The Shadow of a Noose

by Ralph Compton

Arno Dunne let out a dark chuckle under his breath, scanning the puffs of rifle shots below them. “I’ve got a feeling that’s what they would like for us to do.” He jerked his head back toward the winding narrow trail. “Those two scouts I was talking about will be waiting back there for us, up in the rocks. They’ll pick us off like ducks in a shooting galley.”

  “How do you know that, Dunne?” Jed asked in a critical tone.

  “Because that’s what I would do if I was them,” Arno Dunne snapped. As a shot clipped a rock near his head, Dunne flinched back and cursed under his breath.

  “Then what are we supposed to do?” Jed asked angrily, “just sit here while they get a tighter grip on us, kill our horses, then take what they want?”

  “Nope,” said Dunne, eyeing the two of them, “but horses are what they want. So they’ll try their best not to kill them.” He ducked slightly as another shot sliced through the air close to them. “Since you boys don’t have rifles, what you’re going to do is leave me here close to the horses while the two of you belly-crawl out through the firing and get behind them.” He spread a thin smile. “It’ll give you both a chance to use those big Colts you’re so proud of.”

  Tim and Jed looked at one another for a second, then realized that what Dunne said made sense. “All right then,” Tim responded, nodding toward the ten-gauge rabbit gun beside Jed, “we’ll leave this with you in case they get in close enough for you to need it.”

  “Okay, leave it,” said Dunne with a shrug, “but if they get that close, I’ll be dead anyway.”

  “What if I pull the horses in closer to you?” Jed asked. “Won’t that make them quit firing?”

  “Naw, that’ll just make ’em mad,” said Dunne. “They’ll know why you did it, then they’ll say to hell with it and make a rush, killing everything. We got to keep the horses safe, for bait. As long as they know they’ve got a chance at gaining some live horses out of this deal, they’ll move a little easier.”

  Two shots whistled past, forcing Tim to duck his head down as he asked Dunne, “Do you know these men?”

  “Probably, some of them, by name anyway. But I wouldn’t exactly say any of us were ever saddle mates. It wouldn’t matter now if we were. They’re making their play. They don’t care who it is up here.”

  A shot whined in and blasted up bits of rock at Dunne’s shoulder. He ventured a return shot over his cover of rock, then dropped back down and looked at the twins, saying, “They’re moving closer. Are you going or not?”

  Jed swallowed against the tight knot in his throat and looked at Tim. “Yeah, we’re going,” said Tim.

  “All right, then,” Dunne said. “Get behind them, but don’t cut them off. Leave them room to fall back if they feel the urge. Keep them flanked, but be careful. You’ll be firing toward one another.”

  “Let’s go,” Tim said to his brother. Jed nodded, checked his pistol, then dropped down flat onto his belly beside Tim.

  They crawled away in opposite directions beneath the rifle fire, which was now growing heavier and closer. Yet, Tim noted to himself as he’d put the distance of a few yards between himself and Arno Dunne’s position, the rife fire had not followed him. They hadn’t caught a glimpse of him crawling away. He hoped the same was true for his brother. He glanced back over his shoulder in the dirt, but saw no sign of Jed. “Watch yourself, Jed,” he whispered to himself. Then he turned forward and continued crawling, gradually circling to his left.

  Thirty yards on the other side of Arno Dunne, Jed Strange hugged the ground. Also noting that the rifle shots had not followed him, he breathed a short sigh of relief, then inched forward, circling to his right until he knew from the sound of the rifle fire that he’d gotten past the men’s positions. He lay flat for a second, getting a feel for his next move. The sound of two rifles firing in unison lay less then twenty yards away. He crawled closer toward the sound, then stopped cold as he heard one man say to the other, “I’m reloading, keep them pinned.”

  “Take your time, Kelsy, I’ve got all day,” the other voice replied.

  Jed Strange held his breath for a moment, lest the sound of it be heard as he inched closer toward the backs of two men who lay beneath the cover of a short stretch of rock and pale broom sage. Busy with their rifle fire, the two men never looked around, for if they had, they would have seen Jed clear as day. He crept to within twenty feet of them, his pistol cocked in their direction. The wise thing to do would be to shoot them both in the back with no warning. Yet, as he raised his pistol and aimed it dead center on a sweat-streaked leather vest, he hesitated. He could not abide shooting a man in the back.

  As the two men fired repeatedly toward Arno Dunne’s position, Jed stood slowly to his feet, took a deep breath, and said, “Both of you drop your guns! Raise your hands!”

  “What the—?” The two men turned quickly to face him, neither of them making an attempt to lower their rifles.

  “You heard me, drop them!” Jed demanded.

  The riflemen would have none of it. “You bet,” said one, a killing grin on his whiskered face. Their hands tightened on their rifles and, seeing the look on their faces, Jed’s Colt exploded twice, bucking in his hand.

  Both men went down, one pitching backward across the low stand of rock. The other man spun in place as he fell. His rifle went off, the shot going wild as his rifle jumped out of his hand and fell to the ground.

  Jed threw himself to the ground as a voice called out from twenty feet away, “Hey, Kelsy, Dermot? What are you two doing over there? I heard pistol shots.”

  Jed hurried forward on his belly, snatched up the fallen rifle, checked it, and levered a round into the chamber. The voice called out again, “Somebody get over there, see what’s going on with Dermot and Kelsy.” As the voice spoke, the firing lulled for a second. Jed hurried to the covered low rock and turned himself toward the voice. Just as he did, he heard the sound of Tim’s Colt bark out from across the wide circle of riflemen. “What the hell is going on out here?” the voice cried out.

  “I don’t know, but I’ll damn sure find out,” another voice responded. Jed waited for a second, aiming the rifle but holding his fire as the sound of footsteps rustled through the broom sage. When the man stepped into view, crouched and moving forward, he lifted his eyes to Jed Strange and had started to swing his rifle to his shoulder when Jed’s shot nailed into his chest.

  “They’ve gotten around us!” a voice shouted, seeing the man Jed had shot fly backward in a spray of crimson.

  Tim Strange had heard the shots from his brother’s Colt at the same time he’d begun making his move on one of the riflemen at the other side of the firing circle. Now he rose to his knee with his own newly acquired rifle in his hand, wiped the smear of blood from the stock, and fired toward the sound of the voices. Arno Dunne, taking advantage of the commotion, acted quickly, firing straight ahead into the center of his attackers.

  With the tables clearly turned on them, the three remaining outlaws drew close together, forced to do so by the deadly accurate rifle fire from Tim and Jed on either side. Huddled in the dust and looking back longingly toward the spot they had left their horses, the leader, a man named Brenton Belcher, spoke to the two men beside him.

  “How the hell did you boys let this happen? We’re cut off here!” Shots spat overhead, pinning them down as Belcher raged. “Where’s our scouts, Paco and Logan? I know damn well they hear all the shooting!”

  Beside Belcher, a thin outlaw named Cody Renfrow raised his cheek from the dust just enough to answer. “I reckon they cut out on us, Belcher. But to hell with them, what are we going to do?” His words were partly drowned out beneath the rifle fire.

  Belcher looked past Cody to the other man, a young Texan named Arliss Sidlo. “Arliss, crawl back to the horses and get them in here as close as you can. We’ll keep you covered.”

  “Keep me covered?” said Sidlo. “Hell fire! You can’t even get a shot off without them clipping your ears.”

  �
�Go on, damn it!” Belcher demanded. “Either get moving or I’ll shoot you myself!”

  Arliss Sidlo turned on his belly and crawled away, rifle fire nipping at the ground around him. When he’d gotten out of sight, Cody said to Belcher as the two of them managed to throw a couple of slugs toward the sound of Jed and Tim’s rifles, “Arliss ain’t coming back, Belcher, in case you’re wondering.”

  “He better,” said Belcher. “I meant what I said about shooting him.”

  “He knows that,” said Cody. “That’s why he ain’t coming back.”

  Belcher thought about it for a second, then said in bitter disappointment, “Damn it all. We’re really in a fix here.” He took advantage of a lull in the rifle fire and called out toward Arno Dunne, “Hey, out there, any chance of us surrendering?”

  From Tim’s position behind a low rock, he heard Arno Dunne call back to Belcher, saying, “Not a chance in hell, mister. You bit this off, now chew on it.” Two shots from Arno Dunne’s rifle resounded, making sure the outlaw understood.

  Belcher plastered his face to the dirt as the two shots struck the ground near his shoulder. Then he rose up an inch, spat grit from his lips, and said, “I recognize your voice. Is that you, Dunne?”

  “You bet is it,” Dunne replied. “Is that you, Belcher?”

  “Yes, it is,” Belcher called back to him. As soon as he spoke, he rolled away a few inches, for he knew Dunne was taking aim at the sound of his voice in the brush. “It don’t seem right, ole boys like us killing each other, does it?”

  “A while ago I might have agreed with you, Belcher,” Dunne called back with a humorous chuckle. “But I see nothing wrong with it now.” He levered a round and fired, the bullet thumping into the ground, causing Belcher to roll farther away.

  “Hold your fire!” Jed Strange called out to Arno Dunne. “If they’ve had enough, let them go.”

  “You’re out of your mind!” Arno Dunne yelled at him. “If they had kept the upper hand, there’s no amount of begging and pleading that would have kept them from killing us.”

  “But we’re not them,” Jed shouted, moving closer toward the two pinned-down outlaws as he spoke to Dunne. “We’ll let you go, if you promise to ride on,” he added to Belcher and Cody.

  “Yes, sir!” Belcher called out. “We promise. Let us clear out to our horses and you’ll see no more of us.”

  “Your horses are gone, Belcher,” Arno Dunne said. “Your buddy is beating a path out of here right now, taking everything with him.”

  “Well, damn him!” swore Belcher.

  From his position on the other side of the two outlaws, Tim saw his brother Jed move closer to them and called over to him, “Stay back, Jed! You can’t trust these vermin.”

  “We’re letting them go, Tim,” Jed replied. “They’re done for. They don’t want to fight.”

  “He’s right!” Belcher called out. “All we want is to get out of here.”

  Tim, seeing that Jed wouldn’t be dissuaded, moved in a little closer and called out to his brother, “All right, Jed, they can leave. But stay back from them.”

  Arno Dunne shook his head and said to himself, “You damned idiots have no idea what you’re fooling with.” Then he levered his rifle and moved forward, the three of them forming a circle around the two outlaws in the brush. “Go on then, Belcher,” Arno Dunne called out, “both of yas get the hell out of here.”

  The two scouts, a Mexican named Paco and his partner, a Kansan named Turly Logan, had not run out on Belcher and the others. They had stayed back along the trail until they caught sight of Arliss Sidlo riding off with the string of horses. Now they were riding in hard and fast along the trail. Hearing their hoofbeats, Belcher’s courage returned. He stood up slowly with his rifle cocked and aimed at Arno Dunne as he spoke.

  “One thing I forgot to mention, Dunne,” said Belcher. “We’re going to be needing a couple of your horses. Just call it a loan among ole buddies.” But Tim, having caught sight of the two riders charging toward them, dropped Belcher with a quick shot, then turned to face the two returning scouts. He dropped his rifle to the ground and his Colt came streaking up from his holster. Twenty yards away, Jed Strange also saw the two riders charging and drew his pistol as well. Arno Dunne spun with them, just in time for a bullet to graze his shoulder. Tim, Jed, and Arno Dunne fired as one, their volley lifting both riders from their saddles and hurling them backward to the rocky ground.

  “Look out, Dunne!” Tim shouted, spinning back toward Belcher and Cody. Belcher had managed to stand up, blood running freely from his chest. With Cody beside him, both men started to fire on Dunne from behind.

  Jed and Tim responded ahead of Dunne, their shots dropping both men into the brush. Dunne stared, realizing how close he’d just came to dying. “Hell’s bells, boys, I believe you saved my life.”

  “You’re welcome, Dunne,” Tim said in a clipped tone as the brothers stepped forward to the bodies in the brush. Arno Dunne stood silent for a moment with his hand pressed to his grazed shoulder.

  Lying on the ground with one hand to his gaping chest wound and his other hand raised in surrender, Brenton Belcher gasped and said to Jed and Tim as they encircled him, “Don’t . . . shoot no more. I . . . really am through now.”

  “Good of you to let us know,” Tim said wryly. He reached out with his pistol pointed at Belcher’s face and started to squeeze the trigger.

  “Wait, Tim! Don’t do it,” said Jed. “He’s done for. It ain’t self-defense now.”

  “I don’t give a damn,” Tim hissed through clenched teeth. “Dunne was right. Show them no mercy.” But still he hesitated, knowing that what Jed had just told him was true. No matter the circumstance, this man was no longer a threat.

  “Shoot that lousy bastard, Tim!” Arno Dunne ranted, moving up beside Tim. He pushed his rifle barrel forward toward Belcher, seeing Cody lying dead in the dirt. “He’s the last of the bunch. This way nobody comes back later on carrying a grudge!”

  “No,” said Tim, shoving Arno Dunne’s rifle barrel away from Belcher. “Jed’s right, this ain’t self-defense any longer. He’ll be dead soon enough.”

  “Not soon enough to suit me.” Dunne sneered. But under Tim’s frigid gaze, he made no attempt to repoint his rifle at the dying outlaw.

  “We never did . . . like one another, Dunne,” Belcher said, his voice thick with blood. “Seeing these . . . boys shoot. I reckon . . . you’re headed to . . . the big contest with them, eh?”

  “Shut up and die, Belcher,” Arno Dunne snapped. “We don’t have all day to waste on you.”

  “Yep, that’s it,” Brenton Belcher said in a low rasping laugh. “These boys . . . are your entries. You always was one . . . to play the angles.” As his words ended, his eyes glazed over and grew more distant until a long, low breath rattled from his chest. He slumped back onto the ground and lay limp.

  “Son of a bitch,” Dunne cursed, leaning forward and spitting in the dead man’s face. “He was right about one thing—we never did get along.”

  “What contest was he talking about?” Tim asked, taking a step back and holstering his Colt.

  “Nothing,” said Dunne. “You never could pay attention to anything this horse-thieving fool had to say.” Dunne avoided any further explanation. Instead, he directed his attention to Jed, who stepped forward now and slipped his pistol into his holster.

  “There, Jed, you see what your little ounce of mercy almost cost us?”

  “I saw it, Dunne,” Jed replied, “but we still tried to do the right thing. That’s all we have to answer to the Lord for.”

  “Ha!” Dunne said. “You keep that attitude, you’ll be going to heaven all right, but it might be too damn soon to suit you.”

  “Back to what he said about a contest,” Tim interrupted, nodding at Belcher’s body on the ground as he spoke to Dunne. “He seemed to know what he was talking about.”

  “You just ain’t going to turn it loose, are you?” Dunne asked, trying to fa
ke an innocent smile.

  “That’s right, I ain’t,” Tim said firmly, his hand resting on the butt of his Colt, “so spit it out.”

  Arno Dunne took a patient breath and shook his head, saying, “All right, I’ll level with you—not that it makes any difference. Newt Grago is cooking up a shooting contest, just something to see who’s the fastest gun. I have to admit, seeing the way you two boys handle them Colts, it entered my mind that you might stand a chance to win yourselves some big money. To be honest, I hoped I might make a few dollars myself, betting on yas.”

  “That’s what you were getting at earlier, ain’t it?” Jed asked. “When you started all that talk about facing a man off in an old-time duel?”

  “Yep, it was. But it was only speculation, boys, so don’t get on no high horse over it.” Dunne raised his hat brim, wiped sweat from his forehead, then lowered it and tucked his rifle up under his arm. “The more I see of you Faulkner twins, the more I realize you’re not about to do anything you don’t want to do. So let’s forget the whole matter. I owe you both for saving my life. Far as I’m concerned, the best way I can repay you is to get on my horse and ride away from yas. You’re both good boys. You’ve got no business out here. If you ever change your minds and decide to throw into this kind of life, look me up.” He half turned and started toward his horse when Tim’s voice stopped him.

  “How much money?” Tim asked.

  “What?” Arno Dunne looked taken aback. So did Jed Strange.

  “You said maybe Jed and I could make some good money in this shooting contest. How much?” Tim’s face was a mask of resolve.

  “Well now.” Arno Dunne scratched his jaw thinking it over. “It’s what you call a matched shoot-out. Every time you beat a man, the stakes on your next fight gets higher. Take it all the way to the top, we’re talking about as much as ten thousand dollars.”

  “That’s ten thousand after you take your cut?” Tim asked.

  Arno Dunne looked embarrassed, but only for a moment. “Yes, that’s after I take my cut. Let’s face it, you boys would never known about this if it weren’t for me.”