Ralph Compton - Blood on the Gallows

‘‘Julieta,’’ McBride said, ‘‘I believe you are in great danger. If Josephine finds out about the child, you and Simon will become two more obstacles in his way. And you know how he deals with those.’’

The girl smiled. ‘‘I have my brother’s rifle. I’ll be all right.’’

‘‘Not if Josephine sends Thad Harlan.’’

A moment of fear flickered in Julieta’s eyes and McBride said, ‘‘Come with me. I will protect you and the baby.’’

It looked to McBride that the woman considered his suggestion for all of a second. Then she said, ‘‘Jared Josephine has no idea where I am. Thank you for your concern, Mr. McBride, but I’ll be all right.’’

The stubborn tilt of Julieta’s chin told McBride that he would not be able to convince her to leave, not that day at least.

‘‘What I said still goes,’’ he said finally as he rose to leave. ‘‘I’ll do all I can to keep you and Simon safe from harm.’’

Julieta’s only comment was a wan smile and the soft closing of her door.

Because of the dreariness of the day and McBride’s confused mental state, it was not a good time for the mustang to act up. But it did. The big man’s growing anger at Jared Josephine, at Harlan and the rest, was like the cocked hammer of a hair-trigger revolver. Now, when the mustang locked its forelegs and refused to go back into the wind and rain, the hammer dropped.

McBride swore and waved his fist. ‘‘Remember this? You mend your ways, horse, or you’ll get it right between the eyes.’’

As was usual with the mustang, its protest made, it allowed itself to be led outside the lean-to where McBride mounted.

He gloomily sat his saddle, looking at the cabin, thinking. Detective Sergeant John McBride, NYPD, abuser of horses and protector of babies, realized that he’d just completely lost any notion he’d harbored of riding away from the dangerous mess that surrounded him.

He knew he would never be able to live with himself or hold up his head in the company of belted men if he left Julieta and an innocent child to their fate.

But as he rode away from the cabin he felt a growing sense of unease, the feeling that his life was rapidly falling apart and the one who’d be left to kick aside the pieces would be a grinning, triumphant Jared Josephine.

Chapter 27

The rocky portal to Capitan Pass was a mile behind him when John McBride saw a smear of blue smoke rise against the gray of the sky. He rode closer, coming upon a stretch of lava bed topped by a thick growth of sagebrush and a few scattered mesquites and junipers.

Saul Remorse stepped out of the lava rock and stood relaxed but ready. He smiled and waved. ‘‘I’d almost given up on you, John,’’ he said.

McBride drew rein. ‘‘What are you doing here?’’

‘‘Waiting for you, of course. Coffee’s still hot.’’

‘‘How did you know I’d pass this way? We’re off the trail into town.’’

Remorse shrugged, as though the question was of little importance. ‘‘I just knew. Besides, I built a big fire, then threw on some damp wood so you would see my smoke.’’

McBride glanced at the leaden sky, rain falling on his face. ‘‘How do you manage to light a fire in the rain? I can’t light one when it’s dry.’’

‘‘You’ve led a sheltered life, John.’’

McBride laid both hands on the saddle horn and leaned forward, suddenly defensive. ‘‘Saul, this may come as a surprise to you, but I was born and raised in the toughest slum in New York. Every single day of my life I had to fight just to survive.’’

‘‘Like I said, you’ve led a sheltered life.’’ Remorse nodded toward the lava bed. ‘‘Come, have some coffee.’’

He led the way to a large, arc-shaped clearing in the malpais. The rock was about eight feet high on all sides and deeply undercut, the resulting overhangs providing adequate refuge from the rain. Remorse had chosen to build his fire under the widest shelf, and his saddled horse grazed nearby on good grass.

Remorse poured coffee for McBride, apologized for not waiting for him at the wagon road. ‘‘I got bored,’’ he said. He then asked McBride what had happened to him after he left with the Mexican woman.

The reverend looked steadily out into the rain while McBride drank his coffee and told him about the grave and then what he’d discovered at Julieta Santiago’s cabin.

And after McBride had finished his story, Remorse said, ‘‘Funny, isn’t it, or, depending on how you look at it, sad, that you and I will soon be doing our best to make the kid an orphan?’’

‘‘Thought about that,’’ McBride said. He poured himself more coffee. ‘‘If Clare O’Neil was not in her right mind when she shot me, I might allow her some leeway.’’

‘‘One way to think about it, John,’’ Remorse said. He took out the makings and began to roll himself a cigarette. ‘‘Of course, on the bright side, if we gun his ma and pa we’ll make cute wittle Simon one of the world’s richest babies.’’

McBride grimaced. ‘‘You have a way with words, Saul. You really do.’’

Remorse grinned. He lit his cigarette with a brand from the fire. ‘‘Oh, this reminds me, I plumb forgot to tell you something, slipped my mind, you might say. When I was leaving the courthouse after checking on the O’Neil claim, I stopped on the boardwalk to build a smoke and I heard a couple of Texas hard cases talking about you.’’

‘‘About me? What were they saying? Nothing good, I expect.’’

‘‘I don’t know about that, I guess it all hangs on how you feel about things.’’ Remorse tilted back his head, blew a perfect smoke ring and watched until it was tattered by the wind and rain. Looking pleased at his accomplishment, he said, ‘‘You ever hear of a gun out of Wyoming’s Shoshone Basin country by the name of Shem Trine?’’

‘‘Never heard of him, and that’s not a name I’d forget easily.’’

‘‘Well, John, he sure knows you. Or at least he’s heard of you.’’

Remorse looked at his stud, the big gray tolerant of the mustang grazing close to him. Finally he turned his head away and said, ‘‘All right, my man, let me tell you about Shem Trine. He was orphaned at an early age, typhus, I believe, and was taken in by a Georgia farmer and his wife. By all accounts the farmer was a God-fearing man who carried a Bible with him wherever he went. But he was not one to spare the rod and spoil the child, so he laid a switch on the boy hard and often. As for Shem, he took the blows without a cry and bided his time.

‘‘Then, when he was fourteen and almost man-grown, his time came. One cold winter night he crept into the farmer and his wife’s bedroom with the old man’s own shotgun. Shem had cut pennies in half and had loaded them into both barrels. He cut loose at the farmer’s head on the pillow, but accidentally pulled both triggers. The man’s brains scattered all over the bed and his wife woke up, saw Shem with the gun and started to scream. Shem just giggled, threw himself on top of her and had his way with her, right there beside her dead husband on the bloody bed. After the deed was done, he strangled her.’’

‘‘Doesn’t sound like somebody I’d know,’’ McBride said, wondering why Remorse was telling him all this.

‘‘Wait, there’s more. Shem reloaded the shotgun, saddled the dead man’s mare and that same night rode to another farm. Again, he murdered the farmer and his wife and their three kids for good measure. Shem ransacked the place and he found two things that night—a .44-40 Colt revolver and his reason for living.

‘‘He headed west, used the Colt to kill a man in Arkansas and another in Kansas. After that he rode into the Shoshone Basin country, outdrew and killed a town marshal and then hired himself out as a fast gun. His price went up as his reputation grew. Last I heard he was charging five hundred dollars a kill, man, woman or child, and no questions asked.’’