Stringer and the Hanging Judge

by Lou Cameron

  He walked over to the Mex kids, meaning to ask if they’d seen a nice-looking blonde with a heap of baggage boarding the train that had just left. But as he approached, one of the kids saw him coming and murmured something to a bigger, tougher-looking muchacho, who turned, smiled pleasantly enough at Stringer, and asked, “Hey, gringo, does your mamacita know you got out of your crib?”

  Stringer moved closer, albeit slower, as he replied just as sweetly, “Pero no, I had to sneak out because my mother looks after her own babies better than your mother. Maybe that’s because she knows who their fathers might have been, eh?”

  The wise-ass Mex kept smiling. “You mention my mother in the same breath with the whore who had you by a goat?” he asked.

  Stringer shrugged. “I spit in your mother’s milk and I’d piss on your father’s grave, if anyone knew who he might have been.”

  Then, just as their game of Tu Madra! was getting interesting, an older youth with a wispy moustache under an Anglo hat stepped into view from behind the half-laden wagon. “Drop it, Gordo,” he snapped. “He’s all right.”

  “He just mentioned my mother,” replied the aptly named Gordo, or Fats, in an injured tone.

  The taller and more muscular youth, who was dressed Anglo, said, “You mentioned his first. He’s a friend of mine, and even if he wasn’t, can’t you see he’s packing a gun, or that this is a gringo town?”

  “I spit on Gringo towns and pick my teeth with Gringo gun barrels,” Gordo said. “But I do not fight with friends of friends, so fuck you, gringo. The rest of you, get back to work.”

  They did. As they went on loading the buckboard, Stringer’s unknown friend came over to him and held out a hand. “Gordo’s all right. Some Texans dragged his father half to death one time. I’m Roy Bean.”

  Stringer shook with him, but had to say, “That sort of mixes me up, no offense. For I was just paying the real Roy Bean a friendly visit a few hours back.”

  The half-Mexican youth nodded. “My sister Laura told me. She says you called her Miss, not Chica, as well. So what can I do for you, Mr. MacKail?”

  “You can call me Stringer, and you’d be Roy Bean, Junior, right?”

  The younger Bean nodded. “I don’t answer to any other name, no matter what some lighter-skint hombres in these parts find more fitting for one of His Honor’s greaser by-blows. Our Anglo dad may be vague on family records. I’ve hunted high and low for a marriage certificate, but it’s an established fact he’s never refused to acknowledge the four of us as his own.”

  “Anyone can see the family resemblance, Roy,” Stringer said. “What I come to pester you all about was an Anglo lady I seem to have lost around here someplace. Did you just now see a blonde in a white blouse and side-button skirt around here?”

  Bean, Junior nodded. “We helped her aboard with the three big bags she was toting. She was strong as well as pretty. One of the reasons Gordo was so rude to you just now was that she tried to tip him when he helped her up the steps.”

  Stringer found that easy to buy, having grown up with Hispanic neighbors and classmates in the old ranchero country farther west. Next to beating up a gringo, nothing made a Mex of Gordo’s class look better than playing the caballero to a lady of any breed. So he said, “She was sort of rude to me just now. Or it could have been plain common sense on her part. I know if I was fixing to leave some old gal I liked, whether I wanted to or not, and found her snoring instead of fixed to argue about it, I might consider just stepping out quiet. But never without locking the damned door behind me. I reckon we just live and learn. You need any help with these boxes, amigo?”

  “Gracias, pero no,” Bean, Junior answered. “I always hire more help than I really need. The pobrecitos squatting on the other side of the tracks find it hard to make an honest centavo around here.”

  Stringer followed his gaze toward the narrow but fairly dense jungle of cottonwood and willow between them and the near but invisible Rio Grande. Blue wood smoke rose here and there among the oft-cut-back and dense bushy trees. He didn’t have to really see the wattle walls and thatched roofs of a choza to know a tribe of squatters were north of the border with their feet still wet. Bean, Junior explained the supplies were for the Jersey Lily, adding, “Just in time too. I was sure Dad ordered more just before he went off on that spree to San Antone. Running the business for him while he’s feeling poorly would be a lot easier if only I could get folk to pay attention to me.”

  Stringer asked how come they didn’t, seeing he was old Bean’s son and old enough to shave.

  The youth smiled thinly. “You must be color blind. This is West Texas and I’m a Mex. A half Mex, anyways. It’s widely held, in these parts, that the people of my mother may work out as day-labor, do you keep an eye on ‘em, or even a good screw, do you catch ‘em alone. But the notion a greaser can read and write, let alone run a business, is difficult to grasp, see?”

  “Nope,” Stringer said. “Another Scotch-Mexican named Pete Maxwell runs a good-sized beef operation over in New Mexico, not too far from here. They say he drives a hard bargain on his beef too.”

  Bean, Junior shrugged. “I heard that family of beef barons was part Mex. Tough as hell too. It’s no doubt more comfortable to howdy a man Billy the Kid and his gang was friends with than to call him a greaser.”

  “Do you get called names a lot, Roy?” Stringer asked.

  He was only mildly surprised when the youth bitterly replied “Not until recent. The judge sired us all when he was getting on in years. But nobody ever called us nothing but cute little tykes while the old man still had the whole county cowed respectful. Lately, though, even before he took sick, more than one old boy has felt able to talk disrespectful, even to him, to his face. Now that he’s helpless on his back, the buzzards seem to be hovering closer every day.”

  Stringer started to say something, then decided to wait until he knew for sure what he was talking about. “Well, seeing you don’t need help with these stores,” he said instead, “I’d best go scout up a place to eat supper. Amid all this confusion it just occurred to me I skipped a noon meal. Women sure can get a man mixed up about the time.”

  Bean, Junior frowned at him. “You have met my father, you have treated my sisters with respect, and you still think you have no place for to eat this evening? Get up on that buckboard, Stringer. Both my sisters are fair cooks, and even if they were lousy cooks, the Jersey Lily would still be the only place in town serving meals to travelers.”

  But as Stringer moved toward the buckboard with the younger Bean, the boy’s voice sounded worried as he muttered, “It’s still our town. So far.”

  Young Bean had been right about his sister’s cooking, unless they were swiping credit from one of the shy and silent Mexican women who drifted through like wisps of smoke now and again. They ate at the one table out front, early, because another train was due at seven-thirty. Young Bean explained it was a local, and so local folk getting on or off might want to grab a bite or at least a cold drink before riding on home. The township itself occupied an area six by six miles, most of it empty, but the Jersey Lily catered to outlying spreads as much as a day’s ride from the tracks.

  After supper Stringer and young Bean moved out to the front porch as the girls, young Sam, and the servants or whatever got things shipshape inside. Young Bean hauled a rocker out with them and told Stringer the chair already out there was his. It was starting to get dark, and Stringer knew he’d soon be goosebumped by the fickle desert air if he didn’t get his denim jacket from the hotel. But it was rude to eat and run, so he’d just have to smoke and bear it a spell. It usually took a few hours after sundown to get really freezing on the desert, even this early in the year.

  They hadn’t been smoking out there long before young Sam came out to join them and sat on the steps. “Zulema made Papacito some chicken soup,” he said. “But we couldn’t get him to eat none. Do you reckon he’s fixing to die, Roy?”

  “Don’t call Dad Papacito lik
e you was a dumb greaser, Sam,” his elder brother replied. “You’re old enough to talk English like the rest of us.”

  Sam shrugged. “I’ve always called him Papacito, and he ain’t never told me not to. I asked you if he was fixing to die, not for a durned old lingo lesson.”

  Bean, Junior’s voice was softer as he half murmured, “I don’t know. I hope not. I sure never figured on him passing on afore the four of us was full growed, at least.”

  “Me neither,” Sam said. “But he is sort of old, next to most fathers around here. How old do you reckon Papacito is, Roy?”

  Bean, Junior shrugged. “Hard to say. It’s always depended a lot on how he was feeling when you asked him. How old does he look to you, Stringer?”

  Their guest answered honestly that he couldn’t say. He was too polite to say all fat old men with white hair and beards looked as old as Santa Claus to him. He settled for, “Fifty to eighty, if I had to guess. I wouldn’t bet money either way. Don’t you have kin who’d be able to pin it down better?”

  “He has or had two elder brothers we know of,” Bean, Junior said. “We’ve never met neither Uncle Sam nor Uncle Josh. Dad allows they were born in a log cabin in Kentucky. I suspect he was only funning when he said him and his brothers fought the redcoats at New Orleans with Andy Jackson, though.”

  “He rode in the Mexican War, for sure,” Sam said. “I’ve heard him talking about it with old Mexicans who was on the other side. That was before he was out in California, chasing Joaquin Murieta. Was that the Mex he shot it out with down Chihuahua way, Roy?”

  “Not hardly,” his elder brother said. “Must have been some other bad Mex. It was just afore he led the Free Rovers against the damnyankees in the War Between the States.”

  Stringer was silently reaching for some salt by now. But young Sam’s tone was adoring as he said, “Papacito’s been everywhere and done most everything, so I’ll bet he’s at least a hundred. What do you think Mr. MacKail?”

  “He’d have to be, if he fought in the War of 1812,” Stringer dryly observed. But figuring silently from the Mexican War the old man at least knew something about, he hit on seventy and change for a regular trooper, a mite younger if old Bean had tagged along as a drummer boy. Stringer knew for a fact that Joaquin Murieta was a mythical character. But to be fair, a lot of old boys had been out looking for the Californio version of Robin Hood in the 1850’s. Making up mighty convincing bullshit was a long-established cottage industry of the west.

  Before they could fret about it further, the westbound train they’d been expecting paused down by the water tower. Young Bean told Sam, “Go make sure them lazy greasers has tidied up inside. I’ll come in to tend bar, do we get any customers.”

  Stringer waited until he was alone with Roy Bean, Junior before he asked, casually, “How many of the local Mexicans hold your father to be their patron, Roy?”

  “You might say all of ‘em and you might say none of `em,” the youth replied. “Dad savvies greaser ways better than most Anglos. On the other hand, he don’t have funds nor inclination to act as an all-out Mex patron. Why do you ask?”

  “Just wondering,” Stringer said. “I grew up on Anglo-Mex range. My clan was pure Scotch, no offense, but we found it common sense to help any neighbor who was down on his luck, and by the way, we never called ‘em greasers.”

  Young Bean grimaced. “You must not have had near as many pestering you for a handout, then. Every infernal wetback who passes through here hits us for a job and citizenship papers. Lord knows how they all know Dad as a friendly U.S. justice of the peace, but they do. He can’t give ‘em all jobs. But he’s usually good for a warm meal and such papers as they need to get work some damned place.”

  Stringer frowned thoughtfully. “I can see by the sign above us that your father considers himself a notary public as well as postmaster and chief bottle washer of these parts. But, no offense, neither a J.P. nor a notary can grant citizenship to anybody, Roy.”

  “Sure he can,” the youth said. “He does it all the time. He just makes ‘em out an affidation, attesting it’s a well-knowed fact that the rascal was birthed in this county, even if he don’t speak English, and so far it’s always worked.”

  Stringer smiled thinly. “I can see how it might. I can see why you have some Mex folk helping with the housework too. But you had to pay those boys who helped you with your stores today, and I’ll bet you put your own mule and buckboard away after, right?”

  “Sure, in the stable out back,” Young Bean said. “What’s so mysterious about hiring Mex day-labor? They work a heap cheaper than anyone else, and what the hell, I feel sorry for ‘em.”

  “I know,” Stringer said. “You feel superior to ‘em too. I’ll bet when your father’s up and about and wants something done, he doesn’t offer money.”

  The young Scotch-Mex shrugged. “That’s not the same. Dad has the Indian sign on half the whites around here.”

  “I wouldn’t be too sure about that, Roy,” Stringer said. “One old man, no offense, could hardly bully his whole world, even a small world. As I’ve been putting her together, your dad’s stayed top dog here by mixing tough with friendly. The one-man town-tamer is a myth, like Deadwood Dick and other Penny Dreadful badmen. Nobody has eyes in the back of his head. So no matter how tough a rep a man might enjoy, he’s asking for a bullet in the back if it gets about that nobody is watching said back for him. If your dad’s been dispensing cold drinks and rough justice all these years, as they say he has, he’s got a lot more friends than enemies in these parts. If I were you, I’d start by referring to the folk down in shantytown as something more polite than greasers.”

  Young Bean started to cut in. Stringer said, “I’m not finished. I’m not a head doctor neither. But I don’t have to be to see why you’re busting a gut trying to appear a good old Texas boy with good-natured contempt for your mother’s people. I hope you won’t take my words unfriendly, Roy, but it won’t work. You can dress Anglo, talk Anglo, and cuss Anglo till the cows come home. But you’ll still be part Mex, and it will always show. I told you about Pete Maxwell over New Mexico way. He doesn’t try to be anything he’s not, and by the way, do you mess with old Pete or his stock, you’ll have a whole army of Mex vaqueros climbing your frame poco tiempo.”

  “Those peonés down among the willows ain’t what I’d call vaqueros,” young Bean protested. “Gordo, at least,” Stringer said, “was ready to fight at least one armed Anglo this afternoon. If I were you, I’d cultivate those old boys better, for if your father doesn’t make it, you’re going to need a heap of friends. How many of the local Anglo riders could you count on in a hard time?”

  “I can’t say,” the youth said. “Some, at least. You was right when you said Dad was on good terms with most of ‘em. I ain’t been shaving long enough to know how I might stand with ‘em.”

  As if to prove the point, they both heard a mess of riders coming in from the north. As they rode into sight, young Bean sighed and said, “The Double W crew again. We can use the money, but they sure mess the place up, damn it.”

  The eight or ten cowhands reined in out front, but none of them dismounted. “How’s your pa, boy?” one called out.

  “Tolerable,” young Bean replied. “He just et some chicken soup, Sunny Jim. How come your ramrod let you come to town two nights in a row? Don’t he love you no more?”

  The one called Sunny Jim laughed. “He only gets to screw the Chinee cook. We didn’t ride in for beer this time. We’re missing over a dozen head of stock again, so we thought we’d pay a call on your in-laws down by the river and see what they had to say about it.”

  “They don’t even have a dozen goats between ‘em.” young Bean said. “I was just down there this afternoon. I thought my dad told you boys not to rawhide them folk no more.”

  “Aw, we ain’t out to rawhide nobody,” Sunny Jim replied. “Leastways, we ain’t out to hurt nobody who can prove he didn’t have beef for supper. Tell your pa we all pay
our respects and sure hope he gets better, boy. It’s been nice jawing with you.”

  Young Bean rose from his father’s rocker, calling out, “Hold on. Don’t you boys want some cold beer first, after riding in so far? We just got a shipment in, and it’s been in the cooler a spell.”

  Sunny Jim shook his head. “Not tonight, boy. Maybe another time, after we see how much old One Thumb Brown means to charge at his place.”

  Young Bean snorted in disbelief, “One Thumb Brown ain’t about to serve nobody drinks,” he snapped. “My dad only issued him a town permit to run his hotel, not compete with us in the saloon trade, damn it!”

  “I wouldn’t know about that,” Sunny Jim called back. “But you know that shed betwixt the hotel and the stable out back?”

  “Sure, Brown’s tack room. What about it?”

  “It ain’t a tack room no more. It’s One Thumb Brown’s card house and drinking establishment. I reckon Brown would feel it was unfair to call it a saloon, without a permit. But liquor is liquor, so what the hell.” Then he shouted, louder, “Vamanos, muchachos!” and the whole bunch went thundering toward the hotel.

  “Hell-fire and damnation,” young Bean growled. “I’d best strap on my guns and—”

  But Stringer rose to tell him, “Don’t talk like a kid, kid. If those old boys mean to get liquored up before they hit that shantytown, someone had best warn those pobrecitos, pronto!”

  The youth nodded. “You’re right. I’d best tell Sam to circle ‘round and tell ‘em all to go home to Mexico a spell.”