A Time For Hanging (10 page)

"You leave my daddy out of this," she said.
 
"I'll handle my daddy, don't you worry."
 
She pulled the trigger again, and the heavy pistol jumped in her hand.

She didn't want to talk about her father.
 
It was her father that had got her into this, all right, and she wasn't going back to his house ever again, or at least not for a while.
 
She had a little money of her own, and she could live in the hotel for a good while if she had to. She wasn't going to let her father marry her off to some two-timing cow-waddy, even if the waddy did have those pretty blue eyes.

She was about to squeeze off another shot when she saw someone running down the street from the direction of the jail.

Ward Vincent, she thought.
 
Well, he didn't have much gumption, in her opinion.
 
He wouldn't do anything to stop her, and if he tried, she'd just tell him why she was shooting up the town in the first place.
 
That would give him a surprise, and it would shame Charley.

That was just fine with her.
 
She didn't care if Charley was shamed.
 
Right now, she didn't care if they strung him up.
 
In fact, that might make her feel better.

She glanced down the street in the other direction and saw Jack Simkins coming, too.
 
The sheriff and his ugly deputy.
 
They didn't have enough grit between the two of them to fill up a turkey's craw.
 
They wouldn't do anything to her.
 
She was Roger Benteen's daughter, and they'd think twice before they tried to stop her from doing anything she wanted to do.

She let another bullet fly in Charley's direction.

It cracked a clod of dirt and showered the toe of Charley's boot, but he didn't move.
 
He could see Vincent, too, and he was already wondering what he would say to the sheriff.
 
It all depended on Lucille, he guessed.

"What the hell's . . . goin' on here?" Vincent huffed.
 
He wasn't used to running.
 
He looked up at the window.
 
"Lucille Benteen, is that you?"

Lucille didn't say anything.
 
She didn't pull the gun back inside the hotel room, either.

Jack arrived on the scene about that time.
 
He was even more puzzled than Vincent.
 
He had his pistol drawn and ready, but he looked as if he were uncertain about what to do with it.

Vincent had recognized Charley by then.
 
Davis was Roger Benteen's foreman, in charge of taking care of all the rancher's land and cattle.
 
It was probably the best job in the whole area, and it commanded a certain amount of respect.

"Put your gun up, Jack," Vincent said.
 
"Charley, you want to tell me what this is all about?"

Charley did not want to tell, at least not all.
 
He knew that he was going to have to tell some of it, however.

"Aw, it's nothin', Sheriff.
 
Lucille -- Miss Benteen -- and I, we've had us a little argument."

"Argument?" Vincent said.
 
"Looks more like a damn war, to me."

Davis put his hat back on and settled it on his head.
 
When he was satisfied, he said, "We got engaged, did you know that?"

Vincent had heard about it.
 
So had most people in town.
 
It was hard for most of them to believe that old Roger Benteen was going to let his little girl marry up with an ordinary cowhand, but it looked like that was the case.
 
In fact, the way Vincent heard the story, the old man was all in favor of the marriage.

"If you're engaged, why's she shootin' at you?" Jack asked.
 
It just didn't seem right to him, a woman shootin' at a man.
 
He couldn't remember ever seeing anything like that before.

It was a good question.
 
Vincent looked up at the window and said, "Why're you shootin' at your intended, then, Miss Benteen?"

"Ask him," Lucille said.
 
"He knows."
 
She pulled back the hammer of the pistol, and they could all hear the click it made when it locked into position.

Vincent took off his hat and wiped his forehead with a yellow bandanna handkerchief that he pulled from his back pocket.
 
The run down the street had made him break out in a sweat all over, and he could feel his shirt sticking to his back.
 
When he was finished wiping, he stuck the bandanna back in his pocket, but he didn't put the hat back on.

"Now then, Miss Benteen," he said reasonably.
 
"You don't want to do any more shooting.
 
Look at this street.
 
Not a single person on it but us three men.
 
You're scarin' all the people that need to be out and gettin' their day's work done."

Charley nodded in agreement.
 
"He's right, Lucille.
 
You and me, we just need to talk this over in private.
 
We don't want to make a show out of our private business."

"What private business is that?" Jack said.
 
He was still trying to figure out what was going on.

"It's nothin'," Davis said, trying to keep his voice low.
 
He didn't want Lucille to hear.

She heard anyway.
 
"Nothing!
 
That's not what I'd call it, you low-lifed two-timer."

"Two-timer?" Jack said.
 
"Are you two-timin' her, Charley?
 
If you are, it's a real shame."
 
He looked up at the beautiful young woman framed in the window.
 
Why anybody would want to two-time a woman who looked like that was beyond him.

"He's a two-timer, all right," Lucille said.
 
"I found out about it, and now he's trying to tell me that I've misjudged him.
 
That's a good one.
 
Misjudged him!"
 
She laughed shortly.
 
"I know what he is, and he's going to be sorry!"

She steadied the gun, getting ready to fire again, but Vincent called out and stopped her.

"Wait a second," he said.
 
"Maybe all this is just a misunderstandin'.
 
Let me talk to him."

"Fine.
 
You do that.
 
And then I'm going to finish him off."

"It's hot out here in the street," Jack complained.
 
"Can't we talk about this somewhere else?"

"That might be a good idea," Vincent said.
 
"But I don't think Miss Benteen's gonna go for it.
 
Charley, what the hell have you got yourself into."

Charley looked sheepish.
 
"Nothin'," he said.

Vincent looked pointedly at the woman holding the gun on them.
 
"That ain't nothin'."

"Well, not much more'n nothin', then," Charley said.
 
"It's just that she found out I'd been seein' somebody else before I started to court her, and she got mad about it."

He looked up at the window.
 
"But I swear I didn't see her again, Lucille.
 
Not more'n once, anyway."

Lucille pulled the trigger.
 
This time she shot a hole through the high crown of Charley's hat, which flew off his head and into the street.

"She ain't real happy with you, and that's a fact," Vincent said.
 
"Who were you seein', anyway?"

"The preacher's daughter," Charley said.
 
"Liz Randall."

"Uh-oh," Jack said.

And Vincent thought, oh, hell.

Consuela Morales was determined that her son was not going to die for the killing of Elizabeth Randall, even if she had to tell what she knew.
 
She had never told about the people she had helped before; that was one of the reasons why she continued to
 
have people coming to her house.
 
If she had told about their problems, then they would not have trusted her.

They had begun coming in the first place because many of them did not trust Dr. Bigby, or even if they trusted him they did not think much of his abilities as a doctor.
 
The truth was, many of her visitors had been to Bigby first and then, not being satisfied, had come to her.

She was never quite sure how she had received the reputation she had as a healer.
 
It might have arisen because of the time she had cured one of the local men of the bite he had received from a rattler.
 
She had happened to be nearby when he was bitten, and she had been able to cut the wound and suck out the poison.
 
But she had done more.
 
She had bound the wound and applied certain herbs that she knew about to the cut.
 
It had healed perfectly and the man was convinced that she had saved him not because of the cutting and the sucking of the poison but because of the "secret" healing ingredients she had used.

He told others, and they came to her for one thing or another -- minor illnesses, cuts that wouldn't heal, sprained ankles.
 
She did what she could, and she was successful often enough to achieve the reputation of someone who knew the secrets of healing.
 
Somehow that led to other things.

Like the women.
 
The women came for two reasons, mainly.
 
They came because they were unable to have children or because they were about to have a child that they did not want.
 
She always refused to do anything for the latter cases; she believed along with her church that to kill the child in the womb was as great a sin as to kill anyone else.

Still, they came, about one every year.
 
Elizabeth Randall had been only one among them.
 
They always hoped that Consuela might change her mind about helping them get rid of their child, and they seemed convinced that she knew some arcane secret that would relieve them of the burden they so unwillingly carried.

She knew no such secret, but she tried to help them in other ways, telling them to treasure the life they were bringing into being and encouraging them to help it grow strong and straight.

Most of them listened to her.
 
Most.

Even Elizabeth Randall had seemed to listen, but there was a look in her eyes that seemed to indicate some defiance that still remained, a determination to look elsewhere for help.

She had looked in the wrong place, Consuela thought.
 
Or maybe she had gone to the father of the child and demanded that he acknowledge her, that he do something to help.
 
Maybe she had demanded that he marry her, though he might have been in no position to do so.

At any rate, all those things seemed to indicate to Consuela that her son was as innocent as she believed him to be.
 
There might have been men -- or one particular man -- who had a reason to kill Elizabeth Randall, but her son was not that man.

She was going to make sure that everyone knew it, and she was going to begin by telling the Reverend Randall and his wife what she knew.
 
She had not told the sheriff, but it was not yet the sheriff's business.
 
And besides, she had no love for the sheriff.
 
She believed that he had let her husband's killer go free.
 
Nevertheless, she would tell him if she had to.

But first, she would tell the girl's parents.

She did not go to the preacher's front door.
 
She knew better than that.
 
The Randalls might be Christians, but they would never have received someone of her standing at their front door.

Mrs. Randall answered her knock at the back and stood there looking blankly at her.
 
It was as if she were staring at something just over Conseula's left shoulder.
 
There was a bruise on her face as if someone had hit her there.

"May I come in, please?" Consuela said at last.
 
"There is something that I must tell you."

"Oh," Mrs. Randall said.
 
"What is it?"
 
She did not seem very interested.
 
It was obvious that her mind was on other things.