“I shore hait ta hang ya, Ben.”
“Well then, don’t,” says Ben, lowering his head even, to allow the noose around his neck.
“I guess a man at the end of his rope will find a might of gumption. This here ain’t no easy task for me, Ben. Hangin’ a friend ain’t a chore I’d ever thought to be doing.”
“Well, I’m sorry Punk, but if you’re fixing to hang me, I can no longer consider you my friend.”
“That’s harsh talk, considering all we’ve been through.”
“You ‘an me been on two different trails for a long time, Punk. You took the glory road.”
“I took a regular paycheck. The rest came with it.”
“You ain’t been shy about getting your name in the papers, Punk Hill.”
“You ain’t bin shy ‘bout getting your picture on most of the wanted posters either, Ben Emmery.”
Ben Emmery sat the saddle, his head just a couple of feet below a gnarled branch of ancient Oak. His horse, Petebit, exhausted from the chase, hoofed a bit at a tuft of crab grass before lowering his head for a taste, adjusting his gait as he did which caused a rush of anticipation to run through the bowels of the outlaw.
“You best be a might more still there, Ben, unless you’re fixin’ to die right now.”
“Well now, Punk, I thought I’d just sit here a spell and enjoy the afternoon with this rope around my neck and a spooky horse beneath me.”
“There’s no cause to be sour, Ben. I was thinkin’ of you telling me the whereabouts of your kin. They’d probably want to know that you’re dead.”
A cross emotion fell over Ben Emmery’s face. “I’m not dead yet, “ he sneered.
“I’ll be shovelin’ dirt over you soon enough, Ben.”
Ben Emmery guffawed. He gazed down on his former friend, the famous man hunter, and tried to remember the last time that they had spent an afternoon together. Life had grown notorious for the both of them since sharing a childhood on neighboring ranches along the Platte. Trouble in those days came in the form of careful rebellion, a boyhood bond of shirking chores for the sake of pulling trout from the river, or collecting frogs and snakes to antagonize younger siblings. Fear of a father’s strap kept a short leash on their shenanigans, but it couldn’t put a fence around their dreamy conversations of a future west of the Rocky Mountains that was sure to be waiting for them.
Lost in his musings now, Ben Emmery could only laugh at his memories. “Well, I’m sorry, Punk, to ever doubt your friendship,” he spat. “We had ourselves some right fine summery days when we was just sprouts. And now you’re gonna give me a proper burial after you kill me.”
Ben Emmery’s sarcasm was lost on Punk Hill, who grabbed the bridle of Ben Emmery’s horse to steady the animal. Ben was laughing and working himself up in to a lather. Punk had seen men cry, spit and swear at the noose, but he had never witnessed behavior such as this.
Punk Hill never figured himself much of a talker. He let his gun do most of that. But he judged that maybe an attempt at soothing Ben Emmery might be advantageous in this situation. He’d seen hangings get messy when emotions weren’t kept in check and Ben Emmery appeared to be nudging up against hysterics.
“What’s the name of this here horse, Ben?”
“P-P-P-Petebit,” Ben snickered.
“That’s an odd name,” Punk commented off-handily, hoping his manner would calm the outlaw.
Ben Emmery gulped huge breaths of air before he explained: “The day I brought this horse back to the farm, my little brother Petey bit him on the neck.”
“Why would your little brother bite this horse?”
“Well, the horse bit him first, Punk.”
A sudden rumble tumbled down the slope and blanketed the valley with it’s omen. Petebit nosed at the breeze and shifted his burden from one leg to another when he caught the smell of the coming storm. He received a gentle pat from Punk Hill before the man hunter back stepped to his own horse.
Ben Emmery watched Punk Hill pull the fixings for brewing coffee from his saddle bags. Ben stopped laughing. “I’ll be go-to-hell if I’m a’gonna sit here with this noose around my neck while you fix yourself some coffee,” he stammered.
“You don’t have to sit there, Ben,” Punk explained as he put his coffee pot and grounds near the trunk of the Oak tree Ben Emmery was roped to. “You can get yourself down from there anytime you want.”
Ben Emmery regarded Punk Hill’s words. His arms were aching from the strain of his hands being bound behind his back, and the horrible realization that he would have to make water in the near future became considerations aside from the noose around his neck. There was enough play in the rope to allow a descent drop.
“Say there, Punk. ‘Bout how many men have you hanged?”
“Killed ‘an all, or just hanged?”
Ben Emmery smiled. Only Punk Hill would demand clarity in the various aspects of his killing. “Just those hanged, Punk.”
Punk Hill looked up from the tiny campfire he had built next to the Oak tree – too close to the tree, in Ben’s opinion, and pondered a moment: “I stopped keeping figures of men a long time ago, Ben. It wouldn’t be a substantial number, the hanged men. I’m actually not that good at it. I either make the rope too short and they dangle and squirm too long, or I make the rope too long and their heads come clean off.” Punk Hill said this with the mild manner of a preacher teaching Sunday School and it sent a chill down Ben Emmery’s spine.
“Well, that’s a right fine piece of information to let me in on, Punk. I want to thank you, from the bottom of my heart. You’ve been nothin’ but a gentleman through out this entire ordeal.”
Punk Hill knelt over his fire and poured himself a cup of coffee. He couldn’t figure why Ben Emmery would get surly with him when it was himself and his gang that robbed the mail stage and got that young girl killed when the horses put the coach into a runaway. But Punk reckoned that criminals spent their lives blaming someone else.
A bright flash over the western ridge occurred, bright enough to knettle the horses, then thunder followed, rolling down the hills. Punk smelled rain over the bitter taste of his camp coffee. The breeze lost it’s gentleness and found it’s wind.
“These coffee grounds have passed their usefulness, I guess.” Punk tossed his coffee rather than suffer through it’s formality, though he regretted wasting the canteen water on failure.
The first drops of the storm began to drip from the sky.
“I gotta hard piss rising up on me, Punk. Let me visit them bushes before you kill me, won’t you?”
Punk wiped his coffee pot dry with a rag before putting it away in a saddle bag. The derelict coffee had been used to douse the cook-fire, though Punk reckoned that the rain would have eventually snuffed the flames.
Please, Punk,” Ben Emmery pleaded, “my teeth are startin’ to float.” He wondered why Punk Hill was putting boot to stirrup.
“How you gonna piss with your hands tied behind your back, Ben?” Punk Hill said this as he sat his horse.
It wasn’t a hard rain falling on them, but it had enough gumption to temper the wind. The storm had turned the dry little valley blue with it’s subtle determination to rule the Spring evening. Punk Hill realized that the day’s light would soon be lost. Grave diggin’ in the dark didn’t appeal to him.
“Damn you Punk Hill! Don’t make me sour myself atop my own horse.”
Punk Hill nudged his own horse closer to Petebit. Both men were dripping wet now, Ben Emmery without the benefit of his hat. Punk suddenly felt bad, having taken the outlaw’s hat from him when the noose was applied. The hat still lay next to the trunk of the Oak tree that Ben Emmery was roped to.
Ben Emmery saw his old friend then, for what he was and what he meant to do. In the dampening light and downpour, what Ben Emmery found at the end of his trail was the specter of all the nightmares he had ever dreamed and they all belonged to his oldest memories, of two young snaps running wild through the fields, before a cruel world snatched them from the tall, green grass and stole their youth.
“You cut a fine figure in a storm, Punk Hill,” Ben Emmery hollered over the noise of the weather.
Punk Hill regarded his childhood friend. He was thoroughly drenched without his hat. Punk wondered if Ben still needed to make water. “I guess it really don’t matter right now, does it,” he said aloud, mostly to himself.
Ben Emmery heard Punk’s voice but didn’t catch his words. But how important could a few words be when you’re leaving your life behind? Ben doubted that a man could carry words with him over to the beyond. He watched Punk Hill dismount and grab his hat from under the Oak tree. Punk even brushed the dirt off the brim for him before offering it back. Punk was tall enough a man to do this if Ben lowered his head just a little. When he did, he felt the scratch of the rope against his adam’s apple. Petebit stirred a might.
Punk Hill regarded the outlaw. “Too little too late, I reckon,” he said, indicating the hat.
“That’s life in a nutshell, Punk.”
“You ready, Ben?”
Ben Emmery wondered if a man could ever be ready for this kind of end. There was nothing to be left unsaid, but for a slap on Petebit’s rump from an old friend, and he’d be to the greener pastures. Hopefully.
The storm kicked lightning over them, loosened the spigot. The horses stirred. Through the rain and darkness Ben Emmery looked down at Punk Hill. He found the eyes of a famous lawman, the hardened gunman. Not the face of his friend.
“I guess this rain will make the grave diggin’ easier for you, Punk Hill,” he hollered through the downpour, “though I’d expect it will be a muddy chore.”
Lightning, again. The moment came then, Ben saw Punk move, saw his eyes disappear over the edge of the light, and he braced himself with one last breath.
Then he saw more lightning, through his eyelids and heard the scuffle of the horses. He waited a moment further into anticipation, already stiff it seemed, with his death. A frenzy of his mind forced him to open his eyes.
He saw Punk Hill, seated on his horse.
And Punk said, “I hope you’ve been good to that horse. He seems a might skittish in this storm.”
Was this some sort of trick? “Damn you, Punk Hill, get it over with!”
Punk giddied his horse up next to Ben’s. He was smiling. “I’m sure there’s ways of gettin’ out of a noose. I only know of one way, myself. But at least you’ve got a hope of chance.”
It suddenly dawned on the outlaw what Punk Hill was proposing to do.
The lawman drew in close to the outlaw. Face to face, eye to eye. There was barely room for the rain to fall between them.
“I’m taking your destiny off of my hands, Ben Emmery. I’ll let the storm and the spirits be your judge and jury tonight.”
“You’re a good friend, Punk Hill. Men of iron will talk of you for a hundred years to come.”
“I shouldn’t wonder why they would,” Punk said, flicking his reigns to leave. Over his shoulder he said something to Ben through the weather, but his words weren’t strong enough to cut past the wind and rain where Ben Emmery was roped to an ancient Oak, sitting a storm-skittish horse. The outlaw watched as the famous lawman disappeared into the darkness. He felt the noose around his neck and wondered if his trail would ever cross paths with Punk Hill again.
