Analy High School - Azalea Yearbook (Sebastopol, CA)

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a ornery half-breed; just string ’em up or drag ’em a bit, that’s all. Say, a bunch of us boys will do it, and you’ll never have to know what happened. Lemme get up a party, will you, Judge?” “No,” said O’Farrel, and there was no lynching party. The trial was held in the living room of Jasper O’Farrel’s ranch house. It was a long room, with a fireplace at one end, devoid of furniture, except a bare redwood table and a couple of rough benches. On the wall were two pair of buck horns, which supported a muzzle-loading rifle, and on one of the antlers hung a powder horn. A stout peg in the corner sup¬ ported a heavy saddle. Jose told the truth from the beginning to the end, but he told it in an Indian fashion. He was sullen and marose; he refused to look at the jurors, but kept his lowered eyes on Judge O’Farrel’s face. Seven jurors, including the prosecut¬ ing attorney, heard and doubted; one judge heard and believed. Seven jurors voted guilty of murder in the first degree. Judge O’Farrel personally knew the young man was inno¬ cent, yet the jury said “guilty.” There was nothing else for him to do. “Jose,” he said, trying to look sternly at the prisoner, “You will be hanged tomorrow morning at sunrise, on that big oak tree where we killed those coons. Sabe?” it was a different Jose that answered. He drew himself up to his six feet two inches and said: “Yes, Senor Judge Jasper, and how may I go to this tree?” “You may ride your Don Pedro unguarded, Jose, and you will not be watched tonight, either,” said Judge O’Farrel. Jose flashed him a smile which exposed a row of strong white teeth, and replied, “Thank you, Senor, you are a gentle¬ man like my father was. Good night,” and so saying, he de¬ liberately turned his back on the seven jurors and left the room. As the first gray streaks of dawn were climbing over Eng¬ lish Hill, Jose was at the old deformed oak tree, the first there. He was dressed in his gayest attire, with his red silk sash around his waist, and was singing some old Spanish love ballad that his father had taught him. Jasper O’Farrel was the last to come . He would have preferred to stay away altogether, but he thought the legality of the affair demanded his presence. Jose rode up to him, dismounted, and extended his hand. “Ah, Senor Judge,” he said, “I am glad you have come; you 11

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Jose took his rawhide lariat from the horn of his saddle, whirled it twice around his head and with a dexterous twist o his wrist and forearm sent the snaky coils at Pat s head. I he rawhide rope uncannily uncoiled itself across the fifty foo space and settled squarely on Pat’s shoulders. Did you see how that—”, but Jose never finished the sentence. The drowsy little buckskin that the Irishman was riding, head-down and apparently half asleep, saw the rope, and remembering the hot iron that followed the choking cord, gave a cat-like Sphere was a crack, like a pistol report, and Patrick Calla¬ han was squirming on the ground with a broken neck. In an instant Jose had the limp form in Ins arms Oh, my friend, my friend, tell me you are not hurt; surely Jose could not hint his friend. Speak to me, please! please!” Two blue eyes opened and looked into two frightened black ones. “Quit your bawlin’, Joe; I’m a goner; neck snap¬ ped. What’s the difference? No good, anyway. Say, Joe, tell the boys I went prospectin’; they won’t believe you if you tell ’em the truth.” The last words were barely distinguish¬ able, and a minute later Pat was dead. Jose’s conscience said, “Confess, make a clean breast ot it,” but his Indian blood argued, “It will not bring Pat to life, and besides they might hang you for it and you are innocent. So Jose told Judge Jasper O’Farrel that Pat went prospecting. Judge Jasper O’Farrel called Pat forty Irish adjectives and said prospecting was a good occupation for such a worthless An excited cowboy broke into Jasper O’Farrel’s siesta. “Judge! Little Pat‘s dead, and what’s more, he’s been dead six weeks, and what’s more that low-living, black greaser you think so much of killed him. Honest, Judge, we found him in a ditch about thirty miles up the coast, half covered up with brush. We heard that old yellow hound bellowing, so we went down there and there he was. If that — half-breed doesn t swing, I’ll herd sheep.” “Hold on, son; there will be no lynching around here, not as long as I’m sheriff and judge of these diggings. If Jose is found guilty by a jury I’ll sentence him, but until then you keep your hands off, this is a law-abiding country, see? “Aw, shucks, Judge, you don’t have to have no trial for 10

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have always been my friend. Here, I give you these to keep always, Senor,” and he handed O’Farrel his silver spurs. “My father’s father’s grandfather had them, Senor; they were taken from the heathens many years ago, my father told me. My ancestors were great men, Senor Judge.” “But—but, Jose,” said the old man, trying to make his face belie the mist in his eyes. “But, my boy, I sentenced you to be hanged. Why do you give me these?” “Yes, Judge Jasper, you sentenced me to death, but you did not believe me guilty. Those dogs,” he said, with a contemptous gesture of his hand, indicating the small group of men in the distance, “They said Guilty! What do they know of truth? You know I was innocent, Senor, but you could do nothing with them. Why do you put on that tiger look? It cannot fool me, and besides your eyes make it lie. Death is pleasing to me, Friend Jasper, when I know that you know I’m innocent.” Without saying a word, Judge O’Farrel accepted the prof¬ fered spurs, and then gazed intently away at some distant landscape. The first rays of sun lighted the morning heavens in the west. A brown bird twittered in a nearby bush, and a far-off quail whistled to its mate. Higher and higher climbed Old Sol, until finally his old bald head poked over the rim of Eng¬ lish Hill and looked disdainfully down at a quiet group of men and a gnarly old oak. “Adios, Senor Judge, you will see me again with my father and little Pat,” said Jose. But the Hon. Jasper O’Farrel’s retreating form had passed around a turn and out of hearing. A rope creaked over a rough oak limb. —Roy Williamson. 12