VENGEANCE FROM EDEN

It was a warm spring evening at just about sunset, in Eighteen and Ninety-seven, when the red-headed stranger rode into the little town of Rosarita, Texas, tied his horse to the hitching-post in front of the Little Nugget Saloon, then walked inside and shot the owner, Race Jago, dead.
While everyone was still startled into immobility, he calmly placed his pistola upon the bar top, looked around and asked, "Well? Ain't nobody gonna call th' sheriff?" and waited while someone did so.
When Walt Jessup arrived, puffing with the exertion of running the two blocks from his office and buckling his gun belt around his big belly as he trotted across the street, the stranger surrendered the gun, admitted that he'd shot Jago in cold blood, and then fell silent, going docilely with the sheriff to the jail, leaving the townspeople with Jago's dead body and a thousand questions.
It took all of fifteen minutes before some enterprising citizen (with an eye to the publicity this would bring to the little town) raced to the local newspaper office, and perhaps another ten before that same someone had sent a messenger to the telegraph office to dispatch a notice to a key newspaper in the state capitol at Austin.
Rosarita was the kind of place the dime novel writers would describe as a "sleepy little border town" and this was the most exciting, albeit disturbing, thing that had happened there in nearly two dozen years, so exciting, in fact, that it gained the little pueblo more than a little notoriety across the state.
While shoot-outs and violent deaths were still an expected occurrence in the smaller towns scattered throughout the remote reaches of the Panhandle, the gunning down of an unarmed citizen in front of so many witnesses was not. The city of Dallas sent a reporter to cover the trial; straight on his heels arrived another reporter from Austin, complete with a photographer loaded with tripod, camera and chemicals.
The Austin reporter, thinking he had the "scoop" of the decade, set to interviewing the prisoner and found his expectations dashed immediately; the stranger was totally uncooperative, turning his back on his questioner and staring out the tiny jailhouse window as if something entirely fascinating lurked outside the bars.
Undaunted, the newspaper's representative spoke to some of the witnesses to the murder. Surely, he reasoned, with so many available, there would be numerous stories on which he could build a series of articles on the lawlessness that still existed in the state in spite of the country's recent emergence into the Twentieth Century. And his editor just might see think that would merit him an outstanding pay raise.
To his surprise, they all told the same story, with little variation and no details: The stranger walked into the saloon, saw the deceased standing at the bar, talking to an acquaintance, called out softly, "Jago!" When the saloon owner turned around, saying in surprise, "Brennan?" the stranger calmly pulled his Colt from his holster, and fired. He couldn't miss at that range, point-blank at six feet. There was a look of total shock, some even added, disbelief, on Race Jago's face as he fell into the sawdust covering the saloon's floor. He died without saying another word.
In the face of this setback, the reporter retired to his hotel room with a bottle of whisky and a freshly-sharpened pencil and the next day telegraphed to his editor the opening chapter of an exciting and totally fabricated account of the dastardly act, quoting eyewitness accounts of how the "grim-visaged stranger burst into the saloon, black death in his fiery eyes," drawing his revolver and sending a spray of bullets around the walls, while crying out the owner's name, wounding several innocent bystanders and totally destroying the entire inventory of liquor stacked behind the bar, before killing "the honest proprietor, Race Jago," and finally being subdued by at least a dozen brave souls who responded to the sound of gunshots at the risk of their own lives.
During his trial, which was held with speed, if not downright haste, the stranger was equally taciturn, refusing to tell them little more than his name--"Lucas Brennan, Yer Honor"--and giving no reason as to why he'd killed Jago, except to say that "th' bastard needed killin', so I done it!"
Rather than listen to twenty-seven recountings of the same story, the prosecutor called only three witnesses: banker Albert Hardy, as stiff and staid as his starched collar and totally embarrassed at having to admit that he was in the saloon at midday tossing down whiskey when he should have been protecting his depositors' accounts, Joe Grady, a wrangler from a nearby ranch, and Sadie Alvarez, one of Jago's "girls", dusky-skinned with impossibly straw-blonde hair, who sat uncomfortably in the witness chair in her "respectable" clothes, a long-skirted gabardine suit with a high collared, leg-o'-mutton sleeved jacket, both of which had seen better days and were obviously made for a younger, much slimmer Sadie.
She preened when the prosecutor called her "Miss Alvarez," and told her account of the incident with surprisingly little embellishment, and a great deal of sincerity.
All the witnesses supplied the same details in almost the same words: the stranger walked into the saloon, called the owner's name, Jago turned, apparently recognized him, and the stranger shot him.
None of them had any idea why it had happened, though many had mulled over various reasons and rejected them all.
The Little Nugget was the only saloon in town, so the stranger couldn't be a gunslinger hired by a competitor.
Jago was relatively honest in his dealings with the townspeople; his girls were clean and had never given a customer as dose of the clap, though the resident tinhorn regularly cheated the players who sat in on his poker games, and he did water down his whisky and charge too much for it, but you didn't shoot a man for a little thing like that.
Did you?
When the stranger was called to the stand to testify in his own defense, the townsfolk thought that, now, at last, -they would learn the wheretos and whyfors of the murder.
A hush settled over the courtroom as he rose and walked toward the witness seat in a well-controlled and steady amble, and they all leaned forward eagerly to catch his words.
They were disappointed.
Indeed, the stranger placed his hand upon the Bible that the clerk supplied, muttered, "I do" in reply to the rapid-fire question: “Do-you-swear-to-tell-the-whole-truth-and-nothing-but-the truth?" and took his seat next to the table where the judge, the Right Honorable Jason McIntyre, rapidly earning himself a reputation as a harsh magistrate and a "Hanging Judge," was seated.
He gave his name.
"Lucas Brennan."
"Place of residence?"
"Nowhere in particular."
To the prosecutor's question, he affirmed again that, yes, he had shot Race Jago, and then, his cooperation ceased. He simply sat mute under the barrage of questions the lawyer asked, until Judge McIntyre, uncomfortable in his formal frockcoat and high collar and tightly wrapped cravats, burst out in exasperation, "Listen, Brennan, answer the questions, or I'll--"
He stopped as Brennan turned toward him, something in the stranger's face stifling the rest of his words.
"What'll ya do, Jedge?" came the question softly, almost sarcastically, indeed with barely concealed contempt. "Throw me in th' hoosegow?"
For an instant, the judge seem to be unable to speak, startled by Brennan's effrontery. His face reddened and he appeared to be choking slightly.
Then, he made a sharp gesture, "You're dismissed! Get back to your seat!" and Brennan stood up and just as calmly returned to the table where his own lawyer sat.
By now, that worthy gentleman was tearing his hair in despair and dismay.
He was Judge McIntyre's brother, and had faced his honorable sibling many times in the courtroom, enjoying the legal battles they fought, and often had won, but in the face of the stranger's stubborn silence, he had no defense, he had no plan of action; he saw no recourse but to throw his client, and himself, on the mercy of the court.
The jury didn't even deliberate.
As soon as both lawyers had finished their final speeches (and Attorney McIntyre's was frighteningly brief), the foreman jumped to his feet.
"We have a verdict, Yer Honor," he told the judge, and then turned and looked at Luke Brennan and spoke the word they all expected to hear.
Guilty.
There was no way it could have been otherwise; there had been twenty-seven witnesses in the Nugget who'd seen him pull the trigger, and even with only three testifying, the stranger's admitting to the crime and refusal to give a defense--to tell them a reason why they shouldn't condemn him--left them no choice.
Nevertheless, the judge was moved to ask, as he passed sentence, "Haven't you got anything you want to say?"
The stranger looked up at him and Jason McIntyre would forever swear he was looking into the eyes of a man already dead, a man who had lost all hope and life many years before.
"Jus' don't bury me near Jago, Yer Honor. I'd hate t' think I was gonna spend eternity next t' thet son offa bitch!"
The sound of the judge's gavel was lost amid the uproar from the spectators, as he pounded against the tabletop for order and silence.
The prisoner was taken back to the Rosarita jail to await execution, which the judge had decreed would take place at dawn the next day following, and it was there that Kip Wakefield met Luke Brennan.
Kip was Walt Jessup's newest deputy.
He was twenty-two, a sandy-haired, fresh-faced youngster, with his life as yet unsettled, which was why he had taken the job. It gave him a chance to stay in Rosarita, where he had grown up, and earn a little money while he decided which way his future was heading.
Kip got a lot of ribbing from Jed Rance, Jessup's other deputy--because of his youth, as well as his name, and also for a certain idealistic outlook he had concerning the hardcases who passed through the Rosarita jail.
It was on account of that view of life that he was intrigued by Luke Brennan.
The man probably hadn't spoken more than two dozen words since his arrest, steadfastly not answering the sheriff's questions, and telegraphs to various colleagues in surrounding states had elicited no information on him.
As far as anyone could tell, Brennan wasn't wanted anywhere--for anything. He'd simply appeared from out of nowhere, committed a murder, and was now going to die for his crime.
Earlier that evening, Kip had brought the prisoner his last meal.
He'd hesitantly asked Brennan what he wanted, feeling an odd quivering in his gut as he said the words.
This was the first hanging in Rosarita in a dozen years.
Kip had been a ten-year-old in knee-britches when the last man had had his horse driven out from under him and he certainly hadn't been a witness, but tomorrow he'd see his first man die and not very decently, if all he'd heard was true.
Now, he looked Brennan over as he asked the question.
He was a tall man, maybe six-foot-two to Will's five-eleven, slim and tough-looking, as if he'd been a hard-worker most of his adult life.
Not too old, still on the uphill side of fifty, the boy guessed. Leastways there wasn't much white in the red hair which was a bright copper contrast to the sun-weathered darkness of his skin, just a little sprinkling at his temples mellowing the metallic sheen to a soft gold.
And yet, somehow, Brennan seemed old.
It wasn't Time that had aged the man, Kip decided, but something else, the same thing that had taken the life out of the hazel eyes. There were lines around those eyes that once might have been laugh-lines, little crows-feet that would crinkle whenever he smiled, making it seem as if at one time he'd laughed often but now they were deeply grooved as were the lines around his mouth, chiseled by grief.
It had been a long time since Luke Brennan had laughed at anything. Kip was willing to bet.
Now, he regarded the anxious boy before him solemnly before saying, "Got no preference. Whatever's th' fare. Don't make no never mind t'me whether I meet m'Maker on a full belly er not!"
Now, Kit brought in the tray, evicting the pesky newspaper photographer from the cell corridor once more.
The man had determinedly dogged the prisoner's steps to and from the jail, hoping for some desperate act that could be captured on the photographic plate, to be sent back to Austin and splashed across the newspaper's front page as accompaniment to more of the reporter's fabrications.
Squeezing the bulb and igniting the chemicals in the lighting tray and causing both Kip and Brennan to start at the sudden brilliance, he quickly slipped the exposed plate into a black cloth bag, gathered up his equipment, and made a hasty exit through the front door, tipping his hat flippantly with his one free hand.
Tomorrow, he decided, he'd get a much better photograph; he had permission from the Sheriff to set up his equipment directly in front of the scaffold.
Blinking rapidly, Kip watched him go, and stood for a moment looking at the door which trembled slightly from the force with which it had been slammed shut. Then, as his vision cleared, he slid the tray and the tin cup of coffee through the slit in the cell door, and stood watching a moment as Brennan took the tray and returned to his cot, sitting there eating slowly, chewing the food, and giving no indication that he was tasting it at all.
At last, he looked up.
"Ain'tcha got somethin' else t' do, boy?"
"I--"
"Yeah?"
Kip repeated the question he had asked earlier.
"I-Is there anyone you'd like us to get in touch with?" Surely, there was someone who would want to know what happened to him. After all, everyone had someone who worried about them.
Didn't they?
The coppery head shook slightly.
"Nope."
He had a strange accent, Kip thought, sounding slightly Southern--Georgian, maybe, Sheriff Jessup had thought, though too young to be just another Unreconstructed Rebel unable to live with defeat--but as if he'd been away from that state for a long, long time.
He finished the meal, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, got up to pass back the tray and cup and silently lay down on the bunk, rolling over to face the wall.
Kip returned to the little office and seated himself at the desk, setting the tray on its corner.
After a few minutes of staring at nothing, he opened one of the drawers and took out a book.
He looked silently at the maroon leather cover for a moment.
The Last of the Mohicans, by James Fennimore Cooper.
His Ma had recommended it, and Kip had been fascinated by the story, of the relationships between the East Coast Indians and the British and Americans who had settled that section of the New World. Certainly different from the way things were between whites and the desert dwellers here in west Texas.
He found his marker, and began to read.
That was another thing Jed Rance guyed him about, always having his nose stuck in a book, but when a man has a Ma who'd been a schoolmarm, he can't help it.
Ma hoped he wouldn't stay working for the Sheriff long; she wanted him to get more education, make something of himself, and that was the problem. Kip still hadn't decided just what that something would be.
He tried to concentrate on the words before him, on the adventures of scout Natty Bumppo and the young Mohican brave, Uncas.
He had been reading it faithfully for nearly a week now, keeping it in the drawer along with his favorite, The Sketch Book, by Washington Irving. That was one he really liked, in particular the story of Rip van Winkle.
After a few moments, however, he shut the book and returned it to the drawer. There hadn't been a sound from the cell but he got up anyway and walked into the back to stand at the door looking in at Brennan who was now asleep.
After a moment, he took a deep breath, pulled the keys off the peg on the wall and opened the cell, and went in.
He was taking a chance, he knew.
Brennan might be faking, might jump him and get away and there'd be Hell to pay then and certainly he'd lose his job, but Kip didn't care. At the moment, all he knew was that he had to talk to the prisoner.
He stopped by the cot, reaching out to seize Brennan's shoulder and shake it.
"Mr. Brennan! Wake up!"
For a moment, the prisoner didn't move.
Then, slowly, he rolled onto his back, looking up at Kip, muttering drowsily, "What--" and abruptly, sat up, glancing quickly at the window and back at the boy as he saw that it was still dark.
"It ain't dawn yet, whaddaya want, boy?"
"Mr. Brennan--"
Was it his imagination or was there a flicker of a smile as he said that, as if he were amused that anyone would call him Mister?
"Surely there's someone we should notify. Don't you have anybody?"
His voice held an unconscious plea, as if he were begging Brennan to say yes.
The man shook his head. "Not no more."
"Then--please tell me. Why'd you do it?"
"D'ya have t' know?"
The stubbornness was rising again, just as it had when the Judge had asked that question.
"Look, kid, I killed Jago. I admit it an' I'm gonna die fer it. What does it matter why?"
"It does matter," Kip persisted.
The red head lifted then, looking at him sharply, and for so long that Kip became uneasy, wondering if Brennan was going to try something.
His hand nervously slid slowly toward his holster, not that he knew how to use the gun resting there, had never even fired it, in fact.
Brennan saw the movement and smiled slightly.
"What's yer name, boy?"
"Kip. Kipling Wakefield."
One copper brow quirked slightly. "Kipling?"
He waited for some jibe, like everyone did when they first heard his name.
Instead, Brennan asked, "Like th' writer?"
Kip was surprised.
"That's right. My Ma was a schoolteacher. You've read Mr. Kipling's works?"
There was a ghost of a smile on the straight mouth now. "I've had a passin' acquaintance with him."
The harshness in his voice slipped suddenly, becoming smoother, more educated.
"Always wanted t' visit India. See th' tigers an' jungles an' those big deadly snakes." He shrugged. "Guess I'll never see any of 'em now. Unless there's cobras in Hell!"
Kip didn't answer. He didn't want to be reminded of what was going to happen in the morning.
Brennan was still looking at him steadily, as if now, he was seeing him for the first time or perhaps seeing someone else standing in his place.
"How old are you, boy?"
"Twenty-two," Kip answered, wondering why that mattered. "Be twenty-three this coming February."
Brennan shook his head and looked away. "Twenty-two."
The words were whispered almost sadly.
"Got a family?"
"Ma and Pa. And two brothers. Older than me."
"All of 'em still livin'?"
Kip nodded.
"You ever lost anyone you loved?"
He shook his head.
"Then you can't understand. Not at all."
Abruptly, Kip thought he did understand.
"Try me," he said softly. "Maybe I can."
Something in his voice must have gotten to Brennan, for the man's manner changed.
He motioned for Kip to sit down, and the boy slowly and cautiously dropped onto the end of the little cot.
Taking a deep breath, Luke Brennan leaned back against the jailhouse wall and began to tell Kip Wakefield of the events that had led him to Rosarita and why he'd killed Race Jago....