They built small houses from sticks.
And they listened to their mothers tell stories late into the evening.
Sometimes, the children asked about the tree in Cuervo Creek.
At first, we answered carefully.
Then, as they grew older, we told them more.
Not to frighten them.
Not to fill their hearts with hatred.
But because their lives had been shaped by decisions made before they were old enough to remember.
They deserved to know the truth.
One summer afternoon, when the boy was old enough to understand more of what had happened, he asked to see the place where his mother had nearly died.
I hesitated.
Then spoke with her.
She considered the request.
Finally, she nodded.
"He's ready."
So we rode to Cuervo Creek.
The town had changed.
Several buildings had new roofs.
The general store had been enlarged.
The stagehouse widow had retired, though she still lived nearby and seemed incapable of allowing visitors to leave without eating.
The old cottonwood remained at the edge of town.
Its branches stretched across the desert sky.
There were no ropes.
No crowd.
No deputy shouting threats.
Just an old tree standing beside a quiet road.
We dismounted.
The boy looked up at the branches.
"Here?"
His mother nodded.
"Yes."
He studied the tree.
Then looked toward me.
"You came here?"
I nodded.
"Yes."
"On Chester?"
I smiled.
"On Chester."
The boy looked toward his mother.
"Were you scared?"
She considered the question.
Then answered honestly.
"Very."
He took her hand.
She squeezed it.
For a while, the three of us stood beneath the tree.
Then the boy looked toward me.
"What made you stop?"
I thought about that.
For years, I had asked myself the same question.
I hadn't known the women.
I hadn't known about their children.
I hadn't known the deputy was involved in a criminal operation.
I hadn't known that stopping beneath that tree would change every part of my life.
All I had known was that two people were suffering while a group of men stood around pretending that cruelty was authority.
I looked at the boy.
"Because what was happening was wrong."
He nodded.
Then asked, "Were you afraid?"
I smiled faintly.
"Yes."
He looked surprised.
"You were?"
"Of course."
He frowned.
"But you stopped."
I nodded.
"Being afraid doesn't always mean you have to leave."
The boy considered that.
Then looked toward his mother.
She smiled.
He turned back to me.
"Did you know you were going to be my father?"
I laughed softly.
"No."
"Did you want to?"
I looked toward my wife.
She was watching us with tears in her eyes.
Then I looked back at the boy.