The sun was hot—sweltering. Heat vapors shimmered off the ground, rippling the air and blurring the distant horizon. This corner of the world was dry, bleached, and inhospitable to nearly all life. But life persisted: thorny shrubs and tough desert cacti with shallow roots and stiff spines that deterred most who dared approach. And the man, William "Bill" Robertson, was much the same.
He seemed carved from the desert itself: his skin a cracked map, etched by years beneath the relentless sun. His long arms hung loosely at his sides, his right hand resting gently in his left behind his back as a cool breeze drifted across the parched earth, stirring the languid, heat-drunk sand.
William closed his eyes to better feel the cool morning wind. With sight removed, his other senses sharpened. A welcome serenity washed over him. That breeze carried him back—back to his last cattle drive across the unforgiving lands of northern Texas and into southern Kansas. The first time—and only time—he had ever killed a man.
"Well, Bill, you stickin' around?" Big Dan asked.
He was the Trail Boss, and he, William, and seven other men had just driven nearly three thousand head of cattle across some of the most inhospitable terrain Texas and Kansas had to offer. From north of Amarillo to Abilene, they had ridden long hours and longer days. Now, at the end of it, Big Dan planned to stop at his favorite watering hole for a well-earned drink. He looked like he needed one too. For days he'd been solemn, melancholy, unsettled.
"Yeah, Big Dan, I'll be stickin' with you. If you don't mind, o' course," William said.
"Good. Let's get us a drink. I'm feelin' a mite parched," Dan replied, clapping William on the back hard enough to raise a small cloud of trail dust.
The two men sauntered into the local sporting house, still dusty from the long ride—but the place was used to their kind. The decor matched its patrons: dusty floors, sun-bleached walls, blackened spittoons, and card tables worn thin from years of rough use. Cobwebs clung to the corners where no one bothered to reach.
Big Dan and William took stools at the bar. A handful of others occupied the establishment: four men playing cards in a dim corner, and a lone figure at the far end of the bar. Dan ordered whiskey for them both. He threw back one shot, then another—five in all—before the bartender simply left the bottle. William, after his first whiskey, switched to a beer and nursed it slowly. He wasn't much of a drinker. Big Dan, on the other hand, could drink any man under the table.
Big Dan was a bear of a man—nearly as wide as his horse. Folks said he could wrestle a full-grown bull to the ground. William hadn't seen that, but he had seen him punch a horse senseless once—right between the eyes. The beast collapsed like a dropped sack of oats. That had been in Dodge City, after Dan lost several hands of cards. William had had to restrain him—an almost impossible task—because the town marshal was present. Dan, furious, stormed outside and punched the horse belonging to the lucky winner of the last hand.
Big Dan was not a man to cross.
"Why do we do it, Bill?" Dan asked suddenly, swirling whiskey in his glass.
"Do what?" William asked.
"These cattle drives. Why do we keep doin' 'em?"
William frowned. "Well, what else would we do?"
Dan let out a humorless grunt and stared at his glass. He didn't answer. Minutes passed in silence, his eyes unfocused, his thoughts elsewhere.
At last William tried again. "Well, Big Dan, what would you do differently?" Then, hoping to get him talking, he added, "I wouldn't change a thing myself. I like the drives. Pay's good enough, and I'd rather be on the range than cooped up indoors. Give me a horse and a rope, and I'm in my element."
Dan stopped rolling the shot glass and looked at him with a wounded, angry expression.
"Pay ain't good. Don't know where you get that idea. You got any notion how much we sell them cattle for—and how little our cut is?"
"No, can't say I do. Handlin' money ain't my thing. I drive the cattle and get paid. James treats us fair enough."
"The hell he does! If you knew how slim your cut was, you'd be singin' a different tune."
"Well, Big Dan, why don't you enlighten me?"
Dan huffed and dismissed the matter with a flick of his hand. "Ah, forget it! Damn James an' all his ilk. Let's just drink."
The saloon was quiet save for the clink of glasses, the soft shuffling of cards, and the bartender's wary gaze as he washed sticky whiskey glasses. Dan was nearly through the bottle. William had only started on his second pint.
"You think they call 'em spirits 'cause they give a man some—or 'cause they take 'em away?" Dan mused.
"I dunno," William said. "Church says a man shouldn't drink—that it'll steal his soul. But I ain't given it much thought."
"I think it's 'cause it gives a man courage. And a man's gotta have spirit for courage."
"Courage for what? I ain't never known you to lack for any."
"Nothin'. Forget I said it. I'm just thinkin' aloud."
His sudden questions followed by abrupt silences worried William. Big Dan didn't behave like this. He wasn't a philosopher by nature.
William tried cheering him up. "Come on now, Big Dan. Don't start sulkin'. We got paid. Time to enjoy ourselves."
"I can't enjoy nothin'," Dan muttered. A moment later he added, "I'm tired. Tired of not havin' nothin'. Tired of workin' for that lazy, good-for-nothin' James—two-bit cheatin' bastard."
"What's eatin' at you? James ain't never done us wrong. He's always been good to us."
"Hell he has! He pays us just enough to stay alive. We live hand-to-mouth while he sits in his mansion with his pretty wife. If he's so good, why're we livin' four to a room in a drafty shack while he's livin' like a king? Answer me that! We're nothin' but slaves. Paid, sure—but slaves all the same."
"You're wrong, Big Dan. You've just been too long in the sun. You need a good night's rest."
They drank in silence.
Suddenly, the beating of wings fluttered through the saloon as a small meadowlark—a brilliant streak of yellow—flew in through the open doors. It circled the rafters, chirping brightly.
"Damn bird! Pesky little varmint!" barked the bartender as he reached under the counter and pulled out a shotgun.
"You harm that bird, it'll be the last thing you do," Big Dan said coolly, without lifting his gaze.
"What'm I supposed to do? Can't have it flyin' around!" the bartender protested.
"The hell you can't. That bird ain't botherin' nobody. And if anyone is bothered, he ain't got a soul. Leave it be."
The bartender relented. "Fine. But if that bird breaks a glass, it’s on your tab."
The bird landed on the bar near Dan, pecked at a few stray nuts he nudged toward it, and flew back outside.
As soon as it left, Dan sagged again.
"I envy that bird," he murmured.
William chuckled. "Why would you envy a bird?"
"'Cause nothin' is freer than a bird. A bird goes anywhere it pleases. Don't matter how big its nest is—don't matter its money. Only matters if it's a good bird. It answers to no one."
"What're you talkin' 'bout, Big Dan?"
"I'm sayin' only birds are truly free. They live by nature—survival of the fittest."
Dan fell quiet again.
"I'm tired, Bill. Tired of takin' orders. Tired of bein' a poor ranch hand. I wanna be free. Want to go where I want. Be with who I want. I'm sick of all this so-called civilization where a man’s only as good as his money."
"We don't have it so bad," William said. "We're kinda like them birds—roamin' the range, sleepin' under the stars, gettin' paid to do it."
"We ain't nothin' like birds. We're one rung above horses and cattle."
The sun began to set, casting an orange-red hue across the town. Soon the quiet saloon would turn raucous with the night crowd. Upstairs, the ladies of the evening would conduct their trade more vigorously.
Big Dan had already chosen his companion—a brunette named Mercedes. He spent half an hour charming her, though charm wasn't usually required in such places. Still, Dan had deeper hopes: he thought—wrongly—that she might fall in love with him. She had a warm laugh, curly black hair, hazel eyes, a pretty black dress with red lace.
"Oh, Señor Big Dan, is that really true? Ojalá que no—muy peligroso. You really beat five men with your bare hands?" she teased.
"Sure as the sun comes up. Ask ol' William. He seen it."
"Is that true, Señor Robertson?"
"True enough, ma'am. Big Dan ain't a liar. He can only tell the truth the way he sees it."
"What does he mean?" she asked with a coy smile.
"He don't mean nothin'." Dan pulled her close. "You know you got the prettiest eyes I ever seen?"
"Ay, stop, you make me blush," she giggled.
"I like you, Mercedes. I like you a lot."
"Te quiero también," she said sweetly.
It melted Dan’s heart.
William watched from the bar with a furrowed brow. Mercedes was playing a game. Dan wasn’t. Dan was going to get hurt.
Soon, Mercedes slipped upstairs. Dan beamed so hard his mustache nearly touched his eyes.
"Whooey! That's a woman, Bill! She's the gal I've been waitin' for!"
"Where'd she go?"
"Upstairs. Told me give her five minutes. I'm gonna ask her to marry me, Bill. We're gonna run off and start our own ranch."
"Dan, you've had too much to drink."
"What's that mean?"
"You're talkin' crazy. She's a wh—she ain't gonna run off with you. She's just playin'."
Dan’s smile died. His eyes hardened.
"Bill… we've been friends a long time. But if you ever talk 'bout my Mercedes like that again, I'll snap your scrawny neck."
William raised his hands in surrender. "Have it your way. Just don't say I didn't warn you."
Hours passed. William lost track of the time. He expected Dan to come back down heartbroken—but he didn’t. Instead, a scream rang from upstairs.
Patrons glanced up, then shrugged. Such things weren’t uncommon.
William hurried up the stairs.
"Everything all right, Big Dan?" he called after knocking.
No answer: the noise from below drowned out everything. He pressed his ear to the door and heard faint sobs and the metallic click of a pistol being cocked.
"Dan! Big Dan! Open up! It’s me—Bill!"
Still nothing.
William braced himself and rammed the door. It splintered open—and a fist hurled him across the room.
"You got a death wish, barging in here! Who the hell—"
"Dan, damn it! It's me!"
"Bill? What in Sam Hill you bargin' in here for?"
"Why've you got your pistol in your hand?"
"Dammit Bill! Don't go meddlin' in my affairs this time! I've had it. Me and Mercedes, we're runnin' off together. We're gonna settle down and have our own ranch."
William stretched himself to his full height and massaged his jaw where Big Dan had hit him. "Can we turn on a lamp in here?" He moved over to the stove near Mercedes to turn on the kerosene lamp. Big Dan remained in the far corner in the shadows. Mercedes lay crumpled on the floor between the bed and the night stand.
"We're gonna run off together, Bill. No more workin' for that jackass, James. I'm done workin' myself to the bone for a man won't pay me my worth." William ignited the wick. The room filled with a soft, yellow glow. He noticed that Mercedes sported a large bruise over the left side of her face. Her cheeks were streaked by a mixture of tears and kohl. She looked frightened and exhausted.
"Big Dan. She don't look like she's wantin' to go with you."
"Bull! She wants to go! 'Course she does. Why wouldn't she want to get out of this life? Hers ain't any better than mine. We're gonna run off together. Get hitched. And then we're gonna have our own ranch, Bill. You'll see. I'm finally gonna be happy."
"Por favor, ayudáme, señor," she said in a soft, barely audible voice. "He's loco. I don't wanna go nowhere with him." William eyed the pitiful creature cowering on the floor.
"You don't need her, Big Dan. You can have your own ranch without her."
"Shut up, Bill. 'Course I need her. I'm in love with her."
"Come now. You don't mean that. You're just a bit under the weather is all. You don't need her. You can have your own ranch. And you'll find someone else. A good girl."
Big Dan's eyes were swelling with tears. He looked anxious, panicked, like a criminal at the end of a noose. The soothing voice of his friend had a calming effect. "You think so?" he said, his voice meeker. "I don't wanna go back to the ranch, Bill. I just can't do it anymore."
"Let's leave this woman up here, Big Dan. You and I'll go back downstairs and ride out in the mornin'. We'll go back to the ranch, collect our things, and see about staking our own claim further west in the territories."
"You'd go with me?"
"Sure I would. Why not? You and I could do it. And then after we're set up, who knows but maybe we'll both find us a wife."
"You really think so, Bill?" Big Dan let the hammer back down slowly into position and moved to place the pistol back in its holster. Mercedes, watching William's diplomacy succeed, recovered her courage fully.
"¡Pendejo! ¡Hijo de puta! Vete a la chingada!" Both William and Big Dan were momentarily stunned by the onslaught of vulgarities which Mercedes lashed out upon her would-be kidnapper. Her anger and frustration found vent as she screamed at the top of her lungs: "¡Pinche cabrón! You estupid! You estupid caballero! You lucky tu amigo here talk sense to you. Te aborrezco, feo!"
Big Dan's anger returned, and a fire blazed in his eyes.
"Don't nobody speak to me like that!" said Big Dan, quickly rising from his chair. He stood up with the force of a thunder storm coming over the pass. The words "blood" and "death" were on his lips as he drew his six-shooter back out, placing the muzzle squarely in the middle of Mercedes' forehead.
"Don't nobody speak to me like that," he said resolutely, boring the muzzle harder against her skull, the hammer drawn back, a cartridge in the chamber. The blood drained from Mercedes' face. Her eyes were full of fear and despair. She wished she had held her tongue. William, too, drew his pistol, aiming it at Big Dan.
"Big Dan. Put the gun down. Don't do anything stupid."
"Don't you call me stupid!"
"I ain't callin' you stupid! I just want to leave. Let's go, Big Dan. Let's just get outta here."
"Not yet. This whore's gotta learn she can't talk to me like that. I'm tired of folk treatin' me with disrespect."
"Just leave her alone. She ain't worth goin' to jail for, Big Dan."
"I'm sick of pretty women like her lookin' down on me. I'm sick of them runnin' off with some pencil-necked yella-belly. The only reason they don't wanna be with me's 'cause I ain't got no money. She's gonna pay."
He slowly squeezed the trigger.
"Dan! Stop! Don't make me shoot you!"
"Shoot me then! I don't care. She's gotta pay."
A concussive ringing drowned the air.
William squeezed the trigger, hitting his friend in the shoulder, causing him to drop his weapon. It only made the bear madder. Big Dan charged William and struck him firmly in the chest, sending him crashing against the wall. He was like an angry bull in the plaza de toros, dripping red with blood, angry, scared. He could see only death. He would kill the matador. He searched for his target. Mercedes screamed and rushed Dan, striking him in the face, hurting her hand. Her blow was like a mosquito bite. Big Dan felt nothing, heard nothing: the blood was boiling in his ears. He grabbed her by the throat. Flung her against the bed where her head struck the post. He fumbled around for his pistol. William struggled to recover. He found his weapon at the same time Big Dan found his. William fired first. Big Dan fired second. Both bullets found their mark. Two people lay dead.
The sun was really bearing down on him now, and he didn't have his hat on. It was rare that he wasn't wearing a hat. He felt naked and exposed up there. The wind wasn't blowing anymore.
He remembered running from the room. Big Dan was dead, Mercedes too: both shot between the eyes. He ran as fast as his spindly legs would carry him. He was frightened and didn't know what to do. It was instinct to run. He probably should have stayed. Perhaps they wouldn't have thought him culpable had he stayed. But they had. They chased him down, accused him of everything. They even had witnesses who said he had been jealous that the girl had spent so much time with Daniel (No one who knew him ever called him Daniel). They said he ran up the stairs in a fit of fury, and gunned them down. Big Dan died a hero. William was going to die a villain.
"It sure is hot," he thought to himself.
Off in the distance he heard a familiar chirping sound. The meadowlark fluttered towards him and perched above on the large beam forming the scaffold, just above the knot that made the noose. It chirped a happy little song.
"Hello, Big Dan," he whispered. "I'll be seeing you again shortly."
"Does the condemned have any last words?" interrupted the judge.
"I do not, your honor. I've said my piece. And no one's been listenin'."
The meadowlark flew away.
The next morning, the sun rose over the eastern plain as it always has. Off in the distance, the pallor of the church against the horizon stood in stark contrast against the purple hue of the coming morn. In its shadow was a small cemetery. Most of the graves were old, but there were two that were new, and one that had only recently been filled. The drab headstone was spartanly engraved: William Cassio Robertson 1842-1870. Perched on the tombstone was a small meadowlark. He chirped a few notes, fluttered his tiny wings, and then flew away.