Release

They took him on the steps of the church. Since the funerals earlier that day, sentiment had been growing among the townspeople, a sentiment as black and ugly as the smoking scar blown into the land above the mine. Mosby was responsible, they knew. Mosby had led them all down that dark tunnel with a promise that shone so brilliantly it had blinded them. And Mosby had let fifteen of them burn to death in the flame-orange brightness of the very copper they were mining. Mosby had to pay.

There was no surprise in his eyes as he watched them gather round, swarming with the buzz of angry bees. They crowded in closer, suffocating his chance of escape.

"Now, now, what is this?" he queried all innocence, backing up the steps. "This is no way to mourn." He raised his arms in a gesture of patriarchal comfort, spotless palms turned up, trying to dilute their anger. To them it was a pose of patronizing indulgence and the hum grew louder.

"The sanctuary of the church won't save you," a voice cried out.

"Murderer!" shouted another.

Mosby laughed nervously. "As I have already assured you, I was not responsible for this. As a matter of fact, I have found..."

His words were cut off when a rock arced through the air and struck him on the shoulder. Momentarily thrown off balance, the Southerner's eyes flashed a terrible anger when he turned back towards them, his hand clutching the sorely bruised spot. Another rock hurtled in his direction and by ducking quickly to avoid it, the missile hit one of the mob beside him.

"Just like 'im," a woman shouted. "Lettin' the innocents take his punishment!

"Time you felt our pain," a low tone murmured next to him and hammered a strong blow into Mosby's gut.

Doubling over, he reached out for support but instead his arm was wrenched forward and he was dragged down the steps. His legs buckled beneath him as another punch struck him in the side and he struggled to stay upright. Then both his arms were grabbed and pulled up behind his shoulders as he was forcefully pushed ahead of the flood of people, into the center of town.

"You don't know what you're doin!" he bellowed. "You'll be arrested!"

"Your puppet sheriff ain't anywhere near here, Mosby." He recognized Rhinehart's voice and searched the crowd for the injured miner. "You've got no one to shield you now."

It was true, Mosby thought, but wouldn't admit it. He'd sent Austin out of town along with several of his men to dispose of Zander.

"Find the deepest, darkest shaft in the mine," he had instructed, "and throw him in it. Bury him in the ruin and let him rot for eternity."

And that will be my end, he thought, if I can't get out of this.

Someone whipped their hand across his cheek and he felt a thin trickle of blood flow into his beard. Someone else wrenched his head up by pulling on his hair and a crushing blow on the side of his head dimmed his sight for a moment. Then the dam of emotion overflowed its banks and his captors began to rain torrents of punches on his chest and face.

"No, you don't understand!" he cried. "It wasn't me!"

From his bench besides the Dove, Call saw the mob collect and confront Mosby at the steps of the church. There was no surprise in his eyes as he watched them gather round, and silently he commended the young man who had the self-possession to throw the first rock. He shook his head and wrapped his arms tighter around his chest. This was a long time coming, he thought. Mosby's regard towards the town was due for chastisement; he was only sorry it had taken the deaths of fifteen innocents to waken the townspeople from their slumber.

He watched impassively as Mosby was battered about, tossed back and forth like a rag doll among the angry rabble. The Southerner's face grew bloodier, his resistance grew weaker as they beat him.

Looking around the town center, Call observed the faces of other citizens staring from the balconies and windows with the same passivity as himself. Grimly, they regarded the scene, nodding from time to time as a powerful blow was struck. It reminded him of a bear-baiting he attended in Little Butte and he smiled when he remembered how much he'd won on that fight. He was surprised not to see Ike taking bets on this one.

Eventually the crowd eased up and withdrew back a ways, leaving Mosby swaying in the middle, contorted in pain. A cut above his eyebrow bled profusely and his face was pulpy and swelling with bruises. His clothes were ripped and stained red. He fought past the agonizing catches in his chest, gulping for air. Straightening, he raised his head defiantly and looked around. His eyes met Call's.

"Stretch his neck!" Rhinehart crowed.

Shoving him forwards, the swell of the mob propelled him past the Ambrosia, past the Statesman, past the empty Sheriff's office.

"I said...I would recompense you...for your losses." Mosby gasped for breath, clutching at his side as another blow landed on its mark.

"It tisn't just payin' for china, Mosby! How will you pay for Reilly's sight? Or Benny's leg?"

"Bible says an eye for an eye!" someone shouted. "I'd go along with a leg for a leg!"

A wash of laughter crested up from the back of the crowd and bubbled down quickly.

"There's no need for this, Rhinehart," he spat out between bloodied lips. "I can make their lives very comfortable."

"Money! That's all it is to you, Mosby! The money you'll get from selling your copper at the railhead and we'll have none of it! The money that'll line your silk pockets while ours lay tattered and full of holes!"

Rhinehart motioned for several of the men to bind Mosby's wrists and lead him towards the gallows pole. Another man brought forth his great black horse, whose eyes rolled in fear at the mass of people fluttering before him.

"Fifteen dead, Mosby!"

A noose was placed around his neck as grimy hands lifted him atop the skittering horse. Rhinehart spit at the ground in front of his feet.

"I wish I could hang you fifteen times." The rope was tightened. "Now, d'ya have any last words, Master Mosby?"

Call rose from his bench and strolled towards the crowd. He saw no emotion revealed as the noose was placed around his adversary's neck. Mosby's eyes captured his own again as the Southerner was raised on top of the jittery horse but they were as black and unfathomable as his alleged crimes.

Call had day-dreamed of this moment. He had thought up endless painful tortures that would be helplessly endured at his whim, concocted schemes of wrathful retribution leaving Mosby powerless and ruined to Call's deserved triumph. He had written memorials and epitaphs for fun as he frittered away the time on his bench, always ending with the words "the bastard deserved to die." He had wanted to watch Mosby cry and beg for his life and betray the pathetic coward he truly must have been. He had wanted to be the one to plant him in the ground for a good reason.

Mosby saw Call stand up from his bench and walk slowly through the crowd, who parted around him. The younger man's mouth was set in an uncompromising line, his eyes glittered with a piercing reluctance.

He thought the Texan would be grinning at this sight. He always thought Call would be the one to tighten the rope and slap the horse away. He hoped he was maintaining a dignity that would forever haunt his rival's dreams with the thought that here was a man that should have been forgiven.

"Listen to me," Mosby started, blinking away a stream of blood that coursed past his eyes. "I was not responsible for this heinous act. I discovered the perpetrator and have dealt with him. It was Zander..."

"Zander's gone," Rhinehart countered. "Your defense is useless."

"My defense is dead and buried." He smiled raggedly. "But you need a body to sacrifice to your vigilantism and if it is mine, you are only addin' to the number of innocent people lost in this tragedy."

Rhinehart grabbed the horse's bridle and brought its wide eyes to meet his own.

"D'ya want to run, boy? We'll let you run." He looked back at Mosby and cackled.

"You should have run when you had the chance." He raised his arm to swat at the horse's flanks. "And now you will run straight to Hell!" Turning to the crowd for encouragement, he paused triumphantly as they hollered epithets at the eerily calm man.

"What the hell does it matter who lit the fuse?" Call had said to him. Mosby thought ruefully. He raised his chin and looked out over the town, his glance stopping once at the Ambrosia Club before gazing over the mountains to a place very far away. Then he bent his head and nodded.

Rhinehart's hand rose high, then swung down through the still air. And was stopped on the barrel of a gun.

"No," Call said quietly. "There'll be no hanging today."

The horse shifted restlessly, its cargo swaying from side to side. He took the bridle in his free hand and held it steady.

"Mosby's right," he announced. His eyes locked on a circlet of blood below his feet. "Zander set the charge. Zander was working with Halcyon to close the mine."

"But Mosby sent us down there!" Rhinehart cried. "Mosby didn't care..."

"No, he didn't care," Call interrupted. "But that's not enough reason to kill a man."

He passed the reins over to Sadie, holstered his gun, and reached up to free the beaten man's hands.

"Go on!" he shouted, turning his head from side to the side. "Go home. It's over."

As quickly as they had amassed, the assembly ebbed back and away.

"But Mosby sent us down there..." Rhinehart whined faintly.

Deserted by the dispersing tide, he limped feebly towards the Number Ten and the oblivion only a bottle of whiskey could deny.

Mosby slid off the horse and landed on shaky legs with a grunt. Removing the noose from his neck, he flung it away, checking the red welts of its pressure with a trembling hand. He watched as Call retreated towards his bench while wiping the Southerner's blood off on his fringed jacket, his head shaking in bemusement.

"Call."

The Texan continued on, then suddenly spun around on one heel to face him, a terrible anger flashing in his eyes. Pushing blood-stained hair off his forehead with the back of a trembling hand, Mosby dabbed at his eyes with a spotless white handkerchief, replacing it with elegant smoothness into a ripped pocket. He pursed his bruised and swollen lips in contemplation, then simply said again, "Thank you."

"It doesn't matter who did it," Call protested, and pivoted back around, striding away quickly.

"Oh, no, Newt," Mosby whispered. "I'm glad to see that you still understand that it matters very much."

 

 
 

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