Ralph Compton - Blood on the Gallows

Now McBride asked the question that had been on his mind. ‘‘Why are you telling me this, Saul?’’

‘‘Because Shem, a little fatigued by his exertions, is at this moment relaxing in Rest and Be Thankful and he plans on calling you out.’’

McBride was startled. ‘‘Why?’’

‘‘Because you’re the man who killed Hack Burns. Good ol’ Shem thinks gunning you will look real good on his curriculum vitae.’’

McBride’s eyes were wide. ‘‘You waited this long to tell me?’’

‘‘Told you, it plumb slipped my mind.’’

‘‘How good is he?’’ McBride could have bitten his tongue. He did not really want to hear the answer and when it came it was even worse than he feared.

‘‘Shem Trine is good, real smooth and fast on the draw and he hits what he aims at. He’ll gun you, John, step over your body and then go have breakfast.’’

Shem Trine . . . Thad Harlan . . . Lance Josephine . . . all of them fast guns. McBride saw the odds stacking against him and suddenly he felt downright vulnerable.

‘‘And Shem isn’t the only one,’’ Remorse continued cheerfully. ‘‘Right now I could name maybe six hard cases who want to call you.’’

‘‘Why now?’’ McBride asked. ‘‘I mean all of a sudden, why does every tinhorn gunman in town plan to draw down on me?’’

‘‘Well, it took a while for the news to get around that you’re the ranny who gunned ol’ Hack. I’d guess Thad Harlan spread the word to those he knew wanted to build a rep.’’

McBride stared into the rain, then at the drips ticking off the overhang. A gusting wind stirred the flames of the fire and gently rocked the coffeepot sitting on the coals. Remorse picked up the pot and set it in a safer place.

‘‘You got something on your mind, John?’’ he asked. ‘‘I mean about where we go from here.’’

‘‘No, but I’m open to suggestions.’’

‘‘We stay right where we are for five, six days until we see if your telegram got any results. Our time won’t entirely be wasted because we can ride out from time to time and keep an eye on Julieta’s place.’’

McBride looked around him moodily, at the wet lava rock and the dripping sagebrush. ‘‘Set here, in this place? For six days?’’

‘‘We’ll be comfortable enough. Back in Lincoln I imposed on Bartholomew’s good nature to pack us food for the trail. He sacked up enough coffee and salt pork to keep us fed for a week.’’

‘‘Saul, I gave Jared Josephine five days to get out of town, and he’s already used up one of them.’’

‘‘So, you let him have a couple of extra days to pack up his stuff and leave. He’ll think that’s real nice of you.’’

The reverend’s sarcasm was not lost on McBride, but he finally saw the logic of Remorse’s suggestion. If his telegram did what it was supposed to do, it would certainly make their job a lot easier. It was worth the wait.

After a while Remorse said, ‘‘John, Shem Trine is troubling you, isn’t he?’’

McBride’s face was stiff. ‘‘Yes, he troubles me. Him, Harlan, Lance Josephine and those six other hard cases you mentioned.’’

‘‘You don’t think you’re good enough with the Colt?’’

‘‘No, I don’t. Despite all you hear about Hack Burns, I have never thought I was good enough with the Colt.’’

‘‘Well, you’re right about that. You’re nowhere near good enough.’’

The unexpectedness of Remorse’s remark made McBride laugh. ‘‘Reverend, you surely know how to reassure a man.’’

‘‘Just stating fact, John. But don’t worry, I’ll be with you and I’m more than good enough.’’

McBride smiled and Remorse’s eyes met his. For a fleeting, terrifying instant before Remorse looked away, McBride felt he was drowning in a bottomless pool, plunging into blue depths that lay dark and cold and hidden. He shivered, the unbidden thought coming to him that he was looking into the eyes of a man long dead.

He shook his head, clearing that image from his mind, chiding himself for his own vivid imagination. And Remorse said, ‘‘Is something the matter, John?’’

‘‘No, nothing. Nothing at all.’’

The reverend stared into the teeming rain, his white hair streaming, the skin of his face drawn back tight against the skull. ‘‘Something’s the matter,’’ he said.

He took his Bible from his saddlebags and began to read, as McBride’s unsettled silence echoed between them like a tolling bell.

On the fourth day of their six-day wait, McBride watched Saul Remorse practice with his guns. The reverend was lightning fast out of the shoulder holsters, but he worked for an hour on his draw, shucking, then reholstering the Remingtons, his hands a constant blur of movement, his eyes intense, focused. Finally he fired, shooting from the waist, and the ten fist-sized lava rocks he’d lined up exploded one by one into ashy powder. It seemed to McBride that the racketing drumroll of the big revolvers lasted only an instant, about as long as it took him to blink.

The noise of the shots still clanging in his ears, McBride whistled through his teeth. ‘‘Saul, that’s some shooting.’’

Remorse smiled as he spun the Remingtons back into the holsters. ‘‘Now you, John.’’ He found five more rocks and set them up on a shelf of lava. ‘‘Let me see how you work.’’

McBride scanned the distance between himself and his targets. ‘‘A bit far, isn’t it?’’

‘‘Twenty yards.’’ Remorse shrugged. ‘‘If you can hit a rock at twenty you can kill a man at five.’’

McBride took up his erect, police-taught shooting stance, his Colt straight out in front of him at eye level. He aimed carefully, held his breath, and fired. He hit four of the five rocks, his miss close enough to scar the lava an inch to one side of the target.

Remorse nodded his approval. ‘‘Not at all bad, John. But let’s hope when the ball opens you’re not called upon to shoot in a hurry.’’

‘‘Are you talking about a fast draw?’’ McBride asked testily, feeling damned by the reverend’s faint praise.

‘‘No, I’m talking about survival,’’ Remorse said.

Chapter 28

The six days were over.

McBride and Remorse rode into Rest and Be Thankful just as dawn was breaking and the sky was aflame with gaudy streaks of scarlet and purple. The town was quiet at that early hour, the streets deserted, puddles left by an overnight rain reflecting bloodred. There was no wind and the air smelled of packed humanity, of overflowing outhouses, stale beer, staler perfume and everywhere the heavy, musky odor of human sweat that seemed to impregnate the soft pine planks of the saloons and dance halls.

When the two men walked their horses into the livery, Jed Whipple was there to greet them.

‘‘Thought you boys had rode on,’’ the old man said. ‘‘I got to say, the town’s been mighty quiet without you.’’ Whipple’s eyes moved to McBride. He grinned. ‘‘I got to talk to you about your cat, best dang ratter I ever had. He’s only the size of a nubbin’ but he goes right fer them big gray-backs that rustle around in the corners. Since you’ve been gone I’d say he’s done fer an even score of them.’’

Whipple’s eyes took on a shrewd look. ‘‘How much would you take fer a blue-ribbon, rat-killin’ cat like that ’un?’’

The calico chose that moment to leave the shadows of the barn and twine himself around the old man’s ankles, purring. It didn’t look in McBride’s direction.

‘‘His name is Sammy,’’ he said. ‘‘Have you been feeding him good?’’

‘‘He eats what I eat,’’ Whipple said. ‘‘Beans an’ salt pork, an’ bacon when I can afford it. He gets his fair share.’’