The Road To A Hanging

by Mike Kearby

  “But you are my friend. No? Did you not shoot at the bushwhackers? These bad men who wished to kill me and my amigos?”

  “Something like that.” Parks put the rifle’s button the dirt, removing his bandana in the process. “Did you know these cattle were stolen?”

  “Stolen cattle? How could I know such a thing? I am a business man.”

  “Well, they were stolen and these men,” Parks gestured toward the dead Riders’ bodies, “placed blame of the thievery on my partner.” He turned and pointed back up the cliff wall. “The man with the gun aimed at your heart.”

  “Jefe!” Parks heard one of the Mexicans call out. He stepped to his left and saw the man holding up the head of one of the Riders by a handful of hair.

  “This one is still breathing!”

  The lead Mexican walked over to the Rider and lightly slapped his face.

  “Señor? Señor? You have done a very bad thing. You ask to sell us cattle, and now we find out from our friend that you have stolen these cattle. If there were any trees in this God-forbidden desert, I swear I would hang you. Dios mío. But instead, we will cut your throat.”

  Parks heard the Rider moan and watched the Mexican draw a long knife from his belt. “Wait! He called out with a steady voice. “Let’s finish our business first!”

  “What business, señor?”

  Parks put a scowl to his face. “Our business of the stolen cattle and clearing my partner’s name.”

  The Mexican shrugged and walked back toward him. “OK. We finish our business, and then I kill him.”

  Parks held a steely gaze on the lead Mexican now facing him. “What can we do to let everyone leave here happy?”

  “But hombre, I have the cattle, and I still have the money. I am already very happy.”

  Parks stepped close to the man and whispered under his breath.

  “Speak louder, hombre. I did not hear you.”

  Parks waited for the man to step closer. With lightning like speed, he yanked his Colt and set the barrel in the Mexican’s belly. Smiling, he grabbed the man’s waistband, pulling him close and whispered. “How happy are you now?”

  He watched the Mexican’s face drain in color.

  “I thought you were my friend.”

  “Oh we’re friends, just not close friends.” Parks leaned in closer. “Now, here’s what I need for you to - .”

  “You are Texas cavalry?” The Mexican interrupted.

  “What?” Parks asked, somewhat confused by the Mexican’s rapid pointing to his hat.

  “Texas cavalry. You have the pin in your sombrero. Texas cavalry. Colonel Rip Ford?”

  Parks furrowed his brow. “You know Colonel Ford?”

  “Si. Colonel Ford is el Jefe Grande. I alone helped Colonel Ford keep the Brownsville port open for Mexico during the great American war. We let the colonel know when the damned Yankees come. And in return he keeps the port open formy family.”

  Parks saw the opportunity to further his cause with a small lie. “Colonel Ford is my uncle.”

  “No! This is good. Colonel Ford is my friend, and you are Colonel Ford’s family.”

  “So we are friends?”

  In a series of quick motions, the man moved his hand back and forth between the two of them. “Oh yes, hombre, friends.”

  Parks holstered the Colt and held out his hand. “My name is Parks. And don’t forget there’s still a rifle on your heart, friend.”

  A broad grin came across the Mexican’s face. “You are a very careful man, hombre.”

  “I find I tend to live longer that way.”

  “Yes. Yes. That is the way. Come amigo, now you meet my friends.”

  Parks followed the man as he moved toward the nine other Mexicans.

  “Muchachos! Look! The nephew of Colonel Ford! He is the one who save us from the ambush.”

  Parks glared at the men, who were busy rifling the corpses of the Riders. On hearing the name of Rip Ford, they all stood and greeted him with uplifted arms and smiling faces. He returned the smiles but kept one hand near his Colt as the lead Mexican turned back to him. “I need the money for these cattle.” Parks kept his gaze on the man’s face, never looking down or giving a blink.

  “Oh! So you want to steal the money?”

  “Not steal.” He gave a tight-lipped smile. “You have the cattle; I need the money to pay the ranchers back for their losses.”

  “Maybe we only give half?”

  “No. You give me all the money, and we leave as friends.” Parks stepped close to the man. And I tell my uncle Rip Ford that -,” Parks pointed to the Mexican.

  “Juan de La Pena.”

  “That, Juan de La Pena is owed many favors from our family.” He saw a big smile form on the Mexican’s face.

  “Bueno. Yes. As a token of our friendship and in honor of your uncle, I give you the money for the ranchers.”

  Juan whistled toward the Mexicans, now busy removing boots from the corpses. He spoke a few words in Spanish, and one of the men rushed to a pack mule tied behind Juan’s mustang. The man untied a saddle pack from the mule and carried the bag to Parks, dropping it at his feet.

  “Gracias, Señor. I will never forget your bravery and courteousy.” Parks reached over to pick up the pack. “And I hope you will never forget the rifle that is still aimed at your heart.”

  “Still so careful! This is OK. Remember me to Colonel Rip Ford, por favor. ”

  “I will do so.” Parks bowed.

  As he turned and walked away, he heard Juan call to his men. “¡Andale pronto muchachos! ¡Va-manos por la Mexico!”

  Parks turned and saw the ten vaqueros from the north end of the canyon begin to position themselves to move the cattle out of the canyon. The nine men with Juan stepped to their horses, and showing off, they sank their spurs while pulling the ponies up on their hind legs.

  Looking to Juan, he watched the man mount his steed. Behind him, tethered by ten feet of lariat, the wounded Rider lay on the ground. “Juan!” He called out. “What about him?” He pointed to the Rider.

  “Oh, noworry. I amgoing to drag him to safety!”

  Parks heard the laughter of the Mexicans ring the canyon floor. He looked up at a grinning Juan and then down to the Rider. “Señor de La Pena!” He shouted, holding up his hand. “Before you go! Necesito un favor más!”

  Through his rifle sight, Free watched the Mexicans begin their departure from the canyon floor. Twirling lariats, loud whoops, and cries accompanied their exodus as they drove the stolen cattle toward the south.

  Danger passed, he lowered the Henry and leaned it against the rock outcropping. Looking through the field glasses, he observed Parks in an animated discussion with the lead Mexican. The Mexican sat atop his horse, gesturing wildly at the wounded Rider tied to his saddle horn. He watched Parks reach into a saddle pack and reveal what appeared to be a stack of money. “What are you doing, Lieutenant?” he wondered aloud. He kept his focus on the Mexican now dismounting his steed. Parks was pointing to the Rider with one hand and waving the money around with the other. He saw the Mexican shrug his shoulders and flip his hand toward the Rider as if granting permission. Almost immediately, he watched Parks kneel beside the Rider and observed conversation between the two. After several minutes, Parks stood and re-opened the pack. He watched his friend withdraw the money stack once more and hand it to the Mexican. That done, Parks turned from the Rider and started a slow walk back toward the game trail. Free could see anguish scribed on his face.

  Setting the field glasses on the outcropping, he hurried down the trail. Then suddenly, the canyon echoed with the sound of a lone gunshot. The gunfire caused Free to jump in surprise. He threw a quick gaze to where the shot seemed to come from. On the canyon floor, he saw the lead Mexican standing over the unmoving Rider while pushing a pistol into his waistband.

  With little thought, Free began a mad run toward Parks, wanting to make sure his friend was safe. Slipping and sliding as he maneuvered the snake-like p
athway, he kicked small rocks and dust up in his wake. As the trail emptied onto the canyon floor, he came face to face with Parks.

  “Parks! Are you OK?”

  “I reckon so.”

  “What went on down there?” Free reached out for Park’s rifle offering to loosen his load. “What were you and the Rider talking about? What’d you find out?”

  “Let’s sit a minute, and I’ll tell you.”

  Free stepped off the trail and found a slick area of rock sloping toward the canyon floor. “This OK?” He sat down on the warm stone.

  “I took some of the money for the stolen beeves and paid that lead Mexican two hundred U.S. to give that wounded Rider a quick death.”

  Free inched closer to his friend. “You did what had to be done, Parks. Don’t blame yourself for what was due him someday.”

  “I know, Free. I told the man he had two choices, tell me what I needed to know and be shot mercifully or play it hard and let the Mex’s drag him to Mexico. He knew he was gone up the flume. Still, leaving a man helpless, even a bad man, and then having him shot like a dog twists my gut into knots.”

  Free put his hand on Parks’ shoulder and squeezed tightly. “My father once told me that a man is required to pay for past wrongs.” Free glanced out to the Riders’ bodies littering the canyon floor. “And while the method of that payment may seem harsh, very rarely is it unjust.”

  “Sounds about right. Your father seems to have been wise to the world.”

  “I believe he was.” Free looked back to Parks. “It looks like you got the money for the cattle.” He nodded toward the saddle pack. “That’s probably gonna give Jubal more reason to be on the shoot for us.”

  “I believe our friend Jubal is heading for us right now. If he was able to deputize a posse yesterday, he’s only a two-day ride from here.”

  “With The Riders away, how could he raise a posse? The Flats doesn’t seem to have the sort of folks willing to give up their days hunting for rustlers.”

  “His best play would be to tell the big ranchers he needed men to hunt down the escaped prisoner who stole their cattle.”

  “Sounds like Jubal’s playing a dangerous game.”

  “According to that Rider, they would steal cattle at night as rustlers and then go looking for the thieves during the day as the law. It was a convenient way to move the cattle. If they were come upon, Jubal could claim they had recovered the herd. Left alone, they would slowly move the herd out near New Mexico, waiting for their Mexican buyers.”

  “Where do you figure that leaves us?”

  “Well we got two things on our side. We’ve got the sheriff’s money, and we’ve got two days to figure where we want this thing to end.”

  Free stood up and dusted the seat of his pants. “You know this thing can only end one way, Parks.” He grabbed the lieutenant’s hand and pulled him to his feet.

  “I’ve known that since the day I rode into The Flats, Free.” Parks stared solemnly at his friend.

  Free set his back teeth together and clinched his jaw. “Then you know,” he set a hard gaze to the east, “that I’m the only one who can end this thing with Jubal.”

  Chapter 23

  The Comancheria, Texas 1868

  A quarter-moon hung high over the dark western sky, while on the eastern horizon, a reddish glow began its daily ritual. The southwest wind, energized by the rising orange globe, gust steadily, offering a cooling breeze to offset the approaching desert heat. Holding little idea of where Jubal and his posse might be, Free and Parks pressed their horses across the New Mexico border and back into Texas.

  Crossing out of The Staked Plain, Free saw Parks pull reins and bring Horse to a halt. “What’s up?” Free lifted Comida’s reins and stopped beside Parks.

  “I reckon we might want to come in from the north this time around. I think we best figure Jubal’s following the Salt Fork toward the arroyo.”

  Free reached down for his water and took a pull. “You thinking about confronting him before the arroyo?”

  “It might give us the bulge. If we wait on the flat land above the arroyo canyon, the posse will spot us right away. And I sure don’t want to wait inside the funnel like cotton for picking. The river bends north for a ways before it runs south again. And the northernmost bends hold plenty of high bank.”

  “What about cover?”

  “Cedars litter that stretch of river. Our only worry will be avoiding the Kiowa and the Co manche. Both groups run the north bank in that part of the county.”

  “Sounds like more fuss.” Free pointed to the tobacco pouch hanging around Parks’ neck.

  “Appears so.”

  “Well we’ve made it this far.” Free caught the tossed pouch with both hands. “No sense in being cautious now.” He cut an end off the tobacco and placed it into his cheek. “That would be the smart play.”

  Swinging north, the two men began a hard run, galloping the horses at full speed while deftly avoiding the dangling limbs of cedars lining the upper stretch of the Salt Fork. The river snaked through the landscape creating natural sand bars beyond each bend. At a small rise just before the river headed south, a flat overhang covered a large portion of sand bar. Free watched Comida lift his head into the wind, the smell of the river in his nostrils.

  “Up ahead,” Parks yelled out. The lieutenant pulled his reins and slowed Horse to a trot.

  The ride out of New Mexico had eased the tension of the day, and feeling flush, Free took his spurs to Comida’s flank. As he slapped the reins, a blur of earth rushed toward his face. The red soil of the upper Brazos filled his eyeswith stinging ferocity. Blinded, he pulled hard on the reins, without response. Beneath him, he could feel Comida pulling away from his body. His shoulder dug hard into the ground and the sensation of rolling repeatedly whirled in his head. Spinning out of control, he spied Comida sliding behind him. The horse’s eyes opened wide with confusion. Everything’s so slow, he thought. Then blackness covered his vision.

  “Get up!”

  Free felt his shirt pulled up into his armpits, his body dragged backwards by an unknown force. Instinctively, he dug his heels into the ground trying to stop the movement, but to little avail. The events seemed to be moving in double quick time.

  “Free! Don’t fight me!” he heard a voice screaming.

  Looking up, he could see Parks’ face above him. Confusion spun in his head, paralyzing his thoughts.

  “Com’on, Free. Push against the ground!”

  Free tried sitting up, but he was moving too fast to keep steady. He looked back to Parks and saw panic in his face. Uncertain as to his course, he began to kick at the ground like a mad bull. Within seconds, the sky turned green, alive with the swoosh of cedar branches whipping over him.

  “What’s happened?” he finally found his “What’s going on Parks?”

  “Kiowa! They shot Comida from under you!”

  Free felt all movement stop as Parks released his shirt. He rolled onto his belly and looked back toward the prairie.

  “Can you fire a gun?” Parks asked.

  Fumbling toward his waistband, he dug around his pants but came up empty handed. “I must have lost my pistol when I went down. And my rifle’s on Comida.” Fifty yards to his front, he saw Comida lying on his side. Two arrows pointed skyward from his neck, his head still.

  “Comida,” he muttered. And then his military training came back. He took a quick accounting of their position and observed they lay hidden in a circle of cedars.

  “We’ve got the overhang protecting our rear,” Parks called out as he sorted ammo on the ground in front of them. “You take the Henry.And I’ll keep the pistol.”

  “OK.” Free shook his head as he began to grab .44 shells.

  “We don’t have much ammo, Free, so if there’s more than fifteen or twenty out there, we may be fixing to go through the mill.”

  “Fuss,” Free muttered. “Just more fuss.”

  Ten minutes later, Free noticed the prairie g
rass alive with movement. He wiped the sweat from his eyes and tried to focus on the area by Comida’s lifeless body. “Parks, I may be imagining things, but it sure looks like the ground is moving out there.”

  Parks set the field glasses to his eyes. “Nope, your eyes are fine, Free. There is a whole passel of Kiowa crawling on their bellies toward us.”

  “How many is that?”

  “A bunch more than we have ammo for. Take a look.”

  Free took the glasses and saw the steady movement of the Kiowa toward the overhang. “Sure looks like a raiding party, the way they’re painted up.”

  “Appears they aim to take scalps, that’s for certain.”

  Free kept his gaze through the field glasses and watched as one of the braves moved to the backside of Comida. The Indian swung his left arm over the saddle with bow in hand, while his right hand remained hidden. Free could see what appeared to be the tip of an arrow strung in the bow. “They’re getting ready to check our range.”

  “Damn!” Parks cursed.

  Free saw the first arrow fly. The flint tip arced gracefully in the air and then descended, landing twenty feet in front of their position. The arrow point embedded deep into the earth.

  “Haw!” Free screamed out. Hoping his bravado might push the anxiety from his body. He set his eyes back to the glasses and removed them just as quickly. “Can’t be!” He pushed the glasses to Parks. “Take a look.”

  “At what?”

  “Look at that Kiowa rolled up behind Comida. Look at his right arm and tell me what you see.”

  Parks trained the glasses on the dead horse. “That looks like the war shield we placed on the graves in the arroyo.”

  “I thought so too.” Free continued to watch the Kiowa leader, observing him use hand signals to move his braves forward. “They’re out for revenge!”

  “It would be nice if they had an idea we gave their dead braves a proper burial.”

  “Maybe one of us should go out and tell them.” Free removed the glasses from his eyes and rolled over to face Parks.