The Sheriff of Hangman's Gulch. Matt Rand

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СКАЧАТЬ reckoned time. But no more than two years in anyone else’s calendar.

      Two fateful years had passed since James Marshall rushed nervously from the mill on the Columa to Sutter’s Fort to tell John Sutter of his great, secret discovery. A secret that was impossible to keep, and soon caught up by a trembling, feverish nation, and flung to the four corners of the earth.

      Two years since the first faint trickle of gold-seekers from the Midwest “saw the elephant” on the way across Truckee Pass, high in the icy Sierras; since the first ship from the east, from the European Continent, from Asia—from the seven seas, dumped their human cargoes on San Francisco’s windy, foggy beach.

      Clapboard towns sprang up to serve the needs of this horde of miners. Half the buildings were used as gambling houses, saloons and hotels. Merchants and vendors held the rest.

      It was inevitable that the nation’s riffraff should follow in the wake of the gold-seekers. Slit-eyed, gun-heeled men, they came separately, or in pairs—and like filings attracted to a magnet, banded together to prey upon miner and merchant alike.

      And it was a lucrative field for the development of their peculiar talents. For despite the fact that California early became a state, law and order were merely unconfirmed rumors in many communities.

      Tough killers walked the streets; bold robberies went unchecked, and claim-jumping became an everyday occurrence.

      To challenge this wave of terror and crime, honest townfolk banded together into Vigilante Committees, held trials and dispensed justice. Armed, deadly conflict raged between the two forces. Blood was spilled, lives lost.

      Hangman’s Gulch was typical of the times; and no exception to the bloody strife that ransacked the countryside.

      A prospector had found gold in the stream that bisected the Gulch, and soon a town grew on a bottom where only brush and tough yucca had grown before.

      Out of the morning, a man reeled and staggered into the outskirts of Hangman’s Gulch. The early summer sun, yellow on the trail, was ghastly on the man’s face. Dried blood matted his curly hair and clung in grisly, jagged streaks to his flushed cheeks. His eyes were glazed and feverish; his lips cracked, bleeding.

      His black suit, dirt-smeared, torn, lay stiff against him. And bullet holes showed round, purple patches at his shoulder and chest and thigh.

      As he lurched along, babbling sounds issued from his mouth, and spittle flecked his stubbled chin. Then suddenly, he plunged into the street and lay in an inert heap, while the dust he had disturbed settled down slowly over him in a brown, yellowish cloud.

      In a few moments a small, somber-faced crowd had gathered around the unconscious man. Then they made way for Judge Carter and Sam Larson, who edged through the crowd. “Get some water, someone,” called the latter, as he went down on his knees beside the sprawled miner.

      Sam Larson was the richest but best-liked man in the Gulch. There was not a man in that crowd who hadn’t owed him money at one time or another, and who had been reminded of that debt.

      Someone thrust a water canteen into Larson’s hand. He cradled the miner’s head in his elbow and forced the snout into the man’s mouth. Water trickled out on the insensible man’s chin.

      Larson shook his head dubiously at the judge.

      “Who is he, Sam?” asked the latter. Artemus Carter, the Gulch’s first judge, was a trim figure of a man in his black frock coat and flowing black bowtie. A silvered goatee and clear blue eyes dominated his face. In court the judge was highly impartial and considered himself but an instrument of the law.

      “Think his name is Clayson—Bill Clayson,” replied Larson slowly, frowning. “Yeah. He and his pard bought some supplies at the store ’bout ten days ago. Then he came back and filed a claim—”

      A moan slipped past the lips of the dying man. And pain contorted his blood-streaked face. He stirred, then his eyes fluttered weakly open. They were bleary, glazed; held no recognition.

      Again Larson spilled water into the miner’s mouth. “How’d it happen, friend?” he asked.

      For an instant, comprehension flashed across Clayson’s face and his battered lips tried to form words. Mumbled sounds came from his mouth. His ravaged cheeks flexed, and heavy sweat beaded his forehead. But the struggle was in vain. One word that sounded like “Henry,” came past Clayson’s lips—and he gave up the fight.

      Then death claimed Bill Clayson and his mouth fell open and his eyes stared sightless at the blue sky.

      Sam Larson rose slowly, his glance touching the crowd, then coming to rest on a man there. “Harvey,” he said. “Take care of Clayson. I’ll stand the burial.”

      Faces grave, Sam Larson and Judge Carter walked down the street in silence. A third man, a latecomer to the scene, swung in beside them.

      “What happened?” he asked.

      Tay Brown was a dark-humored man with a steady stare and a bullet scar red along his jaw. Across the gambling table once, an ugly customer had called Brown a “cheat.” That was the first and last time anyone ever called him that. He wore that scar as a flaming signal to the world; for Tay Brown was known and respected as a “square” gambler.

      The two men nodded to him and the judge told him briefly what had occurred.

      “Black Henry!” cried the gambler.

      “Yeah—damn his hide,” cried Larson angrily.

      The judge interrupted. “We can’t be certain it is Black Henry, Sam. All Clayson mumbled before he died was ‘Henry.’ It may have been his son, or partner—or anybody.”

      The general store owner shook his shaggy head violently. “It’s that murderin’ coyote and his gang of hoodlums—and no one else. Yuh know it, Judge, and I know it—and so does every one in the Gulch! They’re responsible for every claim-jump and killin’ in the last four months.”

      It was the judge’s turn to shake his head. “Insufficient evidence, Sam,” he said. “No one saw Black Henry commit this crime. All you have is a corpus delicti—that’s all. It won’t stand up in court. You’ll need more than that to convict Black Henry.”

      Sam Larson swore underneath his breath. “Insufficient evidence! That’s always the trouble,” he cried irately. “If we get a witness against him—he dies. Or else we get someone who’s afraid to talk—”

      “Can’t blame ’em, Larson,” declared Tay Brown. “Their hides wouldn’t be worth an ounce of dust if they did.”

      Larson turned on him, eyes flashing. “That ain’t a way to talk, Brown,” he declared. “If no one spoke up, we’d have no law and order—”

      “We don’t have much anyhow,” said the gambler, flushing.

      “If we get rid of Black Henry,” cried Larson, “we will.”

      “In the meantime,” said Brown, “he comes to town when he pleases and walks the streets free and easy.”

      “The time for that will soon be over,” declared Sam Larson. “We’re goin’ to—”

      Judge СКАЧАТЬ