Date with a Hangman

DATE WITH A HANGMAN

Jack Slate's wrist and ankles were bound in iron cuffs, linked
together by a steel chain, and wrapped tightly around the frame of his
chair. He looked wild and agitated, like a beast bracing for an unknown
future at the hands of his captors. He waited impatiently, rattling his
chains while trying to find a comfortable position, while the rest of
the mob gathered to hear the judge pass sentence. An angry jury of
Weatfield's finest citizens already pronounced Slate guilty of murder
in the first degree.
A month earlier, Slate killed "old man" Bailey with a .44 caliber
bullet to his chest when he stood between Slate and the door way to his
freedom. Slate just robbed the First Texas Bank of Weatfield, and
Bailey just happened to pick that moment to visit Miss Purdy, who
worked the teller window. Bailey was smitten with her and had
frequently brought her fresh biscuits-cooked hot, right out of the
skillet, which they would enjoy together for lunch.
But Bailey, with good intentions, but misguided logic, decided to
prove that chivalry was not dead. Nobody was going to rob his little
Miss Purdy if he had anything to do with it, and Bailey told Slate
those very same words, as he hunkered down and waited for Slate to make
his move. Slate didn't waste any time. A second later, Bailey was
splattered all over the Bank's wall, all one hundred and twenty pounds
of him.
The town of Weatfield began as a supply depot for the fledgling Texas
R &; R railroad company. The railroad was the brainstorm of William
Reynolds and Hiram Rothchild, two very rich entrepreneurs who believed
that a railroad spanning the state of Texas would encourage growth and
huge profits. Much of Texas was uninhabited, because of the oppressive
desert climate and vast expanse of space.
After sinking millions of their own money into what the newspapers
decried as, "A profligate waste of money," tracks were laid and the
railroad began. But trouble compounded quickly. Investors, who had
pledged their word to finance a large part of the capitol, suddenly got
cold feet. Chinese laborers also went on strike, holding out for better
wages and working conditions. Furious Indians tore up large portions of
track, killed suppliers and burned their wagons. Men working on the
plains were constantly hampered with severe storms, causing protracted
delays.
After laying 200 miles of track, R &;R went bankrupt. The
government ignored their pleas for help to financially back their
railroad. They didn't share the men's vision, but instead concentrated
their efforts on the transcontinental railroad, which was half way to
its completion.
William soon drank himself to death, and Hiram shot himself in the
head. That was also the demise of the short-lived Texas R&;R
railroad.
However, Weatfield survived, and evolved into a small town with its
own bank, saloon and whorehouse. It also served as the last stop on the
way to El Paso, where weary travelers would stock up on supplies and
maybe pay a visit to Fat Cat Kate and her girls. For two bits, one
could get a hot bath and a shave at Kate's, before indulging in more
playful recreation.

Lawson's saloon was a hubbub of activity as a mob of people continued
to pour in. The saloon also served as the temporary courthouse until
one could be built. A rope was tied across the room a few feet behind
Slate to cordon off the mob. Both lawyers had their leather case open,
with paper and quill provided upon a couple of liquor stained, felt
poker tables, substituting as desks. The jury was crammed close
together on a hodgepodge of chairs where the faro tables used to be. A
fat man, acting as court clerk, sat on a piano bench, which leaned
dangerously to one side. Mostly everyone else in the room had to
stand.
A long, marbled top bar where men would normally drink and socialize
was clear of liquor bottles and glasses, and only the judge's gavel and
his spectacles could be seen lying on it.
A Texas Lone Star along side the Stars and Stripes flag hung limp,
crudely tied onto a corner coat rack. The knotty pine wood floor was
spotted from tobacco stains meant for spittoons. Off to one side of the
wall, a poor caricature of Sam Houston hung at a slightly crooked
angle. Behind the bar, a large Victorian mirror, sent all the way from
New York City, hung precariously from two bent nails. Whenever a
brouhaha developed, Lawson would quickly remove it and guard it with
his life. It was his pride and joy, and so far, it was the only thing
that hadn't been broken or destroyed in his saloon.

Pig farmer George Brumble, ducked his six and a half foot frame under
the door mantle and sized up Jake Slate for a moment, before moving
toward his gang of roughs huddling near the rear corner. They were
louder than most of the mob, and probably the drunkest. Big George wore
dirty overalls and mud caked boots, which he didn't bother to scrape
off before entering, leaving a trail of muck across the floor. He was
ape like, with thick eyebrows and a jutting forehead, with arms that
seemed to hang past his knees. Even the pungent, liquor and smoke
filled room couldn't drown out the pig offal that clung to Big George's
boots.
Big George was no stranger to Sheriff Mooney who, from the moment he
walked into the room, fixed his eyes on him. Mooney had arrested him on
many occasions for drunkenness and brawling with the town's citizens.
Once, George almost killed a man with his bare hands when he suggested
George take a bath. The man barely escaped with two broken ribs, and a
crushed pelvis, but not before Mooney clobbered George over the head
with the butt of his shotgun. He spent six months Mooney's jail for
assault. It didn't take much to rattle Big George, and he could be
awful nasty, with little or no provocation.
Sheriff Mooney was a short and wiry with a perpetually fixed, lazy
right eye. He was a competent sheriff who kept to himself and spoke
sparingly. He never smoked or drank, but pursued his job diligently,
keeping his streets safe and clean; that is until Jake Slate showed
up.
Now he stood in the back of the room, which offered a good
vantagepoint, with a shotgun cradled in both arms and two colt
revolvers holstered high on his waist. He could be polite to a fault,
but deadly when push came to shove. For today's occasion, he wore his
hair slicked down and parted straight down the middle, and had his long
droopy mustache waxed at Fat Cat Kate's, but forgoing the
entertainment. He even bothered to polish his tin badge, which he
proudly wore since his election, eight years ago.
Mooney thought he'd pay Big George a visit, when Weatfield's bank
owner, Amos Tinlilly, strode over.
"Well Sheriff, today's the day we've all been waiting for, wouldn't
you say?" Amos looked a little flush, and Mooney could smell liquor on
his breath. He held his derby in his hands, fumbling with the
brim.
"Reckon he'll get what's coming," he said, without taking his eyes off
Big George and his boys.
"What do you think, will it be life in the poky, or a hanging?"
Mooney didn't like being distracted from his business, but held his
tongue. That's not for me to decide Amos. That's up to Judge
Winslow.
"Well perhaps your right Sheriff," Amos said with a touch of
irritation. "But you seen what he did to old man Bailey. Shot him dead
like it was nothing at all. And poor Miss Purdy; rumor has it she's
taken to morphine to settle her nerves. Poor creature should never have
seen such evil. She aint' been the same since. A callous and retched
thing that Jake Slate is. I've got more pity for a pack of rabid wolves
than I do him. Why, if I had my way-"
Mooney interrupted. "Please forgive me Amos, but there's some business
I need to attend to."
"Certainly Sheriff, by all means."
But even as Amos was speaking, Mooney was already making his way over
to where Big George and his gang were congregating.

Big George saw him first and elbowed his friend Huck Timmons to his
right. Huck alerted the rest of the group with a harsh shush. There was
about five of them altogether and judging by their nervousness, Mooney
would swear there was a conspiracy brewing between them.
"Howdy boys," he said while looking straight up at Big George, not
intimidated in the least. Mooney understood the maxim, that if you "cut
off the head, you destroy the body." So he looked directly at Big
George while he spoke, ignoring the others.
"Howdy Sheriff," the others answered in unison. They acted fidgety as
if they were little boys once again caught stealing candy from the
candy jar.
"Don't suppose you all heard of some crazy talk about a lynching have
you? Can't imagine anybody being damned fool enough to try something
like that in my town," he said as he fingered the trigger of his
shotgun.
"No sir, Sheriff," stammered Huck. "Hadn't heard a word of that
mentioned around here."
"Sure hope not boys. Cause it's an ugly thing what buckshot can do to
a man. A right ugly thing for sure. It's always best to let the law
handle men like Jake Slate. Besides, he'll probably end up dangling
from a rope anyway. Judge Winslow has a mean disposition when it comes
to murderin' no-accounts like Slate."
Big George kept silent. He just glared at Mooney with his dark, simian
eyes. One of the boys let out a nervous chuckle, diverting Mooney's
attention for a moment.
"Well boys, best I get back to my duties", he said finally, eyes still
on Big George. "If you all should hear anything, be sure to let me
know." Mooney made sure to subtly graze the neck of the chuckler with
the end of his barrel as he moved back to his niche in the rear of the
saloon.

"Damn that Sheriff," said Big George, clenching his large fist. "One
of these days I'm going to kill that little pipsqueak. He kept me
locked up six months in that stinkin' jail of his. I ain't never gonna
forget that."
Huck saw the George was getting all work up and tried to change the
subject before he got himself into trouble.
"How do you figure he knew about the lynchin' we was planning?"
"Cause one of you idiots talk to much, that's why." The rest of the
group was ready to put up a defense when somebody spoke.
"Wasn't me George," said Ronald Baxter nervously. He was a sly weasel
with little beady eyes that darted back and forth with perpetual worry.
As a kid he tried to rob a traveler in town, and the man shot his ear
clean off his head. Now he wore his hair down to his shoulders to hide
the nasty scar. It never did deter him from his pastime of robbing
folks, but he did develop a fear of guns, so he carried a leather black
jack in his back pocket instead. Fact is, Baxter would rather sneak up
from behind and bop them on the head anyway. It was much safer that
way.
"Had to be Harelip Mcbain," Baxter said, motioning toward his right.
"Heard from some of the fellas, he was asking around town if anyone
could tie a proper hangman's knot. Wouldn't surprise me if he walked
right into Mooney's jail and asked him personally, the dern
fool."
Harelip could hardly contain himself. He knew Big George could snap
his skinny little neck in a second. He was expecting the worse, all
eyes were on him, and tension within the group was thick with lingering
silence when all of a sudden, Big George's flatulence thundered through
the room, bringing resounding laughter amongst his gang.
After the raucous laughter ended, Big George, oblivious to the
indignant stares of the more refined, commented, "If the Sheriff's
right, it won't matter a hoot anyhow. That varmint Jake Slate will
probably be danglin' from the end of a rope soon anyway."

Previous to taking up bank robbing, Jake made his living stealing
horses from Texas and selling them over the border in Mexico. As soon
as Jake was paid, he quickly gambled away or spent it at the local
whorehouse, living like a king for a day on just a few pesos. When his
money ran out, he'd steal back the horses and sell them north of the
border in Texas.
The cycle continued until Jake, in his confusion sold the same horses
to the same Mexicans that he stole from earlier. When Jake realized his
mistake, a bullet ripped through his shoulder and he skittered back to
Texas.
Jake had robbed his first bank with relative ease. After a few drinks
for courage, he simply walked in and pointed his gun at the
bespectacled banker, and he was more than happy to empty the vault and
hand over the money. He continued to rob more banks, mostly from poor
border towns, and the take was small, but he liked the fact that there
was hardly any resistance.
By the time Jake drifted into Weatfield, he was broke and hungry. It
didn't take long for his money to run out, especially for such a poor
poker player. When he entered the double doors of The First Texas Bank
of Wheatfield intending to rob it, he wasn't aware that Sheriff Mooney
was scouting him from inside the swinging doors of Lawson's
saloon.
Mooney saw the grizzled bank robber as soon as he rode into town.
There wasn't much that got by him, especially one with the face like
Jake.
Jake was a bear of a man, with a long black beard and black curly hair
hanging past his shoulders. He wore a buffalo hide coat with a long
skinning knife tucked in his boot, and a floppy wide brim hat, tattered
around the edges. His nose was large and bent crooked to one side, and
kept a colt revolver tucked behind his belt.
A shot rang out as soon as Sheriff Mooney reached the bank's door. He
didn't have to wait long for Jake to meet him at the porch, where
Mooney hit him with the butt of his rifle, knocking him out cold. It
took four large men to drag Jake off to jail.

Finally, amongst the din in the smoky saloon, Judge Winslow entered
and reached for his gavel. He pounded the table a few times trying to
bring order to the court proceedings. The air was oppressively dry, and
his lips thirsted for the whiskey bottle under his robe. Sweat began to
pour down his sagging jowls. The lack of ventilation made him short
with anger as he pounded harder.
"Gentlemen please! Let's have some semblance of order here."
Still chained to his chair, Jack Slate smiled at the chaos, then
turned to his lawyer and asked, "How bout a smoke mister lawyer?"
The lawyer, sitting stiffly in his chair, ignored him. It was obvious
to Jake that his lawyer only wanted to get the trial over with and go
home. His lawyer already made up his mind that this was going to be his
last case out west, and he knew Jake wouldn't escape the rope; fact is
he didn't much care. As a defense lawyer, he was sick of defending
despicable and uncouth criminals who had no respect for human life. He
wished he would have stayed and practiced law in Boston where murderers
were more "civilized." His father-in law, a highly renowned lawyer back
east, suggested he set up shop in Texas for a few years, knowing it
couldn't hurt the pampered son of a rich banker to be "well-rounded,"
in the ways of the world.
Jake, giving up on the cigarette, craned his neck to his to observe
the crowd behind him. Most were already drunk and rowdy, some speaking
loud enough for him to hear how much they looked forward to hanging
him. Some were there out of curiosity, hoping to get a look at a real
murderer.
Jake caught the eyes of Miss Bunion, an old, pious looking woman with
pursed lips and a large black bible on her lap. Her hair was pinned
back tightly into a large bun. He winked at her and she smiled back
discretely.
A shot suddenly rang out and sent splinters of wood raining down on
the courtroom. It was Sheriff Mooney. "All right everybody, let's get
this show on the road. I believe Judge Winslow has some sentencing to
do."
The room became silent and Judge Winslow began to speak. "Thank you
Sheriff. And as for the repairs on your roof Mr. Lawson, you can send
the bill to the State Magistrate."
Lawson frowned and mumbled something unintelligible.
"Now concerning the defendant Jack Slate, has the jury reached a
verdict in regards to his fate?"
"We have your honor," said the lanky foreman. "We the jury believe he
deserves the death penalty."
A chorus of delighted cheers filled the room. Some danced and stomped
on the planked floor to show their approval. "I say we hang him now
Judge!" someone shouted drunkenly from the crowd.
"Gentlemen please! Let's not forget this is a court of law and will
continue to operate as such," Winslow admonished.
"Why wait Judge, he's guilty ain't he?" Shouted Big George over all
the noise. "I say we string him up now and be rid of him."
Judge Winslow was perspiring heavily and wanted a drink more than
ever. "He'll get what's decided by law," he said sternly. "Now, will
the defendant please stand?"
Jake tried to stand to his full height but the chains kept him hunched
over slightly, adding to a beastly posture.
"Jake Slate, have you anything to say before I pass judgement?"
"Just get on with it Judge. I don't think I can stand the stink in
here any longer."
The crowd became angry and restive at Jake's remark, when Sheriff
Mooney conspicuously walked to the bar with his shotgun poised and
ready.
The crowd settled down.
"Jake Slate," said Judge Winslow somberly, "You have been found guilty
of murder in the first degree. I hereby sentence you to hang by the
neck until dead, one week from today. Court is adjourned!"
As soon as Mooney removed Jake from the saloon and on to jail, the
whiskey started flowing. The piano began banging loudly and the people
became festive, now that Jake was going to be hanged.
Big George saddled up to the bar with Huck Timmons. "This may be the
break I've been waiting for," he said.
"What do you mean?" said Huck.
"I'll tell you, but you better keep it under your hat, understand?"
Big George said menacingly.
"Why sure George, I ain't no blabbermouth."
"This is just between you and me. Don't you say a word to them other
fools," George said, motioning to Harelip and the others who were
loitering around the piano.
Huck was excited with anticipation. "What is it George?"
Big George looked over his shoulder for eavesdroppers then moved in
closer to Huck. "I aim to break Slate out of jail."
"What fer?" spat Huck. "Don't ya want to see him hung?"
"Oh he'll hang alright. But not before he puts a bullet into that runt
Sheriff Mooney. I said I was going to pay him back for clobbering me on
the head and dragging me into that jail of his. Ain't nobody going to
go and clobber me on the head and get away with it."
"How ya goin' to get Slate out of jail? Mooney may be a few hairs shy
of a hitching post, but he's about a rascally as they come," said Huck
with growing apprehension.
"I ain't got all the figurin' done yet, but I'll think of somethin.'
You just remember, this is between you and me." Then turning his
attention towards his empty glass, he shouted, "More whiskey!"

Timmy Devlin's backside was still sore from the sting of Miss.
Donner's leather strap the day before. If he had apologized instead of
calling his teacher an old battleaxe, he would have suffered little
more than a short spell in the corner. Why do girls have to go and make
such a fuss anyway, he wondered. All I did was tug on Jenny's pigtails.
I ain't never gonna figure out girls, he muttered, as he shuffled
aimlessly down the alley behind Main street.
With his bamboo rod slung over his shoulder, Timmy decided he would
skip school and go fishing at McGruder's pond. "Derned if I care about
letters and figurin' anyway. Pop was right-who needs educatin to work a
hand plow, or shoe a horse?" he justified. He kicked at an empty can of
peaches lying behind Groliers Mercantile and missed. Embarrassed, he
quickly glanced around to see if anybody saw him. Nobody did. Then
holding his nose, he skirted quickly around a cart of rotting garbage
hitched to a sleepy swayback horse near the back door of Murry's
eatery. Feeling mischievous, Timmy dropped his pole and reached for his
slingshot in his back pocket. He loaded a small marble on the rawhide
pad; pulled, aimed, and fired. Finding its mark on the swayback's rump,
the horse woke from his slumber and bolted straightaway, spilling the
garbage at Murry's backdoor. Timmy, fearing the commotion would alert
Murry's attention, grabbed his pole and ran, breathing in the plume of
dust kicked up by the frightened swayback. Finding sanctuary in a shady
alcove at the edge of town, he started to relax once he realized nobody
was chasing after him. Once he stopped panting, he remembered the
terrified horse and his sudden resurrection from the dead. "I wish I
could be there when Mr. Murry finds all that garbage at his back door,"
he said through spasms of laughter. "When he finds that old swayback,
he'll take his own switch to him for sure."
"Hey boy," said a rough voice. "Come over here."
Timmy froze. "Over here boy," the voice said again from a few feet
away.
Timmy moved slowly towards the voice and then saw the man's hairy face
through the small, barred windows. Jake Slate's huge head and piercing
black eyes jolted Timmy backward a step.
"What's your name boy?"
Timmy&;#8230;Timmy Devlin," he answered hesitantly.
"I saw what ya did with that horse," Slate chuckled. "But don't worry,
I ain't gonna tell on ya. Seems we got somethin' in common, you and me.
Both of us have a little mean streak in us. Jake Slate is my name.
Seems I'm goin' to be hung next week. Ever see a hangin' Timmy?"
"No sir."
"Well, it ain't pretty. I saw a negro hang for killin' a white man
once. He did a swingin' jig fer derned near two minutes, while his
insides ran down his pant legs. If I had a choice, I'd rather they put
a bullet in my head. Least that way ya don't make a fool of yourself in
front of everybody."
"Are you the one who killed old man Baily?" asked Timmy, though he
knew the answer already. Timmy once heard his pa mention to his mother
at the dinner table, that if there's a need for a hangman to execute
Slate, he could tie a pretty fair 'hemp necktie' and could use the
extra cash to fix the barn.
"You're lookin' at em boy," Slate answered, lowering his head and
trying to look repentant. "I surely regret havin' to kill him, but the
stubborn old fool stood in my way. I know you'd do the same thing if
you were in my place, wouldn't ya boy? Like that tired nag you scared
off-if some old geezer made it his business to collar you for the
sheriff, why, you'd of ran him over like a runaway train, come hell or
high water."
"I don't know&;#8230;maybe&;#8230;I mean&;#8230;"
"Sure ya would boy, because you and me are alike. Outlaws like us live
by our own rules. Let everybody else play fair, but you and me got
better sense. We don't need no law tellin' us what we can and can't do.
I knew as soon as I seen you pelt that old nag, we were both cut from
the same cloth. Now, how about doin' a favor for a fellow
outlaw?"
Mesmerized by Jake's flattery, Timmy responded. "What kinda
favor?"
"I need you to fetch me a steel file and slip it through these here
bars. A gun would be better, but as you can see, a file is all that you
can slip through. After I get them sawed through, you can borrow me
your pa's gun. Your pa does own a gun, don't he boy? Then once I get
out of this hole, I'll show you some of the best fishin' holes this
side of the Rio Grande."
Timmy started to answer that his pa owned many guns, when he seemed to
suddenly break out of a trance. "Old man Baily was a friend of mine,"
he said reflectively. "He gave me this bamboo fishin' pole and was
always bringing me worms from his flower garden to use as bait. He and
Miss Purdy was gonna get hitched and I was gonna be his best man. He
was the only one who was real friendly with me."
"Look boy," said Jake impatiently, "He was just another one of them
do-gooders I was tellin' you about. He wasn't like you and me. He lived
by another set of rules. The one the law gives em. That's why the dern
fool is dead. He tried to play hero and got shot fer it."
Timmy, troubled by what Slate said about his friend, became defiant.
"Maybe he was a fool for trying to stop you, but you needn't have gone
and shot him. Old man Baily never hurt nobody. And I'm glad your gonna
hang. I might raise some conniption among folks now and then, but I
sure ain't no murderin' thief."
Slate, his eyes turning venomous, clutched the bars until his knuckles
turned red. "Now you look here boy, you might think your high and
mighty on the other side of these bars, but I plan on getting' outta
here soon. When I do, you can bet I'll find ya first thing and beat ya
like I'd beat a rented mule. Then I'd quarter ya and use your liver as
fish bait. Ya hear what I'm sayin' to ya boy?"
Timmy, unshrinking, simply picked up his pole, walked out of the shady
nook and into the hot sun. With his pole in hand, he looked forward to
throwing his hook into McGruder's fishpond, even as Slate continued to
shout threats at him from the window.

Three days later Big George told Huck of his plan to kill Sheriff
Mooney. Huck was a petty thief and a drunkard. He never did an honest
days work in his life. "I don't know George. What if it don't
work?"
"Quit yer hissy fittin'. I told you there ain't nothin' to worry
about. All you got to do is set fire to the warehouse at the end of
town. That'll get Mooney away from the jail, giving me the opportunity
to slip in and wait for his return. When he returns, I'll kill him and
blame Slate. Then the town will call me a hero for shootin' Slate while
he tried to escape. You got that?"
"Yeah, I guess so George."
You just make sure you high tail it before he arrives at the warehouse.
If he sees you, he might get wind of our plan and throw us both in
jail."
"I sure hope your plan works George," Huck said nervously, "Cause I
don't have no heart for bein' locked up in jail for long spell. Maybe
for a night or two to sleep off a bad drunk. That ain't to bad. But not
for no spell, no sir."
Big George, seeing Huck's confidence was faltering, slung his huge arm
across his shoulders and led him towards Lawson's saloon. "You just let
me take care of everything Huck," he said with calm reassurance,
"Everything is gonna work out just fine. Come on, I'll buy you a
drink."

Sheriff Mooney was pouring himself a cup of coffee when somebody
knocked on the door.
"It's unlocked," Mooney answered gruffly. He had been up most of the
night meticulously planning Slates execution. It was going to be the
town's first hanging and he wanted to make sure everything went
perfect.
Standing in the doorway was Miss Bunion, holding a fragrant plate of
eggs, pork sausage, and potatoes with onion gravy. "Good morning
Sheriff, I hope I'm not disturbing you," she said, looking
anxious.
"Not at all Miss Bunion. Come in please. Now, what brings you here?"
The sheriff asked, surprised. Miss Bunion had never been in his jail
before.
"I was hoping I could bring your prisoner breakfast, Sheriff."
"Of course," he said as he reached for the tray.
Miss Bunion drew back slightly and said, "If it's alright with you
Sheriff, I'd like to deliver it to him personally, and perhaps share
some passages from the Good Book."
Mooney shook his head, "With all due respect ma'am, you're probably
wastin' your time with him. He's more interested with savin' his skin,
than savin' his soul. He's a dangerous killer and wouldn't hesitate
to-"
I understand completely Sheriff," Bunion interrupted, but even
murderers will share God's kingdom if they confess their sins. He may
be condemned to hang, but can we condemn him to hell as well?"
Mooney gave it a little thought and then sighed with resignation. "All
right, ma'am, I'll meet you halfway. I'll give him the food, and you
can read to him from the Good Book of yours.
But you got to keep a safe distance from him. Under no circumstances
are you to approach him for any reason. If anything should happen to
you while under my care, I don't think my conscience could bear
it."
"Thank you kindly Sheriff," she said as she handed him the food
tray.
Mooney opened the thick wooden door to the jail room. Slate was
sleeping on a sagging cot and snoring loudly. "Wake up Slate!" he
yelled. Slate stirred and came to when he smelled the strong odor of
bacon. "Got some vittles for ya. You can thank Miss. Bunion for her
kindness."
"Come to deliver the last meal for a condemned man? Slate snorted.
You're a little premature; my hangin' ain't do for a few days
yet."
"Now Slate, you just watch your manners. Miss Bunion just wants to
speak to you awhile. Ma'am, I'll be just outside this door. If you have
any problem, give me a holler. Remember, stay clear of the bars."
Miss Bunion held her bible close to her chest as she examined the
jail. It was hot and stuffy with a small rectangular window high on the
wall-no bigger than a small breadbox, she observed. It was fairly
clean, except where spiders spun their webs in the corners. The cot was
small and folded out from the wall, attached by screw anchors. A
half-bucket of water with a ladle was just outside his reach of the
bars, with a few dead insects floating on top. Jake Slate was busy
devouring his breakfast, looking up now and then at the bird like women
standing before him.
"Uh hum," Miss Bunion coughed. Jake stopped chewing and looked at her
curiously. "Mr. Slate, I was hoping I could read a few passages out of
the bible. I believe every man should have the opportunity to confess
his sins before God so his soul might be saved from hell." After
leafing through the worn pages she began to read, "Blessed are the
undefiled in the way, who walk in the law of the Lord! Blessed are
those who keep His testimonies, who seek him with a whole heart."
"Well, I guess that leaves me out," said Slate, as gravy dribbled down
his beard. "I'm about as defiled as a man can get. I don't hold no
regrets though. A man makes his own way, good or bad."
"But God will forgive you Mr. Slate, if you're truly repentant. If
not, God's wrath can only condemn you to hell for an eternity."
"We'll, Miss Bunion, I ain't never been repentant in my life, and I
don't aim to be now. I reckon I'll just give that devil and his angels
what fer. Who knows, I might even run into some old partners of mine.
Soon we might even be runnin' the place."
"Mr. Slate please! This is not something a condemned man should take
lightly. You're going to hang from the gallows soon," she said pointing
outside. "Doesn't that put the fear of God in you?"
"No ma'am, only the fear of hangin. But I don't figure on hangin'
anytime soon."
"Oh?" she said, wondering if he was planning an escape.
"Stranger things have been known to happen. Like the Good Book says,
"God works in mysterious ways."
Bunion shook her head gravely, "Oh no Mr. Slate. God will have no part
in whatever wicked schemes you plan in your heart. And you would be
hard pressed to find that saying in the bible, for it doesn't
exist."
"Well, perhaps you might be right, Ma'am. Maybe the rope will be the
end of Jake Slate. What is the saying? He who lives by the sword, dies
by the sword?"
"That's right Mr. Slate. Perhaps you are finally realizing the error
of your ways. Would you like to cleanse your heart before the Almighty
God?"
Slate, changing to a serious tone said, "Ma'am, if you believe a
heathen like me can be saved, then I guess I'd better get right."
"Praise the Lord," said Bunion, looking up at the ceiling. "Let's
start by praying and-"
"Would you mind getting me a drink of water first ma'am?" Slate
interrupted. "I'm mighty thirsty. All this talkin' has made my throat
dry."
"Why of course." Without thinking, Bunion filled the ladle and handed
it to Slate. Drinking it all down, he thanked her and handed the ladle
back to her. When she reached for it, Slate grabbed her skinny wrist
and spun her around with her back to the bars. He held a fork to her
neck.
"Sheriff!" shouted Slate.
Mooney bolted through the door with his gun drawn and stopped quickly
in his tracks. "Let her go Slate, or I'll shoot you dead."
"Go ahead and try Sheriff, and I'll send Miss Good Book here straight
to her Maker. Now drop your gun and be kind enough to slide it over.
Miss Bunion's eyes pleaded with Mooney to do as he said. At the same
time, voices outside were shouting fire and he could here the bells and
whistles from the town's fire brigade as they whipped their horses to a
full run.
"All right," said Mooney with no other choice. He lowered his gun,
then slid it across the floor towards Slate. "But let her go. She's
done nothing to you."
"Just unlock the cell, and stand back Sheriff. Nobody's goin' to get
hurt if you do what I say."
Mooney unlocked the cell door and stepped back. Tossing Bunion aside
like a rag doll, Slate then picked up Mooney's revolver and motioned
him into the cell. Just then Big George walked in with a
double-barreled shotgun. Slate, caught by surprise, whirled around and
fired a bullet into his shoulder, causing George to swing his shotgun
towards Mooney, letting go both barrels into his chest, hurling him
against the cell wall, sliding slowly into a pool of his own blood.
Miss Bunion shrieked, diverting George's attention momentarily as Slate
fired another bullet, grazing George's head, knocking him unconscious.
Grabbing his hat and coat, Slate ran for the door, unhitched Mooney's
bay stallion, and rode away quietly and unnoticed while the fire
created a climate of hysteria.
"What luck," thought Slate. "The fire couldn't have happened at a
better time. By the time they put it out and deputize a posse, I'll be
in Snake Canyon, hidden like a needle in a haystack."
Timmy Devlin was playing hooky as he watched the fire from atop his
favorite hiding place-an oak tree at the edge of town. The warehouse
was almost fully engulfed now, but the entire town fought on furiously,
forming three lines of bucket brigades that gallantly, but futilely hit
the fire at three different points.
Timmy would rather watch the fire as it licked up at the sky, and the
black billowy plume of smoke that burned his eyes a little, than be
fishing at Mcgruder's pond. Nothing this exciting happened in
Wheatfield since Jake Slate held up the bank and murdered his
friend&;#8230;Timmy started to feel sad at the thought. He missed
old man Baily and the way he'd pat him on the head and talk to him like
a man and not a boy. He especially missed hearing the stories he told
of himself when he fought Comanche's during a stint as a young Texas
Ranger. Or the way he'd magically pull a penny out of Timmy's ear and
then drop it into his shirt pocket. "Things just aren't the same
without him," Timmy sighed, not interested as much in the fire
anymore.
Even with the commotion of the crackling wood and the shouting cries
of the firefighters, Timmy could hear the slow plodding of horse hoofs
pass beneath him. Even with the rider's hat pulled down low and his
coat collar high around his ears, Timmy knew it was Jake Slate. Nothing
could conceal the greasy sheen on his coat sleeves, and the long, black
curls that hung past his shoulders. Recognizing the bay stallion, he
figured the worse for Mooney. Jake Slate had escaped and there was
nothing he could do, unless&;#8230;
Timmy waited till Slate passed some twenty-five feet or so before
releasing his coveted tiger-eye marble from his slingshot. He aimed
squarely at the bay's backside, sending him bucking out of control.
Slate dropped the reins and held on the pommel horn as the bay arched
his back and swung his body from side to side, kicking out ferociously
with his hind legs, terrified by the sting in his rump. Slate, reaching
down precariously to retrieve the reins, was bucked and lifted off his
saddle into the air backward, crashing down on his neck, breaking
it.
Slate lay there on his back, unable to move or speak. Only a burning
flicker in his eye spoke of his rage, for the last thing he saw before
he died was a wide-eyed Timmy, sitting on a tree branch and holding his
slingshot.

Miss Bunion testified at Big George's trial as he sat in ankle cuffs,
and one arm in a plaster cast. Bandages were wrapped around his head
where he was nicked by a bullet. Bunion tearfully told the jury how Big
George cut down Sheriff Mooney in cold blood. Huck Timmons swore on the
bible that it was George who set fire to the warehouse in hopes of
drawing Mooney from his jail. There were no character witnesses to
testify on George's behalf; they were as silent as a Texas prairie.
Even his father was to busy tending to his pigs to waste his time in
court.
The jury deliberated for only a few minutes. Later, George was
sentenced to hang.

Everybody knew it was Timmy's pa who wore the black hood while he
tightened the noose around Big George's head. He didn't bother to
change from his overalls into something more appropriate to match the
occasion. Nor did he remember to remove his field hat before he stepped
onto the gallows deck. Nobody paid much mind that he was hired to pull
the lever, for they knew Timmy's pa was a good citizen and needed the
extra money to fix his barn, and nobody was ready to fault him for
that.
As he pulled the lever opening the trap door, Big George dropped like
a ton of bricks, the rope becoming taut as a steel cable. Later,
Timmy's pa received his money and detoured to the saloon for a few
drinks before heading home for supper. "Supper can wait a spell," he
reasoned to the saloon keeper Lawson, "I never knew how hangin'
somebody could work up such a mighty thirst."