Blood on the Gallows

Chapter 22

McBride stood at the door to the livery stable as Remorse and Jed Whipple dickered inside. He could not shake the feeling of being watched and his hand was never far from the gun in his waistband.

The early afternoon sun lay heavy as an anvil on the street, and the air was still and thick, the heat oppressive. To the north the Capitan Mountains looked like a low, lilac cloud, half-hidden behind a shimmering haze that made the brush flats dance. A skinny, tan dog nosed around a clump of yellow groundsel growing out from under the boardwalk across the street and Sammy wedged himself between McBride’s feet and watched it, growling softly.

After a couple of minutes, McBride walked away from the barn and stepped into the street. There! He saw it, a curtain twitching shut on the second floor of the Kip and Kettle Hotel.

It had to be Dora, a lady he planned to have a serious talk with later. Was Clare with her? If what Remorse had implied was correct, then she was bound to be.

But what could he do to Clare? It was his word against hers that she’d tried to kill him. Even if he managed to get Harlan to arrest her, and that was highly unlikely, no jury you could assemble in Rest and Be Thankful would convict her. She need only dab her eyes with a scrap of lace handkerchief and say that John McBride attacked her and she’d shot him to defend her virtue.

The most likely outcome to a trial would be a rope around his own neck.

Maybe Remorse would come up with a plan to punish the guilty. But the reverend’s solution would likely be to gun down everybody in town, like an avenging angel sent to smite the wicked. There had to be another way.

McBride recalled the plan he’d made the day he first met Dora Ryan. It wasn’t perfect and might address only part of his problem, but maybe the time to put it into effect was now—

McBride’s train of thought was interrupted by Remorse calling him from the door of the livery stable. He stepped beside the reverend, who was scowling. ‘‘John, do I have scorch marks on me?’’

‘‘Not that I can see.’’

‘‘Well, I should,’’ Remorse said, clearly irritated. ‘‘That old man burned me on the horses and guns. I got less than half of what they’re worth.’’

Whipple cackled from the doorway, then yelled, ‘‘Hey, Reverend, remember that he is richest who is content with the least, for contentment is the wealth of nature.’’

McBride grinned. ‘‘Did you read that in the Bible, Jed?’’

‘‘Nah, I read it in a book on the philosophy of Socrates.’’

Not for the first time, McBride was amazed by the learning that even the unlikeliest of some western men possessed. But Remorse seemed unimpressed and continued to fume.

‘‘We’ve got company,’’ McBride said, nodding in the direction of the street.

Thad Harlan, riding the Appaloosa he’d taken from the man Clare had shot, swung toward the livery and stopped a few feet from Remorse.

Still smarting at getting bested by Whipple, Remorse snapped, ‘‘Did you bring my money?’’

Harlan shook his head. ‘‘You’ll get that from Mr. Josephine. He’s at his bank right now and wants to talk to you both.’’

‘‘What about?’’ McBride asked.

‘‘How should I know? He doesn’t confide in me.’’

‘‘That, I doubt,’’ Remorse said. His eyes pinned Harlan to the blue sky behind him. ‘‘Where is this bank?’’

‘‘It’s the Lincoln County Bank and Trust, on the corner past John Sewell’s Hardware Store. You can’t miss it.’’

‘‘Go tell your boss we’ll be there,’’ McBride said.

But Harlan sat his horse, and a sneer twisted his lips. ‘‘How does it feel, McBride, to hide behind another man’s gun?’’

‘‘He says it feels just fine,’’ Remorse said quickly. ‘‘Now toddle along, Thad, and do as you were told.’’

The marshal ignored Remorse and said to McBride, ‘‘One way or another there will be a reckoning between us. There are too many things left undone, half finished. Right now everything is topsy-turvy.’’

‘‘How do we finish it?’’ McBride asked.

‘‘When you dance at the end of a rope, McBride. Then it will be finished.’’

McBride smiled. ‘‘Tell me something, Harlan—why do you hate me so much?’’

‘‘Because you disobeyed me. When you first came to this town I told you to ride in, ride out and say nothing. You ignored that advice and all you’ve done is cause trouble. After I hang you, we can all get back to normal.’’

‘‘You’re forgetting something,’’ Remorse said.

‘‘That getting back to normal business—you won’t be around to see it. I plan on killing you before I ride on, Thad. You are beyond saving.’’

‘‘Then say your prayers, white-haired preacher man, because it ain’t going to happen the way you think.’’

‘‘You can’t shade me, Thad. You know that.’’

‘‘Could be I can, and you know why?’’

‘‘Tell me.’’

‘‘Because I got hell on my side,’’ Harlan said.

He swung his horse away and rode slowly up the street. Crows lining the peaked canvas roof of the Lone Star Dance Hall squawked and quarreled as Harlan drew near, then fell silent, their heads turning, glittering black eyes watching him as he passed.

McBride saw it and felt a chill he could not explain.

A smiling clerk lifted a hinged panel at the end of the bank counter and ushered McBride and Remorse to Jared Josephine’s office. The clerk scratched on the door and a man’s voice boomed, ‘‘Come in!’’

The clerk opened the door and McBride and Remorse stepped inside. The door shut silently behind them.

Josephine sat behind a huge mahogany desk and his son Lance stood at his side. McBride saw with some satisfaction that the younger man’s nose had set crookedly on his face, spoiling his good looks.

For his part, Lance stared at McBride with eyes that glowed with hatred and the naked desire to kill.

Jared rose and walked around his desk, beaming, his hand extended. ‘‘Welcome, gentlemen, welcome.’’

Remorse accepted Jared’s hand and shook it briefly, but McBride suddenly found something of great interest on the toes of his dusty boots. He was aware of Josephine dropping his hand and sensed rather than saw the scowl on the man’s face.

Josephine’s affability returned quickly and he said, ‘‘Lance, quickly, chairs for the gentlemen.’’

Sullenly, Lance placed two straight-backed chairs in front of the desk and his father bade McBride and Remorse to be seated. After the men sat, Jared resumed the comfort of the red leather, brass-studded chair behind his desk. His eyes moved to Remorse.

‘‘Reverend, your reputation proceeds you, sir, a man of the cloth who uses his gun to right wrongs wherever they occur in the western lands. Very commendable, sir, very commendable indeed.’’

Josephine’s eyes were flat, the color of lead.

‘‘And you, Mr. McBride, what are you? Another doughty champion of the poor and oppressed?’’

‘‘I was passing through until you decided to hang me,’’ McBride answered. ‘‘Then your son and your town marshal tried to kill me, and very nearly succeeded. Putting it in terms you’ll understand, I’d say I’m looking to get even.’’

‘‘Pshaw! Let bygones be bygones, forgive and forget, I say.’’ Josephine waved a dismissive hand. ‘‘Mr. McBride, life is too short to harbor a grudge. We must move on. Yes, onward and upward, that’s the ticket.’’

He reached into his desk drawer, an action that brought Remorse upright in his chair, his eyes wary. But Josephine produced only a long envelope. ‘‘Sixteen hundred dollars, the bounty on three wanted and desperate men. Thank goodness they had left Rest and Be Thankful and were no longer my responsibility. Your actions were justified, gentlemen, no doubt about that.’’ He handed the envelope to his son. ‘‘Lance, give that to the reverend.’’

Remorse put the envelope in his shirt pocket without looking at the contents and said, ‘‘Josephine, why did you ask us to come here?’’ There was no friendliness in his voice. ‘‘You could have given the money to Harlan. Unless you think you can talk us into a bank loan.’’

Josephine smiled and glanced up at Lance. ‘‘The reverend has an excellent sense of humor, has he not?’’

Lance said nothing, his eyes unwavering on McBride. The man’s hate was a palpable, malignant presence in the room.

‘‘Ah well,’’ Jared said, his angled gaze scorching,

‘‘it seems my son is a little out of sorts today.’’ He looked at Remorse again and managed a smile. ‘‘As to your question, Reverend: why did I ask you here? First let me first say this: on the face of it, for a man of your . . . ah . . . inclinations, you think there is much work to be done in Rest and Be Thankful. After all, this is basically an outlaw town.’’

Remorse nodded. ‘‘Your assessment is correct.’’

Jared Josephine was short, stocky, his gray hair thick and cropped short like an iron helmet. His face looked as if it had been roughly hewn from granite with a butter knife and his eyes were without light. It was the face of a man who did not believe in negotiation, but would rely only on the application of raw brute force. And it was the face of a man who had so much wealth and power he believed he would never die.

‘‘Reverend,’’ Josephine said, ‘‘being a man of the cloth, you will understand what I’m about to say. Rest and Be Thankful, as the name implies, is a haven, a sanctuary, for outlaws of every stripe. They come here from all over the West to recover from their unlawful exertions, lick their wounds—’’

‘‘And spend their money,’’ Remorse said.

‘‘Exactly.’’ Josephine smiled. ‘‘They give a large percentage of their ill-gotten gains to me, one way or another. Reverend, this town is booming.’’

‘‘Why are you telling me this, Josephine?’’ Remorse asked.

‘‘Because I wish you to refrain from . . . ah . . .’’

‘‘Smiting?’’

‘‘Excellent word! Yes, refrain from smiting wrong-doers while they are within the town limits. Once they leave’’—Josephine shrugged—‘‘well, do as you please.’’

‘‘And in return?’’

‘‘You and McBride go on my payroll. The outlaws in this town expect protection from lawmen, bounty hunters and others who would do them harm. So far, my son’s fast gun and Marshal Harlan’s rope have done just that. But I need a couple more revolver-savvy men to ensure that the peace around here is maintained, especially since a new venture I’m working on will come to fruition soon and I’ll require additional guns.’’

Josephine waited for a reply and when none was forthcoming, he said, ‘‘Here’s my proposition: one hundred and twenty dollars a month and every time I ask you to kill a man you get a fifty-dollar bonus. Come now, gentlemen, I can’t say fairer than that.’’

Remorse turned to McBride. ‘‘John?’’

The big man rose to his feet. ‘‘Josephine, I’m willing to let bygones be bygones.’’

‘‘That’s first-rate,’’ Josephine said, beaming. ‘‘Mc-Bride, you’re true-blue.’’

‘‘And this is what I want in return,’’ McBride said, as though he hadn’t heard.

‘‘Anything within reason. Go ahead, young man.’’

‘‘I want you and your son out of this town within five days. You can take with you one rifle and what you can carry on a single pack mule.’’

Josephine looked baffled, unable to believe what he was hearing, and Remorse’s delighted laugh did not help his state of mind. Beside him, his son stiffened, his eyes blazing.

‘‘Are you . . .’’ Josephine almost choked on his words and had to start again. ‘‘Are you threatening me?’’

‘‘I’m doing exactly that.’’

‘‘Why, you piece of worthless trash, I chew up low-lifes like you and spit them out into the dirt.’’

‘‘Five days, Josephine,’’ McBride said. ‘‘If you’re still here after that time, I’ll find you and kill you.’’

Lance brushed his coat away from his gun, a searing anger in him. ‘‘Pa, let me take him right now.’’

Remorse was on his feet. ‘‘Boy, skin that Colt and there will be dead men on the floor.’’ He smiled. ‘‘The Josephine line could suddenly become extinct.’’

‘‘Let it be, Lance,’’ Josephine said. ‘‘Our time will come.’’ He slammed back his chair and stood. ‘‘Get out of here, both of you.’’

Remorse touched his hat. ‘‘Thanks for the job offer, and God bless you.’’

‘‘Get out!’’

‘‘Five days,’’ McBride said. ‘‘Remember.’’ Josephine’s face was black with rage. ‘‘McBride, this was ill done. You’ve just signed your own death warrant.’’