Ralph Compton - Guns of the Canyonlands

Now came the dawning realization of where he was—he was in Nick Tobin’s jail cell.

Slowly, like in a hazy dream, the events at Bradley’s saloon came drifting back to him.

Sally!

Tyree rose to his feet, an effort that made his head reel. He staggered to the door, pounded on its unyielding iron and yelled through the opening, “Tobin!”

A couple of minutes passed before the sheriff opened the door to his office and stepped to the cell. The man was not wearing his hat, and his hair was snow white, falling in untidy tangles over his ears. His eyes were lost behind his dark glasses, and the sagging, pasty face was expressionless. Tyree caught the disgusting stench of the man, the odor of ancient sweat and unwashed clothes.

“Wondered when you’d wake up,” Tobin said. “Been out for an hour, I’d say.”

“How is Sally?” Tyree asked, a taut fear in him even as he asked the question.

The lawman shrugged. “She’s over to the hotel, locked in a room, on account of how I don’t have a cell for females.”

“How is she?” Tyree asked again, his voice edged by anger.

“She took Luther Darcy’s bullet.”

“Where, Tobin? Where was she hit, damn you?”

The sheriff’s pudgy white hand strayed to his left shoulder. “Here. Luther’s bullet hit the chamber of her rifle, ricocheted off an’ struck the lass in the shoulder.” Tobin grinned. “Luther wasn’t trying to kill her, just disable her Winchester, but his bullet bounced the wrong way. See, he has plans for that little gal, big plans. He isn’t even pressing any charges against her. Says he’ll teach her the error of her ways with a horsewhip when the time comes.”

“Is Sally hurt bad?” Tyree asked, his anger bubbling to the surface. At that moment he wanted to kill Darcy in the worst way.

“Doc Neary says she’ll live. Be up and around in no time at all.”

Tyree rubbed the back of his neck. “Who hit me?”

“I did. Slammed the stock of my Greener into your fool head then I slugged you. And just as well I did, because ol’ Luther was mad clean through and he would have killed you fer sure. Why, he wanted to put a bullet in you whilst you were lying there, all fast asleep, like. But I convinced him it was best to wait for a proper hanging.”

“Hanging? I haven’t even had a trial yet, Tobin,” Tyree said.

“Oh, yes, you have. You had it about an hour ago while you was still asleep. John Rawlins told Judge Hay what he saw at Bradley’s when you killed the bartender. Then two others told how you killed poor Chet Austin over to Luke Boyd’s place, and Chet just trying to do his sworn duty by arresting you. Well, Judge Hay listened to all this, said as how you was as guilty as sin and set the hanging for noon tomorrow.”

“So the judge is also in Laytham’s pocket, or yours,” Tyree said bitterly.

Tobin grinned. “Remember I tole you to take the thousand dollars and then scat? You should have listened to me, Tyree.”

“Tobin, you go to hell,” Tyree said.

The sheriff laughed. “I like you, boy. I really like you, but hell, I’m gonna hang you just the same. Hey, but don’t you worry none, it won’t be like the first time when those idiots Clem Daley and Len Dawson bungled it. I’ve got you a new rope, the best three-quarter-inch Manila hemp all the way from Salt Lake City. And I already boiled it and stretched it to get rid of all the spring, stiffness and the inclination ropes have to coil. Then I lubricated the knot and noose with melted paraffin so it will slide real easy.” Tobin grinned and slapped his thigh. “Oh, I tell you, boy, you’re gonna think it a real pleasure to be hung by me.”

“Tobin,” Tyree said, ignoring the man, “take me to see Sally. I give you my word I won’t try to escape.”

The sheriff shook his head. “Boy, you won’t see Sally Brennan again until both of you meet in the sweet by-and-by. Besides, now she’s Luther Darcy’s woman and he don’t cotton to her seeing other men.”

Tobin turned and began to walk away. Tyree called out after him, but the sheriff waved a dismissive hand and stepped into the gloom of his office, slamming the door behind him.

Time lay heavy on Tyree. Through the window of his cell he watched the light change, shading from day to night. There was no lamp in his cell, and he lay on his bunk in the dark, wishful for a smoke but having no makings.

He rose and stepped to the window, standing on the bunk to reach the iron bars. He pulled and pushed with all his strength, but the bars remained firm and unyielding, cemented into the heavy logs by someone who knew his business.

Tyree stretched out on the bunk again. Did he really have only hours to live? It seemed that was the case because there was no one around who could save him.

Noise reached him from Bradley’s, the piano now playing dance music, the tinkling notes competing with shouting men, laughing women and the clink of bottles and glasses. Late as it was, Laytham’s riders were still in town and a party was in full swing. The festivities would probably go full blast until tomorrow’s hanging, always a gala occasion in the West and well attended.

A slow, dragging hour passed, then another. Tyree dozed off and on, wakening now and then as the racket from the saloon grew in volume.

“Pssst . . .”

A man’s whisper at the window, loud enough to be heard above the din of Bradley’s. Tyree rose quickly and stood on the bunk. He looked through the bars and saw the bearded, amused face of Zeb Pettigrew. “I’m standing on a cracker barrel, boy,” he said. “And it’s none too steady.”

“Zeb,” Tyree asked, surprised, “what are you doing here?”

The old man giggled. “Interfering when I shouldn’t be interfering. But, hell, if they hang you tomorrow, the play is over and I’ve got nothing to watch. Tobin is over to Bradley’s, and that’s how come I’m here to spring you out o’ this here calaboose.”

Chapter 19

“Zeb,” Tyree whispered urgently, “this place is built like a fortress. How are you planning to get me out of here?”

The old man shook his head. “Don’t talk, boy. Listen. Your horse is saddled and ready to go at the livery stable. Your rifle is still in the scabbard and I put a Colt in your saddlebags.”

“But how are you—”

“Don’t talk, boy. When the time comes, jest you hightail it to your hoss and skedaddle out of town.”

“Zeb, listen to me—”

“Don’t talk anymore, boy.”

“But I have something to say. How are you planning to—”

“No more talk, Tyree.”

“Damn it, why not?”

“Because”—Pettigrew looked down at the ground—“judging by the fuse on the dynamite I put against the wall, this whole place will go sky-high in . . . oh . . . less than ten seconds.”

The old man quickly faded into the night, and Tyree frantically ripped the mattress off the bunk, ran to the far wall and covered himself up as best he could.

A few seconds ticked by, followed by an earsplitting roar and a blinding flash. For a while Tyree was blinded by dust, but after his eyes cleared, he saw the devastating effect of the blast. Contrary to what Zeb had expected, the building still stood, but a hole several feet wide had been blown in the logs of the opposite wall and the roof was tilting dangerously.

Tyree rose to his feet and dashed through the opening. Then he was running for his life through the darkness toward the livery stable.

Behind him, Tyree heard men shout and guns bang, but not a single bullet came his way. It was wild shooting by some of the drunken revelers at Bradley’s, confused about what was happening.

There was no sign of Pettigrew when Tyree reached the livery. But, as the old man had promised, the steeldust was saddled and ready in a stall. Tyree reached into his saddlebags and found the Colt and a box of ammunition. The gun was a .44-.40 and brand-new, the slick browning of the frame, barrel and the walnut handle showing no wear. He spun the cylinder and checked the loads, then stuck the revolver in the waistband of his jeans.