Hi there! I've only recently discovered "Laramie" (well, recently being about a year ago), and I love it! This is my first foray into fanfiction, but hopefully you'll enjoy it. Thanks for reading!
The wind keened lowly over the rolling hills, carrying the chill of death so common in this wild Wyoming country. Leaves and grass and clouds of dust floated into the air, eddying a few feet forward before succumbing to the exhaustion of the day and sinking back to the dry earth.
No less exhausted were two cowboys, seated on horses still as stone and silhouetted by moonlight. A long and heavy day pressed against their backs, slumping their shoulders with exhaustion and pain. But even with that weight, and that exhaustion, and the reaching stretch of darkness, all they did was sit, still and silent, gazing out at the rolling land.
It was the taller of the two who spoke first. "Come on, Jess," he said into the bitter wind and haunting dark. "Let's get back."
Jess didn't shift a muscle, just stared out into the darkness. "Don't think I can, Slim," he said, and it was the heavy, tired grief in his voice that kept Slim from pressing the issue.
"Well, whenever you're ready." Another moment of solidarity, of companionship, of silent, bolstering support, and Slim left. He would let his friend mourn his loss, ride into the darkness and grieve by himself and come home when he was ready.
Slim himself had another task waiting for him at home, no less necessary than the expression of grief, and no less painful. But even knowing the necessity of the task couldn't speed his steps or spark any enthusiasm for the work at hand.
He peered carefully between Alamo's twitching ears as he rode up to his home, ostensibly to watch the path, but really just to keep his eyes from wandering to the left. And when his horse balked and tugged anxiously at the reins, Slim knew without looking that he had been disturbed by something large and heavy swinging in the breeze, something that wasn't supposed to be there. He dismounted and led the horse toward the front porch, focusing on the hitching rail, the doorway, the ground, anything he knew was safe to look at.
Without looking left, Slim went into the house. Ordinarily, coming home after a ride into town was a welcome relief, and he could settle in for the night. But not now. Now, he had work to do.
He pulled an old blanket from the foot of Jonesy's bed, nice enough to use but not one anyone was going to miss, then took his knife from his top drawer. And while he worked, he tried not to think about the tree outside, the one with the low hanging branch.
But it was impossible not to think about. Not when a man had been lynched on that very tree, and a friend of Jess's, to boot. Not when Slim had been forced to watch as justice was derailed at every turn, and a man's life was sacrificed to the whims of a mob and the hubris of an old man.
Mac had been lynched, and he had been lynched in Slim's front yard. That wasn't something he was going to be able to forget.
Slim set the knife and blanket on the table and pulled out Jonesy's flask of whiskey. Jonesy would probably fret, Slim thought as he took a swig, and go on about "medicinal purposes," but he could use the bolstering. He paused for a moment, letting the whiskey settle, then went outside and mounted Alamo.
He paused for a moment at the trunk of the tree, glancing up its length to the shoulder of the branch. Unbelievably, what sprang to mind was not the voices of the lynch mob, or the face of the doomed man, or even the memory of a shaken Jess. No, all he could think about was the swing his father had hung from that same branch, and the many cheerful mornings Slim had spent playing there. It had broken before Andy was born, and Slim's father, and then Slim himself, had always said he'd get around to fixing it. One day.
Now, Slim would have given anything to be the only person to swing on that branch.
Slim nudged Alamo forward. The horse, usually a ready participant in his master's will, shied away from the unnatural sight, and it took some convincing on Slim's part to get him close to the branch's limp burden.
Once Alamo was in place, the task itself was simple, almost ridiculous in its simplicity. A crime like this one should leave disaster in its wake, some concrete symbol of the chaos it wreaked in the hearts of men. But careful placement of his horse, and a smooth stroke with the knife, and John MacLean was freed from the tree that had taken his life.
Carefully, more carefully than need be, all things considered, Slim rested Mac's body in front of him on the saddle and turned Alamo away from the tree. Even with his back to it, though, he could still feel it looming over him, stretching its branches over his head and reaching down to brush against his shoulder. Pulling him back.
He shuddered and shook his head free of the cobwebbing delusions as he made his way into the barn. He would see to Alamo and get Mac settled in the wagon bed, where the drifter would spend the night wrapped in a Sherman blanket.
And tomorrow, the work of death would continue.
Jess didn't ride back until after dawn, and when he did, the first thing he noticed was the empty tree branch.
For some reason, it surprised him. He had been bracing himself to see Mac dangling from it, swaying in the breeze, and the mere thought had almost made him sick more than once through the dark night. But of course Slim would have taken him down; Slim wasn't the kind to leave a man hanging, especially a man lynched in his own backyard.
Still, the branch itself, empty though it was, was enough to bring back in full force the moment he had brought in Vern Cowan and seen Mac. The branch dipped a little, its empty rope twisting blithely through the air as if unaware of its role in yesterday's tragic events.
Something in Jess snapped. He practically threw himself off Traveler, leaving his horse standing bemused by the fence as he sprinted to the tree and fumbled desperately with the knots that had held against Mac's weight. When his fingers couldn't do the trick, he stepped back, drew his gun, and shot the knots apart.
Traveler jumped, but the shooting gave Jess a sort of grim satisfaction, and he yanked the ropes from the tree, hauling them together in one messy, clumped pile before turning back to the house. In one minute, he was through the door and in the kitchen; the next, he was stuffing the ropes into the stove and watching them burn.
After the last strand of rope had disappeared into the hungry orange flames, he closed the oven door and turned to see Slim watching him, a cup of coffee in his hands.
"I figured that was the best place for it," grunted Jess by way of explanation, and Slim nodded.
"I think you're right." He poured another cup of coffee, handed it to Jess, and sat at the table. Jess followed suit. He didn't think he'd want anything this morning, but after a small sip to placate Slim, his stomach growled for more. He drank deeply, and the coffee spread warmth to places he hadn't realized until now were frozen over.
He set his drained cup down, and his friend instantly refilled it. "Thanks, Slim," he said, and as the words came out, he realized he meant them for more than just the coffee. They were for everything Slim had done to try and protect Mac, and for treating the drifter like a friend just because he was Jess's friend, and for taking care of the body. And even for stopping Jess from gunning a few men last night, as much as they might have deserved it.
Slim just sipped at his coffee, and Jess studied this man who had proven to be an invaluable friend. There weren't many people, Jess reflected, who would stand up for someone like Mac – or someone like Jess, for that matter. Especially not to the point of taking a gunbutt to the head.
Jess's eyes shifted to the deep gash running down Slim's forehead. It was still oozing blood, and the skin around it was red and swollen.
"How's the head?" asked Jess.
Slim lightly touched the injury with his fingertips. "It'll mend," he said, and even though he meant the words lightly, Jess still heard a voice in his head finish the phrase: "unlike Mac."
"D'you mind if we…bury him with your folks?" The words were tough to get out, but Jess managed. Dealing with the problems one step at a time, just like he always did. "I think he'd like it there. Be done in no time, both of us digging together…"
The look on Slim's face stopped Jess in his tracks. "Right, sorry, shoulda realized," he muttered, and there was an angry coal in his stomach even though he understood Slim's reluctance. That was his family, after all. "You wouldn't want some two-bit drifter restin' with your people."
"No, Jess, it's not that," said Slim. "It's just…I thought it might be better to have him buried in the Laramie cemetery."
Jess looked at him, bitterness drowned in the flood of surprise. Carefully, he said, "I ain't so sure folks of Laramie'd want a man like Mac next to their loved ones."
Slim slammed the coffee cup to the table, making Jess and the rest of the coffee jump. For a moment, pure fury blazed through Slim's eyes. "I'm not sure I care at the moment what the folks of Laramie want." He breathed deep, and some of his steady calm returned. "Seems only right they do what they can for him, all things considered."
Jess looked into his own cup as if looking for some guidance, a fortune teller peering at tea leaves and hoping for an answer. "Not sure how Mac'd feel about it," he muttered. "Restin' in Laramie after what they done to him."
He could feel Slim's eyes boring into him, but he didn't lift his eyes from the coffee cup. Only yesterday, he might have thought Mac wouldn't be upright enough for a place like Laramie; now, he was thinking the opposite.
"We can bury him here, if you want," said Slim. "But – "
When his words faded without finishing, Jess finally looked up from his coffee cup. Slim looked about as torn as he felt, which was saying something. Slim always looked pretty certain he was in the right. "But what?"
"I don't want to hide him away," said Slim. "I don't want to bury him here and let people think we're ashamed of him. And I don't want to tuck him away in some distant corner so the people can pretend this never happened. Maybe the only good that can come from all this is to keep it from happening again, and that means people have to remember."
Jess frowned into his coffee. "Too late for Mac."
"Yes, too late for Mac," said Sim, and now he sounded more like himself, certain and sure. "But maybe not for someone else."
Jess thought about it for another minute. "All right, Slim," he said finally. "Let's bury him in town."
Slim drove the wagon into Laramie later that day, a small, silent mission of death. The townsfolk, usually a thrumming hubbub of conversation, shopping, and movement, fell silent as he drove by, turning the end of his journey into an impromptu funeral procession.
He pulled up in front of an unassuming building with a plain wooden front and lettering too gilded to suit an undertaker. Before he could step in, however, a voice stopped him.
"Ain't that the man that killed Doc Webb?"
Slim turned slowly, recognizing the voice and expecting the man who was standing a few feet back from the wagon. "Edwards."
Silas Edwards worked the Bullseye, a ranch a few miles west of Laramie. He and his brother were well liked in Laramie, mostly by people who liked having a bit too much fun on a Saturday night. Slim had never got on well with either of them, and Jess had agreed with the assessment after a weekend with the Edwards landed him in jail. Slim had been expecting trouble from Silas, especially considering his brother, Abe, was currently sitting in jail with the rest of the lynch mob.
"Ride on, Sherman." Edwards' fingers were twitching over his gun. "We didn't want that killer here alive, and we sure as sunup don't want him here dead."
The smart thing to do, Slim reflected, would be to go into the undertaker's and ignore him. And maybe if Jess were here with him, that's what he would do, just to keep things from boiling over. But even if years of aggravation hadn't built up against Silas Edwards, Slim was at the end of his patience, temper stretched to the limit, and he was looking forward to doling out a few well-deserved licks.
"This town's got its fair share of killers since yesterday, but Mac isn't one of them." Slim was well aware of the crowd that was starting to gather a safe distance away from his wagon. "All things considered, I figure the least Laramie owes him is a decent burial."
"Nobody owes nothin' to that dirty, murderin' saddle tramp," snarled Edwards, well aware of Slim's slight against his brother. "You're just sore 'cause you got your own saddle tramp you're worried might get the same kinda treatment."
Slim's fist cracked so quickly against Edwards' face that even he was surprised when the man went down. In another second, he was up again, fist swinging in retaliation, and the fight was on.
It didn't last long, however, and Slim only got a few good licks in before strong hands hauled back on his arms. He wrenched away and presented Edwards with another fist to the face, feeling immensely satisfied when a river of blood spurted from the man's nose, but the hands came back, joined by a few friends, and soon the two combatants were thoroughly restrained.
"All right, that's enough," said Frank DiGrazzi, the deputy who had suddenly found himself with a sheriff's badge. His arms were the only thing holding Edwards back from lunging at Slim again. "Ellis, why don't you take Slim in to talk, and I'll help Silas here cool off?"
"Sure, DiGrazzi." The hands holding him back loosened, and Slim turned to see that it was the undertaker himself, Simon Ellis, who had been holding him back. "Come on in, Slim. I figure you were coming in to talk to me, anyway."
Slim picked up his hat, brushed the dust from his clothes, and followed Ellis as the deputy-turned-sheriff led Edwards in the opposite direction, calling out, "All right, folks, show's over. Get back to what you were doing."
Ellis led Slim into his parlor, a small, dimly lit room with heavy curtains and furniture a little too gaudy for the business of the building. An almost ghostly silence filled the space, as if all the extra air had been pulled into the heavy drapes and behind the closed doors.
Slim didn't bother with pleasantries. "I've got a friend to bury," he said, and the words dropped like stones into the hot, thick air.
Ellis nodded. "Sure, that's what I figured. Story's had some time to get around. Only I heard he was Jess's friend, not yours."
Slim shrugged, pulling a few coins from his vest pocket. "How soon can you get him ready?"
"Well now." Elliis didn't reach out to take the coins. "It's not that I can't do it, or won't, it's just…well. The timing, you know." When Slim just stared at him, he continued, "People in this town, they're still hurting over losing Doc and the Sheriff. And most of 'em think your friend's responsible, even with Jess bringing that other fellow in. Maybe it'd be better to wait a bit. Give it 'til after the trial." Desperately, he added, "I wouldn't charge you extra for preserving the body."
As the speech progressed, Slim's face grew harder and harder, until granite would have chipped off it. "Mac's made enough sacrifices. We'll have the funeral tomorrow." He slapped the coins on a small table.
Ellis looked at them reluctantly, as if afraid they would be too hot to the touch. "Gonna be tough to find someone to dig the grave. 'Specially that soon."
"Don't worry about that," said Slim, voice laced with derision. "I'll dig it myself."
He left the undertaker's, slamming the door with more force than necessary. He was going to have to help Ellis get Mac's body out of the wagon bed, but first he had to see the pastor.
And after that, he had a grave to dig.
The day was out of place. Brilliant rays from a warm sun rolled across the hills of Laramie, and a scattering of snow-white clouds dotted the vibrant sky. It was a day for working and swimming and picnicking, not for standing at a friend's grave.
But that's where Jess Harper was. Standing next to a hole in the ground and staring at a pine box, watching a friend go to his eternal rest and seeing a little bit of himself in the process. It wasn't too long ago that his life had been a reflection of Mac's, and he had fully expected to meet his end like this. In some strange town he'd never visited before, at the end of a rope or a gun.
He took his eyes off the coffin in the ground to glance at Slim standing beside him. Slim was the only person to join him at Mac's grave, besides the preacher, and Jess was eternally grateful for his presence. He had stood alone at the graveside of far too many friends.
"Eternal rest grant him, O Lord, and perpetual light shine upon him," Father Macaulay intoned, closing the black Bible in his hands with fitting finality. His hands flickered in a quick blessing over the grave, then he glanced in Jess's direction. "Perhaps you would like to add a few words?"
Jess glanced up, then looked pointedly at the utter lack of mourners. Not that he'd want anyone else around; the way he was feeling, he'd be pleased not to see the good people of Laramie for quite some time. But without them there, the mourning seemed empty.
Still. If Jess had ever found himself taking up eternal residence in an unfamiliar town, he would've appreciated a few kind words, and he figured the same went for Mac. There wasn't much he could have done for the man while he was still alive, but at least he could do this. He took a breath, glad it came in steady.
"Mac never amounted to much. Not that most people could see, anyway. He was a gambler, and a fast draw, and he'd been in more trouble than a mouse in a nest of rattlers." He took another breath. "But if you rode with him, he'd watch your back, and he'd trust you to watch his. He never went back on his word, and he'd stand with you against the worst kind of odds, and he always wanted to think the best of people. You can't ask for much more than that in a man."
In the silence that followed, the preacher nodded, and Slim rested a comforting hand on Jess's shoulder. A moment later, the preacher tossed a handful of dirt onto the coffin with the words, "Ashes to ashes, and dust to dust. We commend John MacLean to your mercy, O Lord."
Jess's handful of dirt followed, then Slim's, and then it was over.
The first sliver of dawn slid between the curtains, grazing Slim's eyelids and waking him from a deep and much-needed sleep. He tumbled out of bed, yawning, and was dressed with his boots on before he realized that Jess's bed was empty.
Slim frowned. He could count on one hand the number of times Jess had woken before him, and of those, Jess usually made it a point to wake up Slim with as much clatter as possible. Slim couldn't recall a time when Jess had been up and out this early and this quietly.
Driven by concern, especially considering the events of the past few days, Slim skipped the coffee and headed directly outside, hoping to find Jess in in the barn or corral.
He didn't have to go that far. Jess was standing on the porch, leaning on the railing like the world was pressing down on his shoulders, and staring forward. Slim didn't have to follow his gaze to know what he was staring at.
"How about breakfast, Jess?" The words were always something of a magic spell, breaking through to Jess no matter what kind of mood he was in. Now, however, his friend just shook his head.
"Ain't that hungry today, I guess."
And that, Slim could understand. The circuit judge had come in on the stage yesterday. Which mean that today was the day Vern Cowan, the real murderer of Doc Webb and Sheriff Kiley, would stand trial. And a handful of the town's leading citizens and a retired judge would have to explain how they'd come to lynch an innocent man.
"They'll get what's coming to them," said Slim, and he knew it was the truth. Justice may have been thwarted at every turn during this whole painful tragedy, but it would have its day in court. "And it'll be legal."
"More'n they deserve. More than they gave Mac." Jess's eyes bored forward as if they could cut the tree down on their own. "Every time I look at that branch, I see him, Slim. They killed him without a trial, and I don't see the justice in giving them one."
"We're not murderers, Jess," said Slim. "That's the difference."
In the pained silence, Slim finally let his eyes drift in the same direction as Jess's, to rest on the branch. He had done his level best, these past few days, to keep from looking at it, but that hadn't made the reality of it go away. And it hadn't eased the sickening pit in his stomach when he thought about the great evil that had been done in his own backyard.
That branch, swaying gently and carelessly ignorant of two burning eyes on it, was always going to be a reminder of what had happened that fateful day. Neither Slim nor Jess was going to be able to walk past it, look at it, think about it, without wondering if there was any hope for justice in this wild country. And finally, Slim couldn't stand it anymore.
"Let's cut it down."
"What?" said Jess, but Slim, with his long, determined stride, was already halfway to the barn. Jess had to practically run to catch up to him. "What did you say?"
"You heard me," said Slim. He strode forcefully into the barn and turned around a moment later with a saw in his hand. "No more vigilante justice, Jess. Not here, not if we can help it."
He held the saw out to Jess, and, for the first time in a week, saw a glint of his old partner in Jess's half smile.
"Dad-gum. You're serious."
"You bet I'm serious." He hefted a ladder to his shoulder. "We've got enough time before the trial this afternoon. Let's make sure the only kind of justice that gets passed out around here is the legal kind."
Jess led the way out of the barn and toward the tree they had both been avoiding, and it wasn't long before he was balanced on the ladder, sawing fiercely at the branch while Slim held the ladder steady.
He was halfway though when he stopped, leaning against the tree, and Slim looked up. "Jess?"
Jess rubbed a hand against the rough bark of the tree, brown flakes falling from beneath his palm like a wooden rain. "Those were upstanding citizens of Laramie, the men who killed Mac. Churchgoers and the like." When Slim nodded, Jess continued, "Do you really think they'll pay?"
Slim cast one more glance at the low-hanging limb. "Yes, Jess," he said, and he knew it was the truth. It had to be. After everything, all the cruelty and arrogance and disregard for the law, there had to be some justice. Somewhere. "They'll pay."