McBride was silent. Maybe if he didn’t move or talk Harlan would not be able to track his whereabouts so easily.
‘‘John, do you understand that?’’
Was Harlan trying to ferret him out?
‘‘All right, John, so you don’t want to talk anymore. That’s just fine by me. Now stop cowering in the brush and stand on your feet. Die like a man.’’
It came to McBride then that Harlan didn’t know where he was. He stood silently and brought his Colt up beside his head, his mouth dry as chalk. Now, if Harlan would just make a move . . .
The noose snaked out of the darkness and settled around McBride’s neck. Suddenly he was being pulled upward, the rough hemp cutting into his throat. Gagging, fighting for breath, he tried to kick himself free, but the noose tightened. His toes left the ground and he was swinging. Behind him he heard Harlan grunt with exertion as he pulled on the rope.
A galaxy of stars exploded in McBride’s brain as he strangled. He heard Harlan’s wild shriek of triumph . . . then a loud crack and a violent crash.
McBride hit the ground hard. Behind him Harlan was shrieking, bubbling screams that soared through the tops of the trees and burst into the air like a flock of crows.
Staggering, McBride climbed to his feet. He tore the noose from his neck, lifted his head and breathed in great, shuddering gulps of air. As lightning flashed he saw his gun lying nearby. He picked up the Colt and his gaze searched the gloom ahead of him. Now that his eyes had adjusted to the dark, he made out the vague shape of Thad Harlan. The man was on his back, a thick tree limb on top of him.
Harlan was no longer screaming, but his lips were stretched back from his teeth, fighting pain. Wary of the man’s gun, McBride stepped closer.
‘‘Help me, John,’’ Harlan whispered. ‘‘Get it off of me.’’
Thunder banged and lightning streaked the sky. The rain battered against McBride as he looked down at Harlan and put it together. Unable to support McBride’s weight, the tree limb had shattered. Harlan had been standing right underneath and when the branch fell, a sharp, splintered point had plunged deep into his belly, staking him to the ground.
The man’s eyes were wide with fear, stunned by the bizarre manner of his dying. His face was gray and his mouth was full of crimson blood.
‘‘Help me, John,’’ he said again.
McBride raised the Colt. ‘‘By rights I should leave you here and let you die like a dog,’’ he said.
‘‘Help me, John . . .’’
Too late, McBride saw the gun in the man’s hand. He and Harlan fired at the same time. He felt the burn of Harlan’s bullet across the thick meat of his left shoulder, but his own shot was right on target. Harlan’s head exploded in a fan of blood and bone. He arched violently, straining against death, then fell back, his eyes staring blindly into nothingness.
McBride stepped away a few yards, then turned his face to the healing rain.
It was over.
‘‘This is yours, John, I believe.’’
Saul Remorse held out McBride’s Smith & Wesson.
‘‘Where did you find it?’’
‘‘In Harlan’s office. I was tired of looking at your empty shoulder holster.’’
McBride took the revolver and looked around him. It was not yet noon, but the day was already hot, the sky a blue china bowl stretching from horizon to horizon.
Rest and Be Thankful drowsed in the sun, like a tired old man who knows his time is almost over.
It was three days after the death of Thad Harlan, and Remorse was moving on. He stood by his horse’s head, the reins in his hand. ‘‘I’ve written to a lawyer I once knew in Boston. I trust the man to make sure that Clare O’Neil’s son’s ownership of the mine is protected. He will also set up a fund to support Julieta until the kid comes of age.’’
McBride smiled. ‘‘That’s real decent of you.’’
‘‘Oh, and I almost forgot.’’ He handed McBride an envelope. ‘‘This is for you.’’
‘‘What is it?’’
‘‘Eight hundred dollars, half of the reward Jared Josephine gave me for killing those three outlaws.’’
McBride shook his head. ‘‘Saul, I can’t take this. I did nothing. I didn’t even draw my gun.’’
‘‘You were there. You put your life on the line just as I did.’’ Remorse smiled. ‘‘Anyway, the money isn’t really for you, it’s for those young wards of yours. It will help keep them in that finishing school for a while longer.’’
‘‘Saul, I . . . I don’t know what to say.’’
‘‘I do. Say good-bye, John. I’m leaving.’’
Remorse was once again dressed in black broadcloth, his clergyman’s collar in place. His Remingtons were hidden under his coat.
‘‘Maybe our trails will cross again, Saul,’’ McBride said. ‘‘Though I hope to settle somewhere and prosper in the hardware business.’’
‘‘Yes, do that, John,’’ Remorse said. ‘‘Settle down somewhere and meet a fine woman. I ride trails you can’t follow, long trails that end in places you don’t ever want to be.’’ He swung into the saddle, touched the brim of his hat and smiled. ‘‘Take care, John McBride.’’
McBride watched the Reverend Saul Remorse leave until man and horse were swallowed by distance.
He took off his plug hat, wiped the sweatband, then settled it on his head again.
‘‘Reverend,’’ he said, looking into the empty land, ‘‘you are one mighty strange feller.’’
Historical Note
The Wortley Hotel in Lincoln, New Mexico, hasn’t changed much since it was owned by Pat Garrett, and it is still open for business. Billy the Kid would feel right at home in rooms that are furnished in the style of the 1880s and were occupied by gunmen of both factions during the Lincoln County War.
Texas Ranger Pat Dooling had a reputation among his contemporaries as a tough town tamer who had no backup in him. It’s a pity we don’t know more about the exploits of this brave and resourceful peace officer.
Pap boats are now highly collectable antiques. The boats poured a mix of flour, milk and water down the throats of babies who could not be breast-fed by their mothers. Perhaps this diet might explain the high infant mortality rate among orphaned babies in Victorian times.
Despite his effete mannerisms and cutting wit, playwright and poet Oscar Wilde was much admired by gold miners during his visit to the United States. Wilde in turn stated that the only well-dressed men he saw in America were the miners.
Inspector Thomas Byrnes of the New York Police Department’s bureau of detectives was a popular dime novel hero in his own lifetime. Like the fictitious Sherlock Holmes, who came after, he solved crimes by his amazing powers of observation and deduction.