This Violent Land (7 page)

“Thank you, Marshal. I appreciate that.”

 

A
s Smoke rode near the town a week later, he didn't have to stop and inquire as to whether or not a man had been recently lynched. The truth was profanely and arrogantly displayed just outside town. A man's body was hanging from a high, horizontal limb of a large cottonwood tree.

With winter only a month away, the weather was chilly, but despite that, hanging from the tree limb for days had not been good for the corpse. The body was displaying considerable damage left by vultures. In addition, the face had been blackened by prolonged exposure and deterioration. A crudely lettered sign told the story.

 

T
HIS
M
EXICAN
Was hung for murder
Leave his carcass here for the buzzards

 

Smoke removed the marshal's star from his shirt and dropped it into his pocket before he continued his ride into Salcedo. He passed through the main part of town without stopping, going all the way to the far end of the town into the Mexican section. He stopped in front of a building with the sign C
ARLOS
B
USTAMANTE
, M
ORTUORIO
painted on it.

Smoke didn't actually speak Spanish, but he understood enough to know that the sign meant Bustamante was the undertaker for the Mexicans. Tying Seven off in front of the building, he stepped inside, where he was greeted by a man dressed all in black.

“
Sí, señor?
”

“You're the undertaker?” Smoke asked.

“
Sí,
for the Mexicanos, I am the undertaker,” Bustamante said. “The Americano undertaker is back up the street several blocks.”

“I'm askin' about a Mexican.” Smoke's voice was grim as he went on. “He's hanging from a tree just outside of town.”

“
Sí,
that is Juan Montoya,
Dios sea con él
,” Bustamante said with a sigh as he crossed himself. “He was hanged because they say he killed an Americano
puta
. But he did not kill her.”

“How do you know he didn't kill her?”

“Señora Echeverria works at the
casa de putas
as a maid. She saw Señor Quinncannon coming from the room of Señorita Fannie. He had blood on his hands, and when Señora Echeverria went into the room, Señorita Fannie . . . ah, she was dead.”

“Why didn't Señora Echeverria go to the law?”

“She did, señor. She told Marshal Bradford and Marshal Cassidy what she had seen, but they did not believe her. And then, Señor Quinncannon and some others said that Montoya was the one who murdered the puta.”

“Why would they choose Montoya?”

“He worked in the casa as a cook. But he was not even there, then. He was home. His neighbors saw him.When Señor Quinncannon and the others came for Montoya, the neighbors told them that he had been at home all night, but they would not listen.” Bustamante shook his head solemnly. “Instead, they took him out of town and hung him from a cottonwood tree.”

“Señor Bustamante, I don't understand. If you're the undertaker for your people, why do you let the corpse of Juan Montoya hang from a tree for many days?”

“Señor, perhaps you did not see the sign. The sign said that Juan Montoya, may he rest in peace, must be left hanging there.”

“You say may he rest in peace. But it doesn't seem to me that he can rest in peace with the buzzards picking at him. I want you to go get him, bring him in, and bury him.”

“Señor, I am afraid of Quinncannon. He is a
muy malo hombre.
”

Smoke nodded. “All right, I suppose I can understand that. Do you have a wagon and a horse to pull it?”

“I have a wagon and a mule.”

“Hitch the mule to the wagon. I'll go cut Montoya down and bring him to you.”

Bustamante's eyes widened. “If you do that, you will be killed, señor.”

“You let me worry about that.”

* * *

Fifteen minutes later, Smoke came back into town a second time. He was driving the undertaker's wagon, and in the back of the vehicle, conspicuously visible, was the vulture-picked and deteriorating body of Juan Montoya.

“Look,” he heard someone exclaim. “Ain't that Montoya's body in the back of that wagon?”

“That's the Mex undertaker's wagon, ain't it?” another man asked.

“I don't know, but that sure ain't no Mex drivin' the wagon.”

“Mister?” the first man called out to Smoke. “Can't you read? Quinncannon said that Mexican's body was s'posed to stay out yonder where it was danglin' from a tree limb.”

Smoke kept the wagon moving steadily, paying no attention to any of the shouts directed toward him.

“What the hell? Do you think maybe that fella is deaf?”

Several more in the Anglo section of town turned out along both sides of the street, most of them staring in fearful curiosity. They believed they might see the young driver shot at any moment. None of them followed him.

His passage was also watched by the Mexican citizenry once he entered their part of town, but none were hostile, and many crossed themselves as the wagon went by.

Smoke stopped the wagon in front of the Mexican mortuary and jumped down as the undertaker exited the building. “Here he is, Señor Bustamante. Do I need to pay you anything to bury his body?”

“No, Señor. The people will pay to bury him.
Gracias
. I fear now, for your life, but
gracias
.”

Smoke nodded, turned, and remounted Seven. He rode back into town, stopping in front of what appeared to be the only saloon in Salcedo. He entered it as he entered all saloons, by stepping in and quickly pressing his back against the wall until he had made a thorough observation of everyone present.

“Hey, you!” someone called to Smoke. “Are you the man who cut down that Mex body, and brung him into town?” The questioner had close-set eyes, a beak-like nose, and a projecting chin so turned up it looked like his nose and chin might actually touch.

“I am.” Smoke's response to the challenging question was calm, as if he were blissfully unaware of the hostile nature in the tone of the questioner's voice. He turned to the bartender. “I'd like a beer, please.”

“Didn't you see my sign saying to leave that Mex hangin' there?”

“You must be Mr. Quinncannon,” Smoke said, extending his hand.

Quincannon ignored the hand but smiled briefly, surprised but obviously pleased to be recognized. “Heard of me, have you?”

“Yes, I have.”

“Well, if you've heard of me, you should damn well know better than to cut that body down. You can read, can't you? 'Cause if you can read, you shoulda been able to read the sign I posted. The sign that warned anyone against doin' that.”

“So you admit to posting the sign. Are you also the one who lynched him?”

“You're damn right I am,” Quinncannon said.

Smoke kept up the calm demeanor. “The sign said you lynched him because he was a murderer. Who did he murder?”

“He murdered a harlot,” Quinncannon replied.

“Would the woman you say he murdered be named Fannie?”

“Yeah.”

“How do you know he murdered her?”

“How do I know? 'Cause he worked there . . . in the house where she worked. I think he must have asked her to be with him, but she wouldn't do it, 'cause of him bein' Mex an' all. So when she turned him down, he killed her.”

“So you decided to kill Montoya yourself, is that it?” Smoke asked.

“You're damn right I—” Quinncannon stopped abruptly mid-sentence when he saw Smoke take the badge from his pocket and pin it onto his shirt. After that second of surprise, he demanded, “Who are you, and what are you doing here?”

“My name is Smoke Jensen, Quinncannon, and I'm a deputy U.S. marshal. You know what I think? I think you killed Fannie, and to cover it up, you accused Montoya, then you lynched him. I'm going to put you in jail for the murder of both of them. I expect you will stay there for about three days.”

“Three days,” Quinncannon snorted. “And what's going to happen in three days?”

“There'll be another hanging,” Smoke replied. “Only it's going to be legal.”

“Who do you think you're kidding?” Quinncannon asked. “You ain't goin' to be able to put together a jury in this town that will hang me for what I done. Hell, half of 'em was out there, eggin' me on!”

“Then I'll take you back to Denver with me. Either way, you're going to hang.”

“The hell I am!” Quinncannon shouted. He clawed at his gun, even as he yelled his defiance.

Smoke drew faster than the eye could follow. His Colt roared before Quinncannon even cleared his holster. Smoke's bullet crashed into Quinncannon's heart, killing him so quickly that he was dead before he hit the floor.

“Drop your gun, mister!” a loud voice called.

Looking into the mirror, Smoke saw two men. Both were wearing stars and both were holding shotguns pointed at him. He turned toward them.
Bradford and Cassidy
, he thought.

“You can lower your guns,” Smoke told them. “I'm a deputy United States marshal. I came here to arrest Quinncannon for murder.”

“Yeah?” one of the men said in a harsh, angry voice. “Well, you didn't arrest him, did you? You shot him. Not even a United States marshal can shoot a man down in cold blood.”

“I didn't shoot him in cold blood. He drew on me.”

“What do you mean, he drew on you? Look at him. His gun is still in the holster.”

What the city marshal said was true. Quinncannon had started his draw, but Smoke was so fast that he drew and shot before Quinncannon could even clear leather. As a result, the pistol dropped straight back down into the holster.

“Unbuckle your gun belt and let it fall to the floor,” one of them said.

Smoke looked directly at the speaker. “Which one are you? Bradford or Cassidy?”

“I'm Cassidy.”

“Tell me, Cassidy, where were you two officers of the law when Quinncannon lynched Montoya?”

“We was right there watchin' him do it,” Bradford put in. “Far as I'm concerned he just saved the county the cost of a legal hangin'. He was right. Montoya was the one that kilt the girl.”

Smoke kept up his questioning. “Isn't it true that an eyewitness came to you two and told you that she had seen Quinncannon coming from Fannie's room with blood on his hands? And when she went into the room, she found Fannie dead?”

“Bradford, is that true?” the bartender asked.

“You never said nothin' about any eyewitness tellin' you Quinncannon done this,” exclaimed one of the saloon patrons.

“Yeah, well, you know who it was that told us that, don't you?” Bradford glared around at the people in the room. “It was a Mexican maid that worked there, and she was just takin' up for Montoya. Who are you goin' to believe, some damn Mexican or an American?”

“Well, if Quinncannon is the one who actually done it, you know damn well he was goin' to lie about it,” pointed out one of the others in the saloon. “Don't you think this is somethin' that maybe the rest of us shoulda knowed about?”

“Don't let this man get ever'one all confused now,” Cassidy said. “Can't you see that he's just tryin' to make trouble? Montoya is the one that done it.”

“Don't you think that should have been decided by a trial?” Smoke asked coolly.

“If he was a white man, maybe. But he wasn't no white man, was he? He was just a greaser.”

“You know what, Bradford? I think we should throw this guy in jail,” Cassidy said. “Don't you think it would be funny to have a U.S. marshal in a city jail?”

“Nah. Some damn federal judge would just let 'im out. I think we should just kill 'im and be done with it.”

Even as Bradford made the suggestion, he was pulling the trigger of his shotgun. Flame erupted from the weapon's right-hand barrel. But instead of hitting Smoke, the double-ought buckshot chewed splinters from the corner of the bar.

Smoke had anticipated, to the split second, when Bradford was going to fire and dove out of the way, grabbing his pistol on the way down. He landed on the floor and rolled to his left just as Cassidy loosed a load of buckshot at him. The deadly charge gouged a hole in the floor a couple feet from Smoke.

Both men had one shot remaining.

Smoke returned the fire, snapping off two quick shots, both of which found their marks. Bradford and Cassidy staggered back as the slugs ripped through them. They collapsed just as Smoke surged to his feet. Still holding the gun in his hand, he swung around to see if anyone else was up to the challenge.

No one was. They were all stunned by the deafening blasts and could only stare dumbly through the drifting shreds of powder smoke.

“Bartender,” Smoke said into the hush that followed the gun thunder.

“Y-yes sir?” the bartender replied, stuttering in his fear.

“Do you know a man named LeRoy Peyton?”

“You mean the judge? Yes, sir, I know him.”

“Send someone after him. Bring him here to me.”

The bartender didn't have to say anything. Several men practically tripped over their own feet as they hurried out to follow the order.

In the time it took to round up LeRoy Peyton, almost a dozen men came over to Smoke to thank him for ridding their town of such an outlaw element as Quinncannon and the two city marshals. Most claimed they had had nothing to do with the lynching, and never believed Montoya was guilty in the first place. A few of the more honest ones admitted that they actually did think Montoya had killed the girl and had been present for the lynching, though they took no personal part in it.