by Rod Miller
“Do hush up. I know what’s on your mind.”
“You’re a mind reader then, sweet Rebecca?”
“It’s no trouble where you’re concerned. You’ve only had one thing on your mind since we married. Before that too, I suspect.”
The silly smile I could feel all over my face held my only reply.
“Besides, don’t you have night duty at the jail?”
“It’ll wait. Harlow Mackelprang ain’t going anywhere.”
Marshal was a tad bit aggravated that I took longer getting back than he expected. But it ain’t like he was going to miss out on anything. I suspected his evening would go about as usual—cadge a free meal at the café and a few drinks at the saloon before falling into bed for several hours of uninterrupted snoring. The only thing that made this night any different was the fact that he’d have to get up a little early to supervise the hanging come morning.
“Hell’s fire, Charlie, you forget you had a job to come to?” he asked before I had even cleared the front door.
“No, Marshal. Sorry I’m late. Becky had a little something extra special for dessert tonight.”
“Hmmph. When you gonna get over being a newlywed and start into complaining about your wife like all the rest of us married men do?”
“I can’t say as I’ve ever heard you complain about your wife, Marshal. That subject hardly ever comes up.”
“Oh, I ain’t got nothing to complain about really. It’s just one of them things men do, you know. Sort of an unwritten rule like the Code of the West or something. You’ll catch on eventually.”
“I reckon I will. Whyn’t you go on ahead and lock up and be on your way. I’ll take care of things till morning.”
Standard procedure in the marshal’s jail at night called for bolting and locking the heavy hardwood panel door between the office and the cells. Once the bolt was shot and a heavy padlock hooked through the hasp, that door was about as secure as a bank vault. It would take a big batch of blasting powder to move it, and any attempts at it with a battering ram would raise enough noise to wake the dead. With it latched, we could both spend nights at home in bed and not worry about jailbreaks and such.
But with a crazy killer like Harlow Mackelprang locked up, we not only locked the door, but kept someone on night watch too. Most times that was me, but from time to time Marshal would recruit some other responsible man for a shift. Besides that, in the present situation the marshal was about as worried about folks breaking into the jail as he was about our star prisoner breaking out. More than a few loudmouths leaning against a bar had allowed that they’d as soon get up a necktie party and string up the condemned as wait for it to happen all proper and legal-like. But with the hanging now within spitting distance, it wasn’t likely that any angry citizens would try anything. At least no one who claimed to be on the right side of the law.
“Different deal tonight, Charlie,” the marshal said without getting up or showing any sign of leaving. “I ain’t locking the door, at least for now. There’ll be some folks coming by who have business with Harlow Mackelprang, so it’ll be easier just to leave it open. You’ll have to stay awake and mind what’s going on. I don’t think there’ll be trouble, but you never know.”
“Who’s coming by?”
“The preacher asked if he could come by. I told him it wouldn’t do no good on account of Harlow Mackelprang being void of religion, but he figures it’s his duty anyway and I never found no profit in arguing with a churchman, so I told him to come on ahead. That hangman the judge sent for, fellow name of Henker, will be around too.”
“He will? What for?”
“Damned if I know. Something about sizing up the condemned, he said. Wants to make sure he gets the rope the right length for a clean hanging. I’ll say this—the man knows his business. He’s been all over that old gallows checking things out and ordering modifications and adjustments. Tied a sandbag to his rope and dropped it through the trap a bunch of times to stretch all the give out of it and to check the workings of the door. The man seems downright fond of hanging. Fond of whiskey too. Takes a pull on a bottle every time he pulls that trip lever, and he’s pulled it a goodly number of times.”
“I don’t see the point, Marshal. You haven’t hung all that many men, but they’re all dead. Whyn’t the judge want you hanging Harlow Mackelprang?”
“I suppose it’s on account of all the publicity. With a famous bad man like Harlow Mackelprang at the end of the rope, I think the judge just wants to make certain it all goes well. Don’t want a sloppy hanging when there’s so many folks watching. Anyhow, just let the hangman in when he comes and help him out if he asks.”
“Yes, sir. Anyone else I should look out for?”
“Not that I know of. Them two Mexicans and that old man are still hanging around the saloon. I’m convinced they’re the ones been riding with Harlow Mackelprang, so I suppose we should worry about them trying to bust him out, but I don’t think they’ll try anything. One of them came by here yesterday, and the old man was just here a while ago. He slipped Harlow Mackelprang a whiskey flask, but that’s all.”
“And you let him!?” I asked, surprised that Marshal would allow any such breach of security, him usually being a stickler for procedures—part of his being a military man.
“I didn’t see much harm. Hell, the man’ll be dead soon. I figured a drink or two might keep him in a better mood. Anybody else shows up, use your best judgment. Just make sure Harlow Mackelprang is still in that cell come the morning. Oh, and make sure he’s still alive so we can kill him all legal and proper-like.”
“You think someone might try to kill him?”
“Nah. By this time most folks are content to let the law do it. Keeps ’em from getting their own hands bloody. But anything could happen, so stay sharp.”
“I’ll do it, Marshal. Don’t you worry.”
“I’ll be in before first light to make sure everything’s in order come time for the hanging. Charlie, I’ll want you to stay on until afterward. I want both of us armed to the teeth to march Harlow Mackelprang to the gallows.”
“But I thought you weren’t expecting trouble.”
“I’m not. But a show of force never hurts. Just in case.”
“I’ll be here. This’ll be my first hanging, you know. In an official capacity, that is.”
“I know it, Charlie, and I hope it’s your last. Mine too. I haven’t had to stretch too many necks since coming to Los Santos, and I hope I don’t have to stretch another.” With that, he strapped on his gun belt and left. I wondered if he would sleep tonight.
I looked in on the prisoners just to satisfy myself that everything back there was as it should be. Harlow Mackelprang was laying on his cot like he hadn’t a care in the world, his supper tray shoved into the corner. That whiskey flask the marshal talked about was nowhere in sight. Judging from appearances, he’d probably already drained the thing and stuffed the empty under the flea-infested tick that passes for a mattress in these cells.
Down in the end cell, the confidence man we had locked up while he awaited trial was sitting on his cot reading one of them Bibles he hawked. For such a windbag, Sweeney had been pretty quiet while locked up in here. Once he got wound up, it took him a while to run down, but like I say, he hadn’t yapped too much.
Satisfied that all was well, I went back out to the office to relax and maybe steal a little shut-eye. That, as it turned out, would prove pretty much impossible.
I had barely settled in behind the desk when through the office door came a man I did not know. He was a heavyset man, with what was left of his hair trimmed so short as to be almost missing. Had a long, scraggly mustache dangling down. He was outfitted in a raggedy suit of clothes the likes of which a banker might have worn in its better days.
“What can I do for you, sir?” I asked.
“My name is Henker, boy. I believe you’re expecting me. I have come to see Harlow Mackelprang,” he said with a Dutch accent of some s
ort.
“That’s right. Marshal said you’d be coming around. Anything I can do to help you?”
“Not particularly. I will not be long. I just wish to make some measurements and talk with the boy.”
“Sure. Just out of curiosity, Mr. . . .”
“Henker.”
“Henker, sorry. What is it you need to know and why?”
“What is your name?”
“Just call me Charlie.”
“Yes. Charlie. Are you interested in snapping necks, Charlie?”
“Well, sir, I can’t rightly say. I seen a few hangings here in Los Santos, but the marshal took care of those. I’m just wondering how someone like you can make someone like Harlow Mackelprang any deader. No offense, you understand.”
“No offense taken, Charlie.” He laughed and fished a bottle out of the pocket of his suit coat and pulled off a long swallow before continuing on.
“Hanging, you see, can be a terrible business if not performed properly. It is a matter of simple physics—get the drop right and the condemned is sent to hell in an instant with a broken neck. Figure it wrong, and one of two things can happen. Too short the drop, and the hanged man strangles, flopping around and kicking, dying slow and ugly. Too long the drop, and you can tear a man’s head clean off his body with all manner of blood and gore. Either way, you can see, is most unsatisfactory.”
“Yeah, I see what you mean. Them things ever happen to you?”
“Oh, yes. But not for a good long time. I learned from my mistakes. I am not as careful as some with my weights and measures, but I’ve a good eye and guarantee a good result.”
“Well, there won’t be anybody crying over your hanging Harlow Mackelprang, whether you do it up good or bad. Long as he’s dead, folks’ll be pleased. He’s right through there, Mr. Henker. C’mon, I’ll show you.”
I made the introductions and propped myself in the doorway while Henker questioned Harlow Mackelprang quietly. I couldn’t really hear much of what they said, except for a few horse laughs Henker let loose, and I didn’t pay much attention. After a while, Henker motioned the prisoner closer to the barred door, then reached through the bars to grab Harlow Mackelprang by the throat.
“Hey there!” I said, instantly upright. “What’s going on?”
“Don’t worry, kid,” Harlow Mackelprang said. “He’s just fitting me out for a noose. This cold-blooded sonofabitch will choke the life out of me with a rope, not his bare hands.”
“Thank you,” Henker said to him as he withdrew his hands. “I believe I now know all I need to know to snap your neck. I shall see you in the morning. For the last time. And I shall be interested to see if you can take your hanging like a man.” With that, he left Harlow Mackelprang standing in his cell and we passed back through to the office.
“Had me worried for a minute there,” I said.
“I am sorry, Charlie. I should have forewarned you. It is a normal procedure to determine the strength of a man’s neck muscles and the size of his neck. Those things are not always obvious. Nowadays I can guess at their height and weight and come close enough. If something does not look right, I will use a tape measure to take true measurements and weigh them with scales to be sure. But I do not often feel it is necessary, and I am not often wrong.”
I sort of hoped Henker would hang around. He had aroused my curiosity and I would have liked to question him some. But he swigged some more whiskey and left right away, leaving me with my curiosity unsatisfied.
From his manner, I suspected he wasted as little time as possible in killing his man so as not to interfere with his drinking. He was more likely to do his talking in a saloon rather than idle chitchat with the likes of me. I supposed I would get a good look at his handiwork come morning and that would have to do.
No sooner had I sat down in the marshal’s chair and propped my feet on his desk than the door opened again.
“Good evening, Charlie.”
“Althea! What are you doing here?”
“I cannot remain sequestered in my quarters all the time, Charlie. Even I must be out and about with my errands from time to time. You must admit that I strive for discretion and attempt to avoid soiling the reputation of Los Santos with my presence in public, but still, I do have to show my face sometimes.”
“That’s not what I meant and you know it. What I meant was, why are you here, at the jail?”
“I wish to visit one of your prisoners. Harlow Mackelprang.”
“Althea! What’s got into you? I’ve heard you say more than once you wish you’d never see him again.”
She didn’t seem to have a ready answer for that one. It was almost as if she didn’t know herself. As she thought it over, I allowed myself a good look at her.
Even though she was getting on in years for her line of work of professionally entertaining gentlemen callers—she had to be way up in her thirties—Althea was still a handsome woman and cut a striking figure. She was decked out in some pretty fancy duds. No plain housedresses for her. Her dress was a big, wide ruffled thing with lots of lace, sort of a pale purple in color. She wore a matching hat with a brim wider than a sombrero, and even carried a matching parasol all rolled up. Since the sun was already down, I figured it must be all for looks.
Studying her outfit made me think of what it covered. Like plenty of young men hereabouts, I had enjoyed Althea’s favors—for a price, of course. Althea, as a matter of fact, introduced me to the earthly pleasures womankind offered. So I knew of the delights concealed beneath those few thin layers of fabric.
Then a picture of Becky wormed its way into my consciousness. I was a married man now, and I had best keep my thoughts where they belonged. Plenty of married men were among Althea’s patrons, and I knew it. But I was determined not to be one of them. But as they say, time will tell. Time will tell.
“I can’t say,” Althea finally said. “I don’t really know myself. It is something I feel compelled to do. Perhaps it will help me put bad memories to rest.”
“Well, this is unusual. I’m not sure what Marshal would say. But I reckon it’ll be all right. You want I should keep an eye on you while you’re back there?”
“No, thank you, Charlie. I would appreciate privacy.”
“There’s another prisoner back there, you know.”
“I suppose that will be as it must be.”
“I’ll be right here, Althea. If anything goes wrong, you just sing out and I’ll be right there. I can’t abide the thought of you coming to any more harm at the hand of Harlow Mackelprang than you already have.”
She glided through the door in that classy way she has of moving, and I had to remind myself again to keep my mind at home where it belonged.
Within minutes, she stormed back into the office in an altogether different sort of locomotion and was out the front door in a flash. She didn’t say a word and didn’t even look my way. I barely had time to notice that her skin was flushed bright clean over her clenched jaw and on up over most of her face, and that she was breathing tight and fast through flared nostrils, almost like a snorty horse.
Figuring something unpleasant had happened, I beat it back into the lockup, fully intending to shoot Harlow Mackelprang dead if necessary.
It was immediately obvious that it would not be necessary. He was curled up on the floor of his cell whimpering and whining and clutching at his crotch. I guessed what Althea must have done to him, but did not bother to ask how or why she had done it. I figured he deserved it, whatever it was.
Once again I lowered myself into Marshal’s chair hoping for a spell of uninterrupted relaxation. Not too much time passed, however, before the front door rattled opened again. This time I didn’t have to wonder who it was or why they were there—it was the preacher, looking every bit the part in a black swallowtail coat and string tie over a white ruffle-front shirt. Come to think of it, there ain’t much difference in the look of a Bible-thumper and cardsharp.
I sent him on through, wondering wh
y he bothered showing up and thinking that whatever he did for Harlow Mackelprang, it wouldn’t be as fitting as what the ruffian had gotten from Althea. The preacher was back there for quite a spell, and I could hear him raise his voice from time to time. Now and then the other prisoner, Sweeney, would pipe up too. I wondered if they were ganging up on Harlow Mackelprang, or what—but I didn’t wonder about it enough to wander back and find out.
Instead, I shoved a few sticks of wood into the stove and dumped some more water into the coffeepot along with a handful of grounds. I figured I’d need several cups of coffee to make it through until morning, so’s I could attend the hanging with my eyes open. I wish it was some of that Arbuckle’s from the café. We didn’t even have any sugar here to take the edge off it. But it’ll have to do.
So once it was warm enough, I splashed out a cupful and put my feet up, wishing for something to help pass the time.
I sure wish Becky was here.
Or maybe Althea.
MARIANO
Harlow Mackelprang’s last supper just passed by.
Had I not been standing here by the door of the saloon watching the jailhouse down the way, I would not have known this thing. I would not have seen the deputy come out of the café, two doors down, carrying a tray covered with a cloth.
Had I not been standing just here just now, I would not have seen the gringo lawman stirring up dust and dodging horse manure as he angled across the street to the cárcel, passing through the door through which I myself passed yesterday.
Was it only yesterday? It seems so long ago. But at times like this, all time becomes one.
Yes. It was only yesterday.
“Whaddya want?” the marshal asked before I had even closed the door. I had caught him at his siesta, chair propped against the wall and stocking feet on the desk. I stood, head down, hat in hand, playing the lowly peon as he studied me through droopy eyelids.
Dropping his feet and the chair’s legs to the floor, he rubbed his face roughly with the palms of his hands and said, “I know you. You’re that greaser sumbitch runs with Harlow Mackelprang, ain’t you.”