Author's note: The Ox-Bow Incident is a classic. The following story is not how I think the film (or book) should have ended, although if Martin hadn't been murdered, it might have been easier to write this story in the first place. And I would be much happier. Instead, this story is something I imagined one night, wrote down the next day to challenge myself, and turned out much better than I expected. Without the lynching, The Ox-Bow Incident would have little or none of the power it does. This was merely a writing exercise that I thought might prove interesting for other people as well as myself. Nothing more.

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Dedicated to Dana Andrews, whose portrayal of Donald Martin will always stick with me.

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"Many that live deserve death. And some that die deserve life. Can you give it to them? Then do not be too eager to deal out death in judgement. For even the very wise cannot see all ends." ~J.R.R. Tolkien

"Seven," Tetley said, and that's when the man stepped out of the shadows.

He stepped up beside Gil, standing there quietly and comfortably as if he'd been here all along. Maybe he had. Maybe he'd been watching the whole thing. A prickle of guilt ran through me, even though I'd followed Gil and gone against the lynching.

Then the stranger spoke, and his voice was as quiet as his stance. "I believe I make eight, Major." He tipped his hat back and the faint light of dawn highlighted his face. He was small, with short hair and an ambiguous expression. And he was relaxed, as though this gathering was a Saturday night dance, as though there was no thick, steady tension in the air.

Tetley started and drew himself up.

"How do you know who I am?" He took two steps forward. Tetley wasn't a tall man himself, but he towered over the stranger all the same. "I've never seen you before. Who are you? Why are you here?"

"My name's Josh Randall. Sheriff Risley sent me to come find you."

Farnley moved up to stand beside Tetley. Two to one odds, and Randall was still relaxed, even casual. I glanced back at Gil, and his eyes didn't leave Randall and Tetley once. There was a jittery cautiousness in them, like he was hoping for something but wasn't sure he'd get it.

"The sheriff?" Farnley said. His face was curious. "You know Will?"

"I'm a bounty hunter," Randall said, and paused for a moment, as though he was expecting a reaction to those words. Maybe he was. "I brought in a prisoner, only the sheriff wasn't in his office. A fellow back in town told me where to find him, down at the ranch of a man called Kinkaid."

Farnley's hands clenched into fists.

"Well?" Tetley said.

"Well, the fellow also told me that Kinkaid had been killed and there was a party setting out to find just who'd done it. When the sheriff heard about that, he sent me to find you. And a Donald Martin, if he's one of them," he added, nodding toward the three men standing in the middle of things.

Martin, the Mex, and the old man were listening as hard as the rest of the company.

"Why him?" Farnley asked. He wasn't curious now. Just angry.

"Well, when I talked to Kinkaid, he said-"

He didn't get any further than that. Confusion sped its way through the entire group, me included. Farnley was in Randall's face, Tetley was shouting in a worthless attempt to preserve order, and I looked at Gil. This time he looked back.

"Maybe..." he began, but then shook his head.

I was opening my mouth to ask him about it, when a shot slammed through the air.

Everyone broke apart then, looking first at Martin and the other two prisoners – as if they would have been able to conceal a weapon all this time – and then back at Randall. He was already clipping his shotgun back into its holster. It was a strange piece, a make I'd never seen before.

No-one had keeled over dead, but the shot had cleared the air and somehow brought everyone back to their senses.

"Like I was saying," Randall said, brushing a quick hand over his leg, "Kinkaid said-"

"Just a minute." Farnley stepped forward again. "Kinkaid's dead. Everyone knows that. He was dry-gulched out in the pass."

"That's right," Tetley said. He moved in closer too. It looked as though he were trying to regain control of the situation, but from what I could see, Randall was the one holding all the cards. We were all still confused. Not him.

Randall raised his hands, the same way someone might to try and stop a scared horse. "Seems to me you've gotten mixed up, mister. Kinkaid might've been busted up a little, but he isn't dead. Sheriff's holding the men who tried to bushwhack him, too. He told me he owed Martin a bill of sale for some cattle he purchased day before yesterday. Gave it to me in writing, just in case you caught up with Martin and took him to be something he wasn't." He looked around at all of us.

"I'm Martin."

Randall turned and looked, and then walked straight over to him. I pulled my jacket higher up around my ears with my good arm. The cold had numbed the ache from the bullet wound, but it had numbed every other part of me too. Maybe that was what happened to the rest of them. Numbed minds and consciences.

Randall scratched the back of his head. "You buy some cattle from Kinkaid two days ago?" His tone was conversational.

"Yes. Fifty head." Martin looked over Randall's head to Farnley and Tetley and Smith, angry defiance in his eyes. None of them pulled back, but I would have. His glare was hot enough to scorch a person right down to the bone.

Randall turned back to Tetley. "Just like Kinkaid said."

"I want to see that paper." Farnley's jaw was tight, and if Randall's story didn't match up in every way, there'd be trouble. More trouble than there already was, at least. Randall pulled a folded slip of paper out of his shirt pocket and handed it to Farnley. He was still calm, but I noticed that his hand had strayed to his gun and was resting over it, easy and waiting.

Farnley unfolded the paper harshly, ripping a corner by accident. A line appeared between his eyebrows, like a miner's crevice in a gold-rich rock. He read it once. Twice. Then he handed it to Tetley and I noticed that his hand trembled a little as he did.

Tetley took one look at the note, folded it up, and put it in his own pocket.

"Kinkaid's handwriting," was all that he said.

Farnley let out a sharp breath. "Shaky, but it's his."

"I'll take him back now," Randall said. "And the other two, if there aren't any objections. The sheriff might want to talk to them."

Just like that, the mad tightness drained out of the air and out Farnley and out of everyone else too. They'd all been keyed up for so long, anticipating a triple hanging, and now with Farnley and Tetley conceding, the show was over. Nothing more to see. I could hear Gil letting out a deep breath beside me, and I realized I'd been holding mine in too. Now we could all relax, go back to town, have a drink, and then head out.

Someone untied Martin and the old man and the Mex. They broke away from each other, rubbing sore wrists. Everyone gave them a wide path, and there were no apologies.

The seven of us were still standing on the little platform of rock, looking down on everything else, but when everyone began milling around and making for the horses, we all came down too, gradual, like an old man with stiff joints. Tetley came up to his son and took him by the arm, every move angry and sudden. For a moment, I wondered what would happen to him, but it wasn't any of my business.

Randall was still standing there in the middle of things. He readjusted the hang of his hat, and there was a faintly amused look on his face, like he was enjoying a private joke none of us had any right to know about or understand.

Martin came up to Davies. I watched their exchange as Gil went and got our horses. With my bad arm, there wasn't much I could do.

"I'll have my letter back now, Mr. Davies," Martin said. The words were abrupt, but polite.

Davies rustled around in the pocket of his threadbare overcoat and handed the letter over.

Martin looked at the paper for a long moment and then tucked it away, his every move weighted and careful. He looked back up at Davies. "Thank you." His words were quiet and he seemed to be thanking Davies for more than the returned letter. And Davies had been the first one to stand up against Farnley, Tetley, and all the rest.

Martin turned away then, and it was only when he walked off, to the horse that was waiting for him, that I saw he was shaking all over.

I felt a tap on my shoulder. Gil stood behind me, our horses' reins tight in his hand.

The crowd had broken up. Tetley and his son were gone. So were Jenny Grier and Smith. Nearly everyone had left, except Farnley and Randall and the three ready to ride out in front of him. I kept expecting Farnley to make trouble as Randall said "Let's go" and the four rode off, back toward town, but he just sat there on his horse, staring after them.

We rode past him too. At the last minute, Gil leaned over in his saddle and said, "Farnley."

Farnley looked at him. "What is it, Carter?"

"Are you coming back to town with us?"

He didn't answer.

"Come on, Art," Gil said.

We left. I looked back only once, and Farnley was still sitting there, the rising sun coming up behind him. Then I turned back, toward the town and the ranches and the saloon, where things were civilized and decent and orderly. Nothing like this wild land surrounding the Ox-Bow.

Finis