In the Shadow of the Hanging Tree Read online

  “Our business is urgent. Perhaps a privateer?”

  The man continued in the same patronizing tone. “I reckon one could be had, that is if you have the currency. But it’s not so simple as that, Missus…?”

  “Miss Randolph; Clara Randolph.”

  “Right, Miss Randolph. As I was saying, you can hire a wagon and driver, but you’re going to need some protection as well. It’s not safe travelling by ones and twos, and the cavalry aren’t out along this stretch in any numbers yet. The Indians are riled up over some doings over’n Colorado and they been up to dickens. And also, if you got livestock you’re gonna need feed cause like I said, there ain’t much grass yet.”

  “We don’t have any livestock, but we have enough currency, Mister…?”

  “Smith.”

  “Mister Smith, if you’d be kind enough to help us hire a reputable teamster and the proper escorts, we’d be inclined to outfit ourselves here at your store—assuming you are the owner, of course.”

  The man puffed up appreciatively. “I am.”

  “Can I also assume you own the livery next door?”

  “You can.”

  “Good. We will also need two horses—the best you have—along with bridles and saddles, grain, and whatever else you feel we will require for the journey.”

  Smith regarded Clara from across the counter. After a moment he turned and called out, “Robert!” Clara followed his gaze to a door-sized opening in the wall of merchandise behind the counter. Soon, a boy of about fourteen stepped through the opening.

  “Yes, sir?”

  “Go down to the Golden Star and see if Stephen Billings or Vance Lipton is around. Tell them we got a Miss Randolph and…” he turned to Clara.

  “My father, George Randolph,” Clara said.

  “And her father. They want to go to Fort Laramie, no livestock.”

  “As soon as possible,” Clara added.

  “Of course. As soon as possible. Go on, boy.”

  “Yes, sir.” The boy hurried away.

  “Might be awhile. You can go see Nero out back. He’ll show you the horses.”

  The boy, presumably the storekeeper’s son, returned thirty minutes later with a short, burly man that looked to be in his mid-thirties. He had a long, auburn colored beard, and the red-rimmed eyes of a long time drinker. Clara and Randall had moved their belongings (with Smith’s permission) inside the store. They were standing at a large, oblong shaped corral looking at the horses Smith had to offer. Clara knew how to ride, but otherwise didn’t know a great deal about horses. Randall, though far from an expert, knew a little more. He thought that all of the horses were poor examples of the noble species

  but he nonetheless had Nero—Smith’s elderly negro stableman—cut out two buckskin geldings.

  “Good choices, sir.” Nero said, as he led the horses out of the corral and toward the stable.

  The burly man approached Clara and Randall as they moved to follow the stableman.

  He addressed Randall. “Name’s Vance Lipton. I’m told you’re needin’ a wagon and escort to Laramie?”

  Randall extended his hand. “Pleased to meet you, Mister Lipton. I’m George Randolph, this is my daughter, Clara.”

  Vance Lipton nodded at Clara and said “Ma’am,” before continuing.

  “I can get you to Fort Laramie. The only problem is most of the experienced men hereabouts are already hired out to the folks getting ready to set out next month. It’s too bad, there was a small supply wagon train for the army headed out of here not ten days ago. You could have travelled with them…I’ll find the men, but it’s going to cost. ”

  Clara’s eyes lit up, but she kept silent. She wondered if John was with them.

  “Mister Lipton?” Clara queried. “How long will it take to get to Fort Laramie?”

  “Well, if we’re not bringing too much along and you don’t mind long days, we can be there well this side of three weeks.” He turned back to Randall. “Now about payment—”

  “We will pay you one hundred dollars, Mister Lipton,” Clara said. “For your services and use of your wagon. Fifty dollars now, and the remainder when we arrive at Fort Laramie. We’ll also pay twenty-five dollars each to the men you employ.”

  Lipton looked questioningly at Randall, as if awaiting confirmation of what he was hearing.

  “My daughter speaks for me in all matters, Mister Lipton. You’ll find she is quite capable. If you’ll excuse me, I’ll just see how the groom is faring with our horses.”

  2

  Clara and Randall had acquired simpler clothing more suited to the frontier while they were in St. Louis. Everything else they needed they purchased at Smith’s Mercantile. Smith happily walked them through the store, loading purchases onto a small, pull-behind wagon. Clara bought herself two books for the trail, and a straw bonnet that she thought was ugly but practical. She purchased Randall a wide-brimmed felt hat that mirrored what other men were wearing. At Smith’s suggestion, they also purchased a Henry repeating rifle and one hundred cartridges for forty-five dollars.

  They left their purchases at the mercantile and found a suitable restaurant and hotel. The agreement was to meet Vance Lipton at Smith’s at nine a.m. to load the wagon. Clara was so excited at the prospect of seeing John that she barely slept.

  Lipton was at Smith’s Mercantile at eight a.m. along with his long time friend, Beckett Longstreet, and two new men. The first was Beckett’s niece’s husband, James Rickman, who was just home from the war and needed paying work. The other was Rickman’s friend from the army, Elias Spearse. The story was that Spearse had saved Rickman’s life in the battle at Backbone Mountain in Arkansas. Beckett always considered James Rickman shiftless, and he normally wouldn’t have hired him to clean chamber pots. Fortunately for Rickman, though, Beckett was partial to his only niece. She’d all but begged Beckett to take her husband on. As for Spearse, he was staying at the Rickman’s small spread outside of St. Joseph. He was originally from Ohio, but that’s really all Beckett knew about him.

  Ordinarily, Vance would have made the run to Fort Laramie with just Beckett Longstreet. But after the incident with the Indians at Big Sandy Creek there’d been reports of attacks on settlers and travelers. Vance didn’t want to take any chances. Besides, the old fellow and his willful daughter obviously had no problem affording the extra precautions. Robert Smith, the shrewd storekeeper, told Vance that he’d sold the old man and his daughter one of those new Henry rifles along with the other supplies. He and Beckett both had Springfields, and James Rickman carried a Sharps.

  Rickman’s sidekick had showed up with an old Enfield that looked like it might explode in his face if he actually fired it, but he had a newer revolver that would come in handy if the worst did happen and they ended up in close fighting. Vance knew that if they made a show of the rifles as they travelled they’d be safe from anything but a large war party. He always brought two extra ponies and some whiskey in case things got sticky. He’d rather give the Indians a few gifts than fight with them.

  Clara and Randall arrived promptly at nine. Their new horses were already saddled and ready although Vance expected both of them to ride in the wagon most of the time. Clara was dressed in a simple, tan colored riding habit, and Randall wore brown denim work trousers with a gray cotton shirt and wool coat. He jokingly referred to the ensemble as his peasant attire.

  They ferried across the river an hour later; the same ferry John Elliot had used to cross only a handful of days before. Its tattered and ridiculous looking Jolly Roger flapped jauntily in the breeze.

  3

  While Clara and Randall were eating their first supper on the trail, an impossibly tall and big-boned man arrived on the six o’clock train. He stood, picked up his straw hat, and fastidiously brushed off his tailored linen suit before walking to the end of the car and exiting the train. Like many from the east, he’d expected St. Joseph to be smaller. Once his horse was offloaded he asked the station man where a good hotel ro
om could be had.

  His name was Theo Brandt. He’d been sent by Jonathon Hanfield to retrieve his daughter Clara by any means necessary. Hanfield was also going through his contacts in the army, but he felt more comfortable sending Theo to manage things. Hanfield also wanted Randall Eastman left for the carrion-eaters, if at all possible. Theo had already seen to it that the Hanfield’s driver, Miles Penbrook, had been left lying in a rubbish heap behind his favorite tavern with his throat cut. For the rats, Theo thought. Aren’t they considered carrion eaters? If not, they should be.

  Damn rats will eat the eyeballs, tongue, and testicles of a man before his body is cold.

  Once checked into his room he removed his suit, neatly folded it, and changed into a pair of brown wool trousers and a simple, blue chambray shirt—items he’d also had tailored, as finding clothing for a man his size was difficult. On top of his unique size, he was also extremely fussy about how his clothing fit him.

  Theo had been managing “unpleasant tasks” for Jonathon Hanfield for years. He wasn’t a hired strong-arm, or a killer; he was a problem solver. Occasionally a killing was necessary in order to solve a problem. And although he certainly possessed the physique for it, and felt no aversion to it, Theo Brandt had never committed murder himself. He simply coordinated things.

  Once changed, Theo left the room and rode down by the river. It was nearly dark, but the area was well lit and alive with activity. His mouth puckered with distaste as he chose the largest and liveliest looking saloon.

  It took Theo two hours of buying drinks and asking questions before finding what he was looking for in the form of four ex-Confederate militia men from central Missouri. Two of the men were brothers—twins, though not identical—named Wayne and George Beaderman. The young twins shared pale complexions and orange freckles that completely covered their foreheads, faces and necks, but that’s where the similarities stopped. Wayne had jet black hair and a hefty build. George had hair that matched his freckles and was so slight of build as to look sickly. They claimed to be expert trackers. A claim endorsed by the other two men—a father and son.

  The father’s name was Emmet Dawson.

  “So let me be clear, Mister Brandt,” Emmet said, setting his whiskey glass on the table. “The extent of our responsibility to you will be to accompany you to Fort Laramie, assist you in locating this unfortunate young woman, then see the two of you safely back here and aboard an eastbound train. In the event we fail to locate this young woman, or if the army has already found her, you will still be bound to the agreed upon sum?”

  Theo looked fixedly at Emmet. “Miss Hanfield’s father wishes that her captor never have the opportunity to harm her again.”

  “We’ll fix him, Mister,” Wayne Beaderman blurted. “There’s nothing lower than a man who’ll take from a woman what don’t belong to him.”

  Theo ignored him and continued to address Emmet. “There will be an extra three hundred dollars if Randall Eastman doesn’t live to stand trial.” He laid several gold pieces on the table. “This should cover your provisioning and the rest of your evening’s drinks. See you at the river, say eight a.m.?”

  Emmet Dawson made the gold pieces disappear.

  4

  Riding atop the wagon next to Vance Lipton, Randall Eastman stared across the plain at the small grove of trees. It wasn’t that he found the trees particularly interesting, it was because they were all he had to look at in the bland, unchanging countryside. Clara was behind him in the shade of the wagon’s canopy, trying to read one of the books she’d purchased in St. Louis. After another particularly rough jounce of the wagon, she gave it up and set the book aside. She looked out of the slit in the canvas between Vance and Randall. Unlike John Elliot, Clara thought the plain was one of the most beautiful places she’d ever seen. Its openness gave her a feeling of freedom, and the air smelled clean and earthy. Perhaps she and John would make a home somewhere out here.

  It was just past noon. They were six days out from St. Joseph and making excellent time according to Vance Lipton. “Easy going compared to a fully-loaded wagon train,” he’d said.

  While Clara looked out at the frontier and daydreamed about her future with John and their child, Elias Spearse was watching James Rickman out of the corner of his eye, waiting for the signal. Both he and James were riding in the rear, behind the wagon and the small string of horses tethered to it. The plan was simple: Rickman would ride up behind the old man—Beckett, was his name—who was on vanguard, while Spearse rode up and disarmed the other two on the wagon. Rickman made him promise not to shoot anyone, but Spearse was reserving the right to do so at his own discretion if the situation warranted it.

  Spearse wasn’t worried about the easterner; the old man was sort of a dandy—work clothes or no—and handled his new rifle as clumsily as a virgin handled his first whore. Vance Lipton, on the other hand, was clearly a man to be reckoned with. They would have to be careful.

  The moment came: Rickman nodded at Spearse and spurred his horse forward. Spearse did the same, drawing his Colt Navy revolver with his free hand.

  “Stop the wagon,” Spearse said, coming up behind Vance Lipton.

  Vance looked over his left shoulder at Spearse, then over his right one at Rickman who had his rifle pointed at Beckett’s back. He stopped the wagon.

  “Set the rifle down, Mister Randolph,” Spearse said, without taking his eyes off of Vance. “Then both of you climb down and sit on the ground over here…get out of the wagon, Miss Randolph.”

  Vance ignored Spearse and looked back at Rickman, who had dismounted and was marching a bewildered looking Beckett past the front of the wagon and around the team of horses. “What the hell is this, James?” Vance asked tightly.

  “You just be quiet and get down off there, Vance. Elias and me are taking the money we know these two are carrying. This don’t have nothing to do with you.” He followed Beckett around the front of the wagon and shoved the older man roughly to the ground. “Now you stay there, you old shit.”

  “This is how you treat folks trying to help you,” Beckett said, looking up at Rickman.

  Rickman barked a laugh. “Help me? You done nothing but run me down since I married that ungrateful bitch niece of yours.”

  “Run you down? Cause I thought with you being a married man you might want to do some work and make a living?”

  “Enough of that,” Spearse said, still not turning from Vance. “Now you get off that wagon or I swear I’ll kill you.”

  Randall stepped off of the wagon and began walking around the front of the team just as Vance dropped the reins, snatched up Randall’s rifle, and leaped off the wagon behind him. Spearse fired the pistol just as Vance disappeared behind the wagon.

  The shot went wide and caught one of the lead horses in the flank. The team spooked and took off. Clara screamed, and Randall, who had ducked down when the shot was fired, was kicked by one of the horses as it passed. He fell to the ground, narrowly missing getting run over by the wagon and the string of horses tied behind it. Spearse aimed the pistol, waiting for the wagon to pass so that he had a clear shot at Vance. When it did, Vance was already crouched with the Henry aimed. He adjusted the rifle minutely when Spearse came into view and fired just as Spearse pulled the trigger on the Colt.

  Vance’s shot took Spearse in the neck, knocking him from his horse. Spearse’s bullet hit Vance in the pelvis, shattering the bone before exiting just above his buttocks.

  With Rickman’s attention turned to the action, Beckett stood and rushed him, tackling him to the ground. Rickman lost his grip on his rifle with the impact, and it went tumbling through the scrub. Rickman was smaller than Beckett but was also nearly half his age. He easily overpowered the older man, and ended up sitting on Beckett’s chest with his knees pinning his arms, immobilizing them. Beckett gasped for breath under Rickman’s weight.

  “You old shi—” Whatever Rickman was about to say was cut off when Randall swung Rickman’s own rifle by the barr
el in a wide, sweeping arc. The hardwood stock cracked his skull and killed him almost instantly.

  Randall didn’t wait to assess the damage; he tore off after the overturned wagon screaming Clara’s name.

  The wagon didn’t make it far. The team ran less than a hundred yards before the lame horse collapsed. The lead horses over-compensated for the dead weight and veered left just as the wagon hit a natural depression. The wagon tipped over onto its side and, fortunately for the eight horses strung behind it, the iron ring they were tied to broke away from the back of the wagon. The team wasn’t so lucky: aside from the one that was shot, one broke both of its front legs, and the others were tangled in the rigging, unable to free themselves.

  Clara’s first instinct was to jump, but she was afraid she’d be trampled by the string of horses running behind. She was looking out the back indecisively when the wagon went over.

  She was thrown onto the prairie along with the wagon’s other contents and narrowly missed being trampled by the panicked horses anyway.

  She’d hit hard, and her wind was knocked out. She struggled to her knees, disoriented. Horses were whinnying at each other. A man was screaming. She looked up; Randall was running toward her. She put her hands protectively over her stomach. The baby, she thought fearfully.

  Randall blundered to his knees in front of her, wheezing.

  “Oh, Miss Hanfield are you hurt?” he asked breathlessly, while reaching out and taking her scraped and cut hands.

  She looked at him beseechingly. “No. But the baby—”

  “You can’t worry about that now. I’m sure the child will be fine,” he said with more confidence than he felt. “Mister Lipton is shot…I think I may have killed Mister Rickman. Let me help you up. Perhaps we can help Mister Lipton. Are you sure you’re not hurt?”