Lynch Law

by Len Levinson

  I hope they left us horses, he thought as he advanced toward the big proscenium door. If there were no horses, he and Cynthia were doomed. He felt a choking sensation in his throat as he approached the door and looked inside. Please God, he thought, and then in the dimness saw the two horses that pulled the buckboard. They were looking at him, and he supposed they wanted to be fed.

  He had no idea what to feed them, but vaguely recalled seeing cowboys use pitchforks to toss hay before the horses. Two pitchforks were leaning against the bin filled with hay, and he picked one up, stuck it into the hay, and threw a stack in front of the horses, who lowered their heads and chomped on it.

  Nearby was the harness, but Craig didn’t know how to hitch the buckboard to the horses. He realized how dependent he’d been on his cowboys, and how dangerous it was to be ignorant of basic knowledge that people needed to survive. I’ll figure it out somehow, he said to himself, and then heard the sound of horses in the backyard. His heart soared with joy, because help had arrived at last!

  He ran out of the barn, the pitchfork in his hand, and was dismayed to see Hank Dawson leading thirty of his men toward the main house. Craig realized he’d left his rifle in the barn, a stupid move. Dawson pulled his horse to a halt and looked coldly at Craig standing at the edge of the yard.

  Meanwhile, Cynthia came onto the porch. She recalled Dawson saying he’d take care of them later, and now was back, true to his word. Turning, she ran back into the house, made her way to the kitchen, and picked up her rifle, carrying it to a window and poking it outside.

  A gun fired, and splinters of wood flew into her face. Coughing and sputtering, she dropped to the floor.

  “Keep that rifle out of sight,” Dawson hollered, “or I’ll shoot yore stupid husband!”

  Cynthia raised her head and saw a cowboy with a smoking gun in his hand, aiming in her direction. She held up her hands where he could see them. Dawson turned to Craig.

  “Been thinkin’ about you, Delane,” he said. “Intended to kill you, but that’d be too easy, so instead I’m a-gonna destroy you.” He turned to Atwell. “Burn everything to the ground.”

  Atwell shouted orders to his men, and Cynthia and Craig watched in horror as cowboys dismounted and walked toward the house, barn, and outbuildings. Cynthia followed the cowboys into the kitchen and one of them picked up a lamp and hurled it at the wall, splattering glass and coal oil in all directions. Then he threw a match onto the puddle of coal oil on the floor. Cynthia moved to stamp out the match, but a cowboy grabbed her arms.

  “Try it and I’ll break yore neck,” he snarled.

  The oil caught fire, and flames crept across the floor and up the wall. Another cowboy threw a lamp against the wall in the living room. Cynthia heard more cowboys climbing the stairs, and then heard another lamp shatter.

  She tried to break out of the cowboy’s hands, and he laughed, hugging her tightly against him and biting her neck. She screamed, kicked him in the shins, and he squeezed her so hard she thought she’d faint from the pain.

  “I like a filly who fights me,” the cowboy said. “I got a mind to show you who’s boss.”

  Atwell walked into the house. “What the hell’s goin’ on here.”

  “Bitch is actin’ up,” the cowboy said.

  The cowboy released his grip, and Cynthia looked at the sheet of flames on the kitchen wall. She could feel the heat on her cheeks, and it was spreading toward the living room, sending out clouds of acrid smoke.

  The cowboys hopped down the stairs and entered the kitchen. “Set three fires up there,” one said.

  “Back to yore horses,” Atwell replied.

  The cowboys filed out the front door, leaving Cynthia staring in disbelief at her kitchen going up in flames. She didn’t know what to save first and was thoroughly confused. It was difficult for her to believe it was happening.

  The kitchen became hotter, and she realized there was gold upstairs in Craig’s office. Somehow she had to get it, because they’d need gold if they ever made it to Dumont. She ran to the pitcher of water next to the basin, poured it over herself, picked up the poker, and ran toward the stairs.

  The living room billowed with flames, and she saw her furniture going up in smoke. Coughing, holding her hand over her mouth, she ran up the stairs and down the corridor, bursting into Craig’s office.

  Craig’s desk was on fire and so was the painting of the Hudson River hanging above it. She opened the desk drawer with the poker and pulled out the ring of keys, then opened the closet door and bent in front of the safe.

  Coughing and choking, she tried to work the lock, but could barely see through her smarting eyes. The heat was on her back and something told her the house would become her funeral pyre, but then the key turned and the door opened.

  She saw the gold coins, certificates, and other important papers. How can I carry it all? Then she remembered Craig’s briefcase next to the desk, turned to it, and saw that it was enveloped in flames. Her mind raced—she knew she didn’t have much time—and remembered the pillowcase on her bed in the next room.

  She ran down the smoke-filled corridor, entered her bedroom, and saw her magnificent bed on fire. The smoke was so thick it nearly overcame her, and she backed out of the room, coughing, and made her way to Craig’s room.

  It too was burning, but the bed hadn’t caught fire yet. She pulled the pillowcase away, ran toward Craig’s office, and heard Craig call her from downstairs.

  “I’m up here!” she hollered.

  “Get out of there!”

  She made her way to the office, kneeled in front of the safe, and scooped everything into the pillowcase. Craig climbed the stairs and rushed into the room.

  “Are you crazy?” he said, grabbing her arm.

  “We’ve got to get the money!”

  “The money?” he said, and then the realization struck him. He got on his knees beside her and helped gather it up.

  The office filled with smoke, and they coughed from deep in their lungs. Cynthia spat something, worked frantically, and finally the safe was empty. Turning, they saw a wall of thick black smoke in front of them. He took his hand in hers, charged the door, missed by a few feet, and his head crashed into the wall.

  He fell to the floor in a daze, and she helped him up. “Hurry!” she said. “We don’t have much time!”

  He got to his feet and lunged at the door again, this time finding the opening. There was less smoke in the hall, but downstairs at the bottom the stairs were boiling flames.

  “We’ll never make it,” she said.

  “Out the window of your bedroom!”

  He grabbed her hand and pulled her down the corridor, opening the door to her bedroom, and there was a path to the open window. Craig threw the pillowcase out, then helped Cynthia onto the roof, as wisps of smoke arose from the shingles.

  He followed her down the slope to the same tree Stone had climbed, and then onto the branch. The barn and other buildings were ablaze, but the two horses were hitched to the rail in front of the house. Craig had managed to get them out, plus saddles, blankets, and bridles, before joining Cynthia in the main house.

  They climbed down the tree to the ground, and Craig ran back to the wall, picking up the pillowcase full of wealth. “We’ve got to get out of here before the Comanches see the smoke!” he said. “Come on!”

  They ran across the yard to the horses, and the two saddles strewn on the ground nearby. Craig and Cynthia hastily saddled their mounts as the blaze swallowed the house and barn, and timbers crashed through the flames, sending out showers of sparks. They climbed into the saddles and rode away from the inferno, their clothes soiled and scorched, heading toward Dumont.

  Dawson rode onto the front yard of the Circle Bar D Ranch and laboriously raised his leg, dropping down out of the saddle. He turned and looked to the west, seeing a long trail of black smoke rising into the sky. He smiled thinly and made his way toward the backyard as cowboys escorted his horse to the barn.


  He was thinking about the Delanes and how terrified they’d been when he set their spread on fire. Shooting would be too good for them. He preferred long, slow suffering for his enemies.

  Dawson approached Wayne’s grave and squatted cross-legged on the ground, his belly nearly touching the grass.

  “We’re makin’ progress, Wayne,” he said. “I put out a five thousand dollar reward for John Stone, and somebody’ll step forward anytime now. Then, when I git the son of a bitch, I’ll tie him to a tree and shoot little pieces off him, ’til he dies.”

  Stone opened his eyes and saw total blackness, as if his eyes still were closed. He reached into his pocket, took out a match, and lit the lamp next to the bed.

  He had no watch and didn’t know whether he’d slept an hour or ten hours. It had been a deep sleep, and he’d dreamed of Marie.

  Somehow the walls didn’t seem so confining. It was cool in the cellar, and the sun wasn’t burning his eyes out. There were no snakes and scorpions to contend with. Could be much worse.

  He remembered the dream of Marie, about the first time they’d made love. It had been in her bedroom late at night when they’d been sixteen. He’d snuck into her house and crawled into her bed, as she’d previously left all the appropriate windows and doors open. They spent the whole night together, and it had been glorious.

  The dream brought it all back, second by second it seemed, from the moment he approached her family’s home with special treats for the dogs, all of whom he’d befriended during the preceding years for just such an eventuality.

  When she’d opened her door, he’d seen her face in the moonlight, and she’d been half terrified by what they’d done, but they locked the door, got into bed, and that’s how it began.

  Stone took the picture out of his pocket and held it up in the light of the lamp. A terrible longing arose in his heart. During the war, one of the men in his troop wore a tattoo on his arm that said: ONE LIFE ONE LOVE

  Stone thought that’s the way it was for Marie and him. Occasionally he felt attracted to other women, but his main pull was toward Marie.

  He heard the trapdoor open and pulled out his gun. Jimmy Wing, carrying a burlap bag, stepped down the stairs and walked toward him. “Newspapers,” Jimmy Wing said, holding out the bag, “but I have something more important.” He reached inside and pulled out a sawed-off, double-barreled shotgun, another Colt, and boxes of cartridges.

  “Nobody loves the Buddha more than I,” Jimmy Wing said, “but sometimes it’s best to have a shotgun.”

  Stone accepted the shotgun and cracked it open. A man couldn’t ask for a better weapon in close quarters.

  “At least you will have the satisfaction of knowing you will take some of your enemies with you,” Jimmy Wing said. “I know what you need the most.”

  Jimmy Wing threw a strange oriental salute and walked back to the stairs, climbing them, closing the trapdoor, leaving Stone with the shotgun. He thumbed in two loads, closed it, and then filled his guns with cartridges.

  They might trap him like a rat, but that didn’t mean he had to die like one. Now he’d be able to do some damage, before they got him. His eyes fell on the burlap bag, and he reached inside, pulling out an old Houston Gazette. The headline said:

  TRANSCONTINENTAL RAILROAD OPENS NEXT MONTH

  Craig and Cynthia rode side by side on the trail that led to Dumont, and behind them smoke trailed into the sky from the smoldering embers of the HC Ranch.

  They were bruised, burnt, dirty, and smudged, and their clothing was in tatters, but their main worry was Comanches. They searched the hills and gullies around them for Comanches, and knew they wouldn’t have a prayer if they saw some.

  They’d debated earlier about whether to use the trail or travel over open country, and decided on the trail because it was faster and they wouldn’t get lost, but it also would be the most likely place to run into Comanches.

  The sun beat down, and their hats had been lost in the fire. Perspiration plastered their clothing to their bodies, and they hadn’t brought water. It hadn’t occurred to them when they left the ranch.

  Their mouths and throats were parched, they had headaches, and they recalled all the stories they’d heard about Indians scalping white people, torturing them, raping women, castrating men, and so on. They’d always been sympathetic to the problems of Indians, but now wished somebody had exterminated them long ago.

  “I think we’re about halfway,” Craig said, scanning the trail ahead, where boulders were piled high, a perfect spot to ambush somebody. He drew his gun and held it ready in his hand.

  “What’s wrong?” she asked.

  “Just a precaution.”

  She drew her gun too, and wondered if she’d have the courage to shoot a man. They approached the boulders, craning their necks to see if anybody was hiding behind them, and passed without incident. On the other side, Cynthia holstered her gun, but Craig held on to his.

  She looked at him with the gun in his hand, his shirt torn, his hair tousled on his head, and he looked almost masculine, but he was as frightened as she, maybe more frightened, pretending a bravado he didn’t feel.

  He’ll always be my friend, she thought, but if I ever get out of this alive, I’m leaving him.

  Stone read old newspapers all morning, and found out that the Central Pacific and Union Pacific railroads were scheduled to meet soon somewhere in Utah, and for the first time people and goods could travel from coast to coast via the rails.

  Congress passed the Fifteenth Amendment last February, giving former slaves the right to vote. During the Christmas season, President Johnson had issued an amnesty to remaining Confederate soldiers not included in his previous two amnesties. Ulysses S. Grant was inaugurated President of the United States in January.

  The conqueror of the South now governed the nation, while John Stone lived in a cellar.

  Stone often wondered how a drunken failure like Ulysses S. Grant could rise to leadership of the Union Army, defeat the Confederacy, and now become President. It was almost incomprehensible.

  Stone refought the war for an hour, then Mai Ling brought lunch, a meat and vegetable stew over rice.

  She sat opposite him as he ate, and he was so big, while she so small. “I am curious,” she said. “Most Americans do not like Chinese, yet you helped Hong Fat when he was in trouble. Why?”

  “Damned if I know,” Stone said.

  “Mew Fong says nothing is chance, and everything we do has a deep meaning.”

  “What does Mew Fong say my deep meaning is?”

  “He says you are a Buddha who’s come to this world to help people.”

  Stone tried not to smile, because he didn’t want to offend her. “The main person I’m trying to help is myself.”

  “What about Hong Fat?”

  “If I’d known what was coming, I would’ve eaten my meal and kept my mouth shut. I respect Mew Fong’s wisdom, but if you knew what kind of thoughts I had sometimes, you’d know I’m not a Buddha.”

  “What kind of thoughts do you have?”

  He looked into her eyes and smiled, and her face turned red.

  “You are no Buddha,” she announced. “This time Mew Fong is wrong.”

  Craig and Cynthia rode over the crest of a hill and saw Dumont lying on the plain before them. They looked at each other and shouted, “We’re here!”

  Since early morning they’d lived in terror of Indians, but now were safe at last. There was a hotel, bank, restaurant, and stagecoach leaving for the East at the beginning of every month.

  Craig took out his handkerchief and wiped his brow. His face was pink from the sun, whereas Cynthia had been turning a deep bronze, like an Indian.

  “There were moments, Cynthia, when I didn’t think we’d make it,” he said.

  “All I want to do is eat,” she said, “and then I want to take a bath for at least an hour.”

  “I’ll order a bottle of champagne,” he told her. “ We’ll have a celebration, and be
back in New York before you know it.”

  They came to the edge of town and rode onto the main street, looking like two derelicts from the open prairie. Approaching the general store, they saw Stephen Connor on the front porch, and Delane waved to him.

  Connor turned the other way and walked back into his store.

  “Maybe he didn’t see me,” Craig said.

  “He was looking right at you.”

  They came to Gallagher’s Restaurant, rode to the hitching post, and dismounted. Cynthia was sore and starving as she threw her horse’s reins over the rail and stepped onto the sidewalk.

  Mrs. Minnie Grayson, whom she knew from the church, was approaching with her nephew Frankie. Cynthia was about to say hello, but Mrs. Grayson turned away, pulled Frankie toward her, and walked by. An icy fear gripped Cynthia’s heart as the truth dawned on her. When Hank Dawson said he’d destroy them, he’d meant something more than merely burning the HC Ranch.

  Craig joined her on the sidewalk. “I’ve given thousands of dollars’ worth of business to Steve Connor since we’ve been here, and now he pretends I don’t exist.”

  “They may not serve us in there.”

  He took her hand and led her to the door of the restaurant where they’d eaten whenever they’d come to town, two or three times every week since they’d first arrived in Dumont. They entered the restaurant, and instead of hearty greetings from their acquaintances and neighbors, there was silence; everyone looked away from them.

  They sat at a table in the middle of the restaurant, and could feel hostility in the air. The waiter—a tall, lanky, toothless old ex-cowboy—ignored them.

  “May we have menus?” Craig asked loudly.

  The ex-cowboy sauntered toward the table and drawled, “We don’t serve yore kind in here.”

  “Why not?”

  “Orders from the boss.”

  “Where is he?” Craig said. “I demand to talk with him!”

  “If’n you don’t leave, I’m a-gonna call for the sheriff.”

  Craig’s sunburnt complexion turned a deep shade of maroon, and his lips thinned. Cynthia could see he was enraged, where she was in mild shock. She’d never been denied service in a restaurant in her life.