Thirteen steps to reach the platform. That was what tradition said, whether it was true or not.
Flanked by the county sheriff on one side—or in this case some designated representative to stand in his place since the Ross County sheriff was back in McCarthy Falls—and a priest or preacher, whichever the prisoner desired, on the other.
Time enough for a few last, hopeless words if he wanted to waste the breath on them.
Then the hood.
Then the noose, its lumpy thirteen-twist knot placed just precisely so behind the ear.
And finally the wooden clunk as down below a lever was pulled by the state’s official hangman. Who, Longarm happened to know, did not wear some bogeyman black costume, but a very neat and businesslike bowler and natty suit.
Longarm wondered what the last sound to reach the prisoner might be. The thump of the platform dropping?
More likely the sound of his own neck snapping as the bulk of the big knot pushed the spine sideways and caused the vertebrae to separate.
It was said to be a quick and painless death.
But who the hell could say that for sure? Nobody who ever went through it was able to tell about it after.
Whatever, it was a bitch of a way to die.
But then, hell, what wouldn’t be?
Longarm sighed. The sun had made its first appearance over the distant horizon now, and was lifting free of the earth.
Official sunrise.
Madelyn Williams Bell should be a widow by now. Shit! Longarm thought. “Tyler.”
“Mm?”
“Reckon we should hitch up the bays an’ head back to Bosler now?”
“Yes, I suppose so. I … if you don’t mind, Longarm, I’ll ride along with you as far as Cheyenne. Someone will have to make arrangements on Maddy’s behalf. I didn’t … I never asked what she wants done now. I mean
…”
“Take him home to her, Tyler. That’s what I’d think.”
“Yes, I suppose that would be best.”
To give credit where it was due, Longarm thought, the defeated lawyer seemed genuinely saddened this morning. No man was that good an actor.
They went back inside, and were in the process of getting the harness sorted out ready to hitch the bay team to Bill Fay’s buggy when Longarm heard the creak of rusty hinges as one half of the big double doors at the front of the feed barn swung open.
“Custis? Are you in there, Custis Long?”
“Who …?”
A graying and withered but broadly grinning old man stepped inside and cheerfully proclaimed, “Somebody told me you was in town and looking for me, Custis. By Godfrey, it’s good to see you again after … what’s it been? Two years? Closer to three?”
Longarm gaped, taken completely aback.
Then his complexion turned a mottled, purplish hue and he barked, “You son of a bitch. You lousy, Judas son of a bitch!”
“Windy?” Tyler Overton exclaimed half a heartbeat behind Longarm’s outburst. “Windy Williams. Jesus!”
Chapter 40
Marshal Bill Fay came out of the Bosler town jail and waddled onto the street, his first concern being to see to the welfare of the fast bay horses and the hell with Custis Long and company. Once assured that his babies were unharmed, he was willing to greet Longarm and Overton.
“And who’s the whiskery gent wearing the handcuffs?” the local lawman asked. “Not another murderer surely.”
“Might as well be,” Longarm explained sourly. “The sonuvabitch damn sure caused the death of another. Though not in any way the law can touch him for. Not that I can see.”
“Then why the handcuffs?” Fay asked.
“Jeez, Bill, there’s gotta be something we can charge him with. Not that me and Tyler have figured out just exactly what yet. But we’ll think o’ something. Count on it.”
“Uh-huh. Kind of looks like in the meantime he’s taken a fall and bruised himself up some. What did he do, fall down five or six times in a row?”
“Yeah, well, some people have lousy balance, don’t they?”
Fay helped Williams down onto the street, and was compassionate enough to stand between the old man and Longarm. “I take it you didn’t have any trouble finding him?”
“Hell, he found us. But not until past dawn this morning. He knew what was happening, damn him. Did it deliberately, he did. He was living there under a false name, and when he was sure Gary Bell was cold meat on the hook, then he stepped out all grins an’ playful. Miserable old son of a bitch.”
