21

The circling buzzards bothered Willie Wilson. The rain had made travel awful the past few days, but he intended to get downriver, eventually following the swollen stream that fed into the bigger one. He’d heard tell there was a riverboat that would take him a considerable distance faster than he could ride, but he didn’t have two nickels to rub together. Shaking some droplets of rainwater from his yellow slicker, he used his bandanna to dry his face. The way the buzzards spiraled downward told him something had died not too far off.

He had a lot of vices, and curiosity might be his worst since he had finished off the pint of brandy that had served him over the miles, he’d run out of tobacco days earlier, and there wasn’t anything female within miles.

His horse shied as he started through the woods. He found a game trail and followed that to an area that hardly deserved the name of clearing. The sight that greeted him caused his belly to clench up.

A man had been hanged. Crows had already pecked out his eyes and other choice tidbits, and now the vultures were coming to pick the carcass clean.

“Git outta here!” He drew his six-shooter and fired a round to scare off the carrion birds. They looked at him with cold hatred in their beady red eyes and then took to wing, running clumsily a few feet and then launching into the air.

The body was past identification. The face was pecked and destroyed by insects. The one thing Willie noticed was the black rope that had been used as a noose. It was ebon-black with silver threads chased through it.

“Now that’s a real purty rope,” he said to himself. Willie grunted as he reached over and lifted the body up. To his surprise, the rope uncurled from around the dead man’s neck and hung loose from the tree limb.

He dropped the body and grabbed the rope.

“Ouch!” He pulled back from it. “Damned thing bit me.” He looked at his hand but saw no wound. Bending over, he snared it and pulled it off the tree limb. “How about that?”

The rope coiled itself easily and felt right in his hand. He spun it a few times, liking the ease with which he kept the loop open. Roping calves would be easy with it. A quick twist of his wrist brought the rope to his knee, where he fastened it to the saddle.

Willie looked down at the body, considered giving it a decent burial, then rode off. He didn’t have any idea what words to say over a grave, and besides, the birds and bugs had started picking off the putrid flesh. Let them dine.

He reached down, touched the rope, and felt a glow of pride, of accomplishment, of power. With this he could be the best cowpuncher ever. Willie Wilson rode on, humming to himself.