Ralph Compton - Blood on the Gallows

McBride held the squirming, squealing bundle in his arms. They were in the kitchen of the ranch house, rain pounding on the roof, the coyotes calling close.

‘‘Lance Josephine,’’ McBride said. ‘‘There was no other way?’’

‘‘He chose his way,’’ Remorse said. ‘‘He and his father took a trail that was destined to end in death. It was my unfortunate task to be the instrument of their fate, and that too was destined.’’

McBride rocked the baby in his arms. ‘‘So much death, so much killing, and for what?’’

‘‘For a mountain lined with silver,’’ Remorse said. ‘‘Men have killed for a lot less.’’

The silence that stretched between them was fractured by the baby’s cries.

Remorse put his palms against his ears and said, ‘‘John, take that child to Julieta. Please!’’

McBride sniffed and his face fell. ‘‘I think he’s done something.’’

‘‘All the more reason to take him to Julieta.’’

McBride was dismayed. ‘‘But . . . but I’ll have to carry him all the way. He doesn’t smell too good.’’

‘‘You could always take him to Julieta facedown over a horse,’’ Remorse said.

‘‘Saul, I can’t do that.’’

‘‘You’ll have to carry him, then, won’t you?’’ Remorse winced as the baby’s shrieks reached a crescendo. ‘‘Please, John, just go!’’

McBride held Simon out to Remorse. ‘‘Hold him while I go back for the horses.’’

‘‘I’d rather not.’’

‘‘I can’t get the horses and carry a baby at the same time.’’

Remorse saw the logic of that, and gingerly accepted the screeching child, his face showing his distaste. ‘‘For heaven’s sake hurry,’’ he said.

As McBride stepped to the door, the reverend called out after him, ‘‘Be careful, John. Thad Harlan is out there somewhere and he surely hates you.’’

The mustang and Remorse’s gray had not wandered far, keeping to the shelter of the trees. McBride was uneasy over Remorse’s warning about Harlan. But he saw nothing menacing in the darkness, and the only sounds were the fall of the rain and the yips of the coyotes.

He led the horses back to the cabin, left the mustang out front and put the gray in the barn. When he returned Remorse was still in the kitchen, his nerves frayed by the squalling baby.

‘‘Here, take him,’’ he said as soon as he set eyes on McBride. ‘‘Then go!’’

‘‘Doesn’t this kid ever sleep?’’ McBride asked, taking the kicking bundle from Remorse’s hands.

‘‘He won’t sleep so long as he’s hungry. That’s why you must leave at once.’’

McBride hesitated a moment, then said, ‘‘Will you be all right . . . with them?’’

Remorse nodded. ‘‘Yes. I’ll take care of them.’’

‘‘Saul, be gentle with Clare. She didn’t have much of a life and she died a terrible death.’’

‘‘I know. I’ll take care of her and the other two, John. Now, please leave.’’

McBride rode away from the cabin into the night, the baby in his arms, inside his slicker. Simon cried constantly and loudly, but McBride tried to look on the bright side. If Harlan was out there somewhere, he wouldn’t come near a shrieking, smelly kid. He was a killer, but he wasn’t stupid.

The rain hammering against him, lightning flaring in the clouds, McBride rode through the darkness. He figured the only sounds to be heard for miles around were the wails of the baby. Even the coyotes had fallen silent, drowned out by the relentless racket, and the mustang was acting up, irritated by the constant noise.

But McBride was less annoyed than he’d expected. He was riding away from the horrors of the O’Neil ranch, and he felt that all the violence and dying was already fading into memory behind him. Even the baby in his arms was a symbol of life, not death, and that thought pleased him.

As he rode past the buttes and peaks of the Capitan Mountains, they were hidden in the gloom, the slopes now and then shimmering white when lightning flashed.

The baby was still crying incessantly, and McBride lifted him in his arm and asked, ‘‘Would you like me to sing you a lullaby, Simon?’’ He paused as the child howled, then said, ‘‘You do? Good, then I’ll sing you a fine old Irish rebel song.’’ He smiled. ‘‘You’ll like this, Simon.’’

McBride tilted back his head, and in his tuneless baritone hollered at the top of his lungs:

‘‘And tell me, Sean O’Farrell, where the gath’rin’ is to be, At the old spot by the river quite well known to you and me.

By the rising of the moon, by the rising of the moon, With me pike upon me shoulder by the rising of the moon.’’

McBride looked down at the baby again. ‘‘How’s that, Simon? Want to hear more?’’

His only answer was a rending caterwauling that was still tearing apart the fabric of the night as he rode up to Julieta’s cabin and the girl came rushing out to meet him.

‘‘What have you done to him?’’ she yelled.

‘‘Nothing,’’ McBride protested. ‘‘Well, I sang to him and he cried even worse. He’s hungry. I was going to fry him up some bacon or salt pork but Saul said he needs—’’

‘‘I know what he needs,’’ Julieta snapped. She took the baby from McBride and hurried into the cabin, but paused at the door and looked back. ‘‘Maybe you hadn’t noticed, Mr. McBride, but he has no teeth.’’ She shook her head, her eyes blazing. ‘‘Salt pork indeed!’’

McBride stepped out of the saddle, aware that he’d just been scolded but having no idea why. He was the first to admit that he knew little about women and even less about babies, but Julieta’s reaction surprised him. He’d seen that Simon had no teeth, but he’d planned to cut up the salt pork in real small pieces so the kid could swallow them.

He walked into the cabin and watched as Julieta prepared food for the baby. She looked incredibly pretty in a pink gingham dress and seemed to be recovering from her ordeal at the hands of the Apache.

‘‘There’s coffee on the stove,’’ she said. ‘‘You look like you could use some.’’

McBride poured himself a cup and sat at the table, watching the girl feed the now silent baby. ‘‘So that’s what a pap boat is,’’ he said, nodding toward the ceramic dish in Julieta’s hand. He smiled. ‘‘Kind of looks like a gravy pourer . . . thing.’’

‘‘Who told you about a pap boat?’’ Julieta asked, surprised.

‘‘Saul Remorse. I’d never heard of it before.’’

‘‘Mother’s milk is best, but when there is none, this is what we do.’’

McBride looked down at the coffee in his cup. It seemed to him that the silence stretching between him and the girl went on and on forever. Finally she said, ‘‘Tell me what happened.’’

There was no easy way, and McBride said it straight out. ‘‘Clare O’Neil is dead.’’

Another silence. McBride heard the tiny sucking noises made by Simon and he saw the sudden start of tears in Julieta’s eyes. ‘‘How did it—’’

McBride told her.

And when he was finished, he said, ‘‘Thad Harlan is still out there somewhere. I plan on catching up to him.’’

Julieta bent and kissed the baby’s head, bathing him with her tears. ‘‘Poor little orphan,’’ she whispered. After a while her eyes lifted to McBride. ‘‘Clare’s mind was not in a good place. You knew about her and Dora Ryan?’’

McBride nodded. ‘‘Yes, I knew about that.’’

‘‘I’m sure that Dora could have helped her, given time. The only problem was that time was something neither of them had. In the end Clare could only cling to her dream of passing the silver mine on to her son.’’