John Fitzgerald (16 page)

   
"These demands," Uncle Mark said,
tapping the notebook with his hand, "and a premonition of my own. Why does
Cal Roberts want a week's supply of food? Why does he want four big canteens
filled with water? Put them together and they only spell one thing. Roberts is
going to head for Mexico. He will ride almost straight south from here,
crossing the southwestern Utah desert to the Arizona line. Then he will cross
the Arizona desert until he reaches Mexico."

"Even
so," Papa said, "why should he kill Frankie?"

   
"He isn't going to slow down the
mustang with the additional weight of the boy," Uncle Mark said. "And
he isn't going to share precious water and food with him. He lied when he told
John he would leave Frankie in some town. He has no intention of going anywhere
near any town, knowing I might send telegrams to all the marshals between here
and Mexico. The thousand dollars isn't going to satisfy a man like Cal Roberts.
He wants his revenge in blood. He failed to kill the Judge, the District
Attorney, and you. So he will kill Frankie instead, knowing all three of you
would rather he had killed you than the boy. And believing he has a
twenty-four-hour
headstart
, it is my guess he will
kill Frankie within an hour after leaving town."

   
An agonized moan came from Mamma's lips.
"Dear God in heaven, save my son!" she cried.

  
 
I
added a prayer of my own as my entire body turned cold with fear.

   
"Cal Roberts must be killed before he
leaves town," Uncle Mark said. Then he looked steadily at me. "You
are positive, John, that he told you he was going to ride right down Main Street
holding Frankie on the saddle with him?"

"Yes,"
I answered.

   
"His vanity may be his undoing,"
Uncle Mark said. "We will let him think we are meeting all his demands.
I'll line Main Street with unarmed people all holding their hands over their
heads. We will make him feel like a king as he rides down Main Street. He won't
be expecting us to try and stop him."

   
"And just how do you propose to stop
him without getting Frankie killed?" Papa asked.

   
"Hal Benson is the best sharpshooter
in the county," Uncle Mark said. "I'll station Hal on the second
floor of the
Sheepmen's
Hotel in a room with an open
window facing Main Street. He will be armed with a Winchester repeater. Roberts
will have his eyes on the crowd lining both sides of Main Street. When he
passes the hotel, Hal Benson will shoot the gun out of his hand with the first
shot. Then he will shoot to kill Roberts."

"No!"
Papa exclaimed.

   
"I'd do it myself," Uncle Mark
said, "but if Roberts doesn't see me standing unarmed with my hands over
my head in the crowd, he will become suspicious."

   
"That isn't what I meant," Papa
said. "The risk to Frankie is too great. Even if Hal succeeded in hitting
the revolver in Roberts' hand, it could trigger the gun and kill Frankie.
Roberts bragged about the hair trigger on his gun to J.D. And if, by a miracle,
that didn't happen, the bullet from Hal's rifle could ricochet off Roberts' gun
and kill Frankie. And if Hal missed the revolver with the first shot, Roberts
would know the second shot would be aimed at his head and he'd kill
Frankie."

   
"I grant the possibility of everything
you have said," Uncle Mark admitted. "But I know if I let Roberts
ride out of town with Frankie, I will be signing the boy's death warrant. I am
going to convince you that my way is the only way if it takes me all
night."

   
Mamma looked at the clock on the
mantelpiece over the fireplace. "It is past your bedtime, John D.,"
she said.

   
I knew Mamma wasn't worried about me
staying up late under the circumstances. She realized that Papa and Uncle Mark
were going to end up in a real argument and didn't want me to hear.

   
I went up to my room. I sat on the edge of
the bed without turning on the light. I had a terrible feeling that no matter
who won the argument between Papa and Uncle Mark, Frankie would be killed.
Uncle Mark had convinced me that Cal Roberts had no intention of leaving
Frankie alive once they were out of town. Papa had convinced me that Uncle Mark
was asking Mr. Benson to do the impossible. And there was Frankie's premonition
of death. Why would a little four-year-old boy believe Cal Roberts was going to
kill him? There was only one answer. It must be Frankie's guardian angel
warning him of danger.

   
I got off my bed and knelt down. I clasped
my hands in prayer.

   
"Dear God in heaven, please save
Frankie," I prayed. "You must want him to live or you would have let
him die with his family in Red Rock Canyon. Amen."

I got to my feet
and reached for the beaded chain which turned on the ceiling light. I pulled it
sideways. The light came on. The beaded chain swung back and forth. I wondered
why it kept swinging back and forth without stopping. Then a strange thing
happened. The beaded chain began to dissolve and, plain as day, I saw
Sweyn's
lariat hanging from a rafter in our barn and my
brother Tom climbing up it. Then once again all I could see was the chain and
it had stopped swinging.

   
I remembered one time after an argument
with Tom that I'd gone up to his loft and pulled the rope ladder up after me.
When he hollered for me to throw it down, I leaned over the edge and gave him
the good old raspberry. He had shouted that his great brain knew more than one
way to get up to the loft. He'd taken
Sweyn's
lariat
and thrown it over a rafter. Then he'd climbed up the lariat to the rafter and
gone hand over hand across the other rafters until he reached the loft.

   
I'd told Uncle Mark that a man couldn't get
to the loft without the rope ladder or bringing a wooden ladder into the barn.
But a kid could. I didn't know exactly what I was going to do, but something
told me to go to the barn. Maybe I could get to the loft without waking Cal
Roberts, and grab his revolver and bowie knife and throw them over the edge.

   
I took the screen off the bedroom window
and shinnied down the elm tree. Brownie barked softly and came running to meet
me. I told him to be quiet and took him back to the doghouse, where Prince was
sleeping.

"You
stay," I said.

   
I knew Brownie wouldn't move until I gave
him another command. I walked to the corral. It was a bright moonlit night
without a cloud in the sky. I stood with my arms resting on the railing of the
corral fence and stared at the barn. I knew if I tried to open the doors, the
hinges would squeak and wake up the outlaw. Then I thought of the loose board
at the rear of the barn which we often used as a shortcut or while playing hide
and seek. I walked softly to the rear of the barn. I lifted up the board. It
squeaked, but very softly. A moment later I was in the barn.

   
I could see pretty well by the moonlight
shining through the cracks on the sides of the barn. I looked up at the loft. I
could see the cowboy boots of Cal Roberts sticking out over the edge of the
loft. Tom had so much junk piled up in the loft and the outlaw was such a big
man, I figured Roberts couldn't lie down without his ankles hanging over the
edge. I could hear him snoring. I dropped my head and looked at
Sweyn's
lariat hanging from a wooden peg on the side of the
barn.

   
Then another strange thing happened to me.
Two words started repeating themselves in my mind: Lariat, ankles.
Lariat, ankles.
It was as if somebody was trying to tell me
something. Oh how I wished I had a great brain like Tom. But I only had a
little brain and it was up to me to figure it out. Just then Dusty moved in his
stall, and suddenly I knew exactly what to do.

   
I walked softly to the livestock stalls. I
let the horses smell me and patted them each on the nose. I scratched our milk
cow behind the ears. Then I got the lariat. I held it coiled and walked to the
center of the barn. And just as I'd seen Tom do it, I tossed the lariat upward
letting it uncoil as it went. I wanted to drop half of it over the rafter. I
missed the first time and the second time. But on the third try, half of the
uncoiled lariat dropped over the rafter and uncoiled as it came down. I now had
the lariat over the rafter.

I made a slipknot
noose on one end of the lariat. I gave myself plenty of slack as I placed the
noose between my teeth. Then, using the double lariat, I climbed hand over hand
up to the rafter. I grabbed it with both hands and let go of the lariat, except
for the noose part between my teeth. Then I swung myself hand over hand from
rafter to rafter until I came to the one closest to the loft. I pulled myself
up and stood on the rafter.

   
I could see Gal Roberts lying on his back,
a pillow under his head. He had a blanket over him except for his ankles. He
was still snoring. Frankie was under a blanket in a corner with his back toward
me. There was three feet separating me from the loft. This was going to be the
hardest part. I placed the fingers of my right hand on the roof rafter between
the sheathing and shingles and swung myself onto the loft. My feet touched just
to the right of Roberts.

   
I removed the noose from my mouth. I was
just stooping over to put it around the outlaw's ankles when his legs moved
apart. I was afraid I'd awaken him if I tried to push his legs together. So I
slipped the noose over just one ankle and tightened it carefully. I used the
roof rafter to swing myself back to the crossbeam rafter. I hung from it with
both hands and began to swing my body to give me momentum. Then I went hand
over hand across the rafters until I was above the bales of hay. It was about a
twenty-foot drop but seemed like a hundred before my feet landed on a bale of
hay.

   
I climbed down and walked to where the
other end of the lariat hung from the crossbeam rafter. I made a slipknot noose
big enough to go over
Dusty's
head. Everything now
depended upon the mustang. I walked to his stall. I patted him on the nose. I
led him by the mane to where the lariat was hanging. I slipped the noose over
his neck. I figured he could walk about thirty feet to the end of the barn.

   
"Please, God, make it work," I
prayed.

   
Then I walked Dusty toward the end of the
barn until the lariat began to tighten.

"Now
Dusty!"
I shouted,
giving his mane a jerk.

   
Feeling the lariat tighten around his neck,
the mustang seemed to know exactly what to do. He sprang forward. The lariat
made a squealing sound as it slipped over the rafter. Dusty and I kept going.
First the legs and then the body of Cal Roberts were dragged off the loft.
Dusty and I took a few more steps and then stopped. Cal Roberts was upside
down, swinging in a wide arc.

   
"What in the hell!" the outlaw
shouted, startled, as he woke up.

   
His revolver had dropped from his holster
as I thought it would when he was pulled off the loft. But the bowie knife was
still in his scabbard. I saw him reaching for it. I knew he would try to lift
himself up and cut the lariat.

"Stand,
Dusty," I commanded the mustang.

   
I ran and grabbed a pitchfork. Roberts had
the bowie knife out and was starting to lift himself up. I ran toward him and
jabbed the pitchfork in his behind. He let out a yell and dropped the bowie
knife. Then he reached for his revolver and found his holster empty. He began
shouting the foulest oaths I've ever heard in my life. I ran and opened the
barn door.

"Here, Brownie!"
I shouted.

   
I had trained Brownie to go for help in
case I was ever hurt. I lay down and grabbed my knee. When he came into the
barn, I began groaning. He licked my face and then ran out of the barn,
barking.

   
I was afraid to leave Cal Roberts alone
because he might try to free himself. I was right. He had raised himself up. He
had hold of the lariat with one hand and was trying to loosen the noose around
his ankle with the other hand. I grabbed the pitchfork and rammed it into his
rump again. He let out a yell and let go of the lariat as he flopped upside
down. But I wasn't taking any chances. I held the points of the pitchfork about
two feet from his face.

   
"One move out of you and I'll ram this
right into your face," I told him.

   
He didn't move but he called me every dirty
name in the English language.

   
I heard footsteps running down the
boardwalk in our backyard a couple of minutes later.

"In
the barn!"
I yelled.

I heard the
corral gate open and then Mamma's voice.

   
"I told you that dog would never come
scratching and barking at our front door unless John D. was in trouble,"
Mamma shouted.