Shadow of the Rope

by L. J. Kottke

 One

Bowie Rayburn and his gang were whooping it up as they often did when the sheriff was out of town; somehow they always seemed to know just when that would be.  Now Bowie prodded his horse into position beside the front window of the newspaper office; his voice, loud and mocking, could be heard up and down the main street:  “Hey, paperboy!  C’mon out where the action is!  My brother don’t make all the news around here!”  Snickering and hooting, the others egged him on:  “You tell ‘em, Bowie!”, “Get ‘em out here!”, “Show ‘em, Bowie!”

Charlotte and Adam were alone in the office.  Anxiously twisting the ring he had given her to mark their engagement, she wondered what could be done about the hooligans in the street.  She wondered where the deputy was; surely he must have heard them by now.  Then she remembered that Charlie Parker wasn’t one to take a stand unless it was behind the sheriff. 

Emboldened by the liquor under his belt and the taunts of his friends, Bowie kicked at the glass until it cracked and shattered.  Seeing Charlotte through the broken frame, he shouted, “Hey, looky there—if it ain’t Missy Charlotte!  Didn’t know you was here, honey, or we’d have come sooner!”  At this the others stepped up their hoots and laughter, yelling something about a real party.

The look on Adam’s face told her he was about to act.  She had to stop him!  She said nervously, “Don’t go out there!  Please, Adam!  You know that’s just what they want—to pick a fight over those articles about Coley.” 

Adam wondered how long the harassment would continue and how far it would go.  It had already escalated far beyond arguments with Bowie’s brother.  “Don’t worry.  It’ll be all right,” he said, trying to project calm he didn’t feel.  “This is about all we can expect from that bunch.  I’ll talk to them, try to settle them down; maybe I can persuade them to move on.” 

Unable to stop him, Charlotte watched through the broken window as he went out to meet the rowdy riders, now circling in the middle of the street.  As Adam stepped off the sidewalk, Bowie maneuvered his horse behind him and began to nudge him toward the others.  Adam was surrounded and buffeted by their horses as they continued yelling and shooting in the air. 

A crowd stood watching the mounting violence; yet no one moved.  As they saw it, the boys were only acting up; no one had been hurt and their troublemaking was nothing new.  Coley Rayburn would surely pay for the broken window, just as he had paid for other damage caused by his unruly younger brother.

Charlotte watched the riders spur their horses ever closer to the figure in their midst.  If he should fall, he could be trampled!  No!  She ran to the door, flung it open and screamed, “Stop it!  Leave him alone!” 

Charlotte’s scream was a distraction, but only for an instant.  Looking up and seeing her in the doorway, Bowie smiled cruelly, his contorted face no longer laughing.  “Sure, girly,” he yelled, his voice penetrating the hoots of the others, “we’ll leave ‘em alone—real soon now!”  Frozen in fear and disbelief, Charlotte watched as Bowie Rayburn lowered his gun and turned the barrel toward Adam.  She saw the recoil as the bullets left their chambers again and again.  She watched Adam slump to the ground, watched hooves pummel him as he lay there. 

Suddenly she heard nothing, saw nothing but Adam.  She had to go to him!  Help him!  Protect him!  Ignoring an instinct that it was already too late, she ran into the street, pushed past the horses and fought her way to the figure now lying crumpled at their feet.  Someone yelled…it was Luke Sammey’s drawl: “Ya shouldn’t oughta done that, Bowie!  Come on now, let’s git!”  Then it was Bowie’s voice, contemptuous and arrogant:  “Yeah, I’m leavin’ all right—but ain’t no rush, Luke.  She can’t do nothin’—she’s just a girl!”  In a voice that seemed almost a whisper, he leaned down and mocked her, “So long, honey; think of me sometime!”  Then he wheeled his horse and joined the others, who were already pulling away. 

As suddenly as it began, the nightmare was over.  Charlotte was vaguely aware of being on the ground, kneeling beside Adam, cradling his broken body as his blood pooled in the dusty street.  She heard a scream, and then a tortured sobbing sound repeating over and over: “You’ll pay!  By all that’s holy, you’ll pay!  I’ll see you dead, Bowie Rayburn!  You hear me?  I swear it!  I’ll see you dead!”  She never knew it was her own voice screaming those terrible words, just as she never knew whose arms pried her own from Adam’s body. 

Someone led her away, still sobbing, still screaming, still calling Adam’s name until all grew dark, while Bowie Rayburn’s taunt echoed in her mind:  “She can’t do nothin’—she’s just a girl!”

THREE YEARS LATER…

Matt Whittaker cursed his decision to take the one remaining seat on the outbound stage.  In place of the relative comfort, safety and companionship he had hoped for during the forty mile ride to North Fork, he was finding himself forced to endure more discomfort than he had ever thought possible.

It was the second day of his trip since leaving the rail line at Montague.  He had initially intended to buy a horse and make his own way to his next destination.  It had been a last minute decision to take the stage which stood outside the depot, obviously ready to depart.  The driver for the run to North Fork, Poke Washburn, was testing the line securing an ornate carrying bag to the top of the coach when Matt walked up, still undecided.  He remembered the encounter with regret.

 “Good morning,” he called out.  “Are you going as far as North Fork?”

Poke gave the line one final tug before turning his attention to his last potential passenger.

“Sure are, friend, and a good deal beyond that if you’ve a mind to stay put.  Got one seat left and fixin’ to pull out real soon.  You just got time to get a ticket, if you hurry.”

Watching Poke, he was reminded of scouts he’d seen with wagon trains headed west—long hair held back with rawhide, skin tough and weathered as the clothes they lived in.  Those men belonged to a resourceful breed that had seen much and knew hardship; if trouble came, they would pull through if anyone could.  It was this recollection that caused Matt to entrust himself and his bedroll to the grizzled old timer fussing with the luggage ties.

Besides, Matt had looked at the passengers already on board and decided the trip couldn’t be that bad; if the others could take it, so could he, and he had always disliked traveling alone.  Unsure of accommodations and knowing he would surely need a horse at some point before returning home, he had packed no more than would fit in a small traveling bag and a bedroll behind his saddle. 

He bought a ticket for the last seat on the outbound stage and handed it to the driver.  “By the way, I’m Matt Whittaker,” he volunteered.  He was fully aware of being quickly sized up by shrewd eyes almost hidden by their bushy gray brows.  He must have passed inspection, because the scruffy beard parted, revealing a snaggletoothed grin as its owner replied, “Howdy, Matt.  You can call me Poke.  Most folks do.”  Matt had acknowledged the information with a nod and prepared to take his place among the other passengers.

Being the last to board, he had been relegated to the center bench seat.  Thinking back, he realized the sight of the narrow leather strap which was intended to serve as a backrest was a warning he’d failed to heed.  He recalls thinking he would move to the wider and more comfortable rear seat at his first opportunity, which he felt would surely come as passengers disembarked at some point along their route.  Unfortunately, this particular occurrence had so far failed to materialize.

Matt’s companions on this odyssey were definitely not in a talkative mood, but he could hardly blame them.  His own attempts at conversation brought him only the taste of the trail as dust kicked up by the horses and the wheels blew across his face and into his mouth.  Lowering the window flaps brought some relief from the dust, except that in full sun in the early July heat the interior of the coach was then transformed into an oven; it was almost as hot as one with the flaps up.  The passengers soon discovered, however, that the heat was preferable to what found its way into the coach every time Poke spit over his shoulder.  They decided to keep the front flaps fully extended downward for the remainder of their journey. 

The front seat was occupied by three gruff looking men who appeared to be traveling together.  Looking like they would be more at home astride a horse, Matt wondered why they would instead choose to be bounced around inside the coach like the sacks of mail at their feet.  He could only assume that they had been promised work at one of the area ranches along the stage route and were headed there now.  His own bench was shared with a Mexican vaquero and a man in a suit similar to his own who sat clutching a small square suitcase on his lap.  Matt wondered if the Mexican’s destination were the same as the cowpokes’ in front; he supposed it could be a possibility, although they gave no hint of recognition.  The rear seat had been chivalrously reserved for a middle-aged matron traveling with her two young daughters.  No one spoke as they jostled against one another, all of them covered with a fine layer of brown dust.

The trip that should have taken no more than a day had to be extended after a breakdown occurred six hours after leaving Montague.  Poke Washburn, in language which expanded the vocabulary of everyone within earshot, blamed the cracked wheel on the heavier-than-usual volume of mail he carried.  His charges were forced to endure his railings at the stage line’s desire for increased efficiency, an ambition which had prompted the addition of several more bags of mail for each run; these subsequently rode not only in the boot or on top with the luggage, but were now interspersed among the legs of the passengers inside the coach. 

Poke then proceeded to advise them of his observation that the increased efficiency brought about by the weight of the additional mail bags had yet to translate into any increase in the salaries of himself or the other drivers for the line.  It was only after this discourse that Matt and the other passengers were allowed to disembark while Poke made some jerrybuilt repairs they all hoped would get them to the next station.  Matt recalled his first impression of Poke and was reassured that the wheel would indeed hold; he doubted they could be in better hands than those of the crusty old codger in the driver’s seat.

Their arrival at Cactus Creek ordinarily would have entailed no more than a change of horses and a brief rest stop for the stage’s human cargo.  The damage to the wheel, however, caused them to be delayed until a suitable repair could be fashioned in the forge behind the station.  By the time the wheel was once again installed on the stage the sun had gone down, causing Poke to decide in favor of a layover.  The protests were quick in coming.

After a furtive glance at their prospective shelter, the lady with the children in tow was the first to voice her disapproval with Poke’s decision.  “But driver, surely we can continue now that the wheel has been repaired?  Isn’t there any way we can drive through to North Fork?  Surely we can travel after dark?”

The salesman was next.  “Yes, why can’t we just go on?  I have appointments in North Fork and a schedule to keep.  The horses are rested, why can’t we go on?”

The vaquero felt compelled to add the weight of his voice to that of his fellow passengers in the hope of melting Poke’s apparent resolve.  “Senor, I also must protest.  I have important business awaiting my attention at my hacienda.  I must arrive as soon as possible.  If the wheel is now good, why can we not continue?”

“Well, I’ll tell ya all why,” Poke called back, already making his way inside.  “You all maybe kin sleep on the road, but I can’t; and I ain’t about to prop myself up on that thar seat to bounce along in the dark.  We’ll lay over here tonight, git a bite to eat, and hit the road at first light.”  His voice trailed off as he disappeared inside the station, leaving his passengers with no choice but to resign themselves to their driver’s decision.

From Poke’s familiarity with the station attendant, whom he referred to as Muley, Matt gathered that the two shared some kind of past.  He suspected the link may well have been hunting of some sort, maybe buffalo.  Or maybe they scouted for the Army.  He could see them in that role too.  Whatever it was, the two greeted each other as comrades. 

Matt’s spirits sank when the station first came into view and a closer look did nothing to lift them; it was little more than a sod hovel with a corral and blacksmith shop in back.  He and the others entered with a wary eye.  After a cursory peek at what would have been their sleeping arrangements—a collection of cots set off from the kitchen by muslin curtains and having the appearance of a human stable—the passengers made an unspoken and collective decision to sleep on the stage.  Their meal that evening brought only more disappointment, for it consisted of a barely palatable stew with meat which might once have been venison.  Seeing the watery mass on his plate, Matt decided that a walk along the nearby creek with his pipe would do for dinner. 

Looking back on it now he recalled that only Poke ate with gusto, and only after following every other bite with a swig from the flask he carried everywhere.  Poke and Muley spent the next several hours exchanging news and reliving past exploits, which most likely grew in scale, excitement and danger with each retelling.  Matt had been right—the two had spent time as skinners in the Black Hills.  This had been years before, when both were much younger men; yet it obviously came alive with each retelling, never seeming quite so long ago or far away.

Matt listened to their stories for a while, then fixed his pipe and headed for the bank of the creek behind the station.  He followed the stream until his tobacco burned down.  Returning to the station, he again cursed his stupidity in deciding on the coach instead of making his own way to North Fork.  He spent the night on the stage with the other passengers, all of them locked in their sweat drenched, dust embedded clothing, trying to accommodate themselves as well as they could on the bare boards. 

Conversation was still sparse, although from what he was able to make out, the three up front were headed for Colorado.  They had sold their horses to buy their tickets, which included meals, so they were particularly disappointed at the evening’s dinner.  They argued quite a bit about the decision regarding their horses.  One of them, whom the others called Jig, seemed to be in charge and obviously did the thinking for the other two.  Now his leadership was being called into question by his comrades as their stomachs rumbled.  In spite of himself, Matt couldn’t help overhearing their whispered comments as they considered how they would obtain fresh mounts and head cross-country to their destination, again somewhere in Colorado.  It seems they had some idea of trying their hands at a silver strike they’d heard about.  Matt knew a bit about mining and the fever that hit some when talk of a strike went around, having been stricken himself in his younger days.  But mining was long, lonely, backbreaking work.  He figured a taste of it and the three would be on the lookout for another scheme, something easier and more profitable for the amount of time and sweat they were willing to invest.

The vaquero had a ranch near North Fork.  He had arranged for a horse to be waiting for him at the livery stable; he would make his way home from there.  The salesman would be spending a few days in town, enough to canvass the merchants and wire their orders to his home office.  The woman traveling with her children expected to be met by her husband on their arrival at the depot.  Matt noted that of the group now assembled, only the three drifters up front would be going on with the coach.

Sun up found the motley travelers at the creek, washing the dust off as best they could before setting off for another round of accumulation.  By again unspoken general agreement, they skipped breakfast.

The stage stopped at two more stations along their route, both of which appeared to offer more comfortable and inviting facilities than the first.  Now, however, the stops were brief—a change of horses and short respite for the passengers—before the journey continued.

After two uncomfortable days being jostled about on wooden benches in gale like winds over seemingly endless prairie, the North Fork depot was a welcome sight late that next afternoon.  While waiting for his bedroll and traveling bag to be retrieved from the boot, Matt watched as the vaquero headed toward the livery stable, while the women were met by a man with whom they exchanged embraces and lively chatter.  He noticed the drifters meander toward the saloon across from the depot, no doubt eager to wash some of the trail dust from their throats.  When Matt had collected his gear, he and the salesman headed for one of the town’s two hotels.  Initially intending to burn his clothes after the stage journey, Matt found them salvageable after an hour spent cleaning up before heading down to the dining room for his first meal since leaving the train.

Fresh sheets and a comfortable bed were a welcome change after restless nights spent sitting up, first on the train, than on the coach from Montague.  Matt turned in early that evening for some badly needed sleep.  After a hearty breakfast at the hotel the next morning, he headed to the livery stable for a horse that would take him to the Circle B ranch and his meeting with the C. Beckford who had hired him.  His employer had given him directions from town so he had no need to either ask for help or alert anyone to his business.  The blacksmith in charge of the stable had a good-looking bay on hand fully outfitted at a reasonable price.  The actual transaction took little time; what held Matt at the stable longer than he would have cared to stay was the curiosity of the smithy when confronted with a stranger in town.

“If you return the bay and he’s none the worse for wear, I’ll buy him back at a good price,” the man told him.  “You expect to be comin’ back this way any time soon?”

“I’m not sure,” Matt told him.  “It depends on how long I have to stay in the area.”

“Well, whereabouts you bound for?  Maybe I can help.  I know just about everybody in these parts; maybe I can point you to whatever it is you’re interested in.”

“Thanks, but I don’t think so.  I’m not here for myself.  The fact is I represent interests back in St. Louis.  I was sent out here to scout the area for land and cattle.  I expect to be covering quite a bit of territory, so I don’t know when or if I’ll be heading back this way.” 

The explanation seemed to mollify his inquisitioner, who just said, “Oh, well then, good luck to you.  And remember what I said about the bay, just in case.”
 

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