Hang Them Slowly

by William W. Johnstone

  She hadn’t ignored the more feminine aspects of life. She barely remembered her mother, but Aunt Sinead had always been there to make sure she learned what she needed to know. The way Rosaleen saw it, she had the best of both worlds . . . as long as nobody tried to pen her up in either of them.

  * * *

  In a way, Vance hoped he was mistaken and that Rosaleen was still back at the ranch, safe and sound. Deep down, though, he knew his hunch was right.

  He became more convinced when he saw she was headed for the area where the roundup was taking place. Even after everything that had happened, she didn’t like to be shut out of the ranch’s activities. Whatever was going on, she wanted to be right in the middle of it.

  That put a grin on his face. He could understand the feeling. He was much the same way, most of the time.

  He thought about urging his horse to a faster pace and catching up with her, but he stayed back. Honestly, even though he was used to riding, bouncing around in the saddle made his wounded arm ache and twinge. He didn’t want to hurt it worse by galloping unless there was a good reason.

  Really, he had followed her only to make sure she was all right, Vance thought. He could trail her, keep an eye on her, and accomplish that goal. It might also be a good idea not to let her know he had appointed himself her guardian. Likely, her proud nature wouldn’t like that.

  They rode for several miles, with Vance getting a little closer but not much. He still had Rosaleen in sight all the time. Had she looked back, she might have seen him, but she didn’t seem to be paying much attention to her back trail.

  Vance frowned. She ought to be more cautious, he thought, especially with tensions running so high between the Three Rivers and the neighboring Rafter M. Cabot’s men would know they weren’t welcome on Three Rivers range . . . but that wouldn’t stop them from riding there anyway.

  * * *

  Rosaleen was lost in her thoughts, musing on having the best of both worlds—that of a woman and that of a cowboy—when she realized someone was riding along parallel with her. He was on top of a small, pine-dotted ridge about fifty yards away.

  Without thinking, she slowed abruptly, giving away that she had spotted him. He reined his mount down the slope and angled to intercept her.

  Part of Rosaleen wanted to wheel her horse around and run, but her pride wouldn’t let her. She was on Three Rivers range, after all. Her home. She had no reason to be afraid or to flee. She brought her horse to a stop and waited to see what the rider was going to do.

  He headed straight for her.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Vance suddenly straightened and rode taller in the saddle as he spotted a man on horseback atop a ridge, ahead of him and to the left. The rider seemed to be keeping pace with Rosaleen, but then as she abruptly slowed her mount, the man turned his horse and headed down off the ridge. When he reached level ground, he angled so his trail would cross Rosaleen’s.

  Vance didn’t like the looks of that. The stranger seemed bent on accosting Rosaleen. Of course, he might be one of the Three Rivers crew, and she wouldn’t be in danger from any of them. The whole bunch of cowhands seemed to think of her as a niece or a little sister.

  Vance urged his horse into a fast lope. He wanted to be sure what was going on.

  * * *

  As the rider came closer, Rosaleen saw that he wore a blue shirt and a black hat and vest. The hat with a tightly rolled brim was cocked at an angle on his head, giving him an arrogant look. She told herself she was leaping to conclusions, but she really didn’t think that was the case.

  After a moment, she was able to see his face. Dax Coolidge. He was a handsome man, in a rough-hewn way, but his deep-set eyes and the way his mouth twisted in a smirk worked against that.

  He wasn’t one of her father’s men . . . and that meant he had no business riding around Three Rivers range.

  The man reined to a halt about fifteen feet from her. He reached up and pinched the brim of his hat as he said, “Miss Malone.” The gesture had no real respect in it. Rather, his whole attitude seemed mocking.

  “Mr. Coolidge,” she said. “What are you doing here?”

  “I could ask you the same thing.”

  “No, not really. My father is the manager of this ranch. I have every right to be here. You work for Mort Cabot, and you’re a long way from the Rafter M.”

  “Not that awful far, as the crow flies. Anyway, can’t a fella pay a friendly visit to the neighbors every now and then?”

  “Cabot and his men aren’t welcome on Three Rivers range,” Rosaleen said. “I know that’s not very hospitable . . . but most folks don’t invite snakes into their front parlor.”

  Coolidge’s pale blue eyes narrowed. Rosaleen felt a shiver of fear go through her, although she tried not to show it.

  “Ma’am, that’s downright unfriendly, especially when I haven’t done a thing except greet you politely. You didn’t even answer my question about what you’re doing all the way out here alone.”

  “I’m not alone,” she answered instantly. “There are half a dozen of my father’s cowboys nearby.”

  Coolidge crossed his hands on his saddle horn, leaned forward, and looked around. An arrogant grin creased his tanned features. “Whereabouts? I don’t see anybody except you.” He nudged his horse closer. “Fact is, the way you came back so quick with that answer tells me you really are by yourself.”

  “You had better leave me alone and get out of here.” Rosaleen hated herself for sounding nervous, but she couldn’t help it. “If you ride out now, I won’t tell my father or anyone else about you being here where you don’t belong—”

  Again he moved his mount closer to hers as he said sharply, “That’s where you’re wrong, Miss Malone. I belong wherever I damned well happen to be. Dax Coolidge rides where he wants to, and nobody tells me different.”

  Anger flared up inside Rosaleen. She would be damned if she let anybody crowd her, even a notorious gunman like Coolidge. She jerked her horse back and reached for her carbine at the same time. Once she was looking at him over the barrel of the repeater, he would sing a different tune.

  But he didn’t just sit there and let her pull the carbine from its sheath. In almost one motion, he jabbed his heels into his horse’s flanks, the animal leaped toward Rosaleen’s horse, and Coolidge yanked it into a tight turn alongside her. He reached over, looped his left arm around her waist, and jerked her out of the saddle even as an involuntary scream ripped from her throat.

  * * *

  Vance heard that frightened cry, and combined with the sight of Rosaleen struggling in the man’s grip, it made anger explode inside him. He forgot all about his injured arm as he leaned forward and sent his mount racing toward them.

  Hearing the swiftly drumming hoofbeats as Vance galloped toward them, the man jerked his horse around to face the newcomer.

  Close enough to see the man’s face, Vance realized it was familiar somehow, but he wasn’t sure where he’d seen the hombre before. None of that mattered anyway. No matter who he was, Vance wasn’t going to let him get away with manhandling Rosaleen!

  The man reached for his gun, making Vance realize what a disadvantage he had. Even with a Colt on his hip, he was no gunman. He’d been able to blaze away at the rustlers with a rifle, but a showdown with six-shooters was much different.

  Besides, the man had hold of Rosaleen. Vance couldn’t start throwing lead. He’d be just as likely to hit her, and he couldn’t risk that.

  The stranger, on the other hand, didn’t have to worry about being careful. Flame spurted from the muzzle of his gun as he triggered a pair of shots at Vance.

  Neither bullet found its target. The man’s horse was moving around skittishly from carrying double and Rosaleen was still struggling to get loose from the man’s grip.

  As he tried to bring the horse under control, she finally twisted enough to bring an elbow up sharply under his chin. The impact of the blow jerked his head back and loosened his arm arou
nd her waist. She planted both hands against his chest, shoved hard, and toppled to the ground as she broke free.

  Vance’s heart leaped as he saw her fall. She was in danger of the horse stepping on her, especially if the hard landing stunned her.

  But as soon as Rosaleen hit the ground, she was moving. She rolled away from the horse, putting several yards between her and the steel-shod hooves.

  Vance was closing in, dividing the stranger’s attention between him and Rosaleen. That gave Vance the chance to close the gap between them. The man jerked back toward him at the last moment, and Vance got a good look at him—Dax Coolidge, the gunman who worked for the Rafter M.

  Coolidge’s gun came around toward him.

  Moving too fast to stop, Vance kicked his feet free of the stirrups and dived at Coolidge. The man’s revolver blasted at the same instant, so close that Vance felt the heat of the shot lash against his face.

  A fraction of a second later, Vance crashed into Coolidge and drove him from the saddle. Vance rammed Coolidge into the ground as they landed and Coolidge’s gun flew out of his hand.

  Vance’s injured arm throbbed, but in his fury over Coolidge’s treatment of Rosaleen, he barely noticed it. He lunged for Coolidge’s throat with his other hand. The landing had knocked the breath out of the gunman’s lungs, and Vance intended to keep him helpless and gasping for air.

  Vance assumed none of the bullets had hit him. He didn’t feel any new injuries as he closed his right hand around Coolidge’s throat. Coolidge’s eyes widened as Vance began to choke him.

  With a lot of experience at brawling, Coolidge brought his right leg up, wedged it across Vance’s chest, and broke free with a convulsive movement of his entire body. Vance sprawled on his back.

  Coolidge rolled onto hands and knees and paused for a couple seconds to drag in several deep breaths. At the same time, Vance tried to push himself up and without thinking put his left hand on the ground to take some of his weight. Pain shot through that arm, and the muscles refused to work. He fell back awkwardly.

  Coolidge’s questing gaze found the gun he had dropped, and he lunged for it. Vance knew that if Coolidge got his hands on the weapon, he was as good as dead. He scrambled up and dived onto Coolidge’s back.

  That stopped Coolidge from getting hold of the gun, but he writhed like a snake, rolling over and throwing Vance off again. Vance landed within kicking distance and slammed the heel of his right boot into Coolidge’s left shoulder. The gunman yelled in pain.

  Bigger and heavier than Coolidge, Vance threw himself at the gunman again and sledged a punch into his jaw. If he’d had the full use of both arms, he could have hammered Coolidge into senselessness.

  Coolidge wasn’t just as lithe and wiry as a snake, he was as treacherous as one, too. His knee came up and sank into Vance’s groin. Blinding pain exploded through Vance. He curled up around that agony, knowing that he had to shake it off but unable for the moment to do so.

  Coolidge hit him on the chin with a right and sank his left into Vance’s belly. Vance summoned all the strength he could muster and surged up onto his knees. A one-armed tackle brought Coolidge down again and Vance butted him in the face.

  That stunned Coolidge. Still hurting something fierce, Vance forced his mind and muscles to work and lifted himself to look around for Coolidge’s gun.

  Spotting it on the ground, he went after it. His hand closed around it and he reeled to his feet. As he turned toward Coolidge, he saw the gunfighter had managed to stand up, too.

  Coolidge had another pistol in his hand. His thumb was on the hammer and his finger was wrapped around the trigger.

  All Vance could think was it must have been hidden in Coolidge’s boot or in a holster at the small of his back. The weapon was a smaller caliber, but it was no less deadly . . . and the revolver in his own hand was pointing at the ground. He had no chance . . .

  “You’re holding a gun,” Coolidge said as an ugly grin stretched across his face. “That makes it self-defense, kid.”

  His finger tightened on the trigger.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  The roar of a shot filled the air, but it didn’t come from Coolidge’s gun. Coolidge’s arm jerked and he cried out in pain. The pistol flew through the air and landed several yards away, its cylinder smashed by the bullet that had struck it.

  Vance looked around in confusion and saw a rider galloping toward them. Farther back, another man sat on horseback, holding a rifle. That man nudged his horse into motion and rode forward at a more deliberate pace. Vance recognized him right away as Stovepipe Stewart.

  Not surprisingly, the first man was Wilbur Coleman. He brought his roan to a sliding halt and was out of the saddle before the horse came to a complete stop. He covered Coolidge with a Colt. “You all right, Vance?”

  “Yeah, I . . . I reckon.” Vance looked down at his arm, saw crimson seeping through onto his shirt sleeve. “Aunt Sinead’s not gonna be happy when she sees I’ve busted open this wound, though. But I had a good reason—” He stopped short and looked around for Rosaleen. She stood nearby, leaning on the pony she had ridden and holding on to the saddle. Her face was pale.

  Vance hurried to her side, “Rosaleen, you’re hurt—”

  “No,” she told him with a shake of her head. “That fall just . . . knocked the wind out of me. I’ll be fine. But your arm is bleeding.”

  “It’s nothing to worry about. I’ll just have to be patched up again.” He grinned. “Seems like I’m making a habit out of it.”

  “Don’t joke about it. Coolidge could have killed you.”

  They turned to look at the gunman, who stood there scowling at Wilbur. The gun in Wilbur’s hand was rock-steady as he kept it pointed at Coolidge. Coolidge shook his right hand a little, like he was trying to get feeling back into it. It stung from having the pistol shot out of his grasp.

  That was some incredible marksmanship, Vance thought. Since it was Stovepipe who had made the shot, somehow he wasn’t surprised.

  Stovepipe rode up in a deliberate manner and reined in his paint. “Everybody all right here?”

  “Vance is bleeding again,” Rosaleen said.

  “Well, I ain’t surprised, since him and Coolidge was engagin’ in such strenuous fisticuffs. Don’t appear he’s on the verge of bleedin’ to death, though.”

  Vance looked down at his arm again and shook his head. “I’ll be all right. It does kind of hurt like blazes, though.”

  “What happened here?”

  Rosaleen said, “Coolidge attacked me. There’s no telling what he might have done if Vance hadn’t come along when he did.”

  Coolidge’s lips twisted in a snarl. “That’s a damned lie. I was just talking to the girl when she started to haul out her rifle and shoot me. All I was doing was trying to stop her, and then this loco cowboy came along and tackled me.”

  “You’re the one who’s lying,” Vance said. “I saw you drag Miss Malone out of her saddle. On top of that, you’re trespassing. Rafter M riders aren’t welcome on Three Rivers range.”

  Coolidge sneered at him. “Talking mighty big, aren’t you, boy? You’re just a grub line rider. You don’t give orders around here.”

  “Vance is right,” Rosaleen said. “You’re trespassing, and if my father was here, he’d back that up.”

  “Sounds like plenty of reason to get the law involved,” Stovepipe said. “Climb up on that nag o’ yours, Coolidge. We’re takin’ a little ride to Wagontongue.”

  Coolidge cursed at him and ranted. “You’re not going to turn me over to the law!”

  Still holding the rifle, Stovepipe turned it slightly so the barrel was pointed straight at Coolidge. “Be even less trouble to haul you in slung over your saddle, instead of ridin’ it.” The icy tone of his voice left no doubt he meant the threat.

  Still muttering curses, Coolidge turned to his horse and mounted. Wilbur holstered his gun, then picked up the pistol Stovepipe had shot out of Coolidge’s hand and took the gunman’s
other revolver from Vance. “Reckon we’ll turn these over to the sheriff.”

  “Miss Rosaleen, can you see to it that Vance gets back to headquarters and has that wounded arm tended to?” Stovepipe asked.

  “Of course,” she said. “I’m feeling better now. I’m not as shaken up anymore.”

  “Much obliged to you, then. Wilbur and me will take Coolidge to see Sheriff Jerrico. This varmint belongs behind bars.”

  “No jail’s gonna keep me in,” Coolidge said.

  “We’ll see about that.”

  “Stovepipe,” Vance said, “the last time I saw you and Wilbur, you were riding south. What are you doing up here on this part of the ranch?”

  “Just call it a hunch,” Stovepipe said. “I got to feelin’ there might be some trouble up here, so Wilbur and me decided to come check it out.”

  “You mean you decided,” Wilbur said from the back of his roan. “You were the one with the hunch.”

  “And it’s a good thing you did,” Vance said. “If you hadn’t come along when you did, I’d probably be dead now.”

  “And there’s no telling what Coolidge would have done to me,” Rosaleen added.

  “Glad to be of service,” Stovepipe said as he ticked a finger against the brim of his hat. “Now come on, Coolidge. You got a date with the law.”

  * * *

  Coolidge didn’t do much on the ride into town except snarl curses now and then. Stovepipe and Wilbur rode behind the gunman and ignored him, other than keeping an eye on him to make sure he didn’t try to escape.

  “What do you reckon Miss Rosaleen was doing up there on that part of the range in the first place?” Wilbur asked.

  “Goin’ to poke her pretty little nose into the roundup, of course,” Stovepipe said. “She’s got that—what do you call it?—feminine curiosity, in spades.”

  Wilbur snorted. “I never saw anybody more curious than you, Stovepipe, and you’re not the least bit feminine.”