Hang Them Slowly

by William W. Johnstone

  “People get away with doing awful things all the time. You think there’s some rule saying only people who stay on the straight and narrow ever get rewarded?” Jerrico laughed. “You’re young and ignorant, girl. Too bad you won’t have a chance to learn more. I would’ve enjoyed teaching you.” He started to turn away.

  Desperately, Rosaleen said, “You’ve forgotten about Aunt Sinead and Asa. They know what you did.”

  He looked back over his shoulder at her. “Neither of them will talk . . . ever again.”

  As the horrible implication of his statement soaked in on her, Rosaleen backed up until her knees hit the bunk. She sat down, put her face in her hands, and began to sob. She barely noticed when Jerrico went out and slammed the cell block door closed behind him.

  * * *

  Stovepipe asked Cabot if he could switch his saddle to a fresh horse, and the ranch owner agreed.

  “I’m obliged to you,” Stovepipe said. “This ol’ paint o’ mine has had a long, hard day.”

  “You look like you have, too,” Cabot said. “Is that dried blood all over your face?”

  “Yeah. Got a bullet graze on my head. Good thing my skull’s hard as a rock.”

  “So you get shot in the head and just keep going?”

  “Hell of a thing, ain’t it?” Stovepipe said with a grin.

  By the time he had his saddle on a fresh mount, the Rafter M crew was ready to ride. Cabot had gone back into the house and returned fully dressed and carrying his rifle.

  One of his men—Stovepipe figured it was the foreman—said, “There’s no need for you to come along, boss. We’ll see if there’s any truth to what this hombre told you.”

  “The hell there’s no need!” Cabot said. “If Stewart’s right, those buzzards have been plotting against me, too. I’ll be in on the finish. I never ducked a fight, and I’ll be damned if I’ll start now!”

  Stovepipe said, “That sounds just like somethin’ Keenan Malone would say.”

  “Don’t compare—Ah, the hell with it! Let’s go.”

  Counting Stovepipe, nineteen men swung up into their saddles and galloped away from the Rafter M. Based on Stovepipe’s earlier estimate, the outlaws would outnumber them, but not by much. If they could take Garrity’s gang by surprise, the battle would be close enough to call it even.

  Since Cabot and his men knew that range so well, they were able to travel at a faster pace than Stovepipe had while he was looking for the ranch headquarters. He hoped they would get back to Tomahawk Gap before the outlaws wiped out the men who had taken cover in the trees.

  He could only pray that Wilbur was among the defenders, and not one of the men who had been cut down in the opening volley of the ambush.

  From time to time, Cabot called a halt to listen, and when they finally heard the sound of gunfire in the distance, the cattleman said to Stovepipe, “Well, you were telling the truth about some sort of fight going on, anyway. Still don’t know for sure who’s mixed up in it, though.”

  “You’ll see I’m right when we get there,” Stovepipe told him. “Right now, I’m just mighty glad to hear those guns goin’ off. That means the fight ain’t over yet.”

  “Let’s don’t waste any more time.” Cabot sent his horse lunging ahead through the darkness.

  Stovepipe knew it wasn’t very likely the outlaws would hear the hoofbeats of the approaching riders over all the gun-thunder, but it was possible, so they needed to be careful. When he figured they were within half a mile of the gap, he told Cabot, “We’d better go the rest of the way on foot.”

  “You’re right.” Cabot signaled for a halt.

  The Rafter M cowboys dismounted and shucked their rifles from saddle boots.

  Cabot said to Stovepipe, “They’re on the ridges on both sides of the gap?”

  “They were when I headed for your spread,” the range detective replied.

  “We’ll split up, then. Richards, you take eight of the boys and sneak up on the ridge to the north. The rest of us will take the south side.”

  The Rafter M foreman said, “I don’t much cotton to skulkin’ around like an Injun, boss.”

  “Neither do I, but we’ve got to take those owlhoots by surprise if we’re gonna have a chance to beat them.”

  From the sound of that, Cabot had accepted his story, Stovepipe thought. That was good. They didn’t need any hesitation. Such a delay at the wrong moment could prove fatal to their plans.

  “Wait until you hear my signal to throw down on them,” Cabot continued. “I’ll fire three shots as fast as I can. You move in then.”

  “Do we give ’em a chance to surrender?”

  Cabot sighed. “I suppose you’d better . . . but not much of one.”

  Richards picked the men to go with him.

  Stovepipe said to Cabot, “I reckon I’ll go with you and your bunch.”

  “Damn right you are. If this is a trick of some sort, you’ll be getting a bullet before anybody else, Stewart.”

  “Reckon I’ll take that chance. You’ll see I was tellin’ the truth.”

  The men tied their horses to some brush and set off into the night, carrying their rifles as they trotted through the darkness. The two groups angled away from each other when they approached the gap. Stovepipe and Cabot led his men up the ridge on the southern side and catfooted toward the rim overlooking Tomahawk Gap.

  Stovepipe put out a hand and touched the cattleman’s arm. “Horses up ahead,” he whispered.

  “I see ’em. Did they leave a man to watch them?”

  Stovepipe’s keen eyes searched the darkness and spotted a tiny orange glow that flared up and then died down again.

  “Yeah, there’s a man smokin’ a quirly up there. I’ll take care of him.”

  “Better be quiet about it,” Cabot said. “If you raise a ruckus, it’ll warn the rest of them and we’ll lose what little advantage we have.”

  “I know.” Stovepipe handed his rifle to Cabot. It would be close work.

  He drew his Colt from its holster as he slipped up behind the outlaw guarding the gang’s horses. The man was leaning against the trunk of a small tree as he smoked. Stovepipe moved with all the stealth he was capable of, and when he was close enough, he reversed the gun in his hand, lifted it, and struck swiftly, bringing the butt down on the man’s head with a solid thud.

  The outlaw’s hat might have cushioned the blow a little, but not enough to keep him from being knocked senseless. His knees buckled, dropping him to the ground. Stovepipe leaned over and walloped him again, just for good measure. Then he tied the man’s hands behind him with his own belt and stuffed his bandanna in his mouth as a gag.

  Returning quickly to Cabot’s side, Stovepipe took his rifle back from the rancher and told him, “The way ahead is clear now, as far as I can see.”

  “How far is it to where those owlhoots are dug in?”

  “Maybe fifty yards.”

  Cabot nodded. “All right. Let’s get a little closer, and then I’ll give the signal.”

  “Hold on a second. You believe me now, don’t you?”

  “Everything you said about what’s going on here looks to be true. I’m giving you the benefit of the doubt, Stewart, even though it’s hard for me to trust anybody who rides for the Three Rivers. What you said about the CPA and Riley Wheelock carries a lot of weight, though. I don’t see how you could have known about his boy unless you’re really who you say you are. And I can’t bring myself to believe that anybody who works for the CPA is crooked.”

  “I’m obliged to you for believin’ me, then. Before the night is over, I’ll show you and Malone the proof that Jerrico’s been playin’ you for fools.”

  “If he has, he’s going to be damned sorry,” Cabot said in a grim, flint-hard voice. “Let’s clean up this rat’s nest.”

  With the Rafter M punchers right behind them, Stovepipe and Cabot crept closer to the rim. The shots from up ahead continued as the outlaws poured lead into the grove of trees. The defenders
down there didn’t know it, but help was at hand, finally.

  Cabot paused and looked over at Stovepipe, who nodded in the moonlight. Cabot drew his pistol, pointed it into the air, and fired three shots as fast as he could pull the double-action revolver’s trigger. Even with all the other gunfire going on, the signal was unmistakable.

  While the echoes of the three shots were still booming, Stovepipe rushed forward with his Winchester and shouted, “Throw down your guns! It’s over, Garrity!”

  He didn’t know if the outlaw leader was on this ridge or the one on the other side of the gap, but he didn’t figure it mattered. None of the desperadoes was likely to surrender, anyway.

  Shouts of alarm and curses came from the men kneeling behind rocks along the rim. They whirled around as Stovepipe shouted again, “Elevate! Throw down your guns!”

  Orange bursts of muzzle flame split the darkness, and the fight was on.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  Stovepipe snapped his Winchester to his shoulder and opened fire, swinging the barrel from left to right and spraying bullets at the outlaws along the rim. After cranking off five rounds as fast as he could work the rifle’s lever, he slowed down and started aiming at the muzzle flashes he saw ahead of him.

  Slugs whipped past his ears, close enough he could hear them sizzling through the air. He dropped to one knee and felt another bullet stir the thick, gray-streaked hair on his head. All around him, Cabot and the other Rafter M men were firing, as well. The night was a hellish blend of flame and racket.

  As Stovepipe’s Winchester ran dry, he dropped the rifle and pulled his Colt. Across the way, orange flashes erupted all over the ridge as Cabot’s men on that side of the gap attacked the outlaws over there.

  * * *

  Down in the trees, two of the defenders had been killed and several more were wounded by the almost continual barrage from the ridges. Wilbur figured it was only a matter of time before the bullets flying around found him or Vance . . . or both of them.

  The sound of slugs whipping through the branches or smacking into tree trunks was almost constant. After a while the brain grew numb to the never-ending danger. Wilbur forced himself to stay behind cover the best he could. A part of him wanted to charge toward one of the ridges, shouting out his defiance as he emptied his gun at the enemy.

  At least that would get the ordeal over with in a hurry.

  In the past, whenever things had gotten bad, he’d had Stovepipe to keep him steady and on an even keel. His anger over Stovepipe’s death fueled his rage and made him even more irrational.

  “I’m going up there,” he told Vance as he paused in his firing to reload yet again. His voice was an angry growl.

  “What are you talking about?” Vance asked. “At least we’ve got a chance here, Wilbur. If you step out of these trees, you’ll be riddled with lead before you get ten feet.”

  “I’m not sure I give a damn anymore—” He stopped short as the gunfire from the ridges took on a new tone.

  There was a lot more of it, for one thing, almost as if the number of bushwhackers had suddenly doubled . . . but the bullets weren’t zipping through the trees anymore. After living with that sound for what seemed like days, even though actually it had only been about an hour, the sudden lack of those deadly whispers was dramatic.

  “What’s going on?” Vance said into the relative silence. “They’re not shooting at us anymore.”

  “Sounds like they’re not,” Wilbur agreed in amazement, “but they’re sure as hell shooting at somebody.”

  Only one explanation made any sense. Another force had arrived out of nowhere and was attacking the bushwhackers. Who those reinforcements were—and the very identity of those who’d ambushed the Three Rivers men—were still mysteries, but as far as Wilbur could see, the men from the Three Rivers had gotten a reprieve somehow.

  * * *

  Stovepipe surged to his feet and darted forward, gun in hand. Two outlaws stood up to his left and blazed away at him. Close enough to pick his targets, he twisted in their direction and hammered a pair of shots at them. One man went over backwards, driven off his feet by the impact of a slug smashing into his chest, while the other doubled over as Stovepipe’s second bullet plowed into his gut.

  The injury, the weariness from loss of blood, and the long day of rushing around on the range were all forgotten in the heat of battle. Stovepipe swung the Colt toward another outlaw who charged at him. The flames that spouted from both weapons almost touched. Stovepipe felt the hot kiss of the enemy’s bullet as it barely scraped the side of his neck.

  The outlaw’s head jerked back as Stovepipe’s bullet caught him between the eyes and bored on through his brain to explode out the back of his skull. Already dead, he stumbled and pitched forward, causing Stovepipe to leap out of his way.

  He had three bullets remaining, counting the one he had slipped into the Colt’s sixth chamber before the fighting started. Usually, he left that empty so the hammer could rest on it. Three bullets remaining, he thought, before he would have to reload. In the middle of this melee, he might not have a chance to do that.

  Suddenly, a man dashed past him. Stovepipe barely caught a glimpse of the fleeing outlaw’s face, but he saw enough to recognize the man as Cort Garrity. The gang leader was abandoning his men and trying to get away.

  Since it was Garrity who had led Jerrico and MacDonald to cross back over to the lawless side of the street, Stovepipe didn’t intend to allow the man to escape. He wheeled around and ran after the outlaw.

  Cabot hadn’t left anyone to guard the outlaws’ horses. He’d needed all of his men to battle the ambushers. If Garrity reached the animals, he could vault into a saddle and gallop away before anyone could stop him . . . unless Stovepipe prevented that, since he seemed to be the only one who’d seen Garrity making a break for it.

  Stovepipe heard the horses moving around in front of him, no doubt spooked by all the gunfire crashing nearby. He spotted Garrity, who hadn’t quite reached the horses, and shouted, “Hold it, mister!”

  Garrity spun around. The gun in his hand blared death. Stovepipe weaved to the side as a bullet whined past his head. He thrust out his Colt and triggered twice, aiming just above Garrity’s muzzle flash. Garrity grunted and stumbled back a step. The bullets hadn’t knocked all the fight out of him. His gun blasted again. The slug plucked at Stovepipe’s sleeve. Stovepipe fired his final shot.

  Garrity went up on his toes. His finger closed spasmodically around the trigger, but the gun was pointed at the ground and the shot went harmlessly into the dirt. Garrity tottered forward and gasped. “Who . . . who . . .”

  “Stovepipe Stewart,” the range detective said.

  “MacDonald said . . . you were dead!”

  “Not hardly.”

  Those words were the last thing Cort Garrity heard. He folded up on himself, crumpling to the ground, and his final breath rattled in his throat. Stovepipe heard that and knew the threat from the boss outlaw was over, but that didn’t mean he and his allies were out of the woods. Shots still blasted along both ridges, although the fighting seemed to be trailing off. Stovepipe plucked fresh cartridges from the loops on his shell belt and thumbed them into the Colt’s cylinder before he turned back toward the rim.

  It was time for him to find out if his friend and partner was still alive.

  * * *

  The storm of gunfire continued on both ridges for several minutes and then began to fade away. Scattered shots still boomed here and there, but Wilbur could tell by the sound of them one side or the other had emerged victorious and was engaged in mopping up.

  “Pass the word for everybody to be ready,” he told Vance. “We don’t know who won up there or which side they’re on.”

  Finally, an odd hushed silence hung over Tomahawk Gap. That silence was broken after a few minutes by the clip-clop of hoofbeats approaching the trees.

  “Howdy in there!” a man sang out. “Hold your fire! We’re friends!”

 
; Wilbur’s breath froze in his throat. He felt like he’d just been punched in the gut. His heart began to slug heavily in his chest. Unable to hold back, he burst out of the trees and shouted, “Stovepipe! Stovepipe, over here!”

  Half a dozen men on horseback rode quickly toward the trees. The one in the lead, a tall, lanky figure, swung down from his saddle before his mount even stopped moving. He threw his arms around Wilbur and started pounding the stocky redhead on the back.

  Wilbur returned the rough greeting. “Damn it, I thought you were dead!”

  “Figured you must have thought that,” Stovepipe told him. “If I’d seen me floppin’ around on that horse o’ mine, out cold and covered in blood, I reckon I’d have figured I was dead, too!”

  Wilbur took a sudden step back and gripped his friend’s arms. “Good Lord, Stovepipe!” he said in a horrified voice. “I deserted you! You were alive and I left you to die!”

  “Not a bit of it,” Stovepipe insisted. “You didn’t have any reason in the world to believe I was alive. Not only that, but you had to get back to the Three Rivers to tell ’em what happened. If you think I’m holdin’ any sort of grudge against you, you’re just plumb wrong.”

  “That’s because you’re the best friend an hombre could ever have.”

  Stovepipe grinned. “Well, I ain’t denyin’ that.”

  Vance stepped up and thrust out his hand. “Stovepipe, I can’t tell you how happy I am you’re still alive.”

  “I’m a mite pleased with that turn of events my own self,” Stovepipe said as he clasped the young man’s hand. “Where’s Mr. Malone?”

  “Back in the trees,” Wilbur said as he nodded in that direction. “He’s wounded. We don’t know how bad he’s hurt, but he’s alive. At least he was the last time anybody checked on him.”

  “We’ll get him to the ranch. There’s a lot to tell you . . . and the job ain’t over yet, neither.”

  One of the men who had ridden up with Stovepipe nudged his horse forward. “Now that you’re finished with this reunion, Stewart, hadn’t we better do something about the man behind all this trouble?”