Ralph Compton - Blood on the Gallows

‘‘You sure you want to do that? Your wound still has a power of healing to do.’’

‘‘I’m beholden to you and your lady for saving my life, Luke. But I’ve imposed on you long enough. I have to be riding on.’’

‘‘You’re going to try and find Clare O’Neil.’’

‘‘Yes, that, and other things.’’

‘‘And you plan on going up against Thad Harlan and them?’’

‘‘I’ve been thinking about it, and I can’t say with much pleasure.’’

Gravett placed his cup on the ground; then his hand moved in a blur of motion and McBride found himself looking into the muzzle of the man’s .45.

‘‘Can you do that?’’ Gravett asked. ‘‘Only a tad faster?’’

‘‘No. Not on my best day.’’

‘‘Then you best leave Harlan alone.’’ The Colt spun and thudded back into the holster. ‘‘Them’s words of wisdom. Or warning. Take them however you like.’’

McBride smiled and shook his head. ‘‘Words of wisdom, Luke. But I’ve got it to do.’’

‘‘Then God help you.’’

McBride rose to his feet and crossed the floor of the cave. He shrugged into his slicker, shoved his revolver into the waistband of his pants and picked up his rifle.

‘‘How are you fixed for money?’’ Gravett asked. ‘‘I don’t have much but—’’

‘‘I’ll make out. Thanks.’’

‘‘Then at least let me saddle your horse.’’

McBride stepped to the Tonto woman, who had her head bent, busy with a needle, repairing a small tear in her deerskin dress.

‘‘She won’t look at you, John,’’ Gravett said. ‘‘Apaches don’t have a word for good-bye.’’

‘‘Then tell her . . . tell her I’m grateful.’’

‘‘She knows that already, but I’ll tell her anyway.’’

Luke Gravett stood in the rain, watching McBride climb awkwardly into the saddle, a faint smile playing around the corners of his mouth. ‘‘Where you from, John? I mean originally. Somewhere back East, I reckon.’’

‘‘Yes. New York City.’’

Gravett nodded. ‘‘That figures.’’

McBride felt the need to defend himself. ‘‘I never rode a horse until I came west.’’

‘‘You don’t ride a horse now. You just kinda perch on it like a big grizzly bear.’’

McBride smiled and touched the brim of his hat. ‘‘Thanks for everything, Luke. Vaya con Dios, mi amigo. ’’

‘‘You too. Ride easy, John McBride.’’

The gloom of the morning crowding close, McBride headed northwest, in the direction of the rise where he’d fallen off his horse. Clare had said her father’s place was just over the ridge and he planned to comb every inch of it. What was Lance Josephine after? And had he killed Hemp O’Neil to get it?

The answers had to be somewhere on the ranch—and within them could lie the key to destroying the man and all the evil he and his father stood for.

Chapter 15

John McBride topped the ridge where he’d last seen Clare O’Neil, and his eyes reached into the vast, empty land around him. The wind was shifting, restless, driving the racketing rain in one direction, a moment later in another. The aspen on the downward slope of the rise tossed their branches in an abandoned, frantic dance as though worshipping the dark clouds that scudded across the gray sky.

McBride pulled the collar of his slicker closer around his neck and kicked the mustang into motion. The rise dropped gradually to a grassy flat, studded with rocks and stands of prickly pear. Ahead of him lay a narrow creek, bordered by cottonwood and willow, and through their heaving branches he made out the outline of a cabin and a few other buildings. In the distance, McBride estimated two or three miles away, but realized it could be farther, another volcanic malpais smeared across the horizon like a smudged black pencil line.

McBride stopped the mustang a few yards from the fast-rushing creek. He studied the cabin, almost lost behind tree foliage and rain, a strange wariness in him he could not explain. He sensed another human presence. Close by. Waiting. The reassuring weight of the Colt in his waistband brought him a measure of comfort, but he looked on the cabin without pleasure.

Was he about to walk into a carefully laid trap?

He shook his head. No. That was impossible. The only person who knew he was here was Luke Gravett and he would not have told anyone. Of course, there was always the possibility that Lance Josephine had returned to the scene of the crime. Even now the man could be riding the boundaries of a ranch he had gained by murder.

The old, answered question sprang into McBride’s head: why did Josephine want the place?

To the east rose the rugged escarpment of the Capitan Mountains, to the north and west lava beds that were of value to no one. Broken, hilly country rolled away for miles to the south, cut through by deep canyons and treacherous stretches of thin-crusted lava rock. The cabin itself was fairly large and well built. Four windows showed to the front and a brick chimney rose at each end of the steeply pitched roof.

But again, why had Lance Josephine, a creature of towns and what they represented, set his sights on this place? Why did he want it bad enough to kill for it?

McBride shook his head, the answer as elusive as ever.

He kneed the mustang across the creek, then rode through the trees. Only then did he see the spanking-new surrey outside the cabin, an expensive Morgan in the traces.

It was unlikely that either Josephine or Thad Harlan would drive a surrey to the ranch, but McBride was suddenly on edge. He stepped out of the saddle and pulled the Colt from his waistband. On silent feet he walked to the cabin. The door was ajar and he pushed it open with the muzzle of his revolver. He heard no sound inside but for the slow tick of a clock.

Then a woman’s voice, one he had heard before. ‘‘Step right in, Mr. McBride. I won’t bite you. Where’s your cat?’’

The door led into a long hallway, several rooms opening to it on each side. McBride stepped along the corridor, his feet silent on carpet, his gun up and ready, hammer thumbed back.

‘‘In here. Second door on the left.’’

McBride stood to the side of the door and glanced inside. Denver Dora Ryan was sitting in a rocker in what must have been the O’Neil parlor. She had a china cup and saucer in her hand as she looked at McBride and smiled, her perfume, warmed by her body, reaching out to him like the sweet breath of an angel.

McBride let down the hammer of the Colt and shoved the gun into his pants. ‘‘What are you doing here, Miss Ryan?’’

‘‘I could ask you the same thing, Mr. McBride.’’

The big man decided to give it to her straight. ‘‘I’m trying to find out what makes this ranch so important to Lance Josephine.’’

‘‘Nothing. This cabin, a few head of cattle, some grass, the rest sand and cactus.’’

‘‘Then why does he want it?’’

‘‘Does he want it? The word in town is that you shot old man O’Neil and abducted his daughter. Lance is telling everybody you want this place and the girl that goes with it.’’

‘‘Do you believe him?’’

‘‘I don’t know what to believe, Mr. McBride.’’ Her eyes lifted to his. ‘‘Can I get you some tea? I believe there’s another cup in the pot.’’

McBride nodded absently. He followed Dora to the kitchen and set Sammy down on the floor. ‘‘I had some trouble getting a fire started in the stove,’’ she said. ‘‘I’m not very good at it.’’

‘‘Neither am I,’’ McBride said. He took the cup the woman proffered to him. ‘‘You still haven’t told me why you’re here.’’

‘‘I don’t attend funerals. I came here to honor an old man I liked.’’