Ralph Compton - Blood on the Gallows

‘‘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.’’