A Time For Hanging

by Bill Crider

  He looked around, but he didn't see the mule. He wished that the woman wouldn't give him any more trouble. He was having enough trouble already, what with Charley Davis admitting to having seen the girl and with that bunch from the saloon wantin' to take Paco out of the jail and do no tellin' what to the boy, not to mention the preacher's wife sayin' that maybe her husband had killed his own daughter, and with even Jack admittin' to havin' known more than he should've about Liz Randall.

  "He'd be better off if he came with me," Vincent said. "I can have the doc in to look at him, and I can keep him safe till the trial."

  "There was no trial for my husband's killer," she said. "You did not keep my husband safe."

  Vincent wished she wouldn't bring that up. He felt bad about that, but there hadn't been anything he could do about it. He hadn't even been there when the man got shot.

  "Nobody's going to hurt your son," he said, hoping that he was telling the truth. This time, there was a lot of evidence to indicate that even if Paco had been caught in a pretty bad situation, there were others who shared that situation with him. Vincent didn't know how much good that evidence would do Paco, however.

  "That is what you say. It may even be what you wish. But it is not what others might wish."

  Hell, what could he say to that? She was right.

  "I'll do my best by him," he said finally. It was all that he could say, and even saying that much caused him a twinge and brought a bad taste into him mouth. He didn't want to have to stand up to anybody to save the boy's life. He didn't want to have to stand up to anybody for anything.

  "Anyway, he is not here," Mrs. Morales said. "You may search the house now, if you wish, but you will not find him there."

  Vincent slid off the horse. The dog perked up again, and the chickens left off their pecking to look at him.

  "I guess I'll just have to take a look, anyhow," he said. He had a sinking feeling that she was telling the truth, however. He wondered where the hell the boy had got to.

  In the shed, Paco heard the whole conversation. It was almost as if his mother and the sheriff were discussing someone else, a person that Paco was not even related to, but at the same time he knew what was happening. He felt light-headed and dreamy, and he wondered if he had a fever or it he was coming close to suffocation in the almost airless shed. He tightened his grip on the rifle, the smooth stock slippery under his sweaty hands.

  He hoped the sheriff would look in the house and then leave. He did not want to kill the sheriff.

  He would do it, though. He would not go back to the jail, where he knew that sooner or later he would die for killing the girl. The fact that he was innocent would not save him. No one would care about that.

  If the sheriff opened the shed door, then Paco would have no choice.

  #

  The house wasn't much, and Vincent didn't find the boy. He found the two little girls, and he found two sparsely furnished bedrooms, a kitchen with a dingy stove and a rickety wood table and four chairs, and a sitting room that had a couple of chairs and a raggedy settee in it, but that was all.

  "You see," Consuela Morales said. "He is not here."

  "He ain't in the house," Vincent agreed. "He's around here somewhere, though."

  "No," Consuela said. "He is not here. I told you. He took the mule, and he is gone."

  "Yeah, that's what you said." Vincent went past her and out on the porch. He looked around the yard, but it was something off down the road that caught his eye. Looked like riders. He shaded his eyes with his hand.

  It was riders, all right, and there wasn't much doubt where they were headed. Vincent fought a sudden urge to get on his horse and get out of there. He was pretty sure he knew what was coming, and he didn't know how to deal with it. Damn those fellas anyhow. Why couldn't they have just stuck to their drinkin'? He'd heard stories about how one man faced down a mob, but he didn't think he was that kind of man. He didn't like the idea of having to find out, either.

  He turned back inside. "Miz Morales, if you know where your boy is, you better tell me right now. There's some more men comin', and they won't be as easy about this as I am."

  "I will tell them as I have told you," she said. "He is not here."

  "Yeah," Vincent said. "And they won't believe you any more than I do. What's gonna happen then?"

  "We will see," she said.

  #

  Turley Ross was riding along in front, thinking of how he'd led the men last night and how he was leading them now. He'd never been in charge of anything before, but he last night the men had been looking to him for advice, and he'd given it to them, too. If it hadn't for that goddamn deputy, they'd've strung that kid up and that would've been the end of it. And everybody would've known that Turley Ross had been the one to get it done. Today, by God, they'd do it right.

  It had felt good last night to be the one who knew what to do, the one who was sure of what should be done. He could almost feel the hesitation in the others, even in Len Hawkins and Lane Harper. But Turley Ross didn't hesitate. "Let's string him up here and now," was what he said, and the others all respected him for sayin' it.

  Now he was leading them again, and even Roger Benteen was havin' to eat his dust.

  Thinking about Benteen upset Ross just a little. He didn't like it that the rancher and his men had dealt themselves in. The preacher, he had a right, and maybe even the gambler did, seein' as how the Morales boy was involved.

  Remembering the way Moran had killed the boy's father did not cause Ross even a moment's unrest. Morales was an uppity meskin, always comin' into the saloon and behavin' just like he was a white man and had a right. It was just like him to want to sit in on the card game, and what he got just exactly what he deserved. Turley always kinda wished he could've been the one to have killed him. People would've looked up to him for that.

  No one had ever had to look up to Turley before. He was too short for that, and when he'd been a kid all the other boys had picked on him, especially the older ones, the ones that could reach down and pat him on the head. They thought that was so damn smart, pattin' him on the head like he was some kinda little dog.

  They called him names, too, because of the way he looked, with his long arms and stocky build and the way he sort of hunched over when he walked. Somebody saw a picture of a monkey in a book and showed it to all the others. "Turley looks like a monkey," they all said after that.

  "Turley the monkey, Turley the monkey," they would yell in their high kid's voices, and then they'd chase after him and try to pat him on the head. Sometimes he thought he could still hear them yelling.

  "Nice monkey," they'd say when they caught him. "Nice monkey." And then they'd pat him.

  It didn't last for long, though. One evening one of the kids, the one who'd found the picture in the book and showed it around, was walking back to the house from a trip to the privy. Someone came up behind him and hit him with an ax handle. Six or seven times. Broke one of his arms and a couple of ribs and knocked out most of his teeth.

  The kid didn't see who did it, never got a chance to. He was too busy trying to cover himself and keep from getting his head broken open.

  He knew who it was, though, and so did everyone else, but there was no way they could prove it.

  After that, they left Turley alone, strictly alone.

  He found out then that there were some things just as bad as being called names and being made fun of. It was hard for a kid not to have any friends at all, not to have anyone to talk to or to go fishing with or anything at all.

  Turley got used to it eventually, but he was glad when his folks moved away from that town and he got a chance to start over. He made a few friends, but from that time on he never really trusted anyone. He never knew when they might get behind his back and laugh about him, about the way he looked or the way he walked.

  All he wanted was for people to see the good things about him and how he was smarter than most people and knew things about how things worked; he want
ed people to look up to him.

  Seems like they never did, though. As he got older he developed a knack for fixing things that were broken. He was good with his hands and a hammer and became a good carpenter and fence builder. His skills were in demand, but still it seemed

  that no one really respected him.

  He got to spending more and more time in the saloon. At least people there talked to him like he was as good as they were, which he certainly was. He was there because he wanted to be, not because he depended on liquor to give him any feeling of self-worth like he suspected most of them did.

  But now he was blossoming like a flower on the prairie. He was showing them that he was a man who could lead, who knew how to handle things.

  They were listening to him because they could see that he was right about the Morales boy. They had caught him in the act, rapin' and killin' a white woman, and he had to pay the price for that. Turley couldn't let anybody back down. If that happened, folks might wonder why they'd beat the boy up so bad in the first place -- he might even get the judge on his side by tellin' him some story about how the men who caught him broke his arm or somethin' along that line. The judge might even think they didn't have a right to do that. You never could tell.

  So it wouldn't ever come to a trial. Turley Ross would see to that, and later on people would thank him for it. You bet they would.

  26.

  Moran just wanted to get it over with.

  Hell, he didn't care about the kid or the girl he was supposed to have killed. They weren't anything to him. What he wanted was to get back to town and start up a poker game while everybody was feeling good about going out and getting revenge on a kid that probably couldn't even fight back. They'd all be talking big and drinking plenty. That was the kind of men Moran liked to have playing in any game he was part of. The more they talked, the more they drank; and the more they drank and talked, the worse they handled the cards.

  He liked the idea of having the cowboys along, too. If they'd hang around for the game, he could really clean up. He'd never seen a cowboy yet who knew a damn thing about cards. He often didn't even have to mark the cards when a bunch of punchers were in the game.

  The old man, that was a different story. Moran wouldn't want to get in a tangle with him. In fact, if the old geezer wanted in the game, Moran probably wouldn't dare to cheat. Benteen might look like a soft touch, but anybody who thought so would be dead wrong.

  Moran hoped they didn't take too long with the kid. It was hot, and he wasn't used to being out in the heat like that. He spent most of his time indoors, and his white skin showed it. He was wearing a pair of soft riding gloves to protect his hands, and his hat would take care of his face, but he still didn't think much of the outdoors, not in the daylight at least.

  He looked over at the preacher. There was another one who wasn't what he seemed to be, but Moran couldn't make out exactly what he was. He sat there in the saddle stiff as a board, mumbling to himself.

  That was a bad sign, sure enough. Moran had sat in a game or two with men like that, and they were always impossible to predict. They might play a steady game for a while and then just jump up right in the middle of an hand, kick over the table, and scatter money all over the room. Or they might jerk out a gun and start shooting.

  He had seen that happen once, and he had been forced to kill the man. Bastard was hard to put down, took three shots right in the chest and was still standing. Moran put his fourth shot right in the middle of the man's forehead, and he even stood there for a second or two after that, with the back of his head blown clean away. Moran would never forget the look in the man's eyes, like he knew he was dead but didn't want to admit it. Kinda the way the preacher's eyes looked right now, come to think of it.

  Moran had gotten out of that little scrape, too, just like he had with the Mex in Dry Springs. Self-defense. That time, he hadn't even had to bother planting a weapon so the citizens could feel justified in what they were saying. The man had tried to kill a few of them, too, at one time or another.

  "Pure-dee crazy, that was old Jackson," somebody said, which Moran figured was about as much of an epitaph as old Jackson would get and probably more than he deserved.

  Now they needed to put the kid down, or hang him on the closest tree. Hell, it was time to play cards.

  #

  The closer they got to the Morales place, the less Roger Benteen liked what they were doing.

  He had sort of gotten caught up in things, he thought, and that wasn't like him at all. He liked to be in control, and in this case he clearly was not. Things were happening around him that he couldn't seem to do anything about.

  First his daughter had run off. As far back as he could remember, she had never done anything like that. She was an independent little cuss, even as a child, but she more or less obeyed him in everything and tried to please him.

  And that damn Charley. Benteen couldn't blame the man for getting involved with LIz Randall, but he should have dropped her immediately when Lucille got interested in him. It was hard to get shed of women, though, Benteen knew that. That was probably one of the reasons why he didn't have anything to do with them.

  It was also one of the reasons why he didn't understand the passion that must have been involved in the murder of Liz Randall. Why anyone would want to cut someone up like they told him the girl had been was beyond Benteen's comprehension, and to believe that a fifteen-year-old boy might have done it was almost impossible.

  Benteen wondered how he had allowed himself to get caught up in the rush to find Paco Morales and punish him. He guessed it was all the talking and all the excitement, Charley telling him what had happened, the men in the saloon confirming it, all of them making it sound as if Paco was guilty beyond the shadow of a doubt.

  Of course, he had to admit as well that his wanting to prove that Charley was free of any recent interest in Liz Randall had a lot to do with it, too, sort of helping him get a handle on things again, but this was just a boy that they were riding against.

  It had been a long time since Benteen had ridden against anyone, though at one time or another he had been involved in his share of minor skirmishes over things like fences or water rights or strayed cows. Never over anything like a woman, however, no matter how she had died, and the whole thing made him vaguely uneasy.

  He supposed it was too late to back out now, though. His ranch hands wouldn't understand. They might take it for a sign of weakness, and while that wouldn't make much difference to them, since they would keep on working for the man who paid their wages, it would make a difference to Benteen. He wasn't the kind of man who liked to show weakness.

  It was like a big rock that started rolling downhill, he thought. You could stop it if you caught it right at first, but if you waited too long the rock would just go faster and faster. If you stepped in front of it after it got to going, it would just roll right over you and keep on bumping along, leaving you smashed flatter than a pancake behind it.

  It was too late to stop this bunch now. They were already too far down the hill and going too damn fast. All he could do was watch what happened and try to stay out of the way and keep from getting flattened. Then he would get everything straightened out between Charley and Lucille, and things would be all right again.

  He kept telling himself that as he rode, but somehow he couldn't quite make himself believe it.

  #

  The riders pulled up in front of the Morales house, but the big dust cloud they had stirred up kept on going. It rolled across the front yard and onto the porch. A good bit of it settled on Vincent, and he coughed it out of his mouth.

  Under the porch, the dog moved farther back into the shadows. He didn't want any part of what was going on.

  "Howdy, boys," Vincent said when he'd gotten the dust out. "What can we do for you."

  "What're you doin' here, Sheriff?" Turley Ross asked, assuming what he considered to be his rightful role as spokesman. "You're supposed to be back in town, kee
pin' the citizens safe."

  ""My deputy's doin' that," Vincent said. He could feel his stomach churning. "You got a problem with that?"

  "Not so long as you don't get in our way," Ross said. "You know what we're here for, all right."

  "I guess maybe I do," Vincent said, looking over the crowd. "I'm kinda surprised to see you and your boys here, though, Mr. Benteen. You, too, preacher."

  "Just seeing justice done," Benteen said. He felt he had to say something.

  Randall said nothing, just stared.

  "Well, you won't be seein' much justice around here," Vincent said. "Paco ain't on the place. I've already searched." He reckoned he was on safe ground, since he was telling only half a lie. "The boy's gone off on his mule, the way I figger it. It's not to be found anywhere on the place."

  "I don't believe that for a minute," Ross said, looking around him. "You boys know what kinda shape that kid was in. You believe he rode away from here on some mule?"

  "Hell, no," Len Hawkins said. "I don't believe he could stand up, much less ride a mule."

  "I don't know about that," Harl Case said. "If he wanted to get away bad enough, maybe he did ride off on that mule. Maybe we just oughta go on back to town and let the sheriff handle this business. He's the one who knows how."

  Ross turned in his saddle and glared at Case. "Goddamn you, Harl, you yellow bastard. If you wanta go home, you go. But you don't try to speak for the rest of us. The sheriff's already let that kid out of jail once. We're gonna make sure he don't get out again."

  "Damn right," Lane Harper said. "We want that boy, Sheriff, and we're gonna get him. Ain't that right, fellas?"

  The cowboys yelled in agreement.

  Vincent carefully kept his hand away from his gun. He could see they were all worked up, all except for Benteen and Case, who looked a little doubtful about the whole thing. And maybe excepting the preacher, too. The rest of them weren't quite at the point where they'd shoot their sheriff yet, but they weren't that far from it, either. He didn't know what to do except to keep on standing there and hoping they'd get tired of jawin' and leave.