“I want to work with cattle,” Quinn said.
“No, you don’t. Cowboying is something a man does when he can’t do anything else. You know what I want?”
Quinn shook his head.
“I want to build me a cabin somewhere in California and grow peaches,” Frank said. “I’m right partial to peaches, but I’ve only eaten them out of a can. I want to grow fresh peaches, eat some, sell the rest.”
“If I ever drive a herd that way I’ll come buy some of your peaches,” Quinn said.
Frank smiled. “Sure you will, but only after you’ve graduated from college.”
* * *
As the day faded into evening Frank Cobb made his way up the rise to the cemetery. Below, the Kerrigan mansion was lit up like Dodge City on a Saturday night and a mile or so to the west Bill Cody’s tent city glowed gold and orange in the darkness, two beacons of civilization in a vast, somber landscape.
Coming up on a Cheyenne Dog Soldier in the gloom of night was an activity calculated to get a man’s pulse pounding, and Frank made more noise than he had to, his eyes warily scanning the murk ahead of him.
He reached Mosely’s fresh grave and looked around, but there was no sign of the Indian. Despite feeling naked without his gun—a sign of his peaceful intentions—Frank decided he would settle in for a wait.
He didn’t have to wait long.
Something cold and hard pressed into the back of Frank’s neck and a voice, lacking even a hint of civility, said, “Why you here?”
Frank didn’t move. “Howdy, Cloud Passing,” he said. “I’m here to talk to you.”
“Then talk,” the Indian said.
“I’d rather do it without a gun at my head,” Frank said.
“Stand up.”
Frank stood and Cloud Passing glanced at his waist and said, “White men are sly. Cobb, do you have a sneaky gun?”
“No, I’m unarmed,” Frank said.
Cloud Passing lowered his Colt. “What you want to talk about? The spirit of Mose-ly listens.”
Frank said, “I want to talk about your future, Cloud Passing.”
“Indian has no future. Everybody know that, and if you don’t, you are loco.”
“You want to stay on with Buffalo Bill, don’t you?” Frank said.
“Bill Cody good man, but big liar. His talk is mightier than his deeds.”
Coyotes yipped as the moon rose and a sharp-edged breeze whispered among the cemetery headstones.
“Do you wish to stay with him?” Frank asked again.
“Why you ask these questions?” Cloud Passing said. “I think you want to hang this poor Indian.”
“In a manner of speaking, you’re right,” Frank said. “That’s what I want to talk to you about.”
“White man, why you want to hang me for bad things I did not do?”
“No, no, I don’t want that,” Frank said. This wasn’t going well. “I’m going to pretend to hang you. You know pretend—make believe, sham, fake—I’m not really going to hang you, Cloud Passing.”
“Pretend,” the Cheyenne said. “Put noose around my neck on gallows, drop trap, and then say it was pretend.”
“You’ve seen men hung before?” Frank said.
“Seen many Cheyenne Dog Soldiers hung on white men’s gallows.”
“I’ll put a noose around your neck, but that’s just for the crowd,” Frank said. “I want you to help me, Cloud Passing. Help Bill Cody. Help a lot of people.”
“You will pretend hang me, Cobb?”
“That’s right, old fellow. Pretend hang you.”
The Indian’s Colt came up fast. “This here pretend pistol. Now I pretend I blow your goddamn brains out.”
“No, wait,” Frank said, feeling that he was on a sinking ship. “We need to talk about this. It doesn’t need to come to shooting.”
But Cloud Passing wasn’t listening. The Indian’s eyes stared beyond Frank to Josiah Mosely’s grave. Frank turned and saw what Cloud Passing saw.
A column of gray mist hung over the grave, and as Frank watched it drifted toward the Indian and then slowly enveloped him. The mist lingered for a few moments and then moved on and slowly faded into the darkness.
Such random patches of evening fog were not rare on the prairie and Frank paid it no mind, but to Cloud Passing it was an omen and he seemed keenly affected by it. Like a man waking from sleep he blinked a few times, lowered his gun, and said, “We will talk now. Mose-ly wills it. He says to state your intentions.”
The mist had arrived in the nick of time, and Frank Cobb was not one to look a gift horse in the mouth. He stepped closer to the Cheyenne and said, “All right, here’s what I plan to do . . .”
* * *
“And what’s in it for you, Cloud Passing, is that your name will be cleared, and you’ll no longer be a hunted man,” Frank said. “You can go wherever you want, do whatever you want. Bill Cody’s Wild West tours Europe next year. You can go with him and see the sights.”
“Cobb, if you were Indian, would you trust white man to put your head in noose and trust that he was only pretending to hang you?” Cloud Passing said.
Frank said, “No, not for a moment.”
The Cheyenne stared hard at the other man and then said, “I see no lie in your eyes, Cobb. You can hang me.”
“You won’t regret this,” Frank said. “I won’t really string you up, I give you my word.”
“I regret it already,” Cloud Passing said.
CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE
Next morning a few lingering stars still hung in the sky as Frank Cobb led a hung-over posse of thirty punchers, including Trace and Quinn Kerrigan, in search of Cloud Passing.
Feeling wretched, martyred by last night’s whiskey, the KK hands were unusually quiet, though every now and then Shorty Hawkins groaned and begged someone to shoot him and bring his suffering to an end.
Relief was at hand, though the cowboys didn’t know it yet. The buckboard that brought up the rear of the column was stocked with jugs of 40-rod, well hidden under a canvas tarp.
Frank Cobb had planned it well. There was not a rowdier, wilder, and more downright dangerous creature than a hung-over waddie on the prod who’d managed to get himself likkered up again. When they rode into Bill Cody’s camp his boys would be a drunken, unruly mob eager to hang a murdering savage.
“They’re mighty quiet,” Trace said. The only sound was the thud of hooves and the creak of saddle leather. Now and then a man coughed and a few groaned.
“I don’t like doing this to them, but there’s no other way,” Frank said. “When we meet up with Cody’s people I want a drunk, hanging posse, but I can’t depend on the hands acting the part.”
“So you’re going to kill them all with whiskey,” Quinn said.
“Like I said, there’s no other way,” Frank said. “I wish there was.”
Trace said, keeping his voice low, “Doesn’t it worry you that the boys will be so drunk they’ll hang the Indian for real?”
“Out of spite, like,” Quinn said.
“I’m playing with fire here, and I know it,” Frank said. “But we’re going to flush out a murderer and save an innocent man from hanging. The hands are young, and after a bellyful of busthead they’ll sleep it off. A man can sleep off a hanging but it will take him all of eternity.”
“Hell, Frank, you sure thought this thing through,” Trace said.
“No I didn’t. I’m taking a heap of chances here, and the odds are against me.”
An example of how easily things could go wrong happened after Cloud Passing stepped out of the trees under a flaming sky bannered with scarlet and jade. The Cheyenne raised his hands in surrender and Frank Cobb thought to himself, “Well, so far, so good.”
But then one of the young hands shook out his rope and kicked his horse into a dead run. Cloud Passing saw the danger and turned to face the whooping puncher. Too late. The loop settled around the Indian’s chest and he was yanked off his feet and then dragge
d behind the galloping pony.
The puncher let loose with a rebel yell and set spurs to his mount. The Cheyenne’s body bounced and rolled across the uneven ground, a dust cloud kicking up behind him.
“Stop!” Trace yelled. “You’re killing him!”
But Frank was already on the move. A two-hundred-pound man riding a twelve-hundred-pound American stud at a flat-out gallop, he angled toward the hollering cowboy and drove his horse into the man and his mount. The collision was incredibly violent and sounded like a falling boulder hitting wet sand. For a split second shock registered on the young puncher’s face and then he and his horse went down and hit the ground hard. Frank drew rein as the cowboy rolled away from his kicking mount and then climbed shakily to his feet.
Frank swung out of the saddle, yelled to the puncher, “See to your damned horse,” and then took a knee beside Cloud Passing. The Indian showed some scrapes and bruises on his face and hands, but otherwise seemed unhurt. Frank helped him to his feet and said, “Sorry, that wasn’t supposed to happen.”
“Did you tell cowboy that this only pretend?” Cloud Passing said.
“No, I didn’t,” Frank said. “Sorry again.”
“Then tell them my hanging is pretend,” the Indian said. “Your men too quick with a rope.”
“Cloud Passing, you’re going to hear me say some pretty hard things about stringing you up, and sich. I don’t mean any of it,” Frank said. “I swear, you’ll be just fine.”
“Tell that to your cowboys,” the Indian said.
Frank turned Cloud Passing over to Trace and Quinn. “Get out the jugs from the buckboard and pass them around,” he said. “And make damn sure the Indian stays safe.”
“Damn sure,” Cloud Passing said.
The young cowboy had his horse on its feet and was slapping dust off himself with his hat. “Are you all right? No broken bones?” Frank said. The puncher nodded and Frank stepped to the horse, ran his hand over its legs, and then patted its neck. “He seems fine,” he said.
“You could’ve killed me, Frank,” the cowboy said. “You came damn near to it.”
Frank Cobb smiled. “Hell, Clem, you’re young. I knew you would bounce.” Then, his smile gone, “I need the Indian alive, so leave him be.”
“I thought we were gonna hang him,” the puncher said, his young face puzzled.
“We are, and we ain’t,” Frank said. “Go get yourself a drink.”
“After getting damn near killed, I need one,” Clem said, scowling. He threw Frank an accusing glance, turned on his heel, gathered up the reins of his horse, and walked toward the other punchers.
Frank watched the youngster go and then shook his head. It seemed that Clem Brixton was not a forgiving man. The kid got upset way too easily over little things. That was his problem.
* * *
For the next couple of hours as the sun rose higher and filtered yellow light shone through the tree canopies, the jugs were passed among the cowboys, who fell on them with delight. The best cure for a whiskey hangover was more whiskey. Everybody knew that.
Frank Cobb watched the KK riders with growing satisfaction. The boys were getting good and drunk again and would play their part well. When just an inch or two of booze sloshed in the jugs, Frank called the punchers together. Cloud Passing, his hands and feet bound, was lying on his side in the wagon.
“Boys,” Frank said, “you have done something splendid today, and by that I mean the capture of the murdering Indian who goes by the name Cloud Passing, or, as I prefer to call him, the Demon Scalper.”
As he knew it would, this brought cheers from the hands and a sidelong look from the horrified Cloud Passing.
“Let’s string him up,” someone in the crowd yelled. “A scalp for the gallant Custer.”
This also drew cheers and shouts of “Hear-hear,” and “Huzzah!”
Frank let the punchers see his smile. “No, not now. Boys, don’t rob yourself of your glory.”
Clem Brixton, still smarting over the rough handling he’d had from Frank, said, “What the hell does that mean?”
The punchers muttered to one another and there were a few calls for an immediate hanging.
Trace Kerrigan held up his hands for silence. “Listen up, men,” he said. “The murders were committed in Buffalo Bill’s camp. I say we take our prisoner there and let Bill Cody and his people see what kind of men we are. And what kind of men are we?” Then at a shout, “The best damn Indian fighters in Texas, that’s who!”
This time the cheering was enthusiastic and prolonged, but then a dissenting voice yelled, “What about the hanging?”
Frank Cobb again took up the speechifying. “Men, we’re going to invite Bill Cody’s people to attend our necktie party. It’s their right, and they’ll appreciate our gesture of goodwill. What do you say?”
More cheering and from the hands nary a word of disagreement.
Frank smiled. So far everything was going to plan. As the jugs were passed around and drained, he stepped to the buckboard and said to Cloud Passing, “It will be all over soon and you’ll be a free man.”
The Indian said, “Cobb, if you hang me—”
“By mistake, you mean?”
“I’ll come back as evil spirit and torment you for the rest of your life.”
Frank laid a hand on Cloud Passing’s shoulder. “You won’t hang. Trust me,” he said. “Things are going real well.”
And the Cheyenne groaned.
CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR
Amid wild whoops of triumph and festive revolvers firing into the air, the KK ranch posse rode into the Bill Cody camp like a bunch of drunk cowboys hoorawing a cow town.
Kate Kerrigan was not amused, and Bill Cody was alarmed enough to buckle on his guns. “If you will excuse me, dear lady,” he said before darting out of the tent.
Kate turned to her lady’s maid, and said, frowning as the shooting, cheers, and yells continued, “Flossie, go see what’s happening out there. And if you happen on my sons or Frank Cobb tell them I wish to speak to them.”
Flossie, a robust girl who had driven Kate’s carriage in the absence of Shorty Hawkins, said, “Yes, ma’am,” and stepped outside. Kate knew of Frank Cobb’s plan, but she didn’t think its execution would be quite so . . . boisterous.
The noise died down as Frank called for silence and he then began to speak to the crowd. Kate couldn’t quite hear what he was saying, but after a couple of minutes the tent flap was drawn back. Kate expected Flossie, but it was Bill Cody who entered, his face grave.
“Everyone’s been invited to a hanging, Kate,” he said. “Frank Cobb has the crowd all riled up. Your KK riders captured Cloud Passing and they plan to hang him for the murders of the three cowboys and Slide McKenzie.”
Playacting, but hating herself for what she had to say, Kate told Bill that justice must take its course. “The ball has opened and now there will be no stopping it.” she said.
Bill Cody gave Kate a long look. “You’ve changed your tune, Kate. I thought you figured the Indian was innocent.”
“I did, but now I’m not so sure,” Kate said. “All the evidence points to Cloud Passing.” She smiled. “Doesn’t it?”
Before Bill could answer, Flossie stepped into the tent. Her pretty face was flushed with excitement. “They’re hanging the Indian,” she said. “We’re all invited. Mr. Cobb says he’ll string him up from the nearest tree.”
Bill Cody was crestfallen and he looked at Kate in disbelief. “Your segundo plans to hang an innocent man. I . . . I can’t believe you’re not ordering him to stop.” Then, his face stiff, “Dear lady, you’ve changed.”
Kate could not let the man suffer any longer. She said, “Mr. Cody, are you familiar with Shakespeare’s play, Hamlet?”
Bill looked puzzled, but he said, “I am familiar with the tormented Prince of Denmark, yes.”
“Then you’ll recall him saying: The play’s the thing wherein I’ll catch the conscience of the king.”
“Yes, I once heard that great thespian Henry Irving utter those immortal words,” Bill said. “And from that day to this I’ve never forgotten them.”
“Mr. Cody, today we are all actors in a play, trying to catch the conscience of . . .”
“The real guilty party!” Bill exclaimed in considerable triumph.
“Exactly,” Kate said. “Now if you and Flossie will assist me, I will go outside and hopefully catch the final act of our little tragedy.”
* * *
Kate guessed that several hundreds of Bill Cody’s people had gathered to watch Cloud Passing hauled to his feet for their inspection. The comments from the crowd were varied and many:
“A savage-looking beast.”
“Hang the murderer.”
“Revenge for Custer.”
“Indian animals. Hang ’em all.”
And more sinister than any other, “Let’s do it. Let’s string him up now.”
Bill Cody had provided a folding canvas chair for Kate and an upturned bucket to rest her swollen ankle. She had an excellent view of the mob and of Frank Cobb standing on the back of the buckboard, holding the rope end of the noose around the Cheyenne’s neck. A Dog Soldier’s pride would not allow Cloud Passing to show fear, but Kate thought he seemed resigned to his fate. She fervently hoped Frank knew what he was doing. A hanging mob could get out of hand very quickly.
There was no sign of Ingrid Hult or Jim Benson.
Frank was doing his best to stall for time, launching into one impassioned speech after another. But the crowd and his own drunk punchers wanted a hanging . . . and they wanted it now.
Finally Frank Cobb could delay no longer. It was time to force Ingrid Hult’s hand. Cloud Passing was made to lie down again and the buckboard, Quinn at the reins, rolled forward toward the tree line. The crowd, still hundreds strong, performers and roustabouts, fell in behind, including a score of solemn Sioux and Cheyenne Indians. It began to rain, a steady, dismal drizzle, and Bill Cody, his head bent, took up the rear, walking. Suddenly he looked like an old, white-haired man.
Ingrid Hult was nowhere in sight.
Frank Cobb saw Kate sitting out in the open and cantered his horse toward her. He drew rein, leaned from the saddle, and said, “Kate, it isn’t working. Damn it all, Ingrid Hult isn’t going to play, and it won’t work.”
Hate Thy Neighbor Page 23
