The Road To A Hanging

by Mike Kearby

  “I wasn’t really thinking that far ahead,” Goodnight replied. Free watched as the trail boss drank his coffee down in one gulp. “That’s good coffee you boiled.” Free wrapped his finger around the trigger as Goodnight handed the cup back to the man. “I just wanted to let you know where we were.”

  The man accepted the cup and handed it to one of the men behind him, never turning his back from Goodnight. “And where are my manners, Mr. Goodnight?” He moved forward and extended his hand. “I’m the law in this country. Me and the boys here have been following some thieves. The group has been rustling cattle off the Old Stone Ranch around Mule Creek. We lost their trail this afternoon near Fort Phantom Hill. I think they hightailed it to Mexico.”

  Free had never seen a lawman look the way this one did. He reckoned Mr. Goodnight had heard and seen enough, for he had begun to back out of the camp and into the shadows of the night. “I will thank you for the coffee and the conversation. Both were worth the ride out.”

  “It was a pleasure meeting you face to face, Mr. Goodnight. I wish you well on your journey to Wyoming.”

  Goodnight turned and started to walk back up the rise when the sheriff cleared his throat. Free kept the gun trained on the sheriff as the trail boss turned back toward the camp.

  “We’ve also been tracking an ex-slave. A danger-ous fellow. Seems he may have stolen some cattle himself. Might even be selling them to the Comanche. He was last seen around Jacksboro. You wouldn’t have any opportunity to know of this man would you?”

  “I wouldn’t be able to say without knowing his name, sheriff,” Goodnight replied.

  “He goes by the name of Free Anderson.”

  Caught off guard at the mention of Free’s name, Goodnight took a step back and stumbled against the slight incline of the hill. “No sir, I can’t say that I have occasion to know that name.”

  Free saw the lawman’s smirk change to an ugly frown, as if he knew Goodnight was lying. “Well, if you happen to run into him, let him know Sheriff Jubal Thompson has a warrant to bring him in. Dead or alive.”

  Free rolled to his back, almost gasping aloud. In panic, he raised his eyes from the Henry and slid down the slope several feet. Corporal Thompson! That’s where he remembered the smirk. The Palmito Ranch retreat was two years past, but he would never forget Jubal Thompson. And then Parks’ last warning hauntingly came back to him. Be careful Free; he’s the sort to carry a grudge down a long road.

  Free stood next to Comida, tying his sleeping roll and belongings behind the horse’s saddle. Several yards away, he could hear Goodnight and Bose engaged in what appeared to be a heated discussion. The fact that a local sheriff had accused one of their wranglers of rustling had to be foremost on their minds.

  Free was still in shock over the realization that Jubal Thompson, now a lawman, seemed to be intent on settling an old grudge. He hated the thought of leaving the drive, but he couldn’t see an opportunity to play his hand any other way. Somehow, he would have to prove his innocence, but he couldn’t stay here and run the risk of being put into a jail under Jubal Thompson’s control. At this moment, he was unsure of which way his path would lead, but his gut told him he needed to ride out.

  “Free.”

  He turned and saw Goodnight walking toward him.

  “We’re up against it right now, Free.”

  Free could see the look of worry etched in Goodnight’s forehead. “Don’t worry sir, I won’t cause you any further trouble. I’ve already made up my mind to ride out this evening.”

  “I appreciate the offer, Free, but don’t be too hasty just yet. I have a plan.”

  “Mr. Goodnight, I thank you for all you’ve done for me. But if Jubal Thompson finds me riding with this herd, especially after you told him you didn’t know of me . . . well, that could cost you everything. I can’t do that to you or these men, sir.”

  “Free, I’ve run across all types of men in my life, and I can tell you straight up that this Jubal Thompson is a rattlesnake. I figure he is riding both sides of the law fence. But I do need for you to tell me everything about this man.”

  Free thought back to Boca Chica. He began to tell every detail he could remember of the crossing that night, plus the events at Fort Brown during the tribunal hearing. When he had finished, he shot a glance at Goodnight. “Now do you understand why I need to ride out. He’s intent on revenge, and he’s got the law on his shirt to accomplish it.”

  “I don’t cater to bullies or lawbreakers, and I will protect my own, Free. Especially if they are innocent. A thief wearing a badge is still a thief.”

  Free looked at Godnight with great respect. “But to fight him right now would take every man. And to bring him down in a court could take time. How are you going to get the herd to Wyoming by the fall, if you’re stuck in Texas helping me?” Free placed his right hand on the saddle horn and swung up on Comida. “It’s not your trouble, sir.”

  Free felt Goodnight grab his boot. “Hold on, Free, and at least listen to me.”

  “That I’ll do, Mr. Goodnight. I owe you that for sure.”

  “We’re going to drive the herd to Wyoming. You included. And then we’re all coming back here to take care of Jubal Thompson.”

  “I just don’t see. . . .” Free looked down at the trail boss and shook his head back and forth. “How we’re going to do that.”

  “I’m not saying it’s going to be easy, but here’s the plan. You’re riding out tonight. Only instead of following our trail southwest, you’re going to head north and west. That will get you to the New Mexico border much quicker. If you get a good start tonight, you should be able to reach the Kiowa Arroyo by morning.”

  Free now understood Goodnight’s plan. “Ride through the Comancheria.”

  “That’s the downside, Free. But if being an ex-slave ever had any value, it’s now. Some of the Comanche are friendly to the black race. Personally I’d rather take my chances with the savages than the sheriff.”

  Free considered the plan. On short notice, he couldn’t think of anything that carried better water. “So what happens if I reach the border?” he asked.

  “When you reach the border,” Goodnight corrected him, “you ride like the devil to Fort Sumner. It’s a week’s ride from here. I figure it’ll take us a month with the herd. Just wait for us there. When we meet back up, we’ll finish the drive to Cheyenne.”

  Free leaned from the saddle and stuck his hand out to Goodnight. “I am much in your debt, sir.” He shook the trail boss’ hand. “And I will make sure I repay that debt someday.”

  “You’re a good man, Free. You owe me nothing. But I do want you to take this.”

  Free opened his hand as Goodnight passed a small cloth sack to him. “What is it, sir?”

  “Payday. That’s a month’s advance. I don’t like a man of mine riding alone without coin.”

  Free swallowed hard, choked with emotion, “Thank you, Mr. Goodnight.” He pushed the sack into his boot. “And sir, I need to ask onemore favor.”

  “What is it, Free?”

  “If for some reason, any of this goes bad. I would appreciate you trying to reach a friend of mine and let him know how this all played out.”

  “Sure, son. What’s his name?”

  “He’s known by Parks Scott. I figure any of the military posts along the southern plains can put you in touch with him. He supplies the cavalry with horses.”

  “I will do that, Free. Now you best get a wiggle on. This night is almost over.”

  Free held silence for a moment and then took spurs to Comida, riding away from Charles Goodnight and into the surrounding darkness.

  Chapter 10

  The Comancheria, Texas 1868

  The West Texas heat shimmered across the blackened prairie grasses of the Comancheria. Wild fires had raged through this part of the plains some weeks earlier, burning several thousand acres. The southeast wind, a daily fixture here, was strangely absent this day, leaving even the toughest animals struggling
for breath in the building humidity.

  Parks sat on Horse in front of the only watering site for a hundred miles. The spring bubbled up to the ground from deep below the earth’s surface. After the fire, it was easy to locate, for the grasses for several feet around the small hole were green and vibrant. A hundred yards to his south, he could see the herd of mustangs he had been trailing for days. The wild horses needed water, but Parks knew they would not venture forward as long as he guarded the spring.

  Two weeks earlier, summoned to Fort Richardson by the officer in charge, Maj. James Hardin, he found The 6th Cavalry detachment in dire need of horses. Aration of corn acquired for horse feed had been poisonous and twenty of the cavalry’s steeds had died in the previous month. The tragedy to the cavalry’s horses was deplorable to Parks, but the opportunity to supply horses had come just as he had thought his business would go bust. Ever since the races at Fort Riley, he sat blacklisted as a sup plier to the newly formed U.S. Cavalry. Although unspoken by the military, he knew whose signature dotted the bottom line of the order, and even though the lieutenant colonel had been court mar-tialed soon after their encounter for leaving the field, getting the military to reverse the blacklisting was a bureaucratic muddle.

  Before Major Hardin’s request, Parks was preparing to go home and visit his mother. He reckoned she deserved to see her only son, but the job here offered a chance at redemption with the cavalry, and he hated to let this opportunity pass. He figured rounding up the full complement of horses might keep him in the Jacksboro settlement another two weeks. After that, he would head home to San Saba.

  He studied the horses waiting in front of him and could see that the smell of water was strong, but the lead stallion, a solid buckskin, was not yet ready to drink. Parks called toward two of the settlement’s soldiers. “One of you stay at the water. The other, follow me. We’re going to take them around again.” Parks let slack come to his reins and lightly tapped Horse’s flank. “Let’s move, Horse. This group doesn’t seem to be ready yet.” He spurred the pony forward, causing the mustangs to turn and set out to the east.

  Over the past week, Parks and the soldiers had moved the mustangs in a great circle around the watering hole. He knew the animals were of a strong thirst, and they would not leave the area until they had an opportunity to drink. He was amazed at the mustangs’ survival ability. Even after going four days without water, the ponies still carried sufficient energy to avoid themen trailing them.

  The designated route the mustangs had chosen was a two-day loop around the spring. Each time they returned, a soldier guarded their path to the small watering area. Parks used an old Indian method of capture. When he saw signs that the lead stallion did not want to run the loop again, he removed the guard from the spring. The cool spring water settling in an exhausted mustang’s belly would make the animal lethargic and unable to run at full strength, if at all. This is when the animal was vulnerable to roping.

  “Mr. Scott, how long do you figure it will take to break them down?” The young soldier asked.

  Parks looked over at the soldier. He could see that the private was merely a boy, probably not older than seventeen. “I can’t say for sure; that buckskin stallion is still fairly strong. But if I were to guess, I would say another two days without water may have him where we want him.” Parks shot another glance at the youth. The one real danger to this work was Indians. He didn’t know if either of the two soldiers carried field experience with hostiles, but there was always the possibility of an encounter on this prairie. Bands of Comanche and Kiowa regularly scouted their land for intruders. Desperate for money, he had taken this job betting that the tribes had followed the buffalo away from the fire-ravaged land to the northern prairies of Indian Territory. So far, his bet had paid off. He thought once more of the two soldiers riding with him and prayed that his luck would continue to hold.

  Following the mustang herd left a man with plenty of opportunity to think. Parks spent a portion of his time in the saddle counting the dollars from this capture. He figured twenty horses at sixty dollars a head would give him the needed funds to continue his business and maybe even hire some help. His thoughts carried to Free Anderson. When he had delivered the horses to Major Hardin, it just might be time to search out his old friend. There was no one he trusted more, and a partner might be the right fix for his business.

  Chapter 11

  The Kiowa Arroyo, Texas 1868

  The morning sun reflected with blinding intensity off a rock formation near the Salt Fork of the Brazos. Free could feel the heat radiating from the pitted sandstone walls as he traveled the almost dry riverbed. A metallic clang rattled through the air as Comida’s shoes contacted the assorted sizes of pear-shaped river rock strewn through the sand. The riverbank, lined with willows, weaved through the land in a lazy, serpentine shape. Drawing Comida’s rein to follow the next bend, he noticed a sand bar leading away from the river. With a flick of his spur, he turned Comida toward the bank, then rode across the sand and up a small hill of scrub oak. At the top of the incline, he looked down to a wide gully marking the leading edge of the Kiowa Arroyo.

  The funnel-shaped draw held a tangle of greenbrier and cactus around its rim. Used by the Indians to run buffalo headlong to their deaths, the arroyo was a graveyard of bones. Over hardtack one night, Coyo had described the hunting technique at the arroyo. Several Kiowa warriors on ponies would stampede the buffalo down the funnel. At the arroyo’s smallest point, the Indians constructed an earthen dam, reinforced with timber and rock. Once the bison piled into the dam at the back of the arroyo, they were trapped. From above, Kiowa braves armed with spears and bows would slaughter the animals.

  First sight of the arroyo sent a shiver down Free’s spine. There was only one way in and one way out. His military training urged him to continue toward the border, away from this place. Surveying the top ledge, he realized it offered an unrestricted view of the canyon floor. This was the perfect place for an ambush.

  Staring into the arroyo, he rubbed his chin and felt the stubble of a two-day-old beard. Travel-worn from the all night ride and contrary to his instinct, he decided the best place to remain out of sight was in the belly of the arroyo. Stepping from the stirrups, he pulled the reins forward over Comida’s head. With great attentiveness, he looked around the top ledge once more before leading the horse down into the earthen gulch.

  The funnel of the arroyo directed a cooling breeze through the floor of the ancient riverbed. At the back wall, Free found an old oak trunk with a large split down its center. He looked up and saw the bottom half of the tree still standing. He figured lightning had cleaved it in half. The twenty-foot section of the tree lying in the canyon floor was at least six feet around. He lifted Comida’s saddle and set it over the log. The horse’s back showed a line of white foam. He ran his hand over the entire length of the steed and in one motion threw the foam to the ground. “Go on, Comida,” he spoke in a road weary voice. “Find some grass.” The shade at the bottom of the arroyo still offered some green from the last of the winter grasses. The horse began to wander the arroyo, snipping at the ankle-high treat.

  Satisfied as to Comida’s care, Free took a small cloth from his saddlebag. Squirreled inside were three sourdough biscuits that he had stashed away for an emergency. Leaning back against the log, he set his hat on the ground next to him and unwrapped the cloth. He took out the first biscuit and held it in front of his face. After three days in his saddle pack, the bread had taken on the appearance of jerked beef. He bit down on the biscuit and pulled hard with his hand. The bread, with a texture similar to adobe, tasted as good as anything he had ever eaten. He lifted the canteen from around his saddle horn and took a long swallow of water. Comfortable, he eased back against the log. Within seconds, he felt the weariness of his body forcing his eyelids slowly down.

  A series of rapid snorts brought Free’s eyes open with a start. He took a minute to regain his bearings and then looked over to the horse. Comida�
�s tail was brushing flies off his back while he continued to eat grass. Free yawned and stretched his arms away from his body. “How long have I been out?” Yawning once more, he rose and dusted his chaps. “What Iwouldn’t give for a bath and a shave right now.” He spoke aloud, twisting his neck back and forth. He reckoned itwould be foolish towaste any more time in the arroyo as Jubal could be close on his trail. Walking toward Comida, he noticed the horse mouthing his bit. The sound of teeth on metal made him uneasy. “We better light out, Comida.” Picking up the reins dragging the ground, he rubbed the horse’s forehead. “We best get ourselves out of the sheriff’s reach and into New Mexico as Mr. Goodnight advised.”

  Free saddled Comida and retied his bedroll. He looped the canteen back around the saddle horn and then pulled himself up on his horse. Rested, his mind began to think again. He worried about his mother and earning enough money to build her a house. He hoped he could clear his good name, and most of all he wondered as to Jubal Thompson’s whereabouts.

  Then he heard the click. He knew the sound. It was a sound that any man easily recognizes no matter when or where it might occur. The sound of a bullet being chambered into a Henry .44, followed by the cocking of a rifle lever.

  “Well lookey what we got here,” he heard a man’s voice echo around the top of the arroyo. “Just like you said, Jubal, the colored done skedaddled from the trail drive with his tail between his legs.”

  At the top of the arroyo, Free could just make out six figures standing around the ledge. This bunch knew what they were doing, for they had him looking directly into the sun. There was no way he could draw and get off a shot without suffering a hail of lead from above.

  “Sergeant!”

  Free had no doubt as to who owned the voice.

  “If it were me, Sergeant, I’d drop the Colt and step down from the horse.”

  The click of four more Henrys, cocked in unison, told Free he had better do what the man said. He pulled the Colt from the waistband of his pants and let it fall to his feet.