by Rod Miller
MARSHAL
Harlow Mackelprang’s last supper was just slid under the bars into his cell, and sits there on the floor waiting to be devoured.
And I do mean devoured. I have been amazed these past three weeks how much food that skinny ingrate puts away and how fast he shovels it in. At least that’s the case for the usual plain fare of beans and biscuits we feed prisoners. We’ll see if it goes for the steak dinner he requested as his final meal.
I hope he chokes on it.
On second thought, I hope he don’t. I do not want to deprive the people of Los Santos the enjoyment of seeing Harlow Mackelprang swing. This town hasn’t had a minute’s peace since he came here as a five-year-old boy. Even these past three years when he was hiding out in the desert running with that gang of thieves and killers, I slept with one eye open, expecting his return.
Sad to say, my expectations were more than met.
We lost track of the little thug the day after he tore up the town and shot Soren out at his farm. Maybe if I hadn’t been so surprised by him slapping Althea around and shooting up the saloon, I could have got a posse up sooner and stopped Harlow Mackelprang before he shot Soren and stole his horse and goods.
We did have the fire at the stable to put out, true, but I’ve always been bothered that maybe I could have saved a lot of pain had I acted faster. Not only the pain Soren’s death has caused Lila and their kids, but all the other grief he has spread through these parts since he left here, and the murder he did here when he finally came back.
At least it will all be over come morning.
“He’s fed, Marshal,” Charlie, my deputy, said as he passed out of the lockup and through the office door.
“For the last time, I hope.”
“Me too. Packing grub for them lowlifes we keep locked up back there is my most unfavorite part of this job.”
“Yeah, I know,” I said. “But don’t forget that if it wasn’t for them lowlifes that break the law, there wouldn’t be no lawman job. For you or anybody else.”
“I reckon you’re right. Even still, it’s all I can do sometimes to keep from taking a leak in their coffee.”
“Go on home, Charlie, and get you some supper. Then come on back and keep an eye on things, so I can get some shut-eye. I don’t want to be dozy come the morning’s festivities.”
“See you in a while then,” he said as he passed through the jailhouse door to make his way home to a hot supper with his pretty new wife, Rebecca. Becky, she goes by. She don’t cotton much to Charlie’s occasional night duty. Give her a few years and she won’t mind nearly so much. Lucky for her, night duty at the jail isn’t necessary all that often—only when a badder-than-average desperado like Harlow Mackelprang is locked up.
But I don’t expect any difficulty, so Charlie should be fine. I’ve been keeping my eye on that Mexican that came by to visit yesterday, but all he’s done is hang around the saloon with another Mex and an old man. Them three fit the descriptions on some of these reward dodgers in my desk. I swear they’re Harlow Mackelprang’s lackeys. But they don’t act like they got anything planned.
And funny thing, I’d lay odds that that old man was the one who tipped us off about the bank robbery that led to Harlow Mackelprang’s capture. But I couldn’t swear to it.
That had to have been one of the strangest crimes gone wrong in all of history. I certainly never heard of nothing like it.
Charlie and I were just lazing around the office that quiet afternoon, me with my feet on the desk to give my game leg a rest and Charlie on the only other chair in the place, propped against the wall by the door. Someone outside the door called out—not loud nor excited, but insistent.
“Marshal! Step out here a minute, will you.”
Being closer to the door, not to mention younger and quicker, Charlie was on his feet before I had even got around to reacting. He cast me a questioning glance, so I nodded for him to go on. He opened the door and poked his head out.
“Yeah, what is it?”
“Harlow Mackelprang’s robbing the bank. You might want to get on over there. But be on your toes. I seen a scattergun.”
“What?” I heard Charlie say as I made my way to the door. I hoped to ask that question myself, but the man was already riding off. I didn’t get much of a look at him, but he looked like his best years were behind him. He rode down the street in the direction of the bank, leading a saddle horse. Just in front of the bank another man—dark-skinned fellow, looked Mexican—was getting mounted. Then the two spurred up their horses and headed out of town at a long trot, leading that third horse.
Saying all that, it may sound like me and Charlie was standing there with our faces hanging out watching the whole thing. But no. We were quickstepping it down the sidewalk toward the bank.
“He say it was being robbed now?” I asked.
“That’s what it sounded like to me.”
“I thought so too. We best not take any chances. You make yourself small in the alley there next to the bank. I’ll get up next to the door, see if I can figure out what’s up.”
“Right,” Charlie said, sounding about half-nervous and all the way afraid, which seemed appropriate in the circumstances. We were crossing the alley just then.
“Get that pistol in your hand where it’ll do some good,” I whispered as I stepped up onto the sidewalk in front of the bank. I could hear Harlow Mackelprang sounding all agitated and yelling something about “Mariano,” and I could hear Calvin, the bank clerk, telling him something to the effect that he knew who he was and he wasn’t going to get away with it, and the robber yelling something back at him.
About then the shotgun went off.
I was just beside the door when I heard the clomp of footsteps coming my way. The door banged open and them feet kept coming, so without even thinking about it, I stuck the foot on the end of my good leg out there to send them feet and whoever was attached to them tumbling.
It worked. Harlow Mackelprang went sprawling facedown all over that sidewalk, his gangly arms and legs going all directions, dropping a sack and a sawed-off shotgun in the process.
In a step and a half I was beside his head, just as he commenced to raise up. I stopped him by boring the barrel of my pistol into the back of his neck.
“You even try to get up and I’ll blow you to hell, Harlow Mackelprang,” I said.
He didn’t, so I didn’t.
“Charlie!” I called, and he stepped around the corner. “Get some handcuffs on him.” Once the cuffs were in place, I had Charlie hobble Harlow Mackelprang with a short piece of rope.
“You just lay right there. I’ll deal with you in a minute,” I said to Harlow Mackelprang. “If he moves, shoot him,” I told Charlie. “I better see what kind of mess he made in there.”
Dreading what I’d find, I entered the bank. I found about what I feared. First thing I saw was Tueller, standing there looking like someone dumped a bucket of slaughterhouse guts all over him. There was blood dripping off his face and bits of meat plastered all over him. Blood covered most of his suit. Even his eyeglasses and bald head were spattered. I thought he’d been shot, but realized all the blood was on his outside and didn’t come out of him.
I stood there looking at Tueller, and he stood there with his hands raised staring like he was fixed on something in the far, far distance. On the floor between us was the bank clerk, Calvin. At least what of him wasn’t splattered all over Tueller and painting the surrounding area a hundred shades of red.
“You all right, Tueller?” I asked quietly. He didn’t answer. Just kept staring at nothing. “Tueller?” Finally, I stepped around the mess on the floor and took hold of his arm and gave it a little shake. “Tueller—c’mon, snap out of it.”
He turned, ever so slow, and looked at me. Slowly, his eyes sort of came into focus and he became aware of my presence.
“Marshal. Oh, my God, Marshal,” he said slowly. “It was Harlow Mackelprang. He killed Calvin.”
�
��I know it. We’ve arrested him. You can put your hands down now. It’s all over.”
Slowly, still dazed, he dropped his hands. I about told him not to worry, that everything was fine. But I realized how stupid and wrong that would sound.
“C’mon,” I said instead, “let’s get you home so you can get cleaned up. We’ll get Calvin taken care of and I’ll find someone to mop up in here.”
The place was a hell of a mess. From the look of things, Harlow Mackelprang had been only a few steps away from Calvin when he cut loose with that sawed-off shotgun. And Calvin had been only a few steps from Tueller.
Had the shot been fired from any more distance, Tueller likely would have caught some buckshot himself in the scatter. But as it was, Calvin caught the full load right in the middle and it had pretty much cut him in half. So all Tueller got hit with was a good portion of what used to be Calvin.
I sent Charlie to escort Tueller to his house, and told him to then go around and fetch the undertaker to gather up what was left of the bank clerk and have him see the mess got cleaned up. The floor, the wall, and Tueller’s desk would all require a quantity of soap and water and elbow grease.
Then I hustled Harlow Mackelprang down the street to the jailhouse. Since Tueller wasn’t in any condition to deal with it, I scooped up the money sack along with the empty shotgun and took them along with me.
I shoved Harlow Mackelprang into the cell closest the door, and smacked him a good one on the back of the head with the butt-end of that shotgun, not wanting to take any chances in getting off those hobbles and handcuffs, then slammed the door shut and locked it. I tossed that sack of money onto the cot in the empty cell and locked that door too, thinking it would be safe there and its presence might remind the prisoner just how stupid he was.
Figuring I’d earned it, I walked over to the saloon for a whiskey to calm my nerves. I didn’t take advantage of it often, but the barkeep there was always willing to stand me to drinks. Sort of a reward for public service, if you know what I mean.
After pouring back a few and telling the latest crime news to the layabouts who frequented the saloon, I wandered back over to the jail. By that time, our prisoner was awake and sitting on the cot, elbows on knees and head in hands.
He was so damn long and skinny, he looked like a jumble of tree twigs bound with binder twine. Sort of made you wonder how all those gangly appendages didn’t get tangled up among themselves when he walked. Watching him gather it all up and run was truly a sight to behold. Thinking of it almost brought a smile to my face, but seeing him sitting there in the cell, I just shook my head sadly instead.
“Harlow Mackelprang, what the hell were you thinking, shooting that young man like you did?” I asked him through the bars. “There weren’t enough money in that bank to be worth killing for.”
“That fool kept up saying I wouldn’t get away with it. That I’d get caught. That they knowed who I was and they’d get me. Well, I guess I showed him ain’t no one tells Harlow Mackelprang what he will and won’t do.”
“But as it turns out, he was right. You didn’t get away with it.”
“Well, that sissy office boy with his soft hands and starched collar might have been right, but he’s dead all the same. So I guess he learned his lesson, didn’t he.”
I had no reply for that. Someone as thickheaded as Harlow Mackelprang ain’t likely to understand just how silly that kind of thinking is. One thing I’ve noticed in my years dealing with criminals is that more often than not they’re as dumb as a dull ax. And what’s worse, they’re too dumb to even know they’re dumb.
Most folks come to realize their limitations after life stomps ’em down a time or two. Then they either learn from their shortcomings or figure out how to compensate for them or both. But your average outlaw, as I said, is plumb stupid, so I couldn’t see much sense in trying to talk sense to Harlow Mackelprang.
So I changed the subject.
“Haven’t seen you around town for quite a spell. Can’t say I’ve missed you.”
“But you did miss me, Marshal. I been back to Los Santos lots of times.”
“Yeah, I know that. Althea’s told me about your little visits.” Althea is the local lady of the evening, only she ain’t no lady and she ain’t particular about the time of day should someone show up with cash in hand.
According to her, all Harlow Mackelprang ever showed up with, on those dark mornings he’d steal into town and come tapping on her door, was a mean streak a mile wide. I saw the result of his visits on Althea’s face plenty of times—fat lips, black eyes, bruised cheeks, a bent nose. It was enough to make Althea complain that the cash she slipped me in those perfumed envelopes every month to keep her out of trouble wasn’t buying her much protection.
But that’s another story.
“What I mean is,” I said to Harlow Mackelprang, “you’ve kept yourself pretty scarce. Most folks thought they were rid of you for good.”
“Shows what they know.”
“Myself, I always figured you’d be back. Fact is, I didn’t think it’d take this long for you to miss the folks back home.”
“Well, I been kinda busy.”
“I know that. I been keeping up with your doin’s. Got a pretty good stack of posters on you,” I said.
“How about that, Marshal!” he said. “I been collectin’ them things myself. I specially like the ones with the pictures on them. Pretty good likeness, don’t you think?”
“Not bad. Not nearly ugly enough, though. Course, maybe that’s on account of I know you too well. I can’t look at you without seeing your meanness show through.”
That meanness sure showed in his crimes. As I said, I had kept up with his comings and goings as best I could. And here’s what Harlow Mackelprang got up to after giving us the slip after he set fire to the stable and shot Soren, as near as I can figure it out.
Within a month or two, there was a stagecoach robbery over around the Thunder Mountains. The reports said the stage was crashed and the shotgun guard and driver both killed. It took a while, of course, for the stage to be missed and located, and by the time the law arrived the trail had gone cold.
The getaway had all the marks of the Catlin gang, what with used-up horses scared off on false trails to confuse trackers, trails branching off as the gang split up, and a general direction leading toward the middle of the driest and most desolate part of hell. There have always been stories of a hideout and water out there somewhere, but no one has ever found it that I know of. And I know of some who died looking.
But as I said, while the getaway looked like Catlin, the crime didn’t. As a matter of fact, I heard through the grapevine that Catlin himself sent word to the sheriff over there in Trueno that he had nothing to do with the killing. Within a year or so, they say Catlin dropped off the face of the earth and his gang pretty much broke up.
No one ever said so as far as I know, but I suspect Harlow Mackelprang had a hand in Catlin’s disappearance and the breakup, as he picked up some of the pieces of the old gang and formed a bunch that was worse than Catlin’s outfit ever was. Whereas Catlin tended to avoid violence, once Harlow Mackelprang got involved—starting with that Thunder Mountain stage robbery, if you ask me—pistol-whipping and shooting and killing were more important than stealing money or cattle or horses or whatever. Terror was their real stock in trade, and Harlow Mackelprang never missed a chance to make it known that he was the man to be feared.
Take that time they rustled a band of sheep down near the border. While a couple of outlaws gathered up them brush maggots and drove them away, Harlow Mackelprang shot the Mexican herder in both his feet, then tied him to his horse. That herder said the bandido told him to thank his boss for such a fine band of sheep, and to say that “Harlow Mackelprang wants more just like them.” Then he spooked the herder’s horse into a runaway.
Lucky for that Mex, the horse eventually made its way back to the home ranch. That way, he was able to deliver that message and spend
the rest of his life hobbling and crawling around, a cripple, rather than dying in the desert.
Harlow Mackelprang rustled a mixed herd of cattle one time, shooting up and killing most of the crew of cowboys and vaqueros who had just rounded them up. But trailing herds of livestock down into Mexico deep enough to find a buyer takes time and effort, and Harlow Mackelprang never cottoned much to a job of work, so rustling soon enough dropped off his list of ways to make a living.
Then there was the time the gangly fool and his band robbed a passenger train. A passenger train! They didn’t even open up the mail car, where there might have been a money shipment or a safe with something in it worth taking. Hell, no! What they did was, while two or three men held the engine crew and conductor at gunpoint, Harlow Mackelprang paraded through both passenger coaches pretending to be a fearsome gunman and relieving folks of pocket money. And he shot a man in each car—one of them died—just to get folks’ attention.
“Now you know Harlow Mackelprang means business,” he told them.
I tell you, I always knew that kid was stupid and mean. But once he decided to become a notorious bandit, he surprised even me with his extremes on both counts.
He once robbed the bank over in Robbinsville, but wasn’t satisfied with the take, so he knocked two customers and a clerk over the head and tied them up and set the place on fire. The building burned to the ground, but passersby was able to drag those folks out in time.
He robbed another stagecoach on the Thunder Mountain run, repeating his mean trick of hiding in the brush and shooting a wheel horse. This time, though, the driver managed to stop the team before the Concord coach overturned.
In the confusion of calming the horses and keeping them from bolting like they were inclined to do, what with them being hitched together with one of their kind bleeding and dying, Harlow Mackelprang climbed up over the boot and shot the driver in the back of the head, then gunned down the guard, who fell among the hooves and further upset the horses. As they bolted, the bandit barely managed to throw down the strongbox and jump overboard before being carried away on the runaway stage.
