by Rod Miller
The frightened team ran on down the road some three miles before they were spent. All the way, they dragged along the dying, then dead near-side wheeler, and what life may have been left in the shotgun guard was rubbed out in the ruts and potholes in the rough wagon road.
The passengers in the coach, a mine officer’s wife and daughter setting out on a visit to her folks in Ohio, were so frightened by the whole affair that she sent word to her husband that they may never come back. She claims the remembered sound of Harlow Mackelprang’s boot steps overhead on that coach roof still wakes her up screaming in the middle of the night.
The worst thing was, I got a report about six months ago about Harlow Mackelprang getting drunk and disorderly up north a ways in Madera. That place ain’t really a town, just a roadhouse, so there’s no formal law there. I guess that’s why he wasn’t afraid of being arrested while hanging around for days at a time.
Anyway, word was he got surlier than usual when he got stewed one day and was annoying folks, so the bartender—a man name of Murphy, whose place it was—smacked him on the head with a sap and locked him in a shed out back to sober him up. After a good deal of hollering and pounding, he was let loose the next day, given his guns, and told not to come back.
But he did come back. He waited until the middle of the night when everything was quiet, and he sneaked into that man’s bedroom and hit him over the head with a stove poker. When Murphy woke up he was in the saloon, bound hand and foot and roped to a chair. Once he got his bearings, Murphy saw that his wife and their only overnight guest were also tied to chairs.
The details of what happened next aren’t fit for human consumption so I won’t go into them much. Suffice it to say that Harlow Mackelprang shot the lodger in the back of the head.
“Just so you and the lady know I mean business,” he said to Murphy.
Then he ripped the nightclothes off the woman, and Murphy had to watch while unspeakably filthy things were done to his wife. Finally, Harlow Mackelprang gut-shot Murphy twice so the woman could watch him bleed out and die.
“I guess that’ll teach him not to mess around with Harlow Mackelprang,” he told the woman before leaving her there to be found by freighters who happened by the next day.
Like I said, I have known Harlow Mackelprang about as long and as well as anyone, and I never guessed he would come to such a bad end or cause so much trouble along the way. Oh, I knew—everybody in town knew—that he would come to no good. But I didn’t imagine I’d be seeing his name on so many wanted posters for so many killings.
Nor did I imagine I would be the one to escort him to the gallows and stand by while the hangman pulls the lever that will drop him through the door to hell.
Matter of fact, I did not even imagine that I would have to put up with people like Harlow Mackelprang when I took this lawman job. For that matter, I never even planned to be a lawman.
My life was in the Army, where I spent a dozen years as a private soldier following the routine path of postings and promotions, waiting for a chance to distinguish myself. Which finally happened when I was just shy of thirty years old—but not in the way I hoped.
It was while my cavalry outfit was assigned to Fort Tecumseh up in Indian Territory, and what happened was one of those silly accidents that defy explanation. We were saddling up for patrol and I was pulling the slack out my cinch when a dogfight broke out.
Them useless curs were everywhere at once, including among and around our tethered mounts. There were three of them in the fight, but they made as much racket as three times that many. Their rolling and spinning and growling and yowling spooked more than a few horses, including mine, and he managed to knock me over with his hindquarters with all his hopping around. While I was down, another horse (felt more like a whole herd of them) stomped me up one side and down the other.
After spending a number of weeks in the infirmary healing from my “wounds,” I walked out with a limp from a mashed-up knee that’s stiff to this day. Oh, it has some bend to it, enough to sit a saddle. But it could not then, nor can it yet, stand up to the long hours of horseback that cavalry duty requires. Nor did my gimpy leg equip me for service as a dragoon or a foot soldier. Which left a desk job, for which I had neither the rank, the qualification, nor the inclination.
So I quit the service of my country, and through circumstance and happenstance found myself in Los Santos with a badge pinned to my shirt.
When it comes to towns, Los Santos ain’t nothing special. If not for a more-or-less-permanent supply of water from springs that form the headwaters of a creek (although we call it a river), it probably wouldn’t be here at all. But when they laid rails through this country over to one of the mining districts, this was one of the few places to take on water and the town is the result.
Having a source for supplies made it easier for the stock-raising outfits hereabouts, and there’s even farms along the creek bottom for miles downstream until the river peters out and the desert soaks it up.
All in all, a law-abiding place. Oh, now and then I would have to lock up a cowhand from one of the outlying ranches for blowing off too much steam, and miners passing through sometimes got too rough.
But most of the traffic through here was salesmen and business types on the way to and from the mines over in the mountains. So for the most part it was a pretty quiet life for the law in Los Santos. As much as anything, we were here for appearances.
I won’t pretend that all that changed when Harlow Mackelprang came to town. Hell, he was just a five-year-old kid at the time. But the seeds were planted, and it wasn’t long before the little brat became an irritant—you know, like a pebble in your boot.
He showed up here with his dad nineteen, twenty years ago. He didn’t have no ma. Apparently, she had took sick and died up in the mining towns a few years before, when Harlow Mackelprang weren’t but a toddler. His dad had took it hard and took up drinking.
Though he swears it ain’t so, drunkenness probably played a part in the mining accident that hurt his back and left him unfit for any kind of hard work. His hard drinking wasn’t affected. So about the only work he ever does is cleaning up after folks—swabbing out the saloon, keeping the café and the hotel clean, mucking stalls at the stable, mopping up here at the jail, and suchlike.
But he never lets working interfere with his real job, that of being an alcoholist.
As you could guess, he did not devote much time to the proper raising of his boy. Harlow Mackelprang wandered the streets and fended for himself best he could.
He would beg a little something to eat out behind the café from time to time, or at some kind woman’s back door. He hadn’t the sense to be grateful about it, though, so that kind of kindness tapered off and he replaced it by thieving food.
Kitchen gardens were fair game, and he’d steal eggs right out from underneath a hen. Milk from the cooling house, spuds from a root cellar, meat from a smokehouse—it all tasted good to Harlow Mackelprang and he wouldn’t hesitate to help himself.
From stealing food, the boy graduated to stealing anything that wasn’t nailed down. Some of it so strange and useless to him that he must have stole it purely out of meanness.
Why, he once stole a small keg of nails from the mercantile! That mystery wasn’t solved until nearly a year later when someone happened upon the busted keg in a dry wash outside town. The nails were scattered from hell to breakfast, just laying out there in the dirt turning to rust—as much as anything can rust in this country.
But the strangest thing he ever took was old Detmer’s fiddle. Any time that old man tucked that instrument under his chin you could count on a good time. So folks was right put out when that fiddle was found, the morning after a schoolhouse dance, smashed to bits and stuffed into a rain barrel down by the train station.
Of course no one saw Harlow Mackelprang take it. No one hardly ever saw him take anything. But you just knew it was that kid, if you know what I mean.
It wasn’t jus
t thieving either. He’d bust up things too. I can’t even tally how many windows he smashed. Once he got into the schoolhouse at night (one of the few times he ever set foot in the place after being tipped over in the outhouse), and upset desks and book presses, scattered papers, spilled inkwells, and ripped up books.
I said he didn’t go to school much, but that don’t mean he wasn’t around there. He’d steal lunches from anyone littler than him and start fights and pester kids at recess. He even took to “borrowing” the out-of-town kids’ horses during class and he’d use them hard, racing around out in the desert.
When it came to being mean to animals, it wasn’t just horses with Harlow Mackelprang. He would torment dogs about any time he’d find one tied up, so it couldn’t get at him. No one could ever prove it, but everyone knew it was him who would sneak around after dark and pour coal oil on barn cats, then light them afire. Every now and then a sheep or a cow would turn up dead, sometimes all cut up and mutilated right in someone’s backyard, or cowhands would come across cattle that had been shot for no reason other than target practice, it seemed.
Quite often, folks would hear something outside their houses at night or think they’d see a face at a window, but by the time they got out the door, there was nothing to find but the sound of footsteps running off in the dark.
Althea only caught him at it twice, but she complained regularly that Harlow Mackelprang was all the time peeking in at her whilst she was entertaining guests. Not that Althea was modest, understand—but her guests liked their privacy and she feared his skulking around was bad for business. I can only imagine what kind of an education a growing boy might get peering through those windows.
Well, I could go on and on about Harlow Mackelprang’s adventures as a budding criminal. I suppose I already have. Now here I sit watching him shovel down the last supper he’ll eat in this world.
I wonder how he’ll behave in the morning. It’s possible, I suppose, he could face it like a man. More likely, he’ll snivel and whine like the low-down coward he is. I’m about halfway sorry I don’t get to hang him myself. Then again, it’ll be nice to just sit back and relax and watch this professional neck-stretcher the judge sent for do the deed without me having to worry about it.
When Charlie gets back, I think I’ll mosey over to the café and fill my own gullet. That’s one good thing about being the law in this town. When it comes to paying for meals at the café, I don’t offer and they don’t ask. After that, I think I could maybe use another drink.
Morning can’t get here soon enough.
MCNULTY
Harlow Mackelprang’s last supper will sit a lot easier on his stomach if mixed with a little whiskey.
Mariano just saw the deputy taking a meal tray over to the jail, so I’ll just mosey on over and slip him a flask. I won’t stay long. Just long enough to let him know that we haven’t forgotten him.
See, Mariano went over and visited our so-called leader yesterday, and the damn fool thinks we’re going to bust him out of jail. Mariano didn’t correct the error of his thinking, and neither will I. Let him think we’re just waiting till the time is right.
“Barkeep, how’s about you take a bottle of the cheapest, foulest coffin varnish you got in this place and pour this little flask full of it.”
Benito smiled at me from his place next to me where we were leaning against the bar. His smile is wide-open and guileless, and leads plenty to believe the man is simpleminded. In a way, I suppose he is. According to Mariano, Benito ain’t said a word in all his born days. They come from the same village down south of the border, and they’re kin of some sort, cousins maybe. Primo hermanos, I think they call it.
It’s not so much that Benito is simpleminded, I think. It’s just that he don’t have no idea about conniving or lying or taking advantage. It’s all very basic with him, see. If you tell Benito to do something and he gives his nod that he understands and agrees, it gets done and he just can’t imagine how it wouldn’t. Which is good, as far as it goes.
Trouble is, he expects others look at things the same way, which of course they don’t. And that makes it easy for devious and underhanded types to take advantage of Benito. So he bears watching. Mostly Mariano takes care of that, them being kin and all. But I’ve got a liking for Benito myself, and so I watch out for him too.
Him not being able to talk just makes people all the more certain he’s stupid. I can relate to that myself. It is my natural tendency to keep my own counsel, and I lean toward shyness too, so getting a word out of me ain’t all that common. A few drinks will oil up my tongue, though, and just now I’m in a talkative mood—which would be considered taciturn in most men.
The point is, though, not saying much leads folks to believe you ain’t thinking much. At least that’s my experience. Mostly, I’m just ignored—a stupid old man who ain’t got a lick of sense.
That’s how Harlow Mackelprang sees me. During our time together, I was just somebody to insult and order around.
“McNulty, once we’re in that payroll office, you keep the clerk covered while I empty the safe. And don’t screw it up, old man,” is how he would talk to me. “Even someone dumb as you ought to be able to handle that.”
Or: “Listen, you old fool, I’m the one giving orders around here and don’t you forget it. If ever I want to know what you know about robbing stagecoaches, I’ll ask. Till then, you just keep your mouth shut and don’t confuse me. I’m thinking—which, of course, is something you don’t know nothing about, McNulty,” he’d say.
And: “You dumb shit, McNulty! I know we didn’t get much of a haul off that train—but I gave them folks a good scare, and that’s as good as gold in my book. And some of these days they’ll be telling their grandkids they got robbed by the notorious gunman Harlow Mackelprang. So you just shut your pie hole and don’t forget I’m the one who decides what gets robbed by this outfit and what don’t. Dumb old bastard.”
So me and Benito were nothing but target practice for Harlow Mackelprang’s mouth. Mariano fared a little better, but him being Mexican was enough to convince Harlow Mackelprang that he was stupid too. But he was a little bit afraid of Mariano—as much as a crazy man can be afraid of anything. See, Mariano almost shot him once on account of a dispute they had over some horses that needed to be put out of their misery. Harlow Mackelprang thought it was a waste of ammunition, and Mariano came within about a gnat’s eyebrow of wasting more ammo on Harlow Mackelprang.
He wasn’t all that sure about me either. He’d seen me skin my old smoke pole a time or two on jobs, so he was aware I weren’t no slouch as a gun-hand. Fact is, if he had bothered to ask around, which he didn’t, he’d of knowed that I had acquired something of a reputation in that line of work. Of course, that was before all this country was crawling with settlers and all civilized and such. Used to be a man could be appreciated for his abilities. Nowadays, they’d as soon lock you up or run you off.
Anyway, since me and Benito and Mariano all kind of sided together, Harlow Mackelprang never quite trusted any of us. I don’t think he ever slept with both eyes shut the whole three years we rode together. Especially after he killed Catlin, who had been our leader before.
Hell, we had a good thing going, back before Harlow Mackelprang. I suppose between remembering how good it had been and hoping it would get that good again, we never got around to killing the crazy fool. Now we don’t have to bother. He’ll be dead enough come morning, and it won’t be by our hands—at least not directly. But he’ll be dead and maybe things can get back to how they was for me and Benito and Mariano.
I’m hoping that by this time tomorrow we’ll be well out into the desert, heading back to that little green valley way out to hell and gone in the middle of nowhere that not many know about. Far as I’m concerned, the three of us can just stay out there forever living the easy life.
Hell, men like us, we can knock over a freight wagon or rob a stagecoach now and then to pick up a little money for supplies. W
on’t take much, with just the three of us. Maybe we can even convince a wore-out whore to come out there and cook for us and see to our comforts and whatnot. And without Harlow Mackelprang killing people and shooting things up just to get his name in the paper, no one will come looking for us very hard. They’ll never find us out there anyway.
The little flask was full, and the bartender screwed the cap on and handed it back to me.
“You sure that’s the worst stuff you’ve got?” I ask him.
“That it is, Uncle. Once I spilled a wee drop of that elixir on me bar and it biled the lacquer clean off.”
I tucked the flask into the waistband of my pants and buttoned my old duck jacket to hide it, and gave Benito a wink and started for the jail. Mariano was still parked outside the saloon door where he has been for an hour, leaning against the wall to keep it from tipping over, I guess.
“So Harlow Mackelprang ought to be thirsty about now, don’t you think?”
“Si, amigo. As I said, the young deputy has taken him the meal. He probably has his snout in the trough by now, snorting like el puerco.”
“You think that marshal will let me see him?” I say.
“It was no trouble for me. I think the marshal suspects something, but he does not know what. Just act muy estupido and it should go well.”
That lawman looked me over good when I stepped into his office.
“What the hell do you want, old man?”
“Well, sir, I was hoping to see Harlow Mackelprang.”
“Know him, do you?”
“Used to.”
“Who are you?”
“Huh?”
“Your name, old man. What’s your name?”
I figured the name McNulty might appear on some reward dodgers, so I wasn’t going to give him that. “My name? Oh. Well. My name. Most folks call me McLoney.”
“McLoney, huh? You wouldn’t happen to know a feller named McNulty who used to ride with that outlaw Catlin, then took up with Harlow Mackelprang, now would you?”