by C. M. Curtis
“You never know; Jim Marcellin is a fair man.”
Jeff merely shrugged. “How long before we get to the Circle M?”
“Not ‘till evening. We’re going to town first to get the mail and pick up a few things for Catherine.”
“Who’s Catherine?”
“The boss’s mother; she lives on the ranch.” Reef smiled and his eyes twinkled, “I said Catherine is the boss’s mother but some people say Jim is the boss’s son.”
Jeff smiled mentally as his mind formed an image of Catherine Marcellin. It was an image that would soon undergo drastic changes.
“They came out here in ‘63,” continued Reef. “Jim, his mother, and his son. The ranch grew and things went pretty well for them ‘till the rustlin’ started. Since then times have been tough.”
“Gordon and Billy didn’t have that much of a herd,” offered Jeff.
“No.” agreed Reef, Billy and Gordon were just small timers. “There’s two big ranches in the valley, and a pack of little ones. It couldn’t be the smaller ranchers that are doing the rustling; there would be no way for them to hide it. And it’s hard to figure either of the bigger ranches would be doing it. We know it ain’t the Circle M, because that’s us and we ain’t doing it. West of us is the Double T, the second biggest. That’s Emil Tannatt’s outfit. I never figured Emil for a rustler, though he’s got a son named Al, who’s as wild as a turpentined cat. Al could be doing it, but I don’t see how he’d do it without his old man knowing. A lot of people are pointing fingers at each other and it’s got to the point where nobody’s welcome on nobody else’s land, and your only friends are the ones you ride with.”
“Gordon and Billy told me they were working for the Circle M.”
They did work for the Circle M at one time—until they got fired.”
“What happened?”
“Long story: couple of years ago before things got so bad, Gordon and Cracker showed up lookin’ for work. The Boss hired ‘em on. Cracker was just about my age, Gordon was a lot older. They had been ridin’ the wild trail, got in some trouble in Kansas and had to leave quick. Big Jim took a liking to Cracker and so did Hank. They saw he could be somebody if he wanted, so they started teaching him the ranchin’ business. Gordie was different. Don’t get me wrong, I liked Gordie—we all did, but he wasn’t the kind to stay put for very long. He didn’t mind doin’ a day or two of hard work, maybe even three, but he’d rather get the shingles or fall into a well than to do it for a week. He liked to gamble and he was always lookin’ for some easy money. If Cracker had stayed with him he might have wound up at the end of a rope just like Billy Dell.”
“How did Billy and Gordon get hooked up?”
“Billy came around one day lookin’ for work, sorta down on his luck. Big Jim hired him. But Billy wasn’t exactly what you’d call a top hand, and the way you could tell if he was complainin’ was to check and see if he was awake. Well, next thing you know Billy and Gordon is as thick as feathers in a pillow, hangin’ out together, spendin’ too much time in town, doin’ too much gamblin’, gettin’ drunk too often. The boss finally got fed up and fired ‘em both. You know the rest.”
“Yeah,” said Jeff grimly.
“And then there’s Hank,” continued Reef, obviously enjoying this opportunity to recite to a newcomer the history of the Circle M.
“Hank’s been with the Marcellin’s since the beginning. He thinks Catherine walks on water, and if Jim was to tell him to jump off a tall mountain, then you might as well shake the dust off your swallow fork suit and get ready for the funeral. Along with that, Hank knows cattle and there’s no better man to have standin’ beside you in a fight.”
Reef continued talking all the way to town and by the time they got there, Jeff knew the entire history of the valley and a good number of its inhabitants. Hank and Cracker kept the lead, riding side by side, solemn and mute. Reef and Jeff followed, Reef talking, seemingly unconcerned by anything at all, and Jeff, half attentive to the things Reef spoke of, and half wondering if the loquacious cowboy was providing him with a condemned man’s last feast of amiable conversation.
It started to rain when they were still two miles from town; a thin drizzle that soon had Jeff—with no slicker or hat—soaked and cold.
In town, they drew up in front of the Red Stallion Saloon. The three Circle M men dismounted and tied their horses. Cracker took the reins of Billy’s horse from Reef who glanced at Jeff and walked into the saloon.
Hank, putting business before pleasure as was his nature, said to Cracker, “I’m going to go take care of the things on Catherine’s list. I’ll meet you back here in a while. Watch him,” he added, nodding toward Jeff.
Cracker untied the rope that held Jeff’s hands to the saddle horn, but he did not untie the one that bound his hands together. “Buy you a drink?” he asked, in a tone that revealed nothing of friendship or of animosity.
“I’d rather stay out here.”
“And I suppose you’ll swear if I leave you out here all alone, you won’t try to get away.”
“Nope, couldn’t do that.”
“That’s what I thought, and I wouldn’t believe you if you did. I need a drink and the only way I’m going to get it is by walking in there with you on my arm.”
Jeff shrugged, and with his hands still bound at the wrists he dismounted and walked ahead of Cracker into the saloon.
It was still early and the establishment was not yet crowded. With the exception of a few early arrivals, anxious for another evening of boisterous entertainment to get underway, most of the men present had some place to go and would leave before the evening was in full swing.
The majority of these were cowmen, and most of the rest depended in one way or another on the local cattle industry for their livelihood. They had reason to hate rustlers and Reef had already been talking. Jeff’s welcome to this town was one of cold silence and steely gazes.
Cracker ordered a drink.
From a Corner of the room someone asked, “He a rustler?”
Cracker shot a sharp, accusing, glance at Reef who quickly looked down at his drink.
The question was asked again, this time with a tone of insistence.
“No,” replied Cracker, “we don’t think so, but that’s for Jim Marcellin to decide.”
“Rustlin’ concerns all of us,” asserted another man.
Cracker said, “He was with Gordon Stone and Billy Dell. They rustled Circle M beef, they were caught on Circle M land, and they were hung with Circle M ropes and that don’t concern any of you.” He stood scanning the faces, waiting for a rebuttal. None came.
Jeff glanced around the room again. Some of the men were still watching him; others had gone back to their drinks and poker games, content to let the Circle M take care of the situation.
One man, however, rose from his table and walked over to where Cracker stood with his back to the bar, starting on his drink. He was a young man, taller than Cracker and heavier, but somehow, Jeff suspected Cracker would come out on top in a fight. The young man bore the flush of liquor on his face. He stopped directly in front of Cracker, but he was looking at Jeff. His eyes held animosity and Jeff could smell the whiskey on his breath. He glared long enough to make his point and turned to face Cracker. “‘Lo Cracker,” he said.
Cracker gave a slight nod, “Eli.”
“Whatcha gonna do with the rustler?”
“You don’t listen very well, Eli. Your ears gone bad?”
“You gonna hang ‘im?” asked Eli, undeterred by Cracker’s retort.
Cracker ignored Eli’s question and continued sipping his drink, looking past Eli as if he weren’t there.
“How come you didn’t hang him out on the trail?”
Cracker stood for a moment, fingering his empty whiskey glass, then looking directly into the eyes of his interrogator, he spoke. “You’ve already been told, Eli, don’t come askin’ questions you already know the answers to.”
Eli, Jeff cou
ld see, was emboldened by the liquor, and Jeff knew what was on his mind. He probably wanted to witness the hanging but didn’t want to ride to the Circle M to do it.
“We could hang him now,” persisted Eli, casually.
A low grumble of assent emanated from several parts of the barroom. Reef put down his whiskey glass and exchanged a quick glance with Cracker.
Cracker set his own glass down, took hold of Jeff’s shirt sleeve, and the three of them started for the door.
As Jeff was pulled past the bar, Eli thrust out a booted foot and Jeff tripped over it.
He lurched forward and his shirt sleeve was pulled from Cracker’s grip. He caught himself with his bad leg and a sharp jolt of pain exploded in his knee. A sudden rage surged up from a deep well of anger within him and as he straightened his body he swung his hands—clasped together and tied at the wrists—from their position close to the floor, up and around, gaining momentum as they rose. With the full strength of his body behind them, he struck Eli a solid blow on the side of the face, which nearly lifted him off the ground. Eli hit the floor in a heap and didn’t move.
Cracker wasted no time. Taking advantage of the stunned silence in the room, he grabbed Jeff by the sleeve and pulled him roughly through the bat-winged doors. Reef was already outside untying the horses. They mounted and rode up the street toward the general store. Hank was just coming out, carrying two flour sacks filled with the items he had purchased for Catherine. He immediately knew something was wrong.
“What’s the caper?”
“Better leave,” said Cracker.
Hank looked down the street and saw the growing crowd of men milling around the front of the Red Stallion, their faces turned toward his little group. He instantly sized up the situation.
“Did you take him in the saloon?” he asked Cracker.
Cracker nodded.
Hank shook his head, frowning. “Real smart.”
Cracker grimaced and nodded, accepting responsibility.
Hank handed one sack to Cracker and one to Reef, and the men secured them on their saddles. In a flash Hank was on his horse and they were off.
Jeff knew it would take a few minutes for the men to organize and to work up the collective anger that would be required for a mob action, and he supposed it didn’t matter whether it was them that hanged him or the men from the Circle M. He would be just as dead either way.
But as he thought about it, he realized it did make a difference to him. To be hanged by a mob is an ugly and degrading experience. A mob operates on anger and violence. The men from the Circle M, on the other hand, would hang him as part of a job that had to be done. They would derive no pleasure or satisfaction from it, and he would be treated as Gordon and Billy had been.
Leaving town from the south end, they ran the horses for about ten minutes until, having reached high ground, they stopped to survey the trail behind them. Seeing no sign of pursuit, they elected to rest their horses for a few minutes before proceeding.
For a while no one spoke. Then Reef announced in a low voice, “Somebody comin’.”
Jeff heard the sound of a horse coming toward them from the south. This could present no danger, since whoever it was, was not coming from town but going toward it.
It was not yet dark, and as the horse and rider came into view from around a bend in the trail, Jeff felt his pulse quicken. He recognized the man’s face. It was a face he would never forget—one possessed of a permanent sneering arrogance.
Rand Fogarty.
As Fogarty passed, Jeff watched him, despising him. He wished now more than at any other time today that his hands were free and he had a gun. Fogarty nodded and gave the group a casual appraisal as he rode by. Hank and Reef both grunted monosyllabic salutations, while Cracker and Jeff said nothing. Fogarty kept his hand near his pistol and watched over his shoulder until he was out of effective range of the weapons the men were carrying.
The gunman had shown no sign he recognized Jeff, and Jeff felt sure he hadn’t. Jeff’s appearance was vastly changed from what it had been the one and only time Fogarty had seen him. His hair and beard had grown long and unkempt, and he was gaunt and ragged looking. Suddenly Jeff had a desperate desire to live, at least long enough to kill this man. He saw in Fogarty the embodiment of everything he hated. The killer represented all that had been taken from him, all the injustice that had been done to him.
At this moment the world seemed a terribly unfair place. Why this killer free, well clothed and well fed, riding a good horse while Jeff, who had done nothing wrong, was a filthy, unshaven prisoner, riding to his own hanging on a horse borrowed from a dead man? His hatred increased with every heartbeat. Then the irony of it struck him: now, on the eve of his death, his most urgent need was to kill another man.
Two hours later they arrived at Circle M Headquarters. Dismounting in front of the barn, they were greeted by a small, wiry old timer with a wizened, tree-bark face that bespoke a lifetime spent in the elements.
“Hello, Shorty,” said Reef, with his habitual cheerfulness.
“Howdy boys, what’cha got there?”
“Rustler,” replied Reef.
“Why didn’t you hang him?”
“We hung so many rustlers we run outta ropes,” said Reef. “Got to where we was holdin’ a pistol on ‘em and makin’ ‘em choke theirselves to death with their own hands. This one here wouldn’t do it though; said it gives him heartburn.”
Shorty chuckled, shaking his head as he led the horses into the barn, and the four saddle-weary riders walked toward the house. As they approached it, the front door opened, and a big, hawk-nosed man stepped out onto the porch. Jeff knew without being told that this was Jim Marcellin.
“Evening, boys,” Marcellin said, holding the door as they tramped into the front room of the house. He motioned for them to be seated, eyeing Jeff with frank animosity.
The room they were in was plainly a woman’s room, and though no opulence was displayed here, character and good taste were. The room emanated hospitality and warmth, and to Jeff, who had been living outdoors for weeks, sleeping on the ground with no shelter from sun or rain or heat or cold, it was very appealing. He found himself wishing he were not an outsider here.
Marcellin sat down in a leather wing-backed chair. Hank and Cracker also found places to sit. Jeff remained standing, his bound hands hanging in front of him.
“Everyone alright?” asked Marcellin.
“Yeah,” answered Hank, “no problems. It was Gordon and Billy, just like Johnny and Carlos said.” There was a pause. “We hung ‘em.”
Marcellin was visibly disturbed by this news. He sat in silence for a moment, shaking his head.
At length, he motioned to Jeff. “Who’s he?”
“Rustler,” said Hank.
Marcellin said nothing, but looked expectantly at Hank, knowing there must be some reason why Jeff had not been hanged along with Gordon and Billy.
Hank shot a meaningful glance at Cracker as if to indicate he was to explain. Cracker said, “Reef, take him outside—and watch him good.”
Reef stood up and led Jeff back out the front door, closing it behind him. Outside, Jeff surveyed the surroundings. He liked this place; he liked the sounds of the animals and the smells of the ranch. It all reminded him a great deal of the home he had grown up in. This was a good place, he thought. These people had worked hard to build it and he hoped the rustlers would not be able to destroy what had been accomplished here.
“Well, the jury’s in session,” said Reef.
Jeff smiled and nodded.
“Nervous?”
“Doesn’t matter.”
“I gotta tell you, things don’t look good,” said Reef.
“I knew that.”
“But there’s something you didn’t know. Remember the friendly fella you pasted in the Red Stallion?”
“Eli?”
“Yeah, Eli Marcellin. He’s Jim’s son.”
For a moment Jeff was silent, then
the irony of it struck him and he began to laugh. Reef, ever sociable, joined him.
With Jeff and Reef out of the room Cracker spoke. “He ain’t a rustler.”
Hank threw up his hands in an exasperated gesture. “Just because Gordie said . . . ”
“He’s more’n likely a gun slinger,” interrupted Cracker.
Hank’s mouth went shut and his eyebrows elevated.
Marcellin was staring intently at Cracker. “How do you know this?”
“I’ve been watching him all day, starting in Gordon and Billy’s camp even before we tied him up. He moves like a gunman, even with his hands tied and no gun. There are other things he does too, not like he’s meaning to, just habits. He always keeps his right hand free, he wouldn’t even hold a cup of coffee in it, and he’s always watching and alert.”
Hank swore softly and gazed at Cracker in open admiration.
Nor was there any incredulity on the part of Marcellin. Both men accepted that Cracker knew what he was talking about. He had ridden with outlaws, and was, himself, no amateur with a gun.
“Gordie said he wasn’t working with them,” continued Cracker, “and Jim, you know how well I knew Gordie. He wasn’t lying, but I don’t think he knew himself who this varmint is, or maybe he wouldn’t have stopped us from hanging him. As for me, I suspicion the man outside is Dick Masion.”
Marcellin’s expression changed and he leaned back in his chair. “I don’t doubt you, Cracker, when you say he’s a gunman—I reckon you’d know about those things—but as to his being Dick Masion, how can you know?”
“I can’t, and maybe he ain’t, but Sheriff Beeman told us months ago he had word Masion was coming this way. He never showed up. Gordie said this stranger stumbled into their camp all hungry and ragged. The way I figure it, he could have lost his horse in the mountains and had to walk out.”
Now, Hank spoke. “But what makes you think he’s Dick Masion?”
“Because he knows Rand Fogarty.”
The words hung for a moment in the stunned silence that followed this pronouncement. Cracker continued. “Masion and Fogarty used to run together down in Texas.”