'That's what this Cliff said,' Dyke answered.
'Before I broke his jaw.'
'Rady,' Hyatt spoke up, 'you don't want that to happen to you, do you?'
Mitchell ignored him. Still looking at Dyke he said, 'Isn't there a doubt in your mind?' Dyke didn't answer and in the silence their eyes held. Then, behind Mitchell, a man said, 'Let's have some coffee first.' Dyke's eyes lifted. He nodded and walked toward the fire, finished with Mitchell.
Hyatt and the woman were moved over by the wagon. Then Mitchell was brought over. They tied Hyatt's and Mitchell's hands behind their backs and made them sit down, the woman between them. There was nothing to be said. In silence they watched Dyke's men build another fire close to the cottonwood tree they would use. Two men entered the clearing carrying riatas, uncoiling them as they crossed to the tree. Mitchell saw his sorrel and a bay brought in and the saddles were taken off both horses.
Now what do you do? he thought.
Tell him!
I did tell him! He's hard-shelled and mean because Hyatt killed his friend and that's all he can think about. But he's calm about it, isn't he? Judge and jury wrapped into one hard-bitten weathered face. His mind is the law and he can be as calm as he pleases, knowing his way is the only way. Twelve years of campaigning and you're going to die under another man's name. Nobody knowing . . . no, two people knowing who you are. The woman-- Claire--and Hyatt.
Two feet away and you can't even touch him. Get up quick and butt his face in with your head! No . . . come on, think straight now. Now isn't a time to think about revenge. Forget about him. You're going to die and that's all there is to it. He said it in his mind, feeling each word: I'm going to die. More slowly then: I am going to die. All right, now you know it. You always knew it, but now you know it. Come on, think straight. I am thinking straight. Go to hell with that thinking straight business! There's no straight way to think when you're going to die. What did you think about the other time? The first and only and supposedly last other time. Nervous and not liking it, not believing that it was happening to him, but holding himself together nevertheless and thinking over and over again that it was a shame to die alone. Alone, because the Coyotero tracker didn't count. You couldn't talk about last things in sign language. Dos Fuegos had taken out a buckskin pouch in which he carried his hoddentin, the sacred pollen made from tule that would ward off evil, and with that he had readied himself.
Corporal Mitchell then, Corporal Mitchell and a Coyotero tracker called Dos Fuegos--the two of them riding point and cut off from the others and their mounts shot from under them. Then holding flat to the ground, lying behind the mound and looking across to the rock-scrambled sandglaring dead-silent slope where the Mimbres were. Lying unmoving--wondering if the patrol would find them.
The Mimbres came--a few at a time, running, dodging, firing carbines; and they drove them back to cover. The second rush came before they had time to reload--but so did D Company, brought by the firing, and that was that.
Sergeant Mitchell, the next month, and less talkative.
But, Mitchell thought, you really didn't learn anything that time. Not that you could apply to this one. Only that dying is important to you and if you can't do it in bed, sometime far in the future, then have it happen during a heroic act with a great number of people watching. Don't talk foolish. You're going to die, that's all . . . so do it as well as you can.
He thought of his father and mother and for a few minutes he prayed.
The woman touched his arm and he looked up. 'I'm sorry . . . I wish there was something I could do.'
'I wish there was too,' Mitchell answered. 'I wonder if you'd do me a favor.'
'What is it?'
'Sometime look up my father in Banderas, R. F. Mitchell, and let him know what happened.'
She nodded slowly. 'All right.'
Hyatt leaned forward. 'Rady, your folks don't live in Banderas.'
'You've got a real sense of humor,' Mitchell said, mildly.
Momentarily Hyatt frowned. 'You've calmed down some.'
Mitchell didn't reply. He saw Dyke, standing by the big cottonwood tree, motion to the men guarding them, and now they were pulled to their feet. Hyatt turned to the woman. 'Claire, we say goodbye now.'
'Hy, tell them who he is.'
Hyatt grinned. 'Honey, I did.'
'I think I'm glad they're hanging you,' she said. Hyatt shrugged. One of the possemen took Mitchell's arm. He looked at the woman and their eyes held lingeringly. Come on, he thought. You couldn't say it in minutes, so don't say it at all. He turned and followed Hyatt across the clearing and he knew that the woman was watching him.
'Get 'em up,' Dyke ordered.
They were lifted onto the horses and a mounted man rode between them and adjusted the riata loops over their heads. Dyke looked up at them.
'Mr. Rady seems to've lost his fight.'
Hyatt grinned. 'He's turned honest.'
Mitchell looked at him. 'You proved your point. Now you're wearing it out.'
Hyatt's eyes narrowed. For a moment he was silent and he watched Mitchell curiously. 'You ever see a hanging?' he asked then.
Mitchell shook his head. 'No.'
'If your neck don't bust, you strangle awhile.'
His eyes stayed on Mitchell. 'You scared?'
Mitchell shrugged. 'Probably, the same as you are.'
A bewildered look crossed Hyatt's face. Apparently he had expected Mitchell to panic now, to lose control of himself pleading for his life, but he was at ease and he sat the sorrel without moving. He leaned closer so that only Mitchell could hear him say, 'Rady's ten miles away by now; but in another minute he'll be legally, officially dead.'
'I'd say I was doing him some favor,' Mitchell answered. Hyatt hesitated, and the cloud of uncertainty clouded his face again. He wanted to whisper, but his voice rasped. 'You're going to hang! You understand that? Hang!'
Mitchell nodded. 'The same as you are.'
Hyatt's teeth clenched. He was about to say more, but he stopped.
Mitchell looked down at Dyke. 'He's going to foam at the mouth in a minute.'
Dyke shook his head. 'He don't have that long.'
But now Hyatt was looking at Mitchell calmly, without bewilderment, and without the brooding anger that had been a knife edge inside of him since the fight. That had started to die as they sat by the wagon. He had tried to bring it back by taunting Mitchell, but it was no use. His anger was dead and even the memory of it seemed senseless and unimportant. Mitchell was a man. Give him credit for it. That's how it happened. That's what caused Hyatt to say, unexpectedly, 'Reach in the side of my boot; the right one.'
Dyke looked at him. 'What for?'
'Just do it!'
Hyatt's eyes returned to Mitchell. 'You either got more guts than any man I ever saw . . . or else you're the dumbest.'
Dyke's two fingers came out of the boot lifting the folded sheet of paper. He unfolded it and his eyes went over it slowly.
The two granite-faced men, at the very gates of a hot and waiting hell, stared stonily down at the executioner.
Dyke read it completely: the formal phrasing of the discharge order, the written-in-ink portion that described the soldier, and the scrawled, illegible signature at the bottom. He looked at the date again. Then, and only then, did he look at Mitchell. Their eyes met briefly before Dyke turned away. He said to the men near him, 'Take him down and untie him,' and started toward the edge of the trees, walking with his head down. He stopped then and
