A Time For Hanging (5 page)

"YOu say you caught him red-handed?"

"Damn right we did.
 
We shoulda strung him up on the spot, you ask me.
 
Throwed a rope over one of them tree limbs out there and hung him like the murderin' bastard he is."

The lawman in Vincent took over.
 
"You can't do things that way, Turley.
 
This is a law-abidin' town.
 
We don't go in for lynchin'."

"Wouldn't be lynchin', exactly.
 
Hell, we caught him in the act."

"How'd he kill her?'

"Don't know that.
 
Guess the doc'll have to tell us."

"I thought you caught him in the act."

Turley shook his head and looked stubborn.
 
"We did, kind of.
 
We caught him tryin' to get away, and that's the same thing.
 
There just ain't no doubt he done it."

"Was Jack with you?" Vincent asked, hoping that Turley would tell him that the deputy was at the preacher's house breaking the bad news.

"He's standin' guard with the prisoner and the body, waitin' for you to come out there.
 
He said you'd have to be the one to go and tell the preacher."

Vincent had been afraid of that.
 
He sighed and got off the desk.
 
There was no use putting it off.

On the other hand, maybe he should go out to the scene and see if Turley was right in saying that Lizzie Randall was dead.
 
There was always a chance that he was wrong, and it wouldn't be right to give the Randalls a false report only to find out that there had been some kind of mistake.
 
Maybe the girl was just badly beaten.

"Where'd you say she was?" he asked

"Didn't say.
 
But she's out in that grove of trees over to the west of town."

"Let's go," Vincent said.

"Ain't you gonna wait for the doc?"

"He's here," Vincent said, and then Turley too heard the sound of a buggy driving up outside the jail.

They went out, where Doc Bigby and Lane Harper were waiting, Harper on horseback and Bigby in the buggy.
 
Bigby was the most cheerful man in Dry Springs.
 
Vincent had never seen him without a smile or a chipper remark to make.

"Howdy there, Sheriff," Bigby sang out as the two men came out of the jail.
 
"You ever see such a fine night at this time of they ear?
 
I swear, the air's like ambrosia."
 
Bigby took a deep breath, and Vincent could see his teeth shining in the starlight.

Bigby was a short, dapper man, with a fringe of white hair showing under the brim of his hat.
 
It was just about all the hair he had.
 
Vincent liked the man, in spite of his constant good cheer.
 
Vincent couldn't quite figure out how anybody could be that happy all the time.

It wasn't his practice, that was for sure.
 
Most of the people in Dry Springs knew that Bigby wasn't a real doctor, and though he seemed
 
to know a little something about most ailments, they would often just as soon trust their own remedies as to call on him.

Whenever there was a real emergency, however, or whenever somebody needed a tooth pulled that took a little looking or an extra pair of hands, or even whenever there was a really sick horse or cow that just didn't seem to be getting any better, Bigby was the man they looked for.
 
Sometimes his cures worked, and sometimes they didn't, but he did well enough to keep from scaring everyone completely away.
 
Besides, he was the closest thing Dry Springs had to a doctor, and the closest they were likely to get.
 
And at least he wasn't overly fond of cutting off your body parts, like some doctors Vincent had run into over they years.

He looked a little less than dapper this evening, and when Vincent asked, he explained that a horse had foaled out at the Stuart place and there'd been a pretty rough time of it.

"But I understand you folks got you a real problem," Bigby said, still smiling.

"That's right," Vincent told him.
 
"If what I've heard is right, we got some trouble."

"Well, let's get on out there and see.
 
You might's well ride with me, Sheriff.
 
I could use the company, and you could tell me what's goin' on."

Vincent tied his horse to the back of the buggy and climbed in, making the springs squeak.

"Could use some grease, I guess," Bigby said.
 
His teeth flashed.

"You fellas go on ahead," Vincent told Turley and Harper.
 
"We'll follow along after you."

The horses walked around the buggy and the two men started for the west side of town.
 
Bigby slapped the reins on the neck of his little bay, and the buggy moved off after them.

"Harper says that Lizzie Randall's been murdered in cold blood," Bigby said as the buggy rolled along.

"That's what Turley tells me," Vincent said.
 
"I was hopin' maybe they were wrong about that."

"About her bein' murdered?"

"About her being dead.
 
They ain't experts."

Bigby looked sideways at the sheriff.
 
"From what Harper said, there's not much doubt."

"We'll check it out anyway."

"I could tell the family for you," Bigby said.
 
"I've had to do that kind of thing before."

Vincent was sorry he was that easy to read.
 
"I'll do it.
 
It's my job.
 
I just want you to make sure."

"I understand they've got the fella that did it, too," Bigby said.

"Paco Morales.
 
I ain't too sure about that, either."

"Why not?"

"Turley's story didn't exactly fit together real smooth."

"Harper says the Morales boy did it.
 
Says they caught him in the act."

"That's what Turley says, all right.
 
But he didn't know how the girl died, if she died.
 
So how did they catch him in the act and not know that?"

"I see what you mean."
 
Bigby thought about it for a minute.
 
"This could get bad, Sheriff.
 
If she's really dead, and if that meskin kid was really there."

"He was there, all right.
 
They caught him."

"Lots of folks won't like that, a meskin kid around where a white woman's been killed.
 
'Specially a preacher's daughter.
 
Lane Harper says they shoulda hung the boy right there.
 
Would've done it if Jack Simkins hadn't stopped them."

"Jack stopped them?"

"That's what Harper says."

"I'll be damned."
 
Vincent wouldn't have thought Jack had the nerve to stand up to a bunch that wanted to hang somebody.
 
Maybe there was more to Jack than he thought.

"We're comin' to the trees," Bigby said.

Vincent didn't answer.
 
He was afraid of what they'd find.

She was dead, all right; Vincent knew that the minute he saw her, the light of the moon falling on her through the trees.
 
He shook his head.
 
"Have a look at her, doc," he said.

"I tell you, I never seen anything like it," Harl Case said.
 
"That damn Paco."

"Where is he?" Vincent said.

Harl hitched a thumb over his shoulder.
 
"Back yonder in the trees."

Leaving the examination of the body to Bigby, Vincent walked back there, his boots scuffing through dried leaves.
  
He saw Jack leaning against the tree.
 
"Well, Jack."

"Yeah," Jack said.
 
He looked like some kind of vengeful ghost standing there, his glass eye not quite lined up right, the scar on his face livid in the dim light.

Vincent looked down at Paco.
 
"Jesus, they did a real job on him.
 
He still alive?"

"I think so.
  
I checked a few minutes ago, and he was still breathin' then."

"Better get him back to the jail and lock him up, then.
 
You think we can carry him?"

Simkins pushed away from the tree.
 
"He don't weigh that much."

"Let's try not to hurt him anymore than he already is," Vincent said as they bent down.
 
The took the unconscious boy by his legs and shoulders and lifted him.

Paco groaned, and a bubble of blood formed on his mouth.

"Broke ribs," Vincent said.
 
"We'll have to get Doc Bigby to look at him."
 
He looked at Simkins.
 
"You did good, Jack, not lettin' those fellas hang him."

"They might try it again.
 
They were mad as hell."

They carried the injured boy to Bigby's buggy and laid him in the seat.
 
Vincent was aware of the men watching them from
 
the edge of the trees.

Bigby walked over.
 
"Looks like she was beat up on pretty good, knifed a few times.
 
I'll have to look her over better to know for sure."

"All right.
 
Let's put her in the back of the buggy.
 
YOu can take her to your office."

Bigby had a little office and examination room over the store where Paco had gone to buy the salt and sugar.

"There's some of us don't like the idea of her bein' in the buggy with that greaser," Turley Ross said when Vincent told the men what he was going to do.

"That's just too damn bad," the sheriff said.
 
"There's not much he can do to her now."

"It don't seem right," Harl said.
 
"Seein' as how he's the one killed her."

 
"I don't want to hear any more of that kind of talk," Vincent said.
 
"Not until it's proved."

"It's proved enough for me," Ross said.
 
"I say we hang the bastard right now."

"You all tried that idea out once already," Jack said.
 
"It didn't wash, and it still won't.
 
Go on home now.
 
Get some sleep."

The men grumbled for a few more minutes, but finally they gave it up.
 
They went over to where their horses were tied to some low-hanging branches, mounted up, and rode away.

"I think we'll be hearin' some more from them," Jack said.

"I'm afraid you're right," Vincent said.
 
"Doc, you go on into town.
 
I'll ride along with Jack, and you can meet us at the jail.
 
In the mornin' we'll see what you can tell us about the girl."

He watched Bigby climb wearily into the buggy and thought about what he was going to tell the Randalls.
 
Whatever he said, it would not be easy.

It turned out to be worse than he thought.

The Randall's house was on the outskirts of town.
 
It had a neatly kept yard, surrounded by a picket fence, and someone, probably Mrs. Randall, had tried to start a flower garden.
 
It had not done well, and Vincent could see only a couple of droopy-headed roses on a scraggly bush.

Martha Randall let him in the door at his knock, leading him to the lamp-lit sitting room.
 
There was a hooked rug on the floor, and Vincent looked at its pattern as if there might be a message there for him.

There wasn't, and he took off his hat, bringing his head up and met Mrs. Randall's eyes.
 
"Where's your husband?" he asked.