Lynch Law Page 5

  Tears dropped from Dawson’s eyelashes down his cheeks, and his lips were pinched together. I’ll get them if it’s the last thing I do.

  Chapter Four

  It was morning and the sun shone brightly as Craig Delane rode his buckboard down the lane to his ranch house. Cynthia sat beside him, her eyes staring and hollow after a sleepless night, and their three cowboy escorts sat on their horses, talking among themselves about the beating in the jail and the lynching. Craig stopped the buckboard in front of the house and pulled the brake lever.

  “I’m going to my room,” Cynthia said. “I don’t want to be disturbed.”

  A cowboy dismounted to help Cynthia get out of the buckboard. Cynthia raised her skirt and accepted his hand, climbing to the ground.

  Bernice, their middle-aged spinster maid, opened the front door, and Cynthia stepped inside.

  “What’s wrong, Mrs. Delane?” Bernice asked.

  “Draw me a bath,” Cynthia ordered, heading for the staircase that led to her bedroom upstairs.

  Craig watched the front door close. He jumped to the ground and said to his cowboys, “Take care of the wagon.”

  One of the cowboys dismounted and tethered his horse to the rear of the wagon. He climbed into Craig’s seat and flicked the reins. The buckboard and cowboys headed toward the barn, leaving Craig alone in front of his ranch house.

  Craig had three cups of coffee for breakfast and it was doing something bad to him. The lynching had been disturbing, and now Cynthia was leaving him. She was impossible, but she’d always been impossible. If it wasn’t one thing, it was another. Sometimes he thought he didn’t measure up to the standards she expected in a husband.

  She’d never said she’d leave him before. This was something new, and Craig didn’t like it. The frontier was too much for her, and he could understand how she felt. It was too much for him too.

  Delane strolled aimlessly into the fields, his hands in the pockets of his suit, and his big pearl-colored hat on his head. He had paperwork to do, but it could wait. The real work would come when the cattle operation was going full blast.

  He didn’t have any cattle yet, and had been negotiating for them with Hank Dawson. Maybe Cynthia could leave, but he couldn’t. His reputation was on the line. If he walked away from the operation now, so early in the game, it might be difficult to get another job. His parents were rich, but they weren’t about to support him for the rest of his life.

  Delane wandered through the fields. In a few months they’d be swarming with cattle mooing and chomping on grass, but now it was deserted and silent, stretching for as far as he could see. He found a tree stump squared off on top and sat on it.

  He took out a long, thin cigar and lit it. If Cynthia left him, he’d be all alone in a strange land, with no friends. It would be tough and he’d get lonely. Cynthia and he’d been together nearly every day since they were married nearly three years ago. It’d be hard to adjust to being alone.

  He wished she wouldn’t go, because he loved and needed her. He thought she was the most beautiful and exciting woman he’d ever met, but wished he could have more contentment with her.

  He didn’t know whether she’d leave or not, but had to think about his future. Maybe he could send for books and spend his time reading. It’d be a good time to catch up on world events and the latest advances in knowledge. But books wouldn’t compensate for Cynthia. She was so wonderful in every way, except for her moods.

  Then he thought of John Stone, and his problems seemed petty in comparison with what had happened to the former cavalry officer. Beaten and hung. What a terrible way to die. Poor fellow, Craig thought. I guess that’s what happens to people who don’t mind their own business out here.

  Cynthia sat on a chair in her bedroom, staring out the window at the blue sky. Her mind was a blank. She was exhausted and depressed.

  There was a knock on the door, and Bernice entered the room, carrying a silver tray with a silver pot of coffee and a cup. She placed the tray on the small circular table beside Cynthia and poured the coffee.

  “I’ll get your bath now, ma’am.”

  Cynthia sipped her coffee, and it revived her somewhat. She turned to the mirror, and she was pale, with bags underneath her eyes and lines around her mouth.

  She’d known that the frontier was a wild place before she came out here. New York newspapers frequently reported on Indian massacres and other killings west of the Mississippi. But Cynthia never thought it’d touch her. Money always had insulated her from unpleasantness.

  Since she’d been in Dumont, she’d heard stories about killings and shootings, but it had been part of the local color. Never did she dream one day she’d be involved.

  She thought of John Stone getting lynched, and shuddered, wondering what had become of his body. If it was found, she and Craig ought to give him a decent burial.

  Bernice poured hot water into the bathtub in the next room, and Cynthia wanted to soak for a long time. Then she’d go to bed, sleep for the rest of the day, and when she woke up, she’d start packing.

  Stone heard a twig snap and awakened with a start. He pulled his six-gun out of his belt and rolled over, aiming at the front of the cave. All became silent. Stone was aware McDermott wasn’t in the cave with him.

  A figure came into view, dressed in black, carrying a dead rabbit by its hind legs. McDermott stepped inside the cave and looked at Stone. “I didn’t think you was up.” He held the rabbit in the air. “Look what I got.”

  “How’re we going to cook it.”

  “We’re not gonna cook it. The smoke might attract the posse. We’re gonna eat it raw.”

  “Raw?” asked Stone.

  “You’ll eat it if you’re hungry enough.”

  Stone’s stomach felt like an empty cavern. He jammed his holster into his belt. “Wish I had some tobacco.”

  “We got more important things to worry about.”

  “How’d you catch the rabbit?”

  “With a length of twine I found in my saddle. It’s easy to catch rabbits early in the morning. That’s when they’re up and around.”

  McDermott tied the hind feet of the rabbit to a protruding rock in the cave, and let the dead animal hang head down. Then McDermott took out Hong Fat’s knife and made incisions around the hind feet of the rabbit. He peeled the fur down until he could grip it with his fingers, then tore the fur quickly off the animal’s body.

  “He’s a fat little bugger,” McDermott said. “Feed must be good around here.”

  Stone looked at the rabbit, and suddenly didn’t feel so hungry anymore. McDermott removed the remaining fur from the rabbit, picked off a few spare tufts of hair with his fingers, and untied the rabbit, flinging him down on the floor of the cave. Wiping the knife on his filthy trousers, he cut the rabbit’s leg.

  “Real tender,” McDermott said.

  “You’re not really going to eat him raw, are you?”

  “Ain’t I?”

  McDermott pulled the rabbit’s leg loose from his body and raised it to his mouth, biting off a huge chunk. Stone looked at the maimed rabbit.

  “Might be the last food you’ll get in a while.”

  “I’m hungry, but not that hungry.”

  McDermott ate noisily, picked the bone clean, and tossed it over his shoulder.

  “Sure you don’t want the other leg?”

  “I’m sure.”

  McDermott cut that one off. “You’ll get so hungry in a little while you’ll eat the ass out of a skunk.” McDermott gnawed on the rabbit’s leg. “I think we should hide out here all day and travel at night.”

  “To where?”

  “Eagleton. ‘Bout thirty miles south of here. We can get supplies.”

  “We don’t have any money.”

  McDermott pulled out his gun. “We don’t need any money.”

  “Holdups aren’t my game.”

  “You’re on the dodge now, pardner. You’d better realize it before somebody kills you.”
>
  Stone craved a cigarette and hot black coffee. His face was swollen and bruised and his body hurt every time he moved. He had a map of the area in his saddlebags, but his saddlebags were in the New Dumont Hotel. He had no idea where he was.

  “Is there a sheriff in Eagleton?” Stone asked.

  “You ask a sheriff for help, you’ll find yourself on the southern end of a rope, only this time I might not be around to save yore ass. Hank Dawson owns everybody and everything in this county. Don’t ’spect no help from anybody.”

  The truth sank into Stone’s brain. He was a wanted man and it didn’t matter whether or not he was innocent. Hank Dawson owned the law in Dumont County.

  “I’ve never robbed anything before,” Stone said.

  “Stealin’ is a lot easier than bein’ a cowboy, in my opinion,” McDermott said, his mouth full of raw rabbit meat. “The main thing to remember is most people are afraid of guns. You just point one at them, and they’ll give you anything you want.”

  “Mr. Dawson—the mules are coming.”

  Hank Dawson lay in a thicket, green grass all around him. Scowling, because he was at his worst when he woke up in the morning, he drew himself to a sitting position.

  The sun shone bright and warm. The first thing that entered his mind was an image of his son shot through the throat. The rage and frustration returned. Narrowing his eyes, he looked at the approaching mule train. His men were guiding it into camp. These would be his supplies for the expedition against the men who killed his son.

  “Where’s the coffee?” Dawson asked.

  “Cookie’s startin’ a fire right now, Mr. Dawson,” Atwell said. “It’ll just be a few more minutes.”

  Dawson lit a cigar, and his foreman backed away. Dawson figured the sun had been up at least an hour. Somewhere out there, the killers of his son were also awake, fleeing. Dawson rose to his feet and slapped the dirt off his pants.

  Mullins approached across the clearing, accompanied by a flabby Indian in his forties.

  “This here’s Red Feather,” said Mullins. “Supposed to be the best tracker in the territory.”

  Dawson looked at Red Feather and wasn’t impressed. Red Feather looked as if he lain around on his ass too much. Red Feather was stone-faced as he met Dawson’s eyes, standing stiffly like a young warrior.

  “I want you to find the killer of my son,” Dawson said.

  “How much?” Red Feather asked.

  “Name your price.”

  “One hundred dollars.”

  The amount was so outrageous that Dawson was tempted to whack Red Feather in the face. “I could get ten trackers for one hundred dollars.”

  “Get them.”

  Dawson didn’t have time to hire other trackers. His son’s murderers were getting away farther with every passing moment. “I’ll give you fifty dollars, and that’s generous, damn generous.”

  “One hundred dollars,” said Red Feather.

  “Seventy-five.”

  Red Feather curled his lips in contempt. “You bargain for the killers of your son?”

  “All right,” Dawson said. “It’s a deal. We lost their trail on those rocks over there. See if you can pick it up.”

  Red Feather turned and walked off in the direction of the rocky plateau. He moved swiftly, with a sense of urgency and purposefulness, carrying his rifle in his right hand. When he reached the designated area, he got down on his hands and knees and brought his eyes close to the rock, searching for the lost trail.

  The old grandfather clock in Craig Delane’s office struck ten, and Craig paused, his pen in his hand. He was seated at the desk in his office on the ground floor of the HC Ranch, and the clock had been delivered all the way from New York, to provide a touch of home on the frontier.

  Every week he had to write a report of his activities, and that’s what he was doing. When finished he’d have one of his men take it to town and mail it.

  He’d been working on the report about an hour, but it’d been a struggle. There wasn’t much to write about, and he had difficulty concentrating. Cynthia was upstairs packing.

  There was a knock on his door.

  “Come in!”

  The door opened, and it was a tall, lanky cowboy with leathery features, Delane’s foreman, Everett Lorch.

  “What is it?” Delane asked.

  “Figgered you might want to hear the latest news, Mr. Delane. That feller John Stone escaped from the lynchin’ last night, and Wayne Dawson got killed.”

  Delane nearly dropped his pen. “How do you know that?”

  “I was in town with Curly buyin’ supplies, and everybody was talkin’ about it. Old Hank Dawson is try in’ to track Stone down.”

  “How did he get away?”

  “The way they was sayin’ it in town, some friends of Stone interrupted the lynchin’ party just as they dropped the noose around Stone’s neck. They shot Wayne Dawson and a few others of Dawson’s men, and rode away with Stone.”

  “If you hear anything else about John Stone, be sure to let me know immediately.”

  Lorch tipped his hat and got out of Delane’s way. Delane left his office and climbed the stairs to the second floor. He stopped at his wife’s door and knocked.

  “Who is it?” asked Bernice.

  “Mr. Delane.”

  Bernice opened the door. “Mrs. Delane is taking a bath right now, sir.”

  “Tell her I want to speak with her. It’s important.”

  Bernice walked away, leaving Delane standing in the doorway. Clothing, suitcases, and trunks were piled everywhere. Bernice returned.

  “Mrs. Delane will see you now, sir.”

  Craig walked across the bedroom and into the next room, where Cynthia sat in a porcelain bathtub, her graceful shoulders visible above the suds, and her hair piled high on her head, tied with a ribbon.

  “Good news,” Craig said to Cynthia. “John Stone wasn’t lynched last night after all. Some men freed him, and Wayne Dawson got shot in the process. Hank Dawson is trying to track Stone down, but evidently hasn’t found him yet.”

  Cynthia had taken Stone’s death for granted, and now suddenly he wasn’t dead. A smile of relief spread over her face.

  “Cynthia,” Craig said, “I was hoping you wouldn’t leave, now that Stone’s still alive. It was my impression that you were going back to New York because you thought he’d been killed.”

  “It’s not just Stone,” she said. “It’s the lawlessness of this country. I don’t like it, and I’ll never like it.”

  “It’s not as though we’ll have to stay here forever. Just another two or three years. That’s not so long.”

  “I don’t think I could last two or three years.”

  “I wish you’d think it over a little more, Cynthia. You’re taking everything much too seriously. This position is a wonderful opportunity for us. I can make my fortune out here.”

  “I don’t like murder.”

  “People get murdered in New York too. We didn’t see it, but it happened. We shouldn’t run from life just because it gets a little unpleasant. You used to say you were bored in New York and wanted a change. That’s one of the reasons we came out here in the first place.”

  Cynthia sat naked in the bathtub, soapy warm water eddying around her. She thought of John Stone somewhere on the prairie, running like a hunted animal from Hank Dawson and his men.

  “Don’t do anything today,” Craig said. “Just consider it. Then, if you still want to leave, you can resume packing. That’s not such an unreasonable thing to ask, is it?”

  “No,” she admitted.

  “Bernice,” Delane said, “put Mrs. Delane’s clothing back in her closets. And have the suitcases and trunks sent back to the attic.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Bernice walked out of the small room, leaving them alone. Craig gazed at Cynthia soaking in the bathtub, and she looked delicious. He bent over and kissed her cheek. “You’re so beautiful,” he murmured.

  She felt th
e touch of his lips, but her mind was far away. She was wondering where John Stone was just then.

  “I hope he’s all right,” she said.

  “He’s probably on his way to Mexico,” Craig replied, touching his lips to her throat.

  Hank Dawson sat in the sun, his hat low over his eyes, drinking a cup of coffee. His men were gathered around him, eating breakfast. Dawson wanted to hit the trail and hunt down Stone and McDermott, but Red Feather still hadn’t found their trail.

  Hank Dawson was a simple man. He worked, cheated, lied, bullied, and killed until he had what he owned now. Everything had been going well, and he’d planned to extract top dollar from Craig Delane for cattle. His long-range plan was to harass Delane’s operation and make him sell out in a few years for next to nothing. Then Dawson would wind up with the cattle, land, and Delane’s money too.

  Now Dawson’s son was dead, and Dawson felt as if he was living in a bad dream. It had happened so suddenly, and with such finality. His only boy shot through the throat by Tad McDermott or John Stone.

  I should’ve shot McDermott and Stone in jail while I had the chance, Dawson thought, and to hell with the lynching. Dawson wished he could go back to last night, but he couldn’t. All he wanted to do was get Stone and McDermott in front of him. He wouldn’t be able to rest until he killed them.

  Dawson sat facing the rocky flats where Red Feather had disappeared a half hour ago. He was waiting impatiently for the Indian to return. Red Feather may’ve been the best tracker in the territory, but he hadn’t accomplished anything yet. The Indian was old and in poor physical condition.

  Dawson drained his cup of coffee, and just then Red Feather’s head appeared above a pile of boulders. The Indian walked back to camp, and Dawson hoped he’d picked up Stone’s trail.

  “More coffee, Mr. Dawson?” asked Cookie, holding the pot in the air.

  “Yeah,” said Dawson.