Chop-off Johnson sat in a crouch, panting for breath, his back against a mine building. The uniformed body of Clance Sullivan was stretched out before him. He had just dragged the policeman’s limp corpse to this hidden place, out of the moonlight, for fear someone might see both it and him. He couldn’t imagine why the policeman had died—he hadn’t hit or kicked him all that hard…had he?
Anyway, the man surely was dead, and all Chop-off could think about was that maybe somebody else had seen the policeman following him out of Leadville. If so, he would surely be blamed for the death once the officer’s body was found. Chop-off felt a great wave of fright. He was in deep enough trouble already, given his failure to eliminate Lundy O’Donovan. To make it worse, he had even taken a bullet wound in the leg from that big man who had emerged from the cabin and chased him. It was just a grazing wound, but a painful one that had festered. Afterward, Chop-off had run away and hidden himself in a forgotten old hut up here in the woods behind this mine, imagining that all the world was out there trying to find and punish him. Only the craving for more opium to dull the pain in his leg and the rising panic had driven him out.
What could he do? He was afraid simply to leave the policeman’s body. He needed either to get rid of it, as he and Currell had gotten rid of Jimmy Rhoder’s decaying remains, or to make it look as if someone else were responsible for the death. How could he do it? He wished he were as smart as Mark Straker, who always seemed to find a safe and clever way out of his predicaments.
The thought of Mark Straker brought a fast, heartening inspiration. Why not borrow the idea Straker had planned to use to make Rhoder’s murder look like the work of Garrett? Of course! Smiling, Chop-off stood, peered around carefully to be sure no one was within view, and slipped around to the front of the building behind which the body lay. The moon was irritatingly bright at the moment, spilling a dim glow across the rugged countryside and the never-sleeping town just over the hill. Chop-off eyed the mine’s main building about three hundred yards to the east; if there was a watchman, he probably was there. Sidling against the front of the immediate building, he peered through a window. Though it was too dark to see much, he could make out various bundles, crates, kegs, and the like inside. This was some sort of warehouse. If he was lucky, it would contain what he needed.
Chop-off picked up a stone, wrapped the tail of his ragged jacket around it, and as quietly as possible shattered one of the windowpanes. Reaching in, he unlatched the window and slid it open.
Inside, after a frenzy of match-lit searching, he finally found what he hoped for: a length of rope and a keg of coal oil. He checked out the window before tossing the goods out, then, seeing a desk beneath the next window, had a fresh inspiration. Rummaging quickly through it, he found a pencil.
Once outside again, he closed the window and carried his take around to Clance Sullivan’s body. Chop-off’s leg hurt terribly, and he longed for opium. No time now, though. He dragged Sullivan closer to the back of the warehouse where a beam and pulley jutted out above a closed double door on the upper level.
Pausing just long enough to catch his breath, the footpad went back around, brought up his keg and rope, then sat down, screwing up his face in discomfort as he bent his wounded leg. So far, his plan was working. No one had appeared, no watchman had shouted at him. Taking up an end of the rope, he wondered briefly how one tied a hangman’s noose, then realized he probably couldn’t tie one with one hand even if he knew how. It would have to be a simple slipknot, the kind he could make one-handed.
It took him longer than he’d thought it would to tie the knot and loop it around Sullivan’s neck. A flight of steps led up to the closed upper-level doors, and this Chop-off mounted, reaching the loading platform from which he was just able to reach the pulley and thread the other end of the rope through it. He worked it down until it reached the ground, then descended the stairs again.
He spilled coal oil over the form of Clance Sullivan, picked up the end of the rope he had just passed through the pulley, and said, “Up you go.”
With a groan, a heave, and a screeching of the pulley, he strained over toward a nearby tree, in the process hefting up Sullivan’s body until it dangled two feet off the ground. Straining to keep his grip, he wrapped the rope around the tree several times, then managed to tie it off. The knot was loose but sufficient.
Now sweating and breathless, Chop-off limped back to the corpse and dug into his pocket for a match. Just as he was about to strike it, he remembered the inspiration that had come in the warehouse. He pulled out the pencil stub, picked up a piece of plank from a nearby pile of scrapwood, and scratched out four words. Tossing the pencil away, he placed the plank upright against a stone near the swinging body.
“Now they’ll be sure to say he done this to you,” Chop-off said in a half-whisper, addressing the corpse. “Got to light you up now, policeman.” He smiled. “And then I’ll go back to Chicken Hill and use the rest of my coal oil, just in case that boy ain’t talked yet after all.”
He struck the match.