A Time to Slaughter

by William W. Johnstone

  “Seems a hard justice to hang a man for stealing chickens,” Shawn opined.

  Lowth nodded. “An excellent observation, young man. But in reality, and here I quote Deputy Clark, ‘He ain’t getting’ hung for chickens. He’s gettin’ hung for being a damned nuisance.’”

  “I knowed a nuisance one time that got shot. Know who shot him?” Tweedy waited expectantly, got no takers, so he said, “Pat Garrett, that’s who. The ranny who gunned poor Billy Bonney down Fort Sumner way.”

  “What did the miserable wretch do to deserve such a fate?” Lowth asked.

  “Who? Billy or the nuisance?” Tweedy looked at the hangman in confusion.

  “The nuisance, of course.”

  “Oh, well, it seems Garrett was doin’ some tin-panning up Colorado way and every time he washed a shirt an’ hung it out on a rope, the nuisance stole it.”

  “Not a real smart thing to do to Pat Garrett, I imagine,” Shawn said.

  “No, it was real dumb. Pat took it for as long as he could, then his patience broke and he cut loose. Put three bullets into the nuisance and that was the end of him.” Tweedy looked at Lowth. “How come you ain’t got a cozy berth in a hotel, Mr. Lowth?”

  “Ah, mine is a much-maligned profession. Hotels say it’s uncomfortable for their other guests to have a hangman in residence because it makes them think of death and Judgment Day. In short, the management always gives me the boot.”

  “That’s too bad, Mr. Lowth,” Tweedy said. “But ol’ Miles Marshwood will make you an’ your mule right welcome.”

  “Yeah. He’s a real welcoming kind of feller.” Shawn held up the bottle. “Drink?”

  Lowth shook his head. “I never indulge in ardent spirits.”

  “Women?” Tweedy scrunched in nose in question.

  “Oh dear no, Mr. Tweedy. My lady wife would never allow it.” Lowth’s smile looked like someone opening the lid of a piano. “Mrs. Lowth is very big in bloomer circles, you know.”

  “You don’t say,” Tweedy said, suddenly interested. “Because of the size of her ass?”

  “Oh no. She makes silk bloomers for ladies of refinement. She employs a dozen cutters and sewers, bless her.”

  Lowth sat beside Shawn and Tweedy and stretched his long, skinny legs out in front of him. Then, as though he loved to expound on a topic of conversation that fascinated him, he said, “Mrs. Lowth tells me often that nothing is dearer to the female heart than her undergarments. She says, in her quiet way, ‘That is why, while still retaining her maidenly modesty, the modern woman expects her drawers to fit closely without pinching or chafing that priceless treasure she guards so diligently against every onslaught of the rampant male sex.’”

  “Wise woman, your wife,” Tweedy said, nodding his approval. “A woman’s got to guard that priceless treasure, I always say.”

  “Indeed,” the hangman said. “Mrs. Lowth is so proud of her undergarments she will not sell them to ladies of questionable morals, if you catch my drift, Mr. Tweedy.”

  “Indeed I do, Mr. Lowth. Can’t have whores wearing your wife’s bloomers, can we? No sir, that would never do.”

  “I’m glad you agree, Mr. Tweedy. Mine is a lonely profession and it’s seldom I meet anyone who values a thing I say.” Lowth smiled. “Unless it’s about a hanging, of course. Then they appreciate my professional opinion. All things considered, it’s not the easiest task in the world to snap a man’s neck clean, Mr. Tweedy. Snap it like a dry twig, one might say.”

  “You have stated the problem most clearly, Mr. Lowth. Yours is indeed a skilled occupation.” Tweedy took a swig of whiskey, wiped off the neck, and passed the bottle back to Shawn. “Now tell me, what was the most interesting hangin’ you ever done?”

  Lowth sighed. “They’re seldom interesting, Mr. Tweedy. Some men die well, others have to be dragged kicking and screaming to the gallows, but there’s always a sad sameness to the affair. However I will tell you this. I always advise an indoor hanging whenever possible, even if it means I merely throw my rope over a barn beam.” He pointed upward. “Like those.”

  “And why so, Mr. Lowth?” Tweedy said.

  “Ah, it’s because the ladies don’t like to be out in the sun. Their delicate skin, you know.” Lowth puffed up a little. “And speaking of the ladies—”

  “God bless, ’em,” Tweedy said affectionately.

  “Indeed, Mr. Tweedy. Speaking of the ladies, I always try to get the condemned to give a little speech about how whiskey and loose women brought him to his present pass, even though he had a good mother.”

  Lowth removed his bowler hat and wiped the sweatband with knobby, arthritic fingers. “I assure you, the ladies love that speech and time after time I hear them say to their shrinking husbands, ‘Just wait until I get you home.’”

  Shawn laughed, then thumbed open his watch. It had just gone one in the morning, his fourth night in the livery. Would Zeb Moss ever make his move?

  “Now, Mr. Lowth,” he heard Tweedy say, “let’s return to the subject of drawers. It’s a real interestin’ discussion an’ one that I never had afore.”

  “And of the greatest moment, Mr. Tweedy,” the hangman said. “Since all ladies, be their station in life high or low, wear them. Now, let’s consider the material. I mean cotton or silk. Why, there’s a case to be made for both and . . .”

  Bored, Shawn rose to his feet and stepped to the door of the barn, ignoring the talk behind him.

  The wind had dropped and the snow fell straight down in large flakes. The street was empty, but there was as yet life at the Lucky Lady. Laughter, both male and female, rose above a piano and banjo mourning the killing of Jesse James by the dirty little coward Bob Ford.

  Shawn stepped away from the barn into shadow, his eyes searching through the darkness. Rectangles of orange light spilled from the saloon onto the snowy street, but the hitching rails were in darkness and he couldn’t make out if horses were present.

  He watched a man cross the street, a puncher by his awkward, high-heeled walk, and vanish into the Lucky Lady. Then the only movement was the fall of snow in the gloom.

  To allay his boredom, Shawn had hit the whiskey heavily, and now he felt tiredness overcome him. Time to seek his blankets and sleep away yet another useless night.

  But then, in an instant, he was wide awake.

  A solitary figure, hunched inside an old army greatcoat, made his way along the street toward the barn. The man had a quick, short-stepping walk and his head constantly swiveled on his neck as though he feared an enemy lurked in every shadow.

  Shawn drew his gun and stepped into darkness again. The Colt up and ready, he waited.

  Finally the man, smaller than he’d first appeared, did a quick right turn and walked with determination toward the barn. Shawn moved into yellow lamplight and said, “Hold it right there, mister. I can drill you real easy.”

  “Hell, it’s only me,” the man said.

  “Who’s you?”

  “Willie Wide Awake, as ever was.”

  “Keep your hands away from your sides and step into the barn.”

  Willie did as he was told and his sudden appearance put a period at the end of the words on Thaddeus Lowth’s lips. He stared at the visitor. “Good heavens, that man needs some rest.”

  “No sleep,” Willie shook his head. “Nary a wink in years.”

  “If you’ll forgive me for saying so, you look like a cadaver in a greatcoat,” Lowth said.

  “Alas, such is the sad lot of the sleepless.” Willie looked at Tweedy. “Uriah, I have information on Zebulon Moss and his men.”

  “Then speak on, dread apparition,” Tweedy said.

  “Zeb’s boys are saddling horses in his livery stable at t’other end of the street. Them rannies are pulling out of town, you ask me.”

  “Is there a woman with them?” Shawn asked quickly.

  “No, I reckon she’s still at the Lucky Lady.” Willie looked fearfully over his shoulder. “Moss has a bunch of women in the s
aloon, been bringing them in for the past couple o’ nights.”

  “What fer?” Tweedy wanted to know. “Ain’t he got enough females already?”

  “I don’t know,” Willie said. “But he’s got plenty more, Uriah, an’ that’s a natural fact.”

  Shawn took charge. “Uriah, saddle up. Willie, get back down to the saloon and keep your eyes open. If you see Moss and his boys leaving town, hustle back here and tell us. I want to get a trail on him.”

  Willie touched his forehead with a crooked finger. “I’m on my way, cap’n.” He turned and disappeared into the darkness.

  As Shawn and Tweedy saddled their horses, Lowth looked on with growing interest. “Are you embarking on an adventure, Mr. Tweedy?”

  “Seems like, Mr. Lowth.”

  “May I join you?”

  “Hell, Mr. Lowth, you’re all tied up. You’ve got a man to hang an’ that’s an important task.”

  “He’s only a chicken thief. Of little account.”

  “And a nuisance.”

  “I don’t want to hang him. The condemned has little appeal for me. I’d prefer to go with you.”

  “Can you use a gun?” Shawn quickly asked.

  “Oh dear me, no. But I’m a dab hand with a rope.”

  “Mr. Lowth, we’ll be shootin’, not hangin’,” Tweedy pointed out.

  “I’d still like to follow along.”

  Tweedy looked at Shawn. “What do you say? Maybe he’ll bring us luck.”

  “Hell, he can ride with us,” Shawn said. “Could be we’ll be saving the life of a chicken thief and damned nuisance.”

  Lowth needed no other invitation. He threw his saddle on his mule and said, “I will be a rock, Mr. Tweedy. There is no one calmer in a crisis than a hangman.”

  Tweedy nodded. “Just so, Mr. Lowth. My old ma told me that very thing the day they strung up my pa. Of course he wasn’t a chicken thief, you understand. He killed a man with a wood ax.”

  “The murderer is always a better class of condemned, Mr. Tweedy. A real crowd-pleaser. Your late father is to be complimented.” Lowth finished saddling his mule and loaded his packhorse with the tools of his trade, a dozen hemp ropes and a selection of black hoods.

  Shortly thereafter, Willie returned. “Zebulon Moss is pulling out, heading south. Got six of his boys mounted and two up on a John Deere wagon with a canvas cover. The women are inside. I heard some weeping and wailing, that’s fer sure.”

  “You did well, Willie.” Shawn handed the man a double eagle. “Use that to see a doctor. Ask him for a sleeping draught.”

  “Or spend it on whiskey,” Tweedy said, leading his horse to the front of the barn. “Damn rotgut they sell in this town will knock you out quick enough.”

  “It’s been a real pleasure doing business with you gents,” Willie said, tapping his forehead with the coin. “Now see you don’t get yourselves shot. Silas Creeds is with them boys of Zeb’s and he don’t sit on his gun hand.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  “Shawn is out trying to save a maiden in distress, and as for Jacob, God alone knows where he is.” Shamus O’Brien was distressed.

  “Then I wish them well and I’ll pray for their safe return to Dromore,” Dr. James Glover said.

  “Amen.” Shamus stared hard at the physician. “You said you had something of the greatest import to discuss.”

  “Yes, I do. That’s why I wished to talk to you alone, Shamus.”

  “Then talk, man. Don’t sit there perched on the edge of your chair like a crow on a stick.”

  Glover smiled. A man with an Apache lance head in his back and worried about his sons had reason to be testy at times. He got to his reason for being there. “Dr. Conrad Jakobs is waiting in the library. I think you should listen to what he has to say.”

  “A Dutchman, you said in your letter.”

  “Yes. He’s chief surgeon at Leiden University Hospital. He has a worldwide reputation, Shamus. He’s a fine surgeon.”

  “I knew a Dutchman during the war,” Shamus said, “a colonel of artillery. I didn’t cotton to him much.”

  That comment brought another smile to Glover’s thin lips. “Will you listen to him, Shamus?”

  “He thinks he can get the lance head out?”

  “Yes. That’s what he thinks.”

  “And if he starts cutting, and can’t? What then?”

  “I’d prefer that Dr. Jakobs answers your questions.”

  Shamus pushed his wheelchair to the drinks table and lifted a decanter. “Bourbon?”

  Glover shook his head.

  “You still don’t drink, doc, huh?”

  “I never have, Shamus. You know that.”

  “What about what’s-his-name, the Dutchman?”

  “Dr. Jakobs does not imbibe, either.”

  Shamus poured himself whiskey. “Never did trust a man who doesn’t drink.” He smiled. “Except doctors. They don’t know any better.”

  “Will you talk to Conrad?” Glover pressed.

  “Hell, yes, if it pleases you. Bring him in.”

  “I want Samuel and Patrick here, and Lorena.”

  “Ganging up on me, huh?”

  “In a word, Shamus, yes.”

  Shamus pulled down his shirt and glared irritably at Dr. Jakobs. “Well?”

  “Colonel, the blade is wedged between two vertebrae and is pressing on your spinal column.” Jakobs was a tall man in early middle age with a shock of unruly white hair and the face of a poet.

  “Hell, doc, tell him something he don’t already know.” Luther Ironside had refused to be kept away from such an important occasion and Lorena had warned him to be on his best behavior. She gave him the brows-down, female stare that would scare any man.

  But Ironside persisted. “Can you get it out? It’s been there for nigh on twenty-five years.”

  Jakobs answered Ironside, but he looked at Shamus. “I can remove the blade, Colonel. But—”

  “There’s always a but,” Shamus grumbled. He looked severely at Jakobs. “Unload it on me, doc.”

  “If the object is not removed with proper care it could shift and sever your spinal cord,” Jakobs said.

  Lorena gasped. “What then, Doctor?”

  “At best, Colonel O’Brien could be completely paralyzed. At worst, he won’t survive the operation.”

  “You’re not making a good case for a cutting, doc,” Shamus said.

  Always one to consider all the options before making a decision, Lorena asked, “But if the surgery is successful, what then?”

  “The patient will walk again.”

  “Chances?” Patrick asked.

  “Fifty-fifty,” Jakobs answered. “Maybe slightly less.”

  Shamus shook his head. “I don’t like the odds, doc. I’d be bucking a stacked deck.”

  “Colonel, you’re already living on borrowed time. The blade in your back could move at any time and kill you.” The surgeon looked unhappy. “I don’t like to tell this to any man, but if you don’t elect for surgery, I give you no more than a year to live, two if you’re content to lie in bed and move very little.”

  Ironside looked at Shamus. “Colonel, doctors don’t know everything. Remember old General Grimes had a pistol ball lodged near his heart? The docs wanted to cut it out of him, but the general said no. Hell, I bet he’s still living yet.”

  “This is much more serious,” Jakobs said. “It’s a matter of life or death.”

  Shamus nodded. “I’ll study on it, doc.”

  “But not for too long,” Jakobs warned. “I must leave for Leiden next week.”

  “Shamus, that gives you four days to make your decision,” Dr. Glover said.

  Samuel looked at his father’s physician. “What do you think, Doctor?”

  “I concur with everything Dr. Jakobs says. The lance head is dangerously close to the colonel’s spinal cord and it could move at any time, day or night.” He looked at his patient and smiled. “Let’s not dwell on what might happen, Shamus. Dr. J
akobs is an excellent surgeon, the best in Europe, and he could have you walking again. Don’t you want to be free of that wheelchair and your constant pain?”

  Shamus looked around the room. “What do the rest of you think? Luther, you’ve got an opinion on everything. Give me your thoughts on the matter.”

  Ironside looked like a man in pain. “Colonel, there are some things a man has to decide for himself. I’m lost.”

  “Samuel?” Shamus said.

  It took awhile for Samuel to speak. “Pa, I don’t have the words . . . or the wisdom.”

  “Patrick?”

  “I want you out of that wheelchair, Colonel.”

  “Lorena?”

  “I don’t want to lose you, Shamus. And I want you to see your grandchildren grow up. I urge you to have the surgery.”

  “Is that what Saraid would have said?” Shamus asked, remembering his wife of so long ago.

  “I’m sure she would,” Lorena said.

  A silence fell on the parlor, stretched, and grew tense. The doctors exchanged glances and Ironside, hunched and miserable, stared at the rug between his boots. Outside snow fell and children laughed and yelled in the distance.

  Finally Shamus looked at Dr. Jakobs. “When can you do it?”

  “With Dr. Glover assisting me, I can perform the surgery tonight.”

  Shamus looked at his old friend. “Luther, Grimes died a week after the war ended.”

  Ironside looked up, his face heavy with concern. “I didn’t know that, Colonel.”

  “He should’ve had the surgery,” Shamus said.

  “Have you reached a decision, Shamus?” Glover asked.

  Shamus nodded once. “Do it tonight.”

  “A wise decision, Colonel,” Jakobs said. “And a brave one.”

  Shamus smiled. “Right now I’m so brave I need another drink.”

  Jakobs shook his head. “No more alcohol until after the surgery, Colonel, if you please.”