But now they knew. Judge Earwig finished his questioning, with a vast smile building under his rough beard. A gleam lit his eyes. I knew this would be a decision for the ages. I could see it coming, like a burst of sunshine in that courtroom.
“Well now,” he said. “We have a bunch of splendid confessions here. We’ve listened to more confession this fine morning than I’ve ever heard in one session of this court. We have confessions upon confessions, admissions upon admissions, crime upon crime, duly noted and officially accounted for. When it comes to confessions, this is a truly manly crowd, except for the show people over there, who were swift to blame anyone other than themselves. They’re a shameful crew, but the locals who have paraded before this court dozens of times, they’re as fine an example of Puma County manhood as ever came here.”
I was getting antsy, seeing as how Earwig was going on and on. I was plumb wore out, and wanted some shut-eye, but this was Earwig’s moment of glory, with the sun and moon and stars all shining on him, and he wouldn’t let go.
Some of those fellows needed some medical attention, I thought. Or at least their pals needed to put them on a horse and carry them back to their ranches. But Earwig ignored that, or if he saw it, he thought there was divine justice in it.
He rapped his gavel sharply, awakening the dead and dying, and alerting the crowd.
“The Wild West scoundrels are herewith fined twenty dollars or two weeks in our iron cages, their choice. If they choose to pay, they must leave town before sundown.”
They sighed. Billy Bones would pay, and extract the fines from their pay down the road. They settled morosely while Earwig grinned at them, enjoying every moment.
He rapped again. “Now, then, the locals, who have intently confessed to crimes beyond number, crimes exceeding the stars in heaven, must endure a harsher fate. I herewith sentence them all to hang by the neck until dead, one week from today.”
That sort of stopped the show. That was it. Sentence imposed. The cowboys looked at one another, amazed. I sure was going to have a mess of hangings on my hand, and the only way I could do it was with a scaffold wide enough to drop them all at the same time. I’d get the carpenters busy on that. I’d have to order a mess of rope just to put nooses over the heads of twenty or so culprits.
Big Nose George sat down on the floor and rubbed his eyes.
“Stand up, you. You’re in a court of law,” Earwig snapped.
Big Nose slowly unfolded and stood erect.
Earwig rapped again. “Now, then, it would impose a great hardship on our esteemed sheriff if he were to keep all twenty-some of the condemned in his two cells, feeding them, changing diapers, hosing them down, and all. Therefore, I am remanding you to your ranches for one week, provided you put a dollar each in the Charity Jar, and you will report here one week hence for your choking party.”
The mob stared, absorbing all that.
“I’ll be there, your lordship,” said Smiley, who dropped a greenback into the Charity Jar and walked out. A certain amount of greenback exchanging went on, but pretty soon, the jar was laden with bills, and the last of the culprits had staggered into the morning sun.
“Now, then,” Earwig said to the show people, “you may take your leave, providing the fine is paid.”
Billy Bones sighed, dug into a black leather purse, spread out some greenery before His Honor, and then marched his charges out the door into the glaring light of day.
Earwig turned to me. “Should be enough to put Sammy back in business,” he said.
Chapter Thirty-five
The hanging judge and I watched the culprits stream into the day and vanish. He was looking self-satisfied, and I could well understand it. Sammy Upward’s famous saloon would be restored. The Wild West show would depart without taking a lot of Doubtful’s cash with it.
“Your Honor, the county has a gallows stored away, but it won’t drop twenty-one at a crack. You mind if I hang them in shifts?”
“That’s not really fair, you know. Some fellows have the honor of croaking a few minutes before the next lot.”
“I could have them draw straws to see who goes first,” I said. “I can hang six at a time.”
“Well, not all of them’ll show up, you know. Then I’ll have to issue warrants for their arrest. You’ll have a stack of warrants in your office, to use at will. They might be pretty handy for keeping the peace around Puma County,” he said.
I was beginning to see the genius in his sentencing.
“That’s pretty fine, Your Honor. Maybe we’ll only hang a few in a week.”
“Well, set up the gallows, and we’ll see.”
That sounded fine to me. “I’ll get a crew busy,” I said. “We’ll get some fresh hemp. I never could tie those blasted nooses, but I know a few who can. I’ll get Rusty to do it, if I can unloose him from his honeymoon.”
“Or honeymoons,” Earwig said, winking away.
Earwig was nobody’s fool, I thought.
I got a couple of fellows from the Puma County Tax Collection Office to put up the gallows on the village square. Collecting taxes was about the same as hanging people, so I figured they knew what they were up to. And they did. They got the frame in place with the trapdoors on it, and little stairway up there, and then the uprights, and the beam, and I had Rusty build six nooses and let them hang there in the August breezes. It made a nice addition to the town’s sights, and lots of visitors off the ranches paused to admire it. The tax boys did a good job of it, getting the upright posts going straight up, and bolting down the crossbeam, which I had used a few times before this.
The joke was that the county was going to hang anyone who didn’t pay his taxes, which was not a bad idea, because I sometimes wasn’t paid regularly. But Reggie Thimble let it be known that I’d be hanging a mess of unruly cowboys who were advised to show up for their demise or face a warrant.
I ran a few test runs, using sandbags, and the whole deal worked handsomely. When I pulled the lever, the hinged trap dropped, and the sandbags plunged downward and then dangled in the wind. I thought that maybe Spitting Sam and Big Nose George would die with a smile, but some of those other dudes would whine and struggle. But you never knew what a man was made of until he was about to croak.
Rusty was feeling mighty fine, full of joy. He had two wives and a boy, and how could you beat that? The Siamese twins had settled down and were no longer trying to throttle each other, so there was peace at last in Doubtful. As long as there was bad blood between the twins, I knew trouble was not far away. Rusty and his family would sometimes parade up and down Wyoming Street, just to show off a little. The town ladies quit gossiping, and greeted the twins like long-lost sisters. Everyone in Doubtful admired Hanging Judge Earwig’s fine solution to an impossible dilemma.
I thought summer was about over, and life would be peaceful again, except for hanging twenty-one cowboys, but then a slicker rode in with some fancy horses and challenged everyone to a match race, with a few side bets for spice. His name was Algernon Limp, but I think he invented it to give him some advantage. Anyone in Wyoming knows that Algernon is a sissy name, and Limp is worse. It’s as if his horses limped, and that was what he was trying to convey with a name like that. I studied him some, and went back to my office to paw through the wanted dodgers and posters, but I didn’t find anyone matching Algernon Limp’s description. Actually, he was a pint-sized dandy, with pinstripe black suit, a red paisley vest and bowler hat and waxed mustachios and patent-leather shoes so shiny that they pretty near reflected starlight.
But Limp was more than a dandy dresser. He brought with him three of the finest horses I’d ever seen, full of thoroughbred blood, I thought, almost dainty in their stepping. There was a black, a bay with white stockings, and a palomino.
He began by parking them at the hitch rails of the saloons, and it was plain he was letting people take a gander at them. A few cowboys had filtered back in, but the hanging was still a couple of days away, so Limp didn’t have
the usual bunch of drovers around to talk to. He eyed the gallows, inquired when the big day would be, and offered to run races to celebrate the event, but mostly he was waiting for the hangings to go away so he could get down to the business of staging match races between his steeds and any local talent the cowboys came up with.
He stopped by the sheriff office to inquire about a good place to run the match races he had in mind.
“I have here, some of the finest horseflesh not only in the territory, but in all of the United States and all of the world,” he said. “Have with me a trainer, jockey, and an oddsmaker, Boston Bill, who will take wagers laid on one nag or the other, and fleece the cowboys out of their hard-earned monthly salaries.”
“I imagine your ponies lose a few,” I said.
“I like to give that impression,” he said. “In fact, I always understate the virtues of my running horses, so that people are willing to test their own nags against mine. That’s how I make a dandy living, and I expect to retire soon because I have husbanded my winnings and built them up.”
“How do you do it?”
“I have a quarter-miler, a half-miler, and a miler, all southern bred,” he said. “And Egbert Engstrom, the demon Swede jockey who squeezes juice out of my turnips. I lay out the game to the local talent, and they can decide whether or not to run a match race with my plugs. If there are no takers, I move on to the next town, and see who’ll swallow the bait.”
“What if you lose?”
“Oh, I pay my stakes cheerfully, and my bookie coughs up, and we accept our licking. I have excellent credit with the Greengrocers and Bail Bond Stock Bank of Manhattan, and I draw a certified check, and head for the next burg.”
“You have stakes?”
“Of course. We each put up a stake, and the winner walks away with it.”
“What if there’s a false start?”
“We always have independent judges, drawn from the community. One at the starting line, and one at the finish.”
He sure seemed to have all the answers. And he may have run a square game, but I’d reserve judgment on that. There had been so many road shows coming through Doubtful that I figured there weren’t two nickels left to rub together, but horse racers are a different breed, and half of them are mad, and they can get all heated up faster than a virgin in a cathouse.
“Well, the best day for a match race would be the day of the hangings,” I said. “We’ve got twenty-one cowboys lined up, and we’ll hang them in shifts, and maybe you could run a match race between each shift.”
“Oh, boy,” he said. “Doubtful will have a glorious day.”
“How do you promote the event? The hanging’s only two days away.”
“The saloons, my friend. They are regular gossip machines. Put out the word, and next thing, there’s a dozen calculating strangers eyeing my livestock.”
“Do you exercise them so they folks can watch?”
“Absolutely. We train first thing every morning. As soon as we measure up the track, we’ll do light runs for the edification of the locals. We’ve got the finest horseflesh west of Kalamazoo, and we’ll put it all on display.”
“We got some fine horseflesh around here. Over at the Admiral Ranch, Smiley Thistlethwaite’s been working some quarter-milers that can’t be beat, at least locally. Trouble is, he’s scheduled to be hanged. You might want to get him to race his tomorrow, before he expires.”
“Well, that’s a thought, but ideally, he should match my nag on the day of the hanging, so if he wins, he can go to the noose happily, and the crowd can cheer him.”
“Well, we can schedule a little time between each shift. My deputy’s got to cut down the bodies anyway, and build fresh nooses. I imagine a good match race would occupy people until we’re ready to hang the next lot.”
“Capital, just capital,” he said. “Well, I’m off to the saloons, to troll a little. Wish me happy days.”
After that, things sort of picked up steam on their own. Maxwell, the funeral parlor man, ordered in some ice so he could keep all them corpses cold and run the funerals by rotation with the criminals well preserved and looking prime.
The women of the Methodist persuasion planned to sell fried chicken and potato salad box lunches to the crowd. But the Episcopalians, not to be outdone, offered to set up a whole lunch counter, hams, steaks, green snapper beans, strawberry tarts, and frosty fizzes, all donations going to the widows, if any—cowboys were not known for getting into holy wedlock uninspired by a shotgun—and the Lutherans decided to hold a Sons of Norway lutefisk supper following the hangings, right next to Maxwell’s Funeral Parlor, so folks could eat and view the stiffs in one tour.
I toured Saloon Row that eve. It sure was entertaining. Sammy had got his saloon back in business. He bought booze from the Lizard Lounge and Mrs. Gladstone’s Sampling Room so he didn’t have to wait for a shipment from Denver. He didn’t have much variety, but that didn’t matter. Who cares about taste?
There were cowboys in town from all the ranches, but none of the condemned. They were smart enough to steer clear until the last. And sure enough, there was Algernon Limp, the center of attention, boasting up his nags. He chose Mrs. Gladstone’s Sampling Room, mostly because Cronk ran a faro game there, and betting was what the place was all about.
“Now, friend,” Limp was saying to a certain cowboy named Bark, “my quarter-mile runner is unbeatable. His name is Booth, after John Wilkes Booth, and he is the Terror of the West. He was born and bred in the South. If you’ll put up a hundred dollars as a stake, winner take all, I will match you, and we will race tomorrow.”
“A hunnert? Where am I gonna get a hunnert?” Bark asked.
“You form a pool with your pals from your ranch,” Limp said.
“Well, I got a quarter stallion, it can’t be beat, and it’s mean enough to take a piece of hide off yours,” Bark said. “Ain’t that the truth?”
Some of his friends allowed that it was.
“Well, then, you’ve got an easy hundred,” Limp said. “You got ten friends? Have them put in ten, and win ten. Or they can make side bets, too, with my bookie. He’ll post the odds, and you can bet or not as you choose. You want to lay two dollars on my nag, or his nag? See the bookie.”
Bark eyed his pals, who nodded, and agreed. “We’ll match you, and race tomorrow,” he said.
I had a hunch that Bark and his pals were about to lose their asses, but my ma told me never to bet on hunches.
And Algernon Limp was smiling like he owned Doubtful.
Chapter Thirty-six
Hanging Day would be hot and sunny, I thought, eyeing the cloudless sky. That’s fine; better to hang twenty-one in sunshine rather than rain or overcast. Everybody would see well if there was plenty of sun.
The first hanging was scheduled for ten in the morning. After lunch, and the first match race, the second hanging would be held at two, followed by another match race, and the third hanging would be at four, and any leftovers would be hanged at six.
There wasn’t much shade at the gallows, but some nice cottonwoods lined the square and people could collect there in good shade, for the big events.
Rusty and I were all set. I’d tie the wrists of the hangee, put a noose over his head, and pull the lever whenever we got one bunch ready. Rusty, he would cut the noose free and cart the corpse to Maxwell’s wagon. Then Rusty would build another noose and we’d dangle it from the crossbar. We didn’t know how many would show up for their croaking, but we’d be prepared. I’d gotten plenty of rope from the Mercantile, and some thong to tie up wrists. Enough to hang all twenty-one, if need be.
There were a couple of preachers around, just in case the condemned wanted a last rite, and these fellows lounged in canvas chairs, waiting to be called upon.
Hanging Judge Earwig would be on hand to conduct the ceremonies.
By the time I got to the town square, crowds were already collecting. Many brought blankets to sit on, and wicker baskets filled with chi
lled sandwiches and iced tea. The ladies were all in summery white gauze, and their daughters wore white pinafores or cream-colored little dresses. The town’s gents tended to stand, and waited solemnly for the day’s events to roll.
It was a noisy crowd, with little boys and dogs circling in packs through the mob, and a few horses shying from all the ruckus. But finally ten o’clock did roll around, chimed by the courthouse clock, and Judge Earwig, wearing his judicial robes and a silk stovepipe hat, promptly emerged from his chambers, stepped up on the gallows with a borrowed megaphone, and began the show.
“Ladies and gentlemen, we will now hang the malefactors who trashed Sammy Upward’s Last Chance Saloon a few days ago, a crime unspeakable, and unequaled in the history of Wyoming. Will the following criminals please step forward to meet your moment of destiny with the noose.
“Silvan Boot, Max Dell, Parson McCullough, Wagner Wick, Delbert Battles, and Jocko Mortensen.”
I waited for the culprits, but no one emerged from the crowd.
“I repeat, yonder villains, step forward and take your medicine like men.”
But blamed if anyone stepped up.
Earwig pulled his giant timepiece from somewhere in the interior of his cloth tent, eyed the hands, and stuffed it under his robes again.
“All right. Since no one among them is man enough to take his medicine, I will require that they be hanged in absentia. The sheriff will drop the trap, in token of which the criminals will be dispatched in absentia, and the first lot of criminals will be carted off to the undertaker, in absentia.”
It sure was entertaining. I had the attention of the mob, all right. I climbed the little wooden stair, stood at the lever until Earwig dropped his arm, and I pulled the lever. The floor underneath the row of nooses suddenly swung down, and the crowd stared, and then cheered.
“A shameful lot,” Earwig said. “Not a real man among them. But they can restore their tarnished reputations by contributing to the Charity Jar, the proceeds to go to Sammy Upward.”
Support Your Local Deputy: A Cotton Pickens Western Page 21
