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

either side. Behind him, he heard a man yell. Lum stopped and turned, and the man, short, fat, and agitated, hollered, “Hey you, get the hell back here!”
    The fat, blowsy madam stood beside the fat man and shook her fist, shrieking obscenities.
    Lum smiled. Drew his revolver. He shot the man in the head and then put a bullet between the woman’s huge breasts. He watched the pair fall, then resumed his walk to the livery stable, his Remington hanging at arm’s length by his side.
    He’d taken but a few steps when the door to the saloon burst open and a man wearing a lawman’s badge stepped into the street. Lum had time to ponder why it was that the smaller the town, the fancier its lawman’s badge, before the sheriff yelled at him to halt.
    Without breaking stride, Lum’s arm came up and he shot the lawman dead. Several men had followed the sheriff onto the boardwalk, and now they turned and bolted for the saloon door. Fists and boots swung as they battled to get inside, away from the death on the street. Lum smiled, fired again, and dropped a big feller in the doorway, adding to the yelling, cursing mayhem.
    It was, to Lum, all uproariously funny, and he tilted back his head and laughed his way to the livery, dust from the street swirling around his legs like smoke.
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    Lum led his horse out of the stable and stood in the light of the lamp that glimmered on the adobe wall. He looked down the street where a crowd had gathered outside the hotel. A second, smaller group clustered around the body of the dead sheriff.
    â€œThere he is!” a man yelled, pointing.
    Nobody made a move toward him, remaining still as painted figures on a canvas.
    Lum drew his Remington, a move that made several people step out of his line of fire. He held up the big revolver in the lamplight where all could see it, rotated the cylinder, and let the spent shells drop free. Then, slowly, deliberately, he reloaded.
    â€œYou damned hicks!” Lum yelled, “leave me the hell alone!”
    Cowed, the people in the street shrank back. Skilled gunfighters who revealed a reckless readiness to kill were rare in the West, and though there were men in the crowd who did not lack courage or a familiarity with arms, they did not step forward and cross the line that separates bravery from suicide.
    Slowly, deliberately, Lum mounted his black and rode out of town. To the east, the bulk of Glorieta Mesa blotted out a vast rectangle of stars, and the sighing high country winds sang their requiem.

Chapter Eleven
    â€œI won’t choose your requiem just yet, Patrick,” Jacob O’Brien said. “One way or another, we’re getting you out of here.” He studied his brother more closely. “You don’t look well.”
    â€œI don’t feel too good, either,” Patrick said.
    â€œWhat ails you?” Jacob asked.
    Sheriff John Moore said, “He’s burnin’ up, so I’d say it’s jailhouse fever. It can surely make a person feel right poorly pretty damn quick.”
    â€œWhat does the doctor say?” Jacob said. He laid the palm of his hand against Patrick’s sweaty forehead.
    â€œNothing, on account of how he’s out of town,” Moore said.
    â€œThe Vigilance Committee can’t hang a sick man,” Jacob said. “And my brother is sick.”
    â€œWell, Jake, they’ve took a different stand on that. Hugh Hamlin, tall, skinny feller that owns the general store, told me, ‘Sheriff, the sight of the gallows will soon restore the condemned to health. The rope is the sovereign remedy for fevers, agues, rheumatisms, the croup, and all derangements of the brain.’”
    Moore shrugged. “Sorry, Jake, but you see how it is with me.”
    â€œMy brother needs a doctor and care,” Jacob said. “He’s got a high fever.”
    â€œSorry, Jake,” Moore said. The lawman looked miserable and a tic twitched at his left