Hang Them Slowly

by William W. Johnstone

  “One man will have to switch,” Malone said. “You and I are stayin’ together.”

  “You think I want my father watching over my shoulder all day?” Rosaleen asked with a toss of her head. “I don’t see any reason why we can’t split up, Dad. You trust all the men who ride for you, don’t you?”

  “Of course I do!”

  “Then I ought to be just as safe with them as I am with you. You go east and I’ll go west.”

  Malone looked like he wanted to argue, but he had already come out on the short end of the stick in one such discussion this morning, so he gave in. “All right. Just be careful.”

  “You don’t have a thing to worry about.”

  He let out a dubious snort and turned his horse to join the cowboys who would be combing the hills to the east of the pasture.

  Rosaleen nudged her horse in the other direction. “This is going to be fun,” she said as she fell in alongside Vance, Stovepipe, and Wilbur.

  “I’ve been on many a roundup,” Stovepipe said. “I ain’t sure I’d describe any of ’em as fun.”

  “This isn’t a real roundup. If it was, we’d have a chuck wagon out here and we’d make camp and sleep under the stars. We’ll all be back in our own beds tonight, except for the men who have to ride nighthawk.” Rosaleen shook her head. “This is just a little chore. I’m not sure why Dad is determined to make such a big deal out of it.”

  Stovepipe said, “Well, he worries about his little girl. Reckon that’s natural enough.”

  “He needs to learn I’m not a little girl anymore.” She patted the smooth wooden stock of the carbine that rode in a sheath under the saddle fender. “And anybody who makes that mistake is liable to regret it.”

  * * *

  The hills were rugged and thickly wooded, and the valleys and draws between them were often choked with brush. Before the morning was half over, Stovepipe and Wilbur had pulled thick leather chaps from their saddlebags and strapped them on, and so had Rosaleen. Vance didn’t have any of the protective garments, so he spent most of his time yelping as the brush clawed and scratched at his legs.

  “How come you don’t have any chaps?” Wilbur asked him. “I never knew a Texas boy who didn’t carry a pair with him. A fella can’t go into that brasada down there without ’em.”

  “I’m not from Texas,” Vance said. “I just worked there. Anyway, I, uh”—he lowered his voice and looked at Rosaleen, far enough away to be out of earshot if he didn’t talk very loud—“I had to sell mine. I’ve been right on the edge of being broke for a good while now.”

  “Well, I guess it could’ve been worse. You could’ve sold your saddle.” Wilbur’s contemptuous tone made it clear what he thought of any cowboy who would resort to that desperate measure.

  The work was as hot, dusty, and dirty as they had all known it would be. The cattle had a habit of hiding in the brush and were stubborn when the cowboys tried to chouse them out of it. They had to ride into the undergrowth after the beasts and often had to take their coiled ropes and wallop the cows with them to get them to move. Sometimes they had to dab a loop around a steer’s neck and drag it into the open, where some of the other hands would then haze it toward the gather.

  Rosaleen didn’t shirk or complain. By the time the sun was almost directly overhead, her shirt was soaked with sweat and the upper half of her face was covered with a layer of dust. Like the others, she had tied her bandanna around the lower part of her face to keep some of the dust out of her nose and mouth.

  Working a canyon with Vance, Stovepipe, and Wilbur, she was approaching a dense tangle of brush when an old bull suddenly broke out of the thicket with a crackle of branches. The proddy old bull knew something was going on and didn’t like it, whatever it was.

  Stovepipe recognized the type. “Best be careful, Miss Ros—”

  An angry bellow from the bull interrupted him.

  “I can handle him,” Rosaleen said as she kept her horse moving forward.

  The bull launched into a charge toward her, head lowered as he continued bawling in fury.

  With not much distance between her and the bull, Rosaleen yanked the sorrel aside. The horse was nimble enough to get out of the way, but it was a close thing.

  Too close for comfort, in fact. The bull veered to the side and crashed his shoulder into Rosaleen’s mount. The sorrel squealed in fright and pain and went down.

  With the skill of an experienced rider, Rosaleen kicked her feet out of the stirrups and threw herself out of the saddle as the sorrel fell. That kept the horse from landing on her, but she slammed down hard on the rocky ground. A good fifty yards away, Stovepipe could tell she was stunned. Wilbur was even farther away.

  Closer, Vance jammed his heels into his horse’s flanks and sent the mount plunging toward Rosaleen. He shouted at the bull as he rode hard, leaning forward in the saddle, but the massive animal ignored him.

  Having overrun the spot where Rosaleen and her horse had fallen, the bull slowed and turned back toward the young woman. His brain might be small, but he knew he was mad and that anger was directed at Rosaleen. He charged again.

  Vance flashed in front of the bull and leaped from the saddle while his horse was still moving. He jerked his hat off and waved it in wild, sweeping motions. Drawn by the movement, the bull turned toward him. Pounding hooves seemed to shake the ground as the bull continued the attack.

  Vance held the hat away from his body and kept waving it around. The bull lowered his head and aimed for the hat. Vance was able to pivot smoothly out of the way as the brute thundered past.

  “Get Miss Rosaleen!” he shouted to Stovepipe.

  Already on his way to do exactly that, the cowpoke closed in on Rosaleen, who climbed shakily to her feet. Stovepipe thought she still looked like she wasn’t quite sure what was going on. He thrust his arm down. “Miss Rosaleen! Grab hold!”

  The fog seemed to clear from her brain. She realized what Stovepipe was telling her and raised her hands to grasp his arm as he rode up to her. A quick heave lifted her onto the back of the horse behind the saddle. Stovepipe turned the mount toward Vance and the bull.

  Rosaleen gasped. “What in the world is he doing?”

  “Looks to me like he’s bullfightin’, like them Spaniards do, only with a hat instead of a cape. I never knew that would work.”

  “You’ve got to help him! He’s going to be killed!”

  “No, miss. He’ll be all right. Wilbur’s there to lend a hand.”

  The redheaded cowboy was shaking out a loop in his rope as he galloped toward the bull. When he had it ready, he hauled back on the reins to bring his horse to a skidding stop, whipped the lariat around over his head a couple times, and let it fly. The loop sailed out to settle over the bull’s horns as it turned toward Vance again after another narrow miss.

  The bull was too big and heavy to take down, but as Wilbur’s well-trained horse dug its hooves in, the rope went taut and pulled the bull’s head around sharply. The huge creature came to a stop and stood there, nostrils flaring in anger.

  “Get back on your horse, Vance,” Wilbur told the young man. “You can dab a loop on this proddy old varmint, too, and we’ll take him down to the gather.”

  Vance was breathing heavily from his exertions. He swung up into the saddle, took his rope loose, and lassoed the bull.

  Stovepipe rode up beside him with Rosaleen still behind the saddle. “That was some mighty fancy footwork you was doin’ out there. Where’d you learn to bullfight?”

  “I didn’t. I’d just seen it done down in Mexico, only with a cape, not a hat.” Vance shrugged. “I didn’t know if that would work, but it seemed like it was worth a try.”

  “You saved my life, Vance,” Rosaleen said. “You and Mr. Stewart.”

  “No need to give me any credit,” Stovepipe said. “That ol’ bull would’ve stomped you ’fore I could ever get there if it hadn’t been for this young fella.”

  “I thought about trying to pick you up like
Stovepipe did,” Vance said, “but it didn’t seem like enough time for that. The quickest way was to distract the bull.”

  “And maybe get trampled yourself in the process,” she said.

  “I was willing to run that risk.”

  “Thank you. I don’t know what else to say.”

  Vance grinned. “That’s plenty.”

  Rosaleen looked around and asked, “What about my horse?”

  “He’s back on his feet,” Stovepipe told her. “We’ll go take a look at him while Vance and Wilbur get this bull down to the gather. I don’t know if your pa will want to sell him or not, but we can get him out of the way while we’re workin’ up here so he won’t cause no more trouble.”

  They rode over to Rosaleen’s sorrel.

  Stovepipe dismounted, then reached up to help her slide down from the horse’s back. He turned to the sorrel and examined the animal closely, sliding his hands up and down the horse’s legs and prodding its side where the bull had rammed it.

  “Don’t seem to be any broken bones,” he said after a few minutes. “He’ll have a nice sore bruise on his side, but I reckon he’ll get over that. You were both lucky.”

  Rosaleen rubbed her horse gently. “I know. Maybe I shouldn’t have insisted on coming along after all.”

  “Well, it’s hard to say. Trouble can crop up wherever you are and whatever you’re doin’. There was nothin’ foolish about you wantin’ to help us. Cowboyin’ can be dangerous work, and that’s all there is to it.”

  “Well, I enjoyed the morning, even as hot and sweaty and dusty as it was, right up until that bull came after me,” Rosaleen said with a wan smile. “I suspect this incident will be the end of the roundup for me.”

  “Because of your pa?”

  “When Dad finds out what happened, they’ll probably hear the explosion all the way down in Wagontongue.”

  * * *

  Keenan Malone bore a distinct resemblance to the bull that had tried to trample his daughter. He was practically breathing fire and his angry bellows sounded very familiar to Stovepipe, Wilbur, and Vance as they stood at a distance and watched the confrontation between father and daughter.

  Stovepipe could tell the young woman was trying to defend herself, but there wasn’t a lot she could say. It was an incontrovertible fact that if the men hadn’t intervened, she probably would have died up in the hills.

  Finally, she turned, stalked over to her horse, mounted up, and prodded the sorrel into a trot back toward the ranch headquarters. For a long moment, Malone watched her riding away.

  Then he turned and walked over to the three cowboys. “I reckon I owe you fellas more than I can ever repay. Anything you want, just tell me, and if it’s in my power I’ll see that you get it.”

  “Shoot, Mr. Malone, we already got ever’thing we want,” Stovepipe said. “We got good ridin’ jobs, and for a cowboy nothin’ else much matters.”

  Wilbur nodded, and Vance said, “I’m just glad we were there.”

  “You and me both, son,” Malone said. “There’ll be a little extra time off for you three, once we get this little trail drive done.”

  “Does that mean my job’s permanent now?” Vance asked.

  “For as long as you want it to be, Vance. You’ve got a home on the Three Rivers.” Malone clapped a hand on Vance’s shoulder, squeezed hard for a second in gratitude, then nodded curtly, turned, and walked away to get back to work.

  “Don’t get too much of a swelled head,” Stovepipe told the young man. “We’ve still got a heap of cows to rassle with, and they don’t know a thing in the world about Mr. Malone feelin’ obliged to you.”

  “He doesn’t have to feel that way,” Vance said. “I didn’t do it for him. I don’t think I could stand it if anything were to happen to Miss Rosaleen.”

  As they walked back toward their horses to resume the roundup, Stovepipe and Wilbur exchanged a glance behind Vance’s back. It was pretty obvious that Vance had fallen in love with Rosaleen, but the course of young love seldom ran smooth, Stovepipe thought.

  Especially in country that was still primed for a range war.

  CHAPTER SIX

  By late that afternoon, they had a little more than three hundred head gathered in the pasture. Malone looked them over, nodded in satisfaction, and told Andy Callahan, “We ought to be able to finish tomorrow without any trouble.”

  “We’ll need to leave some fellas out here to ride nighthawk,” Callahan said. “Ain’t likely these cows would stray too far, but I’d just as soon not have to gather any of ’em up again tomorrow.”

  Stovepipe, Wilbur, and Vance were sitting on their horses not too far behind the ranch manager and the segundo. Stovepipe nudged his horse forward and said, “I reckon we could do it.”

  “Blast it, Stovepipe,” Wilbur said. “Didn’t your ma ever teach you anything about volunteering?”

  “I recollect she thought it was a good idea. She was a fine one for helpin’ others, my ma was.”

  Malone turned his horse and said, “I appreciate the offer, Stewart, but I wanted you men to have some time off in return for what you did for Rosaleen. I don’t want to saddle you with an extra chore.”

  “You wouldn’t be doin’ any such thing. Fact of the matter is, I like ridin’ nighthawk. It’s plumb peaceful bein’ out under the stars and singin’ a song to them cows.”

  “Peaceful for you, maybe,” Wilbur said. “You don’t have to listen to yourself sing.”

  Malone looked over at Vance. “What do you think, Brewster?”

  Vance shrugged. “Stovepipe and Wilbur have sort of taken me under their wings. I’m happy to go along with whatever they think is a good idea.”

  “It’s settled, then,” Stovepipe said. “We’ll handle this chore.”

  “All right,” Malone said. “You’ll need some grub. I’ll have somebody ride out here from the ranch with it.”

  “Maybe you could tell Aunt Sinead to put in a dozen of those biscuits of hers,” Wilbur said. “They’re some of the best I’ve ever had.”

  “I reckon I can do that.”

  Malone and Callahan trotted off, leaving Stovepipe, Wilbur, and Vance to look out over the herd, which at the moment was grazing peacefully.

  “What worm of an idea do you have crawling around in that brain of yours, Stovepipe?” Wilbur asked. “Despite what you said earlier, I never knew you to volunteer for anything unless you had a good reason for it.”

  “Watchin’ over them cows ain’t a good enough reason?”

  “No, it’s not. If I had to guess, I’d say you’ve got one of those hunches of yours.” Wilbur turned to Vance. “Stovepipe gets hunches. Sometimes it seems like they come on him out of nowhere, but nine times out of ten they’re right, so I’ve learned to put some stock in them.”

  Vance said, “When I first rode into Wagontongue, the bartender at the Silver Star said something about rustling being a problem around here.”

  “That’s right. Wilbur and me ain’t been around these parts for all that long our own selves, but we’ve heard the same thing, ain’t we?”

  “The Three Rivers blames the Rafter M, the Rafter M blames the Three Rivers,” Wilbur said.

  “I wouldn’t have any trouble believing Dax Coolidge is a rustler,” Vance said, “but there’s nothing like that going on over here.”

  “Try tellin’ that to Cabot and his boys. Chances are, they ain’t gonna be in the mood to listen.”

  “Is that what your hunch is about, Stovepipe?” Vance asked. “You think rustlers are going to hit this herd?”

  Stovepipe crossed his hands on his saddle horn and leaned forward to ease muscles grown weary from the long day. “Herd this size is a temptin’ target. It’s big enough to be worth stealin’ but small enough that half a dozen men could handle it.”

  “But how would Cabot’s men even know we’ve been rounding up some of the Three Rivers stock?”

  “Didn’t say it was the Rafter M bunch we’ve got to worry about. It�
�s still too soon to make up my mind about that. But whether it is or it ain’t, whoever’s wideloopin’ beef around here could have somebody posted up in the hills with a pair o’ field glasses, keepin’ an eye on what’s goin’ on.” Stovepipe’s bony shoulders rose and fell. “O’ course, this is all just speculation. Chances are, nothin’ll happen tonight ’cept we’ll lose some sleep. And that’ll be just fine with me.”

  * * *

  The sun had set just a few minutes earlier, leaving a rosy golden arch over the hills to the west, when Rosaleen drove up to the meadow in one of the ranch wagons. She was wearing a dress again instead of the range clothes she’d had on earlier, and her fiery hair was brushed out so that it hung free.

  “Well, this is a plumb pleasant surprise, miss,” Stovepipe told her. “Have you come to bring us our supper?”

  “That’s right.” Rosaleen stepped down from the wagon and lifted the basket that had been riding on the seat beside her. “Fried chicken, biscuits and honey, and peach pie.”

  Stovepipe grinned “You’re fixin’ to have me lickin’ my chops, miss.”

  Vance stepped up and took the basket from her. He carried it to the back of the wagon and set it in the open bed. The four of them gathered around it as he asked, “You’re going to join us, aren’t you, Miss Rosaleen?”

  “I thought I would. I told Aunt Sinead to pack plenty. You ought to even have some left over for breakfast in the morning.” She lifted the cloth that covered the basket and added, “I’ve got a jug of lemonade in here, too.”

  “Better an’ better,” Stovepipe said.

  Rosaleen moved to sit in the wagon bed next to the basket.

  Vance didn’t hesitate. He took hold of her under the arms and lifted her, setting her gently on the boards. Then he took a quick step back, removed his hat, and said, “Sorry if I overstepped my bounds there, Miss Rosaleen. I reckon you just, uh, bring out the chivalry in me.”

  Stovepipe heard the mischief lurking in her tone as she said, “That’s all right, Vance. And I think you could probably just call me Rosaleen and forget about the miss part. You did save my life earlier today, you know.”

  “I wouldn’t want to do anything improper.”