White Justice

I

THREE men rode back to the ranch at sunset. They had been four days on a cow hunt. They were tired, the alkali dust was like soap in their mouths, and they rode without talking, for there was no need of talking. Silence lay thick on the desert. Only the wind moved, raised ghosts in the dust ahead of them, and blew the dry skeletons of the tumbleweed in an aimless dance.

They were glad when they got to the rise and looked down on the ranch house, a two-room shack with a crooked roof. It belonged to the desert, naked as the hills, brown as the dunes which rolled to the edge of the sky. Nothing but sagebrush and bunch grass and rock covers that country, and it takes fifty acres to feed one cow on the uncontrolled range. The men could see a long way from the rise, and as far as they could see there was no trace of life except the wooden shack, the corral behind it, the outhouse, and the shed. The ranch stood alone.

It stood alone and quiet under a blood-red sky. The Boss thought it was too quiet. He frowned. ‘Imyo has the night horses in early.’

Imyo was the Piute kid. He did the chores for three dollars a week, his food, and a bunk in the shed. The Boss had left him with Wild Bill, the new hand, to keep house. Imyo said he was thirteen, ‘mebbeso.’ He was a good kid, always smiling, always polite, a pretty good worker — for an Indian. He looked like all the other Injun kids, with his black hair banged straight across his forehead and his neck. He liked blue ribbons, store candy, and Shorty.

Now Shorty, riding behind the others, threw back his head and howled like a coyote. That was the signal for Imyo to come and take the horses. He ought to run around the corner of the house, with his hair flying and a grin on his flat copper face. But to-night he did not come. Only a flock of black birds whirred up from the other side.

‘Will you look at them crows now,’ said Dutch.

Nothing else stirred. The three old wrangle horses in the corral dozed with their necks over each other’s backs. No smoke came out of the chimney from the kitchen fire. Nothing moved except those confounded black birds.

The Boss rode around to the front, and saw Wild Bill asleep on the porch. That was a hell of a way for a new hand to act around supper time. A six-foot, red-necked, roaring cowboy, with a reputation as a ‘bad hombre,’ sleeping over a pile of magazines — his arm under his head, and his red bandanna spilling out of his pocket down the steps.

The Boss looked closer and jammed the spurs into his pony. Wild Bill lay with his head and arm on a pillow. His other red fist rested on the open pages of the Real Wild West Magazine. His blue-jeaned legs were crossed. He was not asleep. He was dead.

His blood streaked the step like a red bandanna. It was still sticky, but it had ceased to flow. He had been dead some hours. A man could not look so peaceful after a fight, so it had not been a fight. It had been murder.

The Boss called for Imyo and no one answered. He stepped across the body of Wild Bill and went into the house. It was empty. As he came back to the front door he saw what had happened.

Wild Bill had a hole in his back as big as the palm of your hand. Someone had stood in that door, six feet behind him, and fired a shotgun at him while he slept. It ripped his heart to pieces. The Boss went into the kitchen and took the gun down from the pegs behind the door. One barrel had been fired and the powder not wiped out. The wood for the kitchen fire had been cut and stacked behind the stove. The water bucket had been filled from the spring half a mile up the gulch.

Shorty ran down to the shed, and Dutch began to look over the dusty space around the house. The shed was empty. The kid’s blanket was gone, and his extra shirt from the nail. But Dutch found what he was looking for. A trail led away from the house — small feet, lightly planted, toes turned inward, Indian fashion. Dutch followed it until the evening colors faded from the hills and the violet shadows blotted out the desert. Then he came back to the ranch and reported. It had turned toward the Indian reservation at the Lake.

The Boss was in the kitchen, lighting the coal-oil lamp. He nodded. ‘We may as well eat.’ He took Wild Bill’s blanket off his bunk and threw it over the body. ‘That’ll keep the birds off.’

‘Are you going to leave him out there all night?’ asked Shorty.

‘Can’t move him until we get the sheriff.’

Shorty had lighted the fire and poured water into the coffeepot. He took down the pan and mixed flapjacks. Dutch turned out the horses and hung the saddles on the corral fence. Then he came in, stepping over Wild Bill, moved the lamp to make room for his elbow on the table, and sat down heavily.

‘Only last Sunday he was a-blowin’ around here like a rampageous bull.’

‘I guess he blew too much,’ answered the Boss.

Shorty’s face puckered with worry. ‘Imyo was a good kid,’ he said. He spoke as men speak of the dead.

II

Right after supper, Dutch went off after the sheriff—thirty miles to Warder, a crossroads and the county seat, riding old Jane, the night horse. It was a tough duty for a tired man, and he groaned and grumbled — as soon as he got out of earshot. The Boss rolled up in a blanket until dawn gave light enough to follow the trail on the desert. Shorty had to stay behind and watch, and step over the body every time he went in or out of the door. He found Wild Bill mighty poor company, and the sheriff did not come for thirty-six hours.

The trail led straight across the desert to the reservation. In all that bare brown country, the reservation was the only green. A stream ran there, and cottonwood and willows followed the water. The Boss forded the stream and stopped the first Indian he saw.

‘Hello, Jim. Where’s Imyo Weismiller?’

‘Me no savvy.'

‘His father George Weismiller. Name like cattleman in Winnemucca where he used to work.’

‘Me no savvy.’

The second Indian knew no more than the first, and the third no more than the second. The Boss turned his horse and went up to see Belle Higgins. Belle kept the government store, as her father had done. She had grown up in the country, and not much went on that she did not know. The Indians could not impose on her, and she did not impose on them. She got the thing she called a hat, and walked with the Boss through the willow brush to the Weismiller cabin.

Mother Mary Weismiller owned a rocking-chair. She sat in it now, on the front porch — massive, silent. She watched them walk up without moving a muscle.

‘We’ve come for Imyo,’ said Belle.

‘Him not here. Him work-um ranch.’

‘This is his boss. I guess you know what we want him for.’

‘Him good boy. Make-um heap money. Come home then. Not home now.’

Belle raised her voice a little. ‘Imyo come now, all right. Imyo not come, sheriff come get him. Plenty men, plenty guns. Maybe Imyo killed.’

Mary went on rocking, and her blank face did not change.

‘Maybe house burn up,’ said Belle. ‘Maybe you killed, too.’

Something moved behind the window. As silently as a cat Imyo stepped out on the porch. He looked at Belle, and grinned. He had worked for white men for five years now. He knew that they like to see smiling faces. Imyo beamed.

‘Well,’ said Belle, ‘you’re in a fix; but come along, and we will take as much care of you as we can.’

‘Okay,’ said Imyo. He did not have to talk like an Injun. He could talk like a cowboy. They walked away, and Mary watched them, rocking, without words.

Belle took him down to the store, and would not let the Boss talk to him until he had seen a lawyer. To keep him out of mischief, she took a length of cattle chain and two padlocks and fastened one end around his waist and the other to the tree at the side of the store, where she could see him from the window. She took his knife away from him. Then she and the Boss went in and had a drink. Imyo curled up in the shade and went to sleep.

At sundown Mary Weismiller arrived with a basket of food. She put it in front of Imyo without speaking, went off a little way, squatted on the ground, and watched him. Imyo did not eat. After a while Belle went out and asked him why.

‘Oh, my mother,’ said Imyo with airy patronage, ‘she’s afraid of white men. She put poison in that food so I die quick before they take me away. You give me something, Belle. I’m hungry.’

Belle brought him some bread and cheese, and Imyo ate heartily. He was not afraid of white men. That night they took him into the store and locked him up. When they looked out at dawn they saw Mary still sitting there, unmoving, unblinking. Old George was with her, talking to her; but she did not answer him, did not turn her head. All morning she sat; did not cry, did not move. There was a terrible intensity in her silence, a violence in the fixity of her eyes.

III

The sheriff came in the afternoon, and they took Imyo to Warder. The lockup was on the top floor of the sheriff’s house; the sheriff’s wife looked after him for a day or two, and he had a good time. He had not long to wait for trial. Court was already in session in the room behind the post office.

Judge Cox, who sat on the bench, traveled a circuit of a thousand miles, including Warder. He was as suncured and wrinkled as the Sierras, his hair was white, and he wore spectacles. When he spoke he barked, and tossed his head like an angry horse. He had a passion for fair play, and for Nevada. As soon as he heard about Imyo, he telephoned to Mike Parrish, who was starting at the bar in Carson City.

Mike had planned a long and honorable public career for himself, which was to begin with an appointment as public defender. An opportunity to champion the weak and oppressed fitted his picture. He started right out for Warder, planning on the train an effective plea to the jury.

Imyo had never seen such a dressy man. He wore shiny low shoes instead of boots, a white collar instead of an open shirt. Imyo grinned at him, and he sat down and began to talk in the friendliest way. He was what they called a lawyer, and when white people got into trouble they called lawyers to help them out of it. Now he wanted to help Imyo in the same way. So Imyo was to tell the whole story, and keep nothing back, and above all not to lie. White men did not lie to their lawyers, for then the lawyers could not help them. Did Imyo understand?

‘Sure,’ said Imyo.

That was fine. Now, had Imyo heard that a man called Bill Holt, and nicknamed Wild Bill, had been killed at the Lazy J?

‘Sure,’ said Imyo. ‘I kill him.’

Very sad. Very serious indeed. It was a bad thing for an Indian to kill a white man. Still, Imyo was wise not to deny it, for the evidence pointed to him very strongly. There must have been extenuating circumstances. That is to say, Wild Bill had undoubtedly threatened Imyo; had attacked him. Imyo had feared for his life, had been frightened, had been terrified?

‘No,’ said Imyo, grinning at the recollection. ‘I not scared. I kill him first.’

Imyo had no objection to telling this kind white man the whole story. He would not lie to his lawyer, and besides, he liked the story. He had been damn smart. Wild Bill so big and noisy, Imyo so small — and yet, at the end, the beers had been on Wild Bill.

A long time ago, — three summers, maybe, — Imyo had worked for Wild Bill, making ’dobe brick. He did not like the work, and he quit; but when he quit Bill owed him a lot of money — maybe ten, twelve dollars. He was a bad man, and refused to pay, and Imyo left without it. He did not forget that money, though. Chance threw them together at the Lazy J. When Imyo saw Wild Bill again, he asked for his wages.

‘You goddam lousy little Injun,’ said Wild Bill, ‘if you mention that to me again, I’ll break every bone in your body.’

Imyo did n’t bring it up again; just held his tongue and grinned. A month passed; two months. Imyo did chores for Bill just the same as he did for the others. There were no quarrels at the Lazy J. Then the Boss and Shorty and Dutch went away and left Imyo and Bill alone. They got along all right. Imyo did the cooking and Bill enjoyed the eating. Thursday was hot. Bill did not go out on the range after lunch, but took some magazines on to the porch to read. Imyo sat by him and looked at pictures. Imyo could not read, but he liked to look at pictures. By and by, Bill went to sleep. Imyo got, up quietly, tiptoed into the house, took the gun, and shot him. Yes, decidedly the beers were on Wild Bill.

When Imyo saw that Wild Bill never moved, he got up the night horses, brought in the wood, carried the water bucket to the spring and filled it. He did not want the Boss to be mad at him because he had not done the chores. Then he went home.

That was the story; and the case for the defense collapsed right there. Imyo told it all over again to the Judge. He did not mind the Judge’s snappy manner. He was not afraid of white men. Mike Parrish could do nothing and say nothing. The shooting was premeditated, it was cold-blooded, it was murder. Twelve good men brought in the verdict: ‘Guilty of murder in the first degree.’ In Nevada the penalty is death. The Judge pronounced the sentence, and set the date for the execution. Imyo had thirty days to live.

The death house is in the penitentiary at Carson City. They use gas. They strap the condemned to a chair, leave the room, cut a string which lets a bag of sodium cyanide fall into a bucket of sulphuric acid between his feet. Death from the hydrocyanic gas is supposed to take place in three minutes; but they give it fifteen, to make sure. Then exhaust fans pull the poison out of the room, and make it safe for the executioners to go back in.

The sheriff put Imyo on the train right away, and took him to the death house. It was a one-way ticket. Imyo had never been on a train before. He could not stop looking out of the window. The country flashed by in a whirl; hills and horses and cattle loomed up, and spun into the distance. The train was strong and thrilling.

‘Gee!’ cried Imyo. ‘I like to ride!’

IV

There were so many cases on the docket that the Judge had to spend two more days in Warder. He soon found that he had not finished with the Weismillers. Old George came in the first afternoon.

George was bent and wrinkled. He wore his graying hair in two tight little pigtails tied with red ribbon, and on his head a big black hat as respectable as the Judge’s. Everyone called him a good Indian who worked hard and never gave any trouble on the reservation. He and Mary had been married a long time, had already been married a long time when Imyo came. He was their only child. They had never had any others. George came into the room which the Judge used as an office, holding his hat in his hands. His manner was respectful.

‘Judge,’ he said, ‘why you kill Imyo?’

The Judge snorted and tossed his head in the equine way he had when he was moved. ‘Because Imyo killed Wild Bill.’

‘Imyo a good boy,’offered George.

The Judge reached down a copy of the Criminal Code of Nevada and laid it on the table. It was a big book, bound in leather. It smelled important.

‘George, in this book is written everything I have to do. I can’t choose. I have to do what the book says. It says that, if one man kills another, the man who kills shall die. Savvy?’

‘Me savvy.’

‘I want to help Imyo if I can. There is one thing I can do. You savvy Carson City? Big town, big houses, many stone houses?’

George nodded. He knew that they had taken Imyo to Carson City.

‘Five big chiefs live there who say what shall be done. One of them is the head chief of the whole slate. You savvy paper talk?’

George nodded.

‘I will make paper talk to those chiefs, and maybe they will say not to kill Imyo. Just lock him up instead. They must decide. That is all I can do.’

George did not answer for a long time. He sat and stared at the shadow of a cottonwood tree which was creeping across the bare floor. At last he got up,

‘Me savvy.’

He turned and went out. He was an old man, and his step was heavy.

V

When the Judge left the courtroom next day and went back to his office, he found Mary Weismiller there before him. George might let himself be put off with words about paper talk, but that would not do for Mary. She wanted Imyo. Imyo was real, and death was real. Paper talk was not real.

She had put on her best. A clean pink calico sprinkled with small red roses covered her monumental bulk. The tight belt at the waist sank into her like a string around a feather pillow. Her hair was freshly oiled and brushed, and her broad impassive face shone with soap and sweat.

The Judge offered her a chair, and she took it and overflowed it. For a long time she said nothing. She was not doing a proper thing, and she knew it. Women did not mix themselves in these affairs; but George had failed, and there was Imyo. Mary’s father had been a chief and he had often held councils with the white men. She sat, considering. The Judge waited patiently. He was used to Indians. At last she began.

‘Judge, why you kill Imyo?’

The Judge reached for the Criminal Code, but Mary held up her hand and stopped him. She had not come to talk about a book. She had started now, and she knew what she must say. She had come to talk about real things, things that had happened. As she went on, the Judge felt that he was no longer there for her — that he did not matter. Mary stood alone — alone in that vast immensity of sand and sagebrush which had been native to her fathers, faced by demands which they had never had to face; meeting the demands, and finding the new life incomprehensible still. She was not talking to the Judge. She was talking to her own heart, asking herself what she could have done, what she could still do, that would save Imyo; asking ‘Why?’

She began with facts. She stated them simply. Her voice was flat, empty of feeling, and the look of her face did not. change.

‘Georgie Weismiller and me got married in courthouse. Same like white man.

‘We no live in wikiup or tepee. Live in nice wood house, same like white man.

‘Got shiny tin dishes. Same like white man.

‘Got white woman’s dress.’ She pinched a rose in her fat hand and held it out for him to see. ‘Nice dress. Wash-um like white woman.

‘We got garden like white man. Imyo digs garden when he home.

‘We buy at store. Pay cash money.

‘Imyo work hard. Send money to mother, same like white boy.’

So much for the defense. Now the prosecution: —

‘Wild Bill!’

As Mary spoke his name she rose, shaking with anger, queenly. Her face quivered with rage. Everything else was forgotten. Hate burned out every fear. Let him be alive! Let him be alive to die again — to die withered by the scorn of Mary Weismiller.

‘Wild Bill! He no good.

‘He drink bad whiskey. Lie on ground like drunken Injun.

‘He yell. He think he thunder.

‘He pay nobody what he owe.

‘ He steal Johnnie Day’s squaw. Live with stolen Injun squaw in dirty wikiup.

‘He not like white man. Like-um goddam hobo. No good.

‘ He all the same coyote!

‘Tell me. Why you kill Imyo?’

For a moment she stood, rigid, gasping, her arms flung wide. Then they dropped to her side. The Judge went over to her and took her hand. It was wet.

‘I will make the paper talk,’ he said. ‘I will see the big chief myself. I think it will help. I think I can promise you it will help.’

Mary looked at him. She had explained, had explained clearly — and the Judge spoke of paper talk again. What else could she do? Nothing — nothing. The land was the white men’s land, and they were masters in it. Nowhere in the world had Mary any country. She had been born there. She would die there. There her bones would rest. And it would be alien earth.

She drew her hand away, gave the Judge one long look full in the face, and went out.

VI

The Judge sat down and wrote his paper talk. Later, in Carson City, he saw the Governor. They gave Imyo ‘life’ instead of death. The warden did not know what to do with a boy of thirteen, so they sentenced him to go to the government school. In that way the penitentiary was bothered by him only during vacations. Before long the Judge began to get letters in his mail.

Der Judge Your honor,
I can read and write now. I wood like to get out of here. I am a good boy.
Yrs rispectfuly,
IMYO WEISMILLER

The more Imyo learned, the longer the letters got and the more frequently they came. When he was eighteen, the pardon board paroled him.

The record ends. Justice is satisfied. Imyo has returned to George and Mary, and his path has not again crossed the path of the law. The white man who punished him does not ask what he is doing, and the white man does not know what is in his heart. The prison and the school have taught him silence, and his thoughts are his own. His skin is dark, and under it the secret blood flows hidden. He is Imyo, and he has dropped into the life of his people as rain drops into the sea.