Authors: J. A. Johnstone

Shadow of the Hangman (16 page)

BOOK: Shadow of the Hangman

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Chapter Twenty-nine

There were three of them, Warm Springs Apaches who'd once been part of old Nana's band, and they'd been hunted like animals since the shaman Geronimo's surrender at Skeleton Canyon ten months before.

Before the winter came, the warriors had traveled north with two women and four children. One of the women was killed after she fell from a canyon wall two hundred miles to the south, and the others had died of starvation during the December blizzards.

The three Apaches were tired and hungry, their anger and hatred against the white man burning inside them like a disease.

They'd tracked the wounded man's blood trail from near the white settlement, almost all the way west to the summer-dry Pecos. Now, their black eyes glittering, they watched him.

Biding their time . . .

Shade Shannon knew he was hit hard. He was carrying Jacob O'Brien's lead in his right thigh, and the pain was a living thing that gnawed at him with teeth.

Once he crossed the Pecos he'd swing north toward Glorieta Mesa and Dora. She would take care of him, tend to him, kiss his wound, and tell him about all the wonderful things, female things, that lay in store for him.

Moonlight slanted through the pines, and a cool breeze fanned Shannon's cheeks. His eyes, white as milk, searched the trail ahead, anxious as he was for his first glimpse of the river.

Despite his pain, the rocking motion of his horse and the silken quiet of the evening lulled Shade Shannon into a drowsy twilight between wakefulness and sleep. He remembered nights like this when he wore yellow officer's straps on his shoulders, drinking coffee by the campfire after the day's patrol, listening to the night birds, smelling . . .

Shannon's head snapped up, and he stifled the scream that sprang to his lips. An odor came to him on the wind, a smell like no other, as distinctive and unique as that of the wolfâthe feral, musky scent of the Apache warrior.

His mouth wide open in a soundless shriek, Shannon raked spurs along his horse's flanks. The startled animal kicked into a fast gallop, heedlessly crashing through pine branches that lashed at Shannon's face. Terrified, his eyes as round and white as the moon that hovered above him, he heard the Apaches behind him, their nimble little ponies coming closer.

Shannon squealed in fear and drew his revolver. He thumbed shots into the menacing darkness. Momentarily blinded by muzzle flash, he never saw the tree limb that swept him from the saddle.

Winded, Shannon lay on his back, his revolver still in his hand. He twisted his head back and forth, searching for a target, his shrieks now giving way to a whimper.

Shannon had seen what Apaches can do to a man, and visions seared, flashing into his memory . . . the blood, the guts, the open mouths, the agonized screams echoing through eternity. He remembered men who'd taken way too long to die.

Babbling his fear, talking nonsense to dead soldiers only he could see, Shannon raised his gun to his temple. The Colt was kicked out of his hand roughly, and then he saw a flat, brown face close to his, the eyes as black and emotionless as an obsidian knife blade.

“Dora!” Shannon screamed. “Help me!”

He felt hands on his, and he was dragged, shrieking, into shadow.

“Jacob! My God, what is that?”

“A bobcat,” Jacob said. “Just a bobcat.”

“No, it's not,” Sarah said. “It's a man, a man in pain.”

Jacob drew rein. “We'll rest up here,” he said. “Over there among the pines.”

“He needs help,” Sarah said. “Maybe he's broken a leg or something.”

“That man is beyond help,” Jacob said. “There's nothing we can do for him.”

He threw his leg over the saddle horn and dismounted. Then he helped the girl to the ground. “I've got a pint of good rye in my saddlebag,” he said. “I'd say this is an excellent time to share it.”

The agonized cry of a man in mortal agony shattered apart the crystal night, followed by another and another. The serene moon glowed in the sky, and an uncaring breeze played among the trees.

Sarah put her hands to her ears. “I can't bear to hear it,” she said. “Jacob, help him.”

Jacob grabbed the girl by the arm and then led both her and his horse into the sheltering pines. He forced Sarah to sit at the base of a tree, took the rye from his saddlebags, and put the bottle to her mouth. “Drink deep,” he said.

The girl shook her head, avoiding the bottle.

Jacob said, “Damn you, drink.”

Sarah violently shook her head. “I don't want to drink! I don't want to hear that man scream! Why won't you help him?” She covered her ears again, rocked her head back and forth, and wailed, “Make it stop! Make it stop!”

Jacob slapped her then, his big, work-hardened hand slamming into the side of Sarah's head. The girl cried out and fell to her right, but Jacob grabbed her and pulled her face close to his, staring into her unfocused eyes.

“It's Apaches, do you understand?” he said. “They're working on the man you saw at the saloon.”

The left side of the girl's face was already showing bruises, but her eyes were quieter, less hysterical. “Apaches?”

“Yeah, and do you know what they'll do to you if they find us?” Jacob said.

Sarah startled to struggle, and Jacob laid it out for her. “You'll meet your Maker missing your tits, and maybe more.”

Shannon's frantic screams were coming very close together now, and in the distance Jacob saw the glow of a fire in the tree canopy.

The girl lifted her bruised face to Jacob. Tears ran down her cheeks, mixed with streaks of lilac, the eye shadow that Jacob had thought so appealing earlier. “Give me the damned whiskey,” she said.

Jacob handed Sarah the bottle, and she took a long swig. She handed the whiskey back and Jacob did the same.

The girl laid her head against the pine trunk and whispered, “Oh, God, please make it stop.” She was calmer now, all too aware of what Apaches did to women captives.

But it didn't stop. Shannon screamed, by Jacob's estimate, for six hours, until the long, venomous night shaded into a bright morning.

Somehow Sarah had managed to sleep, helped by a combination of rye whiskey and Jacob's slap. When he shook the girl awake and daylight revealed just how bruised her face was, he cursed himself for a violent, woman-beating brute.

“I'm going to take a look-see,” he told the girl. “If you hear shooting and I don't come hightailing it back here, point my horse south and don't stop riding until you reach Georgetown.”

Sarah nodded, and Jacob said, “Sorry about your face. I didn't mean to hit you that hard.”

After her fingertips strayed to her cheek and she winced, the girl said, “Men have hit me harder.”

“I don't go around striking women,” Jacob said. “Or children, old people, or animals.”

“Yes, I'm sure you don't,” Sarah said.

“I mean, really I don't.”

“Then I'll take your word for it.”

Sarah touched her cheek again and winced for a second time, only her grimace of pain was more pronounced.

“Damn it, Sarah,” Jacob said, “I've never hit a woman in my life. But you were hysterical and Apaches were out there, and maybe they're still around. I had to do something pretty damn quick.”

“So you say, Jacob.”

“You don't believe me?”

“I don't know what to believe, do I?”

Jacob groaned. “I'll never do anything like that to you or any other woman again.”

“So you say, Jacob.”

“I promise you, I won't.”

“So youâ”

“Damn it, Sarah, stop repeating that âso you say' stuff,” Jacob said.

“And if I don't, what will you do? Haul off and beat me again?”

Jacob recalled the only two pieces of advice he'd gotten from Luther Ironside that ever stuck with him. The first was, “Don't joke with cooks or mules, as they have no sense of humor.” The second, and now he realized the most important, was, “Boy, there's two theories to arguin' with a woman, and neither one works worth a damn.”

“Well, like I said, I'm going to take a look, make sure the Apaches are gone,” Jacob said. He smiled sympathetically, he hoped. “You just rest there a spell.”

“I'll try,” Sarah said. “It's difficult for a woman to rest when she's in pain from a beating.”

Jacob bit his tongue. But he managed to say, “Remember what I told you. If I'm not back within an hour, or if you hear shooting that ends with Apaches hollering, get on the horse and ride.”

“I'll try,” Sarah said.

Figuring that a woman who nurses her wrath to keep it warm was worse than Apaches any day of the week, Jacob drew his gun and stepped into the trees.

Shade Shannon had died hard. He hung by his ankles from the limb of a wild oak, his head inches above the ashy embers of a small fire. All his hair had burned away, as had his eyes, and at some point near the end, his skull had split and his brains had spilled out.

Jacob knew the man was a vicious animal who needed killing, but even a ruthless monster didn't deserve to die like this. His death had been painful and long in coming.

The Apaches were gone, and Jacob holstered his Colt and wondered what a man thinks when he's dying like that. Does he think only of the pain and nothing else, or does his mind go back to the events of his lifeâat least until his head cracks open and he hears his brains sizzle?

He had no way of knowing, and he never wanted to find out from firsthand experience.

Jacob took out his Barlow and cut the man down. He left him where he lay. The coyotes would find him soon enough.

Chapter Thirty

“Shade's not coming back,” Dora DeClare said. “Something's happened to him.”

“I suspect an O'Brien brother happened to him,” Luke Caldwell said.

Lum spat. “He wasn't much. Who the hell cares?”

“I do,” Dora said. “Now there are only four of us to get the job done.”

Lum grinned and waved a hand toward Joshua DeClare. “Three and a half, if you're counting him.”

The Colt New House .38 appeared like a striking snake from under the blanket that covered DeClare's legs. “You want me to make it two and a half, Lum?” he said, the belly gun pointing at the big man's head.

If Lum was intimidated, he didn't show it. “Suppose I shove that itty-bitty up your crippled ass and pull the trigger?” he said.

“Stop that at once,” Dora said, stepping between the two men. “We're all on edge, but we need to put our plan in motion. We can assume that Patrick O'Brien was hung and that his father now grieves for him, so part of my revenge is complete. Now it's time to rub salt into the colonel's wounds, and that means we must get hold of Lorena O'Brien.”

Joshua DeClare put the pocket revolver away. “How do we play it, Dora?”

“We'll keep watch on Dromore for the next few days and see if the woman ever rides out alone,” Dora said.

“And if she doesn't?” Caldwell said. He reached for the coffeepot.

“If she doesn't,” Dora said, “well . . . watch this!”

Dora made a play of limping, then knocking on a door.

“Oh, kind sir,” she said, making a little curtsy, her forefinger under her chin, “my horse threw me on the trail and I'm quite undone.” She fluttered her eyelashes, and the men present laughed. “I fear I am badly bruised in places I can only show another lady. Is there a lady within?”

Dora pretended to drink tea. “Oh, my dear Mrs. O'Brien, I am but a young convent girl and not accustomed to the rough company of men.”

This drew another laugh.

“So, could you please help me find my horse, dear, dear Mrs. O'Brien, pretty please?”

The men applauded, and Dora made another curtsy.

“Dora, do you think it will work?” her brother said.

“It's got to work,” Dora said. “I'll make it work.”

“I think it's inspired,” Lum said. “A plan worthy of the master we serve.”

Dora smiled. “Yes, I think our prince likes it. I can feel his hands on me, telling me he does.” She looked at Lum. “Once I get the O'Brien woman alone, I'll hand her over to you, Lum. I want her so that she'll never again bear the touch of a man. Rape her until she screams for mercy, then rape her some more.”

The woman pointed in the direction of Dromore. “From then forth, there will be a pall over the damned O'Brien house that will never lift. The colonel will sup sorrow with the spoon of grief, and then and only then will he feel the full measure of my own lamentation.”

Dora smiled and clicked the fingers of her right hand. “Here's a wonderful thought. Our prince has just added to my plan and made it foolproof. All praise to our dark master!”

“All praise,” Lum and Joshua said in unison. Caldwell smiled but said nothing, drinking his coffee, enjoying the fresh smell of the morning.

“Luke,” Dora said, “you will give me your knife when I go to call on dear Mrs. O'Brien.”

“You gonna stick her?” Caldwell said.

“Only if my initial plan fails,” Dora said. “But think of it, brothers, if the bitch prefers to be a stay-at-home, I will pull my knife and gut her son, the dear, baby boy I was so anxious to see!” Dora raised her arms and tilted back her head. “All praise to our prince!” she yelled.

“All praise to our prince,” Lum and Joshua repeated.

“Dora, they'll gun you for sure,” Caldwell said.

“So?” Dora said. “Then all that happens is that my soul flies to hell and I join my father and my master.” She kneeled at her brother's wheelchair. “Joshua, which is the more exquisite, to gut the son and let the mother live, or gut them both?” She smiled. “Now, out with it, I depend on your advice.”

“Just the son,” Joshua said. “I think it will destroy the mother and kill the colonel with grief.”

Dora sprang to her feet, laughing. “Then that is how it will be.”

“But releasing the woman to me is still our first choice, is it not?” Lum said.

“Of course,” Dora said. “Having you rape the O'Brien wench until she goes out of her mind is still the most exquisite and, I must say, most wonderful plan of all.”

Joshua DeClare grinned. “Then let's open the ball, sister. Who takes the first watch?”

“Luke, you will,” Dora said. “Lum will relieve you in four hours. Now, be careful you're not seen, and take plenty of water with you. I'll have a pot of bacon and beans simmering on the fire all day. Big, strong men like you and Lum do get hungry.”

“If I see Lorena O'Brien riding out, do I fog it back here or grab her myself?” Caldwell said.

“Come back for Lum,” Dora said. “I want to be sure we capture her. If we don't, we won't get a second chance.”

“Then we move on to your little lady in distress plan, huh?” Lum said.

“Yes. But I'd rather get my hands on the woman and take her into the mountains where she'll never be found. That is, until I want her found.”

Lum's voice softened and his eyes hazed, like a man about to recall a fond memory from his schooldays. “We could send her back skun,” he said. “One time up on the Barbary Coast I skun a Chinese whore who sassed me, strung her up from a roof beam and went at her with a razor. She never sassed anybody else again, I tell you that.”

A silence descended on the group, and Dora's smile froze into a grimace. Caldwell just stared at Lum, his coffee cup halfway to his mouth, and Joshua looked even sicker than he already was.

“Lookit,” Lum said, a man with all the sensitivity of a grave robber. He dug in his pocket and held up a small brown pouch, closed with a piece of blue silk ribbon. “This is one of her tits and a ribbon from her hair. I'm not a smoking man, but I made me a tobacco pouch of it, should I ever feel inclined to take up the habit.”

Again, the big man's pronouncements were met with silence, and again he unheedingly stomped right over the stunned quiet. “I can slice up the O'Brien gal and make a tobaccy pouch for her husband,” he said. Then, laughing, he added, “Wouldn't that be a kick in the ass?!” Lum looked around him, grinning. “Huh? Huh?”

“Yes, Lum,” Dora said, “yes it would.” She turned to Caldwell. “Luke, shouldn't you get on watch?”

The Texan nodded. “Yeah, I'm going. Just don't let that damned lunatic get behind me with a knife.”

“It could happen, gunfighter, one of these days,” Lum said, his face ugly.

“Then after you've made your brags, come at me straight on and true blue,” Caldwell said.

Lum shook his head. “That's not my style, boy.”

“Please, Luke,” Dora said, “go on watch.” She was very pale, her lips drained of color.

Caldwell hesitated, then said, “Dora, what are you going to do when this is over? I mean, how long has it been since Shamus O'Brien hung your pa?”

“Ten years ago this Christmas Eve,” Dora said. “I was sixteen at the time.”

“You've planned your revenge on the old colonel for so long, what will you do when he's dead and Dromore lies in ruins?” Caldwell said.

Joshua answered for his sister. “A gallery in London plans an exhibition of my landscapes next spring. We'll be there for opening night.”

Dora raised her eyes to the tall gunman. “Does that answer your question?”

“I guess so,” Caldwell said. He smiled. “Maybe I'll tag along. You might need my gun.”

Joshua said, “I doubt if your kind would be welcome in Europe, Caldwell. Texas gunfighters aren't needed in an art gallery.”

“Too genteel for a man like me, huh?” Caldwell said.

“Exactly,” Joshua said.

“But Satan worshippers like you and Dora are welcomed with open arms?”

“Let's just say that the Europeans, especially the English, appreciate the artistic temperament,” Joshua said. “If a painter is talented, they'll overlook much.”

“Hell,” Caldwell said, “I don't want to go to London anyhow.”

He turned on his heel and headed for his horse, and behind him, Joshua said, “Lum, you really will have to get rid of that lout one day.”

“The pleasure will be all mine,” Lum said.

BOOK: Shadow of the Hangman

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