A Time For Hanging

by Bill Crider

  He knew only that his daughter was dead and that vengeance was demanded. He had preached a gospel of love, and that had failed him. That had brought him nothing more than a wife grown grossly fat and a daughter who was a scarlet whore.

  It never occurred to him to wonder if it was possible that he had failed the gospel rather than the other way around. He had been sure for so long that he was in the right that the idea he might be wrong had never disturbed his consciousness until very recently.

  The daughter had paid for her sins. Now it was someone else's turn. These men he was with, Ross and the others, they seemed to know what they were about, and it seemed to fit in with his own desires, as much as he understood of them. Everything was confused and spinning in his head, and he no longer had a clear destination in mind. It had seemed simple at first: go to the jail, kill the boy who was being held there, and then face down any man who called him out. That was what he would have done in the old days.

  But now they were telling him that the boy was no longer there, that he had escaped. No one seemed to know where he was, but they were going to find him.

  Randall would go with the men, then, and he would serve as an instrument of God's judgment. It was all that there was left for him to do.

  A thought flashed into his mind. Perhaps that was what he had been before, in the days when he wore the gun. And instrument of God's vengeance, smiting the unrighteous

  He remembered what the men had said to Joshua, "'Whosoever he be that doth rebel against thy commandment, and will not hearken unto thy words in all that thou commandest him, he shall be put to death: only be strong and of a good courage.'"

  Perhaps that was right, and he was like Joshua, sent to be a right arm of God and meant to be obeyed by all, to punish by putting to death all those who did not listen to his words and obey his commandments.

  People like his daughter, people like Paco Morales.

  If that was true, then he had actually failed his calling when he put down his gun and took up the Bible. He had wasted twenty-five years.

  But he had returned to the calling now.

  God would be merciful.

  God would forgive him if he was strong and of good courage.

  He let his hand stroke the smooth wooden handle of the pistol, and it felt good. It felt right.

  Randall smiled.

  19.

  Paco had made it to his house, but he wasn't sure just how he had gotten there. There had been more than once on the way that he had been pretty sure he would never make it, but he kept going. His mother had told him the men would kill him if he stayed in the jail, and he had believed her.

  They had killed his father, and they would kill him.

  He did not enter his home when he got there, however. He went first to the well and drew up a bucket of water, pulling the rope with one arm and thinking again of the times when he had gone there to wait get water for the mule when one of his mother's visitors was in the house.

  He got the bucket up to the top of the well and looped the rope around a nail to hold it there. He managed to lean out and get his hand on the bucket and pull it to him. Then he bent his knees and tilted the bucket so the water spilled out, running into his mouth and down his chin, chilling him as it soaked into his shirt.

  When he had drunk his fill, he hobbled over to the shade of a mesquite tree and awkwardly sat down. HIs ribs hurt, and his arm, but it was nothing he could not bear.

  He thought that his sisters might be watching him from the house, but he did not call out to them. He leaned back against the tree and closed his eyes to wait on his mother, or whoever came to find him.

  He might have slept, for it seemed like no time at all had passed before he looked up to see his mother standing over him, looking down into his face.

  "You cannot stay here," she said. "Not out in the open like this."

  "It would not be safe for me to stay in the house," he pointed out. "Maybe I should catch the mule and ride toward Mexico." He had no idea how far away Mexico might be, but he knew he could never ride there, not even if it was only five miles. However, he did not want to bring trouble to his home.

  His mother smiled. "You are a foolish boy, but I forgive you. You must stay here."

  "But where?"

  They had no barn, but there was a small shed that his father had built to keep his tools in. Paco had played in the shed when he was younger, and even then it had seemed cramped.

  He struggled to his feet. "They will find me there, as easily as if I were in the house."

  "Perhaps not. Come."

  They walked to the shed, made of warped boards and lacking even a window for light. There was no fastener on the door.

  Consuela opened the door and the sunlight fell inside. Dust motes swirled in the light. There was a stack of wooden boxes, most of them empty, a rake, a hoe with a broken handle, a plowshare and plow lines, and a heap of something that looked like a dead animal. It was an old buffalo robe that Paco's father had come by somehow, years before.

  There was nothing else in the shed, but it was so small that even those few things that were there crowded it. It was hot, and Paco could feel his breath being sucked away before he even got inside.

  "Go ahead," Consuela said. "Get in."

  Paco obeyed her reluctantly. The only place to sit was in the middle of the floor, on the robe. He sat, trying to breathe the burning air. When he did, the dust tickled the inside of his nose and he sneezed. He brushed his sleeve across his nose.

  "I will bring your father's rifle," Consuela said. "I hope that you will not have to use it."

  "They will come for me," Paco said. "I hurt no one, but they will come. If they come, I will use the rifle."

  "We will try to trick them," Consuela said. "I will take the mule away and tie it, but not well. Just enough so that it will stay for a while before it gets free. Perhaps they will see that the mule is gone and believe you are on it. If we are lucky they will follow it."

  "It will come home," Paco said.

  "Not at once. Time will pass. Perhaps the sheriff will find the man who did the thing they accuse you of."

  Paco did not have much faith in that possibility. "What if they do come to the shed?" he asked. "Then shall I use the rifle?"

  "Then you should cover yourself with the robe. Put the boxes in front of the door and make yourself small. Pull the robe over you. They will not see you."

  Paco did not think that would work, but he would do as his mother said. If they pulled the robe away, however, he would shoot. He would not let them kill him and walk away smiling the way they had done when they killed his father. This time, they would pay.

  His mother closed the door and went to the house. Paco sat with his eyes wide open, trying to accustom them to the darkness, which at first seemed absolute.

  Eventually, however, he could see the light that shone through the cracks between the boards, and then he could see the vague outlines of the boxes and the tools.

  When his mother opened the door, the sudden glare almost blinded him, and he vowed to himself to keep his eyes on the cracks from then on, to let them take in as much light as they could. He did not want to miss his first shot.

  "Here," Consuela said, handing him the rifle. It was a lever-action Henry, older than Paco.

  She put four cartridges into his hand. "That is all the ammunition we have," she said.

  "It will be enough," he told her.

  She said nothing, closing the door. Then she went to catch the mule.

  #

  Vincent had no call to hold Charley at the jail, so he let him go, telling him to stay in town. He left Jack in charge of the jail, too late, he knew, but he wasn't going off and leave the place unattended this time. He had to talk to Bigby and to try to find Paco.

  Bigby was his usual ebullient self again, smiling and showing his teeth all the way back to his throat when Vincent entered the office, really nothing more than a rented room decked out with a few ads for patent medicine
s on the wall.

  "I took the girl over to Rankin's, like you said. He wasn't too happy with me for bringin' her in, though. Said she was a real mess, and he didn't have time to fix her like she ought to be fixed, not with the weather as hot as it is. I told him the family'd be by to talk to him about the buryin'."

  He stopped to look to Vincent for approval, and when the sheriff did not say anything, Bigby went on.

  "Did I do the right thing? You did say the family'd best see her over there, didn't you? Told me not to keep her here?"

  That's right," Vincent said. "But I'm not sure the family ever went over there, at least not the father. Maybe the mother did. Anyway, that's not why I'm here."

  "Well, well. Don't tell me you've got somethin' the matter with you. It'd be the first time. You comin' down with a cold or the fever? I got some medicines here that'll have you feelin' better in no time." He started rummaging around in his bag, the bottles clinking together.

  "I don't need anything like that," Vincent said.

  "Well, what do you need, then? I hate to say it, Sheriff, but it ain't like you to be droppin' by for a sociable visit. There must be somethin' on your mind."

  "There is," Vincent said.

  "You're sure havin' a hard time sayin' what it is, ain't you. One of those 'delicate' matters, is it?"

  "That's right," Vincent said. It's delicate. That's the right word."

  Bigby rubbed his hands together. "You come to the right man, then. Bein' a doctor and all, I can keep quiet about things when I have to. People wouldn't tell me what I need to know to help 'em, otherwise."

  Where had he heard something just like that lately, Vincent wondered, and then he remembered that Martha Randall had said practically the same thing about her husband. As far as Vincent knew it was the only thing doctors and preachers had in common.

  "It's about the girl," Vincent said.

  "What about her? She's dead, that's all."

  "Was she pregnant?"

  Bigby's smile went from wide to thin, but he didn't say anything.

  "I thought that was one of the things you'd check, just to be sure, in a case like this. It's just what a doctor ought to do."

  "You sayin' I ain't a doctor?"

  "I'm just asking, did you check. That's all."

  "What if I did?"

  "Then you can answer me. Was she pregnant?"

  "Yeah," Bigby said. "Yeah, she was."

  "Damnit, then why didn't you tell me to start with? you can't keep somethin' like that a secret."

  "Why not?" Bigby said. "Why the hell not? She was the preacher's girl! How do you think her mama and daddy will feel if they find out she was gonna have a baby?"

  "It might've been better for them to hear it from you or me than the way they heard it," Vincent said, not saying what that way was. "You should've told me, Doc."

  Bigby looked shamefaced. "I know it. Hell, I started to, but I thought, maybe I could save the family from knowin'. It seemed like the right thing."

  "All right. We won't argue about it. But that changes things a little as far as Paco Morales is concerned."

  "How's that?"

  "Gives us another suspect," Vincent said. "Rankin know about this?"

  "I didn't tell him. He won't figure it out for himself. He'll just be wantin' to get her in the ground."

  "He may have to wait a while," Vincent said.

  20.

  On their return from the jail, the men slammed into the saloon where Willie Turner was drinking with Benteen's cowhands, who had not been put off in the least by the fact that Willie told them there was no one there to sell them any liquor. They were not going to be denied their chance for a drink, and they went behind the bar for what they wanted, ignoring Willie's pleas to leave. When he saw that there was no use in arguing with them, he joined them.

  He had just about finished off Ross Turley's bottle, though it hadn't done him any good. For some reason, he couldn't seem to get drunk, not even halfway. The more he drank, the more sober he got. It wasn't a good feeling.

  A couple of the girls who lived out back had come in by this time, and things were getting pretty lively by the time the men came back from the jail, what with the liquor being supplied by Benteen. Willie wasn't joining in the fun, but the cowhands weren't letting that bother them. They were laughing and joking, playing up to the girls and pinching them on the sly, not that it seemed to bother the girls all that much. They were laughing, too, probably hoping to engage in a cash transaction or two later on, when things got to rolling really good.

  "What's goin' on here?" Lane Harper demanded as he came through the doors. He looked for Willie and saw him standing at the bar between two of the waddies. "I thought I told you --"

  "I know what you told me," Willie said. "I tried to get 'em to leave. You can ask 'em." He wondered what the preacher was doing with there, all dressed in black like he was ready for church. It didn't seem right for a preacher to be in a saloon, not where there were girls and drinking. The gambler was with them, too. Willie didn't like the gambler being there. That wasn't a good sign.

  "Leave him be," Len Hawkins advised. "We got other things to discuss."

  Harper wasn't going to be dissuaded so easily. "If Mr. Danton was to've come in here and seen all this goin' on, and me bein' gone, he'd sack me quick as a cat can lick its ass. I oughta --"

  "Mr. Danton ain't comin' in," Turley Ross said. "When's the last time he came in here, anyway?"

  Harper didn't say anything to that. He knew exactly the last time Danton had come in. It had been the day the gambler, that same fella who was with them now, had killed Morales. Danton had been there then, and what happened had sort of killed the pleasure he took in coming in. He had been back, of course. It was his business. But he came in only when he had to, and he didn't stay long when he was there. He didn't even mess with any of the girls anymore.

  "Let 'em have a little fun," Ross said. "Let's decide what we're gonna do about that kid."

  "Let's us have a little fun, too," Harl Case said. "Get us a drink," Lane.

  Harper went behind the bar and got a bottle. Willie was glad to see that Ross seemed to have forgotten that he had already bought one.

  The men went to a table and pulled up some chairs. They sat down, opened the bottle, and began discussing their next move. Willie noticed that although the preacher sat down, he didn't have anything to say, nor did he touch the bottle. And Willie saw the gun the preacher was wearing. He'd never seen anything like that before, and he knew it meant trouble, even more trouble than there was already.

  Then Charley Davis came in, and the trouble got worse. It seemed to Willie as if he could almost predict what was going to happen, like he could see the future.

  Davis would tell the ranch hands what had happened to Liz Randall, and they would be indignant. The men over at the table, their heads together, would hear the cowboys talking, and because they felt the same way, everyone would get together. Willie couldn't see beyond that, but he knew that nothing good would come of it.

  He was right. It happened pretty much that way, with two exceptions. One of them Willie didn't know about, since he didn't realize that Charley was a suspect in the case. Charley left that part out entirely, making it sound as if Paco Morales was guilty beyond a doubt.

  The other exception was the way the upstairs girls reacted. Willie hadn't thought about them. They pretended to be afraid and put their hands to their mouths and talked about how a girl "couldn't even go out for so much as a little walk without getting killed by some crazy meskin."

  It was almost sickening to listen to them, but Willie did listen. He seemed frozen at the bar, his head icily clear despite the liquor he had drunk. He looked at Turley's bottle. It was empty, but that didn't seem to matter now. Willie didn't want any more. It was useless to him now.

  "We oughta do somethin' about it," one of the ranch hands, a big, broad-shouldered man named Frank, said.

  "Damn right. We oughta go down to the jail and
tell the sheriff what we think about a town where a decent woman can't even walk outside without fearin' for her life," another cowhand said.

  "You'll have to do better than that," Ross said from the table. He was glad to hear the commotion, and he was already thinking about how it could benefit his own ideas. "The one that did it's already out of the jail."

  "You mean the sheriff let him out?" Frank said.

  "No," Charley told him. "The kid escaped."

  "That damn sheriff never was no good," Frank muttered. "I guess there's nothin' we can do, then."

  "Sure there is," Ross said. He was about to tell them what they could do when the batwings swung inward and Roger Benteen entered the saloon.

  The noise level dropped to nothing. Everyone looked at Benteen, even the men from town. They knew that he pretty much ran things around there, and they didn't know how much he knew about the situation.

  He didn't know anything, of course, but Davis drew him aside and filled him in quickly, once again leaving out any hint of that he might be involved with Liz Randall's death.

  Benteen was not a stupid man, however. "Goddamn, Charley. Did you have anything to do with this?"

  "Hell, no," Charley said. "You know I wouldn't be mixed up in something like that. Ever'body says the Morales kid did it." He was beginning to see that if he could shift the blame entirely to the Morales boy, he would be in the clear.

  "Any evidence to that effect?" Benteen liked to think of himself as a law-abiding man.

  "Those fellas saw him do it," Charley said, pointing over to Turley Ross and the others.

  "The preacher saw his own daughter killed?" Benteen found that hard to believe.

  "No, sir, he wasn't with 'em, but those others, they saw it. You ask 'em."

  "I will," Benteen said, and he did.

  Ross eagerly confirmed everything, and Benteen went back to Davis. "We've got to do something about this. Lucille's just on the verge of doing something crazy, and this might just push her over the edge, since you were involved with the girl. Ross tells me that the boy's escaped from the jail, besides."