Crow’s Walk
By Harold Holt
Jesse Crow would stop at nothing to gun down the scum who had killed his wife. They weren’t worthy of the law; they deserved justice.
“Crow’s Walk” is copyright © 2005 Harold C. Holt and appears here with the author’s permission.
Jesse Crow had come up from Down-the-Way looking for the scum who’d set his wife on fire. He’d left his ranch on horseback, and he ran the animal without water till it died. He’d seen the vultures circling overhead during the animal’s last mile, but he had no time for them or their darkness; all he cared about was balancing the scales. It was one thing for a man to kill, but it was another thing for a man to kill horribly and without remorse. Even animals didn’t kill without a reason. But all man needed was to be armed with the knowledge that he could.
Following the death of his horse, Jesse left all his saddle gear behind. He walked till sundown, slept in a tree at night, then got up before sunrise and started walking again. The potato sack slung across his shoulder contained a couple hunting knives, a box half-filled with matches, a prepared lariat, an extra gun, his chewing tobacco, and enough rabbit jerky and pork rinds to last him a couple days; but now, he no longer had a horse to get him to where he was going. He checked his gun belt every twilight, making sure that his Colt was in working order. He also had a deerskin pouch around his waist, hanging on the left side, where he kept spare bullets, about $40, and a few gold coins that his late wife had managed to harbor over the years.
So he walked, Jesse walked. He walked until his food was gone, and he had to eat berries and hunt rabbits to survive. He walked until the sun cooked him like an egg then squeezed him like an orange, bathing him in sweat. He walked until his legs cramped and his throat grew so dry, he exhaled dust. He walked until the bottoms of his boots wore away, and he had to remove his vest, rip it in half, and wrap the halves around his feet to protect them as he walked some more. He walked until he saw the vultures overhead; their circling seemed a methodical foreboding. Jesse stared at them as long as the blinding sun allowed him to. He soon drew his Colt and took two shots at the flying scavengers. His man-made thunder broke their predatory circle, scattering the vultures every which way. He’d rejected their presence, for he had work to do.
Jesse shouted to the lingering vultures above, “When I find the scum who burned up my wife, then you buzzards will have a fiesta!” Jesse walked.
By the time Jesse Crow staggered into the town of Scratch-Ass , Montana , his feet were bare again and blistered to boot. He figured it was just as well; he was overdue for a bath and some decent food. Scratch-Ass was a busy little town. Although the sun was nearly set, folks were out and about. The local saloon was right next to the local inn. Jesse checked in, after seeing that the rooms were two dollars a night. He got in the tub and sat for a long time, eventually nodding off. He dreamed about the ranch he’d had and the cattle he’d raised, and the wife he’d loved. All of it gone up in smoke, all of it nothing but a painful memory now.
The floor creaked and Jesse awoke and snapped to it, quickly snatching his gun up from the side of the tub. Just as he pointed it, the woman standing there raised her lantern high enough to reveal how she looked. Her curled hair was either blonde or light brown. Her cotton robe was open, revealing dark fishnets and garters with belts, and a red, chiffon bra. She was pretty well stacked, the most full-figured woman Jesse had ever seen. Even his wife, who’d had great tits and an angel’s face, could have used more leg meat, in his opinion. But this woman was his perfect dream.
“Who are you?” asked Jesse
“Don’t shoot . . . I know you’re the man from Down-the-Way. I hear you’re looking for someone.” She spoke calmly, with just a hint of seduction. She also had a slight smoker’s rasp.
“That’s what I told the innkeeper. Do you know him?”
“I’m his wife. Those men you described to him, they’re here. Next door, having drinks.” She allowed her robe to fall to the floor as she approached Jesse’s tub.
“Why are you here?” he asked, lowering his gun.
“No one here cares for those killers. We want them gone from here. My husband don’t make enough with this place to pay you a decent amount of money, so we both figured to make a trade . . .” She unsnapped her garter belts and lowered her undergarments. “A night with me for a bullet through their skulls.”
She raised the lantern above the tub. There were hooks in the ceiling where a curtain was supposed to hang to separate the tub from the rest of the room. The woman hung the lantern from one of the hooks. The light revealed the murky tub water, where most of the suds had gone flat. Jesse sat back and straightened himself as much as he could. The woman carefully stepped into the tub, awkwardly straddling Jesse. She removed her bra.
Jesse reached for her waist and said, “Ma’am, I’d already decided on killin’ them boys on account of what they done to my wife and my home.”
“Then fuck me because you want to.”
“Much obliged, ma’am.”
The saloon was still hopping at ten o’clock that night when Jesse walked through the doors. The innkeeper’s wife had scrubbed Jesse’s clothes for him then hung them in an open window to dry. He was clean, clean-shaven and armed. He took a few minutes to look around, and he spotted his quarry. The two men huddled around the end of the bar with a couple other black hats. Jesse approached the bar and ordered a whiskey.
“That’ll be ten cents, mister,” the bartender said. “Wanna start a tab?”
Jesse shook his head. He placed one of his gold coins on the bar and slid it to the bartender who grabbed it and stared at it glassy-eyed.
“Those four black hats down there, get ‘em whatever they want for the rest of the night. Let them shut the place down. But don’t tell ‘em I’m buying till we’re the only ones left, you got it?”
The bartender agreed eagerly, still unable to take his eyes off the gold coin. “Mister, are you really on the level?” he asked.
Jesse retorted, “I been traveling a long time, and I didn’t come up from Down-the-Way just to throw horse shit.”
Jesse sipped his whiskey, and kept an eye on the black hats. His two targets, Cancer and Sweet Dakota, bellowed and huffed the loudest. Both were notorious for stirring up all manner of crap from the tip of the west to the tail. Cancer was meaner than the devil, and he loved cigars more than winos loved whiskey, more than whores loved lipstick, more than horses loved hay. And Sweet Dakota was a pimp and a coward who would shoot a ten-year-old in the back just to snatch the gold cap off his tooth. These men weren’t worthy of the law; they deserved justice.
Eventually the good times stopped rolling. The piano player had left, the girls were all gone, the floor was swept and chairs and stools were placed on top of the tables. The bartender had a young black kid helping him to tidy the place up. After sweeping the floors, the kid started washing out glasses. The bartender paused and made eye contact with Jesse, who nodded, letting him know that it was time. The bartender approached the four black hats, who were all drunk as drunkards could be. Cancer and Sweet Dakota were on their feet, but leaning across the bar like slabs of beef; a fat, half-smoked cigar stuck out of Cancer’s mouth. One of their cronies sat at a table with playing cards and loose change scattered about while the fourth, somewhat of a fat-ass, slumped back in his chair, snoring.
The bartender gave the men the news then stepped back. As Cancer and Sweet Dakota steadied themselves as best they could, Jesse finished downing what was only his second drink. He moved away from the bar and stood in the open, where he could reach freely for his gun without being encumbered by the furniture or fixtures around him. The bartender called the kid assisting him; he shooed the boy to a back room for safety.
Cancer removed his cigar and spoke first. “Who you working for, mister? I’m only wanted in one state, and it ain’t this one. The bounty on me ain’t a legal obligation in this state.”
“Well, sir, I ain’t no lawyer,” said Jesse.
Cancer tossed his cigar with his left hand and made a move for his gun with his right, but in his condition, Jesse easily outdrew him. He approached both men and pointed his gun right in Cancer’s face. All Cancer could do was let out one of the deepest, longest belches Jesse had ever witnessed. Sweet Dakota still had some greased lightning to spare as he splashed his drink in Jesse’s eyes, blinding him. Jesse staggered back as Dakota dashed around Cancer and past the other two. Jesse could hear the skinny-ass hombre bumping into tables as he moved. He followed the sound with his gun, and fired twice, his second shot catching Dakota squarely in the heart, taking the skinny-ass straight to hell.
Cancer finally had his gun out. He and Jesse faced off, but Cancer’s face suddenly looked red and bloated. The gun fell from Cancer’s hand as he keeled over and vomited on himself, on the floor, on the spot. Jesse approached him, waited for Cancer to finish spitting, then he asked, “Remember setting fire to my ranch Down-the-Way? Remember my wife being trapped inside?”
Cancer, still wiping vomit from his mouth with his sleeve, shook his head and replied, “If I burned your ranch down, I’m sure you had it coming, and I hope your whore of a wife cried like a stuck pig.” Cancer spit in Jesse’s face. Jesse responded by clubbing Cancer in the head several times with the handle of his gun, until the back of Cancer’s head swelled up and damn near turned blue, and the man himself stopped moving.
The bartender had already started straightening up the tables that Sweet Dakota had knocked asunder; the young boy was helping him.
“You know the Marshal don’t live far from this town. Word of this will eventually get to him,” the bartender said.
Jesse approached him and held out another gold coin. “I’m sure you done told a few tall ones to that youngster there; you’ll think of something to say to the Marshal, if he come a-callin, won’t you?”
Both men half-smiled; they understood each other.
Cancer spent the night in the innkeeper’s horse stable, with the horses, where he vomited twice. By early morn, Cancer had an ugly hangover, but Jesse didn’t care. He kept his stinky prisoner bound with rope and chain alike. He paid the town blacksmith for a pair of ankle cuffs that he placed on Cancer’s legs. Cancer’s arms were bound behind him; he was only allowed limited walking ability. There was also a metal brace around Cancer’s throat with a chain attached that could be locked around posts if they had to stop for something. They set out that morning just before sunrise. By the time the sun rose in full, the town of Scratch-Ass , Montana was long behind them.
“So where are you taking me? Back Down-the-Way?” asked Cancer. He spoke like he’d been run ragged.
“No, we’re northbound, going to see about ‘balancing the scales . . .’”
So they traveled on foot. Before leaving town, Jesse bought some more jerky and pork rinds. He’d also gotten a couple canteens of water and a flask of bourbon. He allowed Cancer to drink water, but he did not share his food or his bourbon. So they walked, Jesse Crow and this wanted man called Cancer. From roads littered with tarantulas out of the ground to paths strewn with thorns from wild tumbleweeds, to uncovered common graves full of paupers that were preyed upon by vultures and jackals, these two souls embarked upon the way seldom traveled by men, and almost solely traveled by demons. At night, the wolves and coyotes howled in the distance, the crickets chanted, the bats shrieked and the snakes plotted and planned, as snakes were wont to do.
When Jesse’s shoes were, again, almost worn away; and when even his throat felt sunburned, he stood atop a great hill of sand and earth and progress, and looked down upon a small structure with a stable out back, a couple wagons, and an elevated platform with a rigged floor and a hangman’s noose for lynching. There were a few rows of empty chairs, as lynching was a public event in these parts, but no one was present for the lynching that Jesse had in mind.
Cancer stood in front of Jesse, always in front so that Jesse could keep an eye on him. “You gonna walk me down there and string me up, is that it? All this cause I killed your wife, right? Did you love her really this much? Was married life all that good? Some men would pay to have their wives burned . . . or worse.”
“You heartless, fucking jackass! It’s a question of what’s right and what’s wrong,” said Jesse.
“And you feel killing is wrong . . .”
“I think killing without a practical reason is wrong,” Jesse explained.
“You saw those common graves a ways back? People die from disease, from animal attacks, from being struck by lightning . . . You heard about that dust storm that wiped out a whole town last summer? Or that twister that hit Cowtown , USA ? Or that train wreck just west of Scratch-Ass? Who do you think should burn in hell for all that death?”
“You’re talking natural accidents; forces of nature,” Jesse reasoned.
“We are all forces of nature, boy! The only difference between us and a twister is the ability to eat, shit and fuck, and the ability to enjoy those things. But why should our joy be so limited? Why shouldn’t we enjoy everything we do?”
“You’re a sick ass, just like your namesake. You being alive ain’t doing the world a bit of good,” remarked Jesse, half disgusted by what he was hearing.
“You ain’t never thought none on it, have you? Neither the skies above nor the pits below are as vast as what’s in our heads and our hearts. We think small and petty because we cain’t handle how big we really are.”
“You sound like a religious fanatic! You think we’re giants or gods?” asked Jesse.
“Naw, we ain’t giants or gods! We’re even more . . . We’re men who created the giants and gods we believe in to keep ourselves in line because we’re scared shitless of ourselves . . . But I ain’t. You hear me? I ain’t a’scared of what I am!”
Jesse pulled his gun and shot Cancer in the foot. Cancer dropped to his knees and rolled onto his back. Cancer grunted, huffed and puffed and even growled, but he did not scream. Jesse allowed him to bake in the sun for a few minutes while he put away his gun and took a few swigs of bourbon. Cancer could no longer walk, so eventually, Jesse held the chain that connected to the brace around Cancer’s neck while Cancer crawled through the sand on hands and knees like a wounded dog. It took them another hour to make it to the structure below. A young woman had walked a horse out into the stable, but the horse suddenly grew jittery, and eventually the woman saw why. She caught sight of Jesse and the wounded Cancer. Jesse had let go of the chain. He pointed his gun with both hands now, using the threat of it to force Cancer to climb onto the lynching platform.
“Hey, my daddy’s the marshal, and he’s inside, mister!” the woman shouted.
“Well go get him, cause he’s gonna wanna see this. Tell him I got a wanted man out here. I don’t want no reward or nothing, but I’m gonna make him pay for what he did! You go tell him now, girl! But you stay in ’cause you don’t need to be seeing this!”
The girl rushed back indoors while the horse trotted uneasily around its yard, still made nervous by the commotion. Cancer was on the platform, using the base pole to help himself to his feet. Jesse stood by the lever that caused the floor underneath the condemned to drop away. He placed his left hand on the lever and pointed the gun at Cancer with his right, ordering the wounded, angry man to put the noose around his own neck. The marshal came out just as Cancer had tightened the noose around his neck.
The marshal was unarmed, and he was too far away to do anything except shout, “No! Don’t do it!”
Too late; the lever was pulled . . .
The marshal conferred with the local sheriff and a couple of deputies. He tried to comfort his sobbing daughter.
“You’re sure you don’t know this man, Marshal? You have no idea why he forced your daughter at gunpoint to help him commit suicide?” asked Sheriff Kodiak.
From where the marshal stood, he could see, through a side window, Jesse Crow’s body hanging, swinging in the breeze, pants down around his ankles. The marshal’s crying daughter submitted, “I-I didn’t want to do it, but he said he’d shoot me if I didn’t pull the switch! I didn’t want to die! I just didn’t want to die!” The girl lost her composure and cried them a river. The marshal asked one of the deputies to take the girl out back for some fresh air before continuing with his report.
“I’d never met that man, but I remember getting wind of that case from Down-the-Way where they found that rancher’s wife strangled to death. They hadn’t examined the body, but the report said you could clearly see finger marks on her throat. They left the body there to notify next of kin, but before they could get back there to remove it, the ranch caught on fire, burned down with the body still in there. The authorities there organized a posse to hunt for her husband. Word was put out to keep an eye out. I didn’t hear nothing else about it for a couple days.”
“So you didn’t know he was coming?” asked Kodiak.
“Hell no, how would I? I came out on account of hearing my daughter scream. It was so crazy, what he was doing, that it took me a few minutes to react.”
“What the hell was he doing, Marshal?” asked the sheriff.
“Like I said, he had the gun pointed at my little girl, and his pants were down around his ankles, just like they are now. He-he played with himself and released himself right there on the platform, then stood up and put that noose around his own neck, and made her pull the lever that dropped the floor.”
One of the deputies asked, “Well if this is that rancher that murdered his wife, why would he come so far and do something so crazy?”
The marshal calmly submitted, “If this man killed his wife then tried to destroy all trace of her, it was probably eating away at him like a cancer. Who knows what phantoms he’s been chasing in his mind the past few days? We may never know why he killed his wife, but I’m sure I know why he killed himself.”
Outside as the twilight gleamed its last, a circle of vultures was descending on the hanging corpse of Jesse Crow.
