Day of Reckoning

by William W. Johnstone

  On the night before the scheduled hanging, Dooley Cooper and Pogue Morris found themselves nursing a beer in the Rendezvous Saloon. This time it wasn’t a lack of money that caused then to nurse a beer; it was because they didn’t want to get drunk.

  “We’re goin’ to have to be sober if we plan to pull this off,” Cooper said.

  “Yeah, well, I don’t plan on gettin’ drunk, but I would like a couple more drinks just to settle my nerves.”

  “Your nerves are settled enough,” Cooper said.

  “What time do we do it?” Morris asked.

  “Not ’til after midnight,” Cooper said, glancing at the large grandfather’s clock that stood against the back wall.

  * * *

  Two blocks down the street from the Rendezvous, Zeke Manning stood at the barred window in the cell he was sharing with Clay Callahan.

  “They’ve finally got the gallows done,” Manning said.

  “Well, they should have. They been workin’ on the damn thing ever since the judge sentenced us to hang.” Callahan was lying on one of the two beds with his hands laced behind his head.

  “Is that all you got to say about it?”

  “What else do you want me to say?”

  Manning put his hand to his neck and grimaced. “Ain’t you worried none ’bout the hangin’ tomorrow mornin’?”

  “No, I ain’t none particular worried.”

  “How can you not be worried about it?”

  “Hell, what good does it do to worry about it? You didn’t eat your biscuit ’n bacon. Do you mind if I eat it?”

  “What? Are you crazy? How can you eat now?”

  “I can eat now ’cause I’m hungry. And the bacon was good.”

  “Go ahead, eat it,” Manning said. “I don’t want it.”

  “You’ll get hungry later on ’n you’ll wish you had eaten,” Callahan said as he reached for the bacon. He made a low, guttural sound that might have been a laugh. “Though, come to think of it, I don’t think you can get hungry in hell,” he said.

  “That ain’t funny!” Manning said. “That ain’t funny a-tall!”

  “You worry too much,” Callahan said, making a sandwich of the bacon and biscuit.

  A few minutes later, Moe Dinkins, the deputy sheriff, stepped into the back of the jail. He was accompanied by a tall, very slender man. The sallow skin was so tightly drawn across his face that it looked almost as if it were an animated skull. The man was wearing a dark suit and carrying a bowler hat.

  “Callahan, Manning, I need you two boys to step up here,” Dinkins called out to them. “I’ve got someone who wants to meet you.”

  Callahan looked over toward Dinkins and the man with him, then went back to eating his biscuit and bacon. “I ain’t interested in meetin’ no preacher man,” he said. “I ain’t been inside church since I was nine years old, ’n I don’t intend to start now.”

  Dinkins laughed. “Oh, this ain’t a preacher,” he said. “This is Mordecai Luscombe. He’s the fella that’s goin’ to hang you.”

  “You?” Manning asked with a gasp. “You’re the one that’s goin’ to hang us?”

  “I am indeed, sir,” Luscombe replied.

  “Oh! Oh!” Reacting in panic, Manning put his hand to his neck.

  “Why you gettin’ so worked up over it, Manning?” the deputy asked. “You’ve knowed ever’ since the trial now that this was a-comin’.”

  “I . . . I hadn’t thought about the hangman,” Manning said.

  “Somebody’s got to do it, lessen’ you want to save the county some trouble and do it yourself,” Dinkins said with a chuckle. “But we’d heap rather you don’t kill yourselves, seein’ as we got just a whole lot of people that’s come into town now just to see the hangin’. You have to admit, it sure would be a shame if the two of you did it yourself ’n cheated all those people out of a good show.” Again, Dinkins laughed at his own joke.

  “Would you gentlemen please step up here?” Luscombe asked.

  “What for? You’ll be seein’ us in the mornin’, won’t you?” Callahan asked. “I mean when you hang us?”

  “Yes, but I do want to do a good job. Why, if I don’t get everything just right, the rope could jerk your head right off your shoulders. That’s always so messy when that happens, to say nothing of it being terribly upsetting to all the ladies.”

  “What the hell?” Manning asked, his face growing ashen. “You mean that has actually happened?”

  “Oh, yes, from time to time,” Luscombe replied. He chuckled. “I have to confess that I’ve done it on purpose a few times when my subjects don’t show me the proper respect. Now, if you two don’t want your heads jerked off your bodies, you’ll step up here and let me examine you.”

  “It don’t hurt no more to have your head pulled off your body than it does to just hang, does it?” Callahan asked.

  “Oh, my, you are a particularly large one, aren’t you?” the hangman said to Callahan. “I’ll have to make allowances for that. But to answer your question, I expect it actually doesn’t hurt as much, because when your head comes off like that, why you die right away. However, it sort of upsets the ladies when they see somethin’ like that. On the other hand, I’ve seen some men take several minutes to die by hanging, ’n it’s almost as awful to watch, the way they just sort of dangle there ’n twitch around so. Of course, if I do my job right, your neck will be broken as soon as you make the fall and you’ll die quite quickly. I pride myself on being able to manipulate the outcome in any way I want.”

  “I’ll be damned. You actually enjoy doing this, don’t you?” Callahan asked.

  “I confess that I do enjoy it. I have always believed that a body needs to enjoy the work that they do, don’t you agree? Otherwise you need be looking for some other form of employment. I not only enjoy my work, I am quite good at it, and to that end your survivors will proudly proclaim that you were hanged by Mordecai Luscombe. I would think you would take some pride in that. It is said that I am the best hangman in all of Wyoming Territory.”

  “Yeah, well, we can’t be proud for very long now, can we?” Callahan asked. “I mean, seein’ as we’re goin’ to be hung at ten o’clock tomorrow mornin’.”

  Luscombe laughed. “I suppose you do have a point there,” he said. “Turn around please so I can get a good look at you.”

  “You ever have bad dreams ’bout people you’ve hung?” Manning asked.

  “No, why should I? When men such as you live a life of crime, you reap your own rewards.”

  “Turn around, like Mr. Luscombe told you to,” Dinkins ordered.

  As Callahan and Manning turned in the cell, Luscombe examined them closely. “Let’s see, I’d make you to be about a hundred and fifty-five, maybe a hundred sixty pounds,” he said to Manning. “And you, sir, must run at least two hundred, to two hundred and ten pounds. Am I about right?”

  “How the hell do I know how much I weigh?” Callahan replied in a growl.

  “Well then, you are just going to have to trust my talent at guessing weights. And I have developed quite a talent in that particular skill, so I think I can promise you both a fine hanging.”

  “Is that all you need, Mr. Luscombe?” Dinkins asked.

  “Yes, thank you, sir, that is all I need. By the way, Deputy, do you have any idea how many people will be here for the hanging tomorrow?”

  “I’d say three, maybe four hundred,” Dinkins replied.

  “Oh, my, that is quite a crowd, isn’t it? Well, good, I’m glad you are expecting so many. You see, what I normally do after each hanging is I cut the rope into foot-long lengths, then I sell those pieces of rope as keepsakes to those who have come to the hanging. They will make marvelous souvenirs that can be passed on to grandchildren.”

  “How much do you sell them for?” Dinkins asked.

  “Oh, it quite depends upon how famous my subject is. Why, when I hung Lucien Pardo, I got five dollars apiece for each of the rope segments.”

  “What
about these two?”

  “Ha! A bungled bank job by a couple of unknowns? No, the only value these rope segments will have is that I was the hangman. And of course, there is some value there. I suppose I will be able to get two dollars each for them. You, of course, will get a piece of the rope gratis.”

  “Gratis? What does that mean?”

  “That means I’ll give you a piece of the rope and you won’t have to pay for it.”

  “Gee thanks, Mr. Luscombe,” Dinkins said.

  “Well, it’s off to the Del Rey Hotel and bed for me. I do always like to get a good night’s sleep before I do a job.”

  Chapter Eight

  Cheyenne jailhouse

  The clock struck two, but because Deputy Dinkins was asleep he didn’t hear it. He was sitting in his chair with it leaning against the wall behind the desk. His head was tilted back, his mouth was slightly open, and his lips were quivering as he snored. He wasn’t supposed to be sleeping; it was his job to stay awake all night to make certain there was no problem that would interfere with the hanging the next day.

  Two men came into the office then; both were dressed in black and both carrying pistols.

  One of the two men, noticing the sleeping jailer, held his finger to his lips, then put his pistol away and drew his knife.

  Dinkins was awakened by a sharp pain in his neck, and, reflexively, he put his hands to the pain, surprised to feel a wetness. Opening his eyes, he saw two men standing there looking down at him. One of the men was holding a knife.

  “I’ll bet that really hurts, don’t it?” the man asked, his face twisted by a malevolent smile.

  Dinkins tried to speak, but his windpipe had been severed by the blade and he was unable to make a sound.

  “Get the keys, Morris,” the man holding the knife said.

  “I got ’em,” Morris replied, holding up a key ring.

  As life drained out of him, Dinkins watched the two men step into the back of the jail.

  “Here, you can’t go back there!” Dinkins shouted.

  But though his lips formed the words there was no sound; the shout was in his mind only and it was his last, conscious thought. Dinkins closed his eyes and had the strangest sensation of collapsing in on himself, falling . . . falling . . .

  “Callahan! You back here?” Morris shouted, and though his shout was loud enough to reverberate through the entire jail, Dinkins heard nothing, because he was dead.

  “Cooper! Morris! What are you two doin’ here?” Manning asked, surprised to see them.

  “They come to get us out of jail,” Callahan said with a broad smile.

  “Damn! You knowed all along they was a-comin’, didn’t you?”

  “Yeah, I knew.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “’Cause I wanted to eat your biscuit and bacon,” Callahan said with a little laugh.

  “Let’s go, we got the horses out back in the alley,” Morris said.

  “Uh-uh, we ain’t goin’ nowhere ’til we stop by the Del Rey Hotel,” Callahan said.

  “What the hell do we want to do that for?” Cooper asked. “We need to get the hell outta here!”

  “We will. But first I want to pay a visit to someone.”

  “Yeah,” Manning said when he realized what Callahan was saying. “Me too.”

  Five minutes later the four men were moving quietly down the upstairs hall of the Del Rey Hotel. “The guest register said he is in this room,” Callahan said.

  “What if someone comes in and sees the desk clerk?” Manning asked.

  “They’ll just think he’s sleeping,” Callahan said.

  Unlocking the door with the key taken from the front desk, the four men went into Mordecai Luscombe’s room. He was snoring loudly.

  “Gag the son of a bitch so he can’t call out,” Callahan said.

  “Uhhmmm!” Luscombe mumbled as he awakened with his socks pushed down into his mouth.

  “Lookie here,” Manning said, holding up a rope. “These are the ropes he was going to use to hang us with.”

  “Ha! I got me a good idea,” Callahan said.

  With their prisoner bound and gagged, Callahan and the others left the hotel by the back door. Moving down the alley, their nostrils were assailed by the smells of the many outhouses that were set against the alley.

  “Damn, that smells like shit,” Manning complained.

  “What else is it supposed to smell like?” Cooper asked with a little laugh.

  Leaving the alley, the four men and their prisoner walked up between Blum’s Mercantile and White’s Apothecary. When they emerged in the street, they could see the scaffold dimly illuminated by the corner streetlamp.

  “Let’s get ’im up there,” Callahan said.

  “Uhmmm! Uhmmm!” Luscombe said, his eyes open wide as he realized what the men had in store for him.

  “Well now, you was tellin’ us how much you loved your job,” Callahan said, “’n here you are, about to be hung, just like all them people you hung before. Now ain’t that somethin’?”

  With his eyes open in terror and his attempt to call out stifled by the socks stuffed down in his throat, Luscombe struggled against his captors, but to no avail. He was pulled up the thirteen steps to the scaffold, then dragged over to the trap door.

  Callahan tossed the rope over the hanging frame, then looped the rope around Luscombe’s neck.

  “That ain’t the right kind of noose,” Cooper said. “There ain’t no knots in it to break his neck.”

  Callahan smiled. “I don’t want to break his neck,” he said. “I want the son of a bitch to just dangle there until he chokes to death.”

  “Yeah,” Manning said with an evil giggle. “Yeah, that’s a good idea.”

  * * *

  When the sun came up the next morning, Mrs. Emma Rittenhouse was just opening the front door of Emma’s Kitchen, the restaurant she owned. She was getting an early start on the day because she needed to get the biscuits in the oven in time for breakfast. She hated that the gallows had been erected right in front of her restaurant, but on the other hand, there would be a lot of people coming in town today to see the hanging. That would mean more business for her.

  She glanced toward the gallows, then, shocked by what she saw, let out a blood-curdling scream that woke much of the town.

  From the Cheyenne Defender:

  TERRIBLE TRAGEDY

  Zeke Manning and Clay Callahan, having been duly tried, convicted, and sentenced to hang for the horrendous crime of murdering three innocent souls, have escaped their punishment. In so doing, they have added even more despicable deeds to their evil resume.

  It is not known how the two men were able to leave their jail cell, but the tracks of four horses were found behind the jail, so it is reasonable to assume that at least two men provided assistance on the night before they were to hang. After gaining their freedom, Manning and Callahan, and the men who freed them, killed Moe Dinkins, the jailer. Mr. Dinkins, a fine county servant, leaves behind a wife and two small children.

  Not content with killing Moe Dinkins, the two escaped prisoners visited the Del Rey Hotel, where they killed the night clerk Abner Martin, then they managed to take from his bed the hangman Mordecai Luscombe, who had come to the city to carry out the dictates of the court, scheduled for ten o’clock this morning.

  Instead of hanging Manning and Callahan, it was Mr. Luscombe himself who faced that fate, his body discovered hanging from the gallows by Mrs. Emma Rittenhouse as she was opening her restaurant for business this morning.

  Chugwater

  In addition to Duff, who was actually from Scotland, there were several people of Scottish descent who lived in or around Chugwater. Biff Johnson, who was the proprietor of Fiddler’s Green, was married to a Scottish woman, and her parents lived in town. Julie Culpepper, whose maiden name had been McClain, was a first-generation American, the daughter of native Scots. There were also several others in and around Chugwater who could claim some connec
tion to Scotland.

  It was because of this shared background that, every year, Chugwater celebrated Scottish Heritage Day.

  Earlier in the day there had been a pipe and drum band, its members drawn from as far away as Oregon and California to the west, Texas and New Mexico to the south, Illinois and Ohio to the east, and from Montana and Alberta to the north. The air was redolent with the aroma of traditional Scottish food, and the event was so festive that even those who weren’t Scottish seemed to be enjoying themselves.

  Duff had already won the shooting games, coming in first with both the pistol and the rifle. After the marksmanship contest, Duff and Ina Claire Culpepper played a duet, she on the drum and he with the pipes. They played the traditional Scottish song “The Green Hills of Tyrol,” and Ina Claire’s mother wiped a few tears away as she listened to the music.

  One of the games was “throwing the caber,” which was such a severe test of muscle and skill that only the strongest could compete. Duff and the three other contestants removed their shirts as they prepared to play the game.

  “Och,” a man named MacDavish said. “Sure now, MacCallister, ye’ve nae wish to hurt your hands so’s that ye can nae longer play the pipes, do ye, lad? ’Twould be a shame for ’tis a valuable thing ye do, keeping the music of dear Scotland alive so that native sons and heathens alike can enjoy it.”

  MacDavish owned a bar in Cheyenne, but that wasn’t too far for him to come to enjoy the games.

  “Here ’n would ye be for listenin’ to MacDavish now?” Murchison, another who would be competing in the game, said. “Would it be to try ’n make Mr. MacCallister drop out so that ye might win with the caber?”

  “Sure ’n how is it that someone like MacDavish could win the game when his muscles be so wee?” another asked.

  There was a great deal of laughter in response to that comment, for MacDavish was a big man with broad shoulders and rippling muscles.

  The good-natured, but spirited, arguments continued among the contestants until the judge called for the game to begin. The entire town had shown up to watch, for there was no game that anyone had ever played that required more strength than the heaving of the caber.