Hang Them Slowly

by William W. Johnstone

  Another man added, “And the way Vance whipped him, even fightin’ one-handed, did sort of make us feel more inclined to accept him as one of the bunch.”

  Keenan Malone came up behind his daughter and said, “A man who’s willin’ to face up to a challenge is always welcome among fightin’ men. And that’s what we’ve got here on the Three Rivers . . . a fightin’ crew that still has the bark on!”

  Several of the cowboys grinned in agreement.

  “Still, you could have been hurt,” Rosaleen argued to Vance. “If you keep injuring that arm, it may never heal right and you could wind up losing the use of it! You don’t want that.”

  “No, I sure don’t. I’d like to keep working here on the Three Rivers for the time being, and I can’t do that one-handed.” He gave her a sheepish grin. “I reckon I’d better stop getting in fights for a while.”

  “Oh”—she blew her breath out and shook her head in exasperation—“maybe you are a cowboy. You’re as muleheaded as any of that bunch, that’s for sure!”

  Malone said, “If you want to talk stubborn, honey, I reckon there ain’t many in these parts who can hold a candle to you.”

  She glared at him for a second, then told Vance, “If that arm needs more medical attention, let Aunt Sinead know. I’m sure she’ll be glad to take care of you.”

  “I’ll do that,” Vance told Rosaleen’s back as she swung around and started toward the house.

  When he looked at the ranch hands again, he saw that Steve was standing up under his own power, although the burly cowboy still looked a little groggy. Steve gave a little shake of his head that made droplets of blood fly from his battered nose. He looked up, saw Vance, and came toward him, moving a little shakily.

  Vance didn’t think Steve was attacking him again, and that proved to be right.

  When Steve came close enough to hold out his hand, he said, “Put ’er there, Vance.” His voice was thick and the words were slurred from the punishment his face had taken. “I’d be honored to shake the hand of a man who whupped me like that. And I’m sorry I jumped you. I plumb forgot about that bum wing o’ yours.”

  “That’s all right, Steve,” Vance said as he gripped the other man’s hand. “It was a good fight.” He paused. “Are you still going to toss my gear out of the bunkhouse?”

  “Hell, no! Anybody who can punch like you is more ’n welcome in this crew, no matter who he is or how much dinero he has.” Steve looked around at the others. “Ain’t that right, boys?”

  The emphatic agreement from the men put a grin on Vance’s face again. He was confident that with them on his side, he could win over the rest of the crew, too.

  As for Rosaleen . . . well, that was only a matter of time.

  * * *

  When Andy Callahan and the rest of the crew came in from the range late that afternoon, they had plenty of stories waiting for them—the confrontation with Cabot and his men over the railroad cars in Wagontongue; the revelation that grub line rider Vance Brewster was actually wealthy Easterner and someday heir to the Three Rivers ranch Vance Armbrister; and the brutal battle between Vance and Steve Elder in which Vance had won his place in the bunkhouse.

  When everything settled down, the upshot was that things really hadn’t changed all that much. There was still bad blood between the Three Rivers and the Rafter M, and Vance, no matter what his last name was, remained one of them, riding for the brand . . . at least for the time being.

  * * *

  During the next week, things stayed peaceful. No rustlers raided the spread, no one took any potshots at the hands as they rode the range, and Vance’s injured arm healed enough he was able to go back to carrying out his share of the work every day. When the men saw that he was willing and able to stay in the saddle for long, hot, dusty hours every day, they gradually forgot where he came from.

  And just like Vance hoped, Rosaleen didn’t seem to be dwelling on his deception. She might not have forgotten about it, but at least she wasn’t furious at him anymore.

  Because of that, he expected her to have a smile on her face when he spotted her riding out on the range one day and waved at her. He was on top of a hill, on his way back from checking a stretch of one of the creeks where cows had a habit of getting bogged down in the mud, and she was riding through the valley below. With a smile, he spurred down to meet her.

  As soon as he came close enough to make out the expression on her face, he realized something was wrong. She kept looking back over her shoulder as if worried someone might be following her.

  Ordinarily, Vance would have had a pleasant greeting for her. When he saw she was upset, he asked as soon as he rode up to her, “What’s the matter?”

  She looked a little relieved to see him but still worried. “Someone was on my trail. I think it was Dax Coolidge.”

  Vance stiffened in the saddle. “Coolidge left these parts more than a week ago.”

  “He said he was leaving. We don’t have any real reason to think he actually did.” She was right about that.

  Vance had been hoping Coolidge was really gone, but it was entirely possible he wasn’t. “Where did you see him? Where were you headed?”

  “I was riding out to Eagle Flats. I haven’t been there for a while, and I thought I might catch sight of one of the eagles.”

  Vance nodded. He knew the area, which was about two miles east of where they currently were, although he had been over there only once. He had heard the men talking about it and knew the place got its name from the birds that sometimes soared majestically over it.

  “I came through Aspen Gap,” Rosaleen went on. “That was where I looked back and saw a rider through the trees. I didn’t get that good a look at him, but good enough I’m convinced it was Coolidge. I didn’t know what to do except keep going. I couldn’t turn back because he was between me and the ranch headquarters.”

  “You did the right thing,” Vance told her. “There was a good chance you’d run into at least one of the hands if you kept moving, and so you have.”

  “Just one of you, though.” Rosaleen looked around with the worried expression still on her face. “I don’t suppose any of the other men are close by?”

  “Not that I know of,” Vance said, trying not to feel irritated by the fact she obviously thought he couldn’t protect her. Logically, he couldn’t blame her for that attitude. He was only one man, and certainly not a gunfighter.

  Dax Coolidge, on the other hand, was a hardened killer. In a battle of Colts, Vance would stand very little chance against Coolidge.

  “Keep going to Eagle Flats. Ride hard, and when you get there, you can cut south and circle around to headquarters without going back through the gap.”

  Rosaleen stared at Vance. “What about you?”

  “If Coolidge really is following you, he’ll be coming along this valley pretty soon, and he’ll have to get past me to go after you.”

  Rosaleen’s face paled as she shook her head. “Vance, no . . .”

  He smiled as he said, “Don’t worry, I’m not going to have a showdown with him or anything like that. I’m pretty good with a rifle”—he patted the stock of the Winchester sticking up from its saddle sheath—“so I thought I’d fort up in those trees over there and wait for Coolidge. If he shows, I’ll take a few warning shots at him so he’ll know to turn back.”

  “What if he doesn’t turn back?”

  Vance shrugged. “I’ll have good cover and plenty of ammunition. I might not be able to take him in a fast-draw contest, but I’m willing to take my chances in a fight like that.”

  “What if I’m not willing?”

  He really wanted to ask her what she meant by that. He would have loved to hear her explanation. But they had already wasted too much time talking.

  He took his hat off and waved her on. “Ride for Eagle Flats.”

  She looked like she wanted to argue but leaned forward in the saddle and heeled her pony into a run. Vance swatted at the pony’s rump with his hat, just t
o speed it on its way.

  As Rosaleen galloped on down the valley, he headed for the clump of trees he had mentioned. He looked back in the direction Rosaleen had come from, searching for any sign of whoever had been following her. Vance’s gut told him she was right about the man being Dax Coolidge, but he would have to see that for himself to be sure.

  He continued watching after he’d dismounted, pulled the Winchester from its sheath, and taken cover behind the trees, but he didn’t see anyone. Rosaleen was out of sight, and the valley appeared to be deserted except for the cows grazing in the distance.

  Worry gnawed at Vance’s nerves. Rosaleen was a level-headed young woman. She wasn’t the sort to imagine things . . . but maybe she had been mistaken about somebody being on her trail. With all the trouble in recent weeks, she could be forgiven for letting her imagination run away with itself.

  She wouldn’t be happy, though, if anybody told her that. She would insist she had really seen what she thought she saw.

  Problem was, if somebody really had been following her, they should have showed up already.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  Rosaleen didn’t know who she was more afraid for, herself or Vance. If she was right . . . if that really had been Dax Coolidge trailing her and Vance tried to stop him . . . the likelihood of such a confrontation ending well for Vance was very small. He had put up a brave front, but they both knew he was no match for the ruthless gunfighter.

  She wanted him to be capable of anything. Even though she wouldn’t have admitted it to him, over the past week she had found her affection for him growing. She realized she hadn’t been fair to him about the way he had concealed his true identity . . . but she wasn’t going to admit that to him, either, not just yet. She had seen enough to know that he was a kind, intelligent, courageous man. The sort of man she might someday—

  She put that thought out of her head as she reached Eagle Flats and paused to look back. She didn’t spot any riders back up the valley.

  Facing forward again, she looked out over the flats. They stretched for two miles in front of her, ending at another range of low hills. They continued north and south as far as she could see. It was a good place to spot eagles as they flew from one bunch of hills to the other. The sky was open and empty. Rosaleen enjoyed sketching the majestic birds, although she had never told anyone about her artistic efforts or showed them to anybody.

  The flats were covered with sage, gray and dry since the time was several months past blooming. She remembered being there when the purple blossoms stretched beautifully as far as the eye could see.

  She looked back again and then started across the flats. In those distant hills was a trail that looped around toward the ranch headquarters, but to reach it she had to cross the open ground where any pursuer would spot her instantly. Her best bet, she thought, was to get to the other side of the flats as quickly as she could.

  Because she kept looking behind her as she rode, she wasn’t watching very carefully in front of her. After glancing over her shoulder for what seemed like the hundredth time, she faced ahead again and gasped in surprise at the sight of a man sitting calmly on his horse about fifty yards in front of her.

  Rosaleen hauled back on the reins and brought her pony to an abrupt halt. She could see the man well enough to recognize the arrogant grin and the jaunty way he wore his hat cocked on his head.

  Somehow, Dax Coolidge had gotten ahead of her.

  He had skirted the valley and ridden past her while she was talking to Vance. She was certain of it. That was the only explanation that made sense.

  At least he stayed where he was and didn’t ride toward her.

  That didn’t stop her heart from slugging painfully in her chest. She glanced at the butt of the carbine sticking up from its sheath. Could she pull the rifle out and fire before Coolidge reached her if he decided to attack? He was out of handgun range, so he would have to come closer if he wanted to shoot her.

  He didn’t make any hostile moves. He took what appeared to be a cigar from his vest pocket, snapped a match to life with his thumbnail, and lit the cheroot. Rosaleen saw the cloud of smoke that wreathed his head as he exhaled.

  “Howdy, Miss Malone,” he called. “Beautiful day, isn’t it?”

  She didn’t answer the question. She was in no mood for small talk. “I thought you left this part of the country.”

  “Well, I thought about it. I really did. But then I decided I just couldn’t. Too much unfinished business, if you know what I mean.”

  “I’m sure I don’t. Any business you might have is no concern of mine.”

  “Well, see, you’d be wrong about that,” Coolidge said as he gestured with the cigar. “We have a lot in common. You’re interested in what happens to the Three Rivers, and so am I.”

  “You’re still working for Mort Cabot! I knew it. That was just an act in town, when you said you were leaving.”

  “Was it?” The mocking smile was still on his face. “Could be I decided I was on the wrong side all along. Cabot didn’t back me up the way a man ought to when you put your life on the line for him. Made me think maybe I ought to be working for the Three Rivers instead.”

  “We don’t hire gunslingers,” she said, her voice cold.

  “You ought to reconsider. My price is reasonable. I’ll work for just regular cowhand’s wages . . . plus one little bonus.”

  “What sort of bonus?”

  As soon as she said it, Rosaleen knew she shouldn’t have asked the question.

  Coolidge’s grin became a leer as he said, “You, Miss Malone. I get forty a month and found . . . and you.”

  “Go to hell!” she cried. “That will never happen. If you were the last fighting man on earth, we’d never turn to scum like you!”

  He puffed on the cheroot for a second, then asked, “Is that your final word on the subject?”

  “It certainly is!”

  “Well, that’s too bad.” Coolidge put the cigar between his lips again and drew hard on it, making the coal on the end glow so brightly Rosaleen could see it even over the distance separating them. He took the cheroot from his mouth and tossed it on the ground about ten feet in front of him.

  Flames shot up with a whoosh!

  Terror struck through Rosaleen. Like most Westerners, she was more afraid of fire than almost anything else. Prairie fires could wipe out hundreds of thousands of acres, and an uncontrolled blaze in town could burn an entire settlement to the ground in less than an hour.

  Even worse, the way the flames were racing along the ground in both directions told her Coolidge had spread something to fuel them, probably black powder or coal oil. With the dry sage catching fire instantly, there would be a wall of flames between them within moments.

  Rosaleen whirled her horse. She had to get out of there. The wind was blowing across the flats toward her, but she thought she could stay in front of the blaze.

  She heard a couple sharp cracks over the crackling flames. Her pony leaped and then staggered. Instinct made her kick her feet free from the stirrups and she flew from the saddle as the horse collapsed underneath her.

  She slammed into the ground, stunning her and knocking the air from her lungs. Rolling over and gasping, she tried to gather her wits. When she lifted her head, she found herself looking back through the leaping flames. Heat blurred the air, but she could make out Dax Coolidge still sitting on his horse, holding a rifle. She knew he had shot her pony out from under her.

  Coolidge slid his rifle back in its scabbard and then lifted a hand to his hat brim to sketch a lazy salute to her. With the flames between them, he looked like a devil from hell, she thought.

  And hell was closing in on her, consuming the sage in its crackling fury as it rolled across the flats.

  The sight of the advancing flames filled Rosaleen with terror that forced her muscles to work. She surged to her feet and looked down at her horse for a second. The pony was dead, beyond anything else Coolidge could do to it. Grief stabbe
d into her at the loss of her friend, but she had more pressing problems.

  She turned and ran.

  From the corner of her eye she saw the flames spreading out and curving around to her right. She jerked her head to the left and saw the same thing happening there. Coolidge had laid a trap for her. She had ridden right into it, and it was closing around her with jaws of flame.

  * * *

  Something was bothering him. Vance frowned, stood up straighter, and sniffed the air. He smelled smoke. He hurried out of the trees, knowing he was exposing himself to gunshots if anyone lurking around wanted to harm him, but an urgent need to know where the smoke was coming from gripped him.

  As he peered to the east, his fears were realized. Huge billows of grayish-white smoke rose in that direction, drifting toward him on a steady breeze. The clouds of smoke extended for a good distance north and south, curving around to make a cup shape. Anything caught inside that cup would have a hard time getting out.

  Vance’s heart began to hammer in his chest. As best he could tell, the smoke was coming from Eagle Flats.

  Exactly where Rosaleen had gone . . . because he had told her to flee there.

  * * *

  Smoke wafted over Rosaleen and clogged the air around her. She coughed and blinked stinging eyes. The fire was still a good distance behind her. She might be able to outrun the flames, but she couldn’t outrun the smoke. As she coughed harder and harder, her pace slowed. She pulled her bandana over her nose and forced herself to run faster again. If she passed out and fell, the blaze would overtake her in moments and she would be lost.

  She stumbled and barely caught herself before she dropped to her knees. She looked back to see how close the fire was. The nearness of it made her leap ahead. She didn’t see Coolidge. He had ridden off, she thought, abandoning her to an awful death. All because she had refused his ridiculous offer to go to work for her father, if she would just give herself to him!

  That had been a lie, she thought. Even if she had agreed, Coolidge would have betrayed them. She was sure of it. He was probably still working for Cabot. The whole thing was a trick.