Shadow of the Gallows

Title Page
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
By the same author
Copyright

‘We must stand together and fight.’

With each word Ralph Bannister smashed one clenched fist into the palm of his other hand. At the same time he stared out at the twenty or so
homesteaders
gathered in front of him. He was a good speaker and he was pleased but not surprised to note that most were nodding in agreement.

Of course, Fred Warren looked even more worried than usual; would, if given the chance, voice caution, although it was doubtful many people would take notice. Silly old fool! Perhaps he was scared his sons would be in the forefront of any fight. Looking at the boys’ angry faces, the way they had taken to wearing holstered revolvers, Warren was probably right. Well, about Peter and David anyway. Martin, the sensible one, wouldn’t want to be involved.

‘Why should we let the cattlemen get away with molesting us when we ain’t done nothing? Just because they’ve got might on their side don’t mean they’re goddamn right.’

Warren stepped forward. ‘We should try talking to ’em.’

‘Talking?’ Bannister laughed loudly. ‘Again? Where
the hell is that goin’ to get us? Where the hell has it ever gotten us in the past?’

‘The law—’

Bannister interrupted. ‘Law? What goddamn law? Marshal Jackson sits in his office and does nothing but bleat that as he’s town marshal what happens outside the town ain’t nothing to do with him. And you may be sure that if he should ever decide to get off his ass it’ll be to take the side of the goddamn cattlemen.’

‘You know that ain’t true,’ Warren objected.

‘Ain’t it?’

‘Jackson is a good lawman. And we ain’t never had trouble with the ranchers before….’

‘Well, Fred, we sure as hell have got trouble now!’ A chorus of yells and laughs greeted Bannister’s words. After a while he held up a hand for silence.

‘Or perhaps you didn’t hear about the Pemberley boys? Farmers just like us. They were threatened by that bastard Steadman, beaten up by him and some of Rowlands’ cowhands, and forced out of their homestead.’

‘They were rustlers,’ Warren said.

‘So the goddamn Cattlemen’s Association and their damn detective said. Where was the proof?’

‘I didn’t think proof was needed for something that everyone knows.’ But looking round, Warren saw he was wasting his time.

There were one or two who agreed with him but their voices would also be lost because the rest wanted to go along with Bannister. Wanted action. Although what form that action would take he bet
Bannister hadn’t yet figured out. The man was good with words, good at rabble-rousing. He wasn’t so good at thinking. He wouldn’t take into
consideration
the fact that in any kind of a fight men on both sides risked getting hurt and that as the ranchers and their cowboys were in the majority the farmers would be the ones most at risk. Warren knew that if it came to a showdown the farmers could never hope to win.

Maybe later he’d ride round and talk to the others at their homes, try to get them to listen to reason. Glancing at his sons, Peter and David, he saw, with sinking heart, that they would be among the most difficult to persuade. For some while they’d been talking of little but what Bannister said and did. Hero-worshipped him almost. Had little time lately for their father, considering him timid and stupid, always ready to take what they saw as the coward’s way out. They wanted to fight. And they might well take Martin along with them. Martin wouldn’t start a fight but he wouldn’t back down from one either,
especially
if his brothers were in danger of getting hurt.

Part of the trouble was Bannister was right. All of a sudden, instead of living side-by-side reasonably happily as they had done in the past, the ranchers did appear to be trying to drive the farmers out. For no good reason.

Of course when times were hard, farmers had always stolen a cow or two. The ranchers had mostly accepted it happened and turned a blind eye to it. Now they were using the likes of the Pemberleys, who were rustlers because that was easier than working on a farm, to call the rest rustlers as well. In this they
were helped by Tom Steadman, the detective employed by the Cattlemen’s Association. He had always been tough but fair, but now it seemed he was quite willing to use terror tactics in which he was supported by the Association.

‘Can I count on you all?’ Bannister’s words broke into Warren’s uncomfortable thoughts.

‘Yeah!’ The shout went up, echoing round the field. One or two of the men even went so far as to draw and fire their guns.

This time Bannister didn’t try to stop them sounding off. He was near the end of his speech and he wanted them to go away feeling angry and eager.

He waited until it was again quiet, before going on, ‘Then I urge each and every one of you to keep your wits and your guns about you. Don’t start a fight but be willing to finish one. Support and help one another. And that goes for every one of us!’ He glared at Warren. ‘If we act together we’ll defeat the goddamn cattlemen. Make them respect and accept us! Because by God, we’re here to stay!’

After more yells and cheers Bannister stood shaking hands as the homesteaders left the field. When they’d gone and he was alone he went over to his horse and swung himself up in the saddle. He was more than satisfied. It had been a good meeting, gone even better than he imagined it would. That old fool, Warren, might attempt to persuade the rest to sit back and do nothing but he’d never succeed. The others were as impatient and furious as Bannister at the way the ranchers were riding roughshod over the farmers.

If it came to a war, and Bannister was sure it would especially if he had anything to do with it, then he had to make sure everyone was willing to do whatever it took to win. Make them realize he was protecting their interests as much as his own.

Because, he thought as he neared his farm, his interests were surely worth protecting.

His 160 acres were situated near to a waterhole which even in the hottest of summers didn’t dry up completely. The crops he planted grew and thrived. He’d been here coming up for three years now and each year he made a larger profit. Because he spent most of his waking hours working on the land, his home might still be little more than a one-room shack but he’d already added a shelter for his animals and a corral. He’d started on a barn. It was hard work, sometimes a lonely life, but he wasn’t about to give it up. Not for anyone.

He rode down the dusty slope through the sagebrush to the shack, looking forward to going into the cool and having a drink of lemonade. Talking was thirsty work and although still early in the year it was already hot, with no sign of the much needed rain.

As he dismounted, his horse flicked its head and whickered nervously.

‘What is it?’

Then Bannister heard a noise from some way off. Alert for trouble he reached for the rifle in its saddle scabbard.

He never made it.

Even as he was drawing out the weapon something hit him, hard and painfully, in the chest. It was
followed, an instant later, by the bang of a rifle. He was almost surprised to see blood spurting down the front of his shirt. Christ, he’d been shot! It surely hadn’t hurt that much to make such a mess. Before he could think of anything else the rifle was fired again and he was struck by a second bullet. His legs buckled under him and he fell to his knees. Grabbing at the wounds, he toppled sideways,
everything
went black and he lay still.

The dry-gulcher had no doubts that Bannister was dead. When he came out from his hiding place he saw that he was right.

As the jury filed back into the small and crowded courtroom a deep silence fell. The twelve men hadn’t taken long to debate the case and reach their verdict and, with fluttering heart, Tom Steadman thought that boded ill for him. Especially as there had been plenty to speak against him and few to speak up for him

Judge Bowyer banged his gavel, more for effect than anything else as everyone was already quiet and waiting. He indicated that Steadman should get to his feet then turned to the jury. ‘Well?’ he demanded.

The jury foreman stood up. ‘We find the
defendant
guilty of cold-blooded murder.’

Immediately the cowboys in the crowd started to jeer while the farmers cheered and there was a cry of ‘Oh no,’ from Amy Mallory.

‘Quiet! Quiet!’ Bowyer banged his gavel harder while Marshal Jackson stood ready to quell any unrest.

‘And we reckon he should be hanged and real quick.’

When at last order was restored the judge said, ‘Thank you, I don’t need your advice on what sort of sentence to pass.’

Red-faced, the jury foreman sat down amidst some sniggering.

Bowyer turned to the prisoner. ‘Mr Steadman, you have been found guilty after a fair trial and I have no hesitation in passing the death sentence on you. No one can be allowed to get away with murder just because the victim is a farmer and you are employed by the Cattlemen’s Association.’

More jeers and cheering.

‘Marshal.’

‘Yes sir?’

‘How long until a gallows can be built? And a hangman employed?’

‘A week?’ Jackson hazarded a guess.

‘Yes, that sounds about right. So, Mr Steadman, seven days from now at a time to suit the marshal you will be taken from the jailhouse to the gallows and there hanged by the neck until you are dead. Court is over.’ And with another bang of the gavel, Judge Bowyer stood up and left the room, pleased with the day’s work. He never minded passing the death sentence on those who deserved it.

‘C’mon, Tom, let’s get you back to the jail,’ Jackson said, stepping forward.

‘I’m innocent you know that, don’t you?’ Steadman said, sounding both resentful and frightened.

‘I don’t know anything of the sort.’

Hand gripping his rifle, Jackson began to lead the
prisoner out of the courtroom. He was glad the
jailhouse
was only a short walk away, worried in case some of the farmers present didn’t want to wait a week for Bannister’s killer to be hanged. If they started trouble the cowboys would be only too glad to finish it.

‘I’m sorry, Tom.’ Hugh Rowlands, chairman of the Cattlemen’s Association, spoke up as the two men reached him. ‘If there’s anything I can do, just ask.’

‘Yeah, thanks, sir.’ Rowlands gave a little nod.

Steadman didn’t dare look at Amy Mallory as he passed her but he could hear her crying.

Because the courtroom was too small for everyone who’d wanted to attend the trial – the most talked about event in a long while – a crowd had gathered outside. Word of the verdict had gone before Jackson and Steadman. There were some calls of
encouragement
but they were drowned out by catcalls and boos. Someone threw some old fruit that splattered across Steadman’s shoulders.

‘Keep back, back!’ Jackson yelled, and forced his way through the gathered men and women. He propelled Steadman up on to the sidewalk and in through the open door of his office where Bob Sparks, the jailor, shut it firmly behind him. ‘Get through into the cells.’

‘I didn’t do it,’ Steadman repeated.

‘Like the judge said you had a fair trial….’

‘With townspeople and farmers on the jury, oh yeah, very fair!’ Steadman said sarcastically. ‘Oh, leave me alone, Marshal, go ahead and sort out building the gallows.’

He tried to sound as if he didn’t care but left on his own, he sank down on the bunk, head in his hands, his stomach churning. He’d never believed it would come to this.

There hadn’t seemed to be much evidence against him and he’d been certain he could trust Mr Rowlands to somehow ensure he was found
innocent
. He hadn’t been worried. Now he saw that was foolish. The judge might not have been against him but the jury certainly were; he hadn’t stood a chance. He should have sought help at the beginning, with luck perhaps it wasn’t too late to seek help now.

‘Marshal, Marshal,’ he got up and went over to the cell door.

‘What is it?’ Jackson asked.

‘I want you to send an urgent message over the telegraph for me.’

Peter Warren drove the buckboard home from Newberry to his father’s farm as fast as he could. It was empty because after he’d heard this latest news he hadn’t even stopped to buy the supplies for which he’d gone into town. His father would be annoyed with him but this information was much too
important
to wait.

Peter was already furious because his father hadn’t let him and David go into Newberry for Steadman’s trial. He’d longed to see the killer found guilty,
especially
as he’d been the one to find Bannister’s body. He would never forget the shock of riding down to the farm and seeing his hero lying dead and
blood-soaked
in the yard.

Instead they’d had to wait until one of their luckier neighbours called in with news of the guilty verdict. Now he was even angrier.

As he pulled up before the house, he jumped down almost before the horse had come to a halt. He banged open the door making his parents and two brothers, who were in the kitchen getting ready for the evening meal, jump with fright.

‘Pa!’ he yelled.

‘Whatever is it?’ Warren said. ‘What’s happened?’

Peter paused to get his breath back. ‘Guess what? That bastard—’

‘Watch your language in front of your mother!’

‘—Sorry.’ Peter took another deep breath. ‘Yesterday, after his trial, Steadman sent a message to that agency he used to work for. The one he’s always boasting about.’

‘It’s some sort of private detective agency, ain’t it?’ Martin asked.

‘Yeah, that’s right.’

‘Why’s he done that?’

‘Because, Pa, he’s asked for help in proving him innocent of Ralph’s murder.’

The others all looked at one another.

‘Doesn’t that mean he is, in fact, innocent?’ Louisa Warren said.

Peter looked at her scornfully. ‘Of course it don’t, Ma. It just mean he’s doing everything possible to get out of being hanged. What’s more there’s been a telegram in reply. A detective is already on his way! Whoever he is he’ll be a friend of Steadman’s, or in his pay. He’ll look at the evidence and turn it around
so Steadman is found innocent.’

‘I don’t see how,’ Martin said.

Peter glared at his brother. Why did Martin have to be so reasonable about everything? He was as bad as their mother, always wanting to see both sides. ‘The bastard – sorry, Ma – is goin’ to get away with it.’

‘He can’t,’ David said, clenching his hands together. ‘He shot Ralph; everyone knows that and the jury agreed, he must hang for it.’

‘Are you sure about this?’ Warren asked.

‘Yeah, Pa. It was all over town.’

‘And when is this private detective meant to arrive?’

‘The day after tomorrow I think. He’s coming by train.’

‘What are we goin’ to do?’ That was David, always ready for action.

‘There’s nothing we can do,’ Warren told him with a worried look at Louisa. ‘Except trust in the law.’

‘Oh, Pa!’

‘I don’t like this any more than any of you. I had no great liking for Bannister but it certainly seems wrong that his killer might get off because he has connections. But I don’t want you boys trying to take the law into your own hands. Do you understand?’

‘Yeah, Pa.’