Free The Homesman by Glendon Swarthout Page A

herself. Andy stood up, unsteadily, and put jug down on table hard. He was a little drunk. “Miss Cuddy,” he said, “I ’preciate the offer. And supper. And concert. And all. But I can’t marry you. Will not. Won’t. I ain’t perfect. But you are too bossy. And too plumb damn plain.”
    The sound of ripping startled her. It came from down by the Kettle. It was like the sound of a length of fabric, silk or taffeta, being torn end to end. Or the sound of river ice splitting bank to bank. On impulse, mouth full of cheese and crackers, she took up the reins and wheeled the mules and started down the widening ravine for the river. For one thing, she wanted to put Andy’s house and bride behind her, and the shame of that evening. She had been heartsore for weeks. For another, she wanted to see the ice split, a sure sign of spring. For still another, she longed to see trees, many trees, miraculous trees.
    The wagon reached the river bottom and the stand of sycamores and cottonwoods. Suddenly, nearing a great sycamore, the mules dug forefeet in and stopped, ears forward. They wouldn’t budge. They alarmed her. She jumped down from the seat, slipped back to Dorothy, got her rifle, and walked, rifle ready, step by cautious step around the tree. Then she stopped, rooted to the snow. A puppet on a string on a horse.
    â€¢   •   •
    It seemed to take her forever to comprehend—the man, the horse, the rope.
    The man sat shoulders slumped but head unnaturally erect, held so by the noose, with bare blackamoor face and hands and feet, hands bound behind him, feet tied under the animal’s belly. Face, hands, and feet had been blackened by smoke.
    The horse was plug-ugly, a roan with a rat tail, its face and four stockings speckled white. It looked Indian. Head down, fore- and hindquarters sagging, it seemed about to founder, as though all that held it up was the loop of its rider’s tied legs.
    Finally the rope, taut up to a limb and through the fork down to the trunk and around the trunk thrice to a slipknot. Now she understood. This must be the jumper, and the men last night, whoever they were, had not in the end lynched him. They had determined he would hang himself, or the horse would. When the horse moved out from under him, he would hang. Or the horse would die and fall, and the man would fall and die. Last night! It must be noon now, or later. Hours! He should be dead now. He might be.
    â€œYou,” she said.
    His eyes opened, then his lips.
    â€œHelp me.”
    â€œYou’re not dead.”
    â€œHelp me,” he rasped.
    â€œWhy should I? You tried to jump Andy Giffen’s claim. You deserve to hang.”
    He closed his eyes.
    She moved a step closer, into the shade of the tree, considering what to do, and then, as though suspended herself, was dropped down, down, by an idea.
    â€œSuppose I do,” she said. “Suppose I save your life. What will you do for me?”
    His eyes opened. “Any. Thing.”
    The more she thought, the more possible it seemed, and the more it seemed she had no choice.
    â€œIf I set you free, you’ll do anything I ask. Is that right?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œSo you say. Swear it.”
    â€œSwear.”
    â€œSwear to Almighty God.”
    â€œSwear to God.”
    She stood a minute more, shaken by the risk, angry that she had no alternative. “All right,” she said. “I’ll save you. I have a job of work for you. But if you make one move to harm me, I’ll shoot you.”
    It was said. She circled him to the sycamore trunk, stood rifle against it, slipped the knot, and unwound the rope. At the release, the jumper’s chin dropped. She moved out from the tree and eased the rope down from the fork until it was free and on the ground. She approached horse and rider, and squatting, rifle propped against her, untied his ankles, then rose and untied his wrists, then backed off