Blood on the Gallows

Chapter 10

John McBride returned to the cabin, the calico kitten running to greet him like a long-lost friend. The big man smiled. ‘‘Let’s get a fire going, Sammy. It’s going to be a long night.’’

The light was fading, shading into a deep purple gloom. Shadows crept along the canyon wall and pooled like black ink in every rocky crevice and ridge.

McBride’s mustang had sought shelter from the rain under the branches of the cottonwood but continued to graze on the sweet grass around the base of the tree.

Campfires were a challenge to McBride. In the dime novels he’d read back in New York, a stalwart frontiersmen like Wild Bill Hickok or Billy the Kid could have a ‘‘large and cheery blaze burning in a rude prairie hearth ere the blushing maiden at his side had time to sigh.’’

McBride’s experience with maidens, blushing or otherwise, was limited, but his experience with campfires was not. In the past most of his attempts to start a blaze ended in abject failure. He’d wind up surrounded by spent matches, tasting the dry ashes of yet another defeat.

But to his joy, the pack rat’s nest caught fire easily and burned hot. He quickly fed sticks into the blaze and soon had a good enough fire going to attract the kitten that sat and blinked like an owl into the flames.

It was now full dark, but the fire spread a fluttering crimson glow around the corner of the cabin and cast Sammy’s long shadow on the dirt floor. The slicker spread on the rafters kept out most of the pelting rain, apart from a few random drops that fell, sizzling, into the flames.

McBride boiled up coffee, poured in the sugar and let it boil some more. He ate tortillas and jerked beef, then drank sweet, scalding hot coffee straight from the pot. He stared into the fire, considering his alternatives.

Harlan and whoever was with him would not return to the canyon until first light. He would have to be gone by then. A few hours of sleep and then he’d saddle up and head . . . where?

McBride thought that through, and made his decision. He would ride north, back in the direction of town. It was the last thing Harlan would expect. The man must figure McBride’s only option was to head through the canyon for the open, long-riding country to the east. But in darkness and teeming rain he could pass within yards of the marshal and his posse and go unnoticed.

Once free of the canyon and Harlan he would stop somewhere and again consider his choices. Though right now, apart from a vague idea of exposing Jared Josephine as a murderer, they were mighty limited.

In the meantime, riding north was an excellent plan and McBride liked it. He drank the last of his coffee and stretched out by the fire. A couple of hours of sleep; then he’d saddle the mustang and leave Deadman Canyon behind him forever.

The kitten woke McBride, pushing its furry forehead against his own. The big man opened his eyes, trying to recall where he was for a few confused moments.

Then he remembered, daylight fully wakening him.

Daylight!

McBride jumped to his feet, alarm hammering at him. He had overslept and the sun was already rising. The fire had died out long ago and above his head the slicker bulged, heavy with rainwater. He stepped quickly to the door of the cabin. The mustang had wandered from the cottonwood and was grazing a distance away, almost lost in a mist that clung around him like smoke. Jays quarreled in the tree branches, sending down showers of water, and the stream tumbled over the rocks, making a music that was all its own.

There was no sign of Thad Harlan or his men.

Panicked now, McBride tugged down his slicker, getting soaked in the process, then saddled his horse. The mustang balked, reluctant to leave a place where there was good grass and water, but McBride shoved Sammy into his buttoned slicker and dragged the little horse toward the entrance of the arroyo.

Had he left it too late?

The mist may have slowed Harlan some, but he wasn’t betting on it.

Death’s warning whispered thin in McBride’s ears, preparing him for the worst, as he stopped at the entrance to the arroyo and his long-reaching eyes searched the canyon.

Five men, looking like ghost horsemen in the writhing mist, stood their mounts not a hundred yards away. Above them there was no sky, just a thick, rolling cloud of haze that seemed to rise forever, tinged pink by the invisible morning sun.

McBride led the mustang back to the cottonwood, then quickly returned to the mouth of the arroyo.

Thad Harlan was talking, pointing farther along the canyon. Beside him, the white of his bandaged face visible in the murk, was Lance Josephine.

Finally, his talking done, Harlan kneed his horse forward, followed by Josephine and two other men. The remaining rider sat his horse for a few moments, then swung directly toward McBride.

Harlan was searching the arroyos!

Easing back, McBride led the mustang back to the cabin and let Sammy loose. He ran back into the entrance and found the two rocks he’d picked up and then dropped the night before.

The rider had drawn rein and now he slid his rifle out of the scabbard. Then he kneed his mount forward again.

McBride took one rock in each fist and faded back toward the bend in the arroyo, his heart banging in his chest. He considered trying to climb to the top of the ravine, but immediately dismissed the idea. The walls were too steep and muddy and he’d never make it. If Harlan’s gunman caught him when he was halfway up he could nail him to the slope with lead.

The rider would have to turn the bend, riding through mist, and that was the obvious ambush point. McBride stepped quickly to the other side of the turn and hefted the rock in his right hand. One throw and he’d be done. If he missed, he was a dead man.

McBride had played a little baseball for the NYPD’s detectives’ team and had been considered a pretty fair pitcher. He loosened up his right shoulder and waited.

A few tense seconds slipped past. McBride heard the steady fall of a horse’s hooves coming up the arroyo. He took a deep breath, the rock sweaty in his right hand. A frail wind touched his face and rustled restlessly in the cottonwood. The air smelled of mud and last night’s rain, and mist clung close to him like a clammy shroud.

The hoofbeats were much closer now. . . .

Every nerve and muscle in McBride’s body tightened and his heart thumped hard against his ribs. He touched a dry tongue to drier lips, suddenly wanting this to be over.

Soon ...

A horse’s head appeared, blaze-faced, wearing an ornate silver bridle. Then its neck . . . and then a rider, a fat man, sitting well back in the saddle.

McBride and the rider saw each other at the same instant. As McBride threw the rock, the fat man was frantically trying to bring up his rifle. The rock, heavy granite flecked with volcanic iron, crashed with tremendous force into the rider’s left cheekbone. The man threw up his arms and tumbled off his horse without a sound. He fell heavily on his back and his mount trotted past McBride, its reins trailing.

Quickly McBride stepped close to the fallen man, picked up the bloody rock and looked down at him. His cheekbone was smashed, that much was obvious. But the man was still conscious, his spiking gaze on McBride’s face filled with pain and anger. He was very fat and his eyes were dark brown, rare in a gunman. Creases at the corners of his mouth suggested a man who liked to laugh and did so often. He looked jolly and hearty, a fellow to drink with.

McBride was horrified. He knew he would have to kill this man to silence him.

That fear was realized when the fat man reached down for his holstered revolver and his mouth opened. He was going to shout for help! McBride swiftly dropped to a knee and smashed the rock into the gunman’s head. Then again and again, crushing blows that turned the man’s skull into a splintered pulp and scattered his blood and brains.

An acidic sickness surging into his throat, McBride stood and stared down at the faceless thing that had once been a man. He let the rock drop from his bloodstained hand and lurched against the arroyo wall where he bent over, retching.

But he could ill afford the luxury of regretting the death of a man he did not know. Nor could he grieve over his moment of insane, brutal violence. He pushed himself upright and wiped the back of his hand across his mouth. Quickly he stripped the dead man of his Colt, shoved it in his waistband, then picked up the Winchester.

Without looking at the man again, McBride ran back to the cabin. He found Sammy jumping at butterflies in a patch of yellow wildflowers, shoved the protesting kitten into his slicker, then slid the rifle into his saddle scabbard.

He climbed into the leather and made his way along the arroyo. The mist was thinning but when McBride glanced at the sky it was like looking at a blue sea through smoked glass. When he was twenty yards from the entrance of the arroyo he reined up the mustang.

The savage way he’d been forced to kill Harlan’s rider weighed heavy on him, affecting him deeply. He was not a man much given to melancholy, but he gloomily told himself that perhaps the price to bring down Jared Josephine and Thad Harlan might be more than he was willing to pay. If he had any powers left as a police officer, and that was doubtful, his jurisdiction ended at the city limits of New York. The town of Rest and Be Thankful, nest of outlaws though it was, was none of his concern.

Besides, he had to stay alive to ensure that his young Chinese wards could continue their education. Their welfare had to be his first concern.

Sick at heart, disgusted with himself and at the mess he’d made of things, McBride made up his mind. He would leave Deadman Canyon and ride far, ride until the new day’s bright young sun turned old and died into darkness, then ride some more.

He nodded. Yes, that was how it was going to be.

McBride slid the Winchester from the boot and readied himself. He kicked the mustang into motion and left the arroyo at a dead run.

Thad Harlan, Lance Josephine and the other two riders were waiting for him.