by Lauran Paine
“Are you, Ann?”
“Yes.”
He would have started up but her palms pressed against him. She was not looking at his face.
“Lee, you’ve got to rest quiet.”
There was something besides tiredness in her expression—something that had leached away the bloom—something dull and hopeless.
“Listen, Ann …”
“Lee, they’re going to hang you.”
Reaction came slowly, but finally he blinked and swallowed and lay back. Then, his body let go, turned all loose, and sagged down upon the pallet.
“I guess they will. I guess I’m plumb beat, Ann. I guess for us it’s hopeless … isn’t it?”
Her hands began to move again, working the great cords of his chest. “Just lie quiet and rest,” she said. “It’s all over now.”
He did not speak again and a rattling sigh went out of him. Yes, it was all over. The running, the killing, the hunger, the grating of sleepless eyes in sand-lined sockets, the sour smell of dirty bodies, the everlasting fear. It was all over. There remained but one more thing to be done, and that didn’t take long. Maybe a minute—maybe a few seconds.
Paw had said often the bullet hadn’t yet been molded nor the man made who could best a Gorman. Well, he was wrong. It wasn’t going to be a bullet or a solitary man. It was going to be hundreds of men and a hemp rope.
They were finally bested, every single one of them. But most of all the dead ones—the Pompas and Fawcetts and Amayas, and for all he knew the others, too. Maybe even the old man himself was dead.
He fell asleep, deeply asleep, and the hours passed. Ann left. The fragrance of coffee overrode other smells in the jailhouse. Dawn came. The sun rose high and golden warmth returned. He slept on.
Town Marshal Bob Ander and Deputy US Marshal Burt Garner rode into Union City shortly after 9:00 a.m. They heard the news of Lee’s capture while he slept. They went together to stand outside his cage and look in. Then they left together, seeking food and rest.
Others visited the jailhouse, mostly out of curiosity, until orders came for the corporal to admit only civilian law officers or military personnel. He was glad to comply because each intrusion interrupted his napping.
Union City was quiet. It was surly and it was unfriendly but it was quiet. Men sat in the saloons, drinking and looking into space. Posses were still out but generally they had been replaced by troops.
Now came the waiting.
The sheepmen were crushed, true, but Uriah Gorman had not been found. They wanted him above all others.
Soldiers hunted in droves. They sought him among the westering wagons of emigrants by the light of the moon with pitch-pine knots held high while they rummaged through the duffle of strangers. Poked and pried every place a man might hide. They even sent details far back into the forgotten cañons because some thought Indians might be hiding him.
Of the others there was only this word. A man answering the description of one George Dobkins had been found at the glade, dead. Shot, yes, but his death was more directly attributable to the fact that his horse had fallen on him. His skull was crushed to fragments.
Lee learned this in time from the corporal and from Ann, who had permission to visit him every day. But like the others, Lee had no tidings of his father or brother, or even of Kant U’Ren.
The land seethed with rumors. Each breath of air brought new ones. Uriah had been seen down in Arizona—he had robbed a bank in Texas—he was with renegades in Indian Territory—he’d been seen upon a flinty ridge not far from Bethel with the moon flowing full behind him, a gray and gaunt old wolf of a man holding high his rifle in a gnarled fist. And again, he was marauding with hostile red men spreading terror and desolation across the far frontier, beard flying, green eyes wild with madness, fading into the night in the lead of a silent, fierce army of warriors.
* * * * *
The summer days droned on and by early August it began to be accepted that Uriah Gorman had escaped. There began a low growl demanding that Lee be tried. He at least should be made to pay. In reply to each civilian demand the mustached officer made the identical reply.
“When the evidence is ready his trial will be held. It will be an orderly trial and until it is held you people will stay away from the jailhouse.”
They stayed away. The officer had eleven of them in jail now. He ruled with an iron hand and an eye as cold as new steel. They did not like him in Union City. They did not like him at all but they certainly respected him.
Deputy US Marshal Garner and Town Marshal Bob Ander talked to Lee for hours. They had everything he said transcribed. They were not unkind to him, and in the end, just before it was announced that his trial would begin, they seemed to be in silent sympathy. The fact was that they had both, over coffee and whiskey, come to the same conclusion: Lee was not a fighter; he had followed Uriah because he had not had the guts to break away and because he did not want to leave his brother. But he had followed him.
They accompanied Lee to the place of his trial. It was out of doors amid a precise square stepped off by blue ranks with the hot dust of summer in his nostrils and the high-riding sun above. There were too many witnesses for it to be held in any building of Union City, and in fact the officer wished it to be public anyway. Beyond his firm blue lines were townsmen, cowmen, and strangers. The free-graze war had raged better than three months; there were newsmen from such distant places as Sacramento down in California, Independence, Missouri, and even one elegant dude smelling splendidly of French toilet water from New York. They were indignant, these newsmen, because they were accorded no recognition by Captain Ice-Water-for-Blood and had to remain outside the blue cordon with the common herd.
Lee had to stand. He was manacled and wore an Oregon Boot—a steel leg fetter. The officer was seated behind a scarred saloon table. His pistol and sword lay in front of him, along with a sheaf of papers. He regarded the prisoner impassively, looked around at the two non-commissioned clerks who sat ready, pens poised and waiting, then he rapped with his fist for silence.
Beyond the ranks civilians gaped, jostled one another, and the eddying wash of their buzzing dwindled.
“This martial court is now in session for the purpose of hearing all evidence for and against the prisoner before this bar … Robert Edward Lee Gorman.
“Presiding officer is Captain Lemuel Spannaus, Fourth United States Cavalry. Officer for the defense is Lieutenant Gordon Meade, Fourth United States Cavalry. For the prosecution is Lieutenant Harold J. Bertram, Fourth United States Cavalry …”
Another sharp rap.
“This martial court is now in session. Anyone causing a disturbance or in any way attempting to abrogate the dignity, interfere with the processes, or color the judgment herewith, shall be arrested and tried according to any pertinent Army Regulations and Articles of War.
“Lieutenant Bertram will read the bill of particulars. Lieutenant …”
The stillness deepened. By looking slightly to his left Lee could see Ann sitting on a bench among the witnesses. She was listening to the lieutenant’s droning voice, as was everyone else, but her gaze was fully on his face. She was very pale.
Beside her sat her father. He was listening with his head lowered, gazing earthward. His shoulders were slumped forward. Flanking him was Paxton Clement’s haggard wife and her two children. There were others, at least two dozen of them, but these five would have direct testimony to give and it was very clear that before this officer only that kind of testimony would suffice.
Lieutenant Bertram finished reading. Full silence descended. The golden sun beat down. Ander and US Deputy Marshal Garner sat slightly apart with riot guns across their knees. They were looking straight at the officer.
“Robert Edward Lee Gorman, you have heard the charges against you. How do you plead … guilty or innocent?”
“Guilty,
sir.”
“Guilty of what? Of all the charges?”
“Uh … just guilty, sir.”
The captain’s cold eyes moved only slightly. “Lieutenant Meade.”
“Yes, sir?”
“Have you consulted with the prisoner?”
“Yes, sir. But he wasn’t communicative, sir. He told me only that he participated in the attack on the XIH Ranch … that he was in the room behind Uriah Gorman when Captain Hardin was killed … and that he participated in the attempted jailbreak.”
“Is that all he said, Lieutenant?”
“No, sir. There were other things. But, sir … he … well … he doesn’t care about this trial. He hasn’t given me a chance to help him.”
The cold eyes returned to Lee. They searched his face while the officer spoke. “Gorman, are you aware of the possible consequences if you are found guilty as you are charged?”
In a low tone Lee said: “I’ll hang.”
The captain repeated it. “You’ll hang. Then why don’t you try to save your life, sir?”
Lee closed his eyes. He felt dizzy from the long standing without movement. The roaring in his head lessened only when the officer’s voice came more sharply.
“Do you hear me, sir?”
“Yes, I hear you.”
“You will answer then.”
“I don’t care, Captain. I am guilty. I rode with my paw. I was there when they killed Paxton Clement and his riders. I was there when Paw killed the officer, too. I saw the whole thing. I was there at the jailhouse and, later, when Fawcett died. Later, when they caught us in the glade, I ran. I got lost in the night and just ran. I didn’t have a gun any more.”
“Mister Gorman, are you pleading guilty or not guilty? That’s all this court is concerned with at present. Please answer.”
“I told you. I’m guilty. I was there. I saw those things happen.”
“Being present during the commission does not make you guilty of a crime, man!”
The captain’s equanimity was slipping. His cold eyes kindled with anger. He waited with his reddening face for Lee to speak again.
The words pressed through Lee’s stiff lips. “It no longer matters, sir. I can die. I guess I should die. I can’t think any longer. It’s … hard for me to stand here like this, too. I … I …”
“Sergeant! Bring the prisoner some water.”
Lee was swaying. He was a mighty oak in their midst being toppled by a terrible wind.
“Water hell, you idiot,” a squat man bellowed from beyond the blue line. “Let him sit down. Fetch him a chair.”
Lee remembered no more of the trial. Not even when his guard detail, trailed by Ander and Garner, craggy-faced with disapproval, returned him to the jailhouse.
Ann visited him that night. She had little to say so they sat together on the pallet touching at hip and shoulder but not looking at one another.
The second day he was taken back. It began all over again but the roaring in his mind prevented him from heeding. Ann testified. Lew Foster followed her. Others came up, were interrogated, and sent away. They were a stream of solemn faces, some ashen, some red, some filled with hate and venom.
The captain was curt. When witnesses had not seen something pertinent, he dismissed them. When they had, he listened closely. He paid particular attention to Lew Foster and the family of dead Paxton Clement. He summoned Ander and Garner, for although they had never actually seen Lee Gorman commit a crime, they could trace back the causes of the range war.
Then it was over and Lee went back to his cell. His head still hummed; voices ran together; they nagged or they were soft, or they were arrogantly demanding. He lay upon the pallet trying to lock them out. One persisted over the others. It was calling his name. A man’s voice. Then it rattled the bars and he opened his eyes. The deputy US marshal was there calling to him.
“Get up, boy!”
Lee struggled to his feet. He wondered if, after all, they had not finished with him. He went closer and looked stoically down into the officer’s solemn face. “Yes, sir?”
“Gorman, I got something to tell you. I guess there’s only one way to do it and that’s straight out.”
“I know,” said Lee nodding. “I can guess. They’re going to hang me.”
“No, that’s not it.”
“It isn’t …?”
“No. Listen to me. They found you innocent, Gorman. Lew Foster and Ann, the Simpsons and Missus Clement … they said you didn’t fire a shot and that you tried to help them. They aren’t going to hang you. They’re going to turn you loose in a day or two. But you’ve got to go away.”
“I’ll go away, Marshal.”
“Dammit, I’m trying to tell you something.”
“Yes, sir.”
“It’s about your brother Zeke.”
“Yes, sir.” Lee’s brows drew down the slightest bit. “Zeke?”
“The soldiers found him. Him and that half-breed sheepman. They killed ’em both.”
Lee’s big hands closed slowly around the bars. They turned a gradual bone white. “Zeke is dead …?”
The marshal inclined his head once and said roughly: “Yes. They’re bringing in the bodies now. Uh … good night, Gorman.”
Chapter Fifteen
They did not release Lee for several days and there was a good reason. Word had come—none remembered afterward who, exactly, had brought it—that Uriah Gorman had been seen southwest along the ridges near the plateau where his sheep camp had once been. Of the dozens of rumors Bob Ander and Burt Garner thought this the most plausible. For one thing it had been said that Uriah was alone. He had not been leading a savage army or hastening to attack a cow outfit. He was alone. He wasn’t breathing fire and brimstone, either, or waving a clenched fist or roaring threats, but simply fading into the shadows with a furtiveness in the vicinity of his old camp. An aging ghost in tatters, lingering in the area where he had once planned his holy war against oppression.
They discussed it. They could visualize him now returning to the place where his sweat and toil had been spent, gaunt, alone, and in wringing sadness. Where his seed had flourished, grown thick and stalwart—and had faded now into nothingness. Yes, they believed this rumor. It was in the old devil to return now.
They saddled up and left Union City before daybreak the eighteenth day of August, 1885. They told no one of their purpose or their destination, not even the officer or even their allies of these past searching months. They simply weighted themselves down with armament and rode quietly through the pearl-gray of coming dawn, heading southwesterly.
They rode openly as long as the misty solitude of predawn sheltered them, then, with a brightening sky overhead, they picked their way in such a manner as always to be screened by trees, sage, or bluish chaparral from the slow-rising hills ahead.
By full daylight they were across the skirting stage road and into the first foothills. They rode now in single file, the deputy US marshal ahead, carbine balanced across his lap and level eyes sweeping through pale light and shadows constantly. He led them quietly to the first thin ridge and did not top it, but kept on his way in such a fashion that he could see beyond while his body and the horse beneath him were still in dark shadow.
Bob Ander followed in silence. He raked the country ahead and around with long sweeps of his moving head. And he saw movement finally, blurred by both distance and the pale early light, but still movement.
“Garner, look south there. Beyond those trees to that brushy gulch where the patch of grass is.”
“I see it,” said the deputy US marshal, drawing up. “What about it?”
“I saw movement down there.”
Garner looked, saw nothing, but his heart pounded sturdily in its dark place. It would be Uriah Gorman all right. It had to be. “Let’s go afoot,” the deputy US marshal said, and s
wung down, gripping his carbine. Before they moved off, doubt came and Garner strained to see better.
“It’s pretty close to his old camp on that plateau,” he said to Ander, hoping mightily it would be Uriah, yet doubting, too.
“Yeah, I know. With all the back country a feller wonders why he’s this close. No reading a mind like that, Garner.” Ander kept staring into the growing welter of soft, sad light ahead of them and below.
Burt Garner said no more but started ahead.
They skirted around the brushy slope, angling downward a little as they progressed, holding to the shadows as much as possible and making very little noise. The sun hadn’t yet lighted this dark and twisted cañon, so there was no need to fear reflected light off their carbines.
Then Garner halted and straightened up slowly to peer outward and downward into the still-darkened gulch. There was nothing to see, neither Uriah nor even a saddle animal. He said nothing to Ander but thought the town marshal could have seen a hundred things. A skulking coyote, a browsing deer, a bear even, or a spinner wolf.
Ander understood and spoke softly. “It was man-high. I saw that much.”
Still in silence Garner pushed forward again. He did not stop until they were within a hundred yards of the grassy place, and then he only hesitated, making motions for caution, before covering another two or three hundred feet.
A watery grayness enveloped the cañon. Daylight was gradually slipping down mountain sides to dilute it. Garner got down on his belly and peered around a thick-butted old sage bush, scraggly and infernally thorned. He saw nothing. There was only a stillness as deep as death. The marshal’s disappointment was strong enough to blunt his spirit. It showed in his eyes and along the sweep of his rippling jaw. He said to himself: Let him be here. God dammit, let him be here!
And he was.
Over a spiny distant rim the sunlight burst suddenly and showed a head-hung, tucked-up horse half hidden in the chaparral up one of the watershed little cañons beyond the glade. Ander touched him lightly. Garner ignored it. His pagan prayer had been answered and his heart was echoing like a struck anvil. He licked dry lips, pushed his carbine around the sage root, and waited. Somewhere beyond was Uriah Gorman. Ander inched closer and pressed his lips to Garner’s ear.
