from responding right away. When he did manage to speak, his voice wavered. “These men are fixin’ to shoot us, Tim. What’re we going to do?” As he spoke, the first of the railroaders rose up from behind a stack of nail kegs, the barrel of his rifle starting to swing toward them.

  “We’re g
oing to shoot them back,” Tim said, seeing no room for plea or reasoning. He spun his big bay in a fast, full circle, the Colt in his hand out at arm’s length, then fired, the sound exploding hard along the narrow street. The railroader’s head snapped back as if it were on a spring hinge. Blood flew. Tim’s horse reared as a rifle shot whistled past its ear. As it touched down, Tim’s Colt exploded again. Another railroader fell screaming as Tim’s bullet tore through the man’s shoulder in an explosion of crimson and white cotton coat lining.

  “Wait, damn it! Stop!” Martin Barr shouted amid the roar of gunfire, seeing too late that he’d stepped on the wrong cats’ tails. But the fight had commenced and there was no stopping now. Jed had sailed from his saddle into the street, a bullet striping up the length of his forearm. His horse bolted away as he rolled to his knee, firing shot after shot in rapid succession. Dust swirled high beneath Tim’s bay as he swung it back and forth, taking his shot at one side of the wide street, then the other. But when a load of buckshot kicked dirt high near the bay’s hooves, Tim, rather than risk harm to the animal, flung himself from his saddle and slapped the big bay’s rump.

  Tim’s pistol never missed a beat until it clicked on an empty chamber. He worked quickly, reloading while Jed covered him. A bullet grazed Tim’s thigh, spilling a streak of blood down his leg.

  Two more railroaders had fallen, one as he ran from cover along the boardwalk and was hammered by a bullet in his ribs, another as he jumped out with a loud curse and raised a shotgun toward the twins in a drunken rage. “Damn it to hell! Cease! Stop firing,” Barr screamed. Then he made the mistake of running toward the twins with his pistol waving in the air. Tim, unable to hear through the gunfire, mistook Barr’s action and stopped him short, putting a slug through his chest.