Hang Them Slowly

by William W. Johnstone

  “And then?”

  “I reckon a rope and a tree limb will do just fine for the son of a bitch.”

  Vance said, “Hold on. I agree we’re going to ride over to the Rafter M and put a stop to this trouble once and for all, but I don’t know about lynching Cabot.” He shook his head. “I admit, when I first heard Stovepipe was dead, I would have gone along with that and never complained. I’ve had time to think about it a little, though. I’m still not sure we shouldn’t turn Cabot over to the law once he confesses.”

  “And if he don’t confess?” Malone asked with a challenging jut of his jaw.

  “If it comes down to a fight . . . don’t hold back,” Vance said. “Whatever happens, I’m taking the responsibility for it.”

  “The hell you are! You may own the place someday, but I’m still the manager of this spread.” Malone turned to look at Andy Callahan, who still sat his horse in front of the porch. “Andy, tell the boys to grab their guns and throw their saddles on fresh horses. Time’s a-wastin’!”

  Callahan nodded curtly. “You got it, boss.” He turned his horse and rode toward the bunkhouse, where the other cowboys were waiting.

  “I’m coming with you,” Wilbur declared.

  Rosaleen asked, “What did Aunt Sinead say about your injury?”

  “I’ve got a good-sized bruise on my hip already,” Wilbur replied with a shrug. “It’s sore, and the leg’s stiff. But there’s no reason I can’t sit a saddle, and my gun hand’s not hurt a bit. I owe it to Stovepipe.”

  “Then I’m coming, too,” Rosaleen said.

  “The hell you are!” her father said.

  “You’re not coming, Rosaleen, and that’s final,” Vance added.

  “He saved my life. He saved Vance’s life more than once. And I’m a good shot with my carbine.” She glared at Vance. “And who are you to make decisions for me, Vance Armbrister?”

  “I’m the man who loves you, that’s who,” he answered without hesitation.

  “You listen to the boy,” Malone said. “He’s right.”

  Rosaleen looked back and forth between them and said, “So you’re ganging up on me.”

  “Looking out for your safety, that’s all,” Vance said. “We don’t have time for this argument, Rosaleen.”

  “The boy’s right. We got to get ready to ride.”

  She let out a clearly frustrated sigh. “All right. I don’t want to waste a lot of everybody’s time. Just put an end to this—”

  “We intend to,” Malone said.

  “And stay safe.”

  “I don’t reckon we can promise that,” Vance said.

  Rosaleen turned to Wilbur. “Look out for these two, will you? They’re stubborn as mules.”

  “I would, but right now I’m feeling pretty muleheaded myself,” Wilbur said. “I’ve got a score to settle . . . for Stovepipe.”

  * * *

  Stovepipe didn’t move and barely breathed as the rider came up to the deputy’s camp. The newcomer was mounted on a big chestnut. The deputy seemed to relax at the sight of it. Whoever the rider was, the deputy recognized him and had expected to see him.

  As the newcomer reined in and swung down from his saddle, the deputy stood up and said, “Howdy, Garrity.”

  “MacDonald.” The man’s voice was cool and businesslike. He wore a buckskin shirt and a brown hat and had a close-cropped, reddish-brown beard. “I saw your signal fire earlier. You got a message for me from the boss?”

  “You bet I do. He was here a little while ago and had plenty to say.”

  Hidden in the brush, Stovepipe frowned. He was close to finding the mastermind behind all the trouble. Even though he had a pretty good idea who that was, proof would be nice.

  “You want some coffee first?” MacDonald went on.

  For a second Garrity looked like he was going to refuse, but then he shrugged and said, “Why not?”

  “Let me get another cup.”

  While MacDonald was digging in his saddlebags for a tin cup, Garrity squatted beside the fire and warmed his hands. It wasn’t a particularly cold night, but at that elevation the air had a nip to it once the sun went down, no matter what time of year it was.

  The pause gave Stovepipe time to think. Something about the name Garrity was familiar to him. He rifled through all the information he had stored in his brain and after a moment came up with a first name to go with the last one: Cort.

  Months back, in a U.S. marshal’s office over in the Dakotas where he and Wilbur had been working on a different case, Stovepipe had seen a wanted poster with Cort Garrity’s name on it, as well as a description that matched the man hunkered by the fire. Garrity was an outlaw and killer, wanted in numerous states and territories for murder, rustling, train robbery, and assorted other crimes. He had been reported to be the leader of a gang of desperadoes who were almost as bad as he was.

  In other words, just the sort of men who’d be good at stirring up trouble between a couple ranchers and playing the two cattle barons against each other.

  MacDonald came back to the fire with two cups. Using a piece of leather to protect his hand as he picked up the coffeepot, he filled both cups with the strong black brew.

  Garrity took one of them, sipped, and made a face. “It ain’t exactly good, but I suppose I’ve had worse.”

  “That’s what I told the last whore I was with.” MacDonald threw back his head and laughed more than the jest deserved.

  Stovepipe’s jaw clenched. Mere hours earlier, he had been wounded—had come within a whisker of dying, in fact—Dax Coolidge had been killed, and for all Stovepipe knew, Wilbur had been slain, too, although he hoped with all his heart that wasn’t the case. All at the hands of McDonald—the man sitting there drinking coffee and making jokes about whores.

  Stovepipe had never considered blowing a hole in a man without giving him a fair shake, but if he was ever going to, that might have been the time.

  He shoved that thought out of his head and returned his attention to what MacDonald and Garrity were saying.

  “What is it the boss wants us to do next?” Garrity asked. “Steal some cattle from the Rafter M? It’s been a while since we hit Cabot.” The outlaw chuckled. “Wouldn’t want the old bastard to feel neglected.”

  “Naw. Things are comin’ to a head, Garrity. I killed Coolidge this afternoon.”

  Garrity’s bushy red eyebrows rose in surprise. “Coolidge?” he repeated. “Why in the hell did you kill Coolidge? He’s working for the same fella we are, or at least he was.”

  MacDonald took a sip of his coffee, then said, “I don’t know what you were complainin’ about. This tastes just fine to me.”

  Garrity waved a hand. “Forget about the damn coffee and answer my question.”

  “I killed Coolidge because he’d outlived his usefulness and the boss didn’t trust him not to talk,” MacDonald answered. His jovial voice had turned cold and hard. “Besides, he’d been captured by a couple Three Rivers men. Stewart and Coleman.” The deputy frowned. “I don’t trust those two. There’s somethin’ off about ’em”—he shrugged—“but I don’t suppose I have to worry about them anymore. Not about Stewart, anyway. I killed him, too.”

  “Well, hell, it sounds like you’ve been on a butcherin’ spree. What about Coleman?”

  “I let him go.”

  A wave of relief went through Stovepipe. But it wasn’t exactly true, he thought. MacDonald had been trying to kill Wilbur, too. In the conversation he’d had with his boss, he must have made it sound like he’d let Wilbur go on purpose to excuse his failure to kill both range detectives.

  Stovepipe was so glad to hear Wilbur was still alive he had to force himself to concentrate in order to hear what MacDonald said next.

  “With Stewart dead, all hell’s likely to break loose now. When they hear about it, Malone and the Armbrister kid will fly off the handle and head for the Rafter M with the whole crew.”

  “What’s that have to do with me and my boys?” Garrity
wanted to know.

  “The boss wants you to go back to the hideout, get everybody together, and ride for the Rafter M. If you can head off the bunch from the Three Rivers, take care of them and then go on to the Rafter M and do the same there. If Malone and his men get there first, they can shoot it out with Cabot’s crew, and then you can swoop in and wipe out whoever’s left.”

  “Then this is the big cleanup,” Garrity said.

  “Damn right. The boss figures we might as well go ahead and turn this to our advantage. One way or another, he wants every man from the Three Rivers and the Rafter M dead by morning.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  A chill went through Stovepipe at the deputy’s words. Once again he thought about how he had never shot anyone from ambush . . . but if there was ever a time to do so, it was now. Chances were, he could draw his gun and kill both MacDonald and Garrity before they had a chance to fight back. Both men were cold-blooded murderers and deserved to die. With both of them dead, their boss’s orders to wipe out everyone from the Three Rivers and the Rafter M would never be delivered.

  Those were good reasons, good enough to make Stovepipe reach down to his hip and close his hand around the well-worn walnut grips of his Colt.

  Then more hoofbeats sounded close by in the night.

  MacDonald dropped his coffee cup and came quickly to his feet like a snake uncoiling. His hand flashed to his gun.

  Garrity stayed where he was and said sharply, “Take it easy. Those are just a couple of my men.”

  “What are they doin’ here?” the deputy wanted to know. “You usually come alone when I’ve got a message for you.”

  “No rule says I have to,” Garrity snapped. “I wasn’t expecting to see a signal from you tonight. Didn’t know what was going on. For all I knew, things had gone to hell and we all needed to hightail it out of these parts.” He shrugged. “So I brought a couple men with me, just in case.”

  The riders reined to a halt at the edge of the circle of light cast by the fire

  One of them asked, “Everything all right here, Cort?”

  “Yeah.” Garrity straightened and tossed what was left of his coffee into the fire, where it sizzled among the flames. “The boss has run out of patience. We’re moving in and taking over both ranches.”

  “Damn well about time,” the second outlaw said. “I never liked the whole idea of proddin’ them into wiping out each other. Too many things might go wrong with that plan. It never pays to be too fancy.”

  “Hey, it’s come mighty close to workin’,” MacDonald said in protest. “We’re just seizin’ the opportunity to speed things up a little.”

  Garrity grunted. “Whatever you say.” He headed for his horse. “Come on, boys. There’s plenty of work to do before morning.”

  Hidden in the brush, Stovepipe took his hand off his gun. The arrival of the other two outlaws had changed things. Even with surprise on his side, four against one made for steep odds. Too steep. He could kill some of them, but they would get lead in him, too.

  And if he died there, the attack on the Rafter M would go on as planned. He had to survive in order to get back to the Three Rivers, let Wilbur and the others know he was still alive, and stop them from riding into the trap.

  He stayed where he was as Cort Garrity mounted up and rode off with his two men.

  Once they were gone, MacDonald picked up the cup he had dropped, shook out the dregs from it, and refilled it. He looked very satisfied with himself as he sat there sipping the coffee. After a few minutes, he said out loud, “Reckon I can head back to town now. This was a pretty good day’s work, if I do say so myself. Won’t be long now until I’ve got more money than I’ve ever seen at one time before. I can afford to get myself a really good whore for a change!”

  Stovepipe could still hear the hoofbeats of the outlaws’ horses fading into the distance. If he made a move against MacDonald and gunplay erupted, Garrity and the others would come rushing back to see what was going on. Stovepipe knew he had to wait, although the delay gnawed at him.

  By the time MacDonald finished the coffee, Stovepipe couldn’t hear Garrity and the others anymore. They probably weren’t completely out of earshot yet, but they would be before too much longer. He bided his time while MacDonald stowed away the cups and prepared for the return trip to Wagontongue.

  Stovepipe waited until MacDonald had his hands full lifting the saddle onto the chestnut’s back before he stepped out of the brush, lined his Colt on the crooked deputy, and said, “Hold it right there, mister. Try anything funny and I’ll blow your spine in two.”

  The unmistakable menace in Stovepipe’s voice froze MacDonald right where he was. Without looking around, he said, “Who the hell—”

  “A ghost, I reckon you could say.”

  “Stewart?” MacDonald turned his head enough to see over his shoulder. “But you’re dead!”

  “Not hardly,” Stovepipe said. “Go ahead and put that saddle on your horse, but keep both hands on it.”

  MacDonald did as Stovepipe ordered.

  “Now, use your left hand and reach over to take your gun out of its holster. Make sure it’s nice and ea-sylike, or I’ll pull the trigger.”

  The deputy lowered his left arm and moved his hand toward his gun the way Stovepipe had told him. Then he paused. “I can’t reach it like this. Can’t I take my right hand off the saddle so I can turn a little more? I’ll keep my arm up.”

  “Careful,” Stovepipe warned.

  MacDonald raised his right arm and twisted his body as he reached for the gun again with his left hand.

  Suddenly he whirled around and whipped his right arm toward Stovepipe. Seeing something flicker redly in the firelight, Stovepipe jerked to the side and pulled the trigger. The Colt blasted as the knife MacDonald had thrown flew past his right ear, missing by only a couple inches. The small blade had been hidden up his sleeve.

  The bullet flew over MacDonald’s head as he had already ducked. He threw himself forward in a diving tackle aimed at Stovepipe’s legs and rammed into the range detective’s knees. Stovepipe went over backwards to crash into the brush.

  For the second time that day, Stovepipe found himself in a desperate hand-to-hand battle. MacDonald scrambled up and grabbed the wrist of Stovepipe’s gun hand. He shoved the Colt to the side while aiming a punch at Stovepipe’s face. Stovepipe turned his head to avoid the blow and threw a left that caught MacDonald on the jaw and knocked him to the side. MacDonald didn’t loosen his grip on Stovepipe’s wrist, though.

  The two men thrashed in the brush as they struggled for the upper hand. Losing so much blood earlier in the day had left Stovepipe weaker than usual, and he was still a little loopy from the head injury. MacDonald had a lot of strength packed into his wiry frame. All things being equal, the two men would have been evenly matched.

  As it was, Stovepipe was at a disadvantage, and the crooked deputy fought to seize that opportunity. MacDonald had to know his freedom and probably his very life were at stake.

  A wicked hook slammed into Stovepipe’s midsection. He gasped for breath but got his left hand locked around MacDonald’s throat. When he rolled over, MacDonald went with him and wound up on the bottom. Aware he might be running out of time, Stovepipe bore down, trying to choke the deputy into unconsciousness.

  It was possible Garrity and the other outlaws had heard that shot and were on their way back to the camp. Stovepipe needed to end the fight as quickly as he could.

  MacDonald’s knee rose and dug into Stovepipe’s stomach. The brutal blow made Stovepipe’s grip slip just enough for MacDonald to tear free. He risked letting go of Stovepipe’s gun hand and rocketed a hard right to his jaw. The slugging punch knocked Stovepipe off him.

  As Stovepipe fell to the side, MacDonald jerked his leg up and snapped it out in a kick. His boot heel caught Stovepipe on the right wrist, making the gun fly out of his hand. MacDonald swarmed after him, kicking and punching.

  Stovepipe’s injury had dulled h
is reactions, leaving him unable to block all the blows. A couple smashed into his head. Coupled with the damage the bullet graze had already done, that was too much. Stovepipe’s head spun crazily and his strength deserted him. MacDonald hit him again, and Stovepipe slumped back in a limp heap.

  He didn’t pass out entirely. He was aware of what was going on. As MacDonald took hold of his ankles and dragged him closer to the fire, something jabbed painfully into Stovepipe’s hip and brought him out of his stupor.

  The crooked deputy picked up the gun Stovepipe had dropped and stuck it behind his belt. With that done, he turned toward Stovepipe and laughed. “You’re mighty stubborn, Stewart. By all rights, you ought to be dead. What happened? That bullet just graze your skull?”

  Stovepipe summoned enough strength to push himself up on an elbow. He shook his head groggily and said, “Yeah. You came close, mister, but no see-gar.”

  “I could say the same about you. Maybe you tracked me up here, but it ain’t gonna do you any good. Everybody already thinks you’re dead, and pretty soon that’s what you’re gonna be.”

  “Reckon you’ll find a ravine to dump my carcass in, so Jerrico won’t ever know I got away the first time after all.” Stovepipe had two reasons for saying that. He was trying to slide his other hand under his hip without MacDonald noticing, so he needed to stall and distract the deputy. And if he could surprise MacDonald into confirming his theory, so much the better.

  MacDonald frowned. “So you know about the sheriff bein’ the boss. Reckon that’s no real surprise, me bein’ his deputy and all.”

  “Is everybody who wears a badge in Wagontongue really an outlaw?”

  That brought a laugh from MacDonald. “Naw. Just me and Cousin Charlie.”

  “You and Jerrico are cousins?” Stovepipe knew MacDonald was a garrulous sort and counted on that.

  “Sure. Garrity’s kin, too, although more of the shirttail sort. I ain’t sure how he’s related, exactly. We all rode together when we were kids, before Charlie decided to pin on a badge and ride the law-and-order trail.”