by Rod Miller
“Is that important to you?”
“Hell, yes! All these people who can’t wait to see me hung ain’t gonna amount to nothing in this world. They think they’re so damn important, but you just wait. Once their bones are in the dirt, nobody will even remember they were alive. At least when Harlow Mackelprang did something crooked, he did it up big. Not like them petty crooks.”
“What do you mean?”
“You mean you ain’t seen it? What kind of newsman are you, can’t see what’s right under your nose?”
“I guess you will have to tell me about it.”
“Sure I will. Start right on the other side of that wall there. Marshal gets paid off by Althea every month. The saloon too, I think to keep his nose out of their crooked card games. Besides paying him off, they stand him to free drinks any time he’s thirsty. And just ask Costello or Lila over to the café when he last paid for a meal there.”
“Small potatoes, don’t you think?”
“Yeah, that’s what I said in the first place. It’s small-time stuff.”
“Who else?”
“Ask that sissy Tueller at the bank for a look at his books. He cheated me once, and I know I ain’t the only one. And he learned it from his uncle, old man Fargo.
“There’s more. Them over at the mercantile cheat everybody that comes in. Just a little bit, but it adds up. I’ve seen it.
“Know where Costello gets all that beef for the café? Well, I do, ’cause he got some of it from me. And they put all manner of stuff that ain’t liquor in the drinks at the saloon, besides cheatin’ at cards.
“Aah, what’s the use? They all steal from each other and nobody cares, long as they can smile and pretend it ain’t happening. But let old Harlow Mackelprang come along and it’s a different deal.”
He’s right, of course, about the petty graft and cheating. While I was not aware of some of what he related, much of it is common knowledge.
Even my own newspaper is not entirely innocent, shaving a few agate lines from advertisements here and there to save space, with the reduction in size neither acknowledged nor accompanied by a reduction in price.
But such insignificant wrongdoing is not the thing upon which journalistic careers are built. “Uncovering” such malfeasance in Los Santos would be met with a resounding yawn, if such reporting were even allowed to appear on the pages of the newspaper, which, I can assure you, it would not.
No, the exploits of Harlow Mackelprang are more newsworthy and more interesting. And his story is the horse I will ride to fame and fortune.
If I can just figure out the damn lead.
SWEENEY
Harlow Mackelprang’s last supper offered a welcome, if brief, respite from the rank odors normally present in this confining chamber.
Even now, I can imagine the sharp smell of sauerkraut with subtler undertones of beef and gravy. Sadly, it is only imagination, as the persistence of the aroma from a mere plate of food is no match for the years of accumulated stink and collected stench from unwashed men and their bodily functions with which I share this cell.
From a strictly culinary standpoint, his repast was a cruel reminder that biscuits and beans, served alternately with beans and biscuits, all washed down with foul and tepid water, comprise the sum total of the fare available to the average inmate in the Los Santos jail.
Harlow Mackelprang, of course, is not the average inmate. Even now, the gunman is on his way to the gallows to pay the ultimate price for his crimes. Thus, the young outlaw was allowed the courtesy of choosing the carte du jour for his final meal.
It is a shame in a way. The manner in which he bolted it down made it obvious that he lacked appreciation for the comestibles. And as lean as he is, it is likewise obvious that food is mere sustenance to him, rather than an agreeable indulgence. Much better to offer such fare to one such as I, who truly admires a well-cooked meal and whose corpulence corroborates the fact.
On the other hand, if the only escape from routine rations is the final meal prior to execution, beans and biscuits twice a day every day is entirely satisfactory. After four days, I suspect I have grown accustomed to the diet. I truly hope, however, that I am released from this cell before I begin to actually enjoy it.
I find myself, by the way, in the embarrassing condition of incarceration through no fault of my own. An unfortunate dispute over the terms of a business arrangement led to my internment. I assure you, however, that I will be cleared of wrongdoing and released immediately upon the opportunity to stand before the circuit judge and relate the circumstances of the disagreement.
The events leading to my present difficulties were set in motion upon my arrival in Los Santos a week ago Tuesday. After taking up lodgings in what passes for a hotel in this burg, I ordered my sample cases and trunk fetched from the railroad station, enjoyed a passable late breakfast at the café, then paid a visit to the local newspaper to place an order with the editor, Mr. Ford, for a display ad announcing my presence in the town and outlining, briefly, the opportunities my presence here provides.
Then I make it a practice to visit one or more of the banks in town and seek to interview the manager. This last has proved a useful part of my routine upon arriving in fresh territory, as I am often successful in ferreting out the identities of individuals with the assets and inclination to qualify as investors—investments being my line.
Among my offerings at present are a number of mineral-exploration-and-extraction firms, a few select ventures incorporated for the purpose of acquiring land for a variety of commercial purposes, including livestock grazing and the development of residential communities, some irrigation and canal enterprises, and a private railroad company currently surveying branch lines by which to spread prosperity from established main lines to outlying communities.
The security and protection available through life insurance policies are also among my portfolio of offerings.
From time to time, when other avenues aren’t producing, I have been known to promote patent medicines for a firm in the East.
And always and at every opportunity, I will show a beautifully made family Bible with gilt-edged pages and color plates illustrating pivotal scenes and events from the text. Although not particularly profitable, I consider Bible sales of utmost importance and view the reduced compensation that results as my personal contribution to the betterment of mankind and the civilization of the Western country.
It is one such Bible from my stock that the marshal has kindly allowed me to keep in my cell that has proved the only barrier between myself and insanity during my confinement here.
The holy tome has been my constant companion for years. The many idle hours I have spent aboard trains, in hotel rooms, in stagecoaches, and at campsites scattered far and wide across the land have resulted in my more-than-passing familiarity with the Good Book. I have perused its pages numerous times, and am conversant with its major themes as well as many of the subtleties and mysteries found among its pages.
But I have diverged from the intended path of my narrative.
As I stated earlier, once settled in at the hotel, I paid a visit to the local bank and requested an interview with the manager.
Frankly, he was less than helpful, seeming distracted throughout our conversation. When I offered to call at a more convenient time, as he seemed preoccupied just then, the young man—Tueller, by name—said that there wouldn’t likely be a better time, at least not for another week or so. Upon my further inquiries, he saw in me the opportunity to unburden himself to a sympathetic ear.
“These are trying times, Mr. Sweeney,” he said. “I am at present burdened with the training of a new clerk—the woman you just met—the lingering strain of testifying at a murder trial, the anxiety of witnessing the execution of the criminal five days from now, and the shock of recently watching the cold-blooded killing of a dear friend and associate within these very walls.”
For some time, he regaled me with the details. As he concluded, I off
ered my sympathy.
“A difficult time indeed. Is there some aid or assistance I might offer, Mr. Tueller?”
“Thank you, but I think not. Perhaps after the hanging I will be able to put all this behind me and get back to a more routine existence.”
“I certainly hope so. I certainly hope so,” I said. “I shall not trouble you with the details in these circumstances, Mr. Tueller, but allow me to say that I am at present authorized to offer a particularly prime opportunity for a discerning individual or individuals with the foresight—and the means—to invest in this potential bonanza.”
“I am not at liberty to divulge such information as it relates to the bank’s customers. Surely you are aware of that, Sweeney.”
“Certainly. Of course. I am not asking you to divulge any confidences, nor would I accept such information if offered.
“However, as the manager of the bank, you are no doubt aware of men of your acquaintance who wish to better their financial position. Such information is usually the subject of discussion in public houses and on the streets, but I have found that gentlemen in your position are more discerning and can save me the time it takes to distill such gossip, if you will, into useful leads.”
“I see. I suppose there is no harm in providing the names of local men whose prosperity is common knowledge. And I can name a few others whom I have heard—again, from public discussions and not from private conversations related to my position here or their deposits or dealings with the bank—have a desire to hasten their accumulation of capital.”
“Such information would be most appreciated, I assure you, Mr. Tueller. As a token of my appreciation, please accept this handsome copy of the Holy Bible. As you see, it is a beautifully gilded edition, enhanced copiously with colored works of art. It is as well the family-tree version with space provided to record your genealogy and the birth and baptismal dates of your children as well as other notable occasions. I am sure you will find it a useful and valuable addition to your home and family.”
“A generous offer, Sweeney, but one I must refuse. Not that I question its propriety. It is only that I have neither a family nor an affinity for religion.”
“Most unfortunate, Mr. Tueller. Perhaps a little browsing in your spare moments will bring about a change of heart—at least so far as developing an appreciation for its message.”
“I think not. I am not totally unfamiliar with its contents. It is just that they bring more confusion than comfort. And just now, I need comfort more than confusion.”
“As you wish. Perhaps I can still be of assistance. Upon my return to the hotel I shall send a messenger over with a twelve-ounce bottle of Doctor Wolff’s Formula. It is an exclusive preparation of medicinal herbs and other beneficial ingredients used to the benefit of many thousands on the European continent for many years. It will, I assure you, provide sufficient comfort to allow you to relax, even as it builds strength in the internal organs and bolsters your stamina both physically and emotionally.”
Tueller accepted that offer, if somewhat skeptically, then proceeded to relate the details of the financial histories and circumstances of a goodly number of his neighbors and customers. There were many prospects to choose from.
I chose badly.
I shall not belabor the details, all of which will be revealed in court. Briefly, from the list of prospects assembled, I opted to approach a gentleman named Fargo who had invested significant sums in a broad region of the territory centered on the community of Las Santos. Fargo is, in fact, the principal owner and retired manager of the local bank and, as I was informed later, Tueller’s uncle.
Upon gaining an audience with the financier, I presented him with a proposal to invest heavily in the Alta Paso Short Line Railway Company, an endeavor focused on laying track over a rugged mountain pass to connect a prosperous mining district with the main line of a major railroad.
Fargo was hesitant at first, being unfamiliar with the distant territory, as the project is located several hundred miles from Los Santos. My representations eventually proved persuasive, however, and I was pleased to leave the meeting with a sizable check in hand, a receipt for which was duly provided along with a provisional stock certificate issued pending the recording of the investment in Alta Paso’s books and issuance of officially certified stock documents.
Imagine my chagrin when the following morning the marshal knocked upon my hotel room door and asked that I accompany him to his office. Upon arrival there, I was confronted by Fargo, who accused me of being a liar, a cheat, and a swindler engaged in a confidence game.
According to Fargo’s version of events, immediately following our transaction he contacted by telegraph an acquaintance of his who serves on the board of the main-line railroad company through which the Alta Paso Short Line will establish a physical connection to the wider rail network.
This board member denied knowledge of any such arrangement or even the existence of the firm I represent, and pronounced the entire thing a fraud.
According to this gentleman’s representations to Mr. Fargo, numerous investigations had been made into just such a rail line, but all had concluded that the mountains are so steep and rugged that the venture is not economically feasible.
Fargo’s position in the community being what it is, the marshal accepted his accusations and insinuations as sufficient cause for my arrest, and would not even allow explanation on my part. I was seized on the spot and have been held in this jail cell subsequently, awaiting the arrival of the circuit judge.
Even the judge, contacted by wire, approved of my incarceration and denied me bail. Obviously, His Honor is biased toward, if not in the pocket of, my accuser. Nevertheless, I shall welcome my appearance before him and am confident of my subsequent release. I will, as a sign of good faith, offer to return the aforementioned check to Mr. Fargo and shall release him from his contractual obligations and let bygones be bygones. It is not my intention, nor has it ever been my method, to encourage prospects to invest in ventures in which they are not confident, nor to maintain an investment position with which they are not entirely comfortable. Within, of course, the bounds of contract law.
In hindsight, perhaps I should have proposed that Fargo invest in an irrigation project in the Arapaho River Valley in which I have an interest. Or, given his experience with the vagaries related to the location and extraction of deposits of valuable minerals, I might have presented him with one or even several of the hopeful mining prospects I represent. The risks associated with railroading, it seems, are a bit rich for his taste, resulting in this instance in a case of cold feet.
But be that as it may, I have no alternative at present to biding my time. With the permanent absence of Harlow Mackelprang pending, it will be a lonely existence.
We have not conversed a great deal, he and I, over the hours and days we have spent together. Not that there hasn’t been talk, you understand—on the contrary, Harlow Mackelprang has talked a good deal. But there has been little in the way of conversation.
Asking Harlow Mackelprang a question, I have learned, is tantamount to releasing a rabbit before a pack of hounds. Once the question is asked, he cannot be stopped or redirected in his answers and he pursues the topic relentlessly.
Consequently, he has told me much about his criminal activities.
He does not deny responsibility. In fact, he relishes the notoriety that has resulted from his misdeeds. He takes a certain perverse pride in being known and feared across the territory, and views it as a significant accomplishment.
He feels no guilt for the harm he has done, nor does he see his acts as criminal or even wrong. He claims the people of Los Santos—and all humankind, in fact—deserve whatever he has given them, and that his crimes are but small repayment for the evils perpetrated against him.
And so I am of the firm opinion that Harlow Mackelprang views himself as the innocent in all this, and is not troubled in the least by guilt or remorse.
Twisted as it may see
m to some, he will meet his Maker—in whom he most decidedly does not believe—with a clear conscience. He has related to me that since killing his first man, his sleep has not been troubled in the least, nor have additional deaths at his hand changed that fact.
A visitor, a compatriot of his, I believe, called Mariano, scoffed at my suggestion that Harlow Mackelprang, who was napping at the time, slept the sleep of the innocent.
But such is, in fact, the case.
While the man is patently not innocent in the eyes of the law, and is decidedly guilty in the eyes of his fellow citizens, and is certainly a mortal sinner of the worst degree in the eyes of God, Harlow Mackelprang, in his own mind, has done no wrong.
That, at least, is my assessment of the situation. And despite my presence in this cell suggesting contrariwise, I am adept at judging human character and motivations, and must continuously cultivate these abilities in order to earn my daily bread.
Mariano, whom I mentioned earlier, was, to my knowledge, the only visitor to these quarters prior to last evening. Since then, it has been a virtual parade of characters the likes of which one finds richly represented in the pages of the New Testament.
He has been visited, at various times, by men bearing gifts, by the lame, by a Pharisee, by a scribe, by the executioner, even by a woman taken in adultery.
And now, Harlow Mackelprang has been taken out by the authorities to be killed.
Please do not misinterpret the foregoing statement.
It would be preposterous, of course, to draw comparisons between this man and Jesus Christ, the hero of the New Testament being truly innocent while Harlow Mackelprang is innocent only in his own twisted mind.
Nevertheless, in cases where a life is to be taken, one cannot help but recall Christ’s admonition, “He that is without sin among you, let him cast the first stone.”
Every one of Harlow Mackelprang’s visitors came here to cast stones, and none offered so much as a kind word to comfort him while in prison, as the Master commands.