take pleasure in administering the extreme penalty. And this is one of those exceptions. Would you like to come to the window with me and watch? After all, you are the one who brought him in.”
“I don’t think you could keep me from watching,” Falcon said.
Falcon walked over to the window and looked down into the courtyard. There were three or four hundred people gathered around the gallows, including a photographer who had already taken a series of photographs of Deering as he was being prepared for the hanging. Now, the condemned man was in position just under the crossbeam, the noose having already been placed around his neck.
Deering had eschewed the use of a hood, and stood looking out at the crowd, a malevolent smile on his face, as if he actually enjoyed being the central figure in the death drama. His hands were manacled to his belt, so that his arms were stiffly by his sides. His legs were tied together. Any last words he may have had were already spoken at this point and he was quietly counting off the last seconds of his life.
“Roast in hell, you son of a bitch!” A man’s voice could be heard. “You raped and murdered my daughter!”
“Did I? Well, I’ll see her again in a few minutes,” Deering called back. “And after I have another go at her, I’ll give her your regards.” He laughed a high-pitched cackle and to those who were assembled to witness the hanging, it seemed as if they were hearing laughter from hell.
Even as he was laughing, Judge Lathom nodded his head and, down at the gallows, Sheriff Foley, who had been awaiting the signal, pulled the handle. From his position at the open window in Judge Lathom’s office, Falcon could hear the thump of the dropping trap door. Deering’s laughter was cut off in mid-cackle.
Lucas Shelton was not a train robber in the normal sense. That is because he didn’t mask himself and stop a train to rob the passengers, or to clean out the safe in the express car. Shelton had been a guard with the Railroad Protective Association, hired by the railroad to guard a money shipment. He had murdered the messenger who trusted him, and stolen the very money shipment he was supposed to protect. The shipment was just over one hundred thousand dollars in cash.
Matt was in for ten percent of the money if he could locate Shelton and bring him in. It took him only two weeks before he found Shelton at a saloon in Elko, Nevada.
“Mr. Shelton, I’ve come to take you back,” Matt said.
“Like hell you will!”
“Look out! Shelton’s pulled a gun!” one of the men shouted.
Matt had been expecting this, and when he saw the gun in Shelton’s hand he pulled his own, drawing and firing in the same, fluid motion, doing it so quickly that the noise of his shot covered Shelton’s so that they sounded as one, even though Shelton had fired a split-second sooner. Shelton’s bullet whizzed by harmlessly, burying itself in the wall behind Matt. Matt’s bullet caught Shelton right between the eyes, and the one-time President of the Railroad Protective Associates fell back against the bar, then slid down to the floor. Both eyes were open but there was a third opening, a small black hole, right at the bridge of his nose. Actually, only a small amount of blood trickled from the hole, though the bar behind him was already stained red with the blood that had gushed out from the exit wound. The others in the saloon looked at Shelton’s body in shock. It had all happened so fast that, for a moment, they could almost believe that it hadn’t happened at all. But the drifting cloud of acrid smoke said otherwise.
“Is he dead?” someone asked.
“As a doornail,” another answered.
Within moments after the shooting, a couple of deputy city marshals came running in through the front door, guns drawn. Matt’s letter of authorization from the Central Pacific Railroad, endorsed by Governor Stevenson, plus the eyewitness accounts from others in the saloon, were all Matt needed to satisfy the deputies.
Two days later, with the money recovered, Matt Jensen was ten thousand dollars richer and moved on.
It was a Saturday, and cowboys from several of the area ranches, including Live Oaks, had come into town to enjoy a day off. Clay Ramsey was playing a game of pool in the Trinity Saloon and Billiards Parlor when Tom Whitman came in. Tom had only been at the ranch for just under two months, but in that time he had impressed Clay with his intelligence, his eagerness to learn what he needed to know about ranching, and his willingness to take on any job without complaint. Seeing the strapping young man glance around the saloon as if looking for someone, Clay held up his hand.
“Here, Tom,” he called.
Nodding, Tom came toward him.
“Want to play a game?” Clay asked. “I can re-rack them.”
“Better not,” Tom said. “And you might want to finish this game rather quickly.”
“Why? What’s up?”
“Dalton is in jail,” Tom said.
“Damn.” Clay re-racked the balls and put the cue away. “Please tell me that it isn’t something serious.”
“I don’t know exactly what he did, but I don’t think it is anything really serious,” Tom said. “And he is in the city jail, not the county jail.”
“That’s a good thing,” Clay said. “Marshal Courtright is a lot easier to deal with than Sheriff Cobb. I’ll see what I can do. Have you seen Dalton’s horse anywhere?” Clay asked.
“Yes, it’s down at the wagon yard.”
“Do me a favor, would you, Tom? Get his horse and meet me in front of the jail.”
“Do you think you can get him out?”
“I’m going to try,” Clay said. “And if it is anything less than murder, I think I can get the job done.”
The city jail was on the corner of Second Street and Rusk, about three blocks away from the billiard parlor. It only took Clay a couple of minutes to cover the distance between the two buildings. Then, tying his horse off at the hitching rail in front, he pushed through the front door of the jailhouse.
“Hello, Clay,” Marshal Courtright said. “I thought I might be seeing you this afternoon.”
“What did he do, Jim?” Clay asked.
“Clay! Clay, is that you?” a voice called from the back. “Get me out of here, Clay!”
“Hold your horses, Dalton,” Clay called to him. “Let me figure out what’s going on here.”
“I’ll tell you what’s going on here,” Dalton said. “They arrested me for no reason at all.”
Marshal Courtright walked over to the door that was open onto the jail cells in the back and slammed it shut, effectively silencing Dalton Conyers.
“He tied the back axle of Jack Ebersole’s buggy to a lamppost. When Ebersole started out, it jerked the axle out from under the buggy and tossed Ebersole out on his ass.”
Clay laughed, and Courtright joined him.
“It was pretty funny,” Courtright said. “And Lord knows I can’t think of anyone in town I’d more enjoy seeing dumped on his ass than Jack Ebersole. But Ebersole has sworn out a warrant for assault and destruction of private property. And he certainly has every right to do that.”
“Can you release the boy to me?” Clay asked. “You know damn well Big Ben will make it right with Ebersole.”
Courtright stroked his jaw as he considered Clay’s proposition. “You know, Clay, this isn’t the first time the boy has been in trouble. If Big Ben don’t do somethin’ quick, Dalton is going to wind up in real trouble some day.”
“I know,” Clay agreed. “But Big Ben is just real protective of Dalton.”
“I’m just saying, is all,” Courtright said. “Look, as far as I’m concerned, Big Ben is as fine a man as you are likely to find in all of Texas. He could have bought himself out of the war, but he went anyway, and was damn near kilt at Gettysburg. As far as I’m concerned, it was men like him that made Texas.”
“What about Dalton?” Clay asked. “Are you going to let me take him home?”
“I’m going to let you have him,” Marshal Courtright said. “But you tell Big Ben that he is going to have to pay for the damages to Ebersole’s buggy. And like as not, Ebersole is goin’ to want a bit more soothing money to drop his charges.”
