The Shadow of a Noose Page 5

  “What are you, stock detectives or bounty hunters?”

  Duncan Grago shrugged and sipped his beer. “We’re a little bit of both, you could say. But that’s not important. What was all the shooting about here?”

  “I’m Denton Perkins. A couple of wanted killers rode in here a while ago, shot our sheriff down like a dog, and wounded some of the men trying to help him uphold the law. Now the sheriff from St. Joe is protecting them—feeding them steak and biscuits, if you can believe that!”

  Duncan Grago shook his head in disgust and said, “I can believe just about anything when it comes to that sheriff in St. Joe. Most detectives like us don’t even bother asking his help anymore, for we know we won’t get it. But he is a lawman, so what can you do about it?”

  Denton Perkins gritted his teeth, running his fingertips across the bruise on his forehead. “You just watch, mister, you’ll see what we can do about it!” he said to Duncan Grago. “When the law don’t work for decent folks, it’s time to get rid of the law! Am I right, men?”

  “Damn right!” one of the railroaders shouted. Beer mugs tipped in agreement.

  Denton Perkins swiped a hand across the bar, snatching up a half-full whiskey bottle. He threw back a long swig, and when he caught his breath, he banged a fist down on the wet bar top with a look of solemn finality. “Get a rope,” he growled at the others.

  In a wake of shuffling boot leather and drunken threats, the railroaders spilled from the dirty tavern, busting the plank door off its hinges on their way. At the bar, Duncan Grago turned to Sep Howard and laughed under his breath. “See? Wasn’t this worth stopping for?” He raised his beer mug as if giving a toast and added, “I say anytime you can take a few minutes and get some poor bastard hung, it’s always worth doing.”

  “Damn,” Sep Howard whispered almost to himself, “and them boys are innocent.”

  Duncan Grago turned to him incredulously and said, “Innocent? Innocent of what?” He cut a sharp glance to Sep Howard. “The last innocent man on this earth was Jesus. You heard what he got for his effort. I ain’t worried about innocent men getting hung. It’s when they hang the guilty that troubles me.”

  Chapter 3

  Sheriff Connally heard the large rock slam into the door of the doctor’s office. He stood up and walked to the small window overlooking the narrow dirt street. “They’re quicker than I thought they would be,” he said over his shoulder to the twins, Willard Chapin, and Doc Eisenhower, who had returned from tending the wounded railroad workers in the lobby of a small hotel. “Willard, are you sure the horses are safely tucked away out of sight?”

  “Yes, Sheriff,” Willard replied, moving over to the window beside him to peer down at the angry mob. “I stabled them at the old express station. Nobody uses it anymore.”

  “How far it is from the jail?” Connally asked.

  “Less than two blocks,” Willard replied. “But don’t worry—when you need them, I’ll go fetch them for you and take them around back.”

  “Much obliged, Willard,” said Connally, “but you’ve done plenty already. You have to live with these folks after it’s over.”

  Another rock hit the door, then Denton Perkins’s voice shouted in a drunken rage, “Come on out, Sheriff! Hand them killers over to us!”

  Instead of opening the door, Sheriff Connally raised the window a little more and called down to them, “These boys are not charged with anything, and they won’t be. You’re making a big mistake here. The next rock that hits this door is going to cost somebody their fingers!”

  On the street, one of the railroaders holding a rock at his side let it drop to the ground. Denton Perkins saw him and raged at him, “Pick that up, Wilson, you coward! We’re not backing off till we’ve finished this!” He looked around at the other men behind him, and shook the rope on his shoulder. “That goes for all of yas! We’ll burn them out if we have to!”

  “This is insane,” Doc Eisenhower said, hearing Denton Perkins shout at the others. “Let me see if I can talk sense to these men.”

  “Don’t go out there, Doc,” Connally cautioned him. But Doc Eisenhower wouldn’t listen to him.

  “I know all of these men, Sheriff, and I’m getting tired of dressing their bullet wounds.” He moved quickly to the door and swung it open before Sheriff Connally could stop him. He looked down at the drunken, angry faces from the second-floor landing, then said to all of them, “You best watch your mouth, boys. Torch this building, and I’ll leave here and never look back! Then who’ll you go limping off to next time you crack your ankle with a bull hammer?”

  “Stay out of this, Doc!” Denton Perkins warned him. “Those boys are outlaws! Two stock detectives just identified them over at the tavern. They been on their trail the past month, ever since their gang split up! We’re taking ’em to a pole and stringing ’em up!”

  As Doc Eisenhower and the railroaders shouted back and forth, Sheriff Connally looked back over his shoulder at Willard Chapin and asked, “What’s he talking about? These boys never left the farm except to hire out a day’s work when they were lucky.”

  Willard replied, “I have no idea, but there was two strangers headed into the tavern when I came by there.”

  “Well, hell.” Connally sighed. “There’s no telling who that is. Could be the bushwhackers these boys ran into coming here.”

  “It don’t matter who it is,” Jed Strange said, pushing himself up from his chair with his good hand, his bullet-creased arm in a sling. He walked over to Sheriff Connally and Willard Chapin by the window. “This is mine and Tim’s fight, Sheriff. Just let us go down there.”

  “That’s right,” said Tim, trying to swing his wounded leg over the edge of the table, “you’ve done all you can for us.”

  “Both of yas, hush,” said Sheriff Connally. “Stay back from the window, Jed. I didn’t ride all this way just to see you both hang!”

  On the landing, Doc Eisenhower had been arguing with the railroaders when his voice stopped short in a grunt as a rock skipped off his head and bounced through the open door. “Damn it all!” he shouted, staggering back inside with his hand raised to a bloody gash. “That’s it! I’ll shoot them myself, the drunken bunch of gandy dancers!”

  “Hold on, Doc,” Sheriff Connally said, seeing Doc Eisenhower reach for Jed and Tim’s rabbit gun, which Willard Chapin had brought in from the express stables. “Take care of your head. I’ll handle this bunch.”

  “Not by yourself you won’t,” said Jed, snatching the rabbit gun from the doctor with his good hand. “Not as long as I can swing a load of buckshot.”

  “No, Jed, trust me on this,” Sheriff Connally said, reaching out for the shotgun. “Seeing you armed will only make them madder. This ain’t the first time I’ve had to handle a bunch of drunks. They’re whiskey-brave right now, but it won’t last.”

  Reluctantly, Jed turned the shotgun loose when Sheriff Connally closed his hand down over the front stock. “That’s good, Jed,” Connally offered in a quiet tone. “Now if you’ll let me borrow this for about five minutes, we’ll all feel a little better.”

  “Careful down there, Sheriff,” Doc Eisenhower warned.

  “Is there another way out of here?” Connally asked, checking the action of the short-barreled rifle as he spoke.

  “Yep, there’s a set of stairs leading down to Pelcher’s saddle shop,” said Doc Eisenhower. “The shop’s closed till Pelcher gets back from Arkansas. There’s also a back door out to the alley.”

  “Good deal,” said Connally. “Suppose the two of you can get Tim over to the jail, while I turkey these railroaders down?”

  Doc Eisenhower looked Tim Strange up and down, and replied to Connally, “Well, moving him this soon is gonna start that leg bleeding again, but I reckon we’re down to slim choices.” He looked at Willard Chapin. “You up for it?”

  “I’m game,” said Chapin.

  “All right then,” Connally said, swinging the rabbit gun under his arm, then lifting his Colt
from his holster. “Count to fifty once I step out the door, then make your move.”

  “But, Sheriff,” said Jed Strange, “I can’t let you do this—”

  “Jed,” Connally said stiffly, cutting him off, “it’s been years since anybody’s let me do a damn thing. You can best help by doing like I say. Get ready now, all of yas.”

  When Sheriff Connally stepped out on the landing, the railroaders greeted him with loud jeers. A rock thumped against the side of the clapboard building then fell at the sheriff’s boots. Slowly, Connally looked down at the rock, the butt of the rabbit gun propped against his hip, the Colt in his right hand still hanging down his thigh. The crowd grew quiet for a second, seeing his slow, calm manner as he looked out at them and spoke.

  “Count your fingers, boys. What I said about rock throwing still goes.” Connally stepped down, one slow step at a time, his calm aura seeming to give the men pause. But as he stepped off the bottom stair, the nine or ten railroaders drew closer together like cautious wolves. Denton Perkins crouched a bit and began slapping the coiled rope on the dusty ground, a noose now tied in the end of it.

  “Come on, Sheriff, just try to stop us,” he said, the slapping rope raising a low stir of dust. “There’s only one of you. You’ve overplayed your hand.”

  “I’m sorry to hear you say that, mister,” Connally said, raising the Colt, eyeing down the barrel at Denton Perkins’s leg, “because I know you came all this way to work and make wages. I figure a busted knee-cap’s gonna lay you up at least six weeks, provided there’s no infection. You can spend the rest of your life telling everybody why you limp.”

  “You won’t do it,” Denton Perkins sneered. “Those stock detectives told us the color of your stool.” He slapped the coiled rope harder and faster on the ground, the sound of it seeming to turn the rest of the men bolder. They all inched forward behind Perkins.

  The sheriff’s Colt cocked beneath his thumb. “Slap that rope one more time, and it’s done, you ignorant peckerwood,” Connally hissed through clenched teeth. The conviction in his words caused Perkins’s coiled rope to stop midswing, but Perkins hadn’t backed down altogether yet.

  “Sheriff, we all move at once, we’ll plow right over you,” Perkins said with a sneer.

  “Some of you might,” Connally said, pulling back both hammers on the rabbit gun, “but most of you won’t feel nothing but a hot blast.” He honed back into Perkins’s eyes. “Then you won’t have to explain the limp. I’ll kill you graveyard dead. That’s the sum of it.” As Sheriff Connally spoke, he made his advance, pressing closer, so close to Denton Perkins that the man had to inch back lest the barrel of the rabbit gun poke him beneath his chin. With Perkins backing up, the men behind him had no choice but to back up too. Those who didn’t had to spread to the side, Connally moving into their midst, his eyes and guns fanning back and forth slowly.

  Connally saw that second when the whiskey alone wasn’t enough to sustain them. The men wanted to turn and run now, he could sense it. Yet there was one more thing he needed to bring it about, and Denton Perkins opened his mouth and gave it to him.

  “We ain’t going to be—”

  Before Perkins could get the words out, Connally dropped low almost to his knees, swinging the Colt a full fast circle and slamming the barrel upward into the big man’s crotch. Perkins buckled forward, his arms wrapping around his lower belly. He hung there as if suspended, a long string of saliva swinging from his wide open mouth. The onlookers groaned with him. A couple of them cried out as Connally’s pistol whipped around in another hard fast circle and the butt of it crashed down hard on Perkins’s thick neck. The force of the blow lifted Connally up onto this tiptoes.

  “Lord—God!” a thin man in striped bib overalls yelled. “Don’t kill him!”

  “Do something, Roberts!” a voice from the crowd called out to the thin man.

  Connally stalked toward him now, the rest of the men’s spirits breaking fast as they hurried away quarter-wise, still staring back. Connally reached out with his boot and kicked the coiled rope forward. Roberts jumped from it as though it were a snake. “Go on, Roberts!” Connally shouted. “Pick it up! This man’s down, now you take the lead!”

  Roberts broke backward in a run, a startled look on his face. “Sheriff, you can’t do this! We’re just hardworking—”

  His words were cut short as well, a blast from Connally’s pistol throwing dirt up against his shins. “Who’s gonna take the lead now?” Connally bellowed at the dispersed men. “Come on, somebody pick it up!” He stood for a moment in the echo of his words, his eyes moving from one man to the next as they cowered back a safe distance. “All right, I’ll take it myself!” Connally jammed the pistol down into his holster, snatched up the coiled rope, and stepped back to where Denton Perkins lay heaving on his face, his buttocks still raised in the air, his arms still tight across his belly.

  “You’ve . . . ruint me,” Perkins groaned, strained and breathless.

  “Not yet, I ain’t,” said Connally. He dropped the noose over the big man’s neck and jerked up, making Perkins raise stiffly to his knees. “Now we’re gonna see who your friends really are.” He jerked more, forcing Perkins to his feet. “He’s going with me,” Connally announced to the rest of the men. “You want to see a hanging? Just come give me some guff. I’ll swing him off a chair from a jailhouse rafter.”

  The men only watched, their mouths agape, as Sheriff Connally shoved Perkins forward ahead of him. Perkins staggered in the dirt, his waist still badly bent, his boots dragging and having a hard time staying straight. Perkins heaved up a spray of sour whiskey as they moved in the direction of the new jail.

  “My goodness,” Doc Eisenhower exclaimed, taking Denton Perkins by his bowed-over shoulder and helping him through the door, “you’ve nearly nutted this man.”

  “He’s all right,” said Sheriff Connally, shoving Perkins forward until the man slammed against a desk and fell into a ball on the plank floor. “He’s lucky I didn’t kill him.” Connally bent slightly, placing a boot down on Perkins’s shoulders and yanking the noose enough to make Perkins face him. “Anybody rushes this jail, and I’ll take it out on your hide. Because they know, you know, and I know that I will hang you dead. Are we clear on that?”

  “I—I didn’t do . . . nothing but try to . . . see justice done.”

  “I’ll see to it that they carve that on your marker,” said Sheriff Connally. “Now, tell me about these two so-called stock detectives. What did they look like? What are they riding?”

  “I paid no attention to what they’re riding,” Denton Perkins said in a strained voice. “They said their names were Al Townsend and Earl Jones. Jones was the one doing the talking. He’s young, with rusty yellow hair. Wears his hair and sideburns bristly short, almost shaved. He sports a leather Mexican vest, and a brown beat-up Stetson.” Perkins stopped and gulped a breath of air, then continued, his arms still clutched across his belly. “The other is older, heavyset and unkempt. Wears a big drooping gray mustache and a black-and-white checkered shirt. His hat’s too far gone to describe.”

  Willard Chapin cut in, saying, “I looked over at the hitch rail outside of Copley’s Tavern on our way over here, Sheriff. Those two horses are gone. One was a line-back dun, the other was a roan with three white stockings.”

  “Thanks, Willard,” said Sheriff Connally. He turned his eyes to Jed Strange standing inside the open cell door, and asked, “Does that sound like the men you ran into?”

  “Yep,” said Jed, “that’s them all right. We didn’t see their horses.” Jed shot Denton Perkins a glare of contempt, saying, “You took their word that we’re outlaws. Mister, my brother and me have gone hungry the past year when it would be easy to walk in somewhere with guns and take what we wanted. I hope you’re damn proud of yourself.”

  “Easy, Jed,” Sheriff Connally said, seeing the rage in the young man’s eyes. “He’s only one more fool in a world full of many.” Connally straightened up an
d turned to Dr. Eisenhower, asking, “How’s Tim’s leg, Doc?”

  “It’s bleeding again, like I was afraid it would,” Doc said, nodding toward the open door of the cell where Tim lay on a bunk. Jed and Willard Chapin stood beside him. “The bullet nicked an artery. I put a stitch down deep in it. I’m going to let it alone for a few more minutes. If it don’t stop, I’ll cauterize it.” He sighed, then added, “My fear is that when the day workers come in off the road, they’ll liquor up and start things all over again. If they do, it’ll be hard to stop them.” He nodded at Tim Strange. “And that boy has no business on a horse, making a run for it.”

  “Damn it,” Connally said under his breath. He looked all around at the small office, the three cells, and the door on the back wall. “Get his leg fixed up the best you can for traveling, Doc. Having Perkins here will buy us some time. I’ll hold up this bunch as long as I can, but this evening me and these boys are going to have to clear out of here. Once they’re safe back in St. Joe, I want to catch up to Townsend and Jones real bad. I’m getting a hunch they’re the ones who robbed and killed Elvin Bray.”

  As the sheriff spoke to Doc Eisenhower, Tim listened from the bunk in the cell. He looked down at his ripped trouser leg and at the blood-soaked bandage around his thigh. Then he looked up at Jed and caught his eyes for a second, just long enough for something to pass between them. Jed Strange got the message his twin was sending him. He eased closer to the rabbit gun, which sat leaning against the wall. Then he stopped and stood near it. Without bringing attention to himself, Jed picked the rabbit gun up and cradled it in the crook of his good arm.

  In the midafternoon, Doc Eisenhower stood back from checking on Tim’s leg wound and let a sigh of relief. “Well, the bleeding’s stopped. I’m going to have to get over to the hotel lobby and check on them wounded railroaders.” He turned to Sheriff Connally and said, “The day crews will start straggling in anytime now. Keep a close eye toward the tavern.”