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The cock was missing, too. Either eaten . . . or cut off. Whoever had hanged the boy had mutilated him, the belly had been cut open. The uncoiled gut hung to the ground like a long, withered snake. Green guessed he had been dead at least twenty-four hours. The rope used to hang the Indian was a Mexican-made maguey, a light string good for calf roping. It had been tossed over the limb of the cottonwood and, after the Indian had been hoisted up, secured around the trunk of the tree. There were many hoof prints in the sandy creek bottom around the boy. Maybe half a dozen riders. Green wiped his sweaty palms on his thighs and took out a draw-string pouch of tobacco from his shirt pocket and rolled a smoke, lighting it with one of the few remaining matches stuck in the yellow band. He inhaled the smoke deeply smelling sulfur fumes mixed with the faint stench of the Indian. He didn’t want to get any closer. Whoever had hanged the boy wanted his body to be seen, for it was in plain sight of. Someone from the other side of the stockade did lean around and acknowledge the extra guys. The attitude was more like, ‘Yeah, that’s cool’. ONE OF NINESo, all the new guys banged away. The grass between her legs was now creamy green. There was an ever growing load of semen all over that area. Prior to the sun setting, they had turned on their bright outside lights and flooded the area where my wife was with crisp bright white tennis court type lighting. That made it much easier for my binoculars.I had to stay until number nine was through. When he was done, some guys from the other side ran around and helped my wife’s head back through the hole, and then helped her to a standing position. Her face and hair were covered with semen. She was shaking a little, and gobs more semen was running down the insides of both legs. At first she looked out of it. But, then she smiled, like usual, perked up, jumped around in cartoon fashion, and drained even more semen onto the grass. Now, this.