Free Shadow of the Hangman by J. A. Johnstone Page A

whores for twenty years, and she was made of sterner stuff. She tried and failed to look around Lum’s shoulders, then said, “Let me talk to that lazy hussy.”
    â€œCome back in five minutes and you can have her,” he said. He reached into his pocket, showed the woman a five-dollar coin, then dropped it down her cleavage.
    â€œFive minutes,” he said.
    The woman fished between her huge breasts and recovered the coin. She smiled, “Hell, mister, so long as you’re paying, take all the time you need.” She leaned forward and, in a confidential tone, said, “Is she giving you value for money, doing little things for you? If not, I can send up a Chinese girl who’ll do anything you want.”
    â€œTrippy is just fine,” Lum said.
    â€œTell her to”—the door closed on the woman’s face and she finished her sentence whispering to varnished timber—“do something nice for you.”

    Lum didn’t hurry. He took a letter from the inside pocket of his black ditto suit coat and reread it for the fifth or sixth time since it had reached him in Fresno.

    Brother Lum,
    It is the decision of myself and the rest of the brethren that we assist Brother Joshua DeClare in his struggle against a papist murderer and oppressor he will make known to you. It is our wish that you summon the powers of the Master we all serve to assist you in this endeavor.
    A map that will guide you to Brother DeClare’s location in the New Mexico Territory is enclosed and the sum of five hundred dollars to cover expenses.
    Needless to say, time is of the utmost importance and you will immediately leave on your quest on receipt of this dispatch.
    The only outcome of this enterprise I will accept is the complete destruction of our mutual enemy, his spawn, and all his works.
    Brother Lum, I warn you, fail at your peril.
    Dr. William T. March,
Great Neck, New York

    Lum folded the letter and put it back in his pocket. March’s threat amused him. One day he’d break the little man’s back like a dry twig and take over the coven himself. Still, the money was welcome because, like whiskey, whores came easy, but never cheap.
    He had time and thought about banging the whore again, but he dismissed the idea. He felt as though the hick town was closing in on him, crushing the life out of him. Lum dashed sudden tears from his eyes. Nobody understood him, his needs, and his right to live as he chose and prey on whom he chose. The United States Constitution granted him that much, and he deserved to be protected from those who would do him harm.
    Devils! They had taken his soul and now they wanted the thin brew that was left.
    Feeling a deep sorrow for himself, Lum picked up his valise, eased the Remington into its holster, and stepped to the door. A few lamps burned along the hallway and cast shadows that crouched like black dwarves in the corners. The carpet under Lum’s feet and the stained walls smelled of mildew, dampness, and coal-oil smoke overlaid by the pungent aroma of ancient human sweat.
    Lum walked down the creaking stairs and past the desk. The clerk, a gangly, pimply youth with a shock of red hair and dull eyes, caught sight of the valise and said, “Hey, if you’re leaving, drop off the damned key.”
    A length of fence wire attached the key to an inch-wide iron canister shot. Lum turned swiftly, and his right arm slung the key at the clerk’s head with tremendous force. The shot hit the youth in the middle of the forehead and drove him back against the key rack and a large Chinese vase. Clerk, keys, rack, and vase clattered and shattered to the floor, and Lum grinned like a David who’d just overcome a diminutive Goliath.
    â€œThere,” he said, “I dropped off my key.”
    But the drooling, eye-rolling clerk didn’t hear.
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    Lum stepped into the town’s only street, a dusty track flanked by rickety timber buildings on