The Hanging at Leadville / Firefall

by Cameron Judd

  “Good evening, Parson,” Bloom said, with a slight tone of sarcasm. Peabody was usually called “Parson” in the town of Gomorrah. “Right windy weather this evening. The kind of wind that dries things out, and we’re dry enough already. But I do believe a storm may blow up before morning…Lord willing.”

  Peabody, who was in a particularly testy mood, stopped and examined Bloom through a bleary, critical eye. “You call me ‘Parson,’ and you speak of the Lord, but you do both only in mockery,” he said. “Always it’s this way with you, every time you see me. God will judge you, Jed Bloom. Mark my words. He’ll judge you, as He’ll soon judge every mocker in this wicked town.”

  Bloom smiled around his pipestem, puffing smoke. He’d heard this refrain often from Peabody, who always saw divine judgment on its way. “Reckon?”

  “You may be assured, sir.”

  “Now, why do you reckon the Lord would go judging me, a man who on his best day never professed to be no more than a common piece of human flotsam, when He’s got such a stronger condemnation he can make in your case?”

  “In my case? Explain yourself, sir,” Peabody demanded sternly.

  “Why, it ought to be evident! Here I am, a sinner who pretends to be nothing more than that, and there you are, just as great a sinner, but who claims to be a saint. So which of us is the most deserving of judgment, the man who is honest about what he is, or the one who pretends to be what he is not?”

  “We are all sinners. The difference between us is that some of us are saved by God’s grace, and others refuse that salvation,” Peabody replied. “I don’t refuse it.”

  “Yet you keep on drinking. Doesn’t the Bible say that no drunkard will inherit the kingdom of God?” Bloom remembered this bit of information from Sunday meetings from his long-past boyhood.

  “My drinking is medicinal, like the wine that Paul himself told Timothy to drink for the sake of his stomach. It is entirely appropriate when done for that purpose, and in moderation,” answered Peabody.

  Bloom laughed. “Moderation? You call getting skunk-drunk four nights out of five ‘moderation’?”

  “I do not get drunk, sir.”

  “Why, you’re drunk right now! And you’ll be drunker soon. It’s the same nearly every night.”

  Peabody’s intoxication would be evident to any who saw him, but Peabody had blinded himself to it. In his years of struggling between the faith that called him and the vice that ensnared him, Peabody had become expert in self-deception.

  Lifting his thick brows, he said, “Beware, Mr. Bloom. When you mock the servant, you mock the master. And my master is the Almighty God Himself, the maker of the stars and the judge of men.” He waved at the darkening sky, marked tonight by an abundance of shooting stars. Only the eastern half of the sky was visible, though; clouds were thickening in the western portion, spreading toward the east like a blanket slowly drawing over the sky.

  Bloom shook his head and drew the last puff out of his pipe bowl, then knocked the ashes out on the ground. He was tired and fast losing interest in Peabody. “Sorry if I’ve offended you, Parson. But take some advice from me, if you would: If you’re going to go on harping at people about their own sorry ways, at least show some sign you know how to live the way you ought to yourself. People at least will respect that. Like the preacher McCree, you know. I don’t go to his preaching services, don’t pretend to follow his religion, but I do respect the man. There’s nothing false about him.”

  Mention of McCree made Peabody bristle. “I think I have the respect of this town as much as Mr. McCree,” he said. For Peabody, McCree was always “mister,” no ministerial title attached. Peabody, though unordained and unschooled, viewed himself as the only legitimate preacher in Gomorrah, McCree as a pretender to the throne.

  “Parson, pardon my free speaking, but you’re not respected by nobody. You’re held as a laughingstock.”

  “Why are you saying such hateful things, Mr. Bloom?”

  Bloom sighed. “I don’t know. It’s of no consequence to me, really. Ah, just go on with you. Forget what I said. Have yourself a good evening. I’m going to turn in.”

  Peabody hitched his satchel strap into a more comfortable position. “I forgive your mockery, Mr. Bloom. You know not what you do. But God may not forgive you! His patience with you and the wickedness in this town is approaching its end!” With a dramatic toss of his head, he headed for the saloon. Peabody always liked to end his conversations with a dramatic flourish.

  Bloom refilled the pipe and watched Peabody stagger off, the pouch and the hidden Bible swinging at his side.

  “Takes all kinds, I guess,” he muttered. He rose slowly and entered his dwelling.

  Another shooting star fired north to south across the eastern sky. Off in the west, thunder rumbled and the clouds continued their slow eastward creep.

  Peabody had just reached the saloon door when a man came bursting out toward him, moving clumsily sideways with legs and arms flailing as he struggled to keep his balance. He might have succeeded had Peabody not been where he was. The man collided with Peabody. Both of them collapsed, limbs entangling. Peabody dropped his satchel and had the wind knocked out of him as the other man’s elbow rammed him hard in the upper belly.

  “Damn!” the man bellowed at Peabody. “You again! Are you to always be in my way?”

  The man was Gibbon Rankin, known to his few friends as Gib and to most others by names that would not be spoken in decent society—not that Gomorrah had enough decent society for it to matter.

  A burly saloonkeeper named Decker Smith, who had just evicted Rankin forcibly from his establishment, threw out a deck of cards after him. They scattered and rained down around Rankin and Peabody.

  “There’s your marked deck, Mr. Gib Rankin, and if you know what’s good for you, you’ll bring it into my place of business no more! I’ll not have cheating within my walls.”

  Peabody found his breath again. “Get off me!” he gasped at Rankin.

  Rankin was already struggling to disengage himself. He pushed up and away from Peabody, dusting himself off like he’d been fouled by touching the man.

  It wasn’t the first time the pair had literally run into one another in almost this same manner. A week before, Peabody had stumbled around a corner and right into Rankin. Both had managed to keep their footing that time, but Rankin had given Peabody a cursing, and Peabody had given Rankin a sermon in turn.

  Peabody got up and shook his clothing back into place. He picked up his dropped Bible pouch, brushed it off, and slung it over his shoulder. Like an offended king, he stepped toward the saloon door, ready to enter.

  The saloonkeeper, along with a crowd of patrons who’d gathered in the doorway behind him, craning their necks to look out, blocked him. “And where do you think you’re going, Parson?” Decker Smith asked.

  Peabody, puzzled, stepped back. “Inside. I’m feeling poorly. I need a tonic.”

  “No. No more ‘tonic’ for you here. New rules in this house: no more cheating gamblers, and no more drinking preachers, especially those who run up tabs they can’t pay. Spelled out clearly, that means no more of you, Gib Rankin, and no more of you, Parson.”

  The rabble behind Decker Smith raised a cheer at his words. Most of them despised Rankin and Peabody equally. Besides, a good confrontation was always entertaining to watch in any situation.

  “Throw ’em out of town!” someone called. “Send both of ’em down the mountain!”

  Similar cries arose, and out of the saloon the half-drunk miners spilled out the doorway past Smith. They encircled Peabody and Rankin. Both had been burrs under the saddles of most men of Gomorrah, in their distinctive ways. Rankin, the gambler, had cheated more than a few men, and Peabody, the preacher, had thrown unwanted, hypocritical sermons into too many faces, too many times.

  Rankin idly picked at a tooth with the nail of his little finger and tried to look above it all. Parson Peabody, not as suave, glared around at the encircling men, di
sbelieving, and quite offended that he, a man of God, would be treated so shabbily.

  “Let’s take them out and beat the hell out of both of them!” suggested one of the drunker miners. “And go fetch Rankin’s partners—we’ll beat the hell out of them, too!”

  This suggestion caught fire quickly. Several men advanced threateningly, eager for violence.

  Parson Peabody stumbled back, lips moving without words, face going white.

  “Hold! Hold on here!” a voice with a noticeable Scottish lilt called from outside the circle and back on the street.

  Every man turned to look.

  A gray-haired man, clad in gray, pushed through and stood between Rankin and Peabody, hands lifted. This was James McCree, Scotsman and clergyman of a far more conventional variety than was Forrest Peabody. He was a minister assigned to preach the gospel to a raucous mining town—not a position designed to gain him many friends in Gomorrah. But he’d proven himself a strong and good man, and therefore enjoyed influence and respect even among the rowdy and profane element that had given the town its wicked reputation, and its name. But he was everything that “Parson” Forrest Peabody was not and secretly wanted to be, and therefore Peabody despised him.

  “Reverend, this is none of your concern,” Decker Smith said.

  “It’s my concern indeed when I hear men talking, and seemingly quite seriously, about hauling men away to ‘beat the hell’ out of them,” McCree replied. “What’s going on here?”

  “I’ll tell you, sir!” one man said, stepping up to face McCree. “What’s going on is that we’re all damned tired of Rankin and his marked decks and his bottom-dealing! And we’re tired as well of being harped upon by this whiskey-guzzling scripture-spouter, too!” He waved contemptuously at Peabody. “The idea has come up to run these scoundrels out of town, and I, for one, favor the notion strongly.”

  The crowd, growing as the hubbub attracted attention, rumbled its approval, and surged toward Rankin, Peabody, and McCree.

  Rankin’s hand crept toward the inside of his coat and the hidden pistol he always carried. But he didn’t dare actually produce it among a group of hostile men, some of whom also carried hidden pistols, and so he wound up frozen in a Napoleonic pose that only made him look all the more haughty.

  McCree lifted his hands again. “Hold! Hold! If we’re to throw out these scoundrels, let’s at least do it in the right fashion.”

  Decker Smith, after a moment of stunned silence, said, “You agree to running these two out of town, Reverend?”

  “Of course I do. Why shouldn’t I? Rankin and his partners have lowered the moral climate of this place since they arrived—and lowering the moral climate of Gomorrah is no small achievement. And Peabody there, poor fellow, does nothing but make a mockery out of a faith that I take seriously. I’d be glad to see them go. But I want no talk of beating! Let’s do this as civilized men.”

  For once, the Reverend McCree had the full attention of the hard-drinking miners of Gomorrah: a state of affairs he’d never really expected to see. But it didn’t last long.

  “Look there!” one of the crowd yelled, pointing. “There’s Rankin’s compadres right yonder!”

  Thomas Shafter and Otto Dorner, perpetual companions of Rankin and of his moral ilk, were walking cautiously toward the crowd, curious about what was happening. With them was a woman, usually seen at Rankin’s side instead of theirs.

  She had been beautiful once; shadows of it remained even yet, particularly in those rare moments when she smiled. Her age was hard to determine, but she’d left her girlhood behind long ago. She’d come to town with Rankin, Shafter, and Dorner, but had seemed attached to Rankin in particular. Seldom speaking and with dark, often-averted eyes that suggested mystery, she was an object of curiosity in Gomorrah. Because of her dark hair and complexion, she was sometimes called “the Gypsy” by the miners. Rankin himself called her “Princess,” and most assumed she was his lover, maybe even his wife.

  The three newcomers were quickly swept in by the miners; they, and Rankin, were pushed into the center of the circle.

  “Tar and feather them all!” one man suggested. “Ride them on a rail out of town!”

  “No need for tar and feathers,” Reverend McCree said. “We’re civilized men here. We’ll send them out of town, never to return. That’s good enough.”

  Peabody threw back his head. “Am I to understand you want to run me out of this town…with them?” He gestured at Rankin and companions.

  “I’m glad you comprehend our position with such clarity of mind, Parson Peabody,” McCree said, smiling.

  Peabody snorted. “And you claim to be a representative of the Most High! If you were what you pretend to be, you’d recognize a fellow man of the Lord!”

  “And if you were what you claim, you’d not live the life of a common drunkard,” McCree replied. Then, to the group around him, he said, “In the name of God and common decency, men, let’s send these scoundrels on their way! But do show the woman the respect due her sex.”

  With a roar of agreement, the drunken raff of Gomorrah, led by, of all things, a minister, grasped their victims, and in one great group, herded them toward the road that led down the mountain and out of town.

  Chapter 2

  Parson Peabody was livid. He’d never felt so insulted, so misused.

  The worst was not the eviction itself. Peabody knew that prophets were often excluded and persecuted. The worst was that these men seemed to view him as on a level no higher than Rankin and his partners, who were human vermin if ever Peabody had seen them. It was insulting, very nearly blasphemous. But for now he held his peace, determined to follow the biblical example and be led away with a quiet dignity, like a sheep to slaughter.

  With McCree at their head, the gang of miners prodded their victims out of town and down the long road that led to the ridge-and-valley region below, filled with ranches, then eventually on to Fort Brandon, a military outpost some miles away.

  Rankin was clearly infuriated by this ouster, his usual bland dignity losing hold. “This is outrageous!” he bellowed. “I can’t leave Gomorrah now—I’m awaiting an important meeting!”

  “I don’t think anyone is listening to you, Mr. Rankin,” McCree said.

  “But I’m to meet a very important journalist soon! Brady Kenton himself!” Rankin went on. “Damnation, man, it’s taken me a long time and lot of effort to arrange this meeting, and now I’m to be deprived of it! Look; I can prove what I say is true—I have a wire from him, right here in my pocket!”

  “No one is interested,” McCree said.

  “This is outrageous! Utterly unfair!”

  “It’s a difficult life we all must lead,” McCree said.

  “Damn you, psalm-singer, you don’t understand the problem you’re creating for me! If I miss this meeting, then I may lose my chance to—”

  Peabody tripped and fell with a loud grunt, drawing all attention away from Rankin.

  McCree reached down and offered Peabody a hand.

  Peabody, overcome by temper, refused it and rose by himself. He faced the group, and in the dimming light of dusk, leveled his finger at them and all but shouted into their faces.

  “In the name of God, I shake the dust of your wicked town from my feet! In the name of God, I declare to you that the Lord is not mocked, and will not forgive this sin against his servant!”

  McCree said, “Oh, Peabody, do be quiet. Don’t embarrass yourself!”

  Peabody was like a man transformed. He turned and aimed his finger into McCree’s face. “You, you false prophet, you mocker of the true speaker of God’s voice, you jealous liar, you Pharisee…all that awaits you is the fire of God’s judgment. This night you will be destroyed! This night your soul will be required of you!”

  McCree, despite his utter disbelief in anything Peabody had to say, was nevertheless somewhat taken aback by this unexpectedly venemous outburst. Peabody spoke so intensely that his words carried a surprising sense of wei
ght.

  “This is nonsense,” muttered Rankin.

  Peabody wasn’t finished. He looked around the group as a whole, swinging that trembling finger.

  “This night the fire of God will fall! Like the Gomorrah of old, this town will burn with a fire like that of hell itself! If you are wise, you will flee…you will flee now!”

  Now McCree grew angry. It was an affront to all decency that such a worm as Peabody should actually pretend to prophesy in the name of God.

  “Hush this chatter, Peabody! Away with you!” McCree said, his Scottish accent intensifying in his anger. “All of you, get away from this town! Don’t return!”

  “Flee!” Peabody shouted. “Flee from the wrath of God!”

  Rankin rolled his eyes. “God help us,” he muttered.

  Peabody seemed to shrink all at once, as if all his energy had just drained from him. “Yes,” he said, suddenly no longer wrought-up. “God help us indeed.”

  The sky gave forth an appropriately thunderous rumble.

  Rankin said, “Well, if we’re to go, let’s go.” To his partners he whispered, “And let’s see if we can’t leave this drunken babbler behind.”

  They set off down the road, into the gathering darkness.

  Peabody stayed put. He seemed deflated and tired.

  “You must go, too,” McCree said quietly to him.

  Peabody, no longer argumentative, began to stagger off down the road after Rankin and his companions.

  “Don’t come back!” McCree called after him.

  Peabody’s form vanished in the dark. McCree, feeling somber, and the rough group behind him—oddly sober all at once—stared after Peabody before turning and walking slowly back up into Gomorrah.

  “We did a good thing then, running them off,” one of them said.

  “We did,” Reverend McCree said. “I really do think so. Don’t you all agree?”

  Nobody had anything more to say.

  Since boyhood, Peabody had never liked the dark. It was part of the reason that saloons had always held such an appeal for him: they were lighted refuges, places of safety and enclosure when the world was dark.