The Hanging of Charlie Darke

by Will DuRey

  ‘You seem determined to get us killed,’ I said. ‘Why didn’t you tell the sheriff that Chet is still alive. If they get a doctor to him he’ll be able to tell them that we didn’t shoot him.’

  ‘You don’t get it, do you? They won’t be satisfied until I’m dead. I’ve got what the Bartons want. That’s not allowed so I have to be removed. And,’ he said as he drew his Colt from its holster, ‘if I’m going to pay for Chet Barton’s death then I may as well be guilty of it.’ He crossed to the room where the unconscious form lay sprawled on the bed. Annie shouted as she realized his intention and ran into the room where Chet lay. I flung myself forward and grabbed Charlie’s gun arm. He swung a punch at me with his left hand. It caught me high on the temple and carried more weight than I expected. I staggered but kept a tight hold on his arm, twisting it up so that it wasn’t possible to get a shot at Chet. He tried another blow with his left hand but I was ready for it and blocked it before it was half-way delivered. I wrapped my left leg behind his right and forced him backwards over it. We crashed to the floor, me on top, forcing his right arm above his head, hoping, if the gun went off during our struggle, that Annie wasn’t in the line of fire. Charlie brought his knee up, aiming at my groin, but, rolling around on the floor as we were, it was a movement lacking both accuracy and venom.

  I needn’t have worried about Annie. It was she who brought about the end of the struggle. While we grappled for possession of the gun Annie seized Charlie’s rifle and with one swift blow, rammed the butt down on Charlie’s wrist causing him to release his grip on the Colt. This second-front attack enabled me to swing my right arm in long arc. My fist collided with Charlie’s jaw and he went slack beneath me. I dragged him back into the front room and propped him against the wall while I took a glimpse through the broken window.

  It seemed the ruckus in the house had attracted the attention of the posse. Men were gazing inquisitively at the bullet-scarred building, their heads clear targets above the boulders they had used as cover. I could see Sheriff Bayles directing men around the rear of the house. A couple of others were cautiously edging forward, seeking closer cover.

  ‘I’m going to call them in,’ I told Annie. ‘We don’t have another option.’

  She looked back at Chet’s near lifeless body, then down at her husband who was beginning to shake the wooziness from his head. ‘OK,’ she said.

  ‘Sheriff!’

  Dan Bayles answered. ‘What is it?’

  ‘Are you still offering a fair trial?’

  ‘You got it.’

  ‘Then the fight’s over. Don’t come in shooting. There’s a woman and a wounded man in here.’

  ‘Drop your guns out the window then come to the door with your hands in the air.’

  I did what he told me with my guns and Charlie’s. Charlie glowered not just at me but at Annie, too. ‘We didn’t shoot Chet,’ I said. ‘There are three of us to tell what happened. It’ll be OK.’ He didn’t believe me but didn’t waste his breath with an argument.

  Sheriff Bayles and the posse crowded into the house. They bore with them the scent of bravado, proud of their success, peaceful men whose unity had upheld the law. They gathered around us, rifles thrust forward, anxious to shoot us if we showed any reluctance to follow their orders.

  ‘Where’s Chet?’ asked Dan Bayles.

  ‘Back room,’ I told him.

  At the sheriff’s bidding two men went through to the bedroom. I heard one of them shout. ‘He’s been shot in the back, Sheriff. The cowards shot Chet in the back.’

  My protest that we hadn’t shot him went unheeded. Angry voices called us bushwhackers and cattle-thieves. The mood was turning from pride in their work to outrage at our perceived deeds. One of the men who had been in the bedroom bustled his way to my side. He was a big man, unshaven and dusty. I recognized him as the man who had laid his lariat on the horse’s rump to hang Charlie Darke.

  ‘Hang ’em here, Sheriff. They’ve murdered Chet because he was man enough to face them on his own. When he accused them of stealing cattle they shot him in the back.’

  ‘That’s not true.’ Annie’s voice quivered, a mixture of fear and indignation. ‘Charlie didn’t shoot Chet.’ But her voice was drowned by a series of accusations and threats.

  ‘String ’em up,’ the big man shouted, and his words were echoed by others in the group.

  ‘You promised us a trial,’ I reminded the sheriff.

  ‘And you’ll get it. There’ll be no lynching while I’m sheriff.’

  ‘We don’t need a trial. We know they’re guilty.’ This sentiment was met with a roar of approval and other suggestions. ‘Take them to the barn.’ ‘There’s a good tree by the fence.’ ‘Fetch a rope.’

  Sheriff Bayles’s demands were being ignored. Charlie Darke, who hadn’t spoken a word since I’d knocked him out, seemed reconciled to his fate, as though being right in his judgement of the posse’s behaviour was an occasion of justifiable pride. Annie was crying, pleading for common sense of anyone who would listen. Then amid the mayhem a gunshot brought silence to the crowd.

  As the smoke and reverberations died away, I saw a thickset man in the doorway. His face was swarthy and he wore a short, neat moustache. His eyes were dark and deep under heavy lids. The skin was loose about his jaw and neck, as though he had recently lost a lot of weight, but his expression was stern, and, when he spoke, his low voice carried authority.

  Duke Barton said, ‘Where’s my son.’

  CHAPTER FOUR

  The men separated to allow Duke Barton to pass through to the bedroom. Sheriff Bayles went with him. They were followed by a man of indeterminate age who had arrived with the rancher. He was three inches short of my height, dressed like a cowboy and wearing a wide-brimmed, high-crowned hat. A plait of braided hair hung over each shoulder, and, set deep in the weathered, expressionless face, brown eyes reflected a mind full of knowledge and secrets. He was full-blood Cheyenne and moved with the careful, silent tread inherent in all the tribes of the Plains.

  The men of the posse kept their guns pointed at me and Charlie Darke. There was a new air of expectation in the room, a feeling that, after seeing the bullet hole in his son’s back, Duke Barton would authorize our lynching and the matter would be closed. The voices from the bedroom were low and the words didn’t carry, but the rancher didn’t stay there long.

  ‘Arnie,’ he said to one of the men guarding us, ‘ride over to Blackwater and get Doc Cartwright here urgently. Chet’s in a bad way. It’ll take a good man to save him now.’ The man called Arnie touched his hat and lit out without a word.

  ‘Mr Barton,’ said Annie, ‘Charlie didn’t shoot Chet. Nor did Mr Gray. Don’t let them hang them. Please.’

  Duke Barton looked around at the assembled men. ‘Put your guns up, boys. I know these men didn’t shoot my son. He was shot from the ridge, away off the trail. Hawk here,’ he indicated the Cheyenne who stood behind his right shoulder, ‘saw the whole thing.’ He turned to me, studied my buckskin leggings and jacket as though they were as out of place as a Confederate uniform at Lincoln’s funeral. ‘Hawk tells me you risked your life to save my son. I thank you for what you did.’ He held out his hand and I took it. ‘I’m in your debt, Mr…?’

  ‘Gray. Wes Gray.’

  A murmur arose from several of the men. Duke Barton spoke. ‘Seems I’ve heard the name before. You the mountain man? The companion of Jim Bridger?’

  ‘That’s me.’

  ‘Your reputation is known, hereabouts. May I ask what you’re doing here?’

  ‘Just visiting. Mrs Darke’s uncle is a friend of mine.’

  ‘That the reason you saved Charlie from hanging in town?’

  ‘Uh-huh. Seems the folks have taken a dislike to Charlie Darke. But they’re trying to hang him for things he didn’t do. He wasn’t anywhere near that creek where the beeves were overbranded. If the sheriff checks with the men Charlie was gambling with earlier they’ll tell him that he couldn’t have been
out there this morning. But the sheriff seemed to be keeping out the way when the mob was seeking blood.’

  ‘Now just a minute,’ interrupted Sheriff Bayles, angry at my implication, ‘I’ve never let mob rule take over in any town before and I ain’t starting now.’

  ‘OK, Dan,’ said Barton, ‘take it easy. Mr Gray,’ he said to me, ‘we have a good sheriff here in Beecher’s Gulch. Don’t be too quick to judge other people’s actions. Still Dan,’ he turned back to the sheriff, ‘perhaps you can talk to these witnesses. If they vouch for Charlie then he’s off the hook.’

  Subdued by Duke Barton’s words, Dan Bayles agreed to follow up on Charlie’s alibi. ‘But you’ve got to come back to town with me,’ he told Charlie. ‘You’re my prisoner until your name is cleared.’

  Charlie protested, vehemently; protested his innocence; protested he had work to do around the ranch; protested against leaving Annie alone with a killer around.

  Duke Barton spoke calmly. ‘Sheriff’s got his job to do. Go with him. If your story works out you’ll be home tomorrow. Besides, Chet can’t be moved so, with your permission Annie, I’ll hang around here until the doctor’s taken a look at him. Some of my men can help with the cattle for the next day or two.’

  I threw in my two cents’ worth, assuring Charlie that I would be staying around for a few more days. Unhappily he went off with the sheriff and the posse. I watched them go, then went into the bedroom where Annie and Duke stood silently at Chet’s bedside. There was no sign of Hawk, the Cheyenne cowboy.

  ‘When will the doctor get here?’ I asked.

  ‘Could be three hours. It’ll be dark before they’re half-way here. The trail ain’t too good in some places. They won’t be able to hurry.’

  ‘The bullet’s still in him. It needs to be got out pretty soon. If it poisons his blood he won’t survive.’

  ‘You offering to do it?’

  I shook my head. ‘I’ve done it before,’ I told them, ‘but never one in as deep as that one. Reckon he needs a proper doctor. A good doctor.’

  ‘Cartwright’s a good doctor,’ Duke Barton said. ‘He’s the best.’ I couldn’t fault the conviction in the rancher’s tone.

  Annie was kneeling by the bed, applying a cold cloth to Chet’s brow. Concern for the rancher’s son was apparent in the careful manner she tended him. Her eyes watched his face hoping to see some sign of recovery but his eyes remained closed, his body still and only his shallow breathing acknowledged that life remained. Duke Barton rested his hand on Annie’s shoulder and gently squeezed. The weakest of smiles passed between them, both trying to convince the other that all would be well, neither of them fooling themselves.

  I turned and left the room. Duke Barton followed.

  ‘Why did she do it?’ I wasn’t sure his question was aimed at me. I looked at him to see if he had more to say. ‘Why did she marry Charlie Darke. Look at her in there. That’s where she should be. At Chet’s side. I can’t understand what went wrong.’

  I wanted to say that perhaps nothing went wrong, that she just changed her mind, that she saw something more admirable in Charlie than she did in Chet, but this didn’t seem to be the time to say things like that, and, besides, I knew squat about the situation. ‘Think I’ll take a look around,’ I said.

  ‘How long do you intend staying, Mr Gray?’

  ‘Until I’m satisfied that Mrs Darke isn’t in any danger. Couldn’t go back to her uncle otherwise.’

  ‘You going to be meddling in the sheriff’s business?’

  ‘Someone shot at me as well as your son. I mean to find out who. If the sheriff finds out before I do that’s OK with me, but I’m not too sure how hard the sheriff will be looking.’

  ‘Let me tell you something, Mr Gray, I meant every word when I told you Dan Bayles was a good sheriff. He has upheld the law here for many years and before you go suspecting that we’re talking about my laws let me put you straight. Dan Bayles is incorruptible. I suspect the reason you had to stop the lynching of Charlie Darke today was because Dan was unconscious. He has a medical problem. I believe he has confided only in me and Doc Cartwright. He has diabetes, and, from time to time, he passes out. I’ve known about it for several weeks. He came to me when it first occurred because he wanted me to appoint one of my men sheriff until a new one could be elected. I talked him into going to see Cartwright and between us, me and the doc persuaded him to carry on. I didn’t want to see him submit to the condition. Until now he hasn’t let anyone down, although lately he has refused to handle disputes outside the town limits. I was surprised to see him here today and I suspect he came to make sure that there wasn’t a lynching. Perhaps he’ll resign now. I’ll be sorry to see him go if he does.’

  I had nothing to argue with. The health of the sheriff was a local problem that didn’t concern me. With or without his help I intended finding out who had a grudge against Annie and her husband and the place to start was the ridge where the shooter had hidden himself to ambush Chet Barton. I went out to the barn to get Red. I was busy saddling him when a rider came around the far side of the house at the gallop. Duke Barton stepped out on to the porch.

  ‘Where is he?’ The newcomer who jumped from his mount’s back was an older, rougher version of Chet Barton. I guessed he was the elder brother. His eyes were of the same piercing blue but his skin was deeper coloured and coarsened by a busy outdoor life. The breadth of his shoulders and depth of his chest betokened a strong man.

  ‘Take it easy, Wade,’ his father said. ‘He’s inside.’

  ‘First our top hand and now he’s killed my brother. Why ain’t he hanging from that tree. I’ll kill the sonofabitch.’

  Duke grabbed his son’s arm. ‘Hold it Wade. Charlie Darke didn’t shoot Chet, and your brother ain’t dead.’

  In mid-stride Wade threw his attention at his father. ‘Chet’s still alive?’

  ‘Only just. No guarantee that he’ll stay that way. We’re waiting for Doc Cartwright.’

  ‘Word at the ranch was that Chet was dead.’ His anger bubbled to the surface again. ‘And if Charlie Darke didn’t shoot him then who the hell did? He was here when it happened, wasn’t he? So who else could have done it?’

  ‘We don’t know who did it,’ Duke spoke in a level tone, trying hard to subdue his son’s temper, ‘but the bushwhacker was on that ridge yonder. Hawk saw the whole thing.’

  ‘Hawk! That goddamn redskin. And you believe him! He’s probably part of Darke’s plot to ruin us.’

  ‘Talk sense, Wade. There isn’t a plot to ruin us. And Hawk’s loyalty to this family is not in doubt.’ A tense, silent moment passed between them. I climbed onto Red and walked him towards the fence gate.

  ‘Wes,’ Duke called. I reined in and turned Red towards the veranda where he and his son stood. ‘This is my eldest boy, Wade. Wade, this is Wes Gray. He saved your brother’s life.’

  Wade lifted his eyes to my face. For a moment there was a change in his expression. I wasn’t sure whether it was concern or surprise, but it passed as suddenly as it came. ‘You the Indian scout?’

  ‘Done some,’ I said.

  ‘Heard the name.’ He pulled at the front of his hat then walked into the house.

  ‘I’ll be back before the doc gets here,’ I told Duke Barton, and rode off along the trail.

  Sundown was less than an hour away when I left the Darkes’ ranch, but I wanted to find the ambusher’s position before all light was gone. I stuck to the trail until a cover of trees took me out of sight of the house. I could have made a beeline for the spot I had fixed in my mind when under fire, but I wasn’t sure that I wanted Duke Barton or his son to know what I was doing.

  I cut off to the left and made my way up the grassy bank to the high line overlooking the ranch house. When I got within the vicinity of the sniper’s lair I dismounted. On foot I was more likely to spot any tracks he might have made. Not that I expected to find any, I didn’t know from which direction he’d approached his shooting position or had
left it, this was merely habit, doing what I could to make myself familiar with the land. Before I’d found the exact location I knew one thing about the shooter; he wasn’t a novice with a gun. It required someone with a good eye and a steady hand to make a downhill shot with the necessary accuracy to hit a man from this distance.

  As I followed a drop in the land, a movement at the top of the ridge caught my eye. I placed my hand over Red’s muzzle to keep him quiet, let go of his lead rein and moved stealthily through the undergrowth to where I’d seen the movement. It was a riderless horse that did nothing more than raise its head as I approached. I checked its flank. It carried a star brand which I had to assume was the mark of Duke Barton’s ranch. Someone had the same idea as me about finding a trail. I figured I knew who it was.

  I found him in a delve almost directly below where he’d left his horse. He had his back to me, squatting, examining something he held in his hand. I watched him for a moment, then looked across to the ranch house to confirm that the view coincided with my memory of the shooter’s rifle flashes.

  He didn’t turn round, he just said, ‘You are Medicine Feather, brother of the Arapaho.’

  ‘How do you know I’m not the sniper come back to collect those shells you’ve found?’

  He turned then. ‘Because you approach like an Arapaho, still clumsy enough to wake sleeping Cheyenne ponies, but not like other white men whose step is heavier than buffalo running from the hunt. Besides,’ he added, ‘I watched you ride away from that house. I knew you would come here. This is the start of the trail to the man who tried to kill you.’

  ‘Do you know the man?’

  ‘No. I was beyond the house.’ He pointed to the wooded slopes west of the ranch. ‘When many men came from town Ice Eyes went to protect his woman. Sent me to bring his father. Darke not good man. I watch to make sure Ice Eyes is safe before going to Silver Star.’ I understood why Hawk had given Chet the name Ice Eyes. Names are important to all the tribes of the plains and can change with the events in their lives. I was proud of my Arapaho name, Medicine Feather, which I’d earned by stealing the tail-feathers of an eagle to fulfil the medicine dream of a new chief. Chet’s name referred to his unusual physical feature. Even in shade his eyes had a unique quality. I had noted it in the short time we’d faced each other before he was shot.