“It’s a hell of a lot safer than if you don’t!” Kid Falon rejoined. “Hurry it up! I’m about to lose my patience.”
In they came, fear on every face, their movements stiff and awkward, mothers clasping children, sisters and brothers clinging to one another, the men with their heads bowed and their hands up. Three of the women broke into tears. So did many of the children. A little girl ran to Havershaw and threw her arms around his shoulders, crying, “Pa! Oh Pa!”
“Ain’t this touchin’ as hell?” The Kid drew his other Colt.
Curly Means was in motion. “Hold on there, pard.” He walked in among the townspeople, taking leashes from those who had brought their dogs. A mongrel with a leather collar growled and refused to budge until Curly kicked it in the ribs. Yelping, it allowed him to drag it out with the others.
“What is he going to do with Fluffy?” a boy asked.
“Hush!” his mother scolded him.
Kid Falon strutted across the room, and they drew back in fright. “My pard is fixin’ to do what I should do to all of you, only I’m too kindhearted.” He scanned their pale faces and focused on the old man.
“Go over to the general store and bring me all the rope you can find.”
“Rope?”
“I didn’t say daises.” The Kid fired into the floor near the old man’s feet, and the man was out the door in a flash.
Mrs. Havershaw looked up from her stricken husband. “You’re a despicable human being, young man! Someone should have hung you long ago.”
“Any volunteers for the job?” Kid Falon asked, and when no one replied, he had them take hold of the blacksmith and marched them outside and across the dusty street to the cabin that had once belonged to Sam Stowe. “This should do us.”
Brock Alvord, Noonan, and Big Ben came out to see what the Kid was up to. Big Ben became more interested in Curly, who had tied three of the dogs to the hitch rail and was fashioning a noose from his rope for the fourth. “You aimin’ to do one right after the other?”
“And end my hemp social too soon?” Curly’s grin was sadistic. “One an hour should be about right.” He bent to slip the noose over the black dog’s neck but it whined and pulled away. A stern “Stay!” rooted it in place, and the deed was done. Taking the other end, he climbed onto his horse, looped the rope around his saddle horn, and laughed. “It’s moments like this that make life worthwhile.”
“You are one loco hombre,” Noonan said.
“And damn proud of it.” Yipping lustily, Curly applied his spurs and galloped down the street. In the blink of an eye, the rope went taut and the dog was brutally jerked off its feet and dragged. It yelped and tried to stand, but the horse was moving too fast.
From over by the cabin came a high-pitched scream. The boy who owned the dog had his hands to his cheeks, his eyes wide in horror. “No! Let Fluffy go!” He started to run to the dog, but his mother grabbed hold of him and wouldn’t let him go no matter how hard he struggled.
Kid Falon ordered the citizens of Painted Rock to form a ring around the cabin and stand with their backs to it. He made a slow circuit, his Colts covering them, his grin as sadistic as Curly’s had been.
“What in blazes is he up to?” Big Ben wondered.
“Whatever it is,” Noonan said, “I sure wouldn’t want to be one of those settlers.”
Brock Alvord didn’t comment, but his expression showed exactly how he felt.
A howl pierced the air. Curly had reached the end of the street and wheeled his mount. The rope whipped like a snake, snapping the black dog like a bobber at the end of a fishing line.
Big Ben chortled. “That Curly sure is comical.”
Out of the general store trudged the old man, laden with coils of rope. Hastening to the cabin, he deposited them at the Kid’s feet. “Here you go, Mr. Falon, sir.”
“What are you givin’ them to me for, you old coot?” The Kid motioned. “I want you to tie all the ropes together to make one long one.”
Curly galloped past the saloon, swinging his hat and hollering like a drunken cowboy. The dog still had some life left; its legs moved weakly.
The boy who owned it was bawling.
“Shut that brat up,” Kid Falon growled at the mother, “or I’ll give him something to really cry about.”
Big Ben leaned against a post. “My pa used to say that to me all the time. He took a switch to me once too often, and I had to break his back.”
“You killed your own pa?” Brock Alvord had not liked his own father much, but he had never stooped to that.
“What do you take me for? I left him a cripple so his switchin’ days were over. Then I lit out and haven’t been home since.” Big Ben sighed. “I paid a fella once to write my ma a letter. But either he didn’t know his letters like he claimed, or she never got it, because she never wrote me back.”
Curly, cackling merrily, was galloping toward the huge painted boulder. Fluffy had gone limp and was flopping and bouncing like a wind-tossed tumbleweed.
Noonan casually observed, “We should be glad it wasn’t a hog that bit him. He’d sure wear out a lot of horses.”
Over at the cabin, the old man was going from one person to the next, looping rope around their necks, wrists, and ankles.
Big Ben Brody scratched his temple. “What in hell is the Kid makin’ that old geezer do? I never saw the like in all my born days.”
“It’s an old Injun trick,” Noonan said. “Tyin’ folks out under the hot sun and bakin’ them alive.”
Brock Alvord pulled his hat brim low and strode toward the cabin. “Kid, I want a word with you.” He nodded at the terrified inhabitants. “This ain’t right. Shootin’ unarmed men was bad enough. Makin’ the women and children suffer is takin’ it too far.”
“Abby was a woman, wasn’t she?” Kid Falon retorted. “But she wasn’t good enough for the uppity females here. She told me how they looked down their noses at her and wouldn’t even give her the time of day.”
“And the children?” Brock stared at a weeping girl. “What’s your excuse for hog-tyin’ them?”
“Since when do any of us need excuses? I can’t help it if you’re softhearted. Go drown your conscience in drink and leave me be.”
Brock looked the Kid in the eyes. “I can’t let you do this.”
“The hell you say!” Kid Falon declared and shot him.
Justice Department Agent William Shores was dozing in the saddle when the old Shoshone made a comment that penetrated his lethargy.
“There be Painted Rock, Brother John.”
Shores willed his head to rise and blinked in the glare of the afternoon sun. He was fit enough to ride, but he still did not feel like his old self. The sickness had sapped too much vitality. He hoped that after a few days of rest, of sleeping in a bed and eating three nourishing meals daily, he would fully recover. “I hope to God I can find a room to rent.”
Red Fox rose a few inches off the paint. “Some thing strange, Brother John.”
“What?” To Shores, everything looked perfectly ordinary. The settlement had a single dusty street, a few houses, a store, a saloon, and a stable. And over near a huge boulder stood a cabin. A cabin with a lot of people ringing it, women and children and a few men, their backs to the four walls. “What the hell?”
“Bodies,” the Shoshone said, pointing with a gnarled finger.
Now it was Shores who rose in the stirrups. He saw a man on his back not far from the cabin. In the middle of the street lay a black dog, its head twisted at an unnatural angle. At a hitch rail in front of the saloon five horses were tied. So were three dogs.
Red Fox reined in. “This bad medicine.”
“Spare me your superstitious drivel.” Shores clucked to the claybank. “Follow me.” The situation merited immediate investigation. Some of the people at the cabin had seen him, but none acknowledged the hand he raised in greeting. He went to call out, then saw that someone had trussed them up like lambs for the slaughter. Bringing the claybank to a halt, he drew his Smith & Wesson.