Gallows For A Gunman

by Rod Miller

Genres: Westerns

Synopsis

Harlow Had Been Sentenced To Die At Dawn. For The Town Of Los Santos, Dawn Couldn't Come Soon Enough. . . Everyone in Los Santos had crossed paths with Harlow at one time or another, from the days when he was a snot-nosed boy stealing from kitchen gardens and tormenting dogs to the moment he acquired his first taste for murder. Along the way, Harlow left town and started to burn, pillage, kill, rape, and steal his way west, until he came back home to rob a bank, slaughter an innocent man, and finally trip over the marshal's outstretched foot. Now, the folks of Los Santos have one last chance to bid Harlow farewell, from the innocents to whose lives he's shattered to the preacher who can't find it in his heart to pray for him; from the local soiled dove to an old man with a dark secret of his own. And as these citizens tell their stories, they can't help but wonder: why did Harlow Mackleprang go so very wrong--and are some people too evil to really die? "A powerful tale of hatred, vengeance and retribution. An imaginative yarn, well and uniquely done." --Jimmy Lee Butts, author of A Bad Day to Die "Gallows For a Gunman is a fine read." --Frank Roderus, Spur-winning author of Judgment Day "A new voice in the west that rings authentic." --Dusty Richards, author of From Hell to Breakfast

Release date: August 15, 2012

Publisher: Pinnacle Books

Print pages: 256

Sample

Harlow Mackelprang’s last supper was seasoned with my spit.

Truth be told, every meal he has eaten these past three weeks while confined in the town jail awaiting his appointment with the hangman has been adulterated at my hand. The trays that left this kitchen with a dish towel covering my disgusting sauces are small comfort given what that so-and-so did to me. But at least it’s something—some revenge, however puny, for the years and months Harlow Mackelprang has sentenced me to stand on swollen ankles cooking in this café.

I should say right out that his is the only food I have ever tampered with. The very thought of such a breach of trust turns my stomach. But as I say, the man had it coming. And the fact that he got it pleases me even more than the knowledge that he will hang come morning.

Before Harlow Mackelprang went berserk, I lived an easier life. At least it seemed easier, as it was of my own choosing. The family home was four or five miles south of Los Santos. We lived just at the edge of lonesome, far enough from other folks to feel the isolation, but near enough to town that company was readily at hand.

My late husband Soren had watered that small farm with his sweat for nine years, including the six we were man and wife. I worked alongside him in the fields as much as housekeeping would allow. As the children came along my outdoors work, naturally, came second, and I spent my days with the usual routine of diapers and dishes, meals and mending, laundry and lap-sitting that every mother knows.

But that was when we had Soren to provide. That was before Harlow Mackelprang showed up at our door.

It happened on an early summer night three long years ago. The hour was late, well past the time most folks were abed, and the only people abroad in the land were likely up to no good. Soren had worked in the cornfield long into the moonlight, pulling and hoeing weeds whose only purpose on earth was to choke honest crops to death.

Soren and I talked quietly at the kitchen table as he wolfed down a late supper I had kept warm on the back of the stove. These late evenings, with the little ones asleep, provided longed-for opportunities for togetherness.

“I think now the weeds will give us no more problems,” Soren said. “If we can keep it watered well enough, I believe the corn will give us a good crop. But still, we will be lucky to see it ‘knee-high by the Fourth of July,’ as the old saying says we should.”

“How are the cows?”

“Well. The calves are growing quickly,” he said, then paused to fork up another load of fried spuds and onions.

“The feed is holding up well, so the mothers are content. They have all they need to make the milk. Things will be fine as long as the stream flows.”

A long draft of cool milk from a crockery mug prompted another interruption.

“In a month or so it will be time again for Odin to visit the cows.”

For my late husband, that was about as direct a reference to the reproductive process as one would ever hear. I could not resist giggling. Soren could not resist blushing. Odin, you see, was our herd bull—or, as Soren would say in his prim and proper way, “our gentleman cow.”

Sometimes, the fact that such a shy man had managed to father three babies in this farmhouse surprised me. Intimacy did not come easy to him, and talk of such things was a rarity.

But sire them he did, and Soren doted on our little ones. Grace was four then, and she was Momma’s little helper around the house and barnyard, but Papa’s girl nonetheless. Karl, our oldest boy, was barely twenty-two months, and enjoyed nothing more than his brief forays into the fields and pastures with Papa. Nothing made the boy happier or caused him to laugh louder than to ride horseback in front of Soren, propped on the saddle swells with his stubby legs wrapped around the saddle horn. Oscar was our baby. Just three months old, he demanded near-constant attention and my work those days had to conform to his schedule.

All three were tucked away and sleeping, as I said, giving us some quiet time that was too soon interrupted by an outburst of barking from our dog.

“What on earth could that be setting him off?”

“Or who, at this hour.”

“I hear a horse coming. And coming fast. I guess we will know soon enough,” Soren said as he rose from the table.

By the time he opened the door, the horse was already sliding to a stop in the dooryard.

“Who is it? Who is there?”

“It’s me, Harlow Mackelprang,” the rider said between gasps for air. But if he was winded, his mount was even more so. As it stood trembling in the patch of pale light that fell to the ground through the open door, I could see the horse was lathered and struggling for breath. The poor animal must have been raced at top speed every step of the five miles from town, where Harlow Mackelprang lived. The man’s desperation was plain.

“What is it you want?” said Soren as I crossed the room to stand behind him.

“There’s been some trouble in town. I gotta get away for a while and I’m a gonna need your help. Then I’ll be gone.”

“We’re poor folks with little enough to see to our own needs,” I said, hesitant to have anything to do with the man.

“You hush up, woman. I’ll do my talking to Soren.”

“You will not speak disrespectfully to my wife. Besides, what she has said is true. We have nothing to offer you.”

We heard the click of the cocking hammer before seeing the pistol come up.

“Well, I’m taking what I want whether you’re offering or not.”

Harlow Mackelprang swung his right leg across the front of the saddle and over the horse’s neck, never taking his eyes off us or even blinking as he slid to the ground. He dropped the reins and backed us into the room with his pointed pistol as he walked through the door.

“Let’s start in the kitchen. Sack me up some flour.”

“All we have just now is cornmeal,” I told him. “Won’t have flour until we go to town on Saturday.”

“Sack it up. And tie up a bundle of salt. And pull down a string of them dried apricots there on the wall.”

When that was done, he demanded a supply of coffee. Then he pulled my frying pan off its hook and picked up the coffeepot, the dregs of which he dumped in the wood box, clanking the upside-down pot against the side of the stove.

“Please. The children are asleep.”

“Shut up. I know you got a root cellar. Let’s go.”

He waved us toward the door with his pistol, as if Soren and I didn’t know the way out of our own house. As we crossed the yard, I tried to summon up what I knew of Harlow Mackelprang.

I first laid eyes on him some six years before that fateful night, and the first I saw of him was the holey soles of his run-down boots. It was my first day in Los Santos, and the morning had been an eventful one. Soren had met my train, escorted me to the justice of the peace to seal our vows, then treated me to dinner at the very café where I now cook. Then we loaded my trunk into the buckboard for the trip to the farm, and were just under way.

As we rounded the corner from Railroad Street onto First Avenue, a dog set to yelping and yowling to beat the band. The ruckus emanated from beneath the porch of a mercantile store, out from under which porch poked the aforementioned boots. Adding to the din was a wailing girl around ten years old, sitting in front of the store on an empty packing box.

Folks were gathering, and Soren stopped the wagon as the apron-wrapped storekeeper dashed out onto the porch.

“What the Sam Hill’s goin’ on?” the storekeeper asked.

“Daddy! Harlow Mackelprang’s hitting Sparky with a stick!” the girl told him.

About that time, a tall, stocky man with a badge pinned to his vest limped onto the scene, grabbed hold of those boots by the ankles, and dragged a boy out from under the porch.

Harlow Mackelprang stood up and dusted himself off, casting nasty looks by turns at the girl and her father and the lawman, as if undecided who most deserved his hate. He was a tall boy, taller than the storekeeper and nearly as tall as the marshal, with a pimply face and greasy hair.

It did not appear that he had dirtied bathwater for quite some time. Nor had his clothes been laundered of late. They were old, ill-fitting, and oft-patched, though not often enough to mend all the holes. His age was difficult to discern, what with him being so tall, but he must have been fourteen or fifteen years old at the time.

“What do you think you’re doing, beating that dog?” said the marshal.

“Sonofabitch bit me!” the boy said, displaying a bloody scratch on the back of his hand.

“Nonsense!” the storekeeper said. “That mutt has been tied to this porch all day every day since he was a pup and he never so much as barks at anybody.”

“He was teasing him,” the little girl said. “He kept on poking him with a stick and boxing his ears, and so Sparky bit him. Served him right!”

“That so?” the marshal asked the kid, whose only reply was a defiant stare.

“You go on,” the storekeeper told the boy. “Get away from here, and stay away. Picking on a tethered dog! What the hell’s wrong with you anyway? Go on! Git! I don’t want you or your sticky fingers around here.”

“Better get along, boy,” the lawman added. “Try to keep your nose clean.”

Harlow Mackelprang shuffled off down the street, hands in his pockets and head down, casting more of those nasty looks back over his shoulder. He turned down the first alley that presented itself and was gone. Soren clucked up the team and we went on home for our wedding night.

Living out of town like we did those next six years, I didn’t know much about Harlow Mackelprang’s activities, except to say that whenever I visited with folks in town there always seemed to be a story in circulation about some mischief he’d been into.

And the older he got, the meaner he became, and the trouble he caused was of a more serious nature. But until that night, I never would have guessed how bad the man—even then barely more than a boy—had become.

I held the lantern while Soren laid back the door of the root cellar. It being small, with room for only one man and him unable to stand upright, Harlow Mackelprang handed Soren the fry pan and coffeepot.

“Don’t do something stupid,” he said, and stepped down into the cellar. He popped back up almost immediately, eyeing us with suspicion. In the instant, he had managed to snag a gunnysack with maybe seven or eight pounds of spuds left in the bottom. He shoved it toward Soren.

“Put that cooking stuff in there, and that grub from the house. How about meat?”

“There is the smokehouse,” Soren said, nodding his head toward the small building.

Our guest climbed the four steps out of the cellar, then backed his way to the smokehouse and through the door. He soon handed Soren a slab of bacon and the butt-end of a ham we had been whittling on to add to the sack.

We were directed back across the yard toward the ground-tied horse, and I was relieved that Harlow Mackelprang would soon mount up and be on his way. Instead, he untied the latigo, pulled it through the cinch ring, and stripped the saddle. He then unbridled the horse and sent it clattering off into the dark with a lash of the bridle reins across the hip.

“Leave them supplies here with the saddle and let’s go catch me a horse.”

“A horse!?” Soren said, incredulous, barely able to stifle a laugh. “You mean old Babe?”

“Babe? I ain’t riding out of here on no mare.”

“I should hope not. Babe is too old for getaways. Besides, she is my only horse and must serve for riding to work the cattle as well as pulling my farm implements and the buckboard.”

“A mare. And a plow horse to boot. Damn the luck. Well, let’s get her saddled. Bad as she is, she’ll beat walking.”

“No. You cannot have Babe.”

“Don’t make me ask again,” the village-bully-turned-desperado said as he raised his pistol to arm’s length, leaving but a foot or two between the muzzle and Soren’s forehead.

Looking back, I suppose it’s likely that my Soren felt no fear. He was a big man, tall and strong. His arms were the size of my thighs and his hands exactly as long as the small of my back was wide. Remembering the feel of his hands there can still kindle a warmth in me.

On celebration days in town when men got up to boys’ games like wrestling, Soren more often than not would be the last man standing. He would strip his shirt for the contests to save the scarce fabric from rips and tears. The ropy muscles across his bare back, firm chest, and stomach, and his sculpted arms, always drew admiring looks from the circled men.

And, of course, more than a few lingering looks from the clucking coveys of womenfolk who pretended to ignore such childish games but were unable to keep their eyes averted for any length of time. Truth be told, the fairer sex is every bit as attracted to watching strong men grapple as the men themselves are. The reason behind the fascination may be different, but there it is.

So as I said, my Soren must not have taken seriously the threat Harlow Mackelprang represented. At least not seriously enough. Even with the cold, dark eye of the pistol barrel looking straight at him, Soren would not, or could not, see anything to fear in the sniveling beanpole standing before him.

“I said don’t make me ask again!” Harlow Mackelprang screeched across the few feet that separated him from my husband, who stood calmly, his eyes following the nervous sways and dips of the pistol.

“It will do no good to ask. Babe is more important to this farm than even I. Without her, we have nothing. The horse goes nowhere.”

Harlow Mackelprang did not reply for what seemed an eternity.

Then, without saying another word, he pulled the trigger and my husband’s head exploded. Soren was upended by the blast and dropped to the ground as bits of scalp, skull, blood, and brain rained down around him. I watched, too stunned to scream or even draw breath.

As powder smoke drifted away in the deafening silence that followed the blast, I heard the baby crying as if in the faraway distance.

“We’ll just see about that, you stupid Scanda-hoovian,” Harlow Mackelprang finally said. “Now, woman, go get that horse or that squawking kid’ll be next.”

I did not bother to fetch a halter or catch-rope from the barn. Through the fog of shock I made my way to the corral gate, and lifted the iron ring that once held together the staves of a small molasses keg but now served as a gate latch. The ring swung from the end of its gatepost tether as I hefted the end of the pole panel and swung it a few feet away from the corral and into the barnyard.

Babe, while a bit fidgety from all the unaccustomed nighttime noise, did not object when I grabbed a handful of mane and tugged her to and through the open gate. She pivoted with me when I turned back to drag and lift the gate in place. Can’t have the milch cow wandering off, I managed to remember through the daze surrounding me.

The ring clanged when I dropped it over the top of the post, and the horse snorted and shuffled backward a few steps. My clutching again at her mane calmed her, and I towed the old mare back toward the house and Harlow Mackelprang.

My baby’s wails, weaker now and turning into hopeless sobs, carried across the thick dark air.

That murdering maniac was as twitchy and restless as I was dazed. Headstall already in hand, he slung an arm around the old horse’s neck and jammed the bit against her poor worn teeth. Babe took the bit and he slid the bridle over her ears, not bothering to straighten and smooth the horse’s forelock as my Soren would have done.

Upset at the unaccustomed jerking and yanking, the usually docile old horse threw up her head and shied sideways. Harlow Mackelprang yanked at the reins and Babe whinnied and scuttled backward, hind end practically dragging and her head thrashing from side to side. The impatient man wrenched her to a stop and lashed her across the face with the end of the leather reins.

“Stand still, you sorry sonofabitch!”

“There’s no need to mistreat that animal,” I said.

“You shut up. You ain’t nothing . . .