Hell's Half Acre

by William W. Johnstone

  “I was,” Jess said, “but not now, I reckon. I was planning to apply for a deputy’s job, but now the sheriff’s dead, I’ve changed my thinking.”

  “You done peacekeeping before?” the man said.

  Jess shook his head. “Went up the trail for the first time when I was fourteen and I’ve been a puncher since.” He nodded in the direction of the dead man. “Who did that to him?”

  “Not us,” the big man said. This brought a laugh from the men with him. “Fact is we suspected something like this might happen.”

  “How come?” Jess said. He looked sharp at the man, unwilling to believe him.

  “His name was—”

  “I know his name,” Jess said.

  “He was mixed up with the wholesale opium sellers, took a twenty percent skim off the gross profits. And he ran a protection racket, coming down hard on the local merchants and the saloons and dance hall owners if they didn’t ante up. Even the whores paid Henley his twenty percent.” The man’s ice-blue eyes locked on Jess’s brown ones. “Henley walked in the shadows, cowboy, and that’s not a good place for a lawman to be.”

  “He was a damned crook and low-down,” a rider said and this drew another laugh.

  “Name’s Kurt Koenig,” the big man said, shoving out his hand. “I have business interests in Fort Worth.

  Jess reluctantly shook hands, and Koenig said, “I like the cut of your jib, young man. You ever hear that expression?”

  “Can’t say as I have,” Jess said.

  “Well, it’s a nautical saying and I learned it in the old days when I sailed on the hell ships out of the Barbary Coast. First mate I was in those days, and I laid out many a lively lad and sent him to Davy Jones’s locker when he took a set against getting shanghaied.”

  Clem, the man with the broken nose, said, “You were a rum one in them days, Kurt. An’ no mistake.”

  “I ran a tight ship,” Koenig said. “Even in them wild northern seas where the great toothed whales spouted, I kept an iron discipline.” He looked at Jess. “Now you probably wonder why the hell I’m telling you all this, huh?”

  Jess had a mental picture of Koenig on a sea-swept quarterdeck, big, brutal, a knotted rope in one hand, a cutlass in the other, a snarl on his face and a dead crewman at his feet.

  He blinked and said, “Well, I guess I am.”

  “Because Fort Worth has to be run like a tight ship, understand?” Koenig said. “What the town needs is a firm hand and strict discipline and I think you are the man to do it. There’s no back-up in you, lad, lay to that, and I’m willing to stake you two hundred and fifty dollars a month in salary to prove what I say is true.” He turned to his men and spread his hands. “Can I say fairer than that, boys?”

  Amid grins and sniggers the consensus of the other three riders was that the offer was fair indeed.

  But Jess Casey was not so sure.

  “That’s a handsome stipend,” he said. “But I’m not Wild Bill Hickok. I ain’t one of them Texas draw fighters that everybody talks about, either.”

  Koenig’s grin stretched. His white teeth looked like a piano keyboard.

  “Hell, the whole town will back you if you run into trouble,” he said. “In Fort Worth we don’t much care for draw fighters and pistoleros, or hard cases of any stamp, do we, boys?” After a chorus of “Sure don’t” and “That’s fer certain,” Koenig said, “And we know what to do with hucksters, three-card monte artists, thieves, thugs, fakirs, bunco steerers and dance hall loungers. Don’t we boys?”

  Again Koenig got unanimous agreement and some tough talk about tar and feathers, and then he said, “Well, cowboy, is it a go?”

  Jess Casey ran it through in his mind.

  On the upside, the salary was good and if these four men were representative of the citizens of Fort Worth then they’d support him all the way. And the fact was that he badly needed a job. Right then, Koenig grinning at him all friendly-like, he couldn’t see a downside, not in his present situation.

  “I’ll take the job,” he said. “It seems like it will suit me down to the ground.”

  “Good man,” Koenig said. “True-blue.” His slap on the back felt like a blow from a sledgehammer. “Mount up and we’ll seal our bargain with a drink.”

  “What about him?” Jess said, pointing to Henley’s body.

  “Aw, we’ll send the undertaker out for him, bury him at the city’s expense,” Koenig said. “Clem, take his hoss and traps.”

  The big man beamed at Jess. “Hiring you was a good afternoon’s work,” he said. “I can feel it in my bones.”

  “You haven’t even asked me my name,” Jess said.

  “May the devil roast my hide, no, I haven’t,” Koenig said. “But I take you fer an Archibald.” He grinned at his men. “Ain’t he an Archibald, boys?”

  “Sheriff Archibald sounds crackerjack,” the man called Clem said, failing to hide a grin. “But, you know, he looks a bit like ol’ General Custer.”

  “The name’s Jess Casey and I’m no kin to Custer.”

  “Yeah, sure, that’s your name,” Koenig said. “Now let’s get out of here, Archibald. It’s been a long day and I’ve got some pretty urgent business in town.”

  Suddenly Jess felt that there could be a downside to this job after all.

  CHAPTER THREE

  In all his born days Jess Casey had never seen the like.

  Main Street, Fort Worth, bisected an area of the city that Kurt Koenig told him was named Hell’s Half Acre, a bustling, noisy, smelly bedlam of rickety timber buildings, some of them three stories high, featuring prominent fronts that advertised saloons, dance halls and bawdy houses. But to his surprise, Jess passed several thriving churches, grocery, jewelry, saddle, and candy stores as well as Chinese laundries and cotton and lumber yards.

  The throngs of people he saw in the street seemed respectable enough, prim matrons with their broadcloth-clad spouses and pretty young girls in gaggles of three or four, each wearing the latest Eastern fashions: tiny hats, enormous bustles and high-heeled ankle boots. Vendors shouted their wares from the boardwalks; horse-drawn drays with massive steel-rimmed wheels made their way through the crowds, their drivers cursing one another for rogues; bakers with tin trays of bread and pastries on their heads rubbed shoulders with butchers wearing bloodstained aprons. The din was unbelievable and Jess heard a dozen different tongues, men, women and children all babbling in languages he didn’t understand.

  Jess saw no hint of thuggery or violence. In fact the ringing church bells made the loudest noise, those and the preachers who stood at the street corners and yelled about the evils of fancy women and strong drink.

  Kurt Koenig leaned from the saddle and shouted into Jess’s ear, “There’s a hanging today, so there are more folks about than usual.”

  “Should I get involved?” Jess said. “I mean, being as how I’m now sheriff.”

  “Well, bless you for a swab,” Koenig said. “No, the hanging is the business of the Vigilance Committee, Archibald. And since I’m the committee chairman I have to attend.” He stared at Jess, then shook his head. “A sorry business, Archibald.”

  “It’s Jess.”

  “Yeah, that’s right, so it is.”

  “What did the feller do to get hung?” Jess said.

  “He cut up a young lady,” Koenig said. “By coincidence she worked for me.”

  “He kill her?”

  “No, just cut up her face real bad. She quit my employ, said she was going into a nunnery where she could hide her face behind a veil. Pity, she was real pretty for a fat gal.”

  Koenig touched his hat to a passing matron, who scowled at him and quickly looked away. The big man seemed not to have noticed.

  “Her name was Dallas Delamonte,” he said.

  “Who?”

  “The gal who got cut up. Feller who did it is a no-account loafer who goes by the name Andy Smith. We’ll watch him dangle then go get a drink.”

  Koenig’s features were s
et and hard, a face without mercy.

  * * *

  The gallows was set up off the main drag, on a vacant lot behind the St. John’s Hotel on 13th Street, a sandy, bottle-strewn acre of ground rumored to be the last resting place of a Comanche war chief, but that had never been proven.

  Jess Casey arrived late to the party and a large crowd in a picnic mood had already gathered. To the left of the gallows a dozen whores in revealing dresses had come to see justice done. They passed around bottles of Old Crow and jeered and tossed rocks at the condemned man.

  Koenig turned in the saddle and pinned the dead lawman’s star to Jess’s shirt. “Now it’s official, you can join me on the platform, Sheriff. Let’s get it done.”

  Jess dismounted and followed Koenig to the gallows. The crowd parted to let the big man pass, most of the males going out of their way to make sure Koenig saw them tip their hats to him.

  Jess thought Koenig looked like a king striding through a mob of peasants.

  Once on the platform, Koenig shook hands with the mayor, a couple of other dignitaries, the parson and finally the hangman, who was half drunk. He didn’t bother to introduce Jess, though the mayor smiled and pumped his hand and said, “Name’s Henry Stout, Sheriff. Known to the folks all around as Honest Harry. Welcome to our fair city on the Trinity and welcome to the hanging.”

  The condemned man stood on the drop, his feet and hands tied.

  Andy Smith was small, almost tiny, a frightened little rabbit of a man wearing a collarless white shirt and black pants held up with a knotted string. His feet were bare with long toenails. He was fairly drunk and had already pissed himself, which amused some of the crowd, including the whores, and repelled others.

  Koenig stepped close to the little man, a Goliath in broadcloth, who made Smith look even punier.

  “You remember what you promised, Andy?” he said.

  The condemned man nodded.

  “The womenfolk like it, understand. Makes them feel good about things.”

  “You already tole me that,” Smith said. “But I fergit what I have to say.”

  “I’ll be close and give you the words,” Koenig said. “And say ’em like you mean ’em.”

  “Mr. Koenig, everybody, I didn’t mean to cut up that gal,” Smith wailed. “She just got me mad, told me I was poor white trash, and I suddenly felt the knife in my hand. I don’t even remember what happened next and I’m so sorry. I beg you, just cut me down and let me go home.”

  This brought a chorus of boos from the whores and a respectable matron cried, “For shame! Take your medicine like a man.”

  Jess Casey swallowed hard. He felt as though he were the one standing on the trapdoor, feeling the rasp of the hemp noose on his neck, the feral hostility of the crowd. Would he have pissed himself? He didn’t know.

  The mayor stepped forward, a jolly man sporting a massive gold watch chain across his great belly. Reading the mood of the crowd he grinned and shouted, “I declare, folks! It’s mighty easy to say you’re sorry after the dreadful deed has been done.”

  The parson stared down at his Bible and his thin, bloodless lips moved in prayer and a rousing cheer followed the mayor’s speech. One of the whores, who seemed to know him well, yelled, “You tell him, Horny Harry!”

  Laughter rippled through the crowd and the mayor scowled and tried to hide his flushed face from view.

  Koenig looked at his watch, snapped it shut and let his irritation show.

  “Let’s get on with this,” he said. “I’ve got things to do. Andy, say your piece and we’ll move on.” Smith glanced at Koenig, a confused look on his pinched, frightened face. “I fergit the words, Mr. Koenig.”

  Koenig shook his head, annoyed, then said in a whisper, “Strong drink and loose women brought me to this pass . . .”

  Smith, his voice strangled, hesitant, repeated what Koenig had said.

  The big man continued, “And I richly deserve my fate . . .”

  “And . . . I richly deserve . . . deserve . . .”

  “My fate, damn it,” Koenig whispered.

  “My fate, damn it,” Smith said.

  “You’re an idiot, Andy. Now say, ‘But I had a good mother,’” Koenig whispered.

  “But . . . but I had a good mother.”

  That last pleased the ladies and even the whores were moved, a few dabbing tiny lace handkerchiefs to their black-smeared eyes. There was much discussion among the female respectable element about male drunkenness and whoring and how only a good mother had saved many a wayward son from perdition . . . the likes of Andy Smith being the exceptions, of course.

  Koenig was also pleased. He’d paid Smith a jug of whiskey for the speech and the little weasel had kept his part of the bargain, though he could have been louder. Koenig smiled at the hangman, the local blacksmith, and said, “Drop him.”

  “Nooo!” Smith screamed. “I didn’t mean—”

  The trapdoor slammed open and Smith’s voice was cut off in midsentence. For a full minute the rope quivered like a fiddle string then was still, creaking in the breeze.

  The sound of the falling trapdoor had hushed the crowd that had grown to several hundred. Then the whores, most of them well drunk, led the cheering and the rest joined in with huzzahs and applause.

  “Well done, Ben,” Koenig said to the hangman. “I’m sure his damned neck snapped like a twig.”

  The man called Ben nodded and accepted the compliment without comment.

  Koenig’s boots thudded as he walked across the platform and said to Jess, “I’ll have one of my boys show you to your office, Sheriff. Then maybe later you’ll join me for a drink at my saloon on D Street.”

  Jess, who’d never seen a hanging before, took a while before he found his tongue. “I can sure use a drink,” he said.

  Koenig grinned. “You look a little green around the gills, Archibald, like the first time you killed a man.”

  “I’ve never killed anybody,” Jess said.

  Koenig slapped his back and again it felt like a blow from a sledgehammer. “Well, good for you,” he said. “But I always say that it’s all right to kill a man rather than let his score go unpaid. Andy Smith knew that and it’s the reason why he obliged me by dying so well.”

  But in that Kurt Koenig was mistaken.

  A tall, austere-looking man ducked from under the red, white and blue bunting that surrounded the gallows. He looked up at the hangman and said, “He’s not dead.”

  Koenig overheard and stepped to the edge of the platform. “What do you mean, he isn’t dead, Doc?”

  “I mean he’s breathing and his heart is beating,” the doctor said. “My physician’s training tells me that this means the man is not dead.”

  The crowd had drifted away and only a few stragglers remained. A whore who’d drunk too much whiskey was being carried away by three of her friends and a staggering rooster followed, shooting his festive revolver into the air.

  “Hell, now I have to hang him all over again,” the blacksmith said. He looked surly and dejected. I hate to hang a man twice—makes me look real bad.”

  “A sorry business, Kurt,” Mayor Stout said. “The folks won’t like it if we string him up again. They’ll say we’re careless.”

  “Then I’ll take care of it,” Koenig said.

  When it came to official hangings, the city fathers of Fort Worth were stalwart traditionalists and they’d made damn sure that thirteen steps led up to the gallows platform. Koenig descended them two at a time and grabbed the doctor by the lapels of his frock coat.

  “You sure the little rat is alive?” he said.

  “See for yourself,” the physician said.

  Koenig ducked under the platform and Jess, figuring this was surely the business of the law, followed. Andy Smith’s face was purple and his tongue lolled out of his mouth, but his eyes were not lifeless and opaque. They were bright with terror. And something else. The little man was pleading for his life.

  The doctor kneeled beside Koe
nig and the big man said, “What the hell happened?”

  “The drop was too short. It didn’t break his neck.”

  “Can’t you do something, Doc? Put him out of his misery?”

  The physician shook his head, his face stiff. “Koenig,” he said, “I’ll bandage your thugs when they get shot or knifed and I’ll treat your poxed whores, but I won’t do your killing for you.”

  Two things bothered Jess Casey about that speech. One was that Koenig, who’d presented himself as a pillar of the community, was mixed up with thugs and whores. The second was more immediate: that Koenig would surely pound the outspoken physician into the ground.

  But to his surprise that didn’t happen.

  Koenig merely shrugged and said, “All right, Doc, I’ll do it myself.”

  “Then I’m leaving,” the doctor said. “I don’t wish to see this.”

  “No, stay right here,” Koenig said. “You need to sign the death certificate, make it look good for the county sheriff.”

  If Andy Smith could have screamed, he would have done so. But the noose constricted his throat so tightly he managed only a few, frightened little squeals, more like a fussy baby than a man.

  “Take your medicine, Andy,” Koenig said. He pushed the twin muzzles of the derringer he’d taken from his coat pocket between the little man’s frantic eyes—and pulled the trigger.

  The blast still ringing in Jess’s ears, he heard the big man say, “He’s sure as hell dead now, Doc.”

  The doctor went through the motions of sounding Smith’s chest with his stethoscope, then, nodding, pronounced, “He’s dead.”

  Koenig grinned. “Hell, have you ever seen a man shot between the eyes who wasn’t?”

  “I’ll sign the certificate, Koenig,” the doctor said. “You can pick it up at my office.”

  “And the cause of death?” Koenig said. His face looked as though it had been chipped from granite.

  “I’ll play your game this far,” the physician said. “Death by whiskey and legal hanging.”

  “Thank God for the medical profession,” Koenig said.