Blood on the Gallows

Chapter 34

The thunderstorm had come from the southwest, born among the volcanic pinnacles of the White Mountains, sired by cool rain and tremendous up-drafts of hot desert air. Massive parapets of cloud that shaded quickly from gray to black rolled off the peaks and followed the old wagon road to Fort Stanton. The storm then prowled restlessly to the north . . . and vented its rage on the town of Rest and Be Thankful.

Thunder clashed and lightning lanced from the hidden sky as John McBride walked into the cottonwoods by the creek. He made no attempt to seek cover. Thad Harlan knew he was coming and he would wait.

The bodies of the bounty hunters and the Mexican boy had been cut down and only frayed strands of rope stirred in the wind. Rain fell in sheets and McBride’s boots squelched in mud. He stopped, his ears straining to hear above the clangor of the storm. Around him the night was a wall of darkness. He could see nothing except in those brief moments when lightning shimmered like white fire among the trees.

McBride was keeping his gun hand dry inside his slicker, but sweat was doing what the rain could not. He wiped his palm on his shirt, more scared than he could ever remember.

‘‘Is that you, John? Over here!’’

The rasp of Harlan’s voice coming from his left.

He groped his way in that direction, his heart pounding in his ears. After making his way around cottonwoods he stepped into a small, grassy clearing. Close by, he heard the rush of tumbling water in the creek.

‘‘Harlan, where are you?’’

His only answer was the fall of the rain and the wind stirring the trees. Then: ‘‘Over this way, John.’’

Harlan was now to his right. McBride heard the man’s mocking laugh.

‘‘Damn it, Harlan, show yourself!’’ he yelled.

The voice was behind him! ‘‘Soon, John, when I’m good and ready.’’

McBride spun, drawing the Colt as he turned. He triggered a shot into the darkness.

Harlan’s jeering laugh rang through the trees. Then silence.

Thunder roared followed by a flame of lightning. McBride left the clearing and stepped into the trees again. He pushed his back against the trunk of a cottonwood and waited.

A minute ticked past. . . .

The roar of a gun. Three bullets thudded into the tree an inch above McBride’s head. He dove for the ground, rolled and ended up flat on his belly in thin brush. He wiped rain from his eyes with the back of his gun hand, his scared gaze searching the dark. He saw nothing but a confining stockade of blackness.

‘‘That was just a friendly warning, John.’’ Harlan’s voice, behind him again. ‘‘Don’t go getting uppity on me and start shooting again.’’

‘‘Harlan,’’ McBride hollered, ‘‘I’m going to kill you for what you did to Clare O’Neil and the Mexican boy.’’

Harlan laughed. He was changing position again, somewhere to McBride’s right.

‘‘You can’t kill me, John.’’ The man was moving silently through the trees. ‘‘First you, then the preacher and then I’ll take what I want.’’

Where was he?

McBride tried to keep Harlan talking, trying to get a fix on him. ‘‘You won’t get the mine, Harlan. It belongs to Clare O’Neil’s son.’’

McBride opened and closed his fingers on his gun butt. Talk, Harlan, talk!

‘‘I’ll get it—’’

McBride rose to one knee, fired at the sound of the man’s voice. Fired again.

‘‘Once I kill the brat and the Mexican girl, who’s to stop me claiming the mine as my own?’’

It was as though nothing had happened! Harlan’s tone had not changed. He sounded relaxed, a man enjoying himself.

‘‘I’ll be so rich, with so many sharp lawyers, that no one will dare to dispute my claim to the mine. Do you understand that, John?’’

McBride was silent. Maybe if he didn’t move or talk Harlan would not be able to track his whereabouts so easily.

‘‘John, do you understand that?’’

Was Harlan trying to ferret him out?

‘‘All right, John, so you don’t want to talk anymore. That’s just fine by me. Now stop cowering in the brush and stand on your feet. Die like a man.’’

It came to McBride then that Harlan didn’t know where he was. He stood silently and brought his Colt up beside his head, his mouth dry as chalk. Now, if Harlan would just make a move . . .

The noose snaked out of the darkness and settled around McBride’s neck. Suddenly he was being pulled upward, the rough hemp cutting into his throat. Gagging, fighting for breath, he tried to kick himself free, but the noose tightened. His toes left the ground and he was swinging. Behind him he heard Harlan grunt with exertion as he pulled on the rope.

A galaxy of stars exploded in McBride’s brain as he strangled. He heard Harlan’s wild shriek of triumph . . . then a loud crack and a violent crash.

McBride hit the ground hard. Behind him Harlan was shrieking, bubbling screams that soared through the tops of the trees and burst into the air like a flock of crows.

Staggering, McBride climbed to his feet. He tore the noose from his neck, lifted his head and breathed in great, shuddering gulps of air. As lightning flashed he saw his gun lying nearby. He picked up the Colt and his gaze searched the gloom ahead of him. Now that his eyes had adjusted to the dark, he made out the vague shape of Thad Harlan. The man was on his back, a thick tree limb on top of him.

Harlan was no longer screaming, but his lips were stretched back from his teeth, fighting pain. Wary of the man’s gun, McBride stepped closer.

‘‘Help me, John,’’ Harlan whispered. ‘‘Get it off of me.’’

Thunder banged and lightning streaked the sky. The rain battered against McBride as he looked down at Harlan and put it together. Unable to support McBride’s weight, the tree limb had shattered. Harlan had been standing right underneath and when the branch fell, a sharp, splintered point had plunged deep into his belly, staking him to the ground.

The man’s eyes were wide with fear, stunned by the bizarre manner of his dying. His face was gray and his mouth was full of crimson blood.

‘‘Help me, John,’’ he said again.

McBride raised the Colt. ‘‘By rights I should leave you here and let you die like a dog,’’ he said.

‘‘Help me, John . . .’’

Too late, McBride saw the gun in the man’s hand. He and Harlan fired at the same time. He felt the burn of Harlan’s bullet across the thick meat of his left shoulder, but his own shot was right on target. Harlan’s head exploded in a fan of blood and bone. He arched violently, straining against death, then fell back, his eyes staring blindly into nothingness.

McBride stepped away a few yards, then turned his face to the healing rain.

It was over.

‘‘This is yours, John, I believe.’’

Saul Remorse held out McBride’s Smith & Wesson.

‘‘Where did you find it?’’

‘‘In Harlan’s office. I was tired of looking at your empty shoulder holster.’’

McBride took the revolver and looked around him. It was not yet noon, but the day was already hot, the sky a blue china bowl stretching from horizon to horizon.

Rest and Be Thankful drowsed in the sun, like a tired old man who knows his time is almost over.

It was three days after the death of Thad Harlan, and Remorse was moving on. He stood by his horse’s head, the reins in his hand. ‘‘I’ve written to a lawyer I once knew in Boston. I trust the man to make sure that Clare O’Neil’s son’s ownership of the mine is protected. He will also set up a fund to support Julieta until the kid comes of age.’’

McBride smiled. ‘‘That’s real decent of you.’’

‘‘Oh, and I almost forgot.’’ He handed McBride an envelope. ‘‘This is for you.’’

‘‘What is it?’’

‘‘Eight hundred dollars, half of the reward Jared Josephine gave me for killing those three outlaws.’’

McBride shook his head. ‘‘Saul, I can’t take this. I did nothing. I didn’t even draw my gun.’’

‘‘You were there. You put your life on the line just as I did.’’ Remorse smiled. ‘‘Anyway, the money isn’t really for you, it’s for those young wards of yours. It will help keep them in that finishing school for a while longer.’’

‘‘Saul, I . . . I don’t know what to say.’’

‘‘I do. Say good-bye, John. I’m leaving.’’

Remorse was once again dressed in black broadcloth, his clergyman’s collar in place. His Remingtons were hidden under his coat.

‘‘Maybe our trails will cross again, Saul,’’ McBride said. ‘‘Though I hope to settle somewhere and prosper in the hardware business.’’

‘‘Yes, do that, John,’’ Remorse said. ‘‘Settle down somewhere and meet a fine woman. I ride trails you can’t follow, long trails that end in places you don’t ever want to be.’’ He swung into the saddle, touched the brim of his hat and smiled. ‘‘Take care, John McBride.’’

McBride watched the Reverend Saul Remorse leave until man and horse were swallowed by distance.

He took off his plug hat, wiped the sweatband, then settled it on his head again.

‘‘Reverend,’’ he said, looking into the empty land, ‘‘you are one mighty strange feller.’’