The slope of the ridge rose gradually, but it was slippery with mud, and the few scattered clumps of bunchgrass did nothing to make the going easier. McBride slid and skidded his way toward the rocky crest, his elastic-sided boots gouging long smears in the yellow mud. The mustang, mountain bred and surefooted, made the climb effortlessly, the growing number of lightning flashes flaring in its black eyes.
McBride reached the first of the rock slabs and sharp disappointment stabbed at him. From what he could see, there was not a place to shelter. The tumbled shelves of sandstone crowded close together and near to the ground. He led the mustang through a gap in the rocks, passed a stunted, twisted cedar that grabbed at him as though seeking companionship, then gained the crest of the ridge.
The big man rubbed rain from his eyes, scarcely able to believe what he was seeing. About a half mile from the bottom of the grade lay a town, its windows rectangles of dim orange light behind the steel mesh of the driving rain.
McBride smiled. A town meant food and shelter and he was badly in need of both.
He started down the slope, sliding on his rump most of the way, then climbed into the saddle when he reached the flat. A wide creek lined with cottonwoods and a few willows made a sharp bend ahead of him and then curved around the back of the town’s outlying buildings. Farther to his left an arched bridge of rough-cut timber crossed the creek, leading to a rutted, well-used wagon road.
McBride swung the mustang toward the bridge, a route that took him near the bend of the creek. The little horse shied away from the thick stand of cottonwoods lining the bank and tossed its head, the bit jangling. It was now almost fully dark, but as lightning flashed, accompanied by a bellow of thunder, McBride saw exceptionally tall men standing among the trees. He drew rein, his eyes battling the gloom as he scanned the cottonwoods.
Suddenly he was uneasy. Something was wrong. Even the rugged western lands didn’t breed men who stood that high. McBride’s years as a sergeant in the New York Police Department’s bureau of detectives had given him an instinct for danger and he felt it now, reaching out to him.
And so did the mustang. The little horse was up on its toes, its head raised as it battled the bit, arcs of white showing in its eyes. It danced back from the trees, disliking what the wind was telling it, and McBride, a poor horseman, fought to stay in the saddle.
Thunder roared and lightning flared all the way to the top of the clouds, a shimmering, searing white light that fell on the men among the trees. They stirred, moving only slightly, seemingly unconcerned by the perils of the storm.
Another trait of the good detective is curiosity, and McBride reluctantly gave in to his. He urged the mustang toward the cottonwoods, but the horse refused to move; then it swung around and trotted in the direction of the ridge. Irritated, rain pelting around him, McBride yanked on the reins and the horse stood long enough for him to clamber out of the saddle. As soon as his feet touched the ground, the mustang tossed its head and cantered into the darkness.
Annoyed beyond measure, McBride looked around for a rock, couldn’t find one and had to content himself with shaking a fist at his disappearing mount. A horse, he decided, was a lot more trouble than it was worth—unless it was hitched to a New York hansom cab and a man could sit back and ride on the cushions.
He would find the mustang later. Right now he felt compelled to investigate the giants among the cottonwoods. He slipped a hand under his slicker and felt his .38 Smith & Wesson, secure in the leather of its shoulder holster. The revolver would not stop a giant, but the feel of walnut and blued steel brought him a measure of comfort.
McBride walked through the flame-streaked darkness toward the trees. Thunder rolled across the sky, rumbling like a monstrous boulder bowling along a marble hallway. The violent night seemed restless, on edge, waiting for things to happen, dreadful things like the deaths of men and the coming of a wind that would sing songs through the teeth of their grinning skulls.
John McBride was no braver than any other man, and as he drew near to the cottonwoods, he felt a tightness in his throat and the familiar spike of fear deep in his belly.
Here there be giants. . . .
He remembered that. He’d seen it written in an old map one time. But the land of the giants had been in a distant, unexplored place. Cathay maybe. This was the New Mexico Territory, where no Brobdingnagians dwelled. Or so he’d thought—until now.
As he reached the first of the trees, the smell hit McBride like a fist, the syrupy, sickly sweet stench of something dead and rotting. From somewhere deeper in the cottonwoods, louder than the dragon hiss of the rain, he heard a steady creak . . . creak . . . creak, regular as the ticking of a railroad clock.
Blinded by darkness, McBride stopped where he was. He fought down the urge to draw his gun. The giants ahead of him might be smelly and make strange noises, but they could be friendly. Swallowing hard, he walked through a tangle of brush into the trees.
A flash of lightning told McBride all he needed to know.
He had not seen giants. He had seen hanged men, strung up high, on a lofty limb of a cottonwood.
The necks of the three men were bent at impossible angles, pushed to the side by heavy, coiled knots. Death had not come easily or quickly to them. They had died slowly and in pain, strangling in the pitiless embrace of hemp loops. The eyes of the men bulged, black tongues stuck out of their open mouths and the fear and outrage they’d felt at the manner of their dying was still twisted on faces that looked carved from white, blue-veined marble.
Wind rustled through the cottonwoods, and the booted feet of the dead men swayed, setting the tree limb from which they hung to creaking. As lightning flared again, McBride saw the black beginnings of rot in their faces. They had been hanged a while back, several days probably, and the stink of death drifted through the air like mist.
Nailed to the trunk of the tree was a crudely lettered wooden sign. McBride walked around the dangling corpses and stood close to the rough placard. He thumbed a match, cupped the flame in his left hand and read the words. They were as merciless as the hangings had been.
ATTENTION THIEVES, THUGS,
CONFIDENCE MEN AND DANCE HALL LOUNGERS
~ anyone caught pilfering, robbing, stealing
or committing any act of lawless violence in
the town of Rest and Be Thankful
WILL BE HUNG
By order of Jared Josephine (Mayor)
The match burned down to McBride’s fingers and he threw it on the ground, where it sizzled a moment, then died. Through the trees he could see the lights of a town that he now believed was best to avoid. He had a feeling that there was little rest in the place and little to be thankful for. Yet, driven by hunger and a desire for a soft bed and sleep, McBride knew he could not avoid it. He’d spend the night and ride out at first light; that is if he could find his horse and—