The Hanging Tree
Picture by Connie Cooper Edwards
The Hanging Tree
I sat upon the black steed; a rope
snugged around my throat, and my hands tied behind my back. Smells filled my
nostrils of fresh cut grass mixed with earth from the prancing horse’s hooves. The
sky resonated bluer than I’d seen with wisps of white moving across it in the
breeze. The end of the rope looped over the thick branch of a magnificent oak full
of rustling leaves.
“What a beautiful day to die,” I
whispered as they read the charges. Then the final slap of the horse’s rear, forced
my steed to bolt out from under me and I swung through the air.
I’d made my share of mistakes, but I’d
never broken the law, and I never thought my life’s final moments had me
swinging from a tree. How did I end up here?
The week started with a stagecoach
robbery. A rifleman sat atop the coach beside me and I handled the horses. Fargo
Stage Company carried the payroll for the railroad along with four passengers.
One was an engineer, traveling to the new train. His assignment was to drive
the engine to the Pacific coast. The second man looked as if he belonged on a
horse, wearing his hat low over his eyes, a bandanna around his neck, and a
pair of six-shooters. Two women, a mother and daughter, discussed wedding plans
for the young, pretty girl.
As the sun crested, the mountain and
the valley below took on the natural colors of green, yellow, and brown. A loud
pop reverberated over my head, followed by my rifleman slumping across my
person. Women screamed as the engineer cowered in the corner of the stagecoach.
The gunman stuck his head out of the
window. “Don’t stop!” the gunman shouted at me. I struggled to rein in the
horses and push my partner off my lap.
“Keep the team racing!” the gunman yelled at me.
I looked at him startled. It
occurred that I should follow his instructions. I cracked the whip over the horse’s
heads, causing them to jump forward, and race up the dusty road. The women
bounced on the seat, holding each other to keep from falling to the floor.
“Driver, you can’t drive the team
that hard, you’ll kill them!” the engineer argued, screaming at the gunman and
me.
“Well, do you have any suggestions
on how to out run them,” the gunman shouted, pointing to the four horseman
gaining on our stagecoach. Bullets whizzed past us on all sides of the coach. I
looked over my shoulder to see what was destine for the five of us. The lead
horse showed signs of lather on his neck. “The stage doomed from the first shot fired,”
I muttered.
Ignoring the shouts of the gunman I
whoa’d the horses to a stop. The robbers surrounded us and disarmed the gunman,
finding a silver star with the word Marshall, tucked in his hip pocket. One robber
forced the Marshall to the ground; the robber’s hat and bandanna dislodged. The
Marshall stared into the bright green eyes of the robber, remembering every
detail of his face. I watched from my perch above, feeling a familiar
attachment to the robber. When he was unmasked, I saw that we shared the same
face.
I’d heard it said, ‘everyone has a
twin’. I’d just met mine. The Marshall was convinced I was part of the band of
robbers and when I couldn’t identify the men, they hanged me in their stead.
Crows filled the air and landed in
every branch available on the tree, screaming and squawking. My vision of the
bright blue sky had turned to black. A clap of thunder deafened everyone and a
bright light blinded us. Black feathers and leaves fluttered to the ground, a
fire burned in the top of the oak, and I hit the ground with the rope still
tied around my neck. Birds and lawmen lay dead or stunned on the ground.
I pass that dead lifeless tree every
time I have a stagecoach run through the green valley to the coast. I can still
see black birds sitting in the thick full branches and a man hanging from a
rope on a bright sunny morning.
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