Showdown at Gun Hill by Ralph Cotton

said Stone. He looked all around the wide desert flatlands. Far to the east he spotted a hillside strewn with up-reaching saguaro. “I’m out of my jurisdiction or I’d be given to know why.”
    â€œI’m not out of my jurisdiction,” Sam said. “It’s myduty to ask what it’s about.” He lowered the lens and closed the telescope between his palms. Looking Stone up and down, he asked, “Are you up for a hard ride?”
    The sheriff, feeling better, straightened in his saddle and gathered his reins.
    â€œYou bet I’m up for it,” he said.
    Before he turned his dun to the trail, Sam reached out a closed gloved hand and said, “Here, in case you need them.”
    Stone held his open hand out; Sam dropped six bullets into his palm.
    â€œObliged, Ranger,” he said, a little surprised.
    â€œI figured if you’re going to be pointing that shooter, you need something in the chamber,” Sam said. “Let’s hope you don’t have to draw it.”
    He spun his dun away from Stone and batted it forward into a gallop across the loose sand. Stone drew his horse in alongside him and loaded his Colt as they rode.
    *   *   *
    On the desert flatlands halfway up the tall saguaro-clad hillside, Colonel Hinler, his black-suited detectives and the lesser dressed rail guards stood circled around the two wounded, handcuffed prisoners lying in the sand.
    Hinler and Duke Patterson stood crouched over the two. When one of the wounded prisoners moaned and gripped his bloody chest, Patterson punched both him and the other man in the face. Blood flew.
    â€œShut up and pay attention here, outlaws,” he said. “You don’t want to miss your own hanging.”
    One prisoner defiantly spat blood at Patterson. The second prisoner clawed a bloody hand up at him. Patterson ran a forearm across his blood-splattered face and cursed. He drew back his fist, but before he could punch either of the men again, Hinler leaned in and nudged him aside.
    â€œHave yourself a smoke, Duke,” he said to Patterson. “I want to speak to these fellas one last time. Maybe they’ve changed their minds.” He patted the burly detective’s shoulder as he ushered him out of his way.
    â€œYes, sir, Colonel,” Patterson said, wiping his face again.
    â€œLet me explain what’s going to happen here,” Hinler said, leaning down closer to the two prisoners. He gave the two a cruel grin as he studied their black swollen eyes. “You’re going to die here, what we call a horizontal hanging. Meaning we tie your neck to this cactus”—he nodded at a tall saguaro cactus standing beside them—“and your feet to your horses’ saddle horns. Can you see how that works?” He grinned and looked closer at them for any sign of fear or regret, but he saw none.
    The two only stared, ready for whatever fate had planned.
    â€œIf you want to die really slow, feel your bones pull apart as we draw these horses away,” the colonel continued, “we can see to it that’s the way you go.” He studied each one’s eyes in turn. “Or, if you want to clear the slate before you leave here, tell me where your pards hide out these days, we can smack these horses with a quirt and make them dig in quick.” His grinwidened. “Pop your heads off. You’ll be dead before God gets his boots on, so to speak.”
    One of the prisoners, an older outlaw named Parker Fish, who had spat blood in Patterson’s face, gestured the colonel down closer.
    â€œWatch him, Colonel. He’s a spitter,” Patterson cautioned.
    â€œSpeak up, Fish,” the colonel said, leaning only inches from the bloody swollen face.
    Fish coughed and gathered the breath to speak.
    â€œWe been . . . hiding out . . . ,” he said haltingly, “down in . . . your aunt Lucy’s