by BJ Holmes
Although close and friends for years, their relationship had a certain ambivalence in their working capacities.
‘Why don’t you get the hell out of my hair, Owen,’ the marshal retorted. ‘I got enough on my platter without nosey reporters butting in.’ The election was coming up and he hadn’t liked some of the letters the newsman had allowed to be carried in recent editions of the paper.
‘I ain’t butting in, Jed. Just keeping in the background. You know that. The public’s got a right to know about these things.’
‘Well, don’t got under my feet. Sure beats the hell out of me why you don’t you get yourself a proper job––som’at that requires the use of manly muscle.’
‘There’s no call for that, Jed.’
The marshal ignored his protestation and ushered Painter through to the steel cage at the back.
‘This is Frank Rimmington, the condemned man.’
Rimmington was a mean-looker, who’d packed a lot of living into his thirty odd years. The type of living that encroached on other people’s liberties. Many times he’d been behind bars. But this looked as though it was to be the last. Always a hot-head, in a drunken stupor he’d shot dead a local unarmed farmer before a saloon full of witnesses. There was no doubt of his guilt and he was scheduled to pay the ultimate penalty. In the circumstances it was strange that he grinned brazenly as the marshal unlocked the door and swung it open.
‘Come on, Rimmington. You got to be weighed,’ the marshal explained. ‘And no trouble.’
Scales had been loaned from the dry goods store for the purpose and had been hauled to the law office. Rimmington dragged himself off the bunk, did as he was bid and registered 160 pounds. The lawman was surprised but content that his prisoner went through the required procedure and returned to his cell without fuss. ‘Right,’ said Painter, noting the weight on a scrap of paper. He appraised his client’s height before the man dropped back on the bunk.’ ‘Just shy of six foot, wouldn’t you say, Marshal?’
The marshal waggled his head noncommittally.
‘That right, Mr. Rimmington?’ the hangman prompted
‘Close enough’ the prisoner grunted. ‘Figure you’ve done this before.’
‘That I have Mr. Rimmington, that I have. Much obliged.’
Back in the office Painter pocketed his notes. ‘Well, that’s that,’ he concluded. ‘Everything seems to be in order, Marshal. I’ll be going to my room now.’
It was dusk. Outside the law office Owen Cavanagh and Jed Tucker shared smokes.
‘I’m not happy, Jed,’ said the newsman, smoothing down his ginger hair. ‘Rimmington comes from a big, nasty family. You, of all people, know what a mean bunch they are––the father and his other two sons. All suspected of murder or complicity in murder at one time or another. They ain’t the type to take kindly to one of their kin being ‘dropped’. Yet in court there was no emotional outburst from the prisoner when sentence was passed. No bragging that the jail couldn’t hold him. No threats by the family.’
‘So what?:
`Organized breakouts have been known before, you know, Jed. Especially in little towns like ours.’
‘You’re scare-mongering, Owen. Just like a newsman. We got law in our town now. And the Rimmingtons know it. They’re just accepting the inevitable.’
Cavanagh looked doubtful. ‘To use a word I can’t print in the paper––shit! Then: like they say in the dime novels––it’s too quiet. Something’s cooking.’
‘Look, Owen, don’t worry. I got a deputy in the office plus men at both ends of the street. All night. They’re going to be at their posts till it’s all over.’
Cavanagh took a last draw on his cheroot and stamped it to death on the boardwalk. `You got anything against me interviewing Painter for the paper?’
‘Must you, Owen?’ the marshal sighed irritably. ‘He’s probably as pissed off with newsmen as I am.’
‘Gotta have something on the hangman’s position, Jed. Necessary part of the story, you know. To round it off.’
Jed grunted, then nodded a reluctant acquiescence. ‘OK, but don’t make a nuisance of yourself.’
Owen Cavanagh had learned his trade in Kansas City and had moved west some years ago. He’d started with antiquated equipment, printing in the open air. At first he was just a job printer but then he founded the local newssheet. He hadn’t made his fortune as he’d originally hoped but he had developed the enterprise into a thriving, stable business. He knew his job––from the technical aspects of printing to what made a good story. He had a feel for what people wanted to read and he had the flair for putting it into the right words. And that is why he sought an interview with Zachariah Painter.
It was dark outside when he knocked on the hangman’s door. ‘Wait a minute’, he heard as someone walked heavy-footedly to the door and unlocked it. Painter was half-dressed, damp and with a towel in his hand. ‘What is it?’ he asked curtly.
‘I’m from The Clarion, our local newspaper. You may remember me––I was over at the law office awhile back. I was hoping I could ask you a few questions.’
‘What for?’
‘An article––only a little piece––on you and your job, if I may. Something to flesh out the main news story.’
‘Oh, no. Never speak to the press. I ain’t in the publicity business.’ He rubbed himself vigorously with the towel and prepared to close the door.
Cavanagh coughed apologetically but insistently stayed his ground. ‘Oh, that’s a real pity, Mr. Painter. See; I checked first with the marshal to see that it was not out of order to speak with you and it said it was OK by him.’
That was true. On the pretence of courtesy Cavanagh had mentioned it to the lawman first. But his main reason for doing so had been to lend some authority to his request. It worked. Painter looked uncomfortable. He didn’t want to seem uncooperative.
‘The marshal knows you’ve come to see me, does he? Mmm. In that case you’d better come in. Don’t want to upset the man with the badge. But keep it short.’ He opened the door wider and stood to one side to allow Cavanagh to enter. There was a china bowl full of lathered water on the dresser. Beneath the aroma of soap that pervaded the room Cavanagh could detect the distinct smell of gun oil.
Painter closed the door. ‘I’ll finish off my ablutions while we talk.’
The newsman took out his notebook. ‘How long has this been your occupation?’ ‘About twenty years.’
‘And how many men have you executed throughout your career?’
‘Never kept check,’ Painter snapped.
‘Could you give me an estimate, maybe?’
‘Jesus. That’s like asking a cowman how many steers he’s branded.’
‘How do you feel about your work?’
‘It’s a job.’
‘You don’t have any feelings about the prisoners you have to hang?’
`No. All the judging’s been done by the time I get ‘em.’
‘What about the possibility of hanging an innocent man? Does that trouble you?’
Painter pulled on a clean vest. ‘The legal machine’s not infallible. But there’s nothing I can do about it. If I didn’t carry out the order somebody else would. I don’t question the guilt of a condemned man anymore than a butcher worries about his right to slaughter a steer for your dinner table.’
Cavanagh scribbled on his pad. ‘Do you ever feel the need to travel under a different name?’
‘No.’
‘Or carry a gun?’
`No, never. Only encourages trouble.’
‘Do you have any pride in your work?’
‘These are damn fool questions, young feller.’
Painter thought for a moment, while he fixed his necktie. ‘Do I have any pride in my work? Yes, I suppose so. I aim for efficiency––a quick demise. Minimize the mental torment and pain for the client. That’s the least we can do for the poor wretch afore we send him to his maker.’
‘I noticed you weighed the pris
oner earlier. Why did you do that?’
‘Christ. You don’t know anything about the business, do you? That’s on account of the length of rope needed.’
‘Rimmington was 160 pounds, wasn’t he? How much rope does that require for a––quick demise?’
‘Oh, five feet. Something like that.’
‘Does the age of the prisoner affect the calculation at all?’
‘Naw. Listen, how many more damn questions you got?’
‘One last one, if you’ll be so kind. It’s always interested me. Why is it that the knot doesn’t move around the neck on the drop?’
Painter paused. ‘That’s because if the executioner’s doing his job properly he makes the noose tight. And if it’s tight, there’s no movement in the noose. Elementary mechanics. Anything otherwise is a sloppy job.’ He tidied himself before the mirror. ‘Now off you go, my lad. I’m a very busy man. Now I’ve washed off the trail dust I need to dine. After that I’ve got a few more preparations to make and then I want to get some shut-eye. I have to be up early in the morning for a certain purpose––as you well know.’
Cavanagh jumped to his feet. ‘Thank you, Mr. Painter. I’ve got enough for a tidy little piece here. You know––the inside story on a very difficult job, that kind of thing. You’ve been most cooperative. Thanks for your time.’
An hour later Cavanagh was knocking quietly but persistently at the door of the marshal’s office.
It took several minutes before the door was opened. ‘What the hell you want now, Owen?’ the bleary-eyed marshal said when he saw who his visitor was. ‘I ain’t gonna get much sleep as it is. Big day tomorrow.’ Having had made last minute checks. Everything seemed normal and quiet so he was allowing himself a couple of hours shut-eye.’
‘I’m sorry, Marshal, but it’s important.’
‘What is it?’
Cavanagh lowered his voice. ‘I don’t think that guy over at the hotel is a hangman.’
‘Come in,’ Tucker mouthed resignedly, glancing up and down the dark, deserted street.
Inside, Cavanagh explained. ‘I went to interview him tonight, as you know. Now it strikes me there’s several suspicious things about him. First off, he was washing when I entered, and there was a smell of gun oil in the room.’
‘For God’s sakes, Owen. What in tarnation’s wrong with that?’
‘Well, I never gave it a thought until he told me he don’t carry a gun. If he’s using gun oil he’s toting a gun. So, why’s he got one? To use himself––or to hand over to someone else ? Like Rimmington, for instance.’
‘He could carry one for his own safety. He travels the circuit alone. Ain’t wise to be out in open country without a weapon.’
‘He was very specific about it. Said it was deliberate policy not to carry one so as not to invite trouble.’
‘So?’
‘What else would one use gun-oil for in sufficient quantity that it would make a noticeable smell––if it wasn’t for oiling a gun?’
‘You got me.’
Having got that point across Cavanagh raised a second finger as he counted off. ‘Two, he ain’t got his measurements right on the rope. Trying to blind me with science, he was; but he’s guessing. Figure he thinks I’m just a country hick. What he don’t know is that I’ve interviewed many hangmen in my line of work and attended more executions than I care to remember back in the city where they do things proper. I didn’t tell him that. Since how our little tête-a tête––’
‘Tetter what?’
‘Tête-a-tête––means a chat. Since our little chat, I’ve had a look at my file of newspaper clippings. I knew what I was looking for and I found it. There’s a formula developed over the years; now all hangmen all work to it. Not only here but all round the world. England, France, it’s universal.’
‘Go on.’
‘Rimmington weighs 160 pounds. That means a rope of six feet––seven if the condemned man’s young, like Rimmington. Painter says five feet. Two feet out on five means a 40% error!’
The lawman yawned. ‘That’s too technical for me, Owen.’
‘You’ve never officiated at a hanging, have you?’
‘No.’
‘So what’s so sure-fire important about a length of rope?’
‘Well, it has to be the precise length. Too short and the man is strangled. Not always to death either. So that means he has to be strung up again, or somebody has to hang onto his legs––by convention it’s the local law officer’ task. Hang on until the job’s finished! That’ll be your responsibility. And not the most pleasant of tasks I’m given to understand.’
Tucker grimaced at the notion.
‘On the other hand,’ Owen continued, ‘if the rope is too long––the head comes off, which is mighty messy for everyone concerned. Again it will be incumbent upon you as the local officer to clean up the mess. See, an overly-long section rope allows the mass of the body to gather an unwanted momentum. Unwanted for the reason I’ve just given.’ He yanked upwards on his own neck with both hands to give emphasis; much to Tucker’s gathering chagrin.
‘So, by this time I was getting a mite suspicious. Hence, finally, I asked him a trick question to really test him. Not ever attending a hanging before you’re unlikely to know there’s always a bit of slack in the noose––and it moves. It has to do with the pull of the drop. In fact, it gyrates clockwise about a quarter-circle––always. No matter how tight you tie it, there’s always some give in tissue of the neck. That’s why the knot is always adjusted to the left, so it finishes under the chin and throws the neck back, breaking the poor bastard’s spine.’
Tucker nodded. That bit he understood; seemed to make sense.
Cavanagh raised his forefinger in emphasis. ‘Well, our hangman says it doesn’t move ––because it’s fixed tight!’
Tucker bit his lip, his expression now completely changed. ‘You sound convincing, Owen. I guess I’d better keep an eye on our so-called hangman––and get some more armed men. Just to be on the safe side. You take the north end of town while I take the south. Get every able man with a gun.’
‘That’s better,’ Cavanagh added. ‘And I suggest we tell everybody to put lamps in their windows. The more light we get the better tonight.’
It was twenty minutes later when the shooting started, The Rimmington clan and their hardcase cronies rode into town and shot down their first challenger at the end of the street. Minutes earlier, the fake hangman had overcome the lone deputy in the jail, freed and armed the prisoner with the gun that Owen had figured he’d got. Now the two renegades were waiting, guns in hand, for the horses being brought in.
Tucker had just finished knocking on doors, enlisting help from male citizens when the ruckus erupted. He took cover behind some barrels outside the saloon. To begin with it was too dark to make much sense of the scene. But he could see enough to recognize the two shapes outside his office. They both dived to the wooden sidewalk as he opened up with his Colt. The riders came down the street firing. The noise got louder as more townsfolk took to arms, having been aroused by Tucker and Cavanagh. Very quickly, one by one, lights began twinkling in the windows all along the street until eventually the whole thoroughfare was bathed in light. The riders had lost the element of surprise––and now they were completely visible.
Rifle fire began to crackle from windows along the street. The first would-be rescuer was blown right out of his saddle. Two were shot as they tried to take refuge in side buildings. Old Man Rimmington, the condemned man’s father, urged his horse up onto the sidewalk but fell bullet-ridden from his saddle to crash through the draper’s window. Tucker hit Painter as he tried to mount a wild-eyed, riderless horse. The former prisoner had more success. Catching a horse as it sped by, he hauled himself into the saddle and made to escape. But he was brought down by Cavanagh himself with a rifle at the end of the street.
‘Cease fire!’ Tucker shouted.
As the throat-biting gunsmoke cleared, the ensuing
quiet and stillness confirmed the abortive rescue was over. Coming out from cover, the lawman returned his gun to its holster. As he surveyed the mayhem, he was joined by a tired and shaken-looking Cavanagh.
‘I reckon the real Painter must have been waylaid,’ the marshal breathed, pushing up the brim of his hat. ‘Probably lying gut-shot in some arroyo along the trail. I’ll have to organize a search for him. Let’s hope he’s survived.’
He looked at the newsman whom he had fallen into the habit of denigrating at every opportunity of late––and felt a new respect for the man. ‘If we hadn’t have started to get mobilized because of your suspicions, Owen, the jaspers would have gotten away with it. My apologies for the comments I been slinging in your direction lately. I guess there is a need for a man and his newspaper after all. I’ll have to admit that.’
Owen accepted the apology with a nod and glanced down at the still warm rifle in his hand. ‘And for my part I’ll have to admit that sometimes the sword––or rifle in this case––is mightier than the pen.’
For a Bagful of Dollars
At first the old man with the perpetually twitching eyes was just another customer––excepting that he was dirtier and smellier than most. Kate was the only woman free so it was her lot to cater to his wishes. As the madam she only worked these days when business was such that demand exceeded supply. Like tonight, a Saturday. She forced a smile when he lurched into the doorway, enveloped in a cocoon of liquor fumes. She pulled him into the bordello––Kate’s Cathouse as it was nicknamed by the locals––threw her arms round his unwashed neck and rolled her breasts around his chest. He angled his head in an embarrassed fashion and the nervous twitching of his eyes increased.
‘Come on. You’re not shy, are you?’ she purred. ‘You’ve made it this far.
You know what you want, don’t you? Guys only come here for one thing.’
Half an hour later they were lying side by side in a rickety cot in one of
