Shadow of the Hangman by J. A. Johnstone

eye. “There’s nothing I can do.”
    â€œThere’s something I can do,” Jake said. Suddenly a Colt was in his hand, the muzzle shoved into Moore’s belly. “I never gunned a lawman before,” he said, “but there’s a first time for everything.”
    Moore took a step back. “Jake,” he said, “you’re crazy. Put the gun away.”
    â€œUnbuckle your gunbelt and let it drop, Sheriff,” Jacob said. “I’m not taking any chances with you.”
    â€œJake—”
    â€œDo as I say, John, or I swear, I’ll drop you right where you stand.”
    Moore read the warning in Jacob’s eyes, and his gunbelt thudded to the floor of the cell.
    Jacob turned and looked at Patrick. “Can you ride, Pat?” he said.
    â€œNo.” One word, but its quiet feebleness conveyed the fact that Patrick was desperately ill.
    â€œJohn, your horse is at the rail, so we’re all taking a ride,” Jacob said. “Pat will get up with me.”
    Moore was worried. “Jake, if any of the committee members see you they’ll raise the alarm, and you’ll be dead before you can cover a mile.”
    â€œYou’ll be with us, so I’ll take my chances,” Jacob said. “If I leave my brother here, he’ll have to be carried to the gallows.” Jacob’s eyes hardened into blue steel. “That isn’t going to happen.”
    Moore shook his head. “Jake, if you go through with this, there’ll be hell to pay.”
    Jacob said, “You weren’t listening. If hell is the price of saving my brother’s life, then I’m willing to pay it.”
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    The noon sun hung directly over Georgetown, and the street felt as though someone had just opened the door of a blast furnace. The weeds that grew around some of the buildings were brown and shriveled, and the dust was powdered so fine even a faint wisp of breeze lifted it in yellow veils. The dust was everywhere. It lay thick in Georgetown’s stores and homes and made its way inside everyone’s clothing. Gritty, smelling faintly of horse manure, it made women hot and irritable and frayed the tempers of men as it abraded necks under high, celluloid collars.
    The murder of lawyer Dunkley had set the town on edge, and in the relentlessly enervating heat men took quick offense at everything and anything.
    It was a day made for a killing, and no one was more aware of that than Jacob O’Brien. Escaping from town without a shooting scrape depended on Sheriff John Moore and his attitude. The big man had sand, and he could decide at any moment that he’d no longer be pushed. If that happened, the ball would open and men would die.
    Jacob was prepared for that eventuality. If Moore raised the alarm, he would shoot fast and shoot to kill, wipe out this whole damned town if he had to.
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    There was no one in the street when Jacob stepped outside the sheriff’s office supporting Patrick, who was now drifting in and out of consciousness.
    Jacob’s Colt on him, Moore helped to lift Patrick onto Jacob’s mount, and then, without protest, he swung into his own saddle.
    â€œJake, I sure hope you know what you’re doing,” he said.
    â€œSaving my brother’s life is what I’m doing,” Jacob said.
    â€œDoc Cassidy will be back in a couple of days,” the lawman said.
    â€œMy brother could be dead in a couple of days,” Jacob said.
    Moore shifted his bulk in the saddle. “Jake, Patrick was condemned to hang. There’s nothing you can do to stop that.”
    Jacob stepped into the leather behind his brother. Patrick slumped against him, and he took the weight, adjusting his seat in the saddle. When he was settled he looked at Moore. “John, to get at Patrick you’ll have to step over my dead body and two dozen others. Do you understand?”
    Moore didn’t flinch. “I understand