Gallows For a Gunman

by Rod Miller

  But, he explained, first of all, all hands had been needed in town to extinguish a fire; second, their reasons for chasing the villain up till now did not rise to the level of murder; and third, he had not even imagined that the criminal would commit such a foul deed as that which he had done here.

  Marshal held little hope of finding the trail, but did not hesitate in the attempt. He was kind enough to leave two men behind to dig a grave and help me lay Soren to rest. They recounted the events in town that occasioned the formation of the posse, but given the state of affairs and my state of mind, I couldn’t really take in what they told me just then.

  It seems Harlow Mackelprang had single-handedly executed a brief but vicious reign of terror in Los Santos. He beat up a soiled dove, shot and wounded a cardplayer he accused of cheating, then shot up the saloon for good measure, then set fire to the livery stable after stealing a getaway horse.

  His deeds were so far removed from his usual cowardly bullying and petty thievery that folks were taken by surprise at the violent outburst. I imagined they would be even more surprised to learn he had gunned down a kind and gentle man like my Soren out of mere meanness.

  There was no way, of course, I could keep the farm after that. The work it required was far beyond the ability of a woman with three babies to take care of. And since no one else wanted the farm, I could get nothing for it. The crops withered and the cows wandered off, there being no ready market for them and no way to keep track of the small herd until an opportunity to sell might present itself.

  It so happened the café needed a cook and I needed some means of providing for my young ones, and the situation seemed as good as any, besides being the only one available. So Costello, the man who owned and ran the place, hired me on. I imposed on some of the town folk to haul my few belongings from the farm to an abandoned cabin at the edge of town, which made a small but suitable home for my family.

  Neither Soren nor I had any kin in these parts. All our relatives were back in Freeman County, Minnesota, where we had both lived until Soren emigrated, with the understanding that he would send for me once established elsewhere. Not having the help of a mother or aunts or cousins, I arranged to pay a small sum to a woman to tend my kids. Her children were grown and gone and her husband spent most of his time off prospecting, and Mrs. Barlow was pleased with the proposition.

  She turned out to be a godsend and the children are thriving in her care. I have precious little time available for them—a stolen hour or two here and there between meals. They seem to grow a little more every day in my absence, and sometimes I marvel that they are my own, as they often seem so strange to me.

  Anyway, for these past three years I have carried the smell of hot cooking fat on my person. I have felt the tickle of trickling sweat as I stand over stove and sink and block, cutting and slicing and stirring and scrubbing and baking and frying and boiling. I have been sentenced to prepare three square meals a day for however many hungry patrons show up here, the length of the sentence being indeterminate and with no end in sight.

  And yet, until his recent arrest and trial, the gunman who is the reason for my being here and Soren being in his grave has wandered free.

  I have had neither the time nor the inclination to follow his exploits in detail, but I am aware that for these past three years Harlow Mackelprang has robbed and plundered and murdered throughout the region, always eluding capture.

  Upon leaving our farm, they say he rode south and threw in with a gang of border bandits, and took over leadership of the group by ruthlessly murdering his rivals. His life of crime caught up with him, though, and tomorrow he pays the price. His sentence is death, and it will be served. My sentence, however, will go on—perhaps for life.

  It is not the life I imagined. But it is the life I have, and I must make the best of it. Today, the best of it came after the supper rush, when I was called upon to prepare Harlow Mackelprang’s last supper.

  I sliced a steak from a joint of meat, and pounded it flat with an empty whiskey bottle kept by for that purpose. I rubbed the tenderized beef with salt and sprinkled it with flour and dropped it into a cast-iron skillet to fry in hot fat.

  I dredged a generous serving of sauerkraut from the barrel into a saucepan and set it on the stove to heat, crumbling in a bit of leftover breakfast sausage.

  This being a special occasion, I cut the lid off a can of peaches, drained off the excess syrup, and dumped the yellow slices into a china bowl. Earlier today I had set aside a portion of biscuit batter in anticipation, and I now stretched it to cover the bowl, pierced it with the point of a knife, and sprinkled it with cinnamon and brown sugar, then slid the small cobbler into a slow oven.

  The gravy was gone, having all been served up on the many supper platters that went out by the pass-through window this evening. So after turning the meat, I poured some of the drippings into a smaller skillet and tossed in a handful of flour. Stirring the flour as it browned in the fat, I ladled in milk and slid the pan to a hotter part of the stove and kept on stirring as it came to a boil and congealed. Satisfied with its consistency, I added a sprinkle of ground pepper and set it aside to stay warm.

  I splashed in a dollop of cream and a dipper of water and revived the mashed potatoes with a little stirring.

  The bean pot was never allowed to empty, so all I had to do was give it a good stir, smashing some of the firmer beans against the side to thicken the mixture, then break up and stir in a dried red chili pepper.

  I split three biscuits and smeared them with bacon grease, which the prisoner preferred over butter.

  With all in readiness, it was time to prepare the plate. I selected a large china platter. A man deserves hearty portions for his last supper.

  First, the steak. It covered more than half the plate, even though I left it hanging over the end and sides. Below and to the left, a generous serving of mashed potatoes. Beside it, a similar quantity of beans. And at the bottom of the plate, a steaming heap of kraut.

  Before ladling gravy over the meat and potatoes I cleared my throat and added the final ingredient. Other unmentionables garnished the sauerkraut and seasoned the beans.

  I pulled the cobbler from the oven and adorned it likewise before spooning on heavy cream. I poured a cup of scalding hot coffee and stirred in a small measure of liquid I shan’t name along with a spoonful of sugar.

  Finally, I placed the platter, the cobbler, the biscuits, and the coffee on a tray and covered all with a clean dish towel.

  Then I carried the tray to the pass-through window from the kitchen to the dining room and handed it off to my employer Costello, who slid it across the counter and into the care of the deputy, whose job it is to carry it to the jail.

  Tomorrow morning the café will be abandoned for the hanging.

  I will leave my stove temporarily untended to witness the occasion.

  I will work my way through the crowd to stand near the gallows steps, where I can catch Harlow Mackelprang’s eye as he climbs to his death.

  Perhaps he will wonder why I smile.

  CHARLIE

  Harlow Mackelprang’s last supper was not as hot as it might have been.

  Earlier this evening, I sat at a table at the café having coffee when it came out of Lila’s kitchen and was placed on the counter on a neatly covered tray. I probably should have left my cup unfinished and delivered it to him as hot and fresh as possible.

  Instead, I took my time. I’ll be damned if I’ll put myself out, then or now, just to make life more pleasant for a low-down murdering crook. Especially one that’ll be dangling from the end of a rope before the world sees another sunset.

  So I sipped my steaming Arbuckle’s sweetened with sugar, and wondered at why Lila seemed in such a good mood as I passed the time with old man Costello standing behind the counter.

  “Seems a shame to waste such a fine meal on a man like Harlow Mackelprang,” I said.

  Costello kept up with tracing patterns in a little scatter of
salt he’d spread on the counter.

  “Maybe.”

  He smoothed out the salt with the palm of his hand and took up tracing another pattern in it.

  “But the price of a meal is the price of a meal so far as I am concerned. It matters not to me if the money comes from the county coffers or from the pocket of some drifting cowboy. So long as I get my price, it is all the same to me.”

  “I guess that’s one way of seeing it.”

  Costello asked, “Is there another?”

  “Well, a saddle tramp likely worked for the money that’s feeding him. Even a cardsharp has to turn a few pasteboards to get fed. But Harlow Mackelprang didn’t do a damn thing to earn the money it’s taking to fill his belly.”

  “Still, it costs the same when I need to buy supplies or to pay Lila.”

  “But some of that money came out of your pocket, Costello! Some of it’s mine. Every man in Los Santos shelled out his share of the money that’s been feeding that damn thieving murderer.”

  “That is so. At least I am getting a little of mine back.”

  “That strike you as being fair?”

  “Fair?” Costello said, swiping the salt from the counter onto the floor and brushing the palms of his hands together to rid them of the last of it.

  “What is fair? Is it fair for me to feed your marshal more meals than he ever has or ever will pay for? This is not a public service I am running here. The pennies I get back for fixing meals for the gunman Harlow Mackelprang or whoever else you have locked up over there are small recompense for the dollars I have watched go down the marshal’s gullet. And how about you, Charlie? When was the last time you paid for coffee?”

  At that, I figured I’d kept the prisoner waiting long enough, so I gathered up the tray and toted it over to the jailhouse to Harlow Mackelprang.

  “Here’s your supper, you ingrate,” I told him as I slid the tray under the cell door. “And thank God it’s the last time you’ll be sponging off the taxpaying citizens of Los Santos.”

  “I ain’t none too worried about that. They gave me nothing but a hard time my whole life. A slice of beefsteak won’t hurt ’em none.”

  “You’re damn lucky it ain’t beans and biscuits like all the others who get locked up in here get. You could at least appreciate it.”

  That got a laugh out of him. “Appreciate it?” he snorted. “Hell, Charlie, I’m getting hung in the morning. Oughtn’t I at least have the right to die with a decent meal in my belly?”

  “What about Soren and Calvin and all them others you killed? They die with full stomachs? I don’t suppose you cared a hoot in hell about that before you shot them.”

  “I’ll have to think on that one. Let me see. As I recollect, Soren was sitting at the supper table when I showed up at his place,” he said with a sneer. “I don’t know if his belly was full, but he was sure working on it.”

  The heat climbed up my neck and I could feel my face burning red. I could barely control the rage quaking in my limbs enough to say, “Harlow Mackelprang, you are one mean sonofabitch.”

  “I reckon you’re right, kid. And I hope folks never forget it. At least I’ll be remembered for something.”

  I went through the door into the office and told the marshal his prisoner had been fed. He sent me home for my own supper and told me to come back later for night duty. I knew Becky wouldn’t be too happy about me sitting around the jailhouse all night instead of keeping her warm in bed. But the fact is, standing watch is part of the job, and the truth is, the only time we do it is when someone particularly nasty is locked up, which ain’t often and she knows it.

  Becky and me both have lived in Los Santos all our lives. Her dad kept the mercantile and my folks worked for the railroad, selling passenger tickets and keeping track of freight coming through the express office. So we have both known Harlow Mackelprang all our lives.

  Being a few years younger than him, we were sometimes targets of his abuse and bullying. Of course that was true for most every kid. He especially had it in for Becky on account of she got him in trouble one time for tormenting her dog. She couldn’t never prove Harlow Mackelprang did it, but someone hit that dog Sparky in the head with a hatchet shortly after. Like I said, no one could prove who did it, but everyone knew who did.

  We married, me and Rebecca, just four months ago. Some folks—her dad especially—thought we should wait, us not being quite twenty years old yet, but we could not see any reason to wait. She wasn’t going anywhere and neither was I, and nothing in Los Santos was likely to change either.

  Besides, with her helping out around her dad’s store and me getting this deputy job, we figured we had the means to set up housekeeping. Lots of others hereabouts have gotten hitched with a lot fewer prospects.

  Becky’s folks and my ma and dad chipped in to help buy us a house, for which we owe a mortgage to the bank but we will pay it off before too long, we hope. It ain’t as nice as what our folks have, of course, but it’s fine for now.

  For the sum of six hundred dollars we got title to a small lot just two blocks off Front Street down First Avenue. The house on it is a solid-built one of square timber with a shake roof. Becky says it’s nothing more than an old log cabin, which is so, but it’s a good one and has been kept up and fixed up by previous owners over the years. Besides, she’s fixed it up right nice inside, I think as I step through the front door.

  Becky didn’t see me coming as she was standing over the stove. She turned when the door closed, and by then I had her around the waist and hoisted her up for a big old kiss.

  “Charlie! Put me down,” she said. “Can’t you see I’m busy fixing your supper?”

  “I see that. But I see something I want more than I want supper.”

  “You are incorrigible!”

  “Is that what they call it? I’ve heard lots of names for what I’m feeling but that ain’t one of them.”

  “Don’t be silly. ‘Incorrigible’ means you’re persistent and can’t be discouraged. You’d know that had you paid attention to your lessons in school instead of scheming how you could steal a kiss.”

  “You got to admit that kissing always was more enjoyable than studying grammar.”

  “I don’t have to admit any such thing. Now sit down at the table and I’ll serve your plate.”

  Supper was a slab of ham with sliced and fried potatoes, and a hunk of cheese. I even got dessert, which was stewed apples and raisins poured over a slice of cake Becky had baked on the weekend for Sunday dinner, and which she had been rationing out ever since. Which, I guess, was a good thing or I’d have eaten the whole thing by Monday. I’ll tell you, my Becky is a fine cook and makes even plain fare right tasty.

  “Harlow Mackelprang,” I told her between bites, “is having a steak dinner over to the jail right now.”

  “Jealous?”

  “No, I’ll take your cooking anytime. But I gotta say that beefsteak and gravy sure smelled fine. Seems a shame to waste it on a bum who’ll be dead before the taste is out of his mouth.”

  “Hanging is too good for the likes of him,” Becky said. “Harlow Mackelprang had the devil in him from the time he was a boy. I, for one, was not surprised when he advanced from tormenting people to murdering them. I will enjoy seeing him dead—and watching him die. I fully intend to be present at the hanging.”

  “Why, Becky, I did not know you had such strong sentiments about the man.”

  She did not reply right away, but from the way she was attacking that cake with a kitchen knife, I could tell she was stirred up. Finally, she said, “Charlie, you know he was a trial to this town all his life. He pilfered a small fortune from daddy’s store, and then there was that time he killed my little dog Sparky. And you know how he used to pester kids at school.”

  “That’s true enough. But I don’t remember it being all one-sided.”

  “Whatever do you mean?”

  “Didn’t you tell me once how you and your dad shortchanged him on stuff at the st
ore? You know, like putting a little thumb on the scale along with his flour sack and stuff like that?”

  “Well, sure, but he stole lots more than that! We only tried to even things up a little.”

  “I don’t suppose it ever occurred to you that you weren’t really hurting Harlow Mackelprang with that kind of thing as much as you were old Broom.”

  “That old drunkard! He wouldn’t know the difference.”

  “That’s right. And that makes it all the worse.”

  “I don’t want to talk about this anymore, Charlie. You’re no innocent yourself. I’ll never forget how you crept behind his chair that one time at a schoolhouse dance and cut the twine holding up his oversized hand-me-down britches. When he stood up and they fell down, it practically embarrassed that poor awkward boy near to death.

  “Or when you and the other boys tipped the school outhouse over on him and left him out there in the cold for the better part of the morning. If he hadn’t managed to kick enough boards out of the seat to crawl out through the bottom, he’d probably be in there yet.”

  “Yeah, I reckon them things and the others I done was mean of me. That ain’t no way to treat Harlow Mackelprang or anybody else. I shouldn’t have done them.”

  “So, since when did you become such a chum of Harlow Mackelprang’s, concerned for his feelings and all?”

  “Becky, you know as well as I do I have no use for him. Fact is, I was sorely tempted just this evening to pee in his coffee cup.”

  For some reason that struck Becky’s funny bone, and she had a giggle fit that went on for some time. “Watch your mouth, Charlie! I can’t believe a husband of mine could think such things, let alone speak of them in mixed company!” She was trying to sound prudish and straitlaced, but her laughter would not allow it.

  “You ain’t mixed company. You’re my wife—the light of my life, my one heart’s desire, the flame on my candle—”