“Those savages . . . don’t get to do that,” Boone says, unsure of himself.
Ahiga howls a deep, pained cry as he glowers in our direction. He sees the shooter clear as day and me next to him. He sails back up atop his mount, hoisting his brother’s body up with him and letting loose a haunting wail. The warrior in him has returned. He kicks up the horse and thunders off.
“You just started a war with the blasted Navajo,” Mulgrew spits. The captain grabs Bix by the shoulder, but keeps Boone in his eye as he shouts his order. “Get to the telegraph office. Pull every man we got. Agua Verde and Heavendale. I want them in the Bend within the hour!”
“But what about the banks?” Bix stutters.
“Tell them they’re fucking closed!”
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
The Snowman’s final journey through the heart of Caliche Bend happens much like his first—as a prisoner on parade. The transfer happens quickly. From his exiting of the jail cell, shackled by wrist and ankle, to the clank of the iron lock that secures him to the wagon, no more than ten seconds elapse. The Pinkertons keep a tight schedule. And Mulgrew’s truncheon, pressed firmly against the Snowman’s spine, leaves little room for procrastination.
I hear that during the war, the captain hunted down Union deserters. I can only imagine how many frightened boys he strung up in the prison courtyard without trial or mercy. The Snowman reminds me of one of them now.
I had expected the noise from the crowd to be deafening, with pent-up nerves and drunken revelry crescendoing to an orgiastic peak as the trapdoor opens, but there is none of that. The mob’s God-fearing, Christian souls will not allow it, despite their best efforts to the contrary. Instead, solemnity reigns, ensured by the skittish trigger finger behind the crank gun and the quartet of Pinkerton men, all with double-barrel twelves, flanking the rickety wagon along its procession.
The smattering of grim-faced black-coats interspersed among the spectators provides a second layer of deterrence. And beyond them, dotting the rooftops like thin, black spires, stand the eagle-eyed sharpshooters, equally prepared for an imminent assault on the town or a surprise insurgency from within.
Nearly two thousand restless townspeople and strangers, crammed like sardines beneath a withering midday sun, stare in schoolroom silence as the two mules strain down the ravaged thoroughfare toward the gallows.
Mulgrew had been clear in his instructions to me that I leave the pine casket open at the bottom of the stairs. Let the Snowman see the box that will hold his rotting bones as he mounts the scaffold. I pull off the casket lid and lay it down on the dirt. The smell of fresh pine rises from the sanded wood. It is a well-made coffin, far finer that it needs to be, considering the itinerary of its future occupant.
The newspaperman bustles up to me. “Now, we will not have much time, Mister Two-Trees, but my equipment shall require at least a five-count of complete stillness in order to ensure proper focus. Perhaps you could lean the casket up against the scaffold for better visibility of the subject?”
“I doubt he will complain.”
“No, of course not. Remember, it’s for posterity’s sake. Our readers would like to see.”
I lift the casket up and lean it against the frame, right next to the shiny new hammer and box of copper nails that Jasper has pulled from his stockroom for the occasion, along with a carton of lead for the Colts.
My new job as undertaker pays two dollars. For that fee, I am expected to perform a second, but perhaps more important task—keeping my eyes peeled for anyone or anything suspicious. I have seen more faces of the Snowman’s gang than any man alive, a fact that they are as keenly aware of as I am.
I reload the Colts with fresh bullets and check the chambers. An open assault from the desert would deteriorate quickly into a bloody free-for-all. And if there is a sneak attack, I would be the first target. Either way, the pistols get hot.
A crow caws from the church tower. The horses tied up behind the crowd nicker against the buzzing flies. Every snort from the mules brings the wagon closer. It seems only humans hold much reverence for the silence.
I step lightly up the side stairs of the scaffold, careful to avoid even the slightest creak. No one notices me. I stop halfway up. All heads stay fixed in the other direction. Bix steers the wagon through the parting crowd. Mulgrew sits beside him, constantly appraising the threat and prepared to defend any frontal assault with the sawed-off ten across his knee.
Faces turn as the wagon passes. I scan the crowd. Every living soul I know is out there, and many more I don’t. I skip over the familiar faces and focus on the strange ones. Mulgrew motions to his right and Bix corrects the wagon toward the stairs. The change of direction forces the multitude to push back on itself, only there is nowhere to go.
“Stop shoving!” a voice cries. The sniper above me steps toward the edge of the roof. The spectators closest to the front backpedal onto the toes of those behind them. The folks farther back steady themselves against their neighbors. The disturbance ripples like a wave through the multitude. Delmer perks up behind the crank gun. His left hand joins his right on the handle, inciting an instinctive retreat from anyone within a stone’s throw of the muzzle. The captain stands in his seat, bringing the shotgun up with him. The move has an instant, mollifying effect on the crowd and order quickly restores itself.
All at once, I see her. Her simple, forest green dress cuts through the sea of dusty, drab garments that surround her, betraying her attempt to escape attention—as if Miss Bichard could ever do such a thing.
Jostled by the crowd, she regains her footing, and when she looks up the fear has not yet vacated her eyes. I bound down the stairs and charge into the throng. I stay fixed on her position even though I lose sight of her. How tiny she is among these booted cowpokes in their oversized Stetsons. Something about the way I move through the crowd inspires people to give me a wide berth. I weave through a pair of burly ranch hands and there she is. Her eyes dance with surprise at the sight of me, but there is a tinge of relief beneath it.
“Mister Two-Trees.”
“Ma’am, you ought not be out here by yourself.”
“Yes, I am starting to see that. Mister Willis was supposed to join me.”
“He lit out after a gambler what cheated him.”
“Yes, and he has returned, thanks be to God. About an hour ago.”
“He track that fella down?”
“Heavens, no.” She rolls her eyes at the thought of it. “And I am not sure what he would have done if he had. Running off like that. Hmm. A night of whiskey and no sleep clouded his judgment, that much is for certain.”
“Glad he is all right.”
“More embarrassed, than anything, I should think. You will understand if he is back at the hotel sleeping it off. I will admit,” she says, indicating the tempest surrounding us, “that this was more than I expected.”
“You stand over here with me.” I touch Genevieve’s far shoulder and she does the rest, carrying the gentle scent of rose water with her as she comes to a stop right in front of me.
We cast our eyes upward together. Garrison LaForge, the dreaded Snowman, the most feared outlaw in all of the Southwest, huffs beneath the cloth strap that gags him. The wagon clatters to a stop by the stairs. From this close, I see puddled tears in the eyes that comb the horizon with limitless expectation. The beads of sweat on his brow glisten his raven hair in the high noon sun.
Mulgrew turns and wastes no time unlocking the shackles. He guides his prisoner around the crank gun and into the arms of Bix, who leads him down the stepladder to the ground. Delmer stays glued to the Gatling. Two thousand heartbeats quicken as the Snowman touches the bottom step.
“Go to hell, Snowman!” The voice could belong to any of a dozen men, and speaks the sentiment of the entire congregation. She pushes back in to me ever so slightly. The crushed velvet of her frock brushes against my chest, igniting a charge of electricity which courses straight through to my bones. Neithe
r of us pulls away. We stay there, bound to one another in furtive contact amidst a sea of unsuspecting eyeballs. I have never been more grateful for a crowd, and never more unbothered by a violation of my personal space. Staring off in the same direction, instead of at each other, we somehow give ourselves permission to touch, as if the orientation of our gaze makes the act less wrong. And yet it feels so right.
Mayor Boone and the padre appear at the base of the stairs and follow the Pinkertons up. I do not want to leave her, but I cannot entirely neglect my duties. I can see by the efficiency of the captain’s movement that he intends to cut off any possibility of rescue by making speedy work of this. Scanning the crowd to my immediate left, I spy a familiar face.
“Jack,” I call to him. Big Jack nods and comes over. People move out of his way even faster than they had for me.
“Hey, Harlan,” he says, feeling compelled to whisper. I place both hands on her shoulders and turn Genevieve toward me. My eyes meet hers, tunneling through them, and make a vow to never let go.
“I have a job to do. You stay here with Jack. Anything happens, you do what he tell you. Everything will be okay.” I give her a little squeeze. She nods, understanding. “You good with that, Jack?” Big Jack’s expansive chest broadens even further.
“Ain’t nobody muss a hair on her head, Harlan. You got my word on that.” Jack tips his hat to the woman. “Ma’am.”
“Thank you, sir,” she says, breathless.
I break from them and make my way to the scaffold. Captain Mulgrew stands with the Snowman on the top deck. The only thing above them is a crossbeam that anchors the rope. Boone and the padre confer quietly on the side before the mayor nods and steps to the edge of the platform. He raises a palm no higher than his waist, quieting the already hushed crowd to utter silence.
“We gather here today by the grace of God and justice.” The man loves oratory in any fashion. With two thousand rapt bodies within earshot, his voice competes only with a trifling breeze. “No measure of vengeance can bring back those who have died from the heinous events at this man’s hand, nor return to us what he has pilfered.”
“Let’s get this done, Boone,” the captain says, in a stiff, straight-faced whisper. “Enough grand-standin’.”
I descend over the back stairs and start down toward the back side of the scaffold. From here I can witness the proceedings and still have easy access to the interior, where the Snowman’s twitching body will soon come to an abrupt stop, obscured from the spectators’ view by a solid, pine partition. Captain and the Snowman stand above me, their backs facing my way. I see there, below the iron wrist-cuffs, what no one else can see—the trembling fingers of a man staring into the abyss of death.
The mayor carries on with his speech, despite Mulgrew’s professed opposition. “A lawful jury has found the accused guilty and a judge has passed the ultimate sentence. And now, by the power vested in me by the Territory of New Mexico in these United States, the sentence shall be carried out in accordance with the law.” He turns toward the Snowman. “Does the condemned have any last words?”
Grudgingly, Mulgrew snaps down the Snowman’s gag.
“Well f-first . . .” LaForge sputters, “I ought be given my last rites, as is proper under God!”
“The padre done that already,” the captain informs the audience, lest anyone agree with the Snowman. “Now say your bit and be done with it.” He pushes his prisoner forward. With every step, the Snowman’s legs look near to crumpling.
The Pinkerton snipers catch my eye. From my unique vantage, their formation aligns into a black-dotted V-shape extending along the rooftops and down to the vanishing point of the church steeple. Every odd man stands peering out into the desert while his counterpart casts his gaze straight down into the crowd. All deputies look one of those two places. All except one. The black-coat atop the nearest building, at my eleven o’clock, fixes out a point behind me, due north. Something has his attention, but not yet his worry.
I look behind me. The big eye beats her mighty rays down upon the desert floor, whiting the parched caliche like a river. The glare is overwhelming. I climb up a rung, look back, and still see nothing.
“Y’all know what I been accused of, unjustly,” the Snowman begins. “A lot of hearsay and conjecture, most of it. Maybe I am no saint, but things being what they are, I am not so much guiltier than a lot other folks what done considerable worse . . .”
Boone edges over to Mulgrew and whispers loud enough for me to hear. “I said final words, not a dissertation.”
“Stall tactic. I seen this trick before,” Mulgrew growls. “Wrap it up, LaForge.” He punctuates his order with a jab to the prisoner’s kidneys.
The Snowman grimaces, desperation creeping ever deeper across his face. “Now this here is the last words of a dying man! On your head be it, to cut me off.” He turns to the audience again. “To any of my brothers out there, let us not cut the hair too thin. No sense in being dramatic about it.” He inches forward, entreating any conspirators among the stony-faced citizenry out there, telling them that now is the time. “How ’bout it, huh?”
The black-coat sniper steps toward the edge of the roof, his eyes unwavering from some far-off object. I find footing on the upper beam and pull myself up. Now at a higher vantage, I pivot back toward the north.
A dust cloud churns across the desert, moving toward town at a thunderous pace. I watch the Pinkerton man reach into his pocket, expecting him to produce the whistle to alarm. Instead he comes out with a small mirror, like what a lady carries in her handbag. He finds the sun and angles the mirror down. The white patch of reflected sunlight crawls along the top deck of the scaffold and up the captain’s leg to the side of his face, where it registers in his periphery. The captain turns. His eyes move upward, following the signal to its place of origin on the rooftop. Their silent communication is brief and to the point. Horses.
All at once, the captain snaps his head and glowers at the Snowman, who shows no sign of winding down his oration. He grabs the prisoner by the collar and yanks him back.
“No, I am still talking! Come on, boys, now is the time!”
“Get the rope on him!” Mulgrew shouts. Bix unhooks the noose from its concealment. A collective gasp issues from the crowd, as the long-imagined endgame becomes real. The Snowman’s boots drag across the platform. He flails violently, freeing his neck momentarily from the captain’s headlock and causing his executioner to stumble to the ground. Mulgrew finds his rage quickly, not from the desperate outburst of a cornered animal—he has seen that countless times—but from the betrayal of his own sixty-year-old frame. “Get it on him, dammit!”
Bix, all one hundred and fifty pounds of him, moves in with the rope. LaForge lets fly a rangy side-kick. The Pinkerton man half parries it, avoiding the brunt of the blow, but catching enough of it to slow him down.
Instinct propels me forward. I swing over the guardrail and swoop in behind the Snowman. Time slows to a crawl. My eyes lock only on him. Somewhere far off—it sounds like another world—a cascade of clicks reaches my ear as a dozen snipers swing their Longrifles in my direction. The platform shakes with churning footsteps. A huddle of black-clad men ascend the stairs. Indiscriminate voices erupt from the nervous masses. My arms shoot out and clamp onto the Snowman’s ribs. “I got him,” I say.
“No, no! Wait, I am begging you!” He catches me in his periphery. “Harlan! Please!”
The captain finds his legs and strides across the platform toward the lever. Bix, black bag in hand, swoops in from behind me. LaForge bucks beneath my grip. With one hand I help Bix crown the cloth sack onto his head. Something slips greasily against my palm, but I hold him there, locked in a vise grip that hell or high water will not break. The Snowman howls his final words as the bag comes down over his face. “No, no! You done got the wrong—gggrmph!” Lost in the blackness, his body softens just enough to let Bix apply the rope. There is no time to double-check it for tightness. Mulgrew is a man und
eterred. He reaches the lever, and with no regard for my safety or that of his second-in-command, kicks it like a bad dog. I grab Bix by his collar and dive backward. The ground beneath us disappears as the trapdoor bangs open. Bix and I land heavily against the unforgiving planks. A moment later we hear the sharp crack of a man’s neck bones giving out.
Women’s voices gasp in true, audible horror. I roll over, staring up at a pale sky sliced down the middle by a taut, groaning rope.
It is done.
A hand finds my shoulder. Bix lies on the other end of it. “Thanks,” he says. My mind returns and I remember the horses. We might at last be free of the Snowman, but the charging marauders from the north do not know that. And I hardly suspect such a revelation would avert them now. I try to get up. An oily wetness coats my hands and forearms. I look down, prepared for blood, and instead discover streaks of shiny, midnight black across my skin and shirt.
“Ready all barrels!” Mulgrew shouts, raising his fist to give the order. The gathered throng begins to understand. Near panic sets in as they realize they have nowhere to go.
“Let us all be calm.” I recognize Boone’s most authoritative tone. “Everyone just stay where you are. We’ll not have a riot.”
The cloud of dust rumbles from the desert, down into the small depression where the judge’s wagon had upturned several days earlier. I climb up to the top of the rail and await the riders’ reemergence over the berm. Every last Pinkerton waits with me, taking dead aim at the fixed point just on the edge of town.
The bobbing head of a horse rises first over the mound. Seated behind it is a small human figure. I squint into the glaring sun, not wanting to believe my own eyes.
“Take aim!” Muglrew commands. I leap off the railing and throw myself in front of the captain.
“It is a child,” I say. I make sure my words sink into his brain before repeating. “A child, Captain.”
“Hell you say? All that dust?”
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