by Len Levinson
“We got him,” said Atwell, blood dripping out of his nose.
One cowboy held Stone’s right arm, and another held Stone’s left arm. Stone’s consciousness returned and he struggled to break free. A cowboy stepped in front of Stone and punched him in the face. Stone brought up his foot and kicked the cowboy in the gut. The cowboy bellowed like a wounded animal and dropped to his knees in front of Stone.
“Hold his legs!” hollered Hank Dawson.
Two cowboys dived on Stone from either side, clasping their arms around his thighs. Two more cowboys held his waist. Stone worked his right arm loose and swung it at the nearest cowboy, clobbering him on the eye, but two more cowboys twisted the arm behind his back. Another man joined the one who was holding Stone’s left arm. Stone couldn’t move.
Blood trickled down his forehead, and cowboys from the Circle Bar D crowded around him. Hank Dawson stepped forward.
“You’re going to pay for that,” he said.
Stone saw the folds of fat around Hank Dawson’s neck and looked at Dawson’s massive belly. Gravy stains were on Dawson’s shirt, and a button had been popped by his considerable girth. Stone raised his gaze and examined Dawson’s face. Dawson had tiny pig eyes and a fleshy mouth curled into a sneer.
“Without your men,” Stone said, “you wouldn’t be anything.”
Dawson bared his teeth, raised his fist, and punched Stone in the mouth, but Stone didn’t budge.
“My grandmother used to hit me harder than that.”
Hank Dawson’s knuckles stung as he turned to Wayne. “He’s all yours.”
Wayne stepped forward, reached into his back pocket, and took out a pair of black leather gloves. Smirking at Stone, he put them on.
“Remember me?” Wayne asked playfully.
“You like to fight people who can’t fight back.”
“You’re gonna be sorry you ever set eyes on me.”
Wayne pulled the tight black gloves onto his hands and worked his fingers. “Hold him steady, boys.”
Stone tried to break loose, but couldn’t move. Wayne’s black beard twitched as he stepped forward and raised his right fist. “See this?” he asked, shaking it in the air.
Stone didn’t reply.
Wayne continued to shake his right fist, and then brought his left fist around, slamming it into Stone’s forehead, and Stone’s head snapped backward from the force of the blow. Wayne pounded Stone twice in the stomach, then whacked him in the face again.
Wayne grinned as he worked Stone over, and Stone struggled to stay on his feet, because he didn’t want to surrender. Wayne punched Stone again and again. Cuts and bruises appeared on Stone’s face, and his lower lip split open, dripping blood. Stone closed his eyes and went limp in the hands of the cowboys and gunfighters who were supporting him.
“He’s out cold,” Wayne said. “Somebody git a bucket of water.”
Stone’s head hung down and he was swimming through a sea of darkness. Wayne stood in front of him, sweat trickling through his black beard, breathing heavily. His knuckles hurt, but he felt good. Stone was just like any other man. When you beat on him he shut up.
A cowboy came through the crowd, carrying a bucket of water. He stopped in front of Stone and upended the bucket over his head. The water cascaded down upon Stone, and he opened his eyes. For a split second he didn’t know where he was, then felt the pain come on him again. He saw Wayne Dawson rocking back and forth on the balls of his feet, pulling his black gloves on more tightly.
“How’re you feeling?” Wayne asked jovially.
Wayne wound up and delivered an uppercut to the point of Stone’s jaw. Stone’s head snapped back, and Wayne rained blows upon Stone’s face. Wayne could feel every hit reverberate through his arms and shoulders, all the way down to his toes. He banged and smashed Stone with wild abandon, and Stone fell unconscious again, but that didn’t stop Wayne, who continued to pummel Stone.
“That’s enough,” said Hank Dawson. “There won’t be nothin’ to lynch if you keep at him.” He turned to the others. “Carry him out and tie him on a horse.”
Cynthia sat on a chair in her hotel room, wearing one of the sheets from the bed as a robe. “They’ve been in there an awfully long time. I wonder what they’re doing?”
Craig stood at the window, wearing the pants from his suit. “It doesn’t look good.”
“Do you think they’ll lynch him in the jail?”
“That’s not the way they do it.”
“I wish we’d never come to Texas.”
Craig saw people emerging from the sheriff’s office. “Here they are.”
Cynthia moved toward the window like a ghost wrapped in the sheet. She stood beside Craig and peered in the direction of the sheriff’s office, where men were mounting horses, and a few fired guns in the air. Cynthia turned to the windows across the street and saw faces looking down the street toward the jail. Everyone wanted to see what was going on, but nobody had the courage to do anything.
The group of riders advanced up the street, heading toward the hotel. Cynthia searched for John Stone, but it was too dark. It reminded Cynthia of a funeral procession. Hank and Wayne Dawson led the pack, and Wayne was smiling as he talked to his father.
“Damn—that felt good!” Wayne said. “Son of a bitch was lookin’ for somethin’, and I sure gave it to him.”
The riders came abreast of the hotel. Cynthia spotted a man slumped on a horse in their midst. “My God—I think I see him!”
They looked at Stone with his head hanging low, his arms bound tightly to his body, hands tied behind his back.
“He’s unconscious,” Craig said softly.
Cynthia stared at Stone, and it was difficult for her to accept what was happening. She was from New York, where people didn’t walk into jails, take prisoners out, and lynch them. In New York, you could always call policemen.
The riders turned the corner and Cynthia stepped back from the window, returning to her chair. They’d find a tree, throw a rope over a branch, and string John Stone up.
“I need a drink,” she said.
“It’s too late to get anything.”
“I wish you’d do something.”
“What can I do?”
Cynthia recalled Stone at the table in the restaurant, such a decent man, with a touch of mystery. He was looking for a woman whose picture he carried, and wound up with a noose.
“Craig,” she said, sitting in the darkness, “I want to return to New York.”
Craig turned around at the window. “I know how you feel, but don’t do anything hasty.”
“This is a dreadful place. There’s no respect for human life. It’s the law of the jungle.”
“Let’s see how we both feel about it in a few days. Maybe I’ll leave with you.”
“You won’t leave with me. You’d never give up your position with the Consortium.”
Craig thought for a few moments. “That’s true—the Consortium is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. If I can turn a profit, I’ll be a successful man. Then we can do whatever we want.”
“I want to go back to New York.”
“It’s important for our future that we stay here. I know how you feel about John Stone, and I feel the same way, but we have to be reasonable.”
“They’re lynching a decent man right now, and I’m supposed to be reasonable? Hank Dawson is a business associate of yours, and I’m supposed to be nice to him next time I see him? I’ll spit in his eye!”
“If that’s the way you feel, maybe it’d be better if you did leave. A vacation in the East might do you good.”
“This won’t be a vacation in the East, Craig. If I leave, I won’t come back. I can’t abide cold-blooded murder, and that’s what they’re doing to John Stone.”
Craig sat limply on the bed. “I don’t know what I’ll do without you.”
“You could come with me.”
“I can’t leave the ranch.”
“You’ll have to choose
between the ranch and me.”
“A woman should stay with her husband, no matter where he happens to be.”
“I can’t bear this murderous place any longer. You can come with me if you want to, but I’m leaving anyway. My mind is made up. I’m sorry.”
John Stone was aware he was riding a horse. His head was spinning, he ached all over, and his hands were tightly bound behind his back. He raised his head and saw riders surrounding him; ahead was the open range. Nobody said a word. Stone spat blood onto the ground. He felt as if a horse had trampled him.
He knew what was going to happen now. It was a lynching party and he was the man who’d swing in the breeze. He remembered Hong Fat’s little knife in his boot, but couldn’t reach it. He’d got out of many tight scrapes in his life, but didn’t see how he’d get out of this one. It looked as though he was going to die.
He’d never been married, never built a house, never had a son. All he’d done was go to war. He tried not to think about what was going to happen.
Ahead were trees, and the riders veered toward them. Wayne Dawson worked his horse close to Stone. “You still with us?” Wayne asked with a grin. “Guess what’s gonna happen now?”
Stone didn’t reply, and Wayne punched him hard in the mouth.
“I’m gonna put the rope around your neck with my own two hands. Then I’m gonna watch your face turn blue and your tongue stick out of your mouth. You won’t be such a smart feller when you’re hangin’ by your neck, let me tell you.”
Wayne laughed as he maneuvered his horse away from Stone, and the other riders coalesced around Stone. One rider held the reins to Stone’s horse. The stand of trees came closer.
Stone’s life was coming to an end, and he felt like a block of ice. They entered the stand of trees, and the moon shone down on crooked, gnarled branches, casting weird shadows on the ground. The riders passed among the trees, their horses snorting and jerking their heads around as if they knew something terrible was going to happen. An owl screeched and flew out of a tree, flapping its wings noisily as it fled the scene. A mist arose from the ground, and Stone felt a chill come over him.
The valley of the shadow of death, he thought, and became afraid, but then his old soldierly spirit returned, and he sat straighter in his saddle. All I can do is go down like a soldier.
“This looks good enough,” said Wayne. “Shorty, gimme the noose.”
A man on a horse tossed a length of rope with a noose on the end to Wayne, who circled it in the air a few times and threw it over the branch above Stone’s head. The noose hung near Stone’s face, and it was rough, with splinters of hemp sticking out like needles. It was going to hurt like hell.
“Yore time has come,” Wayne said. “You done fucked with the wrong people, and you don’t get no second chance in Dumont County.”
He slipped the noose over Stone’s head, and Stone saw brigades of Yankees in front of him; he got ready to charge. It was silent as a graveyard in the grove of trees, and then a loud shot rang out!
Stone’s horse shuddered at the sound, and Stone saw Wayne sag to the side, blood gushing out of his neck. Wayne’s eyes rolled crazily and he leaned back at an impossible angle.
Stone heard the booming voice of Hank Dawson. “What the hell happened there?”
Wayne fell out of the saddle and dropped to the ground heavily. More shots followed in rapid succession, and Stone heard an oncoming rider. He turned around, the noose still around his neck, and saw a tall, lean man on a horse speeding toward him. A ray of moonlight broke through the trees and shone on the rider’s face; it was Tad McDermott.
McDermott tore the noose off Stone’s head and hollered, “Come on!”
Stone spurred his horse, and the spooked animal leapt forward, broke into a gallop, and plunged through the confused cowboys.
Shots were fired wildly by Dawson’s men, and meanwhile McDermott continued to shoot his gun at the riders around him. Stone and McDermott broke away from the hanging party and cut out for the open range. Stone bent low in the saddle, gripping with his legs as much as he could, gritting his teeth, expecting a bullet in the back at any second.
His horse thundered over the prairie, kicking up dirt and stones. McDermott turned around in the saddle, took aim with his gun, and pulled the trigger.
Click! McDermott stuffed the gun in his belt, looked at Stone, and laughed. “The jail was never made that could hold Tad McDermott!”
Stone, his hands still bound behind him, was having difficulty remaining in the saddle. He bent forward and bit the horse’s mane, holding on for dear life as the animal galloped across the prairie, burning the wind.
Back in the woods, Hank Dawson knelt on the ground, looking at the body of his son. His men surrounded him, and everyone was silent. A single sob escaped from Dawson’s lips as he saw the black hole in his son’s throat. He wanted to drop onto the ground and cry like a baby, and at the same time he wanted to attack his son’s killer with an ax.
It had happened so suddenly, and had been so hard to see. A rider attacked, killed his son, turned Stone loose, and got away before anybody knew what had taken place.
Hank Dawson was in a state of shock, heartbroken as he cradled his son in his arms. All he could think of was revenge, and his son’s killers couldn’t be far away. He could mourn for his son later. First he must catch those killers.
“Ramrod!” he shouted.
“Yes, sir,” replied Atwell, standing beside him.
“Have a few of the men carry Wayne back to the ranch and lay him in his bed. The rest of us’ll catch those bastards. Anybody see what happened?”
Tom Reece stepped forward. “It was Tad McDermott what done it.”
“That’s right,” said Burkers. “I saw him too.”
“He was alone?” Dawson asked.
“As far as I could see.”
Dawson felt frustration rip through him. “Why didn’t somebody stop him!”
The men shuffled their feet nervously. A few had fired their guns at McDermott, but failed to hit him. The others had been afraid to use their guns, because they might shoot each other in the darkness.
Dawson recalled McDermott in jail with Stone, and realized he’d gotten away somehow when Wayne was beating on Stone. “Which way did they go?” he asked.
“That way,” Atwell replied, pointing to the south.
“Mount up, men!”
Dawson and his men climbed onto their horses, pointed them toward the south, and galloped into the night, leaving Wayne with the three cowboys who were supposed to carry him home, and the empty noose dangling in the breeze.
Stone and McDermott rode toward a gurgling little brook in the middle of a vast basin.
“We can stop here!” McDermott said. He reached over and grabbed the reins of Stone’s horse, pulling backward. “You still got that knife the chink gave you?”
“In my right boot.”
McDermott pulled the jackknife out of the boot, opened the blade, and cut the ropes that bound Stone. Stone worked his arms to get the circulation going, and McDermott climbed to the ground, leading his horse to the water.
“You saved my life,” Stone said. “Thanks.”
“I’d still be in jail if it wasn’t for you,” McDermott replied, “so we’re even.”
McDermott lay on the ground and lowered his unshaven face into the water. Stone joined him and did the same. He’d thought he’d never drink water again, and it tasted sweet and cool, better than ever. He drank his fill, as the horses slurped next to him.
“Can’t stay too long,” McDermott said, raising himself up. “Got a lot of ridin’ to do.”
“Where are we going?”
“Leave it to me. I know every Robbers Roost in these parts.”
They climbed onto their horses. Stone turned around in his saddle and scanned the prairie, but could see no sign of Dawson and his men.
“They won’t catch us,” McDermott said. “I been dodgin’ posses all my life, and that one
weren’t much. When you had that noose around yore neck, what was you thinkin’?”
“I was thinking about the war. Were you in the war, McDermott?”
“Too busy robbin’ banks and stagecoaches. Were you scared?”
“I think so.”
“Sometimes I think about gittin’ hanged. Enough people sure want to toss that old rope around my neck, but they ain’t caught me yet. Think I’d rather get shot than hung. How about you?”
“I’d rather die in my sleep when I’m old and gray.”
“Men who git in trouble don’t git old and gray. Think about that sometime.”
They mounted their horses and rode off into the night as stars blazed in the sky above them.
The posse stopped on a large expanse of rock and the men dismounted. Jesse Atwell knelt and looked at the rock. “Can’t see anythin’,” he said. “Think we lost ’em.”
Atwell gazed at Hank Dawson’s face, a block of granite in the moonlight. The death of his son was still sinking into him, and he felt a terrible sadness.
Stone and his accomplice had got away for the time being. His men couldn’t track them farther at night. He turned to Atwell. “Send somebody back to the ranch for three days’ supplies, and get me an injun to track those sons of bitches. I want the supplies and the injun here by sunup.”
Dawson sat on the rock and took a small cigar from a silver case. He lit it and puffed until the end was cherry-red, trying to calm down and live with what happened. He’d tear John Stone limb from limb when he got his hands on him, but didn’t have him yet. It might turn into a long hunt, but Dawson was resolved to stay on the trail until he caught Stone and Mc-Dermott. It might take a week, it might take a month, it might take ten years. Dawson would never give up until the killers of his son were dead.
Atwell approached Dawson. “I sent Mullins back to the ranch. Anything else?”
“Send somebody to look for a water hole.”
Atwell walked off to carry out Dawson’s latest order, and Dawson puffed his cigar. Stars twinkled in the heavens above and he wanted to go someplace and cry. Climbing to his feet, he walked several paces over the rock, his spurs jangling in the night. He turned his back to his men, stared out at the prairie, and his eyes filled with tears as his body shuddered and a sob arose from his throat. His men heard him and turned their heads away. It was embarrassing to see the boss cry.
