The Road To A Hanging

by Mike Kearby

  “The army can’t tell this town how it should enforce the law!” Jubal pleaded.

  “Don’t push it, Jubal. The last thing you want is trouble with the army right now,” the lieutenant offered.

  “Sheriff,” the judge interrupted. “A supply line is riding to Fort Richardson this morning. I will ask them to get the preacher heading here immediately.”

  “But, Judge.”

  Free could sense Jubal’s frustration. The sheriff did not want to wait one second to put him on the noose.

  “That might take a week or more.”

  “What’s the hurry, Sheriff? This man can hang seven days from now and still be just as dead as if you hanged him today. That is this court’s decision.”

  As the Judge walked past, Free turned toward his benefactor. “I appreciate your coming to help me, Lieutenant.”

  “You served your country when needed, Sergeant. I think your country can return the favor.”

  Free felt the wrist irons pressing hard against his flesh. He spun to see Jubal pulling on the metal cuffs, a noticeable flush of red set onto his face.

  “Excuse me, Lieutenant,” Jubal interrupted. “This prisoner needs to get back to his cell.”

  “Sheriff, the army will require a reporting on this man. If you don’t mind, I need to spend some time with him to obtain the necessary information for Washington.”

  “You can talk to him all you want, Lieutenant, but across the street in his cell. The law says I’m to keep him there until he hangs.”

  “Very well, Sheriff, I’ll walk over with you.” The lieutenant towered in height over Jubal and looked down on him with a scowl. “I know how you abide the law.”

  Back in his cell, Free rubbed his wrists, glad to be out of his restraints. Jubal snapped the padlock to his cell shut and then left him and the lieutenant. “How does a man like Jubal Thompson get to be sheriff of a town?” Free looked toward the lieutenant.

  “First things first. My name is Lieutenant Joseph Swafford.”

  Free thrust his hand through the door, “A pleasure, Lieutenant. I go by the name Free Anderson. I was a sergeant in the 62nd Colored Infantry during the war.”

  “Glad to meet you, Sergeant Anderson. Now to your question. Fort Griffin is a relatively new fort. And The Flats here sprung up almost overnight. But it’s growing everyday, and I imagine will be a boomtown in short order. Not only does the location offer the fort for commerce, but it sits on a crossroad for trail drives and stage lines. And with a military presence now established, it can’t be too long before buffalo hunters follow the great herds’ southern migration. Our mutual friend Jubal recognized that and brought in several of his war friends just as the town was starting up. I believe he calls them “The Riders.” He talked up his war service and promised the businesses and local ranchers that he would take no salary for working, only a portion of the fines he levied against lawbreakers. As you can imagine, a sheriff who had a war record, and was in effect working for free, was too much to pass up for a fledgling township.”

  “And the army lets him do as he pleases?”

  “Believe me, Sergeant, we keep our hands full just trying to keep the Comanche and Kiowa from raiding between our post-war fort line. The Indians might be more disobliged if we could keep the white settlers off their prairies. But more of them show up everyday. And all of them expect protection from hostiles across thousands of acres of open range.”

  “I understand, Lieutenant, and I’m not trying to say my trouble is your worry.” Free leaned back into the stone corner of his cell and looked in the lieutenant’s eyes. “And I am thankful for what you did back there. But I’m innocent. My troubles with Jubal go back to Fort Brown at the end of the war . . .”

  When Free had finished detailing his difficulty at the Boca Chica retreat, he could see a genuine look of concern and anger appear on the lieutenant’s face.

  “Sergeant, we are short manned here at the Fort. The soldiers spend a good portion of their time in the field trailing hostiles, coming in only as needed for recuperation. As much as it pains me, I’m detailed to carry a supply line to Fort Richardson and the Jacksboro settlement this morning. And that’s an order I can’t ignore. But I will do my best to get you some help.”

  Free knelt and began to scribble in the dirt. “I understand, Lieutenant.” He drew a circle and then stretched another line in a southwest direction. “I figure Mr. Goodnight is heading southwest around Fort Concho.” He pointed to the line’s end. “We’re here.” He placed his finger on the circle. “How far do you figure the drive herd is from us?”

  “Iwould imagine that to be eighty or ninetymiles. About the same distance as to Jacksboro. Why?”

  “Other than you, Lieutenant, I know of only two other men who would help me. One is here,” he pointed to the end of his drawn line.”

  “I hate to say it. But we have no riders going south, Sergeant. And I would be derelict in my duty to send a single rider toward Fort Concho. An army uniform riding alone in that country would invite every Comanche within a hundred miles to take his scalp. And I certainly can’t send a force of men.”

  Frustrated, Free slapped his hand across the dirt drawing. “My only other hope would be from an old war friend, Parks Scott. And I don’t have any idea where he might be.”

  “Does he deal in mustang horses?”

  “Yes.” Free felt his heartbeat race at the lieutenant’s question. “Do you know of him?”

  “Better than that, I know where he is.”

  Chapter 15

  The Comancheria, Texas 1868

  Parks Scott set his eyes on the rolling dust cloud expanding across the West Texas horizon. With out hesitation, he took spurs to the mustang beneath him. He had left Jacksboro at the first show of daylight, riding straight into the heart of the Comanche range. Parks whipped the reins hard across Horse’s shoulders, urging him farther into the Comancheria. He knew a lone rider in Indian Territory was on a hard course, but word from the Fort Griffin supply line was that an ex-slave, Free Anderson, sat in The Flats jail awaiting hanging.

  Summoned by Judge Freemont, the only preacher within a hundred miles of the Fort was making his way to attend the hanging. Even on foot, he carried a three-day jump on Parks. If the preacher reached The Flats before him, his old friend would be swinging from the hangman’s noose by nightfall. Parks reckoned the best chance of saving both their hides lay in the reddish cloud ahead. The storm might force the preacher to seek shelter and keep the Comanche and Kiowa to their camps on the Clear Fork.

  Pulling his bandana up over his nose, Parks slapped the mustang’s flank and ran headlong toward the approaching dust.

  Thousands upon thousands of stinging specks blasted Parks’ face. No matter which way he turned or ducked his head, the flying sand continued to pelt him. It seemed as if all the topsoil inWest Texas was screaming across the Comancheria molded into a storm by howling, unrelenting winds. The horizon had merged sky and land together, painting a solid canvas of orange, undetectable as to up or down. Parks knew to stop on an open prairie during such a storm was to invite death, but he had to cover Horse’s eyes and nostrils.

  He pulled reins on the pony and tied both leather leads to his left wrist. In the blinding storm, he would have no chance of survival if he lost contact with Horse. He dismounted and pushed his head tight against his saddle. Even with his head pressed hard into the leather, the swirling winds forced his eyes shut. He edged his right hand down Horse’s flank, searching for his saddlebag. Stretched away from the protection of his shirt, his bare wrist felt the incessant bite of stinging sand as he rummaged for the saddlebag clasp. Frantic, he worked his hand in a circular motion until he touched metal. He pushed the flap up and pulled a woolen shirt from inside.

  Moving cautiously, he worked his way forward along Horse’s neck, holding a death grip on the reins. Unable to open his eyes, even for a second, he searched in desperation for the mustang’s nostrils. The shirt beat against his face unmer
cifully as he tried to swing it onto Horse’s face. Gripping both sleeves, he moved away from Horse and swung the shirt over the pony’s nose. As the wind continued to beat the shirt against Horse’s head, he tied the two shirtsleeves together under the pony’s jaw. The shirt extended slightly to the front of the animal, resembling a woman’s bonnet. If he kept Horse straight into the wind, he figured the shirt would work as a deflector. If not, the sand would fill Horse’s lungs, literally drowning him on dry land.

  He placed his shoulder under Horse’s head and pulled down on the excess shirt hanging below the mustang’s nose. Holding tight, he reached for his knife and cut out a long slender piece of cloth. He wrapped the shirt just below Horse’s forelock and extended the excess material around the side of the animal’s eyes. He prayed that the shirt would hold, knowing neither of them would survive the storm if it didn’t.

  Feeling his way back toward the saddle, he remounted and spurred the mustang into the wind. “Easy, Horse.” He spoke, fully aware his words would never reach the mustang’s ears. Traveling with the velocity of the sand, they blew harmlessly to the east.

  Parks pulled a tight rein on the mustang and tied his hands to the saddle horn. Using the wind as his compass, he moved Horse forward, hoping he could stay on trail. The strength of the wind kept his chin pushed deep into his chest. He prayed the storm would die soon.

  Wandering and adrift on the prairie for what seemed hours, Parks could feel the sand penetrate his nostrils. Loosening his hands, he reached for his bandana and realized only shreds remained of the thin cotton cloth. He knew the stories of riders found with their lungs completely full of sand and figured he would have to set Horse down, when suddenly, the mustang pitched and took a strong stride toward what Parks reckoned to be south. His legs felt the mustang shudder, take off at a gallop, and stop almost immediately. The sudden jerk snapped Parks’ chin upward. Deaf, his ears filled with sand, Parks opened his eyes and looked at his surroundings. They were free of the blowing storm and standing in a shallow bed on what had to be the Clear Fork of the Brazos.

  Parks rolled out of his saddle and fell facedown in one of several shallow pools of water. After several seconds of holding his face in the stream, he threw his head backward and exhaled a loud breath. “Horse, you did it! I’d kiss you if you weren’t so ugly!”

  He watched the mustang toss his head up and down trying to dislodge the shirt covering his face.

  “Hold on,” Parks stood and untied both shirt pieces from the pony. He took the larger of the pieces, dipped it into the water, and cleaned the sand from Horse’s eyes. “Get yourself a drink,” He rubbed the mustang’s nose. “Now we just need to figure out where we are.”

  Chapter 16

  The Flats, Texas 1868

  The midday June sun beat down on Free’s prison. Rock and iron absorbed the sweltering heat and radiated it inward like a cook stove. Where are you, Parks? He anguished. Reaching for the water, he tilted the bucket toward his mouth. He took a long pull, swishing the water in his mouth before swallowing. Warmed by the sun, the tepid water was barely drinkable. But if he wanted to survive, he knew he must keep his body filled with the liquid. Three days had passed since his sentencing and Lieutenant Swafford’s departure. He reckoned that even on foot, the preacher would arrive within a day.

  He knew as soon as the preacher walked into The Flats, Jubal would hang him. “Think, Free!” he yelled aloud. “Quit feeling sorry for yourself and think!” He realized being a freedman was not an easy lot. In fact, he reckoned living free was much harder than trying to be free. Now sitting alone in a cell, he realized waiting to act would not keep the law’s rope from his neck. All of his free life he had abided the law. But Jubal’s law offered backroom justice served up by bad men who held little regard for right or wrong. He held his arm out and looked at his blackness. “How can one color cause so much difficulty in a man’s life?” He spoke aloud, wondering how future generations of freed men would fare in turn. Deep in thought, he swore, I survived Anderson Farm and the great war by fighting everyday, and I’ll be danged if I let Jubal Thompson take my life now without a fight.

  At mid-afternoon, the heat of the day sapped the life from even the strongest body. Most of the town, including the sheriff, expended little energy during this time. It was siesta, as the Mexicans called it. Man and beast stayed under whatever shade presented itself, bringing The Flats to a standstill. Clara used the siesta as an opportunity to sneak food to him.As she approached the jail side of the street, she lifted her apron slightly and ran for the alley where he was confined.

  Free smiled as she knelt beside the cell and produced a folded cloth from her apron.

  “Free, I managed to save some biscuits and honey from this morning’s breakfast,” she smiled.

  Even cold from the morning meal, the biscuits still carried a pleasing smell. “Clara, I owe you so much. I know you have risked your life helping me out this past week.”

  He saw her eyes sparkle at his words.

  “Free, I believe you would have done the same if it was me inside this cell.”

  Free reached through the bars and touched her arm. The skin was smooth and cool, even under the noon heat. “Well I promise to make it up to you when this is all behind me.”

  “I’ll hold you to that, Free.”

  He took a great breath through his nostrils. Her smell was fresh, like prairie flowers after a rain. He dipped the biscuit in the honey-laden cloth and popped it into his mouth. “Oh my.” He relished each bite. The sweet amber coated his throat as he swallowed. “How can such a small biscuit,” he looked at the unfolded cloth sitting on Clara’s lap, “taste like heaven?”

  He could feel her happiness in watching him as he eagerly swallowed the remaining biscuits.

  “Mmmmm,” he growled. He closed his eyes to enjoy the remaining sweetness left in his mouth.

  “And now for the best part,” she said.

  He opened his eyes in surprise. “What? What else?”

  From inside her apron pocket, she produced a small tin cup with a cloth tied around the top. He could smell the aroma immediately. “You didn’t?” He moved as close as possible to the bars breathing in the unmistakable aroma of black coffee.

  After savoring the pungent black drink, he lay back on the dirt floor of his cell and stared out to the noon sky. “Isn’t it funny, Clara,” his eyes focused on the building clouds above, “that such small pleasures are what truly make us happy?” He rose up suddenly. “What about you, Clara? How did you come here? Tell me about you.”

  He could see a look of surprise cross her face. Caught off guard, she appeared unable to speak.

  “No one’s ever asked me anything about myself before.”

  “Com’on.” He gestured a finger toward her. “I need to knowabout the girl I’m falling in love with.”

  “Free!” She turned her head. “You don’t even know me!”

  She could not hide her smile, and he knew that her words were only an act. “I know enough, Clara.” He reached for her hand. “And once this is all over, I want to see you every minute of everyday.”

  He watched her hand move toward his, and her shoulders fell ever so slightly forward toward the cell.

  “I was born in Alabama on a farm owned by a man called Browning. As early as I can remember, I sewed for the farm. Mrs. Browning said I had a gift, that I could be a seamstress someday. And it was Mrs. Browning who taught me to read and write. When I turned fourteen, Mr. Browning sold me and my sister to a man called Mason. Mr. Mason took us on a boat to Texas and gave us his name. I slaved for him near Victoria until he ran off to the war. Mr. Jenkins bought me three years ago from Mr. Mason’s wife.We stayed mostly in South Texas until a few months ago, and then he moved us here.”

  “But Clara, didn’t you know you were free? All Texas slaves gained freedom with the announcement in Galveston on June 19, 1865. You don’t have to stay with Mr. Jenkins.”

  “That’s easy to speak of, Free, but
I was fifteen, alone and held no money. I had no choice. At least Mr. Jenkins doesn’t hit me and pays me every Friday for working at the hotel.”

  “What about your sister, Clara?” Free asked.

  “I don’t know. Mrs. Mason kept her on the farm. “I have had no opportunity to learn of her since.”

  “Don’t you worry; once I’m out of this mess, we’ll find her.”

  “But, Free. How can you and I be together? I still belong to Mr. Jenkins.”

  “No, Clara. You’re as free as I am. Back in 1863, the president said so. The congress said so. You’re nobody’s property anymore.”

  “Can it really be? Will Mr. Jenkins just let me walk off? Will people like Sheriff Thompson leave us alone? Leave us to be happy?

  Free could see a look of fear steal across her face. He recognized the expression from his slave past. It was an apprehension of the unknown, the fear that your life was better as it was, no matter its harshness. A slave’s fear was a powerful thing. “Look at me, Clara. I promise you that someday, you and I will go into the hotel and sit down in the dining room. And Mr. Jenkins will ask us what we want to eat? I promise that to you.”

  He saw her eyes smile.

  “I’ll hold you to that promise, Free Anderson. But what about your friend? Do you think he’s coming here?”

  “If he got word, he’ll come. But I pray it’s today, because I reckon the preacher will be here by morning.” He slowly released her hand and looked up into her eyes. “I need another favor, Clara. I hate asking you, but I’ve got no one else to turn to right now.”

  “Free, you can ask anything. You are the first man who ever treated me with an ounce of kindness. You make me feel like I’m more than just a colored seamstress. What is it you need?”

  “If Parks got the lieutenant’s message, I can’t let him ride into The Flats without warning.”

  “Awarning?”

  “Parks knew Jubal during the war also. When Jubal arrested me, he made it well known that he blamed both of us for his demotion after Palmito Ranch. If Parks rides into town and Jubal recognizes him, he’ll end up in here with me. And I’m afraid we’ll both hang. I need you to stop him be fore he rides into The Flats. He might be riding straight into a noose of his own.”