for over two decades and has two daughters. When not writing, she haunts museums, historical homes and antique stores, gathering ideas for new adventures in the past.
To David, Judy and Stacy, as always,
for your inspiration, patience and love
Missouri, 1876
Hanging was a hell of a way to die.
Clay Chandler pulled against the ropes binding his hands behind him and swallowed hard. He’d gotten himself into a devil of a mess this time. He might even get himself killed.
“You boys better call this off before it goes too far.” Clay dipped his chin toward the silver badge pinned to his vest “You hang me, and every lawman in the state will be all over these parts.”
Beneath the oak a few yards away, the two outlaws looked back at him. The tallest one gave him a wide grin.
“Well, they’re gonna have to find you first, Marshal.” He laughed and elbowed his partner. “Get the rope, Deuce.”
Deuce glanced nervously at Clay. “I don’t know, Luther. Maybe he’s right. Maybe we ought to wait for Scully—”
“Just shut your face, Deuce, just shut it Scully ain’t here now and I am, and what I say goes. Now do like I tol’ you and git that dang rope.”
Clay’s gaze swept the area. Their campsite lay in a meadow beneath two big oaks, the intertwined boughs forming a leafy canopy that blocked out the bright afternoon sun. To the north and east stood more trees, and to the south a rugged, rocky hillside. Good cover, Clay thought, if he could make it that far. He doubted Luther was above shooting him in the back if he made a break for it His gaze fell on his horse, tethered on the far side of the oak these two intended to hang him from—a long run, under the circumstances.
Clay shifted on the ground where Deuce and Luther had shoved him over an hour ago and stretched out his long legs. The ropes dug into his wrists. He glanced at the empty holster strapped to his thigh and mumbled a curse at the two outlaws, then one at himself.
Luther turned his way again. He was tall and lean, and his face looked like dry, cracked leather. “Yessi-ree, Mister Federal Marshal, we’re gonna show everybody what happens when some no-count lawman comes poking around these parts looking for the Dade gang.” He rubbed his hands together and looked at Deuce. “String him up, boy.”
Sweat trickled down Clay’s temple. He’d tracked the Dade gang for three days, hoping to find their hideout and bring Scully Dade in. But the gang had split up yesterday, and on a hunch he’d followed these two. Scully Dade, wanted in three states, had gotten away, and Clay had stumbled into an-ambush.
He dug the heels of his boots into the soft, damp ground. He’d made a greenhorn’s mistake. Now it looked as though he’d pay for it with his life.
Deuce advanced on him, the length of rope coiled in one hand, the noose dangling from the other. Young—maybe sixteen, Clay guessed—dressed in clothes that were most likely hand-me-downs. He seemed unsure of himself.
Clay looked up at him, his gaze steady. “Do you know what the penalty is for murdering a federal marshal, son?”
He stopped and turned back to Luther. “Maybe—”
“Git on with it,” Luther yelled. “I ain’t got all gol-darn day to stand around here.”
Deuce glanced at Clay once more. “But—”
Luther stomped over to them. “Are you tetched in the head, or just plain stupid?”
He gestured at Clay with the rope. “But he says we could get in big trouble—”
Luther yanked off his hat and slapped Deuce over the head with it “Would you just think for one gol-darn minute! You’re fixing to hang him—what do you ‘spect he’s gonna say?”
Deuce cowered, then straightened when Luther put his hat on again. “Oh.”
He nodded and walked away. “I’ll git his horse.”
Deuce looked at Clay, wary now, and grabbed his arm. “Get on your feet.”
With Luther’s back to him, and time and options running out, Clay took the only chance open to him. He surged upward and drove his shoulder into Deuce’s belly, lifting the boy off his feet. He stepped back, and Deuce fell to the ground, gasping for air. Clay dropped to his knees, groping with his bound hands, and pulled the pistol from Deuce’s holster.
A shot rang out, and a bullet whistled past Clay’s ear. Luther, arm extended, ready to squeeze off another shot, stood only yards away. In a split second, Clay calculated the odds of getting off an accurate shot from behind his back and ducking for cover before Luther could fire. It didn’t look good.
Luther pulled back the hammer. “Don’t make me have to kill you before I get to hang you.”
Clay rose to his full height, towering over both the outlaws. His broad chest and the star pinned to it made an easy target. Clay uttered a bitter oath and threw the gun aside.
“That’s more like it.” Luther walked closer, keeping a steady eye on Clay, and nudged Deuce with his boot. “Git up, boy. You are an embarrassment to outlaws everywhere. I am downright ashamed to be in the same gang with you.”
Coughing, Deuce struggled to his feet. “We’re not really in the gang, Luther. Scully just lets us ride along with him sometimes ‘cause—”
“Shut up!” Luther waved the gun again. “Do like I tol’ you to do.”
Deuce’s shoulders sagged. “Why don’t we just let him go, Luther?”
“We can’t let no lawman get away with hunting down Scully.”
“Then can’t we just shoot him in the leg, or something?”
“No! I’ve been wanting to hang me a lawman, and that’s what I’m gonna do.” Luther’s eyes were bulging. “If I shoot anybody around here, it’s gonna be you! Now shut up and get that dang rope!”
Deuce picked up his gun and straightened the rope. He slipped the noose over Clay’s head, while Luther kept the gun trained on him.
Cold-beads of perspiration broke out on Clay’s forehead. His muscles tense, he looked for any opportunity to get the jump on Luther. He gave him no chance, just held the gun steadily upon him while Clay climbed into the saddle of the horse Deuce led over.
“You go through with this and the whole place will be crawling with marshals,” Clay warned. “There won’t be a rock anywhere Scully Dade can hide under.”
“Scully’s got hisself a new hideout so good nobody’s never gonna find it And you ain’t nothing but some lowly marshal who don’t amount to a wad of spit Nobody’s even gonna know you’re gone.” Luther
