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This story literally came out of nowhere minutes after I read your request. Hope you enjoy!

The Tree

It was a lonely tree. A dead tree. An imagination tree. But no, it couldn't be a figment, a made up object. It was real. For it almost took his life.

Jess' hand circled his neck, the burn of rope against his throat still there. If he looked into a mirror, the mark would be gone. But the feeling? That might take an eternity to erase. There was no point in even trying to shake the sensation free from his flesh, not when he couldn't get rid of the tree.

He might not make the town of Laramie the place of his nightly bunk, but there were several times when he was there after sundown that Jess would look for its dark silhouette. It was strange, but it didn't exist in the daylight. But maybe that wasn't so strange at all, as the incident with this tree was beyond the sun's departure.

His eyes sought its position now. It was there, all right. With arms spreading toward the sky, its canopy was lost amidst the star-dotted darkness, and its trunk, almost the same inkiness as what splayed out above it. The only thing missing from this view was the noose.

His hand returned to his throat. No, it wasn't omitted from the picture. The noose was right there.

"Jess?"

Swallowing the roughness away, Jess turned his head. "Did you want me, Mort?"

The sheriff stood at the step of his office, his eyes latched onto the pair of blue that came his way. "Thought there might be something wrong. You usually don't sit atop your mount in the middle of the street."

"Oh." Jess' shoulders rose. "It ain't anything. Just that tree, is all."

"Still see it, do you?"

Jess' eyes returned to its position, as foreboding as the night he dangled from its stoutest limb. "Yeah."

"Well, Jess. I've seen from experience that there are certain parts of our lives, hard times especially, that stay with us forever. Don't let its presence get to you."

If anyone was experienced with the permanency of hard times, it was Jess. And as for letting them get to him, that depended on how deep into his core that "get" would go. As many challenges life had put in front of him, Jess was satisfied when the grueling aftermath didn't go so far as to take his life. But in reality, they would always "get" him, because despite Jess' gruff exterior, he had a heart that could feel, could bleed, and could even be broken.

"Thanks Mort." Jess gave his nod and then started the turn of his mount. "Goodnight."

He didn't get far down the street when a group of men banged out of the saloon, making Jess' hands go into a sturdy grip of his horse's reins to keep the animal stilled. Following their boisterous trail with his eyes, the men walked straight through the tree. Of course they wouldn't have seen it. The trunk, branches and leaves meant nothing to them. Only to Jess.

But then Jess' head turned back toward the sheriff's office. And to Mort, too.

The tree would be more than a mere image in his mind if it wasn't for Mort's part. Jess' washed-out body would be beside it too, the place that he would haunt for his ever and ever. Because of a man that matched the sturdiness of his boots and the sharp prongs of the badge that he wore, the only real ghost was the tree. But not even that. It was just a memory, a reminder, a page ripped from the book titled Jess' Past.

Jess closed his eyes, the night breeze going into his nostrils, and he was taken to where the tree's roots really stood. Strangely enough, it wasn't in Laramie. The danged tree had only followed him there.

The tree grew in Beaker, Dakota Territory. No one would know the origin of its seed, how long it took to get past its baby years without a critter chomping its greens to bits or of its age today. But what would remain the boldest question mark was why it remained in the center of a busy street without ever seeing an axe to its trunk.

When Jess first saw its dark lines in front of the darker shadows of night, he didn't give it much thought, except for how low he needed to duck under one of its limbs so he could make his way to the town's largest saloon. A gambler and drinker himself, it was a logical place to stop in a new town. But it was because Jess was looking for another man, tilting even closer to the previous labels than he that Jess went through the batwings

His order paid and in front of him, Jess took the photograph from his pocket. "Any of you gents see the fellow in this picture before?"

A pair of brown eyes lifted to Jess' face, the shade dancing with too much whiskey. "Yeah. Juss now. Yurr right'n fronna me."

Unable to keep the distaste of the man's breath from his features, Jess turned his head to the side. "The other man. Pete Morgan."

The drunken head was given a spin. "Nope. Don't know 'im. Juss you."

"You're wrong there," Jess said, jaw in a hard lock. "You don't know me either. Now if you'll excuse me, I'll ask someone else."

The man waved his hand, hiccupping his internal bubbles. "Go 'head."

Downing his drink and offering the right sized coin for another, Jess pushed the picture across the bar's top. "What about you?"

The bartender gave the photograph a moment's glance. "You're nothing but trouble, Mister."

"How so?"

"Anytime a man comes looking for another, he's got trouble on his mind."

Well, he was more than part right. What exactly was Jess going to do when he caught up with Pete Morgan? Deck him? Sure. Take his money back if he had it pocketed? Of course. But there was always that nag in the back of Jess' mind that his gun would be coming out. Jess had to strike that first part. The bartender was all the way right. Jess had trouble on his mind.

But for none of these men here. Jess only wanted Pete Morgan, and by the looks he was getting from the bartender and beyond, he wasn't going to get any answers here.

His whiskey drained, Jess turned to leave, but then there suddenly was a hand on his arm. "I'd leave a lot sooner if you weren't hanging on so tight."

The chuckle was light at first, but as the grip of his hand increased, his hot breath blew into Jess' face. "You look familiar. What's your name?"

He had always figured there was no point in denying it. "Jess Harper."

More than one set of eyebrows jumped. They knew him. But that wasn't out of the ordinary. What would have been strange was if he got a blank reaction. Jess wore a reputation from Texas, on up through Montana, west to Utah and as far east as the Missouri border. Usually knowing that title sent ripples of fear in those around him, but not this time. If there was fear, it was masked behind a cocky expression, and a need to challenge his gun.

"That's interesting. A gunslick coming to call in a rundown place like Beaker."

Jess sized the man up in one glance. In their appearance, nothing matched, yet by the tell-all glare in his eyes, they could have been twins. Jess was looking at another gunfighter.

He kept every muscle at their tightest. "I ain't looking for you, Mister. Just Pete Morgan, and as you ain't him, why don't you just hightail it to someplace I ain't."

"I would but you being here bothers me."

"So. I ain't gonna lay down roots here."

"Maybe you shouldn't lay down roots anywhere."

Jess' eyes glittered, but sapphires they weren't. More like a fire's rage. "And I suppose you're gonna try and stop me."

"Could be. Name's Jack Erickson."

He'd heard of him, but if Erickson's label was beyond a single territory's, Jess would be surprised. But the man was still a gunfighter, and seeing an opportunity to rise up a notch on a ladder's rungs of fame, Erickson was going to challenge the more experienced. Jess would rather not, but something else he would rather not was to back out once the gunfight's line has been drawn in the dirt.

And Erickson was about to swipe the mark with his boot's tip.

Erickson growled. "You're dead right that I'm going to try and stop you. As a matter of fact, you're just plain dead."

The opposing hand was greedy, wanting tongues to wag his name farther than Beaker's outskirts, but as Erickson's gun came away from leather, the faster draw won. Jess stood still, the smoke from his gun curling around him, but that wasn't all that was going to swarm.

A man rushed toward his frame. "Harper killed Erickson!"

Two different sets of hands grabbed Jess' arms and pulled them behind his back, the one to Jess' right lapping up his moment of glory so heavily that his jowl dripped. "What'll we do with him? The law's out of town."

The bartender pounded his fist against the bar's top, making every glass that had even a drop of liquid poison inside splash into the air. "Then that calls for the good citizens to decide. What'll it be boys? Erickson's dead, Harper here gunned him down."

Of course the bartender left out the part that Erickson drew first. But as Jess was being dragged toward the door, he wondered if anyone would even listen if he had.

"I say we hang him!"The bartender shouted, the same fist now rising into the air.

The response was a chilling chorus. "Yeah!"

Jess looked from one man to the other. Every single one of them wore the black robe of death. But why should anyone step in with a different colored cloak on? They had all they needed in front of them to convict and kill him. The reputation that he carried in gun and in name; the fact that Jess put out in front of everyone himself, he was looking for someone, presumably to kill; he gunned down a local; and what was probably the most prominent, there was no law in town.

"Hang him! Hang him!" The crowd chanted, grown beyond the saloon's interior to what must have been Beaker's entire population.

There might not have been anyone in his life, no family, no friends, but like every time Jess had been faced with death, he was going to fight it. Thrashing as he was pulled onto the street, the men around him searched for something to subdue him. Why not the very object that was going to end his life?

The rope went around his neck, and although it wasn't sealed to the kind of tightness that would take his breath away, its force was enough to keep him moving as the hands on the loose end jerked and pulled. Still he fought, yet when they stopped at the dark, weathered trunk, Jess became stilled.

He looked up into the branches. So that was what the tree was for. Hanging.

"Hang him! Hang him!" Hunger pangs for his death made multiple men yank the fraying end of rope onto one of the tree's branches.

As Jess' weight was far lighter than the team that pulled, he was lifted like a doll, but his limbs were not limp like one. His fingers attached to the noose to prevent its torturous grip, and his legs reached for every face that dared loom close enough to see the sinister flicker of their lips.

The bartender bellowed above the mass. "Someone tighten the rope, it's not enough to kill him straightaway!"

Jess' foot firmly connected with the belly that came at him, but he couldn't reach the one that came from behind. He tried to silence the fearful gasp that came from his throat as a pair of hands cinched the noose to a strangling hold. He blinked as the suffocating darkness started to take effect, and although it couldn't, his throat made the attempt to open to draw in the lost breaths.

He garbled and wheezed, and through the weakening sound, Jess gave up. He was going to die.

The stealing of his life should have been somber enough to turn the din to silence, yet still they cried. "Hang him! Hang him!"

Except one voice tore through the evil chant.

"Cut him down!"

The rope going slack, the air came back to Jess' lungs in time to open his eyes, and with a flash that could have been lightning striking the ground between them, he saw the badge.

Jess Harper being saved by the law. Well, that old saying must be true. There's a first time for everything.

The lawman's boots coming to a stop in front of Jess' heaving frame, a double barrel was pointed to the now silent crowd. "What's the meaning of this?"

No one wanted to take the leadership anymore, but the glare from the sheriff's eyes on one particular man worked.

The bartender thrust a finger at Jess. "He shot down Erickson."

"Knowing Erickson like I do, I shouldn't have to ask, but I will. Cold blood?" The sheriff's hands brought the ominous weapon at an even point to the chest across from him. "I said, was it in cold blood?"

Multiple heads dropped, and as one began to shake, the rest of the group joined in, followed by a singly spoken, "No."

"Then all of you have exactly ten seconds to get off the street." He wasn't really counting, but the shotgun was allowed to be lowered around the nine second mark. Looking down to the only man left, he nodded. "I'm Sheriff Mort Cory."

His head responding the same, Jess stood. "You know who I am?"

"I've seen your face on wanted posters before, Jess Harper, but I've also seen that your name's been cleaned. I'm glad to know that it's still."

Loosening the rope, Jess thrust the noose to the dirt. "You believe them, I mean, that I shot in self-defense?"

"Of course I do. Jack Erickson's been trying to get fitted for his grave for over a year now. You're the only man that's been able to measure him proper though."

He wanted to keep his eyes attached to the star, but Jess couldn't draw his eyes away from the dark pair across from him. Kindness, they were. How rare. "That mean I'm free to go?"

Mort nodded, and the gun that had been lost somewhere in the fray was held out, butt-first toward Jess.

Taking the pistol, he slid it to its leather home. "I don't know what to say Sheriff Cory."

"You don't have to say anything, except that you can call me Mort."

Jess' hand began to stretch for the other, but he had to pause before he could turn the clasp into a shake. He had never called a lawman by his first name before. In fact, none had ever offered. But with this particular badge it felt right. It felt good. "Mort."

"Where're you headed, Son?"

The blue eyes turning in the direction that they always wandered, Jess' finger followed their point. "West."

"Laramie's that way. Maybe you should stop longer than what it takes to down a glass or two."

"It your town?"

"No, but I wouldn't mind some day wearing its star. Got a good friend down that way. Maybe you'll run into him."

"I ain't looking for friends."

Mort shrugged. "Suit yourself. But if I ever run into you again, I hope you change your mind."

"For someone that saved my life, I reckon I can change my mind."

And Jess had changed his mind.

Laramie his full surroundings once more, a small smile started to work its way into Jess' cheeks as his eyes latched onto the sign that bore the sheriff's name. "Thanks, Mort."

He had reminisced long enough. It was time to leave. Putting the tree behind him, Jess encouraged his horse to begin the journey home. It didn't bother Jess that he would see it again. After all it really wasn't a lonely tree, a dead tree, an imagination tree. It was real. Yet there was another strange thing about this tree. Jess wasn't the only one that could see it. The vast majority may walk straight through, never knowing of its existence, but anyone that was close to Jess' heart and knew of the story's truth could pick out the vital nighttime scene too. Of the man that once hung there and the man that saved him.

.:.

This story is directly related to my comments at the end of story/chapter 8 of this series, Only Seconds Left. My previous statement: Did you ever notice that in night scenes throughout the entire series run, (although in researching for this story I couldn't find the black and white version, but it is mostly used in seasons 3 and 4) when there is a shot of the partial overhead view of Laramie that there is a tree in the middle of the street near the Laramie jail, that doesn't exist in the daylight? Maybe someone should try to explain that in a story!

Well, the request was given to write about the tree and this is the result.

I might not be able to whip out every request like this one (this took 3 days whereas the last took 9 months) but keep your ideas coming. You never know, what you imagine just might be the next life that needs saving. CW