Short Story Wednesday

The Lynching

Happy New Year Dear Readers,

It’s a new year, and here we go again. I plan to continue posting short or serialized fiction with an occasional venture into the realm of the real. I appreciate anyone who gives me their time—the most valuable commodity humans have to spend while visiting Earth. If you like what I write, please tell me. If you don’t…well, you’ll soon find other places to spend those precious reading moments, and I wish you well.

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I originally wrote The Lynching for a Write It. Edit It. Publish It (WEP) contest a couple of years ago. Since then, I edited it a bit, so here’s the latest version.

I’ve always enjoyed slice-of-life stories, especially ones with quirky characters. I thought I’d have some fun and try to create one of my own.

I’m not a fan of “respelling,” but I did some here because it seemed to fit and it was short, so I didn’t have to endure page after page of talkin’ and outta.

So….drum roll…here’s…

The Lynching

Dusk’s the best time to set the trap. Anyone coming from the East won’t see a damned thing until they’ve rounded the bend at the Buzzard Tree.

Duchane got himself duded up for the occasion. New hat and new hardware rope slung over his shoulder. Kenny Dumont brought his pa’s shotgun, but I know the kid doesn’t have the sense to aim the thing let alone pull the trigger. Before I left the house, I tucked my Bowie knife into it’s sheath just in case three against one with surprise on their side isn’t good enough. Can’t never be too careful when you’re out to string a man up. I’m sure he won’t cotton to that idea at all.

“I gotta take a leak Bart, Duchane says, shoving the rope out to me. “Hang onto this.”

I swear Duchane’s bladder’s about the size of a grape. I take the rope, but that means if that bugger comes while Duchane’s playing bear in the woods, I’ll have to change up the plan. I should’a called on Newt for this job. He might be seventy, but he’d pee his pants before he’d sabotage a planned attack like this one.

And sure as I’m my mama’s best boy, here comes that weasel Barney Treemont. I can tell the way he sits his horse, he’s already had a few hours at Josie’s Bar. Well, that there’s something else to make all of this a lot easier.

Treemont’s sort of leaning over his horse’s head like he’s having a heart-to-heart with her. Nice horse. It’ll be a good one for Nell. Kind of elegant looking, but gentle. Treemont never was much of a rider, so all his horses are good and broke to the saddle before he throws his leg over ‘em.

Where’s that Duchane? “Kenny.” I keep my voice low and motion the boy close. “We got to change up the plan. You take that side of the road. I’ll take this one. Don’t point that damned gun at anything you don’t aim to shoot.”

“Got it.” He crouches and ducks behind a boulder at the edge of the road about the same time Treemont comes close.

Just like I planned, the pinched-faced little weasel blinks into the glare of the setting sun. I grab him by the leg and pull him off his saddle.

“What the…” He has a loud, kind of twangy voice that always grates on my nerves. But that isn’t enough for me to want this waster gone. It’s for Nell that he needs his neck stretched.

Nell’s had a rough go from day one in this world. Her mama dead before my baby girl took her first breath in this world. Then there’s the fact that she didn’t come with a head for doing much of anything except feed, water, and nurse animals. Nell can pull a dying filly onto her feet before any vet I ever call to the barn, and every cow gives her double the milk. She talks to ‘em and there are times I swear they talk back to her. That makes it hard for people to understand her, and it makes it darned hard for me to raise her proper. I done my best, but a girl who’s not right in the head is more than a handful for the likes of me.

Treemont’s squirming under my boot. His eyes got that panic in them, but I’m not sorry for what I’m about to do. Nell must ‘a had some of that panic when he did that thing to her because she forgot to close the hen house door that night. Right then I knew she was hurting. Nell never forgets to care for our critters. They’re her family.

I’ve got the noose around Treemont’s neck when Duchane clomps his way outta the trees. “I got his hands,” Duchane says like I need his help now.

Kenny’s aimed his pa’s shotgun at the sky, so the most he’ll shoot is a duck late to the marsh. But he’s forgot what he’s supposed to do.

“Kenny! Get his horse over here.” I’m used to handling slow thinkers, but today my patience is wearing thin.

“What are you doing?” Treemont’s sober enough to notice the itchy rope against his throat, but Duchane’s got his hands tied behind him, so all Treemeont can do is twist his head and shuffle his feet.

“We’re hanging you, Treemont. And because I’m a Christian sort of man, I’m going to do two things.” I hold up one finger. “I’m going to let you say a prayer to ask for forgiveness.” I hold up the second finger. “And I’m going to tell you why you’re dying.”

My sheets aren’t as white as Treamont’s face. He looks downright bleached.

“I’ve done nothing to harm you, Bart McKinny.”

“That’s not what my Nell tells me.” Now, the truth is Nell talks about as much as a gnat. She ain’t said nothing to me, but I seen Treemont coming outta my barn, straw poking up in his hair. And I seen Nell follow him, her top done up so the buttons don’t match. I didn’t just fall off a turnip truck, and I can add up what I see real fast. “You defiled my girl.”

No way did I expect Treemont was going to bend over laughing the way he done.

I’m about to give his scrawny butt a good kick with my boot when he straightens up and says, “Your Nell jumped me. But I’m not complaining. I was coming to you now to ask for your blessing. I want to marry her.”

If I was a thrashing machine, my gears would be stripped. My Nell married? There are miracles in this world. I size up Treemont again. Not much bigger around than a twig, a short neck that only just let the rope fit under his chin, a real disappointment in the man department, but he might be right in the Nell husband one.

“Here, let me help you outta that rope contraption.” I tug the noose from over his head, and Duchane unties his hands. “I’d be pleased to give you my blessing, Treemont.”

I pat him on the back until his color’s more natural and Kenny finally leads Treemont’s horse under the Buzzard Tree. He’s still shaky, but he gets back up in the saddle and rides away.

Me, Duchane, and Kenny stand there scratching our chins, feeling the letdown of not having Treemont's lynching to talk about over our beer for the next twenty years.

But the sun disappears behind the next peak, and long, dark shadows from the mountains creep across the Buzzard Tree. Those shadows remind me of a story about how revenge stretches across a lot of years always trying to even up a score.

“Probably wasn’t a good idea to do Treamont in,” I finally say. “How about we get some cold ones at Josie’s?

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Do you like slice-of-life stories? Any favorites? Did this one keep you reading?

Last Day of Free Books for 2024

This is the last day to latch onto some of my books for free. If you like my stories, get a few today. Sliding on the Edge, The Princess of Las Pulgas, Sign of the Green Dragon, Alligators Overhead (Book 1), The Great Time Lock Disaster (Book 2).