Ralph Compton - Blood on the Gallows

Chapter 3

It took John McBride an hour to round up his horse and by the time he rode into Rest and Be Thankful the thunderstorm had growled its way to the east, venting its fury over the desolate canyon country.

Chains of raindrops ticked from hanging signs outside the stores on each side of the wide Main Street, and the mustang picked its way through six inches of yellow churned-up mud. McBride passed a dozen saloons, a brewery and an opera house, and then rode up on a false-fronted, two-story hotel with a painted sign hanging outside that read THE KIP AND KETTLE, DENVER DORA RYAN, PROP.

McBride drew rein outside the hotel and looked the place over. A second sign had been tacked above the stained-glass front door. It proudly proclaimed that the hotel was an official stop for the Barlow-Sanderson stage line and that its restaurant ‘‘served fresh oysters twenty-four hours a day.’’

A hotel that had a stained-glass door, served fresh oysters and was run by Denver Dora Ryan, Prop., was likely to have clean beds, McBride decided. He’d see to his mustang and then check in for the night.

He called out to a man on the boardwalk and asked the way to the livery stable. ‘‘Follow your nose down the street and you’ll see it on the left,’’ the man answered.

McBride touched the brim of his plug hat and swung his horse away from the hotel, but the man’s voice stopped him.

‘‘You ride in for the funeral?’’

‘‘What funeral?’’

‘‘You answered my question with a question, so I guess you didn’t,’’ the man said. He was tall, thin, carried two guns low in crossed belts. He looked tough and capable and wore the careless arrogance of the named gunfighter like a cloak.

‘‘I’m just passing through,’’ McBride said, a fact he felt he should make well known.

The thin man nodded. ‘‘Uh-huh. Ain’t we all?’’ He grinned confidentially, as though he and McBride were sharing a deep secret.

‘‘Sure we are,’’ McBride said, trying his own confidential grin, knowing he was failing miserably.

The gunfighter took a few moments to study McBride’s face; then he said, ‘‘Passin’ through or no, I suggest you be on the street at nine for the funeral procession. Mr. Josephine will be sorely offended if you’re not.’’

‘‘The mayor?’’

‘‘Uh-huh.’’

‘‘I wouldn’t want to offend His Honor. Who’s being buried?’’

‘‘You’ll find out.’’

‘‘I guess I will.’’ McBride touched his hat again. ‘‘Well, see you around.’’

As he rode toward the livery, he glanced over his shoulder. The thin man with the two guns was standing on the boardwalk, watching him.

‘‘Now, why did you tell me that? Damn it all, boy, did I ask for your name?’’

The stable hand paused, the fistful of oats he was about to throw to McBride’s mustang hanging by his side. He was a grizzled old man, dressed in a red undershirt that had faded to a dull orange, striped pants with wide canvas suspenders and scuffed muleeared boots. He also wore an expression that hovered somewhere between irritation and outright anger.

‘‘Sorry,’’ McBride said, smiling inwardly, ‘‘but I reckoned you’d want to know the name of the man who owns the horse.’’

‘‘I know who owns this hoss,’’ the old man said. ‘‘It’s you. An’ there’s eighteen other hosses and four mules in this barn an’ I keep track of who owns each and every one of them. But I don’t know names an’ I don’t want to know. Savvy?’’

‘‘Sorry,’’ McBride said again. The stable smelled of horses, straw and dampness. He could hear rats scuttling in the dark corners.

‘‘Sorry don’t cut it, mister, not in Rest and Be Thankful it don’t.’’ The old man tossed the oats to the mustang, rubbed his hand on his pant leg, then said, an eyebrow crawling up his forehead like a hairy caterpillar: ‘‘You ain’t from around these parts, are you?’’

‘‘No, I’m from back East.’’ McBride hesitated for a heartbeat. ‘‘Originally.’’

The old man nodded. His eyes had the color of blue milk. ‘‘Took you fer some kind of Yankee, with that long face of your’n an’ all. Stayin’ in town for a spell, are ye?’’

McBride shook his head. ‘‘No. Just passing through.’’

‘‘Blow into town, blow out again. That makes good sense. Well, here’s some advice for what it’s worth—don’t ask for anybody’s handle in this town and don’t give your own. If a man wants to know your name, he’ll ask for it an’ smile all the time he’s askin’.’’ The old man’s eyes moved over McBride’s face. ‘‘A while back, a feller used to come here now an’ then and he was mighty free with his name. Proud of it you might say. He called hisself Bill Bonney. Heard o’ him?’’

‘‘Billy the Kid,’’ McBride said, smiling, remembering the dime novels he’d read back in New York. ‘‘The proud Prince of Bandits.’’

‘‘You could say that, I guess. But here’s what I’m driving at. Like I told you, young Billy tossed out his name in Rest and Be Thankful as freely as he did silver dollars to the Mexican whores. There are some who say that’s how come Pat Garrett was able to track him all the way to old Fort Sumner an’ gun him while he was holdin’ nothing but a butcher’s knife and the memory of a pretty senorita’s kisses.’’ The old man’s gaze was searching, as though he was trying to read McBride’s thoughts. ‘‘Are you catching my drift?’’

The younger man took it lightly. He grinned and tapped a forefinger against his nose. ‘‘I’ve got it. No names given or asked for in Rest and Be Thankful.’’

After a growl that might have been a word of approval, the old man asked, ‘‘What you doin’ in this neck o’ the woods anyhow?’’

‘‘Looking for work. I have four young wards attending finishing school back East and I have to earn enough to keep them there.’’

‘‘What kind o’ work?’’

‘‘Any kind of work I can find. I’m just about busted flat.’’

‘‘The saloons are always lookin’ for swampers. You could try that, though I don’t recommend it my own-self.’’ The old man’s face was suddenly crafty. ‘‘If you’re slick with the iron you could talk to Jared Josephine about gun work. He’s always hirin’. Well, talk to him or his son, Lance.’’ The old man took a step back and his eyes moved over McBride from the toes of his elastic-sided boots to the top of his plug hat. ‘‘On second thought, maybe you should forget it. Somehow you just don’t look the gunfightin’ type.’’

Strangely, McBride was pleased with the old man’s assessment of his gun skills. He didn’t want anyone in town, especially the marshal, to see him as any kind of threat. He picked up his blanket roll and threw it over his shoulder, then slid the Winchester carbine from his saddle scabbard, a ten-shot, 1866 model Yellow Boy in .44 caliber.

‘‘Nice rifle,’’ the old man said absently. He bowed his head, thinking, brow wrinkled, bushy white eyebrows lowered.

‘‘Thanks,’’ McBride said. ‘‘I bought it a few months back from a puncher with the rheumatisms who was riding the grub line up Santa Fe way. He let it go for . . .’’

But his voice petered out as he realized that the old-timer wasn’t listening.

What the man had on his mind could have gone unsaid, but he’d obviously just fought a battle with himself and decided he had to say his piece. ‘‘Here, you said you was busted. You know it costs two-bits to keep a hoss here overnight, even one like yours? That, an’ another two-bits extry fer the oats.’’

McBride smiled, fished in his pants pocket, then spun a silver dollar to the old man. ‘‘Keep the change, pops,’’ he said.