Ralph Compton - Blood on the Gallows

The lawman’s voice hardened. ‘‘You’re under arrest, McBride.’’ The shotgun barrels came up and centered on the big man’s belly. ‘‘Shuck the armpit stinger with your left hand and lay it on the table in front of you. If I see more than your fingertips on the handle I’ll cut loose and blow you in half.’’

A man, if he’s wise, doesn’t argue with a scattergun at close range, and McBride did not. He did as he was told, and Harlan said, ‘‘Now move away from the table.’’

Suddenly Harlan was a man forged from iron, unyielding and hard. By itself, the Greener shotgun was not a killer—but it was an effective tool in a killer’s grasp. Looking into the lawman’s cold eyes, McBride saw the dark soul of a man who had been a beast of prey too long. He was dissociated from the rest of humanity, a man who would kill human beings, men, women or children, as dispassionately as a hunter kills a rabbit.

There was nothing of compassion or empathy for another’s suffering about Thad Harlan, and McBride knew that if he made a single wrong move he was a dead man. He backed away from the table, the marshal following his every move.

‘‘Dora,’’ Harlan said, without taking his eyes off McBride, ‘‘don’t forget to be on the street later for the funeral.’’

The woman was holding Mrs. Davis in her arms. Her eyes lifted to Harlan, looking at him evenly. ‘‘I’m not likely to forget, am I?’’

The lawman’s lips stretched in a thin smile. ‘‘Better not, since the mayor is leading the procession. If he doesn’t see you, it could be bad for business.’’ He let his glance slide to her for a moment. His words were slow and considered as though he were picking them out of a box. ‘‘Bad for everything.’’

‘‘I’ll be there,’’ the woman said, quietly, as though she’d just suffered a small defeat.

Harlan picked up McBride’s revolver, dropped it into his slicker pocket, then motioned with the scattergun. ‘‘Let’s take a walk.’’ He bent from the waist, scooped up the calico kitten and handed it to McBride. ‘‘Take your cat. A man needs company in jail.’’

They stepped outside, Mrs. Davis’ sobs falling around them like scattered raindrops after the squall has passed.

‘‘I guess now she regrets not taking the five hundred dollars,’’ Harlan said.

Chapter 7

McBride had expected the jail to be part of the marshal’s office, but it wasn’t. It was a freestanding adobe building that faced the street, wedged between a saloon on one side and a hardware store on the other.

‘‘I haven’t cleaned up the place since I held them three bounty hunters here before they were hung.’’ Behind him, McBride heard the dry, parchment rustle of the lawman’s laugh. ‘‘But you should be cozy enough.’’

They had slopped through ankle-deep mud that was even deeper around the heavy oak door to the jail. The rain had stopped but the sky flashed, tinting the surrounding buildings with a shimmering blue radiance that made them look like structures out of a bad dream. Out on the flat the drenched coyotes shook themselves, spraying glittering arcs of water, then sat and bayed into the unheeding night.

Harlan rammed the muzzle of the Greener into McBride’s belly and pushed him back. He clanked a huge brass key into the lock and swung the creaking door wide. ‘‘Get in, and no fancy moves.’’

When he stepped inside, the stench of the place hit McBride like a fist.

‘‘Now you know why I never feed ’em before they’re hung,’’ Harlan said. He was standing just outside the door, his shotgun trained on McBride’s back. ‘‘But the mayor insisted on a last meal. Hell, when I took ’em down to the cottonwoods they were still puking, during the opening prayers mind you.’’

Harlan slammed the door and McBride heard the key turn in the lock.

‘‘Look on the bright side, McBride,’’ he said, his voice muffled. ‘‘You’ve got a ringside seat for the funeral procession.’’ Harlan sounded like an old family friend.

The marshal walked away, his boots making a sucking sound in the mud.

McBride thumbed a match into flame and looked around him. There wasn’t much to see, an iron cot covered with a filthy mattress and a bucket. A single barred window looked onto the street and the roof was low, made from heavy beams and rough-cut timber planks. The jail was twelve feet wide and maybe eight deep, resting on a cement floor. McBride tried the door. It didn’t budge as much as a fraction of an inch.

The jail had been built strong to hold hard and violent men and it served its purpose well.

‘‘Home sweet home, Sammy,’’ McBride said to the kitten. ‘‘I’m sorry I got you into this.’’

The little cat laid its head against his chest and promptly fell asleep. If it harbored any ill-feelings toward its rescuer, they were not apparent.

McBride stood close to the window, breathing in the damp night air. He had not explored his cell and had not ventured near the bucket. If it came down to it, he planned to sleep standing up.

Slow as molasses in January, an hour passed. People had been gathering on both sides of the street, mostly lean men with careful eyes who wore their guns as though they were born to them. But among them, in expensive broadcloth, stood the respectable businessmen of the town, most with their somber wives who studiously kept a stone-faced distance from the loud and profane saloon girls. Dressed in yellow, red or blue silk, the girls looked like tropical birds that had landed among a flock of crows.

Reflector lamps burned along the boardwalk, their light casting the elongated shadows of people onto the yellow mud of the street.

McBride heard a far-off, hollow boom and at first he thought the thunder had returned. But the sound continued, rhythmic and muffled, drawing closer. Craning his head to look out the window, he saw the flare of torches at the other end of the street, a dozen scarlet points of fire that bobbed as they were carried aloft.

The boom McBride had heard was made by a bass drummer thumping out a measured, steady beat to set a dignified pace for the marching mourners behind him.

The procession drew closer and on the boardwalks men removed their hats and stood with bowed heads. Lightning pulsed across the sky and the town was bathed in a trembling glow that flickered on the faces of the onlookers with an eerie silver light, as though they were spectators at a magic lantern show.

From his vantage point at the jail window McBride’s attention was drawn to the man who led the funeral procession. Jared Josephine bore a passing resemblance to his son, Lance, who walked behind him with downcast eyes, his nose and cheekbones covered by a thick white bandage.

The mayor was short and stocky, dressed in a new suit of fine black broadcloth. His head was bare, revealing a thick shock of iron gray hair, and his restless eyes constantly swept the crowd on the boards, a man making sure the turnout was what he expected. He seemed oblivious of the mud that stained his pants to the knees and he stepped confidently under the angry, sheeted lightning, an arrogant man who revered himself above all things and feared nothing.

McBride suddenly remembered a painting he’d seen in a New York art gallery of a Roman emperor riding a chariot in triumphal procession along a street thronged with cheering people.

Jared Josephine’s face revealed the emperor’s same overbearing pride and lust for power that give an ambitious man the ability to use them to dominate others. The measure of a man is what he does with power, but, again like the Roman emperor, the hint of cruelty in Josephine’s mouth and set of his stubborn chin suggested a man who would use and misuse power for his own ends, be they good or bad.