Holly Bargo
“No little girl should have to see her daddy hanged.” The words slid under the high-pitched wails of the condemned man’s daughter and widow. Harriet didn’t know who said them and didn’t care, even though she empathized with the towheaded child. “Reminds me of the time Angus McGraw was hung for cattle rustlin’,” the same man commented to the person standing next to him. “Who?” “That were ’bout fifteen, mebbe twenty, years past.” It was twelve years ago, Harriet silently corrected. “I moved into town here about ten years ago.” “’Splains why you don’t know the story.” “Why don’t you tell me?” Harriet knew the story by heart and had no wish to hear it again. With lithe strength, she rose from the bench placed in the shade under the general store’s awning and took her leave. So much for an afternoon’s rest after a week of hard travel.
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