The Hangings by Bill Pronzini Read Free Book Online Page A

potential horse-thief. I couldn't see any other reason for a man to be prowling around a livery bam after dark. And horse stealing is a serious offense—serious enough for a gent engaged in it to put up a fight to keep from being taken into custody.
    Halfway along the fence I stepped on something that felt like a tree branch. I squatted down, and that was what it was—a chunky length of willow branch that must have been blown up along here by an old storm. Better than no weapon at all, I thought. I straightened again with the branch in one hand. Nightbirds cried along the creek, a wagon went clattering past on Main, the wind made rattling sounds in the willow branches; but there was still nothing to hear from behind the livery.
    I eased forward again, crouched low, until I was nearly abreast of the stable's back corner. The open ground between the fence and the side wall was mostly grass, through which a pair of rutted wagon tracks ran around to the rear. I left the shadows, used the grass to cushion my footfalls as I crossed to the livery and then went along its side wall to the corner.
    South across the creek, a train whistle sounded: night freight on its way to Santa Rosa and points north. I waited until I could hear the freight's rumbling clatter before I poked my head around the corner.
    There was nobody at the rear doors, nobody in the adjacent corral and wagon yard, nobody anywhere that I could see. A horse chestnut grew in close to the livery at the far corner, throwing heavy shadow across that part of the wall; but there was no movement over that way. He had had enough time to get inside, if the rear doors hadn't been barred from within. Either that or he had gone skulking around toward the front, at the north wall.
    Stepping around the corner, I skinned along the rough boarding to the doors. The sound of the night freight was fading now; where I was, the hush had a strained quality— or maybe that was just my fancy. Down the grassy slope arrears of the wagon yard I could see the black rippling motion of the creek, a scum of mist along the surface that was just now starting to climb the banks. The fog moved but nothing else.
    I turned to the doors, tried the latch handle on one. Barred inside, right enough. That had to mean he—
    Sudden slithering sound behind me . . .
    I started to swing about, lifting the willow branch, breaking my body at the waist, but I was not quick enough. I had a brief perception of a man-shape lunging toward me with an upraised arm and then something cracked down across my neck, drove me to my knees. Pain erupted; my head seemed to swell with it, so that I could not see or think straight. I believe I yelled and tried to stand. But he hit me again, an even more solid lick this time. Must have been solid, because it knocked me senseless and I have no memory of feeling it.

     
    *****

     
    "Mr. Evans? You all right?"
    The voice came out of a scum of mist like the one on the creek, only thick and black. Fuzzy at first, a long way off. Then the fog started to break up and the voice, when it came again, was louder and more distinct and I felt hands on me, shaking my shoulder. They weren't rough hands but the shaking set up a roaring in my head, swept bile up into my throat. I slapped them away, flopped over on my belly, and vomited into damp grass.
    "Cripes, Mr. Evans, what happened?"
    Weakly, I dragged myself onto all fours and knelt there until the pain in my head and neck subsided enough to let me think. Then I hauled back on my knees, forced my eyes open. When I touched the side of my head above the left ear I felt a soft spot and the warm stickiness of blood.
    "You want me to get Doc Petersen?"
    I knew that voice now: Jacob Pike. I bent my head back, slow, and looked up at him until he came clear into focus. He was not alone; one of his pool-hall cronies, a kid named Badger, was gawking at me too. Both of them wore slouch caps, vests, dungarees—the evening clothes favored by their