CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE

A fist pounded on Dan Caine’s door, loud, demanding, panicked.

“Deputy Caine!”

Dan swung his legs off the bed and stood and swayed alarmingly before he found his footing. Gun in hand, he stepped to the door and said, “What’s happened?”

“The cowboys!”

Dan recognized Pete Doan’s voice and opened the door.

“What about the cowboys?” he said.

“They’re going to lynch Chance Hurd,” Doan said. His gray face showed pain. “Vigilantes.”

Dan brushed past Doan, walked down the stairs with the hesitancy of a wounded man and out onto the street. In the dark of night, with only a few street lanterns here and there to dispel the gloom, he heard the lynch mob first, a low roar seasoned with the laughter of raging men.

Running was beyond Dan Caine but he adopted a fast shuffle as he headed toward the crowd.

Surrounded by cowboys, Hurd was being dragged to a dead cottonwood on the bank of the dry creek that gave the town its name. Hurd, cursing his tormentors, struggled every step of the way. Blows rained down on him, and then the boots went in . . . vicious kicks to his legs and butt that bruised and hurt.

Dan angled across open ground to cut off the vigilantes, elbowing his way through the townspeople who gathered to watch the fun.

Dan drew his gun and fired a shot in the air that momentarily brought a halt to the festivities. For a moment, the punchers were distracted and a little uncertain at Deputy Sheriff Dan Caine’s sudden appearance.

Then came an event so unexpected, so mindlessly violent, that no one could’ve anticipated it.

There are several versions of what happened that night, but the newspaper account by Cornelius Massey was probably the most accurate:

 

A LYNCHING SPOILED

 

The Cowboys Lament

 

Hurd Foils the Vigilantes

 

Deputy Sheriff Dan Caine’s
Cool Head Saves the Day

 

As a general rule, the Gazette does not wholeheartedly approve of vigilante justice, yet there are times when desperate times need desperate measures. We are referring, of course, to the recent attempted lynching by the cowboy element of former Sheriff Chance Hurd, a man who richly deserved such an ignominious fate.

This reporter, if I dare rise to that lofty aspiration, was present in situ when Hurd was dragged, with many a curse from his loathsome mouth, to the dreadful hanging tree where justice would be served.

But oh, sweet Jesu!

With one bound, Hurd, a tall and powerful man, broke free from his captors who were momentarily distracted by the sudden appearance of Deputy Caine. Hurd, that ravening wolf in law officer’s clothing, drew a murderous knife from his boot and dashed at Deputy Caine and with many a vile oath, threatened to gut him like a fish.

Taking into consideration that Mr. Caine had earlier been grievously wounded by Hurd’s cohorts and was feeling very poorly indeed, this eyewitness and many others were sure that that the young officer was a dead man, so ferocious and determined was Hurd’s unexpected attack.

But Deputy Caine stood his ground, like a young David facing a dread Goliath. Displaying amazing speed and dexterity, that stalwart drew his pistol and commenced to firing. His first shot hit Goliath . . . er . . . Hurd and stopped him in his tracks. His second bullet staggered him and his third dropped him. Chance Hurd ate dirt for a few moments and then died.

Deputy Sheriff Caine then addressed the crowd thusly, “And so perishes any who would stoop so low as to kill their fellow men for monetary gain.”

This speech brought forth a cheer from townspeople and vigilantes alike, and all that remains is the Gazette to now tip its hat and give Deputy Sheriff Caine a heartfelt Huzzah! And a sincere, “Well done, sir.”

Dan Caine watched Chance Hurd fall and then stood over him in the orange glow of lantern light provided by one of the onlookers.

Hurd’s dying eyes looked up at him, and the man said, “I didn’t know you could shoot like that.”

“I’m learning,” Dan said.

Then Hurd managed to utter his last, gasping words, “You’re a son of a—”

“Damn right,” Dan Caine said.