by Mason, Zack
Somehow, I'd been dealt some extraordinary cards. I knew it and I sure wasn't going to forget it. I had to figure out what my next step would be. Even without a posse on my trail, there were others who might decide vengeance was the only route to satisfaction. I'd best be on my guard.
Cottonwood was off limits, but my stubborn streak wouldn't let me quit the area. I still had to find my brother. Nothing could erase that mission. I’d sooner hang than give up on him.
I headed to Rio Perdido, which was a town about twenty miles east of Dry Spot. A known outlaw haven, it would be a good place to hide out for a while. I might even hear some trail gossip that would help me find Ben. Bidding Dry Spot a silent good-bye, I snuck out the back door, snagged my horse, and lit a shuck.
***
Sheriff McCraigh's office door flew open with a loud bang. Bill Hartford strode through. Hartford owned the Double B ranch, the largest in the valley. He was a burly man of less than average height, known for his quick and unforgiving temper. This morning it was boiling for all the town to see.
McCraigh sat calmly behind his desk, awaiting the onslaught he knew was coming. Even though Hartford was one of the valley's most powerful men, he was not on the town council and had not been privy to their decision.
Following Hartford, Jim Dunagan stepped into the small office building which doubled as a jail. The rest of the councilmen trickled in after them, along with a few curious bystanders, until the already cramped office felt positively claustrophobic.
"What's going on, Sheriff?" Hartford demanded. "Where's the prisoner? Why isn't he out there swinging? Jim tells me y’all let him go?"
"That's right."
The heat from Bill Hartford's eyes could have bored a hole in his chest, but McCraigh knew he couldn't afford to let this man see him sweat, so he coolly returned the stare.
Hartford had not been at the hanging this morning, which was a miracle in of itself. If he had, McCraigh doubted whether they could have shut down Hawkins’ attempt to form a posse so easily. Bill's explosive character would have only made matters worse.
"By my mother's grave, Sheriff, that scum killed Tom! What in tarnation are you thinking? You let him go? On whose authority?"
"On my own authority and that of the town council. I assure you, Bill, it was not an easy decision. We planned to hang Talbot this morning.” McCraigh grit his teeth through clenched jaws. “Believe me, most of me still wants to. However, this morning, we were presented with evidence we could not ignore, and we made the decision to hang Joshua Miller in Jake Talbot's place."
"What evidence?"
"That information is confidential, and I am not at liberty to share it with you at this time. If one of the other members of the council wishes to, that is their choice."
McCraigh shifted nervously in his seat. The movement didn't go unnoticed by Hartford. He stood like a bull ready to charge, chest heaving, but not quite sure in which direction to aim his horns. The situation was beyond his comprehension, and from the looks on the faces of some of the others, he wasn't alone. What was going on?
"Who is this Josh Miller? What did he have to do with shooting Tom?"
"He's from up north in Colorado. Don't know much more about him than that. As far as we know he didn't have anything to do with Tom's death."
"Are you out of your everlovin’ mind?!" Hartford's voice pitched to a deafening bellow. "What is happening here? Are all of you out of your cotton-pickin’, ever-lovin’ minds? You call this justice? We all know who killed Tom. But you let him go and hung some Colorado boy who had nothing to do with it. I'll tell you what Sheriff, you're not only out of a job, you'll be lucky if we don't hang you!"
"Just calm down, Bill." Tom Burgess spoke now. The Mayor was a taller man, balding, with streaks of grey on the sides. He had a way of soothing explosive situations, a trait which kept the people of Cottonwood returning him to the office of mayor year after year. "It wasn't just the sheriff who made this decision, it was all of us on the council. We really had no choice. You'll just have to believe that."
McCraigh turned his glare to Burgess long enough to answer him. "I'll tell you what I believe. I believe that each and every one of you has gone insane! I can't ever understand letting a man go for murder. I won't understand it.” Hartford's face was beet red, the veins pulsing in his neck. His hands and forearms shook with anger and frustration. He wanted answers.
"Are all of you crazy? I mean that — really. Are you?" One by one, he looked into each of the council members’ eyes, and in turn, each averted their gaze to the floor. The mayor alone met his stare.
Silence.
Those few in the room who were not on the council flicked their eyes back and forth between the two parties.
"To hell with you, then. All of you. For anyone who cares, I'll be forming a posse out on my ranch to go after this outlaw who's been so conveniently turned loose. We'll set out by lunchtime."
The Sheriff cleared his throat. "I wouldn't do that if I were you, Bill. You don't know what you're getting into."
"McCraigh, you forfeited your right to give me advice the moment you let that murderer go. Anybody who wants to see justice done is welcome to join me."
Hartford the Bull charged for the door and plunged through the mass of men blocking his way.
Jim Dunagan, the owner of the third major ranch in Cottonwood Valley, was a big man, taller and stronger than most, but also one who kept to himself. He was a town councilman, yet almost never offered his opinion on any matter except when asked.
A well-worn, brown leather hat sat upon his head, and at the moment, he was enjoying an imported cigar as he gazed out the pane-glass window of his ranch home. He loved looking across the rolling hills he owned. As the wind pushed through the deep green grass in undulating waves, he absent-mindedly rubbed a clean-shaven cheek.
He'd always believed in living a neat, disciplined life, and that included shaving regularly. Plus, his wife hated beards, even stubble for that matter.
Jim had always appreciated Tom Logan’s easygoing nature. They’d been friends for a long time. Years ago, they'd come to this valley together and built their ranches side by side, watching each other’s backs for Indians and rustlers and cougars. Jim had never depended on anyone like he had Tom. Now Tom was gone. He’d never find a good friend like that again.
Bill Hartford was forming a posse on his ranch to go after Tom's killer. Their relationship with Bill went back just as far, and though Bill’s ornery nature and hot temper had kept them from being as good as friends as he and Tom, he still counted Bill as a close one.
Dunagan had no soft spot in his heart for Jake Talbot. Tom had been too good a friend. At the same time, he couldn't quite bring himself to hate Talbot. This was the West, and Tom had been foolish to go into that saloon unarmed and call a drunken, armed man a thief and a liar. That was just asking for trouble.
Dunagan had agreed with the other councilmen to vote as they did. He'd had the same dream they all had, the meaning of which couldn't have been clearer. The town of Cottonwood had knowingly hung an innocent man, but he felt no remorse for it. Fate, predestination, whatever you wanted to call it, it's what they were supposed to do. After all that, it didn't seem right to posse up and chase Talbot, not after what they’d done to let him go. Still, letting Tom’s killer get off like that rubbed him like sandpaper on an open wound.
Stubbing out his cigar, he hitched on his gun belt, and walked out the door.
***
"This ain't right, Bill, and that's all there is to it. We’ve been friends for a long time now and..."
"Tom was your friend too, Jim."
Hartford squinted into the setting sun and took one last drag on his cigarette before dropping it to the dust, grinding it out with the toe of his boot. His face was set hard.
"Bill, Talbot just acted foolish, and you well know it. He was drunk. Probably didn't even realize Tom wasn't armed. It could've happened to any of us."
"It didn'
t happen to any of us."
"It wasn't murder."
"That man is a no-good cattle rustler,” Hartford sneered. “He's a known thief who, when confronted with it, shot an unarmed man! If that ain't murder, I don't know what is." He glared at Jim for a full minute. The silence was heavy. He turned back to the sunset.
"We don't know he's a cattle rustler. It's probable, but it ain't proved."
"Proved enough for me. He's the stranger in these parts, and it started up right when he came to the valley."
"That ain’t true. It’d already been going on for months.”
“And that was his brother...”
“Yeah, yeah, I know...Anyhow, we shouldn't be going after him with this posse. It ain't legit. You know what the council decided. We let him go. They hung Miller in his place. That boy’s life will be wasted if we hang Talbot too."
"His blood be on your heads then! You may be on the council, Jim, but I'm not."
Placing a foot in the stirrup, Hartford turned and deftly mounted his horse. Managing the reins, he glowered down at his fellow rancher. "You need to decide whose side you're on, Jim. As for me, that man has stolen my cattle, he's murdered my friend, and I'll be danged if I don't make him pay!"
With that, he whipped his horse around and rode off, continuing the pursuit. He let out a whoop to signal the rest of the posse.
Dunagan stood for a minute and gazed across the seemingly peaceful terrain. He let the serenity overtake his spirit for one last moment of calm. Life is like this land, he thought, from afar, it’s beautiful, at peace. Up close, it’s right hard on a man and without comfort. Soon, he too mounted up and reined his horse around to follow after his friend.
***
"There he is!"
Hartford's shout was sharp.
He relished the chase. They had spotted Talbot about a hundred yards ahead of them, at the edge of a small gully. Another two minutes and Jake would escape over a ridge and into an area that was rife with small canyons, ravines, and arroyos. An area where a man could lose himself much easier than in the terrain through which they'd been pursuing him so far.
If Jake managed to escape the gully and make it into that territory, they might very well lose him for good.
Hartford’s eyes simmered with a confident hatred. Dismounting, he drew his rifle from its scabbard. Its gleam shone deadly.
Hartford was a good shot, one of the best. As he took aim, Dunagan watched in quiet awe, knowing that Talbot didn't stand a chance. Any second, a slug would slam into the back of his head and they would watch from a distance as he silently slid from his saddle into the dust.
Bill's sweaty finger slowly squeezed the trigger. He knew better than to jerk the shot.
Suddenly, Hartford’s hat was ripped from his head, as if from a burst of wind. Seconds later, a gun retort echoed from far off. Reacting instantly, Hartford threw himself to the ground, scrambling for cover among a cluster of rocks. Dunagan followed his example, as did the rest of the posse.
Talbot hadn't fired. He hadn't even turned around. That meant someone else was out there, protecting Talbot. An echo from one lone shot wasn't enough to pinpoint the shooter, so they had to stay put, or risk gaining an extra hole in the head.
Bill cursed and grumbled to himself. He couldn’t stand for anyone to get the best of him. Dunagan didn’t like it much either, but he wasn't nearly as touchy about it as Bill was. This Jake Talbot had done just that though, and now he'd done it twice.
Squatting and compressing themselves behind the rocks for the better part of an hour, no one wanted to use their head as a test to see if the mysterious sniper was still around. Finally, a couple of less patient men scuttled their way under cover up to where they suspected the shooter had probably holed up. They gave the "all-clear" sign and with sighs of relief, everyone else emerged and remounted. They would continue the hunt, but now it seemed fruitless.
Talbot was long gone.
***
That night, they sat sullenly as coffee boiled in a pot over their campfire. Dry strips of beef jerky and salt tack offered a poor end to a frustrating day.
They’d had a couple good trackers with them, but Talbot knew how to cover his steps well in that arroyo maze.
Maybe an Apache could find him, but not us, Jim mused. Bill sulked, thoroughly confused, incredulous, and frustrated all at once. His sense of right and wrong had been completely violated.
“Tell me why, Jim,” He pled in a hoarse whisper. “Why’d you all let him go?”
“It was the dream, Bill. You didn’t have the dream.”
You got to know when to hold ’em, know when to fold ’em,
Know when to walk away and know when to run.
“The Gambler”
- Kenny Rogers
I don't know who it was, or why, but somebody had saved my bacon. That posse had been right up on me. Though I'd expected a shot in the back at any moment, in a jam like that you don't waste time looking, you just ride your horse forward for all he’s worth.
When the shot did finally ring out and no holes appeared in my hide, then I couldn't resist a glance back. I could’ve sworn I was seeing things, but I'll be durned if that posse wasn't scrambling for cover.
The echo from that shot was music to my ears once I realized it hadn't been for me. I wondered who could be out there saving my tail, but no one came to mind. I didn’t know anybody around these parts who even liked me, much less somebody crazy enough to take on a posse.
I made it into the rougher country, and while it was a might slower going, I was confident I could lose them in the labyrinth of ravines and low hills. It was an easy place to hide your back trail too. If my luck kept, I might just make it all the way to Rio Perdido. I didn't think they’d dare follow me all the way there.
I hadn't had much time for contemplation up till then, but I knew one thing for sure: This had to be the most confusing day of my life. Last night, I'd sat in Cottonwood’s jail sure I'd never see another sunset. I was supposed to be a corpse right now, swinging in the wind, but instead the local authorities had pardoned me. I had no illusions. I knew they didn't think I was innocent, but they’d freed me, and I was going to grab my second chance and run like the dickens.
Still, the identity of the man they’d hung in my place had me completely perplexed. Why had he been hung?
That posse had set out hot on my tail in spite of the fact the sheriff told me I was free. I supposed it could have been a trick on his part to get me shot instead of hung, but why bother if they'd already built the gallows? None of it made any sense.
Now some mysterious stranger was protecting me from that same posse. God help 'em, whoever they were.
A strange day indeed.
***
I stood for a long while at the edge of town, staring at the dark water’s currents swirl and run their course. The river was swollen from recent rains and spots of different sized pieces of driftwood and other organic refuse twirled and meandered jerkingly along its surface.
I’d made it to Rio Perdido without further incident. A large boarding house stood next to the river, along with the beginnings of a small town.
Rio Perdido had a reputation as an outlaw hangout. It was a good place to disappear. No one asked questions here, and a posse would think twice before coming into this town looking for somebody. Half the population might get the wrong idea. That could start a little war.
So, was I an outlaw or not?
It wasn't every day a man had his life pass before his eyes so many times.
The dark, grey waters passed swiftly. The deep power of the river implied it could carry just about anything away.
Maybe I ought to jump in and let it carry me away.
The Spaniards had named it Rio Perdido, which meant "Lost River.” Kind of a romantic name for such a bleak looking thing. The world is kind of like that. You grow up thinking it's some grand place, full of romance and adventure, when in reality it's just plain bleak. Bleak and disappoint
ing.
Looking at the murky water flooded with debris, I thought maybe they ought to call it Rio Sucio instead.
***
The tinny music, gay dancing, and bawdy lights would have been enough to make my head spin even without the high amount of alcohol in my blood. The piano player was playing festive melodies, and he'd been going at it all night. Saloon girls danced round and round with cowhands and outlaws, and who knew which were which? Rio Perdido was also known for its dance halls and the girls that filled them.
Me, I just sat nursing my sixth whiskey. Tired of that, I jerked my glass up, downed it, and asked for a seventh. The dizziness growing in my head hinted that standing up might set the room to spinning. I was definitely past the “loaded” threshold. My troubles melted off my shoulders like butter in a warmed frying pan, and I felt giddy with relief.
I ordered another whiskey. The room began spinning, and I hadn’t even stood yet. Bliss turned to anxiety. What if someone from the posse came in while I was like this? They'd shoot me on the spot. A desperate desire to escape and retreat to the safety of my rented room overcame me.
I stood and took a step, but my legs collapsed from under me. As the floor rushed to meet my face, I somehow managed to turn my head just enough to avoid a broken nose.
A few people gathered over me, some laughing. Were they trying to move me? I felt a boot under my stomach, shoving me. I couldn't really tell what was going on, every-thing had gotten so fuzzy. Fuzzy! Ha! That was a good word for it! Where was I anyway? I couldn't remember.
A couple of hands grabbed under my arms and dragged me across the floor. I figured the arms must belong to the blurry, laughing faces above me. I wasn't so drunk I couldn't remember that hands belonged on arms, and arms, well...arms eventually connected to heads, which had faces.
