The Road To A Hanging

by Mike Kearby

  “I know, Jubal. I know. We take the money, and then we lead the Mex’s to the valley where the cattle are grazing.”

  Jubal uncorked the whiskey once more and poured a shot into his coffee tin. “That’s good, Johnny. Real good. And remember after you show them the cattle, you kill them too. All of them. Understood?”

  “Don’t worry, Jubal, when we ride back to The Flats, we’ll be leaving a heap of dead Indians and Mexicans in our dust.”

  That’s good, Johnny, Jubal smiled to himself, cause when this is all over, you’ll be dead, and I’ll be in Mexico with twenty thousand dollars.

  A bothersome wetness dripped down Free’s nose and onto his lips. With great effort, he pushed his eyes open to harsh daylight. He blinked several times, trying to clear his confusion. Above the ringing in his ears, he heard a woman’s voice speaking rapidly.

  “Sir? Are you OK?”

  He pushed up on his right elbow and lifted his head and chest toward the sound. “What?” A dryness of sand and blood lined his mouth and throat, causing him to flick his tongue repeatedly in an attempt to raise enough spit to swallow.

  “Are you OK?”

  A girl, maybe all of eighteen, was talking to him. “What?” He pointed to his ears. “I can’t hear anything but ringing.” He placed his hand to his nose and could see that the wetness was water.

  “I dripped some water down your face to wake you,” she said and then pushed the water bucket toward him. “I’m sorry, but if the sheriff catches me here, he’ll beat me with a strap.”

  Free caught a whiff of the water and grabbed the bucket. He turned it upside down, pouring as much water down his front as in his mouth.

  “Don’t drink too much too fast. You’ll get the cramps.”

  The girl removed a piece of beefsteak from the basket she held.

  “Here, eat this.”

  He grabbed the meat from the girl’s hand in so fierce a manner that he noticed she recoiled. “I’m sorry,” he spoke in a loud tone. “But I haven’t eaten in three days.”

  “I watched them bring you in today. What did you do?”

  Free pulled up against the cell door and leaned his right shoulder against the bars to support his body. “It’s something that happened a long time ago. Between me and the sheriff.” He fixed a long gaze into the young girl’s eyes. “What’s your name?”

  “Clara Mason.”

  “Clara Mason.” He rolled the name around in his head. “Was that you in the street this morning? I thought I saw my mother, but that was you. Wasn’t it? I thought I was dreaming.”

  “Yes, that was me.”

  “Well, Clara, I think you might have saved my life.” After the few bites of protein and water, he could feel his head begin to clear. He saw the girl drop her eyes downward but could make out a small smile appear at the corners of her mouth. “I was feeling ready to throw up the sponge just a while ago.” He pushed one hand through his cage and felt Clara’s hand. “I owe you. Now you best leave before the sheriff comes out here.”

  “I don’t know your name.”

  “Free. Free Anderson.”

  He watched Clara stand. She was slender and small but stood with a silent grace. “Go on, Clara. Get out of here.”

  “I’ll bring you more food tonight when it’s dark, Free Anderson.”

  Aware of the fleeting moment, his gaze held her beauty as his mind stumbled for any reason to call her back. “Clara! Wait!” he cried out. “One more thing.” He watched her toss a look toward the street and then turn back to the cell. “I might need more than just food from you.”

  “What do you mean?”

  He searched her eyes and with some reluctance asked, “Could you go to the Fort on my behalf? If I aim to make it out of this mess alive, I’m going to need some outside help, and right now the army is all the family I can claim.”

  “I’ll do what I can, Free. But I don’t hold much better standing than you at the Fort.”

  “I understand. But it’s a chance. And right now I’ll take any chance I can.”

  He watched her eyes soften, yielding to his request. “OK, Free, I’ll try. I know what it’s like without anyone to turn to.”

  “Thank you, Clara.” He leaned his head against the cool steel of the cell door, his hands wrapped through the latticework of metal. “Thank you. I’ll let you know when the time is right.”

  He felt her touch on the back of his hand.

  “Don’t worry. I’ll do all I can.”

  Rejuvenated, hewatched her turn away, hurrying into the streets of The Flats. As she vanished from sight, he fell back to the mattress thinking. With Clara’s help and the food, I’m holding two aces in my hand. Two aces that Jubal doesn’t know a thing about.

  Jubal stood outside of his office with one foot on the hitching post. He poked at his boot with a seven-inch knife blade and flicked pieces of dried earth onto the ground. Taking a glance down the wide main street that ran the length of The Flats, he saw Judge Freemont moving toward him, his gait purposeful.

  “Jubal! What in the hell is going on?”

  Jubal took his boot from the post and dusted his dungarees. “Well hello to you too, Judge Freemont.”

  “Don’t play games with me, Jubal. I’m supposed to be in Weatherford in three days.”

  “What’s going on there? A drunken cowboy shoot someone’s prize pig?” Jubal laughed. “I’ve got an important case here that needs to be tried.” He stepped down onto the street and stood eyeball to eyeball with the judge. He knew the judge to be from the old hard-line faction of Texans, a man who believed slaves were property of their owners no matter what Washington said. “I’ve got a thieving runaway slave selling cattle to the Comanche.” He saw his words caught the judge’s attention. “He rustled cattle from the Old Stone Ranch.”

  “A slave, you say?”

  “A runaway.” Jubal added. “And a savage collaborator.”

  “Why didn’t you just say so, Sheriff. Is he ready for trial?”

  “Pretty much.” Jubal looked away from the judge and stared down the street. “I’m sending my riders out tomorrow morning to pick up some of the hides the Comanche left behind. They should show the brand that he sold them.”

  “That’s a good idea, Jubal, but I’ve heard all I need to in this matter. Have your man ready for trial first thing tomorrow. I want to be heading to Weatherford by mid-morning.”

  Jubal flashed a quick smile. “Don’t worry, he’ll be ready.”

  “And, Sheriff . . . make sure you and the slave are presentable in my courtroom.”

  “Not to worry.” Jubal looked down at his shirt.

  “We’ll both be washed.” As the circuit judge departed, Jubal laughed to himself, Lucky for me that Judge Freemont is more a stickler for decorum than the law.

  Chapter 14

  The Flats, Texas 1868

  The raucous crowing of a rooster beckoned The Flats to life. Awake for hours, Free stood in the doorway of the ever-shrinking cell, his gaze centered on the Jenkins House. He waited with great restlessness for Clara to appear. During the night, she had carried biscuits and beefsteak to him, and the victuals were speeding his body’s healing. Functioning with a clear mind, he came to realize the enormity of his situation. It was the word of an ex-slave against the word of the town’s sheriff. In his boot, he felt the six coins Mr. Goodnight had given him pressed against his ankle. Undaunted by the overwhelming odds stacked against him, he figured the money might help him gain an edge before the sheriff’s fandango played out.

  Across the street, he observed Clara making her way to the jail, wicker basket in hand. Crossing the thoroughfare, she avoided eye contact, but he knew she was aware of his gaze. He watched as she stepped up on the boardwalk and then disappeared from view. If I survive all of this, Clara Mason, I would like to call on you.

  Minutes later Jubal appeared with Clara following, a wooden pail in her arms.

  “Sergeant, Clara here has brought you a wash bucket fill
ed with cold water and plenty of soap.”

  Clara set the bucket in front of his cell door. Jubal unlocked the padlock on the door and sloshed the bucket toward him.

  “She’s going over to the dry goods store to get you a new shirt and pants. Make sure you’re finished washing by the time she returns.”

  Free made note that the sheriff was dressed in a newly pressed white shirt and clean woolen trousers. “What’s going on, Jubal?”

  “Your trial is what’s going on, Sergeant, and Judge Freemont wants you bathed. He doesn’t care much for the smell of your kind.”

  Free reckoned his would be a very short trial. His time as a freedman had been harsh, but educating. To survive the days ahead, he knew he couldn’t think like a shave tail anymore. “How does my kind smell, Sheriff?”

  He noticed the smirk of superiority form on Jubal’s face. Roused to anger by the long days and nights in his cramped stone confinement, he vowed to wipe that smirk from the sheriff’s face before this affair ended.

  “By the way, Sergeant, new clothes cost money. I’m going to sell your horse and saddle before the trial to pay for your wardrobe and your court costs.”

  “You can’t do that, Jubal! There’s no judgment against me! And the law has no right to a man’s horse!”

  “Well, unless you have some coin, that’s exactly what I’m going to do. And if you have any complaints, Sergeant, you can tell them to the Judge when you see him.”

  “Why are you doing all this, Jubal? We fought on the same side at Palmito Ranch. Why do you hate me so?”

  The sheriff’s eyes went black, dulling their brightness into a darkness of hate.

  “I’m doing this because you got uppity, Sergeant! You think I don’t know that you and your friend Parks set me up for Boca Chica. Did you really think I would just lie down while the army drummed me out as a non-commissioned officer? You made your play, and now I’m making mine. And when this is all over and you’re swinging from a rope, we’ll see who held the best string!”

  Free now understood the mount he saddled. He hoped the sheriff’s unbridled hate might force him into a mistake. He reminded himself to keep his mind focused for that moment. He walked the length of his stone prison several times, letting his options play out in his head. Knowing Comida was crucial to any escape attempt, he stopped pacing and looked out the cell door to Jubal. “I’ve got money.”

  Jubal leaned against the iron door and smiled. “Clara, you best get back to the hotel. And don’t forget my laundry inside the office.”

  Free locked stares with Clara and nodded west toward Fort Griffin. As she vanished around the corner, he threw his gaze back to Jubal. “I’ll give you gold coin; just leave my horse be.”

  “You’re not really in any position to barter right now Sergeant. Let me see your money.”

  Free reached into his boot and pulled out the cloth sack. He removed two coins and placed them in the sheriff’s outstretched hand. The prospect of losing the money grated on him, but he knew if he did catch a break, he had to have Comida available. He watched with careful interest as Jubal studied the coins. When the sheriff looked up again, he stuck an arm through the bars, his palm up.

  “All of it, Sergeant. Give me all of it, or that horse goes to the livery stable to be sold.”

  Enraged, Free curled his lip in anger. Without a word, he handed the cloth sack to the grinning Jubal Thompson.

  “Walk!”

  Free could feel the long barrel of a Henry .44 pressed hard into his spine. Using the rifle as a ramrod, Von Riggins was marching him from the jail to the Jenkins House. He shuffled in small strides, his movement restricted by the shackles binding his hands and feet. Forced to walk in a series of quick, small steps, he could hear the heavy clang of the chains as they hit against one another.

  He noticed a small group of citizens lining the boardwalk and watching the morning spectacle. He could feel their stares as they looked at him with curious faces. Looking west, he directed his attention at the far end of town, hoping for any sign of Clara. He prayed she had made her way safely up the bluff to Fort Griffin.

  At the hotel front, he noticed the six riders from the arroyo mounting their horses. He shot a hard glare at the lead man, Johnny.

  “Well lookey at the sergeant, boys. He done got his self a new set of clothes.” Johnny laughed. “I don’t blame you though; those other clothes of yours were just rags.”

  Free cast a hard gaze to the faces of the laughing men. Anger rising, he took a step toward Johnny, only to feel the barrel of the Henry come down on his shoulder. The steel caused a streak of heat to ra diate up his neck. He winced in pain and stared into Johnny’s eyes. “Laugh while you can cowboy,” he muttered in a cold voice.

  “You gonna be hanging around long, Sergeant?” Johnny asked.

  “Get going!” He heard Von mumble. “Or I’ll whop you again!”

  Free shuffled onto the boardwalk and held a steady gaze on the six as they rode west away from The Flats. He took several deep breaths to calm himself. Figuring an ambush awaited him in the courtroom; he knew keeping his wits was essential in avoiding a tree branch today.

  Regardless of his present circumstance, the cold bucket bath had been a godsend. Jubal had used it as one more way to show his control. But for Free, it served to strengthen his resolve. More importantly, it made him think. And his thoughts told him not one church stood in The Flats. Sending Clara to Fort Griffin, after she delivered his clothes was the smart play, as he was a decorated war hero honorably mustered out of the service. But if no one at the Fort listened, he had yet another card to play. A card he hoped could buy him a little more time from Jubal’s rush to a hanging.

  Entering the hotel dining room, Free made note that only the judge and Jubal were present. Judge Freemont sat at a round table with papers spread across its top. The deputy halted him several feet in front of the makeshift judge’s bench. He looked on with a steadiness of mind as the judge addressed him.

  “Sir, do you understand the charges against you today?”

  He felt Von push the rifle further into his back. “Yes sir. But I want the judge to know-.” The slamming of the judge’s hand on the table startled Free, interrupting him mid-stream.

  “The prisoner will answer only the questions asked by this court. He will not engage in dialogue of his own unless asked to do so. Now, sir, what is your plead?”

  Once again, he felt the gun bump his back. “Not guilty, Judge.”

  “Very well. Sheriff Thompson, do you promise to tell the whole truth in the matter before this court?”

  Free watched Jubal turn his way before answering, the ever-inciting smirk present on his face.

  “I do, Judge.”

  “In the matter of the county against Free Anderson, what can you testify to?”

  “Judge, myself and the riders gathered information that Free Anderson was rustling cattle off the Old Stone Ranch and selling the beeves to the Indians.”

  Free could see there would be little truth in this court. Now it appeared that the judge was in deep with Jubal.

  “That’s a lie!”

  “Deputy.”

  Free felt a sharp jab from the Henry’s barrel. Grimacing, hewatched the judge’s face contort in anger.

  “If the prisoner interrupts this proceeding again, you will take him back to his cell until we have finished this matter. Now proceed, Sheriff.”

  “We trailed him to the Kiowa Arroyo near New Mexico. We observed him selling the beeves to Indians. After the savages departed, we captured him and brought him back to the jail.”

  Free watched as the judge looked up. “Sir, this is a most grievous crime. Collaboration with savages and rustling are hanging offenses in this territory and in my court. Therefore, it is this court’s judgment that you hang by the neck until dead. The sentencing will be carried out at a time and place to be determined by Sheriff Thompson.”

  Free felt no shock or surprise. He watched as the judge stood and pla
ced his papers in a flat case.

  “Judge, I request a preacher be present at my hanging.”

  “What was that?”

  Free remained calm as Judge Freemont brought his head up from the table. His facial expression conveyed a look of confusion as to the petition.

  “I believe I am entitled a preacher to pray for me and hear my last words before I hang.”

  He watched as the judge and Jubal stared at one another. Both were caught off guard by his request.

  “Sir, we do not have a preacher in The Flats.”

  As the judge turned back, Free noticed a look of astonishment on his face. In the same instant, the rifle barrel moved away from his back.

  “I would suggest you find one.”

  The voice from behind didn’t belong to Von. Curious, Free shot a glance over his left shoulder and glimpsed the blue color of a cavalry uniform with lieutenant’s bars showing. He turned back toward Jubal. The sheriff’s face wrinkled hard at the forehead.

  “What is your business here, lieutenant?” the judge asked.

  “You mean the army’s business, your honor. This man is a decorated soldier of rank. I am here to see he receives fair and just treatment.”

  “You understand, lieutenant that you have no jurisdiction over this court?”

  “I understand, Judge. But I hope you understand that if this man wants a preacher, you have an obligation to provide such. If not, I will file a report with the government that a territory judge would not allow a decorated war hero to have counsel with a preacher before he left this earth.”

  Free exhaled in relief, figuring he had bought himself a little more time.

  “You can’t do that, Judge; you know the Jacks-boro preacher travels afoot!” Jubal shouted.

  Free observed the lieutenant had moved up even with him. From the corner of his mouth, he spoke in hushed tone. “The Indians will let the preacher pass, but if he’s on horseback, they’ll take his mount. Rumor has it that he lost six horses before he got wise.”