The Sheriff of Hangman's Gulch. Matt Rand
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bisected the Gulch, and soon a town grew on a bottom where only brush and tough yucca had grown before.
Out of the morning, a man reeled and staggered into the outskirts of Hangman’s Gulch. The early summer sun, yellow on the trail, was ghastly on the man’s face. Dried blood matted his curly hair and clung in grisly, jagged streaks to his flushed cheeks. His eyes were glazed and feverish; his lips cracked, bleeding.
His black suit, dirt-smeared, torn, lay stiff against him. And bullet holes showed round, purple patches at his shoulder and chest and thigh.
As he lurched along, babbling sounds issued from his mouth, and spittle flecked his stubbled chin. Then suddenly, he plunged into the street and lay in an inert heap, while the dust he had disturbed settled down slowly over him in a brown, yellowish cloud.
In a few moments a small, somber-faced crowd had gathered around the unconscious man. Then they made way for Judge Carter and Sam Larson, who edged through the crowd. “Get some water, someone,” called the latter, as he went down on his knees beside the sprawled miner.
Sam Larson was the richest but best-liked man in the Gulch. There was not a man in that crowd who hadn’t owed him money at one time or another, and who had been reminded of that debt.
Someone thrust a water canteen into Larson’s hand. He cradled the miner’s head in his elbow and forced the snout into the man’s mouth. Water trickled out on the insensible man’s chin.
Larson shook his head dubiously at the judge.
“Who is he, Sam?” asked the latter. Artemus Carter, the Gulch’s first judge, was a trim figure of a man in his black frock coat and flowing black bowtie. A silvered goatee and clear blue eyes dominated his face. In court the judge was highly impartial and considered himself but an instrument of the law.
“Think his name is Clayson—Bill Clayson,” replied Larson slowly, frowning. “Yeah. He and his pard bought some supplies at the store ’bout ten days ago. Then he came back and filed a claim—”
A moan slipped past the lips of the dying man. And pain contorted his blood-streaked face. He stirred, then his eyes fluttered weakly open. They were bleary, glazed; held no recognition.
Again Larson spilled water into the miner’s mouth. “How’d it happen, friend?” he asked.
For an instant, comprehension flashed across Clayson’s face and his battered lips tried to form words. Mumbled sounds came from his mouth. His ravaged cheeks flexed, and heavy sweat beaded his forehead. But the struggle was in vain. One word that sounded like “Henry,” came past Clayson’s lips—and he gave up the fight.
Then death claimed Bill Clayson and his mouth fell open and his eyes stared sightless at the blue sky.
Sam Larson rose slowly, his glance touching the crowd, then coming to rest on a man there. “Harvey,” he said. “Take care of Clayson. I’ll stand the burial.”
Faces grave, Sam Larson and Judge Carter walked down the street in silence. A third man, a latecomer to the scene, swung in beside them.
“What happened?” he asked.
Tay Brown was a dark-humored man with a steady stare and a bullet scar red along his jaw. Across the gambling table once, an ugly customer had called Brown a “cheat.” That was the first and last time anyone ever called him that. He wore that scar as a flaming signal to the world; for Tay Brown was known and respected as a “square” gambler.
The two men nodded to him and the judge told him briefly what had occurred.
“Black Henry!” cried the gambler.
“Yeah—damn his hide,” cried Larson angrily.
The judge interrupted. “We can’t be certain it is Black Henry, Sam. All Clayson mumbled before he died was ‘Henry.’ It may have been his son, or partner—or anybody.”
The general store owner shook his shaggy head violently. “It’s that murderin’ coyote and his gang of hoodlums—and no one else. Yuh know it, Judge, and I know it—and so does every one in the Gulch! They’re responsible for every claim-jump and killin’ in the last four months.”
It was the judge’s turn to shake his head. “Insufficient evidence, Sam,” he said. “No one saw Black Henry commit this crime. All you have is a corpus delicti—that’s all. It won’t stand up in court. You’ll need more than that to convict Black Henry.”
Sam Larson swore underneath his breath. “Insufficient evidence! That’s always the trouble,” he cried irately. “If we get a witness against him—he dies. Or else we get someone who’s afraid to talk—”
“Can’t blame ’em, Larson,” declared Tay Brown. “Their hides wouldn’t be worth an ounce of dust if they did.”
Larson turned on him, eyes flashing. “That ain’t a way to talk, Brown,” he declared. “If no one spoke up, we’d have no law and order—”
“We don’t have much anyhow,” said the gambler, flushing.
“If we get rid of Black Henry,” cried Larson, “we will.”
“In the meantime,” said Brown, “he comes to town when he pleases and walks the streets free and easy.”
“The time for that will soon be over,” declared Sam Larson. “We’re goin’ to—”
Judge Carter interrupted sternly: “Don’t tell me about your Committee of Vigilantes, Sam. It’s extralegal—outside the law. I won’t countenance its actions, nor do I want to hear of it.”
“Yuh can’t lock yoreself up behind stone walls, Judge,” cried Brown, “and say there ain’t no wind howlin’ outside, when everybody hears a storm. Black Henry’s a menace to the folk in the Gulch—and if the law won’t take care of him, the Vigilantes will.”
“If Black Henry breaks the law,” said the judge gruffly, “the sheriff will apprehend him and bring him to trial. Otherwise, and until such evidence is produced which will prove him guilty in court, Black Henry is free to come and go as he pleases.”
“Tom Sears is a good sheriff,” declared Larson. “But he’s up against somethin’ here that’s just too big for one man to handle.”
“The sheriff possesses the right to deputize as many men as he deems necessary,” said the judge. “If Sears needs help, he knows what to do about it.”
“That ain’t the point, Carter,” cried Larson. “Yuh know a man with a star pinned to his vest makes him an easy target. That’s why we organized the Committee—” He broke off abruptly and his wide mouth snapped shut.
By now the three men had reached Larson’s store. A man had just come out, and it was his appearance that caused the store owner’s face to grow grim and stormy.
Jim Wurt was dressed meticulously and his face shone from a recent shave.
“Good mornin’, gentlemen,” he said pleasantly, his wet, red lips receding in a smile.
“Is my daughter inside?” demanded Larson curtly, scarcely acknowledging the greeting.
“Yeah,” replied Wurt, the edge rubbing off his smile. “She asked me to send yuh in.”
“Wurt,” cried Larson, his face working red. “I told yuh twice before to stay away from Kate. This is the last time—and this is a warnin’!”
Judge Carter laid a restraining hand on the big-boned storekeeper, but the latter shook it off.
“I know yuh don’t like me, Larson,” Wurt said. “And I ain’t aimin’ to start any arguments—this mornin’. But I reckon it’s up to Miss Larson to tell me that herself.”
No one knows what would have happened next if a horse hadn’t suddenly broken into town and flashed down the street, kicking up a swirling dust cloud. A sense of urgency sat in