Page 3 of Hell and Gone
“I ain’t got any other paths.”
Their paths always crossed through the years, Braddock jerking Lawrence’s reins back when he got too wild and when he bucked too hard against laws and “civil society,” as Braddock said.
One night, when Lawrence was cooling his heels in Braddock’s jail cell, Braddock had leaned into the bars and passed him a flask. They drank together in silence for a few minutes, and then Braddock told him he was a wild bronc that needed a firm hand to get him under control. Teach him a few things.
“You gonna be that man?” Lawrence had asked.
“You cross the line, Law, I will have to be. Don’t put me in that spot.”
He was walking that line now. He saw it as Braddock approached, the shock hitting him, the spark of rage igniting in his eyes. “What the hell are you doin’ now, Law?”
He snapped his hand away from Carson’s cheek before Braddock could see. “Figured I’d bring you a present, Sheriff. Since you refuse to take me or my complaints serious.”
“I ain’t refusin’ anythin’,” Braddock growled. “I got two thousand miles of land to cover, and you and your complaints ain’t on the top of my list.”
“How’s about this for a complaint, then?” Lawrence stepped back and waved to the corpse.
Braddock sighed, taking in the dead body slowly from head to toe. “Carson Riley.” He shook his head, and his eyes narrowed as he peered at the deep rope cuts, the way Carson’s neck looked like ground beef left out to rot. The broken and bloody fingernails. “Where’d you find him?”
“Swinging from a branch on the edge of my north pasture.” Lawrence tossed a bloodstained noose onto the corpse’s cold chest. “Cut him down with that ‘round his neck.”
“You already put your hands all over it? You know that’s evidence. Now we can’t get fingerprints off—”
“I wore gloves.” Lawrence held out his gloved hands, cased in black leather that ended at his wrists. “I ain’t stupid.”
Braddock snorted. The look he gave Lawrence called him a liar. “That’s wild country up there north of your range. What made you look?”
“Other than the fact he was missin’,” Lawrence said slowly,“was the buzzards led me to him. Got there before they could get to his eyes.”
“How long was he missin’?”
“He didn’t come back to the ranch last night.” His voice was tight, almost strangled.
Braddock peered at him. “He come back to your ranch every night?”
Lawrence stared. His fingers curled, made fists as he clenched Carson’s cold jacket.
Braddock moved on. “You cut him down?”
“I did.”
“You know that’s a crime, Law. Interferin’ in a crime scene. You don’t know how this man died, but there you go, tramplin’ on a potential crime scene and destroyin’ whatever evidence there might be, ruinin’ anythin’ me and my boys could have done out there.”
Lawrence held Braddock’s glare. “Sorry, Sheriff,” he said, his voice taut. “You know, when I found him, all I could think ‘bout was gettin’ him down—” His voice went rough, words tangled and torn as his voice failed him. He looked down.
He couldn’t look at Carson, not like this, not with the fear, the panic, the agony scrawled across his features. He squeezed his eyes shut and tried to breathe.
Braddock gave him the time, waiting as the silence built, save for the wet, quick rasps of his hitched breaths.
All he smelled was death.
“Son—” Braddock started, his voice soft.
“‘Sides,” he said, finally looking up and glaring at Braddock. He shook Braddock’s care off, squared his shoulders. “It’s like you said: that’s rough country. Didn’t think you and your boys were gonna make your way up there, not for li’l ole me?”
“He wassupposedto leave town.”
Lawrence hesitated. “He was helpin’ out for a time. We had an understandin’.”
