Chapter Seventeen

“I never in all my born days thought I’d be glad to see and talk to a hangman,” Uriah Tweedy said. “We been stuck in this livery fer three days an’ two nights.”

“Seems longer,” Shawn said, scratching the stubble on his chin.

“So,” Tweedy said, “what brings you to town, Mr. Lowth?”

“Alas, a hanging, Mr. Tweedy.”

“Anybody we know?” Shawn said.

“A chicken thief who stands five-foot-four-inches tall and weighs one-hundred-and-ten pounds.” Thaddeus Lowth smiled. His teeth looked like yellowed piano keys. “In my profession, knowing the height and weight of the condemned is important to ensure a proper drop, you understand. As to the name of the condemned, the sheriff didn’t put it out and I never inquire.”

“Seems a hard justice to hang a man for stealing chickens,” Shawn opined.

Lowth nodded. “An excellent observation, young man. But in reality, and here I quote Deputy Clark, ‘He ain’t getting’ hung for chickens. He’s gettin’ hung for being a damned nuisance.’”

“I knowed a nuisance one time that got shot. Know who shot him?” Tweedy waited expectantly, got no takers, so he said, “Pat Garrett, that’s who. The ranny who gunned poor Billy Bonney down Fort Sumner way.”

“What did the miserable wretch do to deserve such a fate?” Lowth asked.

“Who? Billy or the nuisance?” Tweedy looked at the hangman in confusion.

“The nuisance, of course.”

“Oh, well, it seems Garrett was doin’ some tin-panning up Colorado way and every time he washed a shirt an’ hung it out on a rope, the nuisance stole it.”

“Not a real smart thing to do to Pat Garrett, I imagine,” Shawn said.

“No, it was real dumb. Pat took it for as long as he could, then his patience broke and he cut loose. Put three bullets into the nuisance and that was the end of him.” Tweedy looked at Lowth. “How come you ain’t got a cozy berth in a hotel, Mr. Lowth?”

“Ah, mine is a much-maligned profession. Hotels say it’s uncomfortable for their other guests to have a hangman in residence because it makes them think of death and Judgment Day. In short, the management always gives me the boot.”

“That’s too bad, Mr. Lowth,” Tweedy said. “But ol’ Miles Marshwood will make you an’ your mule right welcome.”

“Yeah. He’s a real welcoming kind of feller.” Shawn held up the bottle. “Drink?”

Lowth shook his head. “I never indulge in ardent spirits.”

“Women?” Tweedy scrunched in nose in question.

“Oh dear no, Mr. Tweedy. My lady wife would never allow it.” Lowth’s smile looked like someone opening the lid of a piano. “Mrs. Lowth is very big in bloomer circles, you know.”

“You don’t say,” Tweedy said, suddenly interested. “Because of the size of her ass?”

“Oh no. She makes silk bloomers for ladies of refinement. She employs a dozen cutters and sewers, bless her.”

Lowth sat beside Shawn and Tweedy and stretched his long, skinny legs out in front of him. Then, as though he loved to expound on a topic of conversation that fascinated him, he said, “Mrs. Lowth tells me often that nothing is dearer to the female heart than her undergarments. She says, in her quiet way, ‘That is why, while still retaining her maidenly modesty, the modern woman expects her drawers to fit closely without pinching or chafing that priceless treasure she guards so diligently against every onslaught of the rampant male sex.’”

“Wise woman, your wife,” Tweedy said, nodding his approval. “A woman’s got to guard that priceless treasure, I always say.”

“Indeed,” the hangman said. “Mrs. Lowth is so proud of her undergarments she will not sell them to ladies of questionable morals, if you catch my drift, Mr. Tweedy.”

“Indeed I do, Mr. Lowth. Can’t have whores wearing your wife’s bloomers, can we? No sir, that would never do.”

“I’m glad you agree, Mr. Tweedy. Mine is a lonely profession and it’s seldom I meet anyone who values a thing I say.” Lowth smiled. “Unless it’s about a hanging, of course. Then they appreciate my professional opinion. All things considered, it’s not the easiest task in the world to snap a man’s neck clean, Mr. Tweedy. Snap it like a dry twig, one might say.”

“You have stated the problem most clearly, Mr. Lowth. Yours is indeed a skilled occupation.” Tweedy took a swig of whiskey, wiped off the neck, and passed the bottle back to Shawn. “Now tell me, what was the most interesting hangin’ you ever done?”

Lowth sighed. “They’re seldom interesting, Mr. Tweedy. Some men die well, others have to be dragged kicking and screaming to the gallows, but there’s always a sad sameness to the affair. However I will tell you this. I always advise an indoor hanging whenever possible, even if it means I merely throw my rope over a barn beam.” He pointed upward. “Like those.”

“And why so, Mr. Lowth?” Tweedy said.

“Ah, it’s because the ladies don’t like to be out in the sun. Their delicate skin, you know.” Lowth puffed up a little. “And speaking of the ladies—”

“God bless, ’em,” Tweedy said affectionately.

“Indeed, Mr. Tweedy. Speaking of the ladies, I always try to get the condemned to give a little speech about how whiskey and loose women brought him to his present pass, even though he had a good mother.”

Lowth removed his bowler hat and wiped the sweatband with knobby, arthritic fingers. “I assure you, the ladies love that speech and time after time I hear them say to their shrinking husbands, ‘Just wait until I get you home.’”

Shawn laughed, then thumbed open his watch. It had just gone one in the morning, his fourth night in the livery. Would Zeb Moss ever make his move?

“Now, Mr. Lowth,” he heard Tweedy say, “let’s return to the subject of drawers. It’s a real interestin’ discussion an’ one that I never had afore.”

“And of the greatest moment, Mr. Tweedy,” the hangman said. “Since all ladies, be their station in life high or low, wear them. Now, let’s consider the material. I mean cotton or silk. Why, there’s a case to be made for both and . . .”

Bored, Shawn rose to his feet and stepped to the door of the barn, ignoring the talk behind him.

The wind had dropped and the snow fell straight down in large flakes. The street was empty, but there was as yet life at the Lucky Lady. Laughter, both male and female, rose above a piano and banjo mourning the killing of Jesse James by the dirty little coward Bob Ford.

Shawn stepped away from the barn into shadow, his eyes searching through the darkness. Rectangles of orange light spilled from the saloon onto the snowy street, but the hitching rails were in darkness and he couldn’t make out if horses were present.

He watched a man cross the street, a puncher by his awkward, high-heeled walk, and vanish into the Lucky Lady. Then the only movement was the fall of snow in the gloom.

To allay his boredom, Shawn had hit the whiskey heavily, and now he felt tiredness overcome him. Time to seek his blankets and sleep away yet another useless night.

But then, in an instant, he was wide awake.

A solitary figure, hunched inside an old army greatcoat, made his way along the street toward the barn. The man had a quick, short-stepping walk and his head constantly swiveled on his neck as though he feared an enemy lurked in every shadow.

Shawn drew his gun and stepped into darkness again. The Colt up and ready, he waited.

Finally the man, smaller than he’d first appeared, did a quick right turn and walked with determination toward the barn. Shawn moved into yellow lamplight and said, “Hold it right there, mister. I can drill you real easy.”

“Hell, it’s only me,” the man said.

“Who’s you?”

“Willie Wide Awake, as ever was.”

“Keep your hands away from your sides and step into the barn.”

Willie did as he was told and his sudden appearance put a period at the end of the words on Thaddeus Lowth’s lips. He stared at the visitor. “Good heavens, that man needs some rest.”

“No sleep,” Willie shook his head. “Nary a wink in years.”

“If you’ll forgive me for saying so, you look like a cadaver in a greatcoat,” Lowth said.

“Alas, such is the sad lot of the sleepless.” Willie looked at Tweedy. “Uriah, I have information on Zebulon Moss and his men.”

“Then speak on, dread apparition,” Tweedy said.

“Zeb’s boys are saddling horses in his livery stable at t’other end of the street. Them rannies are pulling out of town, you ask me.”

“Is there a woman with them?” Shawn asked quickly.

“No, I reckon she’s still at the Lucky Lady.” Willie looked fearfully over his shoulder. “Moss has a bunch of women in the saloon, been bringing them in for the past couple o’ nights.”

“What fer?” Tweedy wanted to know. “Ain’t he got enough females already?”

“I don’t know,” Willie said. “But he’s got plenty more, Uriah, an’ that’s a natural fact.”

Shawn took charge. “Uriah, saddle up. Willie, get back down to the saloon and keep your eyes open. If you see Moss and his boys leaving town, hustle back here and tell us. I want to get a trail on him.”

Willie touched his forehead with a crooked finger. “I’m on my way, cap’n.” He turned and disappeared into the darkness.

As Shawn and Tweedy saddled their horses, Lowth looked on with growing interest. “Are you embarking on an adventure, Mr. Tweedy?”

“Seems like, Mr. Lowth.”

“May I join you?”

“Hell, Mr. Lowth, you’re all tied up. You’ve got a man to hang an’ that’s an important task.”

“He’s only a chicken thief. Of little account.”

“And a nuisance.”

“I don’t want to hang him. The condemned has little appeal for me. I’d prefer to go with you.”

“Can you use a gun?” Shawn quickly asked.

“Oh dear me, no. But I’m a dab hand with a rope.”

“Mr. Lowth, we’ll be shootin’, not hangin’,” Tweedy pointed out.

“I’d still like to follow along.”

Tweedy looked at Shawn. “What do you say? Maybe he’ll bring us luck.”

“Hell, he can ride with us,” Shawn said. “Could be we’ll be saving the life of a chicken thief and damned nuisance.”

Lowth needed no other invitation. He threw his saddle on his mule and said, “I will be a rock, Mr. Tweedy. There is no one calmer in a crisis than a hangman.”

Tweedy nodded. “Just so, Mr. Lowth. My old ma told me that very thing the day they strung up my pa. Of course he wasn’t a chicken thief, you understand. He killed a man with a wood ax.”

“The murderer is always a better class of condemned, Mr. Tweedy. A real crowd-pleaser. Your late father is to be complimented.” Lowth finished saddling his mule and loaded his packhorse with the tools of his trade, a dozen hemp ropes and a selection of black hoods.

Shortly thereafter, Willie returned. “Zebulon Moss is pulling out, heading south. Got six of his boys mounted and two up on a John Deere wagon with a canvas cover. The women are inside. I heard some weeping and wailing, that’s fer sure.”

“You did well, Willie.” Shawn handed the man a double eagle. “Use that to see a doctor. Ask him for a sleeping draught.”

“Or spend it on whiskey,” Tweedy said, leading his horse to the front of the barn. “Damn rotgut they sell in this town will knock you out quick enough.”

“It’s been a real pleasure doing business with you gents,” Willie said, tapping his forehead with the coin. “Now see you don’t get yourselves shot. Silas Creeds is with them boys of Zeb’s and he don’t sit on his gun hand.”