CHEAT THE HANGMAN

 

CHEAT THE HANGMAN

by

Albert Woods

 

Hangings didn’t worry Abel so much any more; after all, he’d done enough of them - just like his father before him. They must have put away near on a couple of hundred each. There were few men who could claim to have done that. The State of Kansas provided him with a regular supply and, at ten dollars apiece plus expenses, it made good beer money to supplement the income from his small hardware business in Silkville.

Sometimes, he might feel uneasy about a roping if, say, the victim was young, and genuinely sorry. But, mostly, he couldn't give a damn. He couldn't afford to; it was a dirty job that had to be done, and done well. It was a skill; a craft. His daddy had told him tales of badly placed nooses and ill-fitting trapdoors. That was why he always took great pains to inspect the gallows. Not for him ropes slung over branches. A professional demanded the best tools, a proper rig: and if they had used green wood for the trap, he'd have them make it again from seasoned. Nor would he use their ropes; only his own.

The thought of some desperado swinging frantically for minutes on end didn't concern Abel too much either; but it was unpopular with the crowd, the men in particular; though not so much the womenfolk - for some strange reason. They seemed to find executions, and the executioner, fascinating in a warped sort of way. They'd point at him in the street and say to their children: "Look! There's the hangman. If you ain't a good little mite, he'll come for you one day." He quite liked this image, and lived up to it in his jet black clothes, with undertaker's ribbon round his top hat. And he'd never smile; not in public, anyway.

Some of the women would make a play for him. He knew that a lot of them got a thrill from bedding a hangman; only, he didn't much care for it. He'd tried one or two in the early days, and they'd sickened him. They were more stimulated by his profession than his lovemaking. One had questioned him, at length, about the sexual hankerings of condemned men: another wanted his rope around her neck while he had her. He kicked her out onto the street. Like most of her type, she was the wife of a town dignitary. No; it was only the whores who demanded nothing, apart from money.

Abel was not sure why it was that he’d never warmed to Palmer Springs. Other towns were equally dusty, with regular winds that hurled the grit straight into the eyes. It had to be the people; the way they would get over-excited about a hanging, almost hold a carnival on the strength of it. That's what it must be.

Seth Gilmore, the town marshal, was of a similar mind. They discussed it every time Abel came there. "They're a bloodthirsty crowd," Seth would say, then go off down Main Street to warn the peddlers to take their model scaffolds and get out of town before he arrested them. Seth was, himself, a true professional who only had time for professionals. Abel was all of that, and they got on well - despite the hangman's unfortunate calling.

This must have been the seventh, or eighth, visit to Palmer Springs and, as usual, the lawman demonstrated his hospitality; free board in the most comfortable cell, good grub sent over from the hotel and, above all, a decent respect for the visitor's need for privacy. The last thing Abel wanted, on the eve of a 'drop', was the intrusion of ghoulish sensation seekers. As in most other towns, deputies changed like the weather: nobody could stand the job for long. Seth made sure they knew that the hangman was to be left alone - with no visitors allowed in. He’d also seen to it that the scaffold was built to Abel's specifications; though he would take no offence when the request came to inspect it. That was the hangman's prerogative.

And now, the marshal was instructing his assistants to go out and clear the street of souvenir sellers. Abel listened from his cell. This time, the cheap profiteers were to be warned that arrests would follow if they didn't pack up their tat, and go immediately.

The best cell was just around the corner from the office and, more importantly, the stove. The days were warm but the nights could be bitter. The hangman could hear every word spoken. Several times, reporters had come in asking to meet him. It was gratifying to hear Seth turning them away, though Abel did wonder at his patience and courtesy towards them. Still, he, unlike Seth, wasn't running for governor, with the need to woo the support of the more influential newspapers.

The food was tasty, this evening. Abel mopped up the last dregs of gravy from his bowl with a crust, and tried not to eavesdrop on the talk next door. Once again, Seth was reminding his tormentors that the facts surrounding the case were a matter of public record and, as a neutral lawman, it was not for him to make any comment. No, they may not see the prisoner, he told them. No, they may not meet the hangman either. All right, he eventually weakened, if they must know, he had a lot of sympathy for the accused, and thought the death penalty a bit strong in his case; though it was by no means an official viewpoint; just his feelings, and no more. It seemed to satisfy them, and they left.

With the distraction gone, Abel looked out of the barred window, taking in the form of the structure nearing completion. He nodded approvingly. It was good. He would inspect it later, though suspected he'd find nothing in need of change. Seth could be relied on. Again, he was disturbed by anxious voices in the office. He had always disliked listening in, always fearing that he might hear something about the case which would affect his work; like some suggestion of innocence, or a woman's hysterical mercy pleas for her son, or spouse.

"I've got to say that no matter what he's done," Seth was addressing more pressmen, "he's a brave soul, and he ain't got any regrets."

Brave? thought Abel. Good; he approved of that. Nothing was worse than seeing a man grizzling, or breaking down. It disgusted him, and tempted him to be vindictive. No; it was the cool ones that he preferred; those who stood tall to meet their maker. There hadn't been that many of them in his experience; most turned out to be cowards at the finish. The womenfolk were better. He'd dispatched fewer than men but, with only a couple of exceptions, they'd all gone with fire in their eyes: almost with defiance. Minnie Carter was one who stuck in his memory. ‘Dance Hall Minnie’, prostitute and psychopath, who would lure wealthy travellers to her apartments, satisfy their lust, then hack them to pieces with a meat cleaver. Her very last words, to Abel, had been as chilling as the look on her pretty face. "If I didn't have this pressing engagement, lover," she'd said to him, "I'd take you to my rooms, and see what you’re really made of."

The crackle of distant gunshots robbed Abel of the memory. He heard Seth cursing, and the slam of the office door as he left. The reporters were torn between their opportunities. Some followed the marshal in the direction of the trouble: others took immediate advantage of the man's absence, and showed themselves into the cell area. "Say Abel," said one. "Will you give us a few words?"

The hangman was caught unprepared. He had little time for press people, and had always meant to save his opinions, and anecdotes, for a book which he would write when he retired. Still; what was the harm, this time. Clutching his lapels, he considered and locked his icy gaze onto them; the look usually reserved to unnerve the women and children. "Well gentlemen," he said. "Y’all know me. Ah've never had much to say but, if ya need something to hang ya hats on, tell 'em Ah reckon it'll be a good, clean job."

‘Clean job,’ the pressmen scribbled - just the sort of comment the customers liked to hear from somebody who did their dirty jobs.

Wisely, the intruders had gone before the marshal came back. He bolted the door behind him, and poured coffee.

"Thanks," Abel acknowledged, taking a mug from his host. "Any trouble?"

"Naw," said Seth. "Just a couple of Mexies gettin' out of hand." It was the sort of thing that was routine to a hardened lawman.

"What time's it on for, Seth?" Abel changed the subject, without needing to say what it was.

"Eight, I guess. That's the usual time." Seth sipped his coffee and shook his head, sighing. "I'll be damn glad to see the back of these people."

Abel knew exactly what he meant, and was inclined to agree. They were a rum bunch, particularly the out-of-towners who had begun to fill the place during the past couple of days. They'd travel miles to see a man suspended. That reminded Abel; he got up and took the rope from his saddle bag and unspooled it, carefully fingering every inch for faults or snags.

Seth watched him. "Seen some use," he remarked.

"Forty-four," Abel confirmed. "Usually retire 'em at fifty. When can Ah go over the rig?"

"After dark, if that's OK with you. Place's too jittery at the moment; too much anticipation. If they see you out there, it'll start them up."

"Yeah; Ah need peace and quiet to do the job proper. Don't wanna to be rushed. P’raps Ah'll get some shut-eye, while we're waitin'."

It was a long wait, and Abel never did sleep. He got up from his bunk to see Seth staring down the dark street, watching the last straggle of swaying drunks falling out of the Palace Saloon. "That's the lot," said the marshal. "They'll be on their way to the mission. The Reverend lets them sleep there when they come down from the hills. Poor man thinks they're good Christians. He doesn't see them sneaking the whores in. Still, that's his worry. There's no law against it."

They ventured out after two. Inch by inch, the hangman inspected the structure, feeling along every joint with his experienced fingertips, and trying the trap for efficiency. It was well made - as he’d expected it to be. They had even wrapped leather round the lever handle, like he'd asked them to. He'd had enough splinters in the past. Only one thing caused him to pause; the coffin that was already in place under the platform. "Bit rough," he commented. “Don’t a body deserve better when he’s paid his dues for what he’s done? Ain’t even lined."

The marshal laughed, "Lord's sake Abe, it's all the same to the maggots."

Abel smiled in resigned agreement, and they returned to the office.

Now, with the office to themselves, Seth felt free to offer his guest a proper drink. He got his best whiskey, from the drawer, and poured them a glass each. The only sound, now, was the snoring coming from the cells.

"Well," Abel nodded in that direction, "he seems to be havin' a peaceful night of it."

"Don't think I could," said Seth, running his fingers through his thick black hair. He looked tired.

"Will ya sleep Seth?"

"Guess not. Not now, anyways."

"Me neither," said Abel, after another swig of his drink. "This sure is good stuff." He drained his glass and offered it up for refilling. "How old is he; the kid in there?"

Seth furrowed his brow, and shut one eye. "'Bout seventeen, I'd reckon. Not sure though; he ain't local."

Abel shook his head. "God, it's young. He's just a boy."

The glasses were recharged. "It's not your problem," said Seth. Like Abel, he disliked considering the morality of his job. "Nor mine," he added to reassure himself.

The hangman was beginning to feel the benefit of the liquor, and felt like speaking, despite his usual stance of non-involvement. "Don't ya think it's too young?" he asked. "Shouldn't there be a minimum age?"

"You're going soft," said Seth. "Must be the drink. You know, I think I will try and get some sleep after all." It was a polite way of sidestepping an awkward topic.

 

Nobody in the office, or cells, was in a hurry to see the sun come up, but it did; just like it did every other day. The morning was bright, though windy, with sand blowing up the street, swirling in eddies around the legs of the monstrous construction that temporarily dominated the scene. Already, excited brats were playing on the staircase. One stood on the trapdoor, while a girl solemnly pronounced the execution order. She tried throwing the lever, but it stayed firmly put, bound in position by a padlocked chain.

"God in heaven," grunted Seth, in disgust. Here was one very good reason why hangings should take place behind closed doors, like he'd been campaigning for - and how it would be if he ever made governor.

By seven, the street was busy; much busier than usual. Predictably, a fair number had already secured their front-row places. They stood, watching the vacant platform, eagerly awaiting its function.

The hangman also watched, from his window. The mindless idiots he could forgive; but to have the mayor's wife and family saving a place for their breadwinner, filled him with shame. Even the whores wouldn't have fought for the best view at this show. They had more taste.

The arrival of the mail coach caused heads to turn. It clattered to a halt outside the Express office. Seth put on his hat and went to the door. He was expecting a letter, and would go down to see if it had arrived, he said.

A few minutes before the appointed hour, the deputies led the grim procession out of the office and across to the gallows. Abel was wearing his coldest gaze. Some women reached out to touch him as he passed, smiling and offering themselves with their beguiling eyes.

The lad looked nervous, but seemed determined to maintain his composure. Abel approved of that. A cheer went up as soon as they got onto the platform. Seth could hear it from the telegraph office, where he was impatiently awaiting a reply cable. He had instructed the deputies to wait for him, and hoped they wouldn't be intimidated by the crowd, and just get on with it. The telegraph clerk smiled at him as the message finally rattled through. "Congratulations," he said.

"Why, thank you kindly," Seth acknowledged, then left.

Up on the scaffold, Abel completed his final preparations. He turned to face the boy, who managed a half-smile. Experience had taught Abel not to reciprocate.

It was time.

The crowd went quiet, as they always did at this moment; desperate to catch the last words, or hear the sickening gurgles. Abel whispered as the loop went over the head, keen that the animals should not hear him. "Be brave," he said. "It ain't so bad; an’ it'll be over with real quick."

One of the deputies nodded, and the lever began to move.

"Wait up!" commanded a voice from the ground. The hangman snatched back the mechanism from the precipice of its fulcrum, and Seth mounted the platform, his arms extended in a gesture of pacification to the crowd who were already shouting their protests. "People of Palmer Springs," he called above the uproar. "I have just heard from Kansas City that my name has been put forward for governor."

The news bought him a temporary respite, and some changed their catcalls to cheers. He let the noise subside then continued. "They say it's a formality now; and I've agreed to assume immediate responsibility, in view of the position being vacant, an' all."

"Well done!" somebody shouted. "Three cheers," proposed another.

"One moment, folks!" Seth urged.

They quietened again.

"Now, as most of you know," he said, "it will be, or should I say, is a governor’s prerogative to intervene in the course of justice when he has reason to believe that justice ain't being done. Well, that's how I feel about this here hanging today."

The town judge rushed up onto the podium, followed closely by the mayor. "Just what do you mean by that, Seth Gilmore?" he demanded to know.

"I refuse to discuss it here," insisted the marshal, fending off both of them. "There'll be no hanging today. We can discuss it in my office." With that, he ordered the participants down off the scaffold, and instructed the deputies to oversee the orderly dispersal of the enraged crowd.

 

The hangman knew that he would have to wait a decent time before raising the subject of his fee with the marshal. Apart from considerations of common decency, he had observed the animosity that the man had been faced with all day. One deputation after another had filed in and out of the office, all calling for blood, and accusing him of dereliction of duty. The last of them did not leave until nearly sundown, they openly predicting that his new post would be short-lived.

"Here," said Seth, approaching the executioner and holding out a bag of coin.

"Thanks. I wondered if I'd be entitled."

"Why not? You did what was asked of you. It wasn't your doing that he cheated the hangman."

They said their farewells, and Seth watched as horse and rider slipped out of the town, as quietly as they had come in. The visitor had said he wouldn't be back. He was giving up the miserable job. Seth was pleased; for though he had not admitted it to Abel, he also felt that the lad was far too young. Hanging people was no fit occupation for a kid of his age. And hanging a brother hangman.... well, that didn’t sit at all well with the governor-elect.

 

*  *  *

© Albert Woods (2013)

Thanks for reading this.

For anybody interested, I have my first complete novel up on Amazon – available for Kindle or PC.

It’s a crime/political thriller whodunit, and is dirt cheap

You can read the synopsis and first chapter for free! So must be worth a look.

Just search the title:– EIGHTEEN to TWELVE