Six of the former indulged themselves this morning in a recreation known colloquially as "The Stretcher." Two were cowmen, older and wiser and more brutal than their employees, four cowboys. After relieving him of a pistol and a pair of knives, the six had thrown a seventh man to the ground, on his back, and, holding him down, had removed his shirt and boots. Above each of his wrists and ankles they tied a rope and, leading up four of their horses, attached the loose ends securely to the horns of the saddles. While the cowmen sat upon the victim, the cowboys mounted up and clucked the four horses slowly away from him, taking up slack. The lines went taut. The horses walked, step by step, until the victim's arms and legs were extended to the full. The two cowmen got off him. Another step, and another, by the obedient animals, and the struggling man was lifted from the ground, higher and higher, step by step. The horses were halted. The unfortunate captive now hung five feet above the ground, his joints stretched to the limit of physical tolerance by rope and the weight of the four ponies. Suppose now that the cowboys had slapped hats across the withers of the horses, causing them to catapult away. The ropes were stout enough to hold a steer. What must have occurred was the separation of arms and legs from sockets, then the ripping loose of limbs from the body—a literal dismemberment. But the cowboys dismounted instead and, sauntering back, grinning, joined their employers to squat and pass a bottle and to toast their skills.
The object of "The Stretcher" meanwhile hung suspended. He was a man in his late thirties, a man powerful and mustached, but also a man uniquely ugly. One cheek was scarred, and one brown eye, his left, was exotropic; it deviated outward, so that while his vision was in fact unimpaired he seemed to have the facility to attend two different things at once, in two different directions. This gave him an unnatural advantage, for it enabled him to concentrate simultaneously on criminal matters north and south of the border. He was noted for his achievements on both sides. North, it was said, he had murdered by knife; south, he had served time for the rape and strangulation, while drunk, of a girl nine years of age. He was sometimes referred to as El Tuerto, or "Cross-eye."
Presently he was engaged in conversation by the two cowmen. He had failed to deliver a certain number of head by a certain date—cattle neither his nor theirs. Worse yet, he had been advanced a sizable sum. Of this default the cowmen reminded him, and reminded him additionally that they had but to give the word, send the horses, and he would find himself, or various parts of himself, strewn over the valley from hell to breakfast.
The stretched man begged for his life. He was the sole support, he asserted, of a wife and ten small niños. His children would starve, his wife would take to the streets, and he called upon God and the Virgin and the generosity of the Americanos to spare him. He begged at the top of his voice. Sweat poured from his upper body. Blood welled from under the ropes above his wrists and ankles. The horses stood steady, disconcerting insects with their tails.
The cowboys laughed and passed the bottle. The two cowmen pondered El Tuerto's fate. One of them had a notion.
"Books is in El Paso. Some roomin' house. A goner, they say."
"I heard," said the other. "Killed two drifters tryin' to kill him."
"Serrano's's'pose' to be good with a gun."
"May be. Books is holed up, though. He won't come out."
"Shit he won't. He won't kick off in no bed. One of these days he'll come out for the bright lights and one more go-round. That's the time."
They pondered anew.
"Bear and a bulldog."
"You might be right."
"Want to try it?"
"Might's well. Might be fun."
They reclaimed the bottle and, standing, accompanied by the others, moseyed to the stretched man. His body quivered. A few minutes more under such skeletal tension and he would be on the brink of idiocy.
They made him a proposition. They had intended to kill him here, but they would give him a chance. Go into El Paso and wait for J. B. Books to come out of his hole. When he did, find him and draw on him.
El Tuerto babbled a disinclination.
They repeated the offer: agree to take Books on, or they would start the horses. If he killed Books, they would cancel his debt. If, on the other and more likely hand, Books killed him, everyone was square.
Serrano continued to demur.
One of the cowmen cupped a palm, poured from the bottle, and let a little whiskey into the rustler's exotropic eye. He screamed.
The cowmen smiled.
"If it doesn't sound too uppity, Mr. Books, I am the premier photographer hereabouts," said Mr. Skelly. "I have photographed the most prominent citizens of El Paso—male and female. And I'd be pleased—and honored—to do a full-length portrait of you—on the best solio paper. Free of charge."
"Why?"
"Why, why because you're a famous man, sir. Next to Mr. McKinley—I photographed him, by the way—one of the most famous visitors to our fair city in years. It will give my studio —what shall I say?—style. Normally I charge four dollars a dozen for portraits. You shall have a dozen with my compliments."
Books considered him.
"You can send them to friends and relatives—a treasured keepsake."
Mr. Skelly prided himself on his salesmanship.
"That's the time a man should be photographed, sir—when he's in his prime—the full bloom of his manhood. Too often we let things slide until it's too—"
"All right," Books consented.
Skelly clapped his hands. "Fine! Fine! Now if you'll just slip into a coat, please, I'll bring in my camera and equipment. Right on the front porch—won't be a minute, sir!"
When the photographer returned, Books waited by the bed in vest and Prince Albert coat. Skelly put down his case and stood the camera on his tripod.
"The latest, most modern equipment, I assure you, Mr. Books. A Conley eight-by-ten camera with a twelve-inch rectilinear lens—the best money can buy. Now let me see."
He surveyed the room and settled on the open area between the chiffonier and the south window, posing his subject against the wall of lilies. He then stationed his camera, turned the base cogwheel to raise the red maplewood box to the proper height, and turned a second cogwheel to run out the bellows. His focusing cloth was cut from the green baize of a billiard table top. Draping it over the box and his head and shoulders, he stooped to the ground glass and adjusted his bellows to correct focus.
"There. There. I have you now, Mr. Books."
From his case he took a plateholder and inserted it in the camera, then brought out a variety of objects—a tin trough, a wooden handle, a small bottle of alcohol with a wick in the top, a length of quarter-inch brass pipe, and a box of magnesium powder. Affixing the wooden handle beneath the trough, he poured into it a mustard spoonful of powder, set the bottle of alcohol in its holder behind the trough, and attached the length of pipe so that one end opened near the bottle wick.
"What in hell is that thingumajig?" Books inquired.
"Why, my flashpan, sir—a recent invention. There's never light enough indoors—so we make our own. Now one more thing—this powder pops very bright and very slow—a one-twenty-fifth-of-a-second flash. Startles the dickens out of some of my customers—they'll flinch or blink and ruin the whole thing. Are you sure you'll hold still when she goes? When you're under fire? A photographer's joke."