The Sonora Noose

by Jackson Lowry

  “The Kid, he escaped. He is like the air between your fingers.” Rodriguez grabbed nothing in front of him and made a fist. “He will strike again!”

  “If he wasn’t killed—if you’re right and he got away—I’ll track him down and arrest him, just as I did you.”

  “You will not find him. He is too smart for you.” The Mexican was smug, and Barker almost told him he would find his son and bring him to justice.

  But he hadn’t been able to say the words. He wasn’t sure if he was ashamed or if he feared the outlaw would take pleasure in that knowledge. Maybe both. Probably both.

  Barker got Rodriguez to his feet and back on the trail.

  Getting through the mountains was easier than he’d expected. Following an unpolluted stream up one canyon gave them plenty of water and less rocky footing. When they emerged on the north side of the Peloncillas and found the road leading east toward Mesilla, luck was again with them. A rancher driving his buckboard into town sped them along the way, but once they were at the outskirts of Mesilla, Barker walked his prisoner to Fort Selden. It was petty, but he was not feeling inclined to make life easy for a man who had committed the crimes the bandito had.

  “The fort’s ahead. You’ll have a nice cell in the stockade tonight. Food, a place to sleep.”

  “What is this celebration?” Rodriguez pointed. Red, white, and blue bunting had been draped from poles and across the low adobe walls circling the post. “They know I arrive and rejoice to see one such as I?”

  “Shut up,” Barker said. He tried to figure out what holiday it might be and couldn’t. It had been almost two weeks since he had left Sergeant Sturgeon and struck out after the last of the Sonora Kid’s gang.

  The “last of the gang” echoed in Barker’s head. His son must have died. The colonel had been right about Nate going with the larger part of the gang down the other canyon, but there was no way Nate would ever be taken alive.

  That made punishment for Rodriguez all the more important. Somebody had to face justice, to have the crimes spoken of in public, in court, and judgment rendered.

  He marched the Mexican into the fort amid boisterous celebration. No one paid him any heed; they were too busy dancing about and enjoying the festivities. A fiddler and a mouth harp player kept the music loud at the end of the parade grounds.

  He looked away from the revelers and the musicians to a gallows constructed nearby. A noose swung in the hot breeze—the noose he had made for the Sonora Kid.

  The music stopped and a heavy drumroll quieted the crowd. They were celebrating because there was going to be a hanging.

  Mason Barker went dead inside when he realized who was going to have his neck placed inside that noose.

  25

  “LOOKS LIKE A HANGING,” RODRIGUEZ SAID, HIS voice small.

  “Not your day,” Barker said. He couldn’t take his eyes off the dangling noose.

  “Get over there.” He started the outlaw toward the post stockade but was intercepted by two soldiers with rifles at port arms.

  “Got another one of the gang for your commander,” Barker said.

  “You the marshal Sergeant Sturgeon’s always goin’ on’bout?” asked one.

  “I reckon so. Why don’t you fetch him?”

  It wasn’t necessary. Sturgeon came marching over, stride long and smile bigger than looked humanly possible.

  “You got him, Marshal? I have to admit to being surprised at that.”

  “It’s not the Sonora Kid,” Barker said.

  Sturgeon motioned for the pair of guards to take Rodriguez away. The outlaw shouted and protested, but the soldiers brooked no argument from him. Barker was glad to be rid of him.

  “The colonel had a good idea what went on in the son of a bitch’s head,” Sturgeon said. “He rode with his gang, thinkin’ we’d go after the howitzer. That’d let him get away. Almost worked.”

  Barker had never been right about his son. He had never believed Nate would commit such vile murders, and he had tried to find ways to excuse him and alibi him as only one of the gang. Even the massacre on the hillside beyond the canyon—his back still ached from Nate’s boot—had not been enough to sour him on finding ways to explain away the evidence. He couldn’t lie to himself any longer.

  “The colonel caught him?”

  “You would have enjoyed it, Marshal. The Kid tried to use his men as a shield, then he tried to slip away and let them get killed. Some did, but the colonel was too smart. He had sent a detachment around ’fore he started the attack. Caught him good and proper tryin’ to skulk off.”

  “Was he hurt?”

  “How’d you know?” Sturgeon’s bushy eyebrows arched and his mouth dropped open. “You just got in. Somebody in Mesilla tell you?”

  “How bad?”

  “Pretty bad, but he’s up and walking. Almost had his leg shot off and some thought he’d lose it. No way will he ever walk right again and riding’s gonna be a chore. Might have to ride in a buggy.”

  “Buggy?” Barker tried to sort it all out. Then he saw Colonel Tomasson being helped from his office by his striker. His leg dragged, and he leaned heavily on a cane. Only then did he realize Sturgeon was speaking of his commanding officer and not Nate.

  “It’s likely he’ll be mustered out. The colonel’s fighting it, but word is that a new commander is on his way with orders tucked in his pocket. Might be Colonel Hatch himself what takes over command.”

  Barker had to ask the question that gnawed at his gut.

  “What of the ... the Sonora Kid?”

  “Snared him as slick as can be. You need to get all caught up. Took you forever to catch that bandito and get on back here with ’im.” Sturgeon looked around, lowered his voice, and asked, “You have to chase him into Mexico?”

  “San Miguelito,” Barker said. The Mexican town seemed a hundred years in the past, and he hardly remembered the long trip through the canyons of the Peloncillas.

  “You’ll catch hell for that, but not from the U.S. Army. If it’s up to the colonel, he’ll pin a medal on you for catchin’ the last of the gang.”

  “The last of the gang,” Barker repeated dully. He stared at the noose. A hot wind had picked up and set it swinging. He watched as it twisted and turned, its shadow slowly disappearing on the gallows platform as the sun neared the zenith. He jumped when the drumroll began again.

  “Yes, sir, you made it to the post just in time,” Sturgeon said with some glee. “You wouldn’t want to miss this.”

  Barker caught his breath when four armed soldiers escorted Nate from the stockade. He took an involuntary step forward, then checked himself.

  “What do you know of him?” he asked Sturgeon.

  “’Nuff to give him a fair trial, even if he never gave us a name or where he was from. Truth is, he’s a white man and the colonel has his doubts the owlhoot ever was in Mexico, much less hailin’ from Sonora. His Spanish is mighty bad, too. Don’t matter, though. He confessed to ’bout every crime ’long with bein’ the Sonora Kid,” Sturgeon said. “You’ve done good work, Marshal, trackin’ down this one. He’s a bad one, a real bad one.”

  The slow tattoo continued, the soldiers marching in a half-time cadence with it, Nate waving to the crowd as if he were some stage performer. When he reached the foot of the gallows, he paused. Barker saw the flash of fear on his son’s face, then an arrogant sneer replaced it.

  He might have been wrong about the fear. He couldn’t tell. Nate took the thirteen steps up to the platform two at a time, then did a little dance at the top to mock them all.

  The drumroll ceased and Colonel Tomasson stepped forward. All eyes shifted to him, all save Mason Barker’s. He stared at his son, wondering what was running through his boy’s mind. He was strangely unable to think of anything himself. Barker floated. He felt no emotion, no pain, no sorrow. Nothing.

  “You have been tried and convicted by a military court,” Tomasson boomed.

  “Military court?” Barker turned to Serge
ant Sturgeon. “He ought to have been tried in a civilian court.”

  “He killed the soldiers from Fort Union and bragged on how he personally shot Lieutenant Greenberg full of holes,” Sturgeon whispered. “Crime against the military, a military court.”

  “But—” Barker cut off his protest. His mind sped away now, thinking of all the possible appeals. His son wasn’t a soldier and couldn’t be tried by a military tribunal. There had to be some way to ...

  He caught himself and forced back the tears. He was still making excuses for Nate and looking for ways to help a boy—a man—who no longer wanted his help.

  Barker stared at Nate, who fought briefly as they tied his hands behind his back and pushed him into position on the trapdoor.

  Barker heard Tomasson’s condemnation and explanation of the charges but was again unable to understand the words. All he could do was stare at Nate.

  “... and may God have mercy on your miserable soul,” the colonel finished. “Carry out the sentence!”

  The executioner, a sergeant Barker had never seen before, draped the noose around Nate’s neck. For a moment Barker closed his eyes. He had fashioned that noose ... for the Sonora Kid. If he had only known!

  “Do you have any last words?” the sergeant asked.

  “I wish I’d killed more of you. You don’t deserve my lead! You—”

  Barker’s intent stare somehow drew his son’s attention. Nate broke off his tirade and again looked frightened and innocent.

  Barker sucked in a deep breath as the trapdoor was sprung and his son dropped out of sight.

  “That ends a whole bunch of killing,” Sergeant Sturgeon said. “Come on over. I’m sure the colonel will want to speak to you.”

  Barker nodded numbly.

  He couldn’t be sure, but thought Nate had seen him and mouthed, “I’m sorry, Pa,” just as the trapdoor opened. He wasn’t sure, but he hoped it was so because he wanted it to be, like he had wanted so many other things for Nate.

  26

  IT WAS JUST PAST TWO IN THE AFTERNOON, DURING the heat of the day, when Mason Barker rode into Mesilla. His back hurt like fire and his legs had gone numb from being in the saddle too long, but it was the cancer in his soul that was the worst.

  “There, there he is. Marshal!” called Gus Phillips from the front steps of the Plugged Nickel. “Come on in. Drinks are on me. For the rest of the week.”

  “For the rest of the whole danged year, you mean,” corrected a customer who had followed Gus outside. “You’re a hero, Marshal. You’re the best lawman in the whole danged territory!”

  The two men cheered, which drew more of the townspeople. When enough had gathered, a real cheer went up.

  “What are you cheering about?” Barker asked. He wondered if he sounded as tired as he felt. Probably so.

  “You caught the bastard. You saw the Sonora Kid hung by his scrawny neck.”

  “The soldiers at Fort Selden caught him and hanged him,” Barker said.

  “To hell with them takin’ the credit. You were the one what run him to ground. You were the only lawman who knowed right off how dangerous the son of a bitch was right from the start.”

  “And you got the reward waitin’ for you.”

  “Reward?”

  “Halliday Stage Company posted a reward and so did the cavalry. Both of ’em is all yours. But you won’t be able to spend a red cent of that reward, Marshal. Not in my drinkin’ emporium. Come on in,” invited Gus again.

  Barker couldn’t muster enough spark to tell them to all go to hell.

  “Got business at the marshal’s office,” he said.

  “Well, sir, you finish up with Dravecky and you get on back here.”

  “You got free drinks at the Lucky Lew,” piped up someone Barker had never seen before. That drinking establishment might have changed hands while he was gone. It had been only weeks, but it stretched to a lifetime for him. A lifetime.

  He snapped the reins and guided his horse through the adoring crowd until he reached the marshal’s office that had been his headquarters before Dravecky was hired. The marshal came out and stood with hands on his hips, watching as he dismounted.

  “You got quite a followin’,” the marshal said, looking past Barker to the crowd in the street. They were dancing and joshing, waiting for him to return.

  “Don’t know why.”

  “You’re the man of the hour. After all the killin’, they needed to know it was over and done with. You stopped the Sonora Kid.”

  “Army did, not me,” Barker said.

  “That’s not the way Colonel Tomasson reported it to Marshal Armijo. I don’t know for certain, but the letter waitin’ for you inside from Armijo might just be an offer to become his chief deputy.”

  “Do tell.” Barker looped the reins around the cast-iron ring set in the corner of the building.

  “You don’t have to sound so excited. Come on in. I got a bottle of whiskey in my drawer, and it’d be an honor to share some of it with you.”

  Barker followed the marshal inside, then sank into the rickety chair across the desk from him. Dravecky shoved a stack of envelopes toward him and then fished around in the large lower drawer for the whiskey and two glasses.

  Barker listlessly opened the letter from Marshal Armijo and scanned it quickly. As Colonel Tomasson had told him before he left Fort Selden after the hanging, he had recommended him to be Armijo’s chief deputy marshal the day the Sonora Kid was tried and convicted. The letter was the offer. Barker read it again to be sure, then put it aside on the desk.

  “Here. Drink up. To catchin’ the bad guys.” Dravecky hoisted his glass, waiting for Barker to acknowledge the toast. Slowly, Barker did so.

  Their glasses clinked, and Barker knocked back the fiery liquor. It did nothing to ease his pain. Any of his pain.

  “Good,” he said, although he could not have identified what it was. Rye? Trade whiskey? Good Kentucky bourbon? It hardly mattered as it settled in his belly and churned away there.

  He opened the other envelopes. He might as well have had his entire life printed up in the newspaper. Each envelope contained a letter praising him and offering the reward money for capturing and bringing to ultimate justice one bandito, known only as the Sonora Kid.

  “You take them letters over to the bank and they can give you cash money for ’em. They’re what’s known as letters of credit.”

  Barker tucked the letters into his coat pocket. His fingers touched the empty, cracked bottle there. It had been too long since he had eased his pain with laudanum, since Nate had mashed the bottle into the sand. But looking for more right now didn’t seem right. He wanted to feel something, and if it was pain, so be it.

  “I’m glad it worked out this way,” Dravecky said.

  “What? How what worked out?”

  “You capturin’ the Sonora Kid like you did and all. Your promotion to chief deputy means Mayor Pendleton ain’t as likely to send me packin’. I’ve taken a likin’ to Mesilla and want to keep on bein’ town marshal.” He smiled almost shyly. “Me and Griselda’s hittin’ it off real good, too.”

  “I’m not any competition,” Barker said. “Never was, not now.”

  “It’s neighborly of you to say that, but we know how the folks in town took to you and yours.”

  “Me and my family,” Barker said. He looked sharply at Dravecky, wondering if the marshal was taunting him. The man’s earnest expression told Barker that he didn’t know the identity of the Sonora Kid. He was sincere in what he said.

  If Barker never mentioned Nate around town, it was likely nobody would inquire. He could always distract them with stories of how he caught the Sonora Kid. And they would never know.

  “You have pen and ink?”

  “Surely do. Too damned many reports to fill out. You won’t believe this, but Pendleton wants me to keep track of what I spend on upkeep for the jailhouse. I had the Gunther boy sweep up, and Pendleton wanted that writ down so he could charge it off against s
ome account or other. Said he was using double-entry books now, which sounds a powerful lot like a crime to me, but he said it wasn’t.”

  As Dravecky rattled on, Barker carefully wrote his letter to Armijo on the back of the same letter offering him the job as chief deputy marshal. His hand shook something fierce, and he had to force himself to keep his normal hen scratching readable. He finally dropped the steel-nibbed pen, blew on the ink to dry it, then folded the letter carefully and tucked it back into the envelope.

  “You wantin’ that sealed? Here, got some sealin’ wax.”

  Barker waited as Dravecky did the honors. He lit a match and dripped a couple specks of hot wax from a stick onto the back of the envelope so it was sealed.

  “There,” Dravecky said.

  “One more thing.” Barker scratched out his name on the front and wrote in Marshal Armijo’s name. Then he handed it back to Dravecky. “Would you see that’s sent when you can?”

  “It’ll be on its way to Santa Fe on the morning stage,” Dravecky said, holding the envelope and beaming. “My pleasure to see to this, Chief Deputy Marshal Barker.”

  “That has quite a ring to it, doesn’t it?” Barker stood. “Thanks for the drink. I’m heading home now for a spell.”

  “You certainly deserve a rest ’fore you get back on the trail of the owlhoots. It’s an honor knowin’ you, Mase.” Dravecky stood and thrust out his hand. Barker shook, then he left silently. Behind him, the marshal hummed to himself and, from the sound of it, poured another drink.

  Barker stepped into the saddle and turned his mare’s face toward the edge of town, where Ruth waited for him. He hoped to hell he would know what to tell her before he got home.