He could see the sky and a few scudding clouds through the bars of the cell's high single window. It was not not yet 8 in the morning and the day was already a scorcher. The prisoner's ignored breakfast had grown even more distasteful, the biscuit and sausages now sitting in partially-congealed grease; it gave off a rancid smell. The coffee was all he had consumed—as bitter as it was but he had barely noticed. A deep sigh escaped him but it wasn't one of hopelessness—it was of resignation. He knew this would be the result of his actions and things turned out as he had expected; he wasn't disappointed. His only regret was that afterwards, he hadn't put the gun barrel in his mouth and swallowed the next bullet in the chamber and put an end to it that way. So much easier.
He would, of course, refuse the hood; Adam Cartwright wanted his last view of this world to be more than the inside of a coarse, black hood. The hanging was set for dawn in two days' time, his hanging, and Adam hoped that he would be facing the east when they slipped the noose over his head. He could then see the dawning of a new day as his last sight—a poetic way to leave this "mortal coil."
The fear of death, "the undiscovered country," was the only reason people kept living, Shakespeare had written, and just a few days ago, Adam would have agreed but not now. He actually had no fear of death anymore—a bit leery about the pain if the noose didn't snap his neck—but not of dying. He was actually weary of drawing in breath and feeling the blood surge through his veins, keeping him alive.
Last night he had lain in the cot that smelled of stale sweat and other men's fear and stared at the roughly-mortared ceiling that was illuminated by the partial moon and considered how just a few nights ago he had lain in the light of the pale, full moon and held all that was dear in his arms. He fancied he could even smell her hair again, the lavender water with which she rinsed it, filling his nostrils. Grief consumed him again and a sob began to rise up from his chest. He pressed his head between his hands, wishing he could crush his skull like Hoss did walnuts, pulling the fleshy meat out of the decimated shells afterwards.
When he stood on the scaffolding, Adam knew avoiding his father's eyes would be difficult and his brothers would be standing among the crowd as well—that is, if there was a crowd. This was Carson City and anyone from Virginia City would have to travel in the early darkness if they cared to view the hanging of the murdering eldest son of the Cartwright family. Adam imagined his execution would be the topic of conversation for weeks afterward.
"I always knew Adam had it in 'im—so moody—never one to open up."
"So sad—so sad. Can't say I blame him for doing what he did though. But it was murder—simply put. Should've let the law handle it."
"If I'd thought any of them would've killed a man like that, well, I'd 've put my money on Little Joe; he's the one with that hot temper—just blows up in your face like a stick of dynamite!"
"That's the whole point—Adam didn't just blow up—he was cool about it. Shot the man and then sat down and even ordered a beer, I hear."
"It's Ben I feel sorry for. He already had so much loss in his life and now his eldest son is dead. Kinda makes you wonder, doesn't it? I mean why does God give one person so much suffering?"
"Ben's got all that money to console him. I don't feel any too sorry for 'im. Besides, that Adam Cartwright got what was comin' to 'im. He always thought he was so high and mighty, him with his education and always lordin' it over us. Thought he could get away with murder. Well, I hope that bastard's sweatin' it out in hell right now."
~ 0 ~
There had been no trial as Adam hadn't disputed anything—had just remained silent through the hearing. Ben Cartwright begged Adam to put up some sort of defense—something-even though Hoss had told him what happened, had described Adam, who after shooting the man at close range, was covered with gore. Adam then pushed the man aside—he fell to the floor with a hollow thud-and sat down, placing his weapon on the table, on top of the cards and the blood-spattered money that lay in a pile. He was seemingly calm and oblivious to the chaos around him, the men scuffling to get out of the saloon faster than even the saloon girls. Adam then looked at the small gold cross on the snapped chain in his left hand before he closed his fingers around it. And he waited.
After the killing, blood, small shards of bone as well as tissue marked Adam's shirt and pants. Sheriff McElwee was taken aback when he took in the scene, the faceless man lying on the floor,his gun still holstered. Then Adam Cartwright rose up before him, his hands raised in surrender and the sheriff stepped back, astonished. The blow-back from the shot had sprayed Adam with blood and human matter—it was clinging to the stubble on his cheeks, chin and neck as well.
In the jail, the sheriff gave his prisoner a basin of water, "to wash that shit off." And when he had tossed the water out the back door, it was pink and contained sediment from the dead man's skull and bits of grey flesh. But the clothes—they didn't seem to bother the man who wore them but they bothered the sheriff. He sent his deputy to his house to fetch a clean shirt and trousers. "Tell my wife I need 'em for a prisoner or she'll think somethin' bad happened to me." The only thing in the clothing exchange that concerned the prisoner was removing a gold cross from his pocket and tucking it in the chest pocket of the clean shirt. The sheriff allowed him to keep it since it wasn't evidence in the murder. Least ways not that he could see. And it seemed to comfort the big, dark-haired man; the h sheriff noticed the prisoner would take it out and look at it on occasion or just rub his thumb over the smooth, shiny surface. "Odd how murderers turn to religion once they're caught," McElwee had told his deputy. "Wonder if he'll pray on the gallows."
Although Hiram Wood, the family's long-time lawyer, and Ben Cartwright had begged Adam to at least put up a fight in order to avoid the rope, to defend himself, Adam had refused. What was the point? He was responsible for what he did and the dead man had been as well; Adam saw that he was punished and now, in turn, was his punishment. That's just the way things were—it was only logical. Hiram had pled nolo contendere despite Adam's lack of interest and Judge Patton, after hearing testimony, rejected the plea, stating that it was absurd and an insult to both the legal system and his intelligence.
"But, Adam, if you don't change your plea to not guilty before it's too late, there'll be no trial-you'll hang and once you're dead, there's no chance left," Ben Cartwright said. "Can't you understand that?"
Adam said nothing—just looked at his hands. He had already explained his feelings it to his father once and was tired of it all. All of it.
"Ben, I've talked to him over and over," Hiram Wood said as he paced the narrow cell, pulling out his handkerchief to mop his brow; he wore a light-gray wool suit, white starched shirt and a cravat with a gold nugget stick pin. "I've told him that I might be able to get a trial or at least a new hearing because of the judge's refusal to accept our plea but it does no good. Besides, Adam knows the law as well as I do. I don't even know why I'm bothering."
Adam looked up at him. "I don't know why either."
"Well," Hiram muttered, "let me file another brief. I may get an extension on the execution; I'm waiting to hear from the governor's office; I've sent three wires. I'm hoping for a stay."
"See, Pa," Adam said wryly. "Knew you should have gone through with that nomination for governor years ago. Then you could pardon me yourself."
Ben shifted from one foot to another. "It's not a joking matter, Adam. Hiram and I are doing all we know to do. I've written our congressman—he's an old friend and also Judge Burgundy. I hoping he'll intervene in some way.
"Don't," Adam stated. "Don't delay the inevitable. I don't want to have to wait much longer."
Ben and Hiram exchanged glances. Ben slightly nodded and Hiram called to be let out of the cell; he was going to file a brief for Ben's sake. They had been friends for more than twenty years and so he was determined to do all he could to save Adam; he would do it for Ben even though Hiram knew it was hopeless. The deputy who had been standing nearby, unlocked the door and Hiram Wood left a frustrated man.
"Why don't you go too, Pa," Adam said. "You look tired."
"Adam, I want to stay a while and…"
"No, Pa. I want you to leave and please, I think it would be best if you don't come back. It only causes you pain and I…that wasn't my intent. Believe me; I've thought of nothing but…I'm sorry that I've caused you so much misery, Pa, but that's all I'm sorry for. I'm not sorry for what I did."
"Son…" Ben's eyes filled with the tears he hadn't yet shed. Adam then stood and so did Ben. The two men faced each other. Then son pulled father into an embrace and they held on to each other for a few moments, their heads filled with the sensation of warmth, the touch of each other, the smell of each other—the odor that suggested a primal recognition of one's own kind. Adam finally broke away.
"Goodbye, Pa, and please don't come see me again." Adam stepped back and Ben looked confused. "Tell Hoss and Joe that I'll refuse their visits as well. It's best that way." And Adan turned his back to his father to look out his cell's window and Ben Cartwright reluctantly left his son alone in the Carson City jail. But he would come back again, no matter how much Adam protested.