“Gord,
quit!” said Hank. “Just quit it. You know how it works. We caught three men in a rustler’s camp, and we’ve got to string ‘em up. It’s just the way it is.”
Cracker interru
pted. He nodded at Jeff. “Hank, he’s not a rustler.”
“How do you know he
’s not?” Hank demanded angrily.
“Gordie said so.”
“Gordie’s a rustler, a horse thief, a card cheat and . . .”
“I know what Gordie is,” interrupted Cracker, “and I know what he ain
’t, Hank. He was my pard. I rode with him, and even so I ain’t asking you not to hang him. But I know when he’s lyin’ and I know when he’s tellin’ the truth. Right now he’s tellin’ the truth.”
“And you ain
’t in charge here,” Hank pointed out, a quick flush of anger rising to his face.
“I know that
,” conceded Cracker. “But just listen Hank, I’m not askin’ you to let him go free. I’m just askin’ you to let the boss decide. We’ll take him back and we’ll let Jim handle it.”
Hank seemed less su
re of himself now. “Jim told me . . .”
“I know what Jim to
ld you,” interrupted Cracker, “Don’t I do what Jim says, too? Don’t I follow orders? But it’s like Gordie says; a man’s got his own conscience and his own mind. We can take him back, and explain everything to Jim. Then if you and Jim want to hang him, well then you and Jim can hang him. And me and the rest of the boys won’t have to think about him before we go to sleep every night and wonder did we kill an innocent man.”
At this mention of the “boys” Hank looked at the men around him as if r
ealizing, for the first time, they may be affected by his decision. A few heads nodded in agreement with Cracker’s words.
Hank looked at Jeff,
back to Cracker, then down at the ground, shaking his head in disgust. “Alright, but tie him up.”
Gordon said, “Thanks, Hank.”
Hank nodded almost imperceptibly.
Gordon turned to face Cracker
—a need in his eyes. A long, hushed moment elapsed as the two men stood looking at each other. Then, Cracker gave a slight nod. Gordon seemed satisfied. A soft smile briefly twitched at the corners of his mouth and he turned back to face Hank; it was time.
The men of the Circle M did what they had come to do. Gordon smiled and joked casually to the end. Billy wept unabashedly, and became weak kneed, so that he had to be helped onto his horse, but he did not wail or plead for his life.
When it was over, the men were silent.
Hank said quietly, “All right, it
’s over; let’s ride.”
“Not yet,” Cracker said. P
ulling his knife, he cut the two bodies down.
“Boss said to leave
‘em hangin’,” murmured Hank in a tone that indicated he had already accepted defeat in this new argument.
Ignoring Hank
’s comment, Cracker spoke again, a distinct quaver in his voice, “Anybody going to help me?”
The men looked expectantly at Hank. They respected him and were accustomed to obeying his orders, and he was a strong leader, accustomed to being obeyed. Hank stood watching as Cracker cut the ropes that held Gordon
’s hands behind his back. He rolled the dead man onto his back, brushed some dirt off of his face and folded his hands on his chest. Selecting a shady spot under the same tree from which the ropes still dangled,he began digging in the soft earth with a flat rock.
“Anybody going to help me?” he repeated, and his voice almost failed him.
Hank sighed, “Well, they’re already cut down now, what difference does it make?”
The cowboys stepped forward,
each finding his own implement for digging, and helped dig the two graves.
When the bodies had been laid in their shallow resting places, the nine men stood hatless around the graves. Cracker stood motionless for a moment, gazing down at the blanket-wrapped form of his old friend.
He closed his eyes, and with head bowed, began to speak. “Lord, they done some bad things, but they weren’t all bad. There was good in them too. Please reward them for the good and forgive them of the bad.” He paused for a long moment, “And forgive us too, Lord. Amen.”
He shoved some of the moist, fresh dirt back into the hole with a scuffed boot. “Wherever you are, Gord,” he said softly, “take
‘er as she comes.”
It was mid-morning when Hank, Cracker
, and a puncher named Reef Hodges rode out of camp, taking Jeff with them on Billy Dell’s horse. The other riders remained behind to drive the rustled herd back to the Circle M.
Reef Hodges was a young, good-looking cowboy in his early twenties, with bright blue eyes that twinkled beneath a shock of sandy hair. He was a couple of inches under six feet tall, with a slim but muscular build
, and he seemed to possess a constitutional exuberance for life that could not be stifled for more than short periods of time. His genial spirit soon detached itself from the pall that overshadowed the group and he began talking to no one in particular, occasionally singing a rumbelo from some cowboy song or reciting home-grown poetry.
On orders from Hank, Jeff
’s hands had been tied to the saddle horn, and Reef held the reins of Billy’s horse so there would be no chance of Jeff escaping.
Cracker and Hank rode in silence, each with his own thoughts, and as they followed a narrow trail tha
t ran down the center of a long grassy valley, Reef hung back, creating a gap between himself and his two melancholy comrades—evidently aware his congenitally buoyant spirit and their present melancholy made an immiscible combination. The young cowboy introduced himself, not seeming to care if Jeff was a rustler or not. “I’m Reef Hodges.”
“Bob Webb,” responded Jeff cautiously.
“You’re new to this country.” It was a statement rather than a question.
Jeff laughed ironically, “Yeah
and it doesn’t look like I’m going to get a chance to get old in it.”
“You never know;
Jim Marcellin is a fair man.”
Jeff merely shrugged. “How long before we get to the Circle M?”
“Not ‘till evening. We’re going to town first to get the mail and pick up a few things for Catherine.”
“Who
’s Catherine?”
“The
boss’s mother; she lives on the ranch.” Reef smiled and his eyes twinkled, “I said Catherine is the boss’s mother but some people say Jim is the boss’s son.”
Jeff smiled mentally as his mind formed an image of Catherine Marcellin. It was an image that would soon undergo drastic changes.
“They came out here in ‘63,” continued Reef. “Jim, his mother, and his son. The ranch grew and things went pretty well for them ‘till the rustlin’ started. Since then times have been tough.”
“
Gordon and Billy didn’t have that much of a herd,” offered Jeff.
“No.” agreed Reef, Billy and Gordon were just small timers. “
There’s two big ranches in the valley, and a pack of little ones. It couldn’t be the smaller ranchers that are doing the rustling; there would be no way for them to hide it. And it’s hard to figure either of the bigger ranches would be doing it. We know it ain’t the Circle M, because that’s us and we ain’t doing it. West of us is the Double T, the second biggest. That’s Emil Tannatt’s outfit. I never figured Emil for a rustler, though he’s got a son named Al, who’s as wild as a turpentined cat. Al could be doing it, but I don’t see how he’d do it without his old man knowing. A lot of people are pointing fingers at each other and it’s got to the point where nobody’s welcome on nobody else’s land, and your only friends are the ones you ride with.”
“Gordon and Billy told me they were working for the Circle M.
”
They did wor
k for the Circle M at one time—until they got fired.”
“What happened?”
“Long story: couple of years ago before things got so bad, Gordon and Cracker showed up lookin’ for work. The Boss hired ‘em on. Cracker was just about my age, Gordon was a lot older. They had been ridin’ the wild trail, got in some trouble in Kansas and had to leave quick. Big Jim took a liking to Cracker and so did Hank. They saw he could be somebody if he wanted, so they started teaching him the ranchin’ business. Gordie was different. Don’t get me wrong, I liked Gordie—we all did, but he wasn’t the kind to stay put for very long. He didn’t mind doin’ a day or two of hard work, maybe even three, but he’d rather get the shingles or fall into a well than to do it for a week. He liked to gamble and he was always lookin’ for some easy money. If Cracker had stayed with him he might have wound up at the end of a rope just like Billy Dell.”
“How did Billy and Gordon get hooked up?”
“Billy came around one day lookin’ for work, sorta down on his luck. Big Jim hired him. But Billy wasn’t exactly what you’d call a top hand, and the way you could tell if he was complainin’ was to check and see if he was awake. Well, next thing you know Billy and Gordon is as thick as feathers in a pillow, hangin’ out together, spendin’ too much time in town, doin’ too much gamblin’, gettin’ drunk too often. The boss finally got fed up and fired ‘em both. You know the rest.”
“Yeah,” said Jeff grimly.
“And then there’s Hank,” continued Reef, obviously enjoying this opportunity to recite to a newcomer the history of the Circle M.
“Hank
’s been with the Marcellin’s since the beginning. He thinks Catherine walks on water, and if Jim was to tell him to jump off a tall mountain, then you might as well shake the dust off your swallow fork suit and get ready for the funeral. Along with that, Hank knows cattle and there’s no better man to have standin’ beside you in a fight.”
Reef continued ta
lking all the way to town and by the time they got there, Jeff knew the entire history of the valley and a good number of its inhabitants. Hank and Cracker kept the lead, riding side by side, solemn and mute. Reef and Jeff followed, Reef talking, seemingly unconcerned by anything at all, and Jeff, half attentive to the things Reef spoke of, and half wondering if the loquacious cowboy was providing him with a condemned man’s last feast of amiable conversation.
It started to rain when they were still two miles from town; a thin dri
zzle that soon had Jeff—with no slicker or hat—soaked and cold.
In
town, they drew up in front of the Red Stallion Saloon. The three Circle M men dismounted and tied their horses. Cracker took the reins of Billy’s horse from Reef who glanced at Jeff and walked into the saloon.
Hank, putting business before pleasure as was his nature, said to Cracker, “I
’m going to go take care of the things on Catherine’s list. I’ll meet you back here in a while. Watch him,” he added, nodding toward Jeff.
Cracker untied the rope that held Jeff
’s hands to the saddle horn, but he did not untie the one that bound his hands together. “Buy you a drink?” he asked, in a tone that revealed nothing of friendship or of animosity.
“I
’d rather stay out here.”
“And I suppose you
’ll swear if I leave you out here all alone, you won’t try to get away.”
“Nope, couldn
’t do that.”
“That
’s what I thought, and I wouldn’t believe you if you did. I need a drink and the only way I’m going to get it is by walking in there with you on my arm.”
Jeff shrugged,
and with his hands still bound at the wrists he dismounted and walked ahead of Cracker into the saloon.
It was still early
and the establishment was not yet crowded. With the exception of a few early arrivals, anxious for another evening of boisterous entertainment to get underway, most of the men present had some place to go and would leave before the evening was in full swing.
The majority of these were
cowmen, and most of the rest depended in one way or another on the local cattle industry for their livelihood. They had reason to hate rustlers and Reef had already been talking. Jeff’s welcome to this town was one of cold silence and steely gazes.
Cracker ordered a drink.
From a Corner of the room someone asked, “He a rustler?”
Cracker shot a sharp, accusing, glance at Reef who quickly looked down at his drink.
The question was asked again, this time with a tone of insistence.
“No,” replied Cracker, “we don
’t think so, but that’s for Jim Marcellin to decide.”
“Rustlin
’ concerns all of us,” asserted another man.
Cracker said,
“He was with Gordon Stone and Billy Dell. They rustled Circle M beef, they were caught on Circle M land, and they were hung with Circle M ropes and that don’t concern any of you.” He stood scanning the faces, waiting for a rebuttal. None came.
Jeff glanced around the room ag
ain. Some of the men were still watching him; others had gone back to their drinks and poker games, content to let the Circle M take care of the situation.
One ma
n, however, rose from his table and walked over to where Cracker stood with his back to the bar, starting on his drink. He was a young man, taller than Cracker and heavier, but somehow, Jeff suspected Cracker would come out on top in a fight. The young man bore the flush of liquor on his face. He stopped directly in front of Cracker, but he was looking at Jeff. His eyes held animosity and Jeff could smell the whiskey on his breath. He glared long enough to make his point and turned to face Cracker. “‘Lo Cracker,” he said.
Cracker gave a slight nod, “Eli.”
“Whatcha gonna do with the rustler?”
“You don
’t listen very well, Eli. Your ears gone bad?”
“You gonna hang
‘im?” asked Eli, undeterred by Cracker’s retort.
Cracker ignored Eli
’s question and continued sipping his drink, looking past Eli as if he weren’t there.
“How come you didn
’t hang him out on the trail?”
Cracker stood for a moment
, fingering his empty whiskey glass, then looking directly into the eyes of his interrogator, he spoke. “You’ve already been told, Eli, don’t come askin’ questions you already know the answers to.”
Eli, Jeff could see, was emboldened by the liquor, and
Jeff knew what was on his mind. He probably wanted to witness the hanging but didn’t want to ride to the Circle M to do it.
“We could hang him now,” persisted Eli, casually.
A low grumble of assent emanated from several parts of the barroom. Reef put down his whiskey glass and exchanged a quick glance with Cracker.
Cracker set his own glass down, took hold of Jeff
’s shirt sleeve, and the three of them started for the door.
As Jeff was pulled past the bar, Eli thrust out a booted foot and Jeff tripped over it.
He lurched forward and his shirt sleeve was pulled from Cracker’s grip. He caught himself with his bad leg and a sharp jolt of pain exploded in his knee. A sudden rage surged up from a deep well of anger within him and as he straightened his body he swung his hands—clasped together and tied at the wrists—from their position close to the floor, up and around, gaining momentum as they rose. With the full strength of his body behind them, he struck Eli a solid blow on the side of the face, which nearly lifted him off the ground. Eli hit the floor in a heap and didn’t move.
Cracker wasted no time. Taking advantage of the stunned silence in the room, he grabbed Jeff by the sleeve and pulled him roughly through the bat-winged doors. Reef was already outside untying the horses. They mounted and rode up the street towa
rd the general store. Hank was just coming out, carrying two flour sacks filled with the items he had purchased for Catherine. He immediately knew something was wrong.
“What
’s the caper?”
“Better leave,” said Cracker.
Hank looked down the street and saw the growing crowd of men milling around the front of the Red Stallion, their faces turned toward his little group. He instantly sized up the situation.
“Did y
ou take him in the saloon?” he asked Cracker.
Cracker nodded.
Hank shook his head, frowning. “Real smart.”
Cracker grimaced and nodded, accepting responsibility.
Hank handed one sack to Cracker and one to Reef, and the men secured them on their saddles. In a flash Hank was on his horse and they were off.
Jeff knew it would take a few minutes for the men to organize and to work up the collective anger that woul
d be required for a mob action, and he supposed it didn’t matter whether it was them that hanged him or the men from the Circle M. He would be just as dead either way.
But
as he thought about it, he realized it did make a difference to him. To be hanged by a mob is an ugly and degrading experience. A mob operates on anger and violence. The men from the Circle M, on the other hand, would hang him as part of a job that had to be done. They would derive no pleasure or satisfaction from it, and he would be treated as Gordon and Billy had been.
Leaving town from the south end, they ran th
e horses for about ten minutes until, having reached high ground, they stopped to survey the trail behind them. Seeing no sign of pursuit, they elected to rest their horses for a few minutes before proceeding.
For a while no one spoke
. Then Reef announced in a low voice, “Somebody comin’.”