Concerning the Death of Charlie Bowman Author:Michael Hammonds His name was Sand and he'd been a wind rider, a drifter for most of his 57 years, never staying long in any town. He wouldn't have come to Jennings Crossing at all if it hadn't been for Charlie Bowman, a stranger he'd found wounded on the trail... — Beyond that chance encounter lies a tale of violence and vengeance triggered into action by a trag... more »ic accident that unleashes the smoldering hatreds and frustrations of one man and brings about the senseless death of another. Rich in authentic reflections of the noods and tempers of the Old West, it is a moving story of a man of courage, sensitivity and compassion, who faces up to the loneliness amoung men as well as the brutal streak latent in them.
"My brother," whispered Ed, "my brother..."
Stoner went to his desk and sat down. "Looks like he's gonna go and do it," he said.
Sand looked at them both, then sighed a grumble. "Do you two mind tellin me just what in the hell you're talkin about?"
Stoner shrugged, "You might as well tell him, Ed. I don't know what Trace is thinkin about, wantin to hang a dead man."
Sand's insides turned cold. His stomach was white hot, cold lead. He was afraid for a second. Hang a dead man... and Sand remembered Trace's eyes ... hang a dead man...
Ed shook his head. "It doesn't make sense. Trace..." Ed sighed wondering, "Trace, well he hates ... He wants to hang Bowman. Wanted to hang him dead or alive. Because Bowman was part Indian, and Indians believe that if they're hung, their soul is trapped in their body and they can't fly to heaven."
"Bowman's dead." He stared at Ed. But Ed wasn't moving. He was staring at a form in the door to the back and the cell block where Bowman was. It was suddenly cold in the room. Sand didn't know if it was his imagination or whether the wind was coming in behind her through the dark cells. A chair scraped and Sand heard the marshal get to his feet.
"Mrs. Bowman...," the marshall stammered.
There was a deadly quiet in Ed's voice. "How long have you been there, Mrs. Bowman?"
She didn't move. "My God," she whispered. "My God," she said again. The words were quiet. "What kind of men are you?"« less