They're Gonna Hang Durango, Part 1 of 2
by Big Jim Williams

When you've been riding days on end, you're sore, damn sore. And every part of the body says . . . enough.

That's how Clay Perrin felt.

Mesquite, his young horse, was tired, too. But the big sorrel was blessed with strong legs, and stamina.

Four days in the saddle, hurrying back to an old haunt was about all Clay's body could stand. "But I gotta get there, or they're gonna hang Durango!" Clay muttered through dry, cracked lips.

When Durango's letter arrived, Clay knew he had to go. You don't forget an old friend when he asks for help.

Clay and Durango were old friends, a kinship that began when they served together in uniform on the dusty border with Mexico. Patrolling the hot desert during the day, and squeezing some life out of a dirty border town at night, wasn't much of a life for two lonely U.S. soldiers. It went on for two years. You don't forget times like that.

Clay hunched lower in the saddle, trying to hide from the chilling night wind. A short Mexican cigar was clenched between his teeth, its glow and smoke provided some comfort. His gloved hand pulled the bulky sheepskin coat tighter around his neck and shoulders.

Those were the days, he thought.

His mind escaped the cold, remembering a time when two young troopers were in one scrape or another. Sometimes fighting with Sergeant Royal. Other times with muleskinners, or deadly smugglers that plied their trade along the Rio Grande River, dividing Texas and Mexico, or filled the dusty adobe towns.

Once it was a fight over one of Spanish Lil's girls. Other times it was a fight with Lil, or one of her girls. Clay smiled . . . remembering. He rubbed the small scar on his chin. The drunken teamster had only hit him once. It's amazing what a broken beer bottle can do. But Durango had been there, kicking the legs from under the big, wild-eyed man, dropping his head on a bar rail.

But that was only one of the times Durango had saved Clay.

Sergeant Royal taught Durango and Clay how to use dynamite, then "volunteered" the two soldiers for a special job. Under cover of darkness, they destroyed a bridge and remote adobe miles below the U.S.-Mexico border . . . an illegal crossing and shoot out that never appeared in any official U. S. Army report. Using guns and dynamite they stopped a band of Mexican outlaws from further border raids into Texas.

During the gun battle, one of the bandits hurled back one of the long sticks of dynamite Clay had tossed into their hideout. Clay froze. The short fuse sizzled at his feet. Durango grabbed the dynamite and tossed it back . . . exploding inside the adobe.

Without Durango, Clay would be dead. But he had learned a lot about dynamite from Sergeant Royal and Durango.

Now Durango needed his help. Clay hadn't hesitated to let the Lazy A's foreman know he had to leave, to help an old friend. That's why he was riding a tired horse on an unfamiliar mountain trail at night. Clay gave Mesquite his head and trusted to luck.

"Hell, he knows more about what he's doing than I do," said Clay, breaking the midnight silence.

He tried to slump deeper into the saddle. He was stiff and tired. He wanted to stop and spread his blankets on the ground under some trees, build a fire, get warm, and sleep.

The cork came easily from the small bottle Clay slipped from his coat pocket. The first burn of the whiskey made him cough; the second swallow brought some warmth to his body.

"That's better," he said. He carefully slipped the half pint back into the saddlebag, between a coil of blasting primer and two small, long bundles. "Gotta keep moving," he said. "Gotta keep moving."

Durango's letter had been short, penciled on yellow paper. Scrawled words reminded Clay of a child trying to tell the world its problems.

"Clay, come help me," wrote Durango. "I'm in jail in Fort Henry. I did not do what they said I did. I'm gonna be hung, Saturday, at sunup."

Other than Durango's name at the bottom of the paper, that's all the letter had said. And if Clay didn't get to Fort Henry by Saturday, it would be too late. Clay knew that. But there were still several miles to go.

The horse continued its slow movement; its flared nostrils exhaled rhythmic bursts of steam. Clay could see snow-capped peaks in the distance, and felt the biting wind cut through his heavy Jacket. He untied his old Army blanket from the back of his saddle and pulled it around his head and shoulders. He leaned forward, his chin resting on his chest. Eventually he dozed in the hard saddle. He drifted in and out of memories and dreams of warm beds, blazing fireplaces, steaming cups of coffee, and platters of hot food.

Later, Clay awoke, and rubbed his eyes, straining to see. He thought he could see a light or two blinking far ahead in the darkness.

"I hope that's Fort Henry down there," he said, softly, patting his horse's neck. "Gotta be . . . unless I'm lost. If it ain't the old Fort, Durango's done for, for sure."

Clay returned to an uneasy sleep, the stub of a dead cigar wedged in the corner of his mouth. He leaned across the pommel, his chin bobbing on his chest, his mind in an uneasy twilight. It wasn't real sleep, but it was something.

He awakened to shades of pale light gently spreading across the desert below, gradually increasing in intensity, silhouetting low mountains circling the long valley holding Fort Henry.

Ahead was the last of the mountain trail. The remainder was steep.

"This looks good," said Clay. He dismounted at a large outcropping of rocks before the trail descended rapidly in a series of switchbacks to the flat desert. He unwrapped one of the packages from his saddlebag, and removed several red sticks of dynamite. He dug a hole with his hunting knife under a large boulder at the edge of the trail. Then carefully placed the explosives, covering them with a thin layer of dirt and pine needles.

"Just might need these later," he said.

He removed an extra canteen and small canvas bag from the rear of his saddle and walked back up the trail, noting a small canyon off to his left. He stopped at two large pine trees, and swung behind the larger of the two.

He returned without the objects, led his horse to the bottom of the steep slope, and stopped on the other side of a dry creek. He glanced up at the outcropping of rocks and surrounding big trees, locked the image firmly in his mind, and remounted. Damn, he was hungry. Should have brought more food, he thought. He searched his coat pockets, found a forgotten strip of dried beef, broke off a piece and stuck in his mouth. He let it soften and sucked the juice. It tasted good. Munching on dry, teeth-cracking jerky in the saddle would do for now. He'd eat at Fort Henry.

Clay left the creek and joined a rutted road. He turned his horse toward several twisting pillars of smoke rising above the old Fort. There was light now. The morning sun felt good on his face. Five minutes later Clay wearily moved into the small cluster of old buildings that hugged the Fort and called itself a town.

Fort Henry . . . stuck in the middle of nowhere . . . wasn't much. More a stockade than Fort with its outer walls constructed of large vertical timbers, logs dragged from the distant mountains. Towers dominated each corner. A heavy wooden gate opened to the west. Long abandoned . . . the old Army Fort now held only a trading post. A small town had grown around the Fort: two saloons, a general store, small hotel, blacksmith, livery, Sheriff's office, and assorted lean-tos.

The Fort's one-room jail survived. Not a real jail, more like a small dungeon; dirt floor and two small barred windows near the ceiling. Durango must be there, thought Clay. He and Durango had "guested" there once after busting up some chairs and a cowboy's jaw in a saloon.

If they're gonna hang Durango, Clay knew they'd probably do it on the cross arm spanning the Fort's main gate. Once, he and Durango had watched the Cavalry hang a deserter convicted of raping a girl from a wagon train. The young soldier had died hard . . . crying and begging for mercy. Clay was sure it would again be the execution spot.

The smell of someone's early morning coffee inside the Fort made Clay hungry for a cup: hot and black. The hotter the better to thaw his hands and warm his insides. He thought hard about going after a cup, but decided to wait until he circled the Fort.

In the old cemetery behind the Fort, someone was digging a grave. Clay didn't like that. The sight of it made him sweat in the morning chill.

"Gotta help Durango," he muttered. "Gotta help."

Clay stayed back from the corner of the Fort where Durango's cell would be, deep under one of the old guard towers. He gave a quick look, but couldn't see Durango peering through the high barred street-side window. Even a condemned man needed sleep.

Not many people were on Fort Henry's street this early, but maybe enough to get curious about a stranger riding in. Clay didn't need that.

Clay thought a lot of strangers would probably be riding in to watch the hanging. Hangings weren't that common any more. And here on the plains most people would welcome any kind of excitement.

By the time Clay circled the Fort a gray morning light began touching the land. An old wagon with a handful of blanketed Indians was approaching the Fort's entrance. Clay tied his horse to an outside hitching rail in the rays of the morning sun. Mesquite would like that.

He stomped his cold feet to renew circulation, and followed the Indian's creaking wagon inside the decaying Fort.

Clay sought out the smell of the coffee. It drifted from a large tin pot bubbling on the back of a red-hot stove in the Fort's trading post.

The coffee sent its warmth through Clay's gloved hands when the bearded man behind the counter offered him a tin cup.

"God, that's good." Clay nodded thanks to the storekeeper, a small man with slicked-down hair and missing left ear. The steaming black liquid spread new life through Clay, helping soothe his saddle-stiff body.

"You're up and about early, young fella." The words came from a smelly fur trapper warming his calloused hands in front of the potbellied stove. He wore a dirty leather shirt and pants, a buffalo coat and Indian moccasins. A long rifle rested across his knees.

"You here for the hangin'?" asked the trapper. "A lot of people is."

"Hanging? What hanging?" asked Clay, acting unconcerned. He avoided the man's eyes.

The trapper tapped his clay pipe on the edge of the stove, dumping ashes on the dirt floor.

"The drifter in the Fort's cellar-jail," he said.

"Oh," said Clay. His hat brim shadowed his eyes. His turned-up coat collar covered both sides of his face. He wanted to avoid possible recognition from years back when he and Durango were Fort cellmates.

"Sunup tomorrow they'll be doin' it," revealed a second trapper, with a picket-fence smile and wind-cutting nose. He squatted in a rickety chair on the other side of the stove, a wad of tobacco squirreled in his cheek. "Hear'd he got in a fight in the Red Grizzly and shot somebody."

"Killed that no-account, Turk Donley, from Colonel Overstreet's spread," said the one-eared merchant, his bony elbows on the counter. "Colonel don't take kindly to nobody killing his men . . . even if they's drunk and festerin' for a fight."

"Guess that drifter took him on," said the first trapper.

"Nobody'll miss Turk," said the storekeeper. His right index finger probed his nose. "Mean and liquored up most of the time. But you don't go shootin' people in Fort Henry – least not one of Overstreet's men."

"Who they gonna hang?" asked Clay, still trying to be nonchalant.

"Some dumb-ass drifter," shrugged the storekeeper. "Should-a skedaddled when Turk pulled his big knife."

The first trapper rubbed sweat from his face with a dirty sleeve. It was getting hot and smoky in the store.

Clay finished his coffee. He casually fingered a stack of shirts, but listened intently to the talk. He bought a blue shirt with large pockets, and a supply of small Mexican cigars. He liked the brand, although they burned too fast. But, with what he was planning to help Durango, fast-burning cigars would be useful.

The stove huggers said Colonel Overstreet had been judge, jury and prosecutor, deciding that Durango – a stranger – must die!

"A tough man?" questioned Clay.

"Overstreet runs this valley . . . and its law, too," said the storekeeper, wiping the counter with his sleeve. "If he don't like you, you'd better buy a ticket on the next stage . . . or a plot in the cemetery."

The three men didn't smile, but admitted they were looking forward to the hanging.

Clay accepted more coffee when the pot was waved in his direction. He moved back from the stove and pale window light. He leaned against a stack of boxes.

"Lots of people in town," said the delighted merchant. "Saloons brung in women, too," he winked.

"Them girls will be busier than fleas on a dog," laughed the first trapper.

"Ain't never seed a hangin' before," said his tobacco-chewing friend.

"Ain't slept with a woman since tradin' for a squaw on the Missouri," sighed the first trapper.

The man behind the counter rubbed his grimy hands together. "Fort Henry ain't had a hangin' since the Army left," he said. Then he grinned, adding: "Business should be good."

Several other men and the blanket-wrapped Indians from the wagon were filling the cluttered trading post. The light from the morning sun stalked across the log walls and floor as Clay slipped out the door. He wandered inside the Fort, and noted the buildings, doorways, alleys, and stables, helpful information in an escape.

The entrance to the jail was unguarded. A big padlock and steel rod held the thick wooden door leading to the musty underground room where Clay and Durango had been held years before. Thirteen planked stairs dropped to a cramped room that was the Fort's old jail. Little light came from two ceiling-high barred windows. One narrow slit opened on the Fort's parade ground; the other faced the town's powdery street and few businesses. Locked up for four days, it hadn't taken Clay and Durango long to memorize what little could be seen.

Fortunately for Clay, Durango had a sense of humor. He enlivened their stay by preparing elaborate imaginary dinners compared to their actual slop-bucket meals. Durango held cockroach races, named the competitors, rewarded the winners with bits of food, losers with the heel of his boot.

Clay didn't know why Durango had returned to Fort Henry. He hadn't said in his letter – a letter that was a cry for help.

Clay hoped Durango could see him from his cell. Would know he hadn't been deserted. That maybe . . .  just maybe . . . Clay could help.

Clay wanted to yell:

"Hey, Durango. It's Clay. Don't worry."

But he couldn't risk it. Somehow he'd find a way to let Durango know he was there.

Clay moved across the Fort's small parade ground, his eyes – casually as possible – further exploring the old buildings, stables and corrals, and the narrow, sagging catwalks circling the inner wall. Towers, long abandoned, jutted from the Fort's four corners. Clay had climbed them and the catwalks before.

Less than twenty-four hours wasn't much time to save an old friend from the hangman. Clay had to try! He had a seed of a plan . . . but was too tired to think now.

It was mid-morning when two men stood in the back of a small field wagon stopped below the long crossbar of the Fort's open gate.

Both wore badges.

The first man was tall and thin, a gravel voice came from his Adam's-apple throat. A full mustache covered his lip.

His squat baggy-pants companion balanced a coiled rope on his shoulder. He cut a plug of tobacco, and stuffed a chunk into his chinless mouth and began chewing under a sagging face and watery eyes.

A small group of rowdies, sharing a bottle of whiskey, provided an audience.

The tall man with the gravel voice took the rope from his short companion, thumbed his greasy hat onto the back of his head, and studied the crossbar.

"It'll do," he said.

Then he slipped his thumbs over his belt, and added:

"Colonel Overstreet told me, 'McCarthy, you're our best deputy with a rope. I want you to hang that bastard that killed Turk.'"

His short companion nodded.

"So, I'm a-doin' it," said McCarthy, carefully forming a noose.

"Damned right!" agreed his chinless sidekick, spitting tobacco juice. "I say drop that noose over that drifter's neck and send him air-dancin' to hell!"

"And I got the rope that'll do it!" shouted McCarthy, waving the completed noose.

The rowdies laughed.

"Turk was a good ol' boy," said McCarthy. He tossed the coiled rope over the overhead beam.

"The best," agreed one of the drunken loafers. He raised a bottle, "Ol' Turk was the best," he repeated.

McCarthy yanked the rope from the beam, and easily repeated the toss several times.

His expanding audience added grunts of approval and encouragement.

Clay watched from along the Fort's inside wall.

He remembered what the trading post man had said: "Overstreet runs this valley . . . and its law, too."

Clay squatted on a blanket in the sun. His lean, tired back rested against his saddlebag and the Fort's logs . . . stiff legs thrust forward. His muscles still ached. He pulled his wide-brimmed hat over his eyes, and folded his arms across his chest and thick coat. A dead cigar drooped from the corner of his mouth. He tossed it on the ground, closed his eyes, and slept.

It was late morning when Clay awoke to the clatter of more horses, wagons, and people entering the Fort. Talk indicated many were Overstreet's men, or from small cattle ranches. A few women with thin-faced kids spread picnic baskets on wagon tailgates. Clay could smell fried chicken and pies. Children played while adults gathered in small talkative groups, frequently glancing toward the underground jail.

Many of the valley's hired hands would soon be belly-high in the town's saloons, or sizing up the sporting gals.

A few men nearby laughed and swapped bets on how long it would take Durango to stop kicking at the end of the hangman's rope.

"This ain't no damned carnival," muttered Clay, his anger growing. "A good man is about to die and you're laughing," he said.

Two small boys and a large black dog stared at Clay. They stood at the end of his outstretched legs, trying to peer under his tilted hat. One boy, with a long stick, poked at the cowboy's boots.

Clay didn't move.

The boy poked again . . . harder.

Clay still didn't move.

Then the kid jabbed harder at Clay's boots.

Suddenly Clay sat up, arms wide, and growled. The boys yelled and ran, regrouping, wide-eyed behind a woman's long skirt. She scolded the boys. Then her weathered face smiled at Clay.

Clay tossed each boy a small coin.

"See, he's a nice man," said the woman, hugging the boys.

A smile covered Clay's stubbled face, and then quickly faded. His legs and body remained stiff. A hot bath and a good meal would help.

He led Mesquite to the only livery stable left in Fort Henry. The tired and hungry horse got the last stall.

Clay talked with the stable owner about buying a second horse, something young and fast. He'd pick one out later. "Need it for someone coming to the hanging," Clay said, casually. "He'll be heading into the mountains, later."

He draped his heavy saddlebags over his shoulder, patted Mesquite, and walked up the street. He dodged wagons and horsemen . . . more arrivals for the hanging.

Yes, there was one second-floor room left, said the hotel's bald manager, and Clay could get a bath at the barbershop next door. Business was good, he said, but he frowned at being interrupted while eating a plate of beans and bacon.

Clay shoved his saddlebags under his sagging hotel bed before returning to the rutted street, busy with more dust, wagons, horses, and people.

The hot bath, shave and clean shirt made him feel better, followed by a big platter of steak and eggs, biscuits and coffee.

Clay reentered the Fort where men were now laughing and shouting insults at Durango, who peered wide-eyed from the slit that served as a cell window. A fat guard with a badge blocked the cellar entrance, waving a shotgun at the boisterous crowd.

"Stay back," he said, enjoying his authority.

Clay remembered being at that same window, pulling up for fresh air, and the limited view. The unventilated cell had smelled of damp earth, sweat, rat droppings and human waste.

Several men, fortified with "bottle" courage, were taunting Durango. Clay joined them. He wanted Durango to know he was there. He yelled too, pushing his hat back with his left index finger, a recognition signal he and Durango had often used.

Durango's sunken eyes scanned the crowd from his ground-level window, and then settled with relieved recognition on Clay's face. The skin around Durango's eyes crinkled, the only sign of a smile he allowed. Then his head quickly disappeared.

Now all Clay had to do was find a way to help his old friend. He was developing an escape plan that would require split-second timing. But if it failed, Clay would either be shot . . . or hanged alongside Durango!

Other than that, thought Clay . . . escape shouldn't be a problem.

By mid-afternoon Clay was seated on a ledge in a deep gully behind the town.

He withdrew two of his new cigars. Using the back of his knife blade he gently marked each several times--in equal segments – carefully avoiding breaking the tobacco wrapper. He lighted one and puffed, then placed it on a flat rock at his side. He lighted a second cigar and did the same, glancing between his pocket watch and the two smoldering cheroots. Clay had wrapped each cigar near its burning tip with a small piece of primer cord. He waited, checking the minute hand on his watch. Suddenly the primer cord sputtered into life on the first cigar, within seconds, on the second stogie.

"Good," muttered Clay. He scribbled on a small piece of paper.

He added more bits of primer cord and repeated the experiment several times. Satisfied, he returned to the livery.

The second horse offered by the stable owner – a big gray – looked good, but Clay wanted to test it and the saddle first. Unnoticed, he rode west out of town past the trail cutoff where he'd entered from the mountains that morning. He turned south into the desert before spurring the mare into a gallop. She moved faster and faster, revealing speed and endurance.

"You'll do just fine," he said, patting the horse.

Back in his hotel room, Clay closed his curtains, locked the door and wedged a chair under the knob. He opened his saddlebag and removed a canvas bag, dumping a disassembled sawed-off shotgun onto the bed. He oiled and cleaned the parts. Then, eyes closed, assembled and stripped the short-stock weapon several times.

Eyes open and using his sharp hunting knife, he bored a hole in the stock and looped a leather strap through the opening, twisting it securely around his right wrist. Opening the 12-gauge with his right hand and thumb . . . and using only his left hand . . . he loaded and unloaded the double-barreled shotgun several times, pulling shells from the big pockets of his new shirt. Satisfied, he broke the weapon apart, stuffed it in the canvas bag, and returned it to the saddlebag's right pouch.

From the other side of the saddlebag, Clay removed a coil of primer cord. He carefully unwrapped a bundle of candle-length red sticks, two small cans of black powder, and several small objects.

"It's all here," he said. He carefully tied the sticks into several small bundles, and returned them to the saddlebag.

Satisfied, he stretched out on the squeaky bed and slept.

It was late evening when Clay left the hotel and moved down the dimly-lighted street to the stable. The saddlebag sagged over his shoulder. Fort Henry's two saloons were busy. Their dirty windows splashed more shadows than light onto the board sidewalk. Sleepy horses lined the rails. An occasional wagon rattled past. Pianos played, and drunken men and women laughed and shouted. Other men stumbled from one noisy saloon to the other.

Two shadowy figures, with badges and rifles, quietly smoked and chatted outside the tower housing Durango's cell. A sliver of yellow light flickered through the barred window facing the street and town.

Clay wanted to talk with Durango, to reassure his old friend. But that was impossible.

He led his two horses out of the stable, shifted his rifle to the new mount – the big gray – and rode west, leading Mesquite.

It was near midnight when he returned, but without the big gray. He didn't return Mesquite to the livery stable. He quietly led the horse inside the Fort.

The Fort was cluttered with numerous buggies and wagons. A few men hovered over small fires swapping lies and bottles.

The same fat guard with a badge leaned on the wall near Durango's cell, his head lowered, occasionally moving, trying to stay awake. A lantern cast light near his feet.

Tying Mesquite in a far corner, Clay removed his boots, opened one side of his saddlebag, and quietly climbed one of the towers. He moved along the Fort's inside catwalks.

A mixture of gray and orange light touched the dawn as Clay awoke to the smell of coffee and the sound of metal scraping metal. The iron bar and padlock on Durango's cell door was being removed. The heavy door clanged and squeaked defiantly as it was opened. Clay watched from under his blanket where he had spent a restless night on a pile of straw along the back wall of the Fort.

The fat guard with the badge wearily lifted his rifle and lantern. He joined another deputy carrying a pot of steaming coffee and a cloth-covered plate on a tray.

Durango must be eating better than when they were both jailed in Fort Henry, thought Clay. He, too, was hungry, and longed for some of the coffee.

The two men disappeared into the jail's stairwell, their descent silhouetted by the lantern's yellow circle of light.

Clay couldn't see Durango.

The men quickly emerged. They noisily slammed the heavy jail door and replaced the iron bar and lock. Canvas wagon flaps opened as curious sleepers within the Fort began to stir.

The two guards smiled, enjoying the attention.

Clay knew it wouldn't be long before all the vultures would be up, watching with hungry eyes, eager to see Durango die.

Clay's plan would need speed and precision, or he and Durango would be dead before the day began. He had planned and prepared. He only hoped it was enough. Now all he could do was wait for the precise moment. He swallowed the piece of jerky he'd been nervously chewing, then lighted a cigar, hampered by a light wind, and his shaking hand.

Clay's cigar was half gone before two other deputies drove a small flat-bed wagon onto the parade ground, circled their team and stopped under the beam spanning the Fort's entrance. A short man drove the field wagon, while his tall companion stood on the bed, and flung the noose over the high beam.

The tall deputy was McCarthy, Overstreet's handpicked hangman, the man who had tested the noose the day before. The squat driver was his same chinless sidekick.

The deadly loop swayed in the morning breeze.

McCarthy tossed the other end of the rope to the shorter man, who tied it to the side of the gate. McCarthy tugged on the noose. Satisfied, he climbed down.

Gray light spread across the Fort's parade ground as McCarthy and the two armed guards headed back toward Durango's cell.

The crouching sun was preparing to break from behind the eastern ridge of mountains.

Suddenly there was Durango, eyes blinking, adjusting to the morning light. He looked sullen, unshaven, and older than his young years. His hands were tied behind his back . . . his legs free. Two rifles poked into his back. He stumbled forward . . . toward the gawking crowd . . . men and women anxious to watch the execution.

Murder was a more fitting word to Clay.

Several men lifted small children onto their shoulders for a better look.

Clay caught Durango's frightened eyes for a fleeting second . . . and nodded. Then, again, pushed his hat back with his left index finger, repeating their recognition signal. Durango nodded and looked straight ahead. He walked stooped . . . his eyes red and glassy.

Durango knew Clay was there, that someone . . . a friend . . . might help. But . . . how? The morning light was brighter, an eager sun about to appear.

The crowd had grown larger as Durango was pushed forward, stumbling closer and closer toward the hangman's noose . . . and death!

The light wind increased, swirling dust around the wagon.

Durango was lifted onto the wagon bed, where he stood alongside a grinning McCarthy, who gripped the swaying noose.