The Hanging of Red Cavanagh Read online

  The Hanging of Red Cavanagh

  As a young man, Red Cavanagh awoke one morning to find his father dead – murdered by members of the old Willis Walton gang. Setting off in pursuit, he stopped in Bald Hills to secure himself a rifle but didn’t succeed. Then, within hours, a grave is discovered in a clearing, covered with a crude wooden cross bearing the name Red Cavanagh. . . .

  Four years on and Bald Hills is in deep trouble. The transcontinental railroad is likely to be routed to the north of the town, and a greedy local rancher is seizing property and land aided by gunman Chet Warrener. There seems no hope for the ordinary townspeople.

  Until, one day, a stranger rides into town. . . .

  By the same author

  Hanging at Horse Creek

  Shootout at Casa Grande

  Bloody Trail to Dorado

  Hannahan’s Lode

  Bitter Range

  Saratoga

  Crossing the Bravo, for Pueblito

  The Hanging of Red Cavanagh

  Jim Lawless

  ROBERT HALE

  © Jim Lawless 2012

  First published in Great Britain 2012

  ISBN 978-0-7198-2281-0

  The Crowood Press

  The Stable Block

  Crowood Lane

  Ramsbury

  Marlborough

  Wiltshire SN8 2HR

  www.bhwesterns.com

  This e-book first published in 2017

  Robert Hale is an imprint of The Crowood Press

  The right of Jim Lawless to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by him

  in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988

  Chapter One

  1855

  The gravity of the situation and the grim determination with which he set out to tackle it had put a steely glint into young Red Cavanagh’s blue eyes and was causing his jaw muscles to ache. He was grappling with a situation that was beyond his comprehension, contemplating actions that were outside his experience and almost certain to lead to disaster. Yet on that familiar mile-and-a-half ride that took him from the cabin that was his home, along the banks of Lost Creek and into the town of Bald Hills, he knew that there was no alternative.

  But even determination and a realization that there was only one course open to him failed to overcome heart-wrenching grief. By the time his sorrel had clattered past Morris Clark’s bank, Barney Malone’s Blackjack saloon and was turning along Bald Hills’ wide main street, his mind was once again in turmoil as he recalled images of the three men he had seen only briefly.

  Last night they had ridden in out of the darkness, drawn rein outside the Cavanagh cabin and nodded in a friendly way across the yard to Red as he worked on late-night chores. Once inside the cabin they had talked for a long time to Louis Cavanagh. Some of that talk Red had overheard as he lingered on his way to his room. He had also heard the clink of whiskey glasses, his father’s voice raised in anger. Then he had shut the door and climbed into bed. Later, something had wrenched him from a deep sleep and he had left the warmth of his blankets to watch from the window as, in dappled moonlight, the three men had ridden away, taking the same trail into town.

  Now, eight hours later and after a night spent tossing restlessly followed by a shocking discovery in the cold light of dawn, Red rode into Bald Hills with the icy realization that he was setting out to hunt down those nocturnal visitors. His intention was to find them, and kill them. He would make them pay with their lives for what they had done to his pa, Louis Cavanagh.

  Red had no clear plan in his mind. He was taking it one step at a time, and his first objective was John Vernon’s gunsmith’s shop. It was midway down the street. Although it was early, there were a few people about. Businessmen were opening their premises. A rider came up the centre of the street, his horse’s breath a white mist. Across the street old Denny Coburn, dressed in slack denim pants and a grubby under-shirt, was standing in the wide doorway of his livery barn, which was backed up against a stand of tall pines. Yawning, rubbing his eyes, he saw Red, lifted a hand in greeting – then stared wide-eyed, and jabbed a finger.

  Yeah, Red thought. He was seventeen years old, and this was the first time anyone in Bald Hills had seen him wearing a gun. And as he stepped down outside the gunsmith’s and tied his sorrel to the rail, he wondered if old Denny realized that what he was seeing hanging loosely from Red’s slim waist was Louis Cavanagh’s gunbelt carrying the big man’s much-used Colt .45.

  John Vernon’s recognition of the tarnished weapon with its scarred butt was never in doubt.

  His dark, deep-set eyes fixed on the gunbelt as soon as the door creaked open and Red walked into his shop. The bone-thin gunsmith leaned forward with his hips against the counter, folded his arms and shook his head reprovingly.

  ‘I don’t think I’ve seen Louis Cavanagh without that Colt strapped about his waist in all the time I’ve known him. What’s your daddy going to say when he goes hunting for it and finds both it and you missing?’

  Meticulous as always, Vernon pronounced Cavanagh the correct way, with the emphasis on the middle syllable. Cavanagh. Red felt sudden warmth towards a man who had been a friend for as long as he could remember, a twinge of guilt at what he was about to ask.

  ‘I need a rifle, Mr Vernon.’

  He felt the gunsmith’s keen gaze, lifted a finger to adjust the rake of his grey, flat-crowned hat; nervously played with the plaited rawhide neck-cord hanging in the hollow of his tanned throat.

  ‘You’ve got yourself your daddy’s six-gun, now you want a rifle,’ Vernon said musingly. ‘You figuring on starting a war, son?’

  ‘I’ve got cash.’

  Red reached into his pocket, pulled out a leather pouch, spilled a jingle of coins on to the counter.

  ‘That something else you took while his back was turned?’

  ‘It’s mine. I’ve been saving.’

  ‘Yeah, and I think the whole town knows why. You and Beth Logan—’

  ‘If all it’ll buy is a weapon that’s seen some use,’ Red cut in, ‘that’s fine by me. I’ve got an old Henry, but I need something more reliable, a gun that will home in on any target of my choosing.’

  ‘I gave you that Henry for your tenth birthday, taught you to shoot in the woods behind your cabin. What I’m saying is it’s the man, not the gun, puts a bullet where its supposed to be.’

  ‘I’m in a hurry, Mr Vernon.’

  ‘Mind telling me why?’

  ‘Three men rode back through town late last night. You see them?’

  ‘Happens I did. They were strangers, getting on in years – I’d say pushing fifty, and that surprised me. I know the type. Eyes shifting, watching. Hard faces without expression. Hands forever brushing the butt of a six-gun. Not too many of their kind beat the bullet and live on into old age. I saw them ride on through a mite wearily, saw them return to take the same route out of town when the moon was full.’

  ‘Heading south?’

  ‘Looked that way. By now they could be in Nebraska.’

  ‘Those three men killed my pa.’

  ‘They what!’

  ‘He’s dead,’ Red said. ‘Lyin’ on the living room floor, head all bloody.’

  ‘When did this happen?’

  ‘Last night.’

  ‘And you waited until now—’

  ‘I found him this morning. But that’s done, and I’m relying on you to talk to the undertaker, give him a decent burial. What I need now—’

  ‘What you do now is head on down the street and talk to Joe Parody, put this in the hands of the law.’

  ‘Joe’s useless, always has been, and this election his time’s up. You’ll be voted in as town marsh
al. That’s another reason why I’m talking to you, not him.’

  John Vernon pursed his lips. His face was troubled. He poked out a finger, absently moved the coins on the counter, shifting them around like pieces on a checkers board.

  ‘Those men. Why’d they kill your daddy?’

  ‘I didn’t hear too much.’ Red shook his head. ‘I know they argued, and he warned them that what they were planning was madness.’

  ‘So he knew them?’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘Do you?’

  ‘By reputation. You heard of the Willis Walton gang?’

  ‘Dammit, boy, you’re not saying—’

  ‘One of those men who rode in was Indian Cole Willis.’

  ‘Indian? They’re all white men.’

  ‘Willis moves like one, ghosts around, makes a stalking cat sound noisy. Bad clear through. Another I know for sure was Dustin Walton. The third . . .’ Red shrugged, ‘I don’t know, don’t really care that much.’

  There was a heavy silence in the little shop that smelled of clean raw timber and gun oil. Vernon’s eyes were narrowed and he was drumming his fingers soundlessly on the counter. Red had stepped back a pace. He watched the gunsmith, knew the question that was certain to come next, formulated an answer that would give nothing away. He was also getting ready to run.

  ‘The Willis Walton gang robbed banks, trains, stage coaches over a period of years, then dropped out of sight,’ Vernon said softly. ‘But there were always four of ’em.’ He raised his eyes, looked keenly at Cavanagh. ‘What did your daddy have to do with that bad lot?’

  ‘My pa’s dead.’

  ‘Yeah, and you want a rifle. You going after those men?’

  ‘When you get around to serving me.’

  ‘A couple of minutes ago I mentioned young Beth Logan. What about her, son? I thought you two were, well. . . ?’

  Red felt a sudden lurching sadness. He and Beth Logan had been inseparable since school days, childhood sweethearts who had grown ever closer. Though nothing had been put into words, there was a clear understanding that when both were old enough they would marry, settle down together and raise a family. They saw each other most days. Today was not going to be one of them. Would she understand?

  ‘If you see Beth,’ Red said, ‘tell her what happened to my pa. Tell her my leaving town has been forced on me by that tragedy, but I’ll be gone a few days at most.’

  ‘That’s quite a task you’re taking on. Apart from the fact they’re bad men to go up against, they’ve got, what, maybe ten hours start?’

  ‘I did say I was in a hurry.’

  ‘I know, but you asking me for a rifle gives me a bad feeling. You’re an excellent shot. Sounds like you’re planning on picking those men off, one by one, from a distance. For a young lad like you up against men who’ve robbed and killed, that’s probably the safest way of getting even – but shooting from ambush is always cold-blooded murder.’

  ‘Yes or no, Mr Vernon?’

  ‘It has to be no, son. You’re biting off way more than you can chew, buying yourself a load of trouble that could ruin your life.’

  Mouth tight, Red swept the coins off the counter and was stuffing them into the leather pouch as he turned towards the door. He heard the bang of a wooden flap, knew the gunsmith was coming fast around the counter. Gritting his teeth, he ripped open the door. Run – or deal with the gunsmith? He turned. Vernon was walking quickly, almost on him. Determination was written on his face. Red took half a pace out on to the plank walk. Then he twisted, and swung the heavy pouch high and wide. He put a lot of muscle behind the solid weight. The soft leather packed with metal struck Vernon on the temple. His mouth opened. His eyes glazed. He staggered back, hit the door frame with his shoulder. Then he shook his head. Legs wobbly, he once more came after Red.

  But he was too slow. Red was down off the plank walk and swinging into the saddle. The sound of Vernon’s yells rang in his ears as he wheeled his horse away from the shop, quickly fading as he spurred the sorrel along Bald Hills’ wide main street and headed out of town.

  Chapter Two

  The marshal’s small office was wreathed in cigarette smoke. Joe Parody, greasily bald and almost grotesquely fat, was sitting behind his desk with a battered badge glinting on his vest and a cigarette smouldering under his ragged moustache. His chief deputy, Flatfoot Jones, late forties and in the job for some five years, was standing by the stove warming his bony rear end. Young Tom Clark, over by the window, was the only one of the lawmen not smoking. He was also the only one of the three who’d shown much interest in what John Vernon was reporting.

  But that, Vernon knew, was misleading. Parody was interested all right. In the news Vernon had brought, the embattled marshal was certain to see the possibility of strengthening his own position, though that would mean levering his bulk out of his chair and up into the saddle.

  ‘How dead?’ Parody said. ‘Been plugged, had he? Shot in the back? Because I can’t see Louis Cavanagh getting caught cold any other way.’

  ‘Hit over the head, by the looks of it. Flat on his face by the stone fireplace. The room stunk of whiskey – but that was expected, because young Red told me they were drinking.’

  ‘They,’ Parody repeated, and then he grinned. ‘And you’re saying this was the Willis Walton gang?’

  ‘According to Red. He did some listening while they were there, so I’m taking his word for it.’

  Parody sucked on his cigarette, dropped it and ground it under his heel.

  ‘They’re old men,’ he said.

  ‘No older’n me,’ Flatfoot said. ‘At my age, men are in their prime.’

  Parody looked him up and down, and snorted. ‘More like over the hill. Anyway, they’ve not pulled a bank job in Christ knows how many years. They’re relics, living on fading memories.’

  ‘But now they could be back,’ Vernon said, ‘and what you need to find out is what it was they wanted with Louis Cavanagh.’

  ‘How the hell am I supposed to do that,’ Parody said, ‘with him lying in a pool of blood and his killers long gone? Besides, whatever the hell it was they asked him had nothing to do with Bald Hills. They rode back through town gone midnight. Passed Flatfoot’s house, heading south – right?’

  The deputy nodded. ‘Yeah, I saw them.’

  ‘By now they’ll be fifty miles or more away, heading for the Nebraska border.’

  ‘That’s pure guesswork,’ Vernon said.

  ‘Call it what you like, but all we need to know is they’re not here in Bald Hills.’

  Flatfoot Jones, tall, lugubrious and as poisonous and slippery as a snake, was shaking his head in disagreement.

  ‘Could be, when he was eavesdropping last night, young Red heard more than he let on to John,’ he said, and there was something in the deputy’s hooded eyes as he looked sideways at the marshal that aroused John Vernon’s suspicions. ‘We talk to him, maybe we’ll get to the truth, know for sure where those outlaws were heading. Shouldn’t be too hard running him down; the boy’s been gone no more than a couple of hours.’

  Parody was nodding, his moist lips thrust out, his eyes narrowed in thought as he chewed over what the deputy had left unsaid.

  ‘We’ve only got his word for it that the Willis Walton boys killed his pa,’ he said softly. ‘Maybe he’s right, but either way it’d be a feather in my cap if I brought in Louis Cavanagh’s killer, maybe get me enough votes in the coming election to see off my rivals.’

  He looked at Vernon and grinned, then began heaving his vast bulk out of his chair.

  Thrown off balance by what Parody seemed to be suggesting – Christ, did they really believe Red Cavanagh had killed his pa? – Vernon shook his head in disgust.

  ‘I’m heading over to the undertakers to discuss Cavanagh’s funeral. You do what’s best, but if you and Flatfoot go after Red, go easy on the lad. And, talking of youngsters, if both of you head out of town that leaves young Tom in charge here.’

 
‘Ain’t that cruel of me,’ Parody said sarcastically, flashing a glance at the silent, embarrassed young deputy. ‘Bald Hills being such a hotbed of crime, I really don’t know how he’ll cope.’

  Chapter Three

  Half a mile out of Bald Hills the trail Red Cavanagh was following jinked to the left to run parallel to the western bank of Lost Creek. The terrain was undulating, but not dangerously so, and the nimble sorrel made good time. This early in the day the sun was not yet hot enough to dissipate the thin early morning mist. The air was fresh, the high peaks of the Wind River Range to the north west were lost in the clouds. To the south the land was mostly flat and green all the way to the Nebraska border.

  Unlike Marshal Joe Parody, Cavanagh had no preconceived notions on which direction the three Willis Walton men had taken. Instead, thankful for the rain that had fallen heavily over the past few days, softening the earth, he was relying on tracking skills honed by hunting elk and bear on frequent trips with his father to the thick forests of the Wind River Range foothills.

  First, leaning out of the saddle as he rode, he identified the tracks left by the three men’s horses, separating them from others both old and new. Then, with their characteristics fixed in his mind – one horse had a worn left hind shoe, another had thrown a couple of nails, a third appeared to be carrying a man of considerable weight – he was able to relax a little and give some attention to what might be going on behind him.

  He didn’t expect the sounds of a posse to reach him any too soon. Vernon had listened to his story and would pass it on, but it was unlikely Joe Parody would consider it worthwhile going after the Willis Walton gang. The three men had done nothing in the town to justify a pursuit and, to anyone riding up to the cabin, the way Louis Cavanagh had died would look more like an accident than cold-blooded murder. Besides, Red’s scathing assessment of the fat marshal’s usefulness in John Vernon’s shop had been on the nail: Parody was lazy, rarely moved out of his office, and when the elections were held he was certain to be replaced by Vernon.