Blood on the Gallows

Chapter 28

The six days were over.

McBride and Remorse rode into Rest and Be Thankful just as dawn was breaking and the sky was aflame with gaudy streaks of scarlet and purple. The town was quiet at that early hour, the streets deserted, puddles left by an overnight rain reflecting bloodred. There was no wind and the air smelled of packed humanity, of overflowing outhouses, stale beer, staler perfume and everywhere the heavy, musky odor of human sweat that seemed to impregnate the soft pine planks of the saloons and dance halls.

When the two men walked their horses into the livery, Jed Whipple was there to greet them.

‘‘Thought you boys had rode on,’’ the old man said. ‘‘I got to say, the town’s been mighty quiet without you.’’ Whipple’s eyes moved to McBride. He grinned. ‘‘I got to talk to you about your cat, best dang ratter I ever had. He’s only the size of a nubbin’ but he goes right fer them big gray-backs that rustle around in the corners. Since you’ve been gone I’d say he’s done fer an even score of them.’’

Whipple’s eyes took on a shrewd look. ‘‘How much would you take fer a blue-ribbon, rat-killin’ cat like that ’un?’’

The calico chose that moment to leave the shadows of the barn and twine himself around the old man’s ankles, purring. It didn’t look in McBride’s direction.

‘‘His name is Sammy,’’ he said. ‘‘Have you been feeding him good?’’

‘‘He eats what I eat,’’ Whipple said. ‘‘Beans an’ salt pork, an’ bacon when I can afford it. He gets his fair share.’’

‘‘Then he’s yours,’’ McBride said. ‘‘Take good care of him.’’

Whipple touched a crooked finger to his forehead. ‘‘Thankee, Cap’n. He’ll have a good home here with me. And he’ll be company, like.’’

‘‘Where is Jared Josephine?’’ This from Remorse.

‘‘Pulled out late last night, driving a Studebaker wagon with a canvas cover. His son, Lance, was ridin’ point and Marshal Harlan was on flank.’’ Whipple’s eyes lifted to Remorse. ‘‘They had an Indian with them, a feller called Tashin who’s been hanging around town for the last three, four days. The word is that up until recently he was a scout for the Army. I heard he’s half Apache, half Comanche and all son of a bitch.’’

McBride felt his spirits leap. ‘‘He’s pulled out, Saul. Josephine must be planning to travel far if he’s hired himself a scout.’’

Remorse shook his head. ‘‘John, I’m pretty sure we didn’t scare him. If Jared left town last night it’s for a different reason.’’

‘‘He’s headed for the silver mine to stake his claim?’’

‘‘That would be a fairly good guess.’’

McBride looked stricken. ‘‘Or could he have heard about Julieta and the baby?’’

‘‘Uh-huh. That would be a reason for hiring an Apache tracker. He wants to find them.’’

‘‘But who could have told him?’’

‘‘Maybe Clare O’Neil herself if Jared beat it out of her. I’m willing to bet she may have been tied up and gagged in the back of Josephine’s wagon.’’

Whipple said, ‘‘Ahem.’’ Then he said, ‘‘Sorry to interrupt you boys, but there could be another reason why ol’ Jared and them skedaddled. Strangers began to drift into town yesstiday. They’re hard cases all right, but they don’t seem to be outlaws. Well, at least they ain’t lookin’ over their shoulders all the time.’’

‘‘Recognize any of them?’’ Remorse asked.

‘‘Nah. They’re tall, lanky fellers carrying Winchester rifles and long-barreled Colts. They all got big mustaches and rowels on their spurs the size o’ tea-cups. That’s all I can tell you.’’

‘‘Sounds like Texans,’’ Remorse said. His eyes met McBride’s. ‘‘Maybe your telegram arrived where it was intended after all.’’

Whipple said, ‘‘I got their wagon behind the barn and a dozen of their horses, two to a stall. Them boys ain’t exactly what you’d call big spenders. The brands ought to tell you something.’’

Remorse stepped into the shadows of the barn and returned a couple of minutes later. ‘‘Texas brands all right, most of them.’’

‘‘Then they’ve got to be Rangers,’’ McBride said. ‘‘Inspector Byrnes came through for me.’’

Whipple’s face fell. ‘‘You mean to tell me them strangers in town are Texas Rangers?’’

Remorse nodded. ‘‘McBride sent for them, or at least he asked Inspector Byrnes of the New York Police Department’s bureau of detectives to send for them. He figured the Rangers would more likely heed a telegram from a world-famous sleuth and dime novel hero like Thomas Byrnes.’’

Whipple, who had ridden outlaw trails in the past, took time to figure out the implications of the Ranger invasion for himself and the town. His unfocused eyes moved to the open barn door. Talking more to himself than Remorse and McBride, he said, ‘‘The Rangers have been helping the Army round up loco ol’ Nana an’ his Chiricahuas an’ runnin’ ’em back to the San Carlos. Must have been a passel of them Texas boys right close on the border.’’

The old man looked at McBride, his face brightening. ‘‘Hell, what am I worried about? There’s maybe a couple hunnerd outlaws in town right now and only twelve Rangers. Them big mustaches is bucking some mighty long odds.’’

‘‘Ever hear of Pat Dooling, Mr. Whipple?’’ Remorse asked. ‘‘A few years back, a bunch of outlaws decided to tree a town that looked just like this one. They shot up the place, killed a couple of citizens and generally terrified folks. So the mayor sent for the Rangers. When the afternoon train pulled in, Pat Dooling was the only passenger. The mayor was horrified. ‘They only sent one Ranger?’ he asked. Dooling said, ‘How many riots do you have?’ When the mayor said only one, Pat said, ‘Then you only need one Ranger.’

‘‘Right after that, Dooling buckled on his guns, cleaned up that town and took the next train home.’’

Remorse nodded toward the interior of the barn. ‘‘I saw a saddle back there with the initials PD on the skirt. If it is Pat Dooling, he and eleven other Rangers are all it’s going to take, Mr. Whipple.’’

And he smiled as he saw the old man’s face fall again. All at once Whipple’s voice was unsteady, his washed-out eyes haunted. ‘‘Reverend, in my day I’ve been a wicked, sinful man, killing, robbing and hoss stealing, to name just a few. And I’ve dallied long with loose women and drank ardent spirits to excess.’’ He took a couple of steps toward Remorse. ‘‘I don’t know what’s going to happen to this outlaw town with the Rangers here an’ all, and I don’t know what’s going to happen to me, so I need to ask you something.’’

‘‘If it’s a boon you seek, Mr. Whipple, ask away. You’ve always taken good care of my horse.’’

‘‘Give me your blessing, Reverend.’’

‘‘With the greatest of pleasure,’’ Remorse said. ‘‘I always favor a man who fervently wishes to return to the straight and narrow path of righteousness.’’

The reverend put on a great show of blessing Whipple. As he made a cross in the air, he was an incongruous sight in his clerical collar, flowing white hair, butt-forward Remingtons holstered on each side of his chest.

When the blessing was done, Whipple said, ‘‘Thankee, Reverend, it feels real good to be back in the fold.’’

‘‘Hallelujah, brother.’’ Remorse smiled benignly, resting his hand on the old man’s head. ‘‘And amen.’’

McBride gathered up the reins of the mustang. ‘‘I’m going after Josephine,’’ he said. ‘‘I’m concerned about Julieta being out there by herself.’’

‘‘An excellent thought, John, and I’ll ride with you. But first, some breakfast. I’m all used up after six days of nothing but salt pork and coffee.’’

‘‘I could eat a steak and maybe six eggs myself,’’ McBride said. He sounded uncertain. ‘‘I guess we can spare the time.’’

‘‘Of course we can. Now, let’s head for the nearest restaurant.’’

McBride noticed that the Kip and Kettle Hotel was still open, as though the death of Dora Ryan had not mattered in the least. He suspected that Jared Josephine had taken over the place and it was business as usual.

At Remorse’s insistence, since it was the nearest restaurant, they ate their steak and eggs in the hotel dining room, among a crowd of hungry, if sullen and hungover, fellow diners. There was no sign of the waitress, Mrs. Davis, whose husband had been killed by Lance Josephine. In her place was a young, pretty redhead who took their order efficiently and was quick with the coffeepot.

McBride and Remorse ate their steak and eggs in record time, then walked outside to the hitching rail. Remorse began to tighten his cinch but froze as a voice snarled behind him, ‘‘Step away, Reverend.’’

McBride walked from behind Remorse’s gray and saw a small, thin man standing in the street, flanked by two grinning hard cases. He recognized one of the men as Ed Beaudry, the kitten tormenter he’d tangled with when he first rode into town. Beaudry seemed none the worse for wear, though his gleeful grin was almost toothless.

The small man was dressed in black from boots to hat, the only color about him the ivory handle of his gun on his hip and the cold blue of his eyes. He was smiling thinly at McBride and looked confident and dangerous.

‘‘I’m calling you, McBride,’’ he said. ‘‘You claim to be the man who killed Hack Burns and I say you’re a damned Yankee liar.’’

A number of diners had left the restaurant and were lining the boardwalk, including a tall, slender man with a flowing dragoon mustache who was watching McBride with interest, a toothpick pinned between his teeth.

It was Remorse who spoke for McBride. ‘‘Shem, we’re in a hurry,’’ he said. ‘‘We don’t have time for this.’’

‘‘He’s not talking to you, preacher,’’ Beaudry said. ‘‘Now keep your trap shut.’’

Remorse ignored the gunman. ‘‘Shem Trine,’’ he said, ‘‘be about your business and give us the road. Gun reputations will not be made this day. Now, please, my son, go in peace.’’

Trine grinned. ‘‘I’ve always loved Holy Roller words like that, Reverend. Now step aside. My business is with the no-good liar beside you.’’

Up on the boardwalk, the slender man hitched his gun belt higher, but then let his hands drop to his sides. The morning sky was losing color, shading to fish-scale gray, and the silence was so profound McBride heard dishes rattle in the hotel kitchen.

He knew there was no talking his way out of this, and his hand inched toward the Colt in his waistband. Ten feet way, Trine was grinning, ready, eager, his fingers clawed over the handle of his revolver.

McBride never got a chance to draw.

Shem Trine’s hand blurred and his gun came up, but not high enough or fast enough. Remorse’s Remingtons hammered and the little man was hurled backward, four scarlet roses blossoming on his black shirt. He hit the mud hard, arched his back and his hands reached out to the threatening sky. Then he gasped and all the life that had been in him fled.

McBride grabbed his Colt, eyeing Beaudry and the other man, but they wanted no part of him. The two gunmen backed up, their faces haggard from the shock of Trine’s death.

‘‘We’re out of it,’’ Beaudry screeched. ‘‘Don’t shoot no more, parson.’’

McBride took a few steps toward them. ‘‘You two, get on your horses and ride out of town. If I see you again in Rest and Be Thankful, you’re dead men.’’

The gunmen nodded, their throats moving as they tried to gulp down their fear. They’d listened to McBride but their eyes were on Remorse, who was standing still, guns smoking by his sides.

Beaudry turned to his companion and said, ‘‘You heard the man. C’mon, we’re lighting a shuck.’’ He turned and ran for the livery, the other gunman hard on his heels.

His hands steady, Remorse punched the empty shells from his guns, reloaded and holstered the Remingtons.

The tall man stepped casually off the boardwalk, glanced at Trine, then looked first at McBride, then Remorse. ‘‘He called it,’’ he said, the toothpick bobbing in the corner of his mouth. ‘‘He should have known, but didn’t, that he wasn’t near fast enough.’’ He shook his head, a man acquainted with human frailty in all its forms. ‘‘It’s a pity.’’

The man stepped over Trine’s body, then crossed the street, the jingle bobs on his spurs chiming. McBride watched him go, a feeling in him that the tall, hard-eyed man with the long-barreled revolver on his hip might well be Ranger Pat Dooling.

Remorse glanced up as Beaudry and the other gunman cantered out of the barn and headed west. They didn’t look back. His eyes moved to McBride. ‘‘We go after Josephine and his boys and end this thing. Still want to play it that way?’’

McBride nodded. ‘‘Yes. It’s time.’’

Remorse stepped up to Trine’s sprawled, still form. He took a knee beside the dead man, removed his hat and bowed his head in prayer, his lips moving. After a while he reached into his pants pocket, counted out five silver dollars onto Trine’s chest, then looked up at the men on the boardwalk. ‘‘Bury him decent,’’ he said.

He rose to his feet and his eyes moved to McBride. ‘‘Let’s ride, John,’’ he said. ‘‘Like you say, it’s time.’’