Hang Them Slowly

by William W. Johnstone

  Malone looked at him intently for a moment then said, “Why don’t you sit down and tell me what you found out?”

  That brought Rosaleen’s head around again. “Dad! How can you invite this . . . this liar to join us?”

  “Liar’s kind of a strong word to use for what he done, Rosie. You got to admit, if we’d knowed who he really is, we wouldn’t have treated him the same. He got to learn a lot more about how things actually are on the ranch. I reckon it was more like . . . playactin’ than lyin’.”

  That was a stronger defense than Vance had expected from the cattleman. “Thank you, Mr. Malone. I assure you both I meant no harm.”

  “And I guess you did help some,” Rosaleen said grudgingly.

  “If he hadn’t helped with those railroad cars, that herd wouldn’t have been shipped out today, that’s for dang sure,” her father said.

  Rosaleen sighed and nodded. “All right. Sit down, Vance. That is your real first name?”

  “It absolutely is.” He pulled back the chair. “Vance Everett Armbrister.”

  “Kind of a mouthful,” Malone said. “I’m just gonna keep callin’ you Vance, like you said to.”

  “I appreciate it. I’d like it if you’d let me continue working with the crew, too.”

  Malone looked doubtful. “I dunno about that. Andy told me you had the makin’s of a good hand, but now that they all know who you are . . .”

  “I can think of one way to win them over. I need to keep going out there on the range and getting as sweaty and dirty and tired as they are. Then they’ll see there’s really not any difference in us.”

  “The rich are always different,” Rosaleen said.

  “They have more money, that’s all. They’re still as human as anyone else.”

  She looked dubious but didn’t say anything.

  A waitress brought Vance a cup of coffee and took his order.

  The Malones hadn’t eaten yet, so Vance’s food arrived only a short time after theirs did. Rosaleen remained quiet for the most part during the meal, but her father and Vance talked at length about the ranch and its operation.

  “There are some things we could do to make the spread even better, if your pa don’t mind spendin’ the money,” Malone said.

  “I’d love to hear about them. Tell me about it, and I’ll write to him and explain the situation. When I see him again, I’ll make sure he understands.”

  By the time the meal was finished and they were lingering over second cups of coffee, Vance could tell that Malone wasn’t angry with him anymore. His sincerity had won over the old cattleman . . . but Malone’s daughter was a different story. Rosaleen’s attitude was still cool. However, she wasn’t as angry as she had been earlier in the day, he sensed.

  Eventually Malone yawned. “It’s been a mighty long day. Reckon I’ll turn in. It’s been good talkin’ to you, son. I’ve got a hunch you and me can work together.”

  “I can’t tell you how glad I am to hear that, Mr. Malone. That’s all I want.”

  Malone got to his feet. “You comin’ on up, Rosaleen?”

  “In a minute. I want to talk to Mr. Armbrister, too.”

  “Vance,” he said.

  She inclined her head but didn’t agree to call him by his first name.

  Malone seemed a little reluctant to leave the two of them alone, but they were in the middle of the hotel dining room, after all. That couldn’t be too improper. “Good night, then,” he said gruffly.

  When Malone was gone, Vance looked at Rosaleen and said, “You wanted to talk to me?”

  “What I really want to do is haul off and punch you.”

  He couldn’t help but laugh a little. “And here I was hoping you would forgive me.”

  “I didn’t say I wouldn’t forgive you. I just said I’d like to punch you. That’s the way I react when people lie to me.”

  “You’re not ready to accept your father’s theory that I was just playacting?”

  She gave him a narrow-eyed gaze. “You may have charmed my father, Vance, but as far as I’m concerned, the jury’s still out. I’d like to trust you, but how can I ever do that?”

  He held up his hands. “I assure you, you know the truth about me now. I’m not hiding anything else.”

  That wasn’t strictly true, he thought. He hadn’t said anything to them about the attempt on his life, nor did they know Stovepipe and Wilbur were really range detectives working for his father. But he wasn’t actually lying about those things, just not telling Rosaleen what she didn’t need to know yet.

  She was silent for a long moment, then finally said, “I’m inclined to give you a chance. But I’m warning you, Vance Armbrister. You’d better play straight with me from here on out, or I won’t just punch you. I’m liable to come after you with a gun.”

  He couldn’t stop himself from smiling as he said, “You’ve got yourself a deal.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  The next day, everyone returned to the Three Rivers. Vance again rode on the wagon with Rosaleen. They had talked animatedly almost the entire way on the journey into Wagontongue, but she was much quieter on the return trip. Not unfriendly or unpleasant, by any means, but just . . . keeping her distance emotionally.

  He could deal with that, for now. He hoped it wasn’t going to be a permanent condition.

  Anxious to make sure there hadn’t been any trouble on the Three Rivers while they were gone, Malone told Stovepipe and Wilbur to come with him, and they weren’t able to decline the order without revealing who they really were. The three of them had ridden off ahead. The rest of the hands loafed along with the wagon, matching the vehicle’s more deliberate pace.

  * * *

  As they drove up to the ranch house, Rosaleen commented, “Of course you’ll have to move into the house now. You can’t stay in the bunkhouse anymore.”

  “Why not?” Vance asked in surprise. “I told your father I want to continue working as one of the hands.”

  “I certainly don’t care where you stay, but I don’t think the rest of the crew is going to accept you anymore. The first thing the men who were still in town yesterday will do is tell all the others about your real identity.”

  “I could ask them not to—” Vance stopped. He knew how futile such a request would be, not to mention unfair. He couldn’t ask the men to keep his secret from the rest of the crew. That just wouldn’t be right. “I still don’t think it should matter.”

  “Spoken like a man who’s always had money. Being rich doesn’t matter to you. You’ve never known anything else.”

  “My father came up the hard way. He built that steel mill with a lot of hard work, and with his fists, too, sometimes.”

  “Yes, but he did that, not you. Isn’t that right?”

  “Well . . . yes,” Vance admitted. “But I worked in the mill and the men never knew any different.”

  Rosaleen brought the wagon to a stop in front of the house and nodded. “That’s my point. Maybe Dad was right. Maybe playacting is the right word to describe what you do. It certainly isn’t genuine.”

  “Maybe we should leave it up to the men.”

  “All right,” she said with a shrug. “But don’t be surprised when things don’t turn out like you want them to.”

  He climbed down quickly from the wagon and was pleased she allowed him to help her to the ground. By that time, the old wrangler arrived to take charge of the team and vehicle. Rosaleen went in the house while Vance walked toward the bunkhouse, where the other cowboys were dismounting.

  “Hold up a minute, boss,” one of them said. “Where do you think you’re goin’?”

  “Inside, of course,” Vance replied.

  “Oh, sure. To get your gear so you can move it into the house, I reckon.”

  Vance shook his head. “No, I’m going to be staying out here with you fellows, just like I have all along.”

  A couple men scuffed boot toes in the dirt. All of them looked uncomfortable. The one who had spoken up said,
“We sort of didn’t figure you’d do that. Don’t you reckon you’d be more comfortable in the house?”

  “I don’t see why. I’ve been doing just fine out here.”

  Another man said, “Yeah, but that was before we knew you were the boss.”

  Vance told himself to stay calm and reasonable. “I had a talk with Mr. Malone about that. I’m not the boss here on the Three Rivers. He is, just like he always has been, and when he’s not around to give the orders, Andy Callahan is in charge. Nothing has changed.”

  “Hard to figure that when all you’d have to do to get us all fired is send a wire to your pa.”

  “I’d never do that,” Vance said. “I wouldn’t have any reason to. Even if I had a problem with any of you, I wouldn’t go crying to my father. I’d handle it myself.”

  “That’s easy to say, but we know how you rich fellas are. You’re used to always gettin’ your own way, no matter who you have to run over.”

  “That’s just not true!”

  The man who’d been speaking clenched his fists. “Are you callin’ me a liar?”

  “No more than you’re calling me one when I say I want things to go on like they were.”

  The cowboy shook his head. “You can forget that. You ain’t welcome in the bunkhouse anymore.”

  Mutters of agreement came from several of the other men.

  “Andy Callahan has a bunk in there,” Vance said, “and he gives orders. Why don’t you have a problem with him?”

  “Andy’s one of us. Always has been.”

  “When you stay out on the range, Mr. Malone throws his bedroll down with everybody else, doesn’t he?”

  “Sure.”

  “And he really is the boss on this ranch, a lot more than I am.”

  “It’s different, that’s all.”

  Vance made a disgusted noise and shook his head. “It’s not fair, that’s what it is. All I’m asking is that you accept me for who I am, not who my father is or how much money I might have. And it’s actually not all that much, you know. Most of it is in a trust—”

  He saw the sneers that appeared on several faces and knew he had pushed too far. The man who seemed to be the ringleader of the opposition turned toward the bunkhouse and said, “Come on, boys. We’ll pile the gent’s gear outside the door so he won’t have to breathe the same air as us to get it.”

  “Wait just a damned minute!” Vance moved quickly after them and grabbed the man’s shoulder. “What’s your name?”

  Instantly, he realized he’d made another mistake. He should have known the names of all these men, as long as he had been on the Three Rivers. And actually, he did know some of them. But he was upset at the moment and having trouble putting names with faces...

  The man jerked his shoulder away from Vance’s hand and wheeled around. His face darkened with anger. “Hear that? The fancy pants claims he’s one of us, but he don’t even know my name!”

  Vance looked down at his faded and patched denims. “I don’t see how you can call these pants fancy—”

  “It’s Steve,” the cowboy said. “Steve Elder. Reckon you can remember that?”

  “Steve. Of course. I knew that, I just—”

  “You just have trouble tellin’ all of us lowly critters apart, right?”

  “That’s not it at all.”

  Steve spat, the moisture landing in the dirt an inch away from one of Vance’s boots, and he started to turn away again.

  Once more Vance reached out to grasp his arm. “Wait—”

  Steve whirled, moving fast and bringing his right fist up to smash into Vance’s jaw. The powerful blow rocked Vance back several steps and made his head spin crazily.

  “You loco fool!” one of the other men said to Steve. “You’re gonna get yourself fired!”

  “I don’t care,” Steve raged as he started to come after Vance. Two of the cowboys grabbed his arms to hold him back.

  Vance had caught his balance. He raised his right hand and rubbed his jaw where Steve had punched him. The blow hadn’t done any real damage, although the jaw likely would be bruised. “It’s all right. Let go of him.”

  “You don’t want us to do that, boss,” said one of the men holding Steve. “He’s a mite out of his head right now.”

  “No, he’s just mad at me,” Vance said. “I’ll bet all of you are, at least a little. So maybe we should settle this. Maybe I should knock some sense into his head and convince all of you that I’m not the boss of anything.”

  “You heard him,” Steve said. “Let go o’ me, blast it! He’s just beggin’ for it!”

  Vance nodded to the men holding him. They looked at each other, one shrugged, and they both released Steve’s arms and stepped back.

  Roughly the same size, he and Steve were within an inch or so in height. Steve was a little shorter, brawnier, and probably outweighed Vance. As Vance moved, he thought he probably was a bit quicker on his feet. So they were very evenly matched.

  Steve charged, yelling as he swung a roundhouse punch at Vance’s head. Vance darted to the side to avoid the attack. As the looping punch missed, Vance hooked a hard right into Steve’s midsection, and the cowboy jackknifed, bending over so Vance was able to slam a blow down on the back of his neck.

  Vance figured Steve would go down and that would end the fight. Steve caught himself, though, with a hand on the ground, and whirled faster than Vance expected. He tackled Vance around the thighs and sent him crashing to the ground.

  The other cowboys shouted encouragement to Steve. He was one of them, and although they had all started to accept Vance before the revelation of his true identity came out, he was an outsider again.

  Drawn by the commotion, Keenan Malone emerged from the house, followed by Stovepipe and Wilbur. They had been in Malone’s office, talking about the attempt on Vance’s life in Wagontongue, and the young man from back east was in danger again.

  Stovepipe lifted a hand to stop Malone from shouting an order. “That kettle was bound to boil over sometime, boss. Might as well get it outta the way sooner rather than later.”

  “Blast it. That’s Steve Elder he’s fightin’ with,” Malone said. “He’s a bare-knuckles brawler from ’way back.”

  “Vance might have a trick or two up his sleeve. You can’t never tell.”

  Malone waited and watched, but he had a worried expression on his rugged face.

  Once Vance was down, Steve tried to scramble on top of him and pin him to the ground, but Vance was able to reach up, grab the front of Steve’s shirt, and heave him to the side. As Steve rolled one way, Vance rolled the other to put some distance between them. Both of them made it back to their feet at the same time.

  Vance’s injured left arm throbbed, but the muscles worked all right as he lifted it and held out his fist in a defensive boxing stance. His right was cocked back and ready. Steve charged again, still in a wild frenzy rather than using any sort of strategy, and Vance was able to block the punch he threw.

  With that opening, Vance stepped in and hammered two jabs with his right into Steve’s face. One of them split Steve’s lip, the other made his left eye swell. Steve whipped another punch at Vance’s head, but the Easterner ducked under it and lifted an uppercut that rocked the cowboy’s head back. So far, Vance had used his left arm strictly for defense and went on the offense with his right. As long as he could keep that up, he hoped the wound wouldn’t open up again.

  He peppered more punches to Steve’s head and chest and forced the cowboy to backpedal. Steve caught himself and lunged forward again, ducking instead of trying to absorb whatever punishment Vance could deal out to him. He spread his arms wide and trapped Vance in a bear hug, catching his arms against his sides.

  Vance’s feet left the ground as his opponent swung him around. The pressure on his injured arm made pain shoot through him. His lips drew back from his teeth in a grimace, and he struck back the only way he could. Lowering his head, he rammed it into the middle of Steve’s face.

  H
ot blood spurted over Vance’s forehead as Steve’s nose flattened with a crunch of cartilage. Steve howled in pain and let go of him. The cowboy reeled back a step. Setting himself, Vance drove one more powerful blow against Steve’s jaw. Steve’s feet left the ground as he flew backwards to land in a senseless heap.

  Vance stood there, his left arm hanging uselessly at his side, his chest heaving. Sweat covered his face, but he was still on his feet . . . and Steve was on the ground, not moving.

  “Holy cow!” said one of the men. “We all forgot the kid’s got a bad arm—and he whipped Steve anyway!”

  Another man said, “Maybe we were wrong about you, Mr. Armbrister.”

  “Vance.” He was trying not to pant. “Just call me . . . Vance . . . like always.”

  “I reckon we can do that.”

  Despite the pain in his arm, Vance started to grin.

  That expression disappeared as the front door of the ranch house banged open and Rosaleen exclaimed, “You lunatic! What do you think you’re doing?”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  Rosaleen rushed past her father, as well as Stovepipe and Wilbur, and hurried down the steps from the porch.

  Vance came to meet her, holding out his right hand. “Rosaleen—”

  “Is your arm bleeding again?”

  He forced the arm to work and lifted it. There didn’t appear to be any blood on his shirtsleeve. “I don’t think so—”

  “No thanks to you and your brawling. What were you thinking?”

  Vance turned to look at the members of the crew. A couple were hauling the still mostly senseless Steve Elder to his feet. The others just stood there looking uneasy.

  “I was thinking there were things the men and I needed to get straight,” Vance said. “You told me they might have a problem with me going back to the bunkhouse, and you were right. But we were working it out in the most direct way possible. I figured I would earn my right to live and work among them.”

  “By fighting the biggest and meanest of them?”

  One of the men said, “Uh, no offense, Miss Rosaleen, but Steve ain’t really what you’d call mean. He’s just a mite hotheaded sometimes.”