“Now, Hurd,” Swen argued, “you ain’t really gonna lynch these four? Why, that boy can’t be more than twelve or fourteen.”
Joe snorted. “He’ll grow up to be a rustler like the rest of ’em.”
Wilson nodded. “We don’t need no more half-breeds in this county, do we, boss?”
“Hell, no!” Hurd spat to one side. “Put ’em on their horses, boys.”
Tex protested, “Okay, we got it comin’, but the kid just happened along. Let him go.”
“Yeah,” added Dusty, “he’s just a boy, and it ain’t right to lynch a kid.”
“If his belly is full of K Bar beef,” Hurd growled, “that’s good enough for me. Tie ’em up and put ’em on their horses, boys.”
“You can’t do this,” the older man, Swen, protested. “Let’s turn them over to the sheriff.”
The men were forcing the Texans up on their horses. Joe threw three ropes over sturdy cottonwood limbs.
Kruger growled, “The law of the range is that you hang horse and cattle rustlers, and we got them dead to rights.”
“You can’t do this,” Swen protested again.
“Just watch me,” Kruger smirked and nodded to his men to adjust the ropes around the three Texans’ necks.
Smitty grinned. “The boy don’t seem to have a horse. How we gonna hang him?”
Wilson guffawed. “I reckon we could just haul him up an inch at a time so he’d strangle instead of breaking his neck quick.”
“No, don’t hang my friends !” The boy struck out at the K Bar cowhands, and Joe grabbed him and slapped him. The boy bit Joe’s hand, and the man struck him until his mouth bled. “You little red bastard! We’ll deal with you later.”
He could only lie on the ground in a daze as he watched the scene. Swen was protesting again. His Texas friends had their heads bowed, muttering prayers.
Tex opened his eyes and straightened his shoulders. “Kid, I’m mighty sorry we got you into this.”
“If we’re gonna die,” Slim said, “we’ll go out like Texans, like men, not beggin’ or cryin’.”
The boy felt tears come to his eyes. He finally had friends but this ranch owner was going to hang them. Hanging was a shameful way to die. Real men should be killed with a bullet or an arrow. Every warrior knew that if a man was hanged like the white men had done the Santee warriors at Fort Lincoln, his spirit could not escape up his throat and out of his mouth as he died and would be trapped in his dead body forever. That was how his warrior father had died for raping his white mother.
He turned and looked again at the older man with pleading eyes, but said nothing.
Swen begged, “Hurd, let’s not do this. We’ve all been drinking in town. If we was sober—”
“If we was sober,” Hurd muttered, “I’d still hang ’em.”
“But at least don’t hang the boy,” Swen argued. “He’s just a kid.”
“All right,” Hurd agreed and swayed on his feet. “We’ll hang the men, but that boy ain’t gettin’ off scot-free. We’ll teach him a lesson he won’t forget. Joe, make sure that runnin’ iron is hot.”
Swen’s face paled. “Aw no, Hurd, you can’t—”
Hurd hit him then with the butt of his rifle and knocked him to the ground. The man lay there unconscious. Kruger looked down at him. “You may be my best friend, Swen, but you don’t know how to maintain order in this wild country. You’re too soft to be a rancher.”
Now he turned back to his cowboys. They were as drunk as he was, grinning and unsteady on their feet. “All right, boys, show these three Texas sonovabitches what we do with rustlers in Wyoming.”
“No!” the boy shouted, but Hurd knocked him down and gestured to his men.
“Okay, boys, let ’em dance on air!”
“The kid didn’t do nothin’,” Tex protested. “For God’s sake—” Then his words were cut off as each of Hurd’s men slapped a cowboy’s horse on the rump and the startled horses ran out from under the Texans.
He couldn’t do anything to help his friends. He could only watch as the three Texans hit the end of their ropes, like sacks of sand under their full weights. They swung there, the ropes creaking, their boots jerking as they died. The four men on the ground grinned and nodded.
The boy looked toward the older man with the sandy hair. Swen was unconscious, so there was nothing he could do to help.
Now the big man with the black hair and mustache turned toward him. “And now you little half-breed bastard, we’ll teach you a lesson.”
“Let’s all have another drink,” the one called Wilson staggered over and got a bottle out of his saddlebags. Behind him, the three Texans swung, throwing strange shadows across the landscape as dusk came on.
“Good idea,” Kruger grinned, and they handed the bottle around.
Smitty looked at the swinging Texans. “Shall we cut ’em down and bury them?”
“Naw,” Kruger said, “leave them to hang there ’til they rot as a message to any other rustlers that might take a likin’ to K Bar beef.”
The boy watched them pass the bottle around again. What were they going to do to him? He was not going to beg. If they were going to kill him, he could die with dignity as his three friends had.
The man called Kruger grabbed him and shoved him to the ground. “You know, this kid is almost purty enough to be a girl.”
Joe laughed and swayed. “Hey, boss, we didn’t get any gals in town.”
“Maybe he’ll do,” Kruger laughed, and his eyes were hot with angry lust. “Flip him over on his belly, Wilson, and you other two hold him down.”
“Gawd,” Smitty licked his lips over and over, “I ain’t never done nothin’ like this before.”
Wilson laughed as he grabbed the boy. “Who’s to know? Just us, and Swen’s not gonna object.”
Kruger began to unbuckle his belt. “We’ll all get a turn, and then we’ll mark him so other ranchers will know he’s a rustler.”
What they did to him over the next few minutes was too shameful to remember. He only knew that finally Kruger sighed with satisfaction and said, “He was almost as good as a girl. Now flip him over on his back, Wilson.”
The man jerked him by his arms. It hurt, but he did not cry out as they turned him. He looked up at the four white men.
The one called Smitty grinned. “What you got in mind, boss?”
“Well, Swen was havin’ such a fit about hangin’ him, so we’ll do something else to make sure he remembers not to steal K Bar cattle again.”
The men all stared down at him. What they had already done was so shameful he did not care if they killed him now. No matter what they did, he would not cry out or beg. Maybe they were going to kill him slowly the way the Sioux sometimes did their captives.
“Yes, sir,” the big man with the black hair and mustache said, “we’ll teach him a lesson he won’t forget, and any other rustler who sees him will know better than steal cattle. Joe, hand me that runnin’ iron.”
He saw the cowboy reach for the glowing rod. The others held him down so he couldn’t struggle.
“Boss,” asked Joe, “you gonna brand his rump or his back?”
“Neither.” Kruger grinned, “Let’s mark his face so everyone who sees him will know what happens to rustlers in Wyoming.”
“Kind of a shame to mark his face,” Wilson said. “He’s handsome, even if he is a half-breed.”
Hurd laughed. “He ain’t handsome for long.”
The boy watched as Hurd took the running iron. It glowed scarlet from the flames. He could smell it and feel the heat as Kruger brought it closer.
“Hold him, boys.”
The others laughed, and now as he realized what the rancher intended to do, he struggled and tried to get away. However, all four men were big and strong, and they held him as the iron came closer. Then Hurd pressed it to his right cheek. He heard it sizzle and burn flesh. He tried not to cry out, but he couldn’t stop himself.
Kruger and the others laughed.
&n
bsp; Then Joe stumbled away, retching.
“What’s the matter with you?” Kruger complained. “You soft?”
“I never seen a man branded before,” Joe gulped. “It smells like burnin’ meat.”
“Well, I ain’t through.” Kruger said, and turned back to his victim. “That’ll teach you to take up with Texas rustlers, boy. Hold him, men, I’m ain’t through yet.”
The boy struggled while the men laughed. He could not escape as the rancher put the burning iron on his face again and again. He felt as if the whole right side of his face were on fire. He had never known such pain. He bit his lip to keep from screaming, but he bit his lip through and it bled all down his chin and neck.
He felt Hurd put the hot iron on his cheek again, but he was past pain even though he smelled the burning flesh, heard the sizzle of the iron. Then he passed out.
When he woke up, they had wearied of the torture and were drinking again. The boy had never known such agony, but the pain told him he was still alive. He kept his eyes closed and pretended to be unconscious.
“What’ll we do with him, boss?” he heard Joe say. “Want me to put a bullet in his brain?”
“Naw. He probably won’t live anyway, but if he does, I want him to be a walkin’ ad for what happens to rustlers.”
“We ought to be gettin’ back to the ranch.” Wilson hiccoughed. “It’s dark now.”
“You’re right, Kruger swayed on his feet. “Swen’s beginnin’ to come around. Help me put him on his horse.”
“He ain’t gonna be happy when he wakes up,” Joe said.
“So what can he do about it?” Kruger snorted. “Swen’s too soft. He couldn’t even be a rancher if I didn’t lend him money and give him advice. Let’s go home; I’m gettin’ a headache.”
The boy watched out of the corner of his eye as the four threw the unconscious Swen across his horse. Then the group rode away, laughing and singing a drunken song.
After that he must have passed out. When he awoke, he lay there a long time, fearing the men would come back. He wanted to die from the shame the men had inflicted on him. His face felt as if it were on fire. Finally in the darkness, he managed to get to his knees and crawl through the brush to a nearby creek. He drank deeply and plunged his face into the cold water, which gave him temporary relief.
At least he was alive. The Sioux couldn’t kill him, and the white rancher couldn’t either. Through his pain he felt the bitter anger and need for revenge. If he lived, he would kill these men someday.
Right now, his main goal was to stay alive. He dipped his aching face in the stream again and again. Then he crawled back to the fire and searched out any scraps of leftover meat and ate them. The fire had died down to glowing coals. He was cold, but he was afraid to build up the fire, afraid the white men might see it and return. The moon came out and threw grotesque swaying shadows from the three cowboys hanging from the tree limbs. When the wind blew, the bodies swayed in the breeze, and the ropes creaked. Somewhere in the distance, a wolf howled.
He wasn’t certain what to do. He was too weak to walk, and the cowboys had taken his three friends’ horses. He wanted to take them down and give them warriors’ burials as befitted brave men, but he didn’t even have a knife to cut the ropes.
He crawled back into the brush and raised his hands to the Great Father, praying for help. He was weak and in pain, and he knew he had reached the end of his journey. He did not want to give up, but he did not know where to go and had not the strength to travel anyway. Maybe he should just lie down and die and end his shame and suffering.
“Give me guidance, Great Spirit, and I promise I will seek vengeance against these men who treat other men like the lowest dogs instead of brave warriors.”
He would dig graves with his bare hands, thinking somehow, he would get the bodies down. He tried to dig, but the ground was hard and after a few minutes, he stopped, exhausted. He would have to rest a while and then try again.
Now he heard a noise and fell silent, crawling back into the grass and crouching as close to the ground as he could get. If they were coming back to kill him, there was nothing he could do but hide—he was too weak and injured to run.
Soon the noise grew louder, and he recognized the sound of horses walking. One of them snorted, and another one neighed.
He held his breath and peered through the grass as Swen rode in near the old fire. He led a pack mule and another horse. As he reined in, he looked at the hanging men and cursed, long and loud, and maybe he sobbed a little.
Then he dismounted, and as the boy watched, Swen cut the three Texans down and got a shovel from the pack mule. “What kind of bastards won’t even give men a decent burial?”
The boy watched from his hideout as Swen buried the three Texans and then leaned on his shovel. “Liquor,” he muttered. “It might not have happened if we hadn’t been drunk. Oh, God, forgive me.”
The boy wasn’t sure whether to show himself. He wasn’t sure what Swen intended to do now. The older man fashioned three crosses from crude branches and then put them in place, took off his hat, and bowed his head. He murmured a few words and then turned to look around. “Boy, are you out here? Boy, can you hear me?”
The boy watched him from his hiding place and said nothing. He was afraid to trust any white man now.
Swede called again, then sighed. “All right, if you’re here, I’m leaving you a horse and a pack mule of supplies. Better get out of this area before sunup—no telling what Hurd and his men will do next. If only I wasn’t so indebted to him . . .”
He sighed and mounted up, leaving the horse and pack mule tied to a tree.
Could the boy trust the man? He waited a long time to see if there was an ambush before he crawled out of the brush. His face burned so badly he wanted to scream, but that would only bring predators, human and animal.
He stumbled over to the three graves and couldn’t control the tears that came, only adding to the pain of his burned face. He had had three friends for only a couple of hours, and now he prayed for the Great Spirit to bless them and take them on their Sky Journey to where brave men are never cold and hungry and they ride spirit ponies through the clouds forever and ever.
It would be dawn in an hour or so, and he must leave here. He untied the horse and mounted up, tied the pack mule to his stirrup, and started away. He did not know where to go, but he had to escape both the Sioux and the whites, who might return to torture or kill him.
He looked up at the stars, undecided. Which way to go? Then he remembered his friends and what they had said about Texas. It was a long way south of here, but it was a big land of much happiness and lots of pasture. There would be horses and cattle, and the weather would be warm. He would go to Texas for his three dead friends. He headed south.
For several days, he was half-conscious as he rode, but the horse kept plodding south. His face was agony, but he stopped and splashed cold water on it and kept riding. Sometimes he would go to sleep in the saddle and fall off, but the well-trained horse would wait patiently for him to rouse himself and remount.
Days passed and then weeks. The pain in his face lessened, but then it was replaced by fever. He had used up all the supplies Swen had given him, and so finally, when the pack mule stumbled and fell, and could go no farther, he ate it. Then he rode on, always making sure he was headed south as the days warmed into summer.
Finally his horse gave out and died, and he took his knife and ate the horse raw. The next few weeks, he lived on the few rabbits he could snare or the gophers he managed to catch. He ate snakes and frogs and anything he could find to fuel his ravaged body. Then he began to walk south again on his scarred feet. He did not know if and when he would reach Texas or how he would know it if he did, but he had no will or thought to do anything else now except haul himself to his feet and stumble on south as the days grew hotter.
Autumn was turning the leaves to red and gold as he passed mountains in the distance to the west and kept walking. Then
the landscape became endless plains. He was nearly dead from thirst and starvation when he stumbled on the Triple D herd. He knew the punishment for killing the white man’s cattle, but he was too hungry and tired to care. He killed one with his knife and was eating it raw when the cowboys rode up and the one called Trace Durango found him. He thought they would kill him or torture him for stealing their beef, but the boss instead had rescued him and told him he was finally in Texas. He could die now, he thought. He had made it all the way to Texas.
Yet his face still felt on fire and his side throbbed with pain. Why was his side hurting? He must be still on the trail and Trace had not rescued him at all; he had only dreamed that.
He opened his eyes slowly and looked around, trying to decide where he was.
A beautiful girl with long, pale hair hovered over him. He could see her in the glow of the fire. Where was he, and what had happened? Was she what the white men called an angel? He tried to move, and the pain in his side made him cry out.
The girl held a tin cup of water to his lips and said, “Don’t move, you’re hurt.”
He blinked and swallowed the water. She looked familiar somehow, and then he remembered. He was in Wyoming again. Sunshine. Sunny.
“What—what happened?” he gasped.
“Don’t you remember? I shot you!”
Chapter 15
Her words didn’t register with Diablo. He struggled to come back into consciousness and failed. When the angel put a soothing, cool hand on his forehead, he relaxed and drifted back into delirium.
Now as Sunny put her hand on his forehead, she wasn’t sure what to do next. The gunfighter was burning hot with fever, and the wound didn’t look too good. What to do? Then she remembered that Diablo had boiled some kind of bark to lower her fever. What was it? Oh yes, willow. It must be an old Indian remedy. She went out into the darkness and searched out a willow tree in the light of the moon. She took the gunfighter’s knife and peeled some of the bark, and set it to boiling in a small pot of water on the campfire. After it seeped and cooled a little, she spooned some between his lips.
He was still too warm but shivering. She peeled back the bandage and looked at the wound. It looked swollen and red in spite of the medicine she had bought. It ought to be cleansed, but she wasn’t certain what to use. Then she remembered the small bottle of whiskey. She wiped the wound as clean as she could with boiled water, then washed it with the whiskey. Maybe the alcohol would kill the infection.
Diablo Page 22