The Beauty of Darkness - SEVEN
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Danny Kidd stood with his hands dangling at his side and his chin on his chest. He'd learned quickly in prison that to look another man in the eye was to invite trouble. He resisted the urge to glance over his shoulder. That was another lesson he'd learned early on – keep your eyes forward. It didn't matter what lay behind. It was gone. Dead. Looking behind was just an excuse – a way of avoiding what lay ahead. His problem – this time – was what lay ahead was connected to what lay behind. His friend, Joe Cartwright had been rudely awakened, dragged to a different tree, and tied to its base. Joe was defenseless. He'd heard the thugs who traveled with Mudge and Murdoch taunting and punching him.
Behind him lay his connection to the man he believed he could become.
Ahead of him was the last link in the chain that bound him to the boy he had been.
They sat before him, perched on a couple of stumps – Mudge and Murdoch – lookin' for all the world like a pair of hanging judges ready to mete out justice. The worst thing was, he deserved it. He deserved whatever sentence they passed; whatever punishment they cared to hand out.
Joe didn't deserve any of it.
The cowboy's only crime was being his friend.
"Prisoner 1031! You will step forward!"
That was his old number; the one they had sewn onto his shirt at the penitentiary and branded on his heart. The one he'd hoped to leave behind.
How silly of him. Hope was for the innocent.
"Prisoner! You will state your full name!" Travis Mudge barked as he halted.
Danny lifted his head to face his accusers. "Daniel Malachi Kidd."
"Age!"
"Twenty-three." Or so he'd been told.
"Do you understand the nature of the crime of which you stand accused?"
That one stopped him. Did Travis mean the crime he'd committed that had sent him to prison, or something he'd done recently? A quick look at Crock assured him it was the former. Cassidy's brother's face was carved out of stone.
"Murder," he said.
Crock's brows peaked toward his dark hair. "You don't deny it?"
"No, sir. It was murder whether the state called it that or not. I knew what I was doing."
"So you admit that you killed my kid brother willfully, and with intent?"
Danny thought a moment. "No. I don't admit that."
"What do you mean?" Mudge cut in. "You just said –"
"I admit I went for Cass on purpose, but I didn't do it with intent. I just…did it."
"Out of pure instinct?"
He nodded.
"Are you aware that makes you an animal?" Crock asked.
Danny considered it. "Yes. I am."
J. Crockett Murdoch rose from his seat and approached him. He stopped an arm's length away. "You say you're twenty-three. That means you were, what, when you killed my brother? Twelve? Thirteen?"
He shrugged. "If you say so. I ain't for sure certain."
Murdoch came closer. "I am. It's been nine years since Cass had that knife stuck in his gut and bled out on a cold and filthy prison commissary floor. I hope that slice of pie was real good, Kidd, 'cause you're gonna pay dearly for it."
The ex-convict's jaw grew tight. "You can do whatever you want with me. I admit it, I caused your brother's death. I deserve to die. But…." Danny hesitated. He'd learned another lesson during those long years of incarceration. Never plead. Pleading gave your opponent an advantage because it told them what was important to you.
He did it anyway.
"Let Little Joe go."
Crock's eyes flicked to the spot behind him where he knew Joe was being held. "Cartwright?"
He nodded.
Cass' brother made a clicking noise with his tongue. "I'm afraid I can't do that."
"Why not?"
He glanced at his companion. "Well, first of all, Travis would have something to say about it. He's mighty sore at Mr. Cartwright for costing him his job."
"And second?"
"Joe Cartwright is here for a reason."
After Cass' death, whenever Crock visited the prison, he would stand outside the cell block and stare at him for hours. He was sending a message then.
Just like he was sending one now.
"What reason?"
Murdoch smiled.
It wasn't pretty.
"Insurance."
"What sort of 'insurance'?" Danny demanded.
"That you'll do what I want," the other man replied. "If you don't, Joe Cartwright will do more than scream. He'll die."
For the first time, the ex-convict felt real fear. Death was what he'd expected – for himself.
Not for Joe.
"What is it you want me to do?"
The other man snorted. "You thought I was gonna kill you, didn't you? Why would I do that? Death isn't a punishment, it's a release." Crock came close; so close he could smell victory on his breath. "Tell me, Daniel Malachi Kidd. What is it you fear the most?"
He'd have died for Joe. Really, he would. That's what friends did.
But would he – could he go back to prison?
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Joe licked blood from his lip and spat. His tormentors had moved far enough away that there was no retaliation – this time. The last time the bloody spittle hit one of their boots and he'd been forced to lick it clean or have his head split in half. Bob Stevens and Asa Teller had been decent enough men when they worked for his pa; not so different from most of the drifters and short-term workers they hired. Evidently associating with Travis had brought out their inside 'ugly'. A fair fight like the one he and Danny had gotten into with them was one thing.
Beating a man bound by the arms to a tree was another.
Then again, he had to remember just who Travis Mudge was – a nasty piece of work who'd taken power where it was offered; a man who reveled in the license the territory had given him as a prison guard to inflict pain and misery on his fellow man. With the power of the governor under his belt, his pa had asked the warden to look into Travis' activities and they soon discovered that Mudge was as corrupt as they came. He'd developed a system of reward and punishment within the prison, intimidating and threatening both inmates and guards. All so he could line his own pockets. Travis was brought before the warden and summarily dismissed.
And rightly held him to blame.
Joe's gaze strayed to his friend. His vision was blurred, so it was hard to see that far, but it appeared Danny was standing alone facing two men, kind of like he was on trial. Probably Travis Mudge and the one called 'Crock'. It wasn't right – blaming Danny for something he'd done when he was a kid. Pa always said to take a man for who he was, not for who he had been.
Pa.
Joe blinked to clear his eyes and sniffed.
Dear Lord, he wanted his pa!
"Got somethin' in your eye, Cartwright?" a snide voice asked as a boot connected with his foot, sending a jolt of pain through Joe's ravaged body. A slightly inebriated Bob Stevens crouched before him and waggled ten dirty fingers in front of his face, dangerously close to his eyes. "You want I should take it out?"
Joe's breath caught as fear coursed through him. So far none of the damage done to him was permanent – or at least he didn't think it was. Several ribs were cracked if not broken, his pee was pink, and he was battered and bruised from his toes to his teeth, but he was whole. He'd suffered worse abuse before, in particular as a kid at the hands of John C. Regan. The curly-haired man held his tormentor's gaze. There was one difference though. Regan was a prize fighter. Other than the sneak attack, he'd played by the rules.
With Bob Stevens, there were no rules.
Joe gulped as he stared at the pair of filthy thumbs not two inches from his nose. There was no way he wanted those dirty digits pressed into his eyes. He needed to swallow his pride, mind his manners, and use his Sunday voice.
Or maybe not.
"Thanks, but no thanks," he responded. "How about you untie my hands, Bob? That way I can take it out by myself."
Stevens sucked in a breath – and then nearly bust a gut laughing. Some of the men around them stopped to stare before returning to what they were doing. Stevens was snorting, trying to regain his composure.
Everything would have worked out just fine if Asa Teller hadn't opened his big mouth.
"Pretty boy's sure got you right where he wants you, Bob!"
Stevens stiffened and then, without warning gripped Joe by the shoulders and forced him to his feet. Sober now, the outlaw stepped behind the tree, took hold of his hands, and untied them, For a second Joe thought maybe – just maybe – Bob was going to take him on man to man. Instead Stevens gripped his wrists and forced his arms up into a painful position and bound them again to something – a branch or maybe the stump of one – high up on the tree. Unbidden, tears spilled down Joe's cheeks as the pain from this new indignity shot through his already exhausted form.
Bob Stevens rounded the tree and stood before him, legs apart. He spat and then sneered.
"Aren't you gonna thank me for makin' you more comfortable, Cartwright?"
Joe closed his eyes for a second, gathering courage. It was gonna cost him and he knew it, but it was gonna cost Stevens more.
His eyes shot open as his lips curled with a smile.
"Sure, Bob. Thanks!"
The sound Stevens made this time as Joe's boot connected with his privates turned every head.
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Danny whirled around just in time to watch Bob Stevens hit the ground and roll away in pain. Joe Cartwright stood over him, straining at the ropes that bound him to the tree; eyes blazing and nostrils gone wide. He loved Little Joe like a brother. Joe was funny and fun; a hell-raiser and a skirt-chaser, His friend had a laugh like no other, and a spirit wild and untamed as the range horses he loved. But there was another side to Joe. Danny understood it, maybe better than the anyone else. Deep within Joe Cartwright's belly there was a fire born of the injustice of his mother's untimely death. It smoldered for the most part, banked as it was against the wall of his father and brothers' love. That fire fueled his friend. It gave him courage, as well as strength and determination. Trouble was, it also made him reckless.
Like now.
The ex-convict winced as Asa Teller struck a blow to Joe's middle. His friend's legs were free and Joe used them to drive the other man away. That kept Teller at bay until a pair of Travis' men came up on either side of the tree and took hold of Joe's legs and held them down. Asa moved in again even as Bob Stevens staggered to his feet.
"They won't kill him," Crock remarked casually. "That is, unless you turn down my proposal. In that case, they will."
So that was the bottom line. He did what the brother of the boy he'd attacked wanted, or Crock would murder Joe.
He had to choose. Damn Joe or damn himself.
Danny chuckled.
"You think somethin' is funny, Kidd?" Crock asked sharply.
"I was thinkin' about dying," he replied, his gaze steady. "You're afraid of it, aren't you, Crock?"
"Any sane man is afraid of dying."
The ex-convict shook his head. "Any sane man fears living. Every day you walk the earth is another day of trouble. The Good Book says so. You should know that."
"What do you know of the Good Book?" Crock snapped. "You're a murderer."
"And you're the righteous hand of God? Is that it?" Danny spun and pointed a finger at his friend, whose bruised and battered body swung unconscious from the tree. "What has Joe done wrong? What? How come he has to die? If you kill him, isn't that murder?"
Crock came right up to him. "Joe Cartwright knew about Cass and he still chose you as a friend!"
"That doesn't change anything!" Danny was breathing hard. "He's not responsible. I am!"
Crock didn't miss a heartbeat. "It doesn't matter. No man is innocent."
"So you're gonna string up the whole world?"
"No." Crock gripped his shirt and pulled him in close. "Just your friend and you get to watch!"
"And then you'regonna kill me?"
The thought was almost a relief.
The other man shook his head. "No. That would be too easy. I'm not going to kill you, I'm going to blame you. Let's see how many years you get for killing a Cartwright!" Crock released him and backed away. "Either way, you're going back to prison. My way, I win and Cartwright lives. Your way, you see him die and I still win." Cass' brother drew in several deeps breaths, calming himself before speaking again. "I guess, in the end, it comes down to the meaning of friendship."
Crock wanted him to rob the bank in Genoa. He was to show his face during the robbery so he could be easily identified and then, after pretending to flee, allow himself to be caught and returned to the hellhole of a territorial prison Joe Cartwright had rescued him from. Crock said, if he did that, he'd let Little Joe go free.
He didn't believe him. Joe'd seen them.
His friend was dead either way.
So he had two choices – refuse to rob the bank and watch his friend die, or consent and wait for Joe to be killed later. Number two, at least, bought them time. He knew Joe's family would be looking for him and, while Crock and Mudge knew that too, they didn't know the Cartwrights like he did. They had no idea of the fierce love the four men had for one another, or of the lengths they would go to in order to protect their own.
Or of the wrath of God they would call down upon anyone who dared to harm Joe.
"So, what's it gonna be?"
Danny drew in a breath and let it out. "I'm in," he said, and then added, "On one condition."
"So now you're giving orders?"
The ex-convict looked his enemy in the eye. "Yeah. I guess I am."
Crock snorted. "What's your condition?"
"That Bob Stevens goes with us. I don't want him left in charge of Joe." Danny paused. "You know he shouldn't be, Crock. Not if you want Joe alive,"
The other man considered it. "Done," he said.
Danny snorted. Yeah. 'Done'.
That's what he was.
Done.
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"Joe?
"JOE!"
The curly-haired man groaned. Someone had hold of it – his hair, that was – and was using it to force his head up. He steeled himself for another round of abuse, but was surprised when the only thing that was hurled at him was a prayer of relief.
"Thank God! You're alive. I thought…."
Joe worked his mouth, winced, and then spat out blood and spit. "Don't sound so happy about it," he moaned.
A familiar laugh – short and wary – told him who had hold of him and his whole body relaxed.
"Danny?"
"Yeah, it's me. Look, Joe, I…."
"Not…your fault," he managed.
His friend remained silent a moment. "You're wrong. You wouldn't be here if it wasn't for me."
Joe wet his lips again before he looked up and met his friend's gaze. Danny looked awful.
Probably as awful as he looked.
"Travis doesn't need you..." Joe drew a ragged breath against his busted ribs. "…as an excuse. He hates…me… for me."
Danny's lips quirked with a half-smile. "I guess you got me there."
"The other guy…" Joe winced as he straightened up, his back against the tree. "Murdoch…."
"I deserve whatever Crock hands out, Joe, but you don't."
There was something in the ex-convict's tone – a sort of fatalistic note. "Danny, don't give up. You can't…give up!" Joe's jaw grew tight as the light dawned. "It's me. He's using…me to threaten you. Isn't he?"
Danny's gaze ran the length of his battered and bound form. "Crock says he'll kill you if I don't do what he says. So I'm gonna do it,"
Joe strained against his bonds. "You're crazy! He's gonna kill me…anyway. I can identify –"
"Don't you think I know that!" Danny snapped. "But this way, Joe…. If I go with them, there's time for your family to find you. You know they're coming."
He knew. In fact, that was the only thing holding him together. But he wanted them to rescue both him and Danny.
Joe swallowed over fear edged with grudging gratitude. "No. You gotta be here too."
Danny shook his head. "I made my bed, Joe. I made it all those years ago when I attacked Cass and now I gotta lie in it." The ex-convict placed a hand on his arm. "But I sure as Hell mean to make certain you don't lie in it with me."
"Hey, lover boy! Time to go!"
Joe scowled at Bob Stevens.
"Take care, Joe," Danny said as he straightened up. "Stevens is goin' with us, so at least you got a chance of making it until your pa and brothers get here."
Danny looked, well, resigned – like a man headed to the gallows.
"What about you?" Joe asked his friend. "What chance do you have?"
The ex-convict smiled. "I'll be seeing you, Joe. Just you make sure it ain't too soon."
"Crock's ready," Bob Stevens said as he came alongside them. "You two lovebirds done sayin' your goodbyes?"
Joe wanted to wipe the smirk from Stevens' face, but – even if his hands had been free – he wouldn't have been able to. His energy was spent. The curly-haired man leaned back against the tree as Danny walked away taking with him any hope he'd had of getting out of this together. Tears welled in his eyes, but he forbid them. Not because crying was a sign of weakness, but because he wouldn't let these bastards sully his friend's sacrifice with their derision and hate. He'd just rested his chin on his chest when a sound caused him to look up.
Bob Stevens sneered as he made a fist.
And the lights went out.
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J. Crockett Murdoch gazed at the limp body of Joe Cartwright. He took hold of a handful of the kid's wet curls and used them to lift the cowboy's head. There wasn't much pretty left about the Bob's 'pretty boy'. Cartwright's eyes were swollen shut; his lips split. That pert little nose, while he didn't think it was broken, was bent and crusted over with blood. Travis' men – ex-prison guards, all of them – knew their job. To the naked eye the kid looked like he'd been worked-over, but beneath what was left of his expensive clothes, there were layers upon layers of subtle torment.
Layers. One upon the other. He knew about layers too.
Intent.
Capitulation and cooperation.
Deceit.
Recompense.
Crock spat on the ground. He hated Travis Mudge nearly as much as he hated Daniel Kidd. Maybe more. Kidd had been little more than a child when he murdered Cassidy. He'd been in prison before. He knew it was kill or be killed. Not that that pardoned Kidd's actions, of course. It was a reason, not an excuse. Travis had no excuse. He was a cruel, petty, self-serving little man who deserved nothing more than to be stepped on like the slug he was and ground into the earth.
Crock's fingers clasped and unclasped several times.
Balance.
He had to seek…balance.
As a kid, he'd been the kind to listen at church. The New Covenant stuff was all right, but his ears pricked and his interest perked whenever the preacher read out of the Old Testament. An eye for an eye. A tooth for a tooth. Someone takes something from you, you take it from them. That he understood. Grace, on the other hand, had never made sense to him. You take something from me, I give you more of what I got?
Not J. Crockett Murdoch.
He was going to send Danny Kidd back to prison. He'd wrestled with that punishment as far as balance went. Shouldn't he kill Kidd like Kidd killed Cassidy? But then he thought about what his brother had suffered. The knife had been dirty and gone in deep. Cass lingered in pain for days before he died, and then turned green and black and putrefied into somethin' unfit to pass the gates of Heaven. No. Dead, Danny Kidd would be free to go to whatever reward a reformed con had coming.
He wanted him to suffer.
There, was balance for Cass.
J. Crockett Murdoch's gaze returned to the unconscious man who hung before him.
But what balance was there for Joe Cartwright?
Travis wanted Ben Cartwright's son dead. The ex-prison guard would have killed him before now if he'd not prevented it. What exactly had Joe Cartwright done to deserve death, he wondered? Befriended Danny? Got the con out of prison? That was a sin, but then Kidd had saved his life – so Cartwright was only seeking balance too.
Wasn't he?
Crock sighed. It was a conundrum – and he didn't like conundrums.
There was no…balance…in them.
Joe Cartwright could identify him, as well as Travis and his men. He didn't give a damn about them, but he did care a bit about himself. Maybe he should kill him just to keep him quiet. Then again, after the robbery, he and the men who rode with him were gonna high-tail it to Mexico and stay there, so the U.S. law couldn't touch them. So what if Cartwright fingered him? By now, the local sheriff, along with Cartwright's family, had probably figured it out anyhow.
J. Crockett Murdoch closed his eyes and drew in a deep breath. He let it out slowly as he opened his eyes and looked at the unconscious man. He couldn't do it. Ying, yang, or an eye for an eye.
It was still balance.
Crock chuckled as he made his way toward the tent near the tree-line where he was bedded down. That old preacher, he'd taught his lessons well.
He needed to talk to his men.
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To be continued…..