blue eyes, while Sam’s were a muddy brown.
After Evan had read the telegram several times he turned those blue eyes on Sam and said, “It doesn’t say how it happened.”
“I know.”
“Have you sent a telegram to find out?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because, brother,” Sam said, taking the telegram back, “you and I and Jubal are going to Vengeance Creek to find out for
ourselves.”
“Jubal?” There was no argument from Evan. He had already decided that he was going to go find out what happened. It pleased
him that he wouldn’t be going alone.
“Do you know where he is?”
“All we got to do is find trouble,” Sam said, “and we’ll find brother Jubal.”
Chapter Four
All his life Jubal McCall had known that he was different from his brothers.
Sam and Evan, they had things they were good at. With a gun Sam McCall was the best Jubal had ever seen, and he was proud
of his big brother for that.
Evan, he could do things with cards that nobody else could. Whenever Jubal thought of his two brothers he thought of them
with pride.
When he thought about himself, it was with great disappointment, because he knew that Jubal McCall was good at only one thing—getting
himself into trouble.
Ever since he’d left home five years ago Jubal had drifted from place to place, taking jobs where he could find them, doing
whatever he had to do to survive, but always there was a black cloud following him around, ready to rain on whatever good
thing he managed to find.
This time, the black cloud had really done a job on him.
He stood up, climbed up on the metal bunk that was bolted to the stone wall, and looked out through the barred window. He
could see the scaffold from there, the one the people of Prosper, Wyoming, were building for him.
The one from which they intended to hang him without even benefit of a trial. He was surprised that they were even going to
the bother to build a scaffold. Having been sentenced without benefit of a trial, he’d assumed that they would take him to
the highest tree they could findand stretch his neck from there, but apparently they wanted to do the job “right and proper,”
as he’d heard someone say.
The men who were working on the scaffold had stopped to eat lunch, and now the hammering started up again. He turned away,
stepped down, and sat on the bunk, his chin in his hands.
He knew that both of his brothers had been in similar situations at some time in their lives, and they had both managed to
survive. A man couldn’t live without being blamed at one time or another for something he didn’t do.
Jubal McCall had not killed Ed Flanagan. He had slept with Flanagan’s wife, however, and that made him the prime suspect for
Ed’s murder. When Flanagan’s body was found with its skull bashed in, the sheriff and his men had gone directly to Jubal’s
hotel room to get him. It was unfortunate for Jubal that Erin Flanagan had been in his bed at the time. When the sheriff kicked
in the door, Erin sat up without the benefit of a sheet, her proud, peach-sized breasts there for all to see. Jubal had used
that moment to try and make the window, but his legs had gotten tangled in the bedclothes and he had fallen painfully to the
floor. Moments later he was standing between two deputies, who held his arms tightly behind him while the sheriff helped Erin
on with her clothes.
Of course, the fact that he was with Erin when her husband was killed should have been a perfect alibi, except for one thing—Erin
Flanagan told the sheriff that Jubal had killed her husband.
It was only then that Jubal realized that Erin’ten years his senior, but absolutely beautiful beyond words—had used her red
hair, firm breasts, and warm mouth to set him up but good.
So here he sat, waiting for the scaffold to be finished, waiting for them to come and get him and string him up for a murder
he didn’t commit.
Still, he had been stupid enough to
After Evan had read the telegram several times he turned those blue eyes on Sam and said, “It doesn’t say how it happened.”
“I know.”
“Have you sent a telegram to find out?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because, brother,” Sam said, taking the telegram back, “you and I and Jubal are going to Vengeance Creek to find out for
ourselves.”
“Jubal?” There was no argument from Evan. He had already decided that he was going to go find out what happened. It pleased
him that he wouldn’t be going alone.
“Do you know where he is?”
“All we got to do is find trouble,” Sam said, “and we’ll find brother Jubal.”
Chapter Four
All his life Jubal McCall had known that he was different from his brothers.
Sam and Evan, they had things they were good at. With a gun Sam McCall was the best Jubal had ever seen, and he was proud
of his big brother for that.
Evan, he could do things with cards that nobody else could. Whenever Jubal thought of his two brothers he thought of them
with pride.
When he thought about himself, it was with great disappointment, because he knew that Jubal McCall was good at only one thing—getting
himself into trouble.
Ever since he’d left home five years ago Jubal had drifted from place to place, taking jobs where he could find them, doing
whatever he had to do to survive, but always there was a black cloud following him around, ready to rain on whatever good
thing he managed to find.
This time, the black cloud had really done a job on him.
He stood up, climbed up on the metal bunk that was bolted to the stone wall, and looked out through the barred window. He
could see the scaffold from there, the one the people of Prosper, Wyoming, were building for him.
The one from which they intended to hang him without even benefit of a trial. He was surprised that they were even going to
the bother to build a scaffold. Having been sentenced without benefit of a trial, he’d assumed that they would take him to
the highest tree they could findand stretch his neck from there, but apparently they wanted to do the job “right and proper,”
as he’d heard someone say.
The men who were working on the scaffold had stopped to eat lunch, and now the hammering started up again. He turned away,
stepped down, and sat on the bunk, his chin in his hands.
He knew that both of his brothers had been in similar situations at some time in their lives, and they had both managed to
survive. A man couldn’t live without being blamed at one time or another for something he didn’t do.
Jubal McCall had not killed Ed Flanagan. He had slept with Flanagan’s wife, however, and that made him the prime suspect for
Ed’s murder. When Flanagan’s body was found with its skull bashed in, the sheriff and his men had gone directly to Jubal’s
hotel room to get him. It was unfortunate for Jubal that Erin Flanagan had been in his bed at the time. When the sheriff kicked
in the door, Erin sat up without the benefit of a sheet, her proud, peach-sized breasts there for all to see. Jubal had used
that moment to try and make the window, but his legs had gotten tangled in the bedclothes and he had fallen painfully to the
floor. Moments later he was standing between two deputies, who held his arms tightly behind him while the sheriff helped Erin
on with her clothes.
Of course, the fact that he was with Erin when her husband was killed should have been a perfect alibi, except for one thing—Erin
Flanagan told the sheriff that Jubal had killed her husband.
It was only then that Jubal realized that Erin’ten years his senior, but absolutely beautiful beyond words—had used her red
hair, firm breasts, and warm mouth to set him up but good.
So here he sat, waiting for the scaffold to be finished, waiting for them to come and get him and string him up for a murder
he didn’t commit.
Still, he had been stupid enough to
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