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Authors: Joe Millard
Tags: Western
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Hangville a wide berth. In time, local citizens even took to appearing in public without guns strapped to their thighs.
But Honest John forgot to look behind him one day, and the deputy who succeeded him inherited the office but not the nickname. He was badly afflicted with an itching palm and had too many close friends on the wrong side of the law. Word spread and the old crowd began drifting back to Hangville, but with the tacit understanding that they were not to prey on local merchants. The Hanging Tree became better known as a shady spot under which to picnic.
The tree stood close to the rim of what, in some prehistoric age, must have been a broad river. Now it was only a wide, shallow arroyo, or gully, with gently sloping sides and a thread of icy mountain stream meandering its chuckling way down the far side of the old riverbed. The banks of the stream were lined with thick stands of willows and an occasional cottonwood, but the remainder of the old riverbed was broad, level and open.
Dandy spotted this immediately as the ideal site for the circus, even though it meant leaving the wagons up above and lugging the equipment down to the riverbed by hand. The willows would make an ideal hiding place for Cora and her horse until the pistol shot signaled her to ride in as Laura. The hard-packed flat bottom was ideal for the equipment, and the sloping side formed a natural amphitheatre.
By agreement, the bounty hunter took no part in the job of setting up or tearing down the show. His trained hands and lightning speed were much too valuable to be exposed to the risk of accident or muscle strain. While the troupe set about the long-familiar routine, he rode up to look over the town.
He was less interested in its architecture than in the faces of its denizens. If the rumors were right, he could expect more than one of them to bear invisible dollar signs. In spite of its sinister name, Hangville was reputed to be one of the safer sanctuaries for outlaws on the run—providing, of course, they had the money to pay for extra-legal favors or knew where to lay hands on some.
The town itself was a fairly typical collection of small adobes and drab, unpainted frame shacks, poorly disguised by high false fronts. There was the usual assortment of shops and stores, but these were augmented by more than the average number of saloons and hotels. The former were well patronized, even at this early hour, to judge by the number of horses crowding the hitchrails.
The sheriff's office was a small frame shanty crowded in between a gunsmith's shop and one marked CABINET MAKER & UNDERTAKER . The irony of the combination was not lost on the hunter.
He found hitching space a few steps from the sheriff's office and swung down. From what he had heard of Sheriff Ben Hipson his welcome would be anything but cordial, but to the bounty killer this was scarcely unique. Nor was he greatly disturbed. When he anticipated hostility he preferred to drag it out into the open early, rather than letting it fester unrecognized.
A half-dozen faded reward posters were tacked to the outside wall. The hunter was cynically amused to note that the newest of the six was more than a year old. Five of the outlaws pictured had long since stretched hemp or been planted in some local Boot Hill. The bounty killer himself had, in fact, collected the bounty on one of the five. Sheriff Hipson, it appeared, was taking no chances on offending his current friends.
Sheriff Hipson himself was a thickset, jowly man in urgent need of a shave. As the bounty hunter stepped through the door, the sheriff's small eyes went wide, then quickly narrowed to unrevealing slits. It was fairly obvious that the hunter's reputation and description had preceded him.
Ignoring the figure behind the littered desk, The Man With No Name strolled around the small room studying the reward notices that papered the walls. These, too, were either sadly antiquated or pictured outlaws whose field of
But Honest John forgot to look behind him one day, and the deputy who succeeded him inherited the office but not the nickname. He was badly afflicted with an itching palm and had too many close friends on the wrong side of the law. Word spread and the old crowd began drifting back to Hangville, but with the tacit understanding that they were not to prey on local merchants. The Hanging Tree became better known as a shady spot under which to picnic.
The tree stood close to the rim of what, in some prehistoric age, must have been a broad river. Now it was only a wide, shallow arroyo, or gully, with gently sloping sides and a thread of icy mountain stream meandering its chuckling way down the far side of the old riverbed. The banks of the stream were lined with thick stands of willows and an occasional cottonwood, but the remainder of the old riverbed was broad, level and open.
Dandy spotted this immediately as the ideal site for the circus, even though it meant leaving the wagons up above and lugging the equipment down to the riverbed by hand. The willows would make an ideal hiding place for Cora and her horse until the pistol shot signaled her to ride in as Laura. The hard-packed flat bottom was ideal for the equipment, and the sloping side formed a natural amphitheatre.
By agreement, the bounty hunter took no part in the job of setting up or tearing down the show. His trained hands and lightning speed were much too valuable to be exposed to the risk of accident or muscle strain. While the troupe set about the long-familiar routine, he rode up to look over the town.
He was less interested in its architecture than in the faces of its denizens. If the rumors were right, he could expect more than one of them to bear invisible dollar signs. In spite of its sinister name, Hangville was reputed to be one of the safer sanctuaries for outlaws on the run—providing, of course, they had the money to pay for extra-legal favors or knew where to lay hands on some.
The town itself was a fairly typical collection of small adobes and drab, unpainted frame shacks, poorly disguised by high false fronts. There was the usual assortment of shops and stores, but these were augmented by more than the average number of saloons and hotels. The former were well patronized, even at this early hour, to judge by the number of horses crowding the hitchrails.
The sheriff's office was a small frame shanty crowded in between a gunsmith's shop and one marked CABINET MAKER & UNDERTAKER . The irony of the combination was not lost on the hunter.
He found hitching space a few steps from the sheriff's office and swung down. From what he had heard of Sheriff Ben Hipson his welcome would be anything but cordial, but to the bounty killer this was scarcely unique. Nor was he greatly disturbed. When he anticipated hostility he preferred to drag it out into the open early, rather than letting it fester unrecognized.
A half-dozen faded reward posters were tacked to the outside wall. The hunter was cynically amused to note that the newest of the six was more than a year old. Five of the outlaws pictured had long since stretched hemp or been planted in some local Boot Hill. The bounty killer himself had, in fact, collected the bounty on one of the five. Sheriff Hipson, it appeared, was taking no chances on offending his current friends.
Sheriff Hipson himself was a thickset, jowly man in urgent need of a shave. As the bounty hunter stepped through the door, the sheriff's small eyes went wide, then quickly narrowed to unrevealing slits. It was fairly obvious that the hunter's reputation and description had preceded him.
Ignoring the figure behind the littered desk, The Man With No Name strolled around the small room studying the reward notices that papered the walls. These, too, were either sadly antiquated or pictured outlaws whose field of
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