Vengeance is Mine

POUNDING HEAVILY ON THE floor, their shoes created thudding noises that echoed slightly in the lengthy corridor. They walked slowly, the man in the cheap suit and his companion in the dark blue uniform. making their way toward a door at the far end. The pace was set by the man in the suit. He had difficulty maintaining anything more than his current effort. The grimace on his face indicated the pain he experienced and, while he doubled his attempt at speed, his gait remained the same and a slight limp worsened the harder he pushed himself.

The man in the uniform silently stayed with him.

As they passed the dim electric lamps mounted at intervals on the walls, the suited man’s features became visible. Lines in his long, gaunt face spoke not only to his advanced age, but to the pain and difficulty he suffered. Somewhat round shouldered, the man was tall and slim. Small vertical folds of skin hung loosely under his chin and the corners of his thin mouth drew downward grimly. His nose was long and straight and the sad light blue eyes were deeply set, all but hidden by lids and massive white brows. Also white, his hair was noticeably thinning at the temples and forehead and was slicked straight back. The full white mustache accompanied a well groomed beard running along his jaw line and under his chin. He made the effort to refrain from hunching over.

The uniformed man remained at his companion’s side, seemingly ready to give aid if required. His shoulder patch identified him as a guard at the New Mexico State Penitentiary. He wore a captain’s insignia.

Their journey ended at the door marked warden. The guard tapped his knuckles.

“Come in,” a voice called from beyond the door.

The guard opened the door and allowed his companion entry. He leaned in. His voice was gruff. “Hultren, sir.”

The warden, a slight man in shirt sleeves and a four-in-hand tie, looked up from his desk and cracked a half smile as the man approached. “Sit down.” The warden gestured to the chair in front of the desk.

Doing as instructed, the man sat and stared expressionless at the warden, waiting. He sat patiently while the warden finished perusing papers in front of him.

The warden looked up. “Your last day, Hultren. In a few minutes, you’ll be on your way back to life as a free man.”

“Yes, sir.” Hultren’s voice was hoarse with age but retained its strength and depth.

“I’ve been going over your file. You’ve accomplished a lot since you came here, helping other prisoners, teaching them to read and write. You even helped to put down a riot three years ago. And now, sadly, you’ve been paid back in a most unkind way.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Cancer, isn’t it?”

Hultren nodded.

“Are you going to seek treatment for it?”

“I don’t see the value in that, Warden. The doctor says I don’t have much time left.”

“What will you do then?”

“I’m going back home. I’ve got some unfinished business there.”

“Right. You still maintain your innocence, that you were framed?”

“I do. It’s time to settle that once and for all.”

“Nothing against the law, I hope. Sick or not, you could find yourself back here if you break the law.”

“What I’m going to do is completely legal.”

“I sure hope so. I’d hate to see you come back here to die.”

“Oh, I won’t be back here, Warden, I can promise you that.”

The warden studied Hultren for a moment and moved on, producing an envelope from a desk drawer. He held it out to Hultren. “Besides your suit of clothes, the law requires that each prisoner be given ten dollars upon his release. You’ll find a bit more than ten in there, courtesy of the guards.”

Hultren opened the envelope and counted out fifty dollars in small bills. He guessed that all those times he had helped and supported the guards in their work was now bearing fruit. He smiled at that. “Thank them for me, will you?”

“I will.” The warden signed an official looking document and folded it, presenting it to Hultren. “This is your release paper.”

Hultren placed the sheet into the envelope with the money and inserted it in his inside jacket pocket.

The warden got up from the desk and crossed to the window. “One more thing.” He motioned for Hultren to join him at the window.

Hultren rose with great effort and went to the window.

“The driver of that motor car down there has been instructed to take you anywhere in Santa Fe you choose to go. My gift to you.”

Hultren peered out at the bright blue 1910 Overland automobile sitting outside the main gate. The corners of his mouth turned up in a slight smile. “Never rode in a motor car before. Thank you.”

The warden extended his hand. “Enjoy it.”

They shook hands and bid each other goodbye. Hultren left the office to rejoin the guard captain and to be escorted to the main gate. He was handed his thirty year old faded white cattleman’s hat that had been stored upon his arrival, and received the well wishes of several of the guards, before stepping through the opened gate into freedom.

He breathed free air for the first time in twentyfive years and, as he walked the concrete toward the waiting automobile, he savored this. It didn’t smell any different from the air inside the prison, maybe a little less stagnant was all. His mind drifted back to the origins of his lot in life. In reality, he had been thinking about this a lot lately. It began last year when he successfully appealed his fifty year prison sentence to the new governor and was granted a lesser term. The letter from the governor, received after an impassioned plea and the support of the warden, cut his punishment in half. At the time, that gave him one more year to serve before his slate would be considered clean. Then he began reaching back to the time when it all started.

Before the governor’s decision, he’d thought little about the incident. It was too painful and did him no good since he could not clear himself from behind bars. During the trial he exhausted every possibility of proving his innocence. The older the incident became, the more remote any hope became. Then, when freedom became available in one year instead of twenty-six, he considered settling the score.

He would need to formulate a plan. That required remembering all the facts, so he forced his mind to reenact the specifics.

It went all the way back to 1886. His ranch flourished and became the object of Jason Cleary’s desire. Indeed, Cleary had made no less than three offers to buy it that year. Hultren refused them all.

The place had been in his family for over twenty years. He grew up on it, learned the business from his father, buried both his parents on it, and was not about to let it go, especially to a speculator like Cleary. In retrospect, he should have done something about Cleary then, but the ranch consumed all his time and he had little interest in anything else. Cleary grew his little empire unchecked. Soon his name was on many concerns operating in Blue Valley, whether it got there legally or not.

Then, in 1887, after a drinking bout in town, Hultren was visited by Cleary and the town marshal. Cleary accused Hultren of horse theft. He claimed he had witnesses that would swear they saw him, in a drunken rage, pistol whip a Cleary ranch hand and run off ten prize stallions. Hultren denied it, but Cleary insisted that the marshal inspect Hultren’s stables. The search turned up the horses in question and Hultren was arrested.

The rest of it went according to Cleary’s orchestrations. The marshal and the judge were obviously in Cleary’s employ, although that could not be proven. The trial became a sham. Appearing with the appropriate bruises, the beaten man identified Hultren as the assailant. Hultren’s only two witnesses, who could establish his alibi, never showed up for the trial and were never heard from again. Cleary’s judge sentenced Hultren to fifty years without parole.

Now, with twenty-five years under his belt, he dared to concoct a plan of revenge. Now, even though this cancer he carried with him had a terminal prognosis, this could still be pulled off.

The automobile ride was a pleasant diversion, delivering Hultren to the railroad station. After thanking the driver, he purchased a ticket south to Sorocco and waited for the train. He thought it notable that his last train ride took him to the prison.

In Sorocco, he boarded a bus bound for, among other stops, Blue Valley. It was a dusty ride in the open conveyance, but Hultren began feeling more at home as the country changed into open land. Upon arriving at Blue Valley, he was amazed at the changes, new buildings, concrete sidewalks, paved streets, even a few automobiles. But, through it all, he noticed Cleary’s name on many businesses. Had he dealt with Cleary when he had the chance … No matter. He’d do it now.

After thoroughly scrutinizing the town, Hultren visited the hotel to book a room and went on to the livery stable to rent a horse and saddle outfit. He had not been on a horse since his incarceration. Embarrassing for a cattleman. Mounting and riding caused him pain, but he forced his way through it. His destination would be worth the suffering.

Once he left town, the roads were more recognizable. He found his way across country to land that once belonged to him. A familiar trail led him to a knoll on which gravestones sat. These were the graves of his mother and father, which he expected, but what was that third stone? He rode closer to see his own name on that stone and the date of death, 1890.

Initially flabbergasted, Hultren collected himself and pieced this together. This was probably Cleary’s handiwork, his way of getting the ranch after Hultren’s conviction. Not important. Cleary would be dealt with and this wouldn’t matter. But there was still something eating at him. What if there was someone buried in that grave? He had to know.

Two things needed to be done first. He needed some work clothes and tools and he needed a gun. The clothes and tools were for the grave. The weapon, a short barreled Colt Lightening with a shoulder rig, was for later, part of his plan. He left it in his room and returned to the gravesite.

Digging up a twenty-five year old grave was no mean task for a healthy man half his age. For Hultren, it was grueling, back breaking work that took most of the afternoon and several long periods of rest. He persevered, finishing close to dusk, but he found no coffin. Exhaustion was taking over, but he was determined to know what it held. A few more shovels full and he struck something. Putting the shovel aside, he scratched at the dirt until he uncovered the item he hit. A bone! More scratching revealed more bones, then a skeleton, then another.

The clothing these bodies were buried with was in tatters now, but an object stuck out from the remnants of a pocket, a metallic object. He reached for it and identified it as a pocket watch. Instinctively, he opened it to see the face and saw an inscription. The cover bore the name of one of the witnesses who had failed to show up at his trial. Cleary again. He’d had them killed and buried and then had the grave camouflaged as Hultren’s.

All right, he had his answer. He pondered filling in the grave, but decided to leave it. Even if Cleary found it, the plan would preclude his acting on it.

Wearily, Hultren returned to Blue Valley and collapsed into bed. Sleep consumed him for about ten hours. When he finally awoke, his body was racked with the pain from the labor and the cancer. The disease progressed at a faster rate than he’d expected and all that work most likely aggravated it. He needed to tough this out, to last. Cleary had to pay.

Forcing himself out of bed, he cleaned up and shaved. That was exhausting enough, but enduring the painful ordeal of getting dressed and strapping on the shoulder holster was almost more than he could bear. He found the folded papers containing the powdered painkiller given to him by the prison doctor in his jacket pocket. Taking this stuff put him off because it slowed the mind, but he mixed one into a glass of water and gulped it down. Sitting on the bed, he loaded the revolver.

Lost in his thoughts, he sat for almost an hour holding the gun while the muscles in his hand reached back over twenty-five years to familiarize themselves once more with its structure and heft. Then, with a jerk, he came back to reality and found that the medicine had worked, leaving his body somewhat more pliable and less painful. This allowed him to perform a few practice draws. Slow as molasses, he thought, but adequate enough for his purpose.

The saloon across the street from the hotel also bore Cleary’s name and was fairly active for a late morning weekday. Hultren attributed the interest to the advertised free lunch as well as the availability of several card games. Hultren’s glimpse through the front window told him the stakes in those games were high and the players were dead serious.

His entrance into the establishment went completely unnoticed. He perused the occupants and listened to their conversations without drawing their attention, allowing him to quickly close on a particular individual.

The person of interest was a young, blond haired man with a sneering expression whose conversation revealed his name was Suter and he worked for Jason Cleary. This prompted Hultren to concoct a quick plan requiring his participation in the card game. His method was direct, a question to the blond man, “Mind if I sit in?”

The man shrugged absently. “Sure. Your money’s good as anybody’s.”

Hultren sat and produced all thirty-two dollars of his stake. The money was changed to chips and play resumed. Ten minutes into the game saw Hultren double his money. Suter, obviously a bad loser, glared at him. Hultren recognized the signs and increased the pot. Suter responded by calling and covering the bet. Hultren won the hand.

The deal came around to Suter. Hultren watched closely as cards were distributed. Bristling at having lost a good deal of money, Suter, rather clumsily, allowed a card to enter the game from the bottom of the deck. It fell on his own cards.

“That last card came from the bottom,” Hultren said sharply.

Suter glared at Hultren for a second before speaking. “You saying I’m cheating?”

“I’m saying that last card did not come from the top of the deck.” Hultren spoke slowly and distinctly.

Suter pushed his chair back from the table, his face beet red. “Nobody calls me a cheat and gets away with it.” His voice was low and threatening, spoken through clenched teeth.

Hultren stayed calm. “I just did.”

Suter rose quickly, upsetting the chair. He made a telegraphed move for his holster. Hultren’s hand was closer and faster. Before Suter could clear leather, Hultren’s Colt was leveled on his middle. “Don’t even try it!”

Suter dropped his hand to his side. An embarrassed look crossed his face.

“Now take what’s yours and get out.”

Suter nervously reached into the center of the table and separated his chips from the rest. Awkwardly, he scooped them up, dropping a few. Hultren waved the gun to emphasize his last order. Suter stepped around the other players and went to cash in. Hultren holstered the pistol.

A few more hands ended the game with Hultren the owner of seventy-four dollars. More satisfying, however, was the way his encounter with Suter played out. He returned to the street and leaned against the outside wall of the saloon watching people go by. This brought to his view a meeting down the street between Suter and a well dressed, stocky man. They completed an intense discussion and the stocky man dismissed Suter and approached the saloon.

Watching the man’s gait and studying his features, Hultren recognized the man. Jason Cleary. The face was chubbier as was the frame, but this was definitely the man Hultren sought. He knew the jowls, though they were more pronounced now, and he knew the wide set tiny eyes as well as the slight limp that Cleary always had. The corners of Hultren’s mouth curled into a bit of a smile as the man reached him. “Afternoon, Mr. Cleary.”

Cleary glanced at the source of the words, but did not stop. “Afternoon.”

“Nice day, isn’t it?”

“Yeah, I guess.” Cleary’s answer was vague, inattentive, as he brushed past Hultren and entered the saloon.

Hultren stood there for a long moment, then followed Cleary inside. Staying off to the side but still visible to Cleary, Hultren watched intently.

As Cleary greeted customers, conferred with the bartender and signed some papers in his office at the back of the room, Hultren made sure he was never out of Cleary’s sight. Cleary became more uneasy as this went on. By the time he left, he appeared visibly unnerved. Hultren stayed with him.

For the next several days, Hultren was a constant accessory to Cleary’s daily routine. And, with each day and each sighting of Hultren, Cleary displayed more anxiety. He stopped Hultren on the street. “What do you want, mister? Every time I turn around, you’re there. Now what do you want?”

“Nothing.” Hultren pushed his hat back on his head a little.

“Then what are you hanging around for?”

“Nothing. I’m just walking is all.”

“Well, walk somewhere else. I don’t want to see you.”

“Sure.” Hultren readjusted his hat and walked away, leaving Cleary bristling. Checking over his shoulder, Hultren waited until Cleary started walking and then continued to follow him.

This same scenario repeated itself several times over the course of a week.

Hultren’s next appearance in Cleary’s vicinity was interrupted by a scrawny little man who, because of his manner of dress, appeared more to be a preacher than a lawman. But the badge, prominently displayed on his coat, said he was, indeed, the town marshal. “You seem to be making yourself a nuisance, stranger. What are you up to?” His voice had a sneering quality to it. “I’m not up to anything, Marshal, just walking.”

“What’s your business here?”

“As a matter of fact, I’m looking the town over. Might want to open a business.”

“Well, do your looking where Mr. Cleary ain’t. You’re making him nervous.”

“Whatever you say, Marshal.”

“Well, move along then.”

Hultren moved for the moment, but continued to annoy Cleary. He remained well in the background, but he was there. He was not staring, not following; but he was always there. And he made sure Cleary was well aware of it. He noted Cleary’s increased disquiet as this dance progressed.

Then Suter joined the game, following Hultren as he followed Cleary. It took less than an hour for Hultren to recognize this new development.

Making certain that Suter had him in sight, Hultren moved away from the area where Cleary was walking and headed into an alley. Suter followed and, once inside the alley, drew his weapon. He stepped cautiously past some crates and moved toward the far end of the alley.

Hultren rose from behind the crates and moved toward Suter. He swung his Colt, barrel first, across the back of Suter’s head. The gun met bone through Suter’s hat with a dull clack. Instantly, the man caved and slumped to the ground, senseless. Hultren dragged the limp form behind the crates and left the alley.

A day passed during which Hultren followed Cleary without the presence of Suter. Late that afternoon, a knock on the door to Hultren’s room interrupted him finishing a wash-up. In his undershirt and trousers with suspenders dropped to his sides, he toweled off and went to the door.

“Open up! It’s the law!”

Hultren opened the door to admit the marshal.

“I’ve had another complaint about you. Now, I’m ordering you to stay away from Mr. Cleary.”

“Am I breaking the law, Marshal?” Hultren threw the towel aside.

“Well, no, not exactly, but you’re causing Mr. Cleary a lot of upset.” The marshal seemed flustered.

“All I’m doing is walking on the street, Marshal. Seems to me, if Mr. Cleary is upset with me doing that, that’s his problem.”

Visibly confounded, the officer looked around the room. His gaze settled on the shoulder rig hanging from the back of a chair. “What do you need that gun for?” The inquiry sounded duly official.

“This is still wild country. I keep it for protection. Is there a law against it?” Hultren tried to sound cooperative.

“Look here, mister.” The marshal showed signs of anger. “I know there’s more to you than you’re letting on and I want to know what that is. What’s your business with Cleary?”

Hultren turned away and thought for a moment. He could not drag this out much longer. Things needed to come to a head now, but according to his plan.

“Well?” The lawman’s demand displayed impatience.

Hultren faced the man. “You’re right, Marshal, there is more.”

“I’m listening.”

Hultren needed this to be informative, but obscure at the same time. “There’s something I need to discuss with Mr. Cleary. I’m going to have that discussion at nine o’clock tonight at his saloon. Be there then and you’ll know what this is all about. That’s all I can tell you right now. Everything depends on the outcome of that discussion.”

The marshal tugged at his chin. “That’s a tad too cryptic for me. What’s the discussion about?”

“It’s a business discussion, just business. Come to the saloon tonight and you’ll know.”

The marshal had an apprehensive expression on his face. Hultren expected more questions to come and sought to end the conversation. “That’s really all I can tell you right now. It’s just business.”

The marshal let out a harrumph.

Hultren eyed him as he turned for the door, hoping he put the man off, but, at the same time, whetted his appetite for what would come later.

“I’ll see you tonight,” the lawman said with a snarl.

—

AT TEN OF NINE that night, with a full saloon, Cleary stepped out of the back office. He surveyed the house. The absence of his stalker brought a smile to his lips. It remained there as he approached the bar. Then Hultren stepped through the front door. He walked purposefully to Cleary and stopped in front of him.

Thoroughly fed up with this, Cleary took the initiave. “What the hell do you want with me?” The demand was loud.

“You might want to step outside with me before I answer that.”

“You can say it right here and right now.”

“I don’t think you’re going to want this overheard.”

Cleary thought for a moment. He wanted to know what this pain in the ass was up to, but, mostly, he wanted it to end. He called the bartender over told him to send someone after him if he was not back in

ten minutes. Then he led the way outside, followed closely by Hultren. Silently, they entered the dimly lit alley. Hultren positioned himself so that he faced the light coming from a street lamp outside.

“All right, mister, talk,” Cleary said in a growl.

Hultren shook his head in apparent disbelief. “You really don’t recognize me, do you?”

“What? Why should I recognize you? I don’t even know you. Now, tell me what this is all about.”

“Maybe you’ll recognize my name. Hultren.”

Then it registered on Cleary. He could feel his face and his eyes show it.

“Yeah, you know me. Hultren, remember?”

Cleary was sweating, a cold sweat accompanied by trembling. “You can’t be here. You’re—”

“In prison? Naw, that’s over. They cut my sentence in half on appeal. Twenty-five years of a fifty year sentence. I was released two weeks ago and the first thing I did was to come here… for you. You took everything from me, Cleary. You don’t get to walk away from that.”

Hultren stared at Cleary. Cleary knew his facade was crumbling. His confidence was gone, replaced by fear, blind fear. He tried to convince himself he was safe. What could Hultren do to him here. This was his town, his law. Hultren couldn’t prove his innocence back then and he had no chance at it now. But that didn’t allay his fears. They just got worse.

Hultren smiled, obviously seeing the mounting panic Cleary couldn’t hide.

Cleary looked around. He needed a place to run, to hide, but he found nothing. There was only him and Hultren, facing each other in this alley.

“Long overdue, Cleary.” Hultren took a step forward. “You’re going to pay. But I’m going to give you a chance, a chance you never gave me. You’ve got a gun. Use it.”

“No, I … I won’t.” Cleary raised his hand, palm forward, hoping to make this go away.

“Come on, Cleary, draw! Use the chance!” Hultren sank his hand inside his jacket.

“No!” Cleary backed up a step.

“Fight, you son of a bitch.”

Cleary was frozen in place.

“Draw or I’ll shoot you down.”

“All right!” Cleary’s hand went to his holster and brought up the revolver. He fired once, the sharp report splitting the night silence. The slug doubled Hultren over and forced him back a few steps, but it did not fell him. He grunted and forced himself to straighten up. Laughing until he choked on his own blood, he staggered forward.

Cleary fired another shot. It hit Hultren in the chest and propelled him back off his feet to a position spread-eagle on the ground. Cleary watched this in fascination. He stood transfixed over the body. His hand dropped to his side, loosely holding the gun.

A hand reached from behind him and pulled the weapon from his grip. “I’ll take that,” the marshal said.

Brushing past Cleary, the lawman went to a knee next to Hultren’s body and examined it for signs of life. He shook his head.

Cleary came back to reality as the marshal stepped in front of him. “Mr. Cleary? What’s going on here?”

Flustered, Cleary searched for words. “He… eh … he tried to kill me.”

The marshal stared. “I ain’t seen anything like this in twenty years. Did he draw on you?”

“Yeah, yeah, he drew on me.”

“And you had to kill him?”

“Yeah, I beat him to the draw. Self defense. I had to kill him to protect myself.”

Cleary watched as the marshal turned and crouched at Hultren’s body for a closer examination. He was still trying to get a handle on what just happened when the marshal faced him again. “I’m going to have to arrest you.”

“What do you mean arrest me? This was self defense. I got him before he got me.”

“That’s going to be hard to prove. He had no gun.” “What?”

“There was no gun. You shot an unarmed man.”

And then, as suddenly as the gunshot, it all became crystal clear. Hultren had engineered this whole thing. He’d boxed Cleary in just as surely as Cleary had locked him away twenty-five years earlier. Cleary would pay the ultimate price. For Hultren, vengeance was his.

Bob Giel

Bob Giel was born in New York City and now lives in New Jersey. He has been in love with the Western genre since he was a kid, and absorbed so much of the period through books, movies, and television that he feels as though he could easily have been there himself. The grit and the determination of the people who carved a way of life out of the frontier have helped shape the way Bob lives his life. Because of that era, he keeps his word, he finishes what he starts, and he is a true friend. While he was always interested in writing, life got in the way, that is, until he retired. With the decks cleared, he began writing and never looked back.

Bob’s first novel, A Crow to Pluck, was published in 2019, and was named a finalist for the Western Fictioneers 2020 Peacemaker Award for Best First Western Novel. His next novel, Shawnee, is due out in 2021, and will be just the first of a five-book series of Western adventures.

“Vengeance is Mine” is his first short story to be featured in Saddlebag Dispatches, but he has served as Senior Editor for the magazine for over a year.