by John Legg
Bear rode on the short, flat bed of the carriage, his floppy jowls flapping with each breath.
“You didn’t realize you was such a well-noted personage, did you, Tuck?” Cahill said somewhat sarcastically.
“They’re here to see how a real man meets his end,” Reynolds said arrogantly.
Cahill laughed. “You’ll probably shit your britches when they drop that trap door on you, Tuck. Unless you purged yourself real well this mornin’, your pants’ll be full of shit before you’re dead.”
“Leave him alone, Jimmy,” Culpepper ordered quietly. “It’s bad enough the scoundrel’s going to his death. There’s no call to make light of him along the way.”
“Ah, hell, Jonas,” Cahill complained, “that’s half the fun of all this.”
“Since when’s a hangin’ supposed to be fun?”
“Look around you, Jonas,” Cahill said with a wave of the hand. “Look at all these people. You’d think they were goin’ to a goddamn fair or circus or somethin’. This is big stuff to them, somethin’ they don’t see every day.” Cahill was only about a year or so younger than Culpepper, but he still seemed like a little boy in many ways. He was a short, thin, whipcord tough man who was a good deputy’, as long as he kept his perspective about things. He had trouble doing that sometimes, and Culpepper found it necessary to ride herd over him at such times. Like now.
“You want to be one of them, you go right on ahead,” Culpepper said evenly. “If you want to continue bein’ my deputy, you’ll leave Reynolds alone.” He looked past Reynolds at Cahill and winked. “Besides, you’ll only give him a swole-up head with all your talk.”
“That’s tellin’ him, Sheriff,” Reynolds snapped. He’d been enjoying all the attention, even knowing what he’d be facing in minutes. He didn’t like being found out by Culpepper, or his deputy.
There was no wall around the rear yard of the county courthouse. The gallows sat out on the flat back there, exposed to all and sundry. People were lined up along the upper reaches of Fifteenth and Sixteenth Streets, plus along the bank of a small portion of Cement Creek, and along Reese Street between Fifteenth and Sixteenth.
Hawkers worked the crowd, selling everything from peanuts to beer to strips of beef jerky, lending a true carnival atmosphere to the entire place. Culpepper shook his head in annoyance, wondering how anyone could make a party out of such an event.
As county sheriff, Culpepper could appoint a hangman, but he did not want anyone else to be stuck with such a duty, so he would do it himself, as he had the only other time a man was hanged—legally—in Silverton.
Culpepper left Cahill at the bottom of the stairs and helped Reynolds hobble up the steps. Judge Pfeiffer and Parson Wilbert Russell stood awaiting. Culpepper positioned Reynolds over the trap door. “You want the hood, Tuck?” he asked.
Reynolds shook his head. “Hell, no, Sheriff,” he snarled, nerves beginning to catch up to him. “I want to watch your face when you pull the handle.”
Culpepper shrugged. While he got no joy out of this, and couldn’t understand the festival-like atmosphere surrounding the event, he was willing to do his job with no qualms. He would sleep just fine tonight, unless something else disturbed him. “Have it your way. You got anything you’d like to say before we send you across the divide?”
“Reckon not, ’cept maybe to have you say goodbye to your wife for me,” Reynolds said with a smirk.
Culpepper’s face was blank as he then gently worked the noose down over the condemned man’s head. Then he tightened the knot with a swift jerk. “Try’n die with dignity, you pukin’ scoundrel,” Culpepper said quietly. He stepped back, allowing Parson Russell to take his place in front of the condemned man and begin reciting Scripture.
Culpepper let it go on for twenty dull, dreary minutes before he could stand it no more. He was about to fall asleep on his feet. He edged up to Russell and said quietly into the cleric’s ear, “Best wrap it up, Parson. We’re here to hang the man, not preach him to death.”
Russell looked at Culpepper with disgust, but then decided the look in Culpepper’s eyes did not bode well for him. He nodded once, curtly, then turned to face the throng again.
“Whoso diggeth a pit,” he intoned, “shall fall therein; and he that rolleth a stone, it will return upon him.” He paused, then led the people in the Twenty-Third Psalm.
As the chorus of “Amen” rose up from the gathered multitude, Culpepper moved toward the lever that would operate the trap door. “Last chance to speak your peace, Tuck,” he offered.
“Pull the goddamn lever,” Reynolds snarled.
Culpepper did so. The trap door snapped downward and Reynolds’ body fell. He dangled for more than a minute, feet jerking and twitching. Then Dr. Angus McQuiston checked Reynolds over and pronounced him dead.
As the undertaker came to take the body away, the hordes of people began drifting away. Most of them were headed toward one saloon or another, where they would drink away the day and discuss the key event. When the undertaker was gone, Culpepper clomped down the stairs and with Bear on one side of him and Cahill on the other, walked slowly toward the office.
Culpepper got the keys to the jail and a small bottle, of whiskey from a drawer. A curious Jimmy Cahill followed.
“It over?” Ferd Wiley asked as Culpepper neared the cell.
“Done and done,” Culpepper said with a nod. “Here.” He held out the bottle of whiskey. “You might as well join the celebration.” Culpepper turned and walked out, locking all the doors behind him.
“You think that was wise?” Cahill asked.
Culpepper shrugged. “What hurt can it cause?” he countered.
“None, I expect.” Cahill paused. “You still plannin’ on havin’ me take Ferd and leave for the penitentiary tomorrow, Jonas?” he asked.
“Don’t see any reason to change my mind. The sooner he’s out of here, the sooner things’ll get back to normal.”
Cahill nodded. “Then do you mind if I take off for a while, Jonas? I’d like to go see Miss June. If I’m gonna get on the trail at first light, this’ll be the last time I get to see her before leavin’.”
Culpepper nodded, but said with a slow smile, “You and that gal ought to get hitched, boy. An old rascal like you needs a good woman.”
“I ain’t so sure,” Cahill hedged.
“Go on, get,” Culpepper said with a laugh. “But be back here in time for me to take supper.”
It was almost dark when Cahill came straggling back, looking well fed and somewhat self-satisfied.
“It’s about durn time, boy,” Culpepper said unhappily. “I was beginnin’ to size up Bear to see what kind of eatin’ he’d make.”
Cahill laughed, still happy from an afternoon spent with June Ladimere. “Seems to me that it’d be the other way around.”
Culpepper managed a grin. “Be an interestin’ contest, wouldn’t it?” He rose. “Well, I’d best be gettin’ home. Merry’ll be thinkin’ I’m over on Blair Street or somethin’.”
“How long you want me to stay?” Cahill asked.
“Another hour or so is all, I guess. Until Eleni Moldovan feeds Ferd. Unless it looks like something’s going on.”
“Fat chance,” Cahill snorted.
Culpepper was not quite finished with his supper when twelve-year-old Timmy Pinckus pounded on the door. When Merry let the boy in, he marched straight up to Culpepper.
“Deputy Cahill says you’re to get your butt...” he flushed red and cast a nervous glance at Merry, “…to the office right now.”
“Trouble?” Culpepper asked, patting his mouth with a napkin.
“I guess so, Sheriff. There was quite a crowd assemblin’ outside the office. It might have somethin’ to do with that.”
“Thanks, Timmy,” Culpepper said, rising. He pulled a dime out of his pocket and handed it to the boy.
Timmy grinned at the largesse and ran out.
“I don’t know what this’s about, Merry,” Culpepper
said as he strapped on his gun belt, “but it don’t bode well.” He slid his knife into his belt and pulled on his coat. He headed for the door, but a premonition stopped him. He went into his bedroom and got his old McCoy and Davis 10-gauge double-barreled shotgun; he checked to make sure it was loaded. He grabbed a handful of extra shells for the scattergun and stuffed them in the pocket of his bear-fur coat. Then he kissed Merriam quickly and left, not having to call for Bear, who was right with him, tail quivering in excitement.
Culpepper crossed the small bridge over Cement Creek and headed up the alley off Mineral Street that would bring him to the county jail. He could already hear a grumbling of voices. He slipped up along the north wall of the jail and then, almost as if by magic, he was standing next to his deputy, shotgun cradled in his left arm.
Culpepper was glad there were plenty of lanterns being used. They provided a sufficient amount of light for him to keep a reasonably close eye on the angry men gathered in front of the stone jailhouse. “What’re you folks doin’ here?” he bellowed.
“We want that son of a bitch you got inside!” someone in the crowd hollered.
“Come and get him them,” Culpepper said, shocking Cahill. His words apparently stunned the crowd, too, for the people in the mob fell silent for a moment.
“Of course,” Culpepper added, “I’ll shred the first five or six of you pukes who comes up this way.”
“God damn it, Sheriff,” someone yelled, “let us have him. We’ll save everyone a lot of time and trouble.”
“Can’t do that.”
“We can overrun you, Sheriff,” someone else yelled. “You don’t need to die for the likes of that scum.”
“Neither do you.” He cast his eyes around the crowd, recognizing quite a few of the men. Most of them were employees of the Anvil Mining Company. Those who weren’t were toughs and gunmen, criminals all, for the most part, who spent the majority of their time in the saloons of Greene Street and the whorehouses of Blair Street, and Culpepper was certain they’d been paid for their participation.
“The hell with the sheriff, boys,” still another man yelled. “Let’s get that bastard in there.” He moved toward the jail. A few followed him, but the others hesitated.
Culpepper didn’t know the man’s name, but he recognized him as a petty thief and mugger, and figured the man did not deserve to live. He would make a good example. Culpepper fired a load of buckshot into the man’s chest.
The man crumpled with a weak moan. The blast of the shotgun and the man’s fall brought an instant silence from the crowd.
“Any of you other pukin’ rascals want a dose of the same medicine?” Culpepper asked, as he extracted the spent shell and put in a fresh one.
There were mumbles and grumbles from the crowd, but little activity, until another man bolted out of the crowd, heading for Culpepper and Cahill.
Culpepper didn’t really want to kill another man, so he pointed and then snapped, “Bear, get him!”
The dark brindle mastiff charged, bounding forward with long, surefooted leaps.
The man saw the animal coming and he stopped, frozen in terror. The dog hit him high on the chest and flattened him, then began gnawing at the man’s arms, leaving the neck and throat until later. The man screamed and babbled as fear caught him in its grip.
Culpepper whistled. Bear hesitated only a moment before quitting his attack and trotting back to sit at Culpepper’s side. His tongue slapped around his short muzzle, licking off the traces of blood.
“I’d advise you boys to go on home, now,” Culpepper said. “There’s been enough killin’ and troublemakin’ for one day. Wiley’ll be out of your hair tomorrow, and he won’t be botherin’ no one for twenty-five years. There’s no call to lynch him.”
Slowly, reluctantly, the crowd began to disperse. Soon there was no one left but Culpepper, Cahill, and Bear. Some of the men leaving had even taken the dead man with them.
“Best get yourself some sleep, Jimmy,” Culpepper said quietly.
“I figured to stay here with you, Jonas.”
“You’ve got to be on the trail at first light. You need your sleep. Me and Bear’ll be all right. As long as there’s coffee on the stove.”
Chapter Six
Culpepper paced in his office, stopping periodically to check outside through one window or the other. He knew for dead, absolute, guaranteed certain that something was wrong; he just knew it. Since the narrow-gauge railroad between Silverton and Durango hadn’t started up yet after winter, he and Cahill had figured it would take Cahill and the two men deputized especially for this—Buster Reinhardt and John Maguire—a week, maybe eight days, to get to Durango and back. In Durango, the three deputies were supposed to deliver Wiley to a deputy U. S. Marshal sent out to take Wiley to the penitentiary in Florence. The wire sent in return to Culpepper’s request said the deputy’s name was Ned Coakley. Figure three days out, a little time for relaxing in Durango, and three days back.
But here it was only two full days since the three officers had left with their prisoner, and Culpepper was absolutely positive that something was wrong. Worse was that, if his premonition was correct, there was nothing he could do about it. Nothing but wait and pace—and grumble at Merry, which was something he hated to do, even though she understood his reasons for it.
Because of that, he decided to stay at his office as much as possible, including overnight, until he found out of his hunch was right and he decided what to do about it.
Just about the time it got dark, Bear allowed a soft, friendly—if any sound that came out of the massive dog’s short muzzle could be considered friendly—growl. Culpepper rose and slid quietly to the side of the office, away from the door and windows. A hand rested on a pistol butt.
A moment later, Merry entered the office, her arms full with a blanket, a coffeepot, and a metal lunch bucket. Her face was flushed from the exertion and the chill temperatures of the gathering mountain night, and Culpepper thought she looked perfectly lovely.
Culpepper moved away from the wall in a smooth motion that would make it seem as if it had been natural to be standing at that spot at that time. He hurried over to his wife and grabbed everything out of her hands. “What’s all this?” he asked.
Merry shrugged, almost embarrassed. “I just sensed that you were feelin’ that something was wrong with Jimmy. Knowin’ you as I do, I figured you’d be wantin’ to stick close by the office. So I brung you some things.”
“You are something, woman. Durn if you ain’t,” Culpepper crowed quietly. “What’s in the bucket?”
“Chicken, gravy, and some biscuits.”
“Sounds good. You going to stay and eat with me?”
“I brought enough, in case you wanted that,” Merry said, smiling warmly.
“I do,” Culpepper said firmly. He shoved papers and other junk off his desk, creating some room. Then he brought up the only chair other than the one behind his desk.
Merry opened the lunch bucket and distributed food on the plates she had packed inside the bucket. She had even thought to pack a decent pile of bones and meat scraps for Bear. Merry put those in the old gold pan that served the mastiff as a feeding bowl. He had another just like it for water. Merry poured coffee for Culpepper and herself, and then she sat, waiting a moment to catch her breath.
They ate quietly, seeing no need to fill their warm, comfortable silence with words.
Soon after he was finished eating, Culpepper began, getting antsy again. He kept his seat, but Merry could see the fidgeting of his hands, the restlessness of his eyes.
Merry rose and cleared up the plates and things. “Well, I’d better be gettin’ home, Jonas.”
He nodded and rose. “I’ll walk you,” he said.
“No, Jonas—you want to stay here, maybe need to stay here. I’ll be all right.”
“You know I don’t like you walkin’ around here after dark.” They had discussed this more than once. Merry’s walking to and from the office br
ought her much too close to Blair Street for his comfort. Besides, there were far too many men walking around with a cause to hate any lawman, and possibly San Juan County Sheriff Jonas Culpepper, in particular.
“I know. But I’ll be fine.”
Culpepper shook his head. “Take Bear,” he finally said. “Send him back once you’re locked in the house.”
Merry nodded. “Bear’ll watch over me.” She came up and kissed Culpepper long and hard, the way a happily married woman who still loved and desired her husband should do. Then she pulled the shawl around her shoulders and headed out, the big mastiff walking protectively beside her.
Ten minutes later, Bear scratched at the door. Culpepper let the animal in and petted him on the head. “Our Merry get home safe, eh?” he said quietly to the dog. “Did she? Yeah? Yeah.” Then he set to pacing again.
Finally he forced himself to sit in his chair. He put his feet up on the desk and pulled the blanket around him. He fell asleep almost instantly, but it was not a deep or refreshing sleep. He woke frequently, jerking up, hand on a pistol. When he saw that no one was there, he would drift back into restless slumber again.
He felt lousy the next morning when he awoke for good. Even the coffee Merry had brought him last night tasted poor to him after his uncomfortable night spent in his chair.
Merry showed up soon after with more coffee and with a decent breakfast. The meal—and Merry’s company—went a long way to cheering him, though the premonition still lingered, particularly after Merry left.
At five minutes after ten on the small, battered cuckoo clock on the office wall, Jimmy Cahill walked in, followed by Buster Reinhardt and John Maguire. The latter two were wounded, Maguire more seriously, it seemed.