Sycamore Hill (41 page)

“Nevertheless,” I stammered, “people won’t believe it.”

“Bennett was right when he said people believe gossip.” Hallender
shrugged. “Everyone believes he killed his wife. I know he didn’t, of course.”

“How do you know?”

“What faithless things women are,” he grunted. “You believed it
too.” He shook his head slightly. “No wonder he was so mad.”

“How do you know?” I repeated, the answer very important to me.

“Being sheriff, I had to know all the facts of what happened so as
to decide if a warrant had to be issued. He told you the truth. From what I
heard from witnesses at the ranch, his high-and-mighty bitch of a wife was
little better than a lush. And I smelled the brandy on her myself when Bennett
brought her body in that day. That Gutierrez woman was there in the house when
Mrs. Bennett had her accident. Mrs. Bennett had been drinking. Her usual
morning relaxation, I suppose,” he sneered. “And apparently she was coming down
the stairs for another bottle when she tripped on the rug. The doc said she was
probably dead before she hit the bottom. Broken neck.” Hallender snapped his
fingers. “Just like that.” He paused, shifting the gun slightly. “An accident.
But people prefer to believe the worst.”

Ellen Greer’s words almost exactly, I remembered. I had been no
better than anyone else. I was in love with Jordan Bennett, and yet I had
always had some doubt. No wonder he hated me. I closed my eyes, remembering his
face as I had last seen him. What would he think when they found my body? Would
he blame himself, adding to his already unhappy situation?

“But all that has nothing to do with me,” I muttered, looking at
Hallender. I had to find some way out of this mess.

“No? A lot of scandal surrounds Bennett. You’ve heard it. It would
just take a small hint here and there to add your suicide to his other list of
sins. Pretty, young schoolteacher falls for rich rancher; he scorns her; and
she kills herself,” he rattled off unemotionally. “Not a new story, but
believable enough for my purposes.”

Hallender was right. People would believe it. Even my own mood and
actions of the last weeks would serve to strengthen the story. When Hallender
exposed the sordid rumor of my relationship with Jordan, that would only add to
the reasons he had already catalogued of why people would believe I had taken
my own life.

Hadn’t I contemplated it only last night when I had believed
mistakenly that I had seen Prudence Townsend? Some instinctive desire to
survive must have probed my subconscious. What other explanation was there for
what I had seen?

“It’s time to quit the talking,” Hallender said ominously. He
jerked the gun in a silent order. “Pick up the rope,” he repeated. My hands were
perspiring. “Pick it up,” he said yet again.

I made my decision. If I was going to die, it wasn’t going to be
by hanging. I let the rope fall from my fingers. He cocked the hammer again,
and I waited silently.

“Pick it up, damn you!”

I shook my head, unable to speak.

“You think I won’t shoot you, is that it?” he snarled. Something
in his eyes told me he was uncertain. And I knew why. If he shot me, he would
arouse the town. Everyone would know I had not killed myself, and his story
would be useless. Suspicions would be rampant, and people would begin asking
questions, wanting to know why I had been murdered. What would be the motive?

What if I jumped up and ran? I wondered suddenly, my heart
pounding. If he pulled the trigger instinctively, he wouldn’t miss this close.
And besides, he was an expert marksman as well. But would he fire? Was I
willing to find out? As though sensing my thoughts, Hallender straightened and
moved forward.

“If you shoot me, everyone will know this is murder,” I told him
shakily. His mouth flattened out into a hard line. He moved forward
relentlessly. The gun seemed to stretch out closer.

“I could shoot you point-blank in the head. It’d still look like
suicide,” he whispered chillingly. Sweat ran between my breasts as he put the barrel
of the gun up against my temple.

“Where would I get a gun, Mr. Hallender? I couldn’t afford to buy
one on my income, and if I could, it would have been from Olmstead or Thompson.
They both would know I had no gun,” I reasoned. No one was going to help me out
of this. I thought of Jordan and realized with sudden regret and dismay that he
had been watching the schoolhouse, protecting me. Something I had told him must
have aroused his suspicions.

But Jordan was gone now. I was alone. I looked up at Hallender’s
narrowed, cold eyes and knew that he would give me no mercy. The barrel of his
gun yawned at me bigger than Ellen’s open grave. If I was going to live, I
would have to rely on my own intelligence to manage it.

Hallender took a couple of steps back. “Pick up the rope,” he
repeated harshly, shifting with obvious impatience. My heart drummed loudly in
my ears, and my head began to ache so badly, I thought it would burst. His
knuckles whitened as he held the gun. I could see that his hand was not quite steady.
I waited to hear the explosion of noise and feel the pain shattering my head. A
cold numbness and unknown resolve began to possess me. Hallender had spoken the
truth. He did not want to kill me, and I was not going to let him. Not if I
could prevent it.

“Who will find my body, Mr. Hallender?” I asked in a soft,
amazingly calm voice.

He frowned. “I don’t know, and I don’t much care.”

“But you should. You’re a decent man, I think. Wouldn’t you care
if a small, innocent child were to happen in here and see your handiwork? Would
you want a child to live with that for the rest of his or her life?”

“I could always come back tomorrow,” he offered. The possibility
obviously disturbed him.

“On what excuse? You’re not a parent. I’ve done nothing to warrant
a visit from the sheriff. They haven’t forgotten the robbery, have they?”

“Shut up!” he ordered tersely. His voice was loud in the still
room. “I’ll think of something,” he said more quietly. “No kid will find your
body, I assure you, for your peace of mind,” he said sarcastically. “Now pick
up the rope, damn you!”

“I won’t. You can’t expect me to make it that easy for you.”

“I could bash in your brains,” he threatened, taking a step
forward so that I thought he was really going to do it. I flinched back. “Bennett
would be blamed. A lovers’ quarrel. Everyone knows he has a vile temper. They’d
believe he killed another woman. They like you. Maybe this time they’d even
hang him. It’s been a while since the town’s seen a good hanging.”

It could happen, I thought wildly, and then stilled the fear. I
could not think of all the possibilities now. I could only try to find a way to
escape. “Jordan’s no fool, even if everyone else is. I told him about the
sounds I had heard. He was suspicious. He didn’t believe Prudence was here. Why
do you think he was here tonight, Mr. Hallender? He was watching the
schoolhouse. Maybe he’s watching now.”

“I don’t believe you,” he said succinctly. “You had a lovers’
quarrel. That much I heard. And I watched him ride over the hills before I came
in through your room. Bennett’s gone.”

I decided to try another tactic. “What has he ever done to you?
Wasn’t he your friend? You’d have his death on your conscience as well as mine
if the town did put him on trial and hanged him.”

“Shut your damn mouth!” he snarled furiously. His gun hand shook
violently, and I thought for an instant he was going to pull the trigger
without even realizing what he was doing. He paused and then suddenly holstered
his gun, hammer back in place, and grabbed up the rope.

I did not hesitate. I bolted past him for the door. He swore
vilely and kicked out his bum leg to trip me. I heard him grunt in pain. Then
his fingers became tangled in my free hair, drawing me up short with a cry. I
stumbled and fell to my knees. My scalp was stinging, and I was sure he was
going to rip my hair right out.

“Let go! You can’t hang me!” I cried, grabbing at his hand. I
fought as I felt him trying to sling the noose over my head. I twisted around
and kicked out hard with my bare feet. I felt my toes and soles crush into him.
He gave a high-pitched screech of pain and doubled over. I struggled up and
frantically threw off the rope. Hallender’s fingers came out, grasping blindly
until they fastened on my nightgown. The top buttons ripped away as I strained
forward toward the door of my room. I turned to hit his hands loose.

“You bitch," he gasped. His face was a grimace of agony, but
his eyes were blazing with feral rage. I granted and gasped with my violent
efforts to beat free. He loosened one hand, doubling it into a fist as he swung
at me. He caught me across the side of my jaw. I tasted blood as I dropped to
my knees. He grabbed my hair, pulling my face up as he hit me again and again
until I was senseless.

“You had to make it hard, didn’t you?” he groaned. “You had to
fight me! Well, your lover Bennett will get blamed for the mess I’ve made of
your face,” he went on. Then he looped the noose around my neck as I lay
prostrate on the floor. My fingers clutched at the rope, but he yanked hard. I
gasped for air. He dragged me across the floor. Then I heard the rope slap
against the rafter above. He was hauling me up. My feet were off the floor. I
was kicking. The rope burned my neck. I choked. The circulation was cut off in
my fingers as the noose tightened. I fought, the muscles of my arms straining
with all their strength.

God, help me. I am dying! My vision blurred as I choked, gagging
against the bounds of the rope. I kicked one last time.

Then suddenly I was falling. I hit the floor hard, and the
slackened rope loosened about my neck as my fingers continued their pulling. I
dragged in air painfully, staring around me for Hallender. I yanked frantically
and managed to pull the noose off.

Hallender was falling backward against the desk in an effort to
escape the fleeting, white form that was trying to engulf him. The sheriff hit
the lantern, knocking it onto the floor. It shattered, and kerosene splashed
out onto the floor at Hallender’s feet. The lighted wick made the fuel explode
into flames that licked up the man’s legs. He screamed in pain, the animal
sound tearing into my brain. When he ran for the door, I did not stop to think
of what he had just tried to do to me. I stumbled up and chased after him,
shouting his name.

Hallender’s body was engulfed in flames by the time he reached the
street. He staggered and fell. Dropping down next to him, I rolled him over in
the mud, trying frantically to extinguish the flames. Lights were going on in
houses close by. People were coming out, staring up the street in curiosity.

“Help me! Help me!” I cried. Hallender’s screams of agony were
making me cry out as though I were burning. I tried to pound out the flames.

A few people started running up the street. Two men reached me and
helped me roll the sheriff over until the flames were completely smothered.
Hallender’s screams changed to moans as he writhed in agony. The exposed flesh
was blackened and bloody, the smell of burned skin and muscle sickeningly sweet
in the air. He moaned, delirious, twisting against the efforts of the men, who
were trying to comfort him.

There was nothing else I could do for Tom Hallender. I averted my
face as the two men bent closer to talk to him. I could not bear his agony, and
I stood up. Looking back up the street, I saw flames flickering through the
window of the schoolhouse. I bolted forward. “The schoolhouse!” I cried in
dismay. “Someone help me put the fire out!” I started to run back.

“Let it burn!” shouted one of the men. “Miss McFarland, let it
burn!”

In confusion, people were looking at Hallender’s charred body and
then at the burning building down the street. The sheriff began to scream again
as the two men carefully lifted him.

I ran down the street, through the schoolhouse gate and up the
path to the front steps. Dashing into the building, I ripped curtains from the
front windows and slapped at the flames that were destroying my desk and the
front seats of the classroom. My arms rose and fell, rose and fell; yet rny
efforts seemed to only whip the fire into further fury.

Running to my room, I grabbed the bucket of water from the stove.
I hauled it back into the schoolroom. After shoving the curtains into the
water, I beat again at the flames with the drenched cloth. I worked feverishly,
but the fire was still gaining, licking over the wooden floor and catching
books and papers, spreading farther and growing increasingly, hellishly hotter.

Finally I took the bucket and cast the water over my desk in hopes
that I might save something. Weakened, my fingers lost hold of the handle, and
the bucket thudded heavily onto the floor on the other side of the desk, into
the burning inferno and out of reach. Smoke was everywhere, and I could hardly
breathe. I reached out and grabbed Ellen Greer’s two bronze plaques.

Then I thought of the money, the savings of farmers and ranchers
in the valley around Sycamore Hill. If nothing else could be salvaged, that
must be. I managed to reach my room again, although the fire was now eating at
the wooden framework of the schoolroom and creeping closer to my quarters. My
precious books were catching fire, but there was nothing I could do. I reached
my bed, coughing in the iron-gray air. I yanked at the mattress and pulled it
from the narrow bunk and onto the floor.