Trail's End Read online

  CHAPTER VII

  A GENTLE COWBOY JOKE

  As Morgan's faculties cleared out of their turgid whirl, and the starsbegan to leave off their frivolous capers and stand still, he heardvoices about him in the dark, and they were discussing the veryinteresting question of whether he should be hung like a horse thief orloaded upon a train and shipped away like sheep.

  Morgan's bruised senses assembled and righted at the first consciousgrasp of this argument, as a laboring, buffeted ship rights when itsshifted cargo is flung back to place by the shock of a mighty surge.Nature was on guard again in a moment, straining and tense in its sentryover the habitation of a soul so nearly deserted but a minute before.Morgan listened, sweating in the desperation of his plight.

  They had taken him away from the main part of town, as he was aware bythe sound of its revelry in the near distance. Close at hand a railroadengine was frying and gasping; farther off another was snortingimpatiently as it jerked the iron vertebrae of a long freight train. Andthese men whom he could not see around him in the darkness werediscussing the expediency of hanging him while unconscious, against themorality of waiting for him to come to himself so he might have thefelon's last appeal of prayer.

  One maintained that it was against all precedent to hang an unconsciousman and send him off to perdition without a chance to enter a plea forhis soul, and he argued soberly, in the manner of a man who had a spiritof fairness in him, and a little gleam of reason and morality left. ToMorgan's relief and hope this man went further as he put his view of thecase, even so far as to question their right to hang the granger at all.They clamored against him and tried to scoff him down, moving withdrunken, scuffing feet near the spot where Morgan lay, as if to put thesentence into immediate execution.

  "Wait a minute now, boys," this unknown, unseen champion pleaded, "let'sme and you talk this thing over some more. That kid put up a man'sfight, even if he is a granger--you'll have to give him credit for that.I didn't find no knucks on him, and you didn't. He couldn't 'a' dropped'em on the floor, and he couldn't 'a' swallered 'em. He didn't have noknucks, boys--that hard-hoofed granger just naturally tore into theDutchman with his bare hands. I know he did, his hands is all cut andswelled up--here, wait till I strike a match and show you."

  Morgan thought it wise to feign insensibility while this apparentlysober man among the crew struck a match and rolled his body over to showthe granger's battered hands. The others were not convinced by thisevidence, nor softened in the least. He was a granger, anyhow, a fencerof the range, an interloper who had come into their ancient domain likeothers of his grasshopper tribe to fence up the grazing lands and drivethem from the one calling that they knew. If for no other reason, hedeserved hanging for that. Ask anybody; they'd say the same.

  "That ain't no kind of talk," said the defender, reprovingly, "yourdaddies and mine was grangers before us, and our kids'll have to begrangers or nothin' after a while--if any of us ever has any. I was infor havin' a little fun with this feller; I was in on it with the restof you to see the Dutchman hammer him flat, but the Dutchman wasn't abig enough feller for the job. Where's he at?"

  "Layin' up there on the depot platform," somebody said.

  "This feller flattened _him_ out, done it like he had him on a anvil,"the granger's advocate chuckled. "That there freight's goin' to pull outin a little while--let's look along till we find a empty car and chuckhim in it. By morning he'll be in La Junta. He's had his lesson out ofthe cowman's book, he'll never come back to plow up this range."

  Morgan thought that, perhaps by adding his own argument to this unknownfriend's, he might move the rest of the bunch from their crueldetermination to have his life. He moved, making a breathing like a mancoming to his senses, and struggled to sit up.

  There were exclamations of satisfaction that he had revived in time torelieve them of the responsibility of sending a man out of the worldwithout a chance to pray. The man who had championed Morgan's causehelped him to sit up, asking him with a curious rough kindness if hewanted a drink. Morgan replied that he did. A bottle was put to hislips, bruised and swollen until they stood open by the rough usage hiscaptors had given him while unconscious. He took a swallow of thewhisky, shutting the rest out with tongue against teeth when the fellowinsisted that he take a man's dose.

  They drew close around Morgan where he sat, back against this kindfellow's knee. Morgan could see them plainly now, although it was toodark to trace their features. One of them dropped the noose of a ropeover his head as the one who stood behind him took the flask from hislips. Morgan knew by the feel of it against his neck that it was aplatted rawhide, such as the Mexicans term _reata_.

  "Granger, if you got anything to say, say it," this one directed. Morganrecognized him as the one who had opened the trouble in Peden's hall.

  Morgan had considerable to say, and he said it without whimper ortremor, his only appeal being to their fairness and sense of justicebetween man and man. He went back a little farther in his simple historythan he had gone with Judge Thayer that afternoon, telling them how heonce had been a cowboy like themselves on the Nebraska and Wyomingrange, leading up briefly, so they might feel they knew him, to hisarrival in Ascalon that day, and his manner of incurring Seth Craddock'senmity, for which they were considering such an unreasonable punishment.

  Inflamed as they were by liquor, and all but insensible to reasonableargument, this simple story, enforced by the renewed plea of the one whobefriended him, turned two or three others in Morgan's favor. Theyprobably would have set him free if it had not been for the Dutchman,who joined them, apparently sober and bitterly vindictive, as they wereconsidering that step.

  The Dutchman was for vengeance on his own account, Seth Craddock out ofthe consideration entirely. The granger had slugged him, he maintained;no man that ever walked on the grass was able to lay him out with barehands. If they didn't hang the granger he'd shoot him, then and there,even though he would have to throw ashes on his stinking blood to keepit from driving everybody out of town.

  Wait a minute, the young man with the straddle suggested, speakingeagerly, as if he had been struck by an inspiration. The freight trainwas just pulling out; suppose they put the rope around the granger'sbody instead of his neck, leave his hands tied as they were, and hitchhim to a car! In that way he'd hang himself. It would be plain suicide,as anybody with eyes could see.

  The innocence and humor of this sportful proposal appealed to them atonce. It also satisfied the Dutchman, who seconded it loudly, withexcited enthusiasm. The protests of the granger's defender and friendwere unavailing. They pushed him back, even threatening him with theirguns when he would have interfered to stay the execution of thisinspired sentence.

  The train was getting under way; three of the gang laid hold of the_reata_ and ran, dragging Morgan against his best efforts to brace hisfeet and hold them, the others pushing him toward the moving train. Thelong freight was bound westward. Morgan and his tormenters were beyondthe railroad station, not far from Judge Thayer's little white officebuilding, which Morgan could see through the gloom as he vainly turnedhis eyes about in the hope of some passing stranger to whom he couldappeal.

  Luckily for Morgan, railroad trains did not get under way as quickly inthose days of hand brakes and small engines as now. Added to the weightof the long string of empty cattle cars which the engine was laboring toget going was a grade, with several short curves to make it harder wherethe road wound in and out among small sand hills. By the time Morgan'scaptors had attached the rope to the ladder of a car, the headway of thetrain had increased until they were obliged to trot to keep up with it.Not being fleet of foot in their hobbling footgear when sober, they wereat a double disadvantage when drunk and weaving on their legs. They madeno attempt to follow Morgan and revel in his sufferings and peril, butfell back, content to enjoy their pleasantry at ease.

  Morgan lurched on over the uneven ground, still dizzy and weak from thebludgeoning he had undergone, unable to help his precarious bala
nce bythe use of his arms, doubly bound now by the rope about his middle whichthe Texans had drawn in running noose. It was Morgan's hope in the firstfew rods of this frightful journey that a brakeman might appear on topof the train, whose attention he might attract before the speed becameso great he could no longer maintain it, or a lurch or a stumble in theditch at the trackside might throw him under the wheels.

  A quick glance forward and back dispelled this hope; there was not thegleam of a lantern in sight. But somebody was running after him, almostbeside him, and there were yells and shots out of the dark behind. Nowthe runner was beside Morgan, hand on his shoulder as if to steadyhimself, and Morgan's heart swelled with thankful gratitude for theunknown friend who had thus risked the displeasure of his comrades toset him free.

  The train was picking up speed rapidly, taxing Morgan's strength to holdpace with it trussed up as he was, the strain of the hauling ropefeeling as if it would cut his arms to the bone. The man who labored tohold abreast of Morgan was slashing at the rope. Morgan felt the bladestrike it, the tension yield for a second as if several strands had beencut. But not severed, not weakened enough to break it. It stiffenedagain immediately and the man, clinging desperately to Morgan's shoulderto hold his place in the quickening race, struck at it again and missed.

  There came more shots and shouts. Morgan's heroic friend stumbled, losthis hold on the shoulder of the man he was trying to save, fell behindout of sight.

  Morgan's poor hope for release from present torture and impending deathnow rested in the breaking of the rawhide rope where it had beenweakened by that one desperate slash of the knife. He tried lunging backagainst the rope, but the speed of the train was too great; he could notbrace a foot, he could not pause. There were gravel and small bouldersin the ditch here. Morgan feared he would lose his footing and bedragged to his miserable end.

  But onward through the dark he struggled and stumbled, at a pace thatwould have taxed an unhampered man to maintain, the strain of thecutting rope about his body and arms like a band of hot iron. Should abrakeman appear now on top of the car to which he was tied, Morgan knewhe had little chance of making himself heard through the noise of thetrain, spent as he was already, gasping short breaths which he seemedunable to drive into his burning lungs.

  How long could human strength and determination to cling to life endurethis punishment! how long until he must fall and drag, unable to regainhis feet, to be pounded at that cruel rope's end into a mangled,abhorrent thing!

  On, the grind of wheels, the jolt of loose-jointed cars over theclanking track drowning even the noise of the engine laboring up thatmerciful grade; on, staggering and swaying, flung like a pebble on acord, shoulder now against the car, feet now flying, half lifted fromthe ground, among the stones of the ditch, over the uneven earth, acrossgullies, over crossings where there paused no traveler in the blackdespair of that night to give him the help for which he perished.

  On, the breath that he drew in gasping stridulation like liquid fire inhis throat; on, the calm stars of the unemotional universe above hishead; on, the wind of the wide prairie lands striking his face withtheir indefinable sweet scents which even clutching death did not denyhis turbulent senses; on, pain in every nerve; on, joints straining andstarting in their sockets; on, dragged, whipped, lashed from ditch toties' end, flung from rocking car to crumbling bank, where jagged rockscut his face and freed his blood to streak coldly upon his cheek.

  There was no likelihood that the train would stop in many miles--evennow it was gaining speed, the engine over the crest of the grade. Onlyfor a post that he might snub that stubborn strand of leather upon! onlyfor a bridge where his swinging weight might break it!

  Faster--the train was going faster! The pain of his torture dulling asovercharged nerves refused to carry the growing load, Morgan still clungto his feet, pounding along in the dark. He was growing numb in body andmind, as one overwhelmed by a narcotic drug, yet he clung to thedesperate necessity of keeping on his feet.

  How far he had come, how long he might yet endure, he had no thought tomeasure. He lived only for the insistent, tenacious purpose of keepingon his feet, rather than of keeping on his feet to live. He must run andpant, under the lash of nature that would not let him drop down and die,as long as a spark of consciousness remained or flying limbs could equalthe speed of the train, helped on by the drag of that rawhide strandthat would not break.

  No thought of death appalled him now as at first; its revolting terrorat that rope's end had no place in his thought this crowded, surgingmoment. Only to live, to fight and live, to run, unfeeling feet strikinglike wood upon the wayside stones, and run, as a maimed, scorchedcreature before a fire, to fall into some cool place and live. And live!and live! In spite of all, to live!

  And presently the ground fell away beneath his feet, a swish of brancheswas about him, the soft, cool touch of leaves against his face. A momenthe was flung and tangled among willows--it was a strange revelationthrough a chink of consciousness in that turmoil of life and death thatswept the identifying scent of willows into his nostrils--and then hedropped, striking softly where water ran, and closed his eyes, thinkingit must be the end.