Blood on the Gallows

Chapter 12

Clare O’Neil told McBride that her ranch lay to the north of Deadman Canyon, where the foothills of the Capitan Mountains finally faded into lower, rolling country. To the west, the thousand-foot, volcanic cinder cone of Sunset Peak cast a cooling shadow over the ranch buildings, and the ponderosa pine on its higher slopes provided a ready supply of timber.

Most of the cone was red in color, contrasting with wide bands of black basalt. The Navajo and Hopi considered the place sacred because from a distance, the red cinders seemed to be on fire.

‘‘The Indians named the volcano Sunset Peak,’’ Clare said, turning to McBride. ‘‘They say it glows with a light all its own, like a morning sky.’’ She was talking to keep him awake, worried that if he fell from the saddle she could never get him on his horse again.

‘‘The Hopi say spirits live on the slopes and Yaponcha, the wind god, dwells in an arroyo at the base of the mountain.’’

McBride nodded, his lips pale. He was barely holding on, every step of the mustang another searing skirmish with pain. He had lost a lot of blood and his head felt like a hot air balloon threatening to drift off his shoulders.

Sammy had stubbornly refused to ride with Clare and was perched precariously on the cantle of McBride’s saddle. Every now and then he rubbed the big man’s back with his head.

‘‘Not far now,’’ the woman said, her eyes clouded with concern. ‘‘After we top the next rise we’ll see the old place. Pa will be there. He seldom leaves his ranch.’’

McBride needed to use words to stay awake. ‘‘I’m obliged to you for getting me the rifle back,’’ he said. He smiled weakly. ‘‘Fact is, I’m no great shakes with a rifle. Most times I don’t hit what I’m aiming at.’’

‘‘I’ll teach you. Most times I do hit what I’m aiming at.’’

‘‘Knew a man once, his name was Bear Miller. He was good with a rifle, real good.’’

They were riding across a high meadow ablaze with spring wildflowers, bordered by stands of gambel oak and piñon. Clouds passing over the sun sent shadows racing across the grass, and the air smelled of pine and the promise of rain.

‘‘Bear,’’ Clare said. ‘‘That was his given name?’’

‘‘Nah, folks called him that because one winter he hibernated in a hollow log with an old she grizzly.’’ A wave of pain hit McBride and he gasped, gasped again, fighting it down.

‘‘John, are you all right?’’ Clare’s face was a frightened mask of concern.

His words were hesitant, tangled up with the remembrance of hurt. ‘‘Sure, sure, I’m fine.’’

‘‘So, tell me about Bear and the grizzly. Did she let him sleep?’’ The girl reached out and steadied McBride in the saddle.

‘‘Not a wink. He said the grizz didn’t take to him being there and she fussed and fretted at him from November through April. He said come spring, he was even more tired than he’d been when he first climbed into that log.’’ McBride made the effort and managed a smile. ‘‘At least that’s what he said.’’

Clare’s laugh was a pleasant, feminine sound for a man to hear. ‘‘And where is your sleepy friend now?’’

‘‘He was hung. By a man just like Thad Harlan.’’

‘‘Oh, John, I’m so sorry.’’

‘‘Bear Miller was all right, a much better man than the one who hung him.’’

The rise was a gradual slope, covered in buffalo grass and scattered clumps of manzanita. It was an easy climb for the mustang, but McBride never made it. He was vaguely aware of falling from the saddle, of landing hard on his back and at the same time being jolted by pain.

Then darkness crowded around him and he was falling, tumbling headlong into a dark pit streaked with fire that had no beginning and no end.

John McBride woke to darkness and his eyes reached, exploring, into a violet sky ablaze with the cool, white fire of a million stars. The wind came up and touched him, but he was burning like a soul in torment and cried out in fear and the wind went away again.

A brown hand rested on his forehead for a moment; then a woman whispered words he could not understand. The neck of a skin bottle touched his lips and he drank, water from the snow-covered top of the earth, so cold it scalded his tongue, steamed like mist in his mouth.

Then he was left alone.

‘‘Got yourself in a pickle, boy, huh?’’

Bear Miller sat on a tree stump, grinning, his hands busy, peeling a lime green apple. ‘‘Tol’ the purty young gal about me, huh?’’

‘‘I told her about the grizzly in the hollow log. It made her laugh.’’

Bear nodded. ‘‘Good to hear a woman laugh. A man should hear a woman laugh now and then.’’

‘‘Am I dying, Bear?’’

‘‘Close to it, boy. That’s what comes of fighting a battle you can’t win.’’

The skin of the green apple fell, all in a piece, to the ground.

‘‘I plan on bringing down Jared Josephine and Thad Harlan. He put lead into me, Harlan did. I won’t forget that.’’

Bear cut into the apple and bladed a piece into his mouth. ‘‘You ride on, boy, like you planned in the canyon. Best you leave all this behind. Maybe you’ll meet up with Harlan another day.’’

‘‘He hung a boy, Bear, a Mexican boy. He hung him for shooting a dog.’’

‘‘Remember the El Coyote Azul? Remember that? I had fun with them purty fat ladies.’’

‘‘They cut you down from the cottonwood and washed your body, Bear. They put you in the ground clean.’’

‘‘Did they now? That was right nice of them.’’

Bear rose to his feet. ‘‘Me, I got to be going, John. Have me a fair piece to ride.’’

‘‘Help me, Bear. Help me cut Harlan down to size.’’

‘‘Can’t do that, boy. For me, them wild, hell-firing days are over.’’

‘‘I’m hot, Bear. I’m burning up. Help me.’’

‘‘Listen to me, John. Harlan is bad, Josephine is badder, but there’s another, worse than either of them. A woman. She’ll drag you down, boy. She’ll try to destroy you.’’

‘‘Is it Clare? Bear, tell me! Is it Clare?’’

The old man grinned, slowly fading away until he became one with the darkness and the darkness one with him. Where he had stood, there were only stars.

‘‘Is it Clare?’’ McBride called out.

The wind mocked him, whispering the girl’s name like a pining lover.

Daylight and the sound of rain filtered into McBride’s consciousness. He felt drowsy, at ease, but ravenously hungry. He opened his eyes and at first thought he was staring at a black sky. But as his vision adjusted, he realized it was the roof of a cave. He got up on one elbow and glanced around him.

He was lying on a blanket, covered by another, and two more were spread on the cave’s sandy floor. A small, smoky fire burned near the entrance, a clay pot bubbling on the coals. His rifle and Colt lay close to him and his clothes were neatly folded next to them, his plug hat sitting on top. Heavy rain slanted across the cave mouth and he heard a distant rumble of thunder.

McBride’s head sank back to the ground. Where was he? And why was he here?

He’d once seen a child in New York putting together one of Mr. Milton Bradley’s newfangled jigsaw puzzles, and now he used the same approach to piece together the events of the last . . . how long? He had no idea. He didn’t know if he’d been delirious and completely out of his mind for a day, a week or . . .

Then he remembered that he had Thad Harlan’s lead in him.

McBride threw back the blanket, saw that he was naked and quickly covered up again. This time he lifted the corner of the blanket and examined his side. There were two wounds, angry, puckered scars where the bullet had entered from the rear and exited between the loop of his suspenders where they buttoned to his pants. The entry wound was shallow and had just skinned his side, but the exiting bullet had caused more serious damage, though it seemed that no vital organs had been hit.

The wounds were red and raw, but they were clean and it looked like a considerable amount of healing had taken place. McBride groaned. He could have been out for a long time.

Where was Clare? She had obviously tended to his wounds and must be close.

He sat up and looked around the cave again. Now he saw that the blankets were woven in an intricate Indian pattern, and a battered Henry rifle, its stock decorated with brass tacks, stood in a corner. Even the cooking pot on the fire was adorned with a primitive scroll design.

A sudden fear spiked at McBride’s belly. He and Clare had been captured by bloodthirsty savages!