The Road To A Hanging

by Mike Kearby

  Late in the day, Clara lay behind an outcropping of limestone above Panther Crossing on the Clear Fork. The rock formation gave an unobstructed view of both the riverbed and the road leading to The Flats. She scanned the valley to the east, looking for the dust of an approaching rider.

  The sun still hung one hand over the western horizon, but the workday was almost finished. Mr. Jenkins would be stirring soon and wondering why her chores were undone. If he mentioned that to the sheriff as he took his dinner, Jubal might come looking for her. “Come on, Mr. Parks.” She pleaded, continuing to scan the landscape.

  From the far end of the riverbed, a lone object appeared, shimmering in the heat. In an effort to block the sun, she half closed her eyes, cupping them with her hands as the object began to take form. It was a man on horseback riding to beat the devil toward The Flats.

  Hurrying around the far side of the rock formation, she scooped up her skirt to run. Her feet twisted sideways on the loose rock causing her to simultaneously run and slide down the steep incline. She couldn’t believe how fast the mustang was galloping along the sandy riverbed.

  At the bottom of the hill, she began a desperate dash to the river, waving her hands and screaming wildly, only to see the rider just go by her. She screamed as loud as she could to the man’s back. “Mr. Parks! Stop Mr. Parks!”

  Out of breath, she continued running and yelling after the speeding pony, only to turn her ankle on a flat river rock and land face first in the shallow water.

  “No!” She pushed her body from the river. “No!”

  Downstream, she saw Parks had reined in the mustang and turn. He was heading back to her at a slow trot.

  Exhaling in relief, she stood in the middle of the Brazos and smoothed her dress, trying to look presentable.

  “Ma’m,” Parks asked while removing his hat. “Do I know you?”

  “Mr. Parks?” she stammered. “Are you Mr.

  Parks Scott?”

  “Yes ma’m, I am. And if I might?”

  Clara realized she had not introduced herself. “My name is Clara Mason. I am a friend of Free.”

  “Are you OK, Miss Mason? That must have been quite a tumble you took.”

  “I’m fine, Mr. Parks, and please, call me Clara. I’m so glad I caught you before you rode into town.”

  Parks replaced his hat and stepped down from his horse. He let the reins drop and lightly tapped his horse’s flank. “Go on, Horse.”

  She turned toward the riverbank. “We best sit and talk.”

  After explaining the situation in town, Clara waited for Parks to speak. The slender cowboy looked at the sky and the soon-to-set sun.

  “It appears Free has walked off into a hornet’s nest. I’veworried for two years that Jubalwould try to take his revenge. He’s a man not to trifle with.”

  Clara could see a tension building in Parks’ face. His brow had furrowed, and his nostrils flared with each breath. “What can we do, Mr. Parks?”

  “Clara, is there any way we can get Free’s horse rigged and ready to ride?”

  “I suppose. Samuel at the livery might help us if I had coin to pay him.”

  “I’ve got coin. Don’t worry about that.”

  In a moment’s time, Clara saw Parks’ face relax, his eyes fixed in total concentration. It was as if he knew the outcome of tonight’s showdown. “What are we going to do with Free’s horse?”

  She saw his eyes brighten.

  “You’re going to tie it in front of the sheriff’s office. Once you’ve got him tied, you get back to the hotel. You go about your chores just like any other day.”

  “Mr. Jenkins is going to be plenty mad at me, Mr. Parks. How am I going to explain why my chores are not finished? How am I going to explain where I’ve been all day?

  “You tell Mr. Jenkins that the sheriff has had you busy all afternoon. You tell him that, and let me take care of the rest.”

  “But what are you going to do, Mr. Parks?” She saw a stern look come over Parks’ face.

  “I don’t have it all worked out, Clara.” Parks stared west toward The Flats. “All I do know, is I’ve got a hanging to stop.”

  Chapter 17

  The Flats, Texas 1868

  Against a purple sky, the late afternoon sun cast off a multi-colored fan, in a brilliant display of orange and red, the last remants of daylight reached skyward. Bolstered by the cooling night air, The Flats would soon be brimming with activity.

  Parks had followed the Clear Fork in a wide arc around the town, preferring to enter from the west below Fort Griffin, offering only a silhouette to any curious onlooker. With Clara behind him, he entered town at a slow gait, his hat pulled low over his eyes.

  The livery stable was the first structure off the main thoroughfare and a hundred yards from the hotel and saloons. From Clara, he knew the sheriff ate dinner at the Jenkins House every evening near dark. After his meal, he would walk next door to Kelley’s for whiskey. If Parks was going to rescue Free, he needed the sheriff to keep to his nightly routine. He glanced at the sky and figured they had half an hour to wait.

  Turning onto the main street, he could see the open doors of the stable. Alarge rectangular corral sat next to the building and held several horses and mules.

  “That tall one, that’s Free’s horse. He calls him Comida,” Clara whispered in his ear.

  Parks eyeballed the animal and then shot one last gaze down the main street. He wanted to make sure they had attracted no attention during their entrance. As all seemed well, he pulled the reins right and walked Horse into the livery.

  Inside, Parks dismounted and helped Clara down. He took a quick inventory of the stable. He looked into the offices and saw a slender individual in a livery apron coming out to greet them.

  “Need to put your horse up?” the man asked. And then seeing Clara, he said, “Hi Clara. Friend of yours?”

  “It’s Samuel. Right?” Parks interrupted.

  “Yes,” the man replied. “Do I know you?”

  “I don’t need him put up, but he does need a good brushing and grain,” Parks answered. “And no, you don’t know me.”

  The livery owner turned his attention to Horse. “This animal looks like an Indian pony. You don’t see many whites riding ’em around here. They look somewhat small for a full-grown man to ride. I’ll have to charge you half a dollar for the brush and the grain.”

  Parks pulled a gold coin from his pocket and held it in front of the man’s eyes. “How much for that tall plow horse outside?”

  “That plugger is not for sale at the moment. He belongs to a prisoner down in the calaboose. Although he might be available in a couple of days.”

  “Why a couple of days?” Parks asked.

  “That prisoner, a colored fella name of Anderson, is set to hang as soon as the Jacksboro preacher arrives.”

  Parks drew another gold piece from his pocket. “If he’s going to hang, why wait? That horse looks dragged out to me. You ought to sell him while you have a buyer.”

  Standing beside him, Parks watched Clara nod her head yes to the livery owner.

  “Well, I guess I could go ahead and sell him, but if the sheriff finds out, there will be the heck to pay. I’m gonna need another gold coin if I’m going to risk his anger.”

  “I tell you what, Samuel. You throw in that Spanish saddle and blanket hanging over there, and we’ve got a deal.”

  “Then we’ve got a deal, Mister. I don’t much cotton to the sheriff’s ways no how.”

  Parks smiled and dropped three gold coins into Samuel’s palm. “Now, Samuel, if you’ll take care of my horse, I’ll get that plugger from outside.”

  A half hour later, brushed and fed, Horse stood in contentment as Parks cinched the saddle around Comida. Handing the reins to Clara, he said. “You know what to do. Just make sure you go back to the hotel after you tie him up. You’ll be safe. It appears that the entire town is either in the hotel or the saloons.”

  “Mr. Parks, I’,”
>
  “Shhhh.” He stopped her and placed his hand on her shoulder. “It’s OK. Everything is going to work out.” He helped her up in the saddle and watched as she rode out of the livery. As she disappeared from his view, he turned and walked into the livery office.

  “Here’s your receipt, Mister. What name do you want on it?”

  “You know what, Samuel?” Parks smiled. “Don’t worry about that receipt.”

  “But you need a receipt to prove ownership.”

  Parks tapped two fingers against the butt of his holstered Colt and replied. “I know the owner, Samuel. He’s sitting two hundred yards away in jail right now.” “You aiming to give that colored fellow back his horse?”

  Parks studied the livery owner. “I aim to free him from jail, Samuel. He’s been set-up in a foul way by Sheriff Thompson.”

  “Well, that’s no surprise to anyone around here, Mister.”

  Parks walked forward and placed both hands on Samuel’s desk. He leaned as far over the desk as possible, unsure of what he just heard. “You know my friend is innocent?” He asked in disbelief.

  “Mister, you need to know right now, most folks in this town don’t take favor with the sheriff. He’s a bully and a chiseler.”

  “Then why not do something about it, Samuel? It might be you sitting in the jail next time around.”

  “That’s easy for you to say. You go heeled and seem like a fella who can take care of himself. But Jubal is a mean sort, and he backs up his play with The Riders. I’m not looking to set my bones in the sun right now.”

  Parks pushed away from the desk and gazed at the man in front of him. “No, you’re right, Samuel. Jubal has the perfect jig. An outlaw carrying a badge.”

  “And if I knowed what you wanted that colored fella’s horse for, I would’ve given it to you. I don’t cotton to bilking innocent folks. And to square things, you only owe me for the brushing and the grain.”

  Parks looked across the desk at Samuel, holding two of the gold coins in his outstretched hand. “Samuel, you keep the coins. If you really want to make things square, there’s a favor I require of you.”

  The assembled clientele at Kelley’s Saloon was a mixed bunch. Government surveyors, gamblers, cowboys, and dance hall girls all crowded for a spot along the fifteen feet of bar spanning the length of the building. At the west end of the bar, gamblers sat at two tables dedicated to Chuck-a-Luck and Faro. Constructed in a rush, the saloon’s plank walls consisted of green wood. Within weeks of completion, the boards all warped, allowing the night air to drift through the establishment, mixing the smell of stale beer with the foul stench of buffalo tallow.

  It was here that Jubal Thompson held court each night. He had a permanent table with seven chairs surrounding it placed at the east end of the bar. His chair stood against the back wall and faced the opened doors to the street. It provided him with a bird’s eye view of anyone entering the saloon.

  Jubal sat alone this evening, a cigar and whiskey in each hand. The crowd, loud for a weekday, but not unruly, gave him time to think. He knew his take from the rustled cattle would be plenty enough to set him up with a ranch across the border in Piedras Negras. The prospect that Free would be dead by morning brought a smile to his face. Once the colored sergeant hanged, only The Riders would need attending to, and he was more than ready for that challenge.

  As he contemplated his run of good luck, he noticed Von Riggins enter the saloon. He tilted his chair back against the wall, allowing it to lean with two legs off the floor. “What’s up, Von?”

  “Jubal, my chores are done. Do you need me for anything else this evening?”

  The sheriff tossed the remaining whiskey down his throat, wincing slightly. “You don’t want to sit with me?”

  “Jubal, I just want to go home and get some sleep.”

  “What about the sergeant?”

  “Last I looked in, he was sleeping. He’s locked tight as could be; I don’t figure him to be going anywhere.”

  “He better not,” Jubal chuckled. “Anyway, the Jacksboro preacher oughta show up by tomorrow morning.”

  “So it’s OK for me to leave?” Von pleaded. “I’ll be back first thing in the morning.”

  Jubal stared at the deputy and then waved his hand to dismiss the man. “Yeah, yeah, yeah . . . Go on Von. Just make sure you show up at daybreak tomorrow.”

  He watched Von turn and move quickly for the door. “Hurry, Von,” he muttered, “Before I change my mind.” Feeling the whiskey beginning to speak, he laughed aloud for the entire bar to hear. “Go on home and fix themissus some dinner, Von!”

  As the deputy disappeared through the door, he saw Samuel Cleary gazing over the swinging doors. This oughta be good. Jubal had never seen Samuel inside any drinking establishment in The Flats. He studied the livery owner with amusement as the man scanned the Faro and Chuck–a–Luck tables. After a few seconds, he called across the crowded, smoke-filled room, “Samuel, who are you looking for?” He noticed the man look his way and point his finger toward the ceiling.

  “There you are, Sheriff.”

  “Drink?” Jubal held a half-full bottle toward the man.

  “No, thank you, Sheriff. I do not partake.”

  “Well, what brings you down to Kelley’s?” The sheriff took a long draw on his cigar, blowing the pungent smoke toward Samuel. “You don’t drink. I’ll bet even money you don’t smoke. And God forbid you would ever want a woman.” Leaning forward, half soaked, Jubal let his chair fall forward so that all four legs once again touched the floor. “So what is it?”

  “Sheriff, that colored fella from the jail just came in the livery demanding his horse,” Samuel answered.

  “What!” Jubal sobered momentarily. “What did you say?”

  “The colored fella, he wanted his horse.”

  Jubal snapped to his feet. The force of his action sent the chair flying back into thewallwith a loud crash. The commotion brought an immediate silence to the saloon. And Jubal saw all eyes turn his way.

  “What’s everyone looking at!” he slurred. “Don’t come in here trying to scoop me, Samuel! If you get my back up, you won’t like the consequences!”

  “I’m telling the God’s truth, Jubal.” Samuel stammered. “That colored is sitting over in your office waiting for you. I thought you might want to know, that’s all.”

  Jubal’s eyes darkened. He put his hand to his pistol and swayed toward the door. Across the street, a horse stood tied outside of the jail. Inside his office, he saw the soft glow from his oil lamp illuminating the room.

  “How the’,” he mumbled. Turning back to Samuel, he tossed a nervous glance. “Is he armed?”

  The livery owner shook his head no.

  “I’ll take that as a yes, Samuel.” Turning to the bar, his eyes narrowed like a rattlesnake. With a clenched jaw, he shot a hard look at the patrons. “You all heard Samuel. The ex-slave has escaped and is carrying a gun. He aims to settle a score with me.” He kept a steely gaze on everyone. “Does anyone disagree?” Satisfied as to his authority, Jubal set his jaw, cast a look of hard intent toward his office and gripped the ivory handles on his Colts. Sergeant, you can’t imagine what a favor you’ve given me; it appears there won’t be a need to hang you after all, he thought.

  Chapter 18

  The Flats, Texas 1868

  Across the street from Kelley’s, Parks moved in the shadows of The Flats. With caution assigned to each step, he navigated the seamy backside of the town. In the darkness, the visible outline of buildings along the main thoroughfare reflected with a charcoal hue. Just past the blacksmith and Shaunissy’s Saloon, he spied the lights from Kelley’s and the Jenkins House. He left his stirrups in one motion and moved close to Horse’s head. “Quiet, Horse,” he whispered while lifting the reins over the mustang’s head. Leading the pony, he crept toward the jail and his friend.

  Midway to the cell, he could see the dark shadows forming the outdoor cage. “Psst . . .” he whispered toward the cage
. “Psst . . . Free.”

  He saw the shadow of a figure rise from the cell floor and look his way.

  “Parks? Is that you?” the figure spoke.

  “Yeah it’s me. Keep your face to the street and watch Kelley’s. Let me know if anyone tries to leave.”

  “Clara found you. I knew you’d come.”

  “You sure keep trouble for company, Sergeant.”

  “Not at my choosing.”

  Parks shot a quick gaze behind to make sure he had no surprises following him. “Free, your horse is tied up in front of Jubal’s office. In a few minutes, I reckon the sheriff will be heading this way to see what that horse is doing there. When he does, I aim to get his keys and get you out of here.”

  “Right now, any plan seems good to me.”

  “Just hang on and be ready.”

  “You needn’t worry about that. I’m ready to be quit of this cell.”

  Parks pulled Horse’s reins up close and tied them loosely around the back of the cell. “I’m leaving Horse here. And take this Colt just in case,” Parks handed an ivory handled pistol through the cell door. “The chamber’s full.”

  “Thanks, Parks. Be careful.”

  “I’ll be back shortly.” He turned, and using his hands as guides in the darkness, he followed the wall planks around the building.

  From the corner of Jubal’s office, he peered across the street toward Kelley’s. Jubal was making his way across the boardwalk and into the street. A crowd hung in the doorway, watching. With very little motion, Parks eased the Colt from his holster and held it chest high. Even in the darkness, he could tell that the Sheriff was plenty roostered. Big mistake, Jubal. He thought.

  He watched the sheriff walk up behind Free’s horse.

  “What the’!” He heard Jubal call out, apparently satisfied as to the horse’s identity.