CHAPTER TEN
“You gutless puke.” Sean Keegan cursed the undertaker. “How much does the county pay you to bury a convicted murderer and owlhoot?”
Undertaker A. Percival Helton wiped his bald head and said in his irritatingly squeamish voice, “That’s not the point, sir.” He was a short man, pale like most undertakers were, but pudgy unlike most of the men who did business with the dead. Maybe that’s because undertaking still proved to be a booming business in the remote frontier of West Texas, and a man could get fat if he ate nothing but chicken fried steaks and greasy enchiladas.
“It damned well is the point,” Keegan said, and he pointed up at the dead man still swinging from the gallows. “He’s dead, and he needs burying, and from the records I found in the county sheriff’s office, you signed a contract to bury Tom Benteen, also known as Tom Lovely, alias Lovely Tom. Well, that’s him up yonder, you weasel, and I don’t like folks walking by and looking up at him like he was the Lord Jesus on the cross. He ain’t. He’s a rotten, murdering devil whose soul be burning in hell, and I want him cut down and buried. Now. With the rope still around his neck and his face planted down, so he can see exactly where he’s going.”
“That contract,” A. Percival Helton whined, “Has been invalidated. It wasn’t a legal hanging.”
Keegan spit on the grass. “He was to be hanged today. Sentenced legally, upheld by the governor of the Great State of Texas, and he was hanged. Just because the hangman got killed—”
“And there you have it.” The high-voiced, rotten snake had found something he could sink his teeth into. “The Benteens shot the bloody hell out of Purgatory City, and I am far, far too busy preparing the dearly departed for their funerals. Citizens of our county and our glorious town. They deserve burying, and, as the only undertaker in Purgatory City since Willard Carradine coughed himself to death from consumption and Alfred Davidson decided that El Paso was more to his liking, I think my duty rests with tending to the needs of those fine people.” And just to cut Sean Keegan to the quick, the whining miserable excuse for a man added, “Surely, Titus Bedwell, gallant soldier and God-fearing servant to our state and our county and our country, deserves my attention much more than a pathetic killer, whoremonger, bank robber, arsonist, and horse thief like Lovely Tom Benteen. Or, sir, do you disagree?”
Keegan stared hard into the little pipsqueak’s eyes, but damn it all to Dublin if the runt hadn’t made a solid point. It was a dirty trick, a hit below the belt, and Keegan had the urge to pick up a rock and smash in A. Percival Helton’s skull, and let the ants eat up the brains that would leak out of his head. But . . . well hell, he could not deny giving the late Titus Bedwell the attention a soldier and servant to the army and Texas deserved. Even if Titus Bedwell, had anyone bothered to have asked him, would likely have said he would have wanted to be buried by his fellow soldiers where he had fallen, wrapped in his saddle blanket and with “Taps” played over his grave. No marker. No tears. Just a few rounds at the nearest sutler’s store or saloon when the boys got back from the sergeant major’s last patrol.
Keegan, though, would not let Helton think he had fooled him. “You just don’t want Uncle Zach Lovely or Hank or Bob Benteen to come gunning for you because they’ll say you didn’t bury poor Tom right. You’re a gutless wonder, Helton. You still live with your ma. What kind of man are you? The Benteens and Zach Lovely aren’t gonna be gunning for you, you yellow-livered coward. They’ll be after my head.” He pointed at the corpse. “I did that. Me. Sean Keegan. And I’d do it again.”
The last couple of dozen words had been spoken to the fat coward’s back. A. Percival Helton was leaving the enclosed compound behind the county courthouse.
This was the way Keegan’s day had been going. The sheriff, Juan Garcia—a pretty good man, Keegan though—had organized a posse and taken off after the men who had raided Purgatory City and left Titus Bedwell and several others, including town marshal Rafe McMillian, and the hangman, poor Mr. Kligerman, dead in the streets. All of the Texas Rangers, commanded by Captain J.J.K. Hollister, had taken off after learning that the Kruger gang had tried to rob a bank down the pike in Deep Flood.
Even the army at Fort Spalding would be of no help. Colonel John Caxton had led out practically his entire command in search of renegade Comanches who had been hitting a few homesteads, ranches, and way stations across West Texas.
Purgatory City had suddenly become a town without any law.
That though—and the fact that the posse Sheriff Garcia had quickly and thoughtlessly organized contained most of the hardest men in the county seat—suddenly stretched a wicked little grin across Keegan’s rough, Irish face. It was the grin his mother, God rest her glorious soul, always said made her realize that “Ye have that devil’s loose and cutting look about you, Sean, me son. Oh, I hope I’ll have enough money to go your bail in the morn.”
He looked again at the corpse stiffening under the rope and said as he walked out of the enclosed executioner’s grounds, “Aye, Mother me dear, but there’s no need to worry this fine Texas day. For there be no one in town who can arrest Sean Keegan.”
Inside the jail, he went to the desk and found the tin stars in the third drawer he opened. He pinned on a deputy’s badge and nodded with satisfaction. Seeing a Bible, he put his hand on the cover and raised the other, though for the life of him, he couldn’t remember which it was supposed to be. Right hand raised, left hand on the Bible? No, the Bible be the most important thing, so your right hand should be on it, then your left hand raised. Unless you’re left-handed. Which Sean Keegan wasn’t.
“I do,” he said and walked out without closing the door. It was his town now, and he could do as he wished.
His first stop was at the best general store where he went directly to the back of the store and found the kerosene. Two should do the job. He walked to the counter, set the two gallon cans on the top, and nodded at the pimply-faced teenaged clerk. “These ye’ll need to be charging to the county, me boy,” Keegan told him, and then pulled up his blue shirt to reveal the badge. “Official business from the sheriff’s office, ye see.”
“Uhhh,” the kid said.
“That’s a good boy. Just send the bill to Sheriff Garcia.” He reached for the cans, but stopped, and pointed. “And ye might as well hand me that bag of candy. Charge it to the county, too. Oh, and I’ll need a box of matches, and, yes, yes, of course, two of those cigars. Nah, nay, sonny. Those big, fat ones, with the gold band around their middles. Official business, too. And, sonny, I can’t see the label, but does that hair tonic above the licorice say it has alcohol in it? Good. Bloody well good, yes, a bottle of that, and take a bit of licorice for yourself and your service to our county. I’d recommend the red one. Tastes like cherry.”
He signed the receipt, so that no one could be able to tell if it had been approved by Juan Garcia or Wild Bill Hickok, gathered his plunder, stuffing the candy and matches in his trousers pocket, biting off the end of one cigar and sticking the other in his shirt pocket, and shoving the bottle of hair tonic into his rear pants pocket. He used the lamp on the counter to light his smoke, thanked the clerk one last time, and picked up his two cans of kerosene before marching to the front door.
There he stopped, and turned back around to look at the clerk.
He’d popped a healthy sized licorice strip into his mouth and began chewing. “Did you forget something, Deputy?”
“No, laddie, but have ye ever seen a Viking funeral?” He had to speak without spitting the cigar out of his mouth.
After swallowing his candy, the kid shook his little head.
“Well, it’s a sight to behold, from all the drawings I’ve seen in magazines and such things. Step outside in ten minutes or so, son, and treat yourself to a glorious sight that hasn’t been seen very often since the days of Erik the . . . Great? I doubt if one has ever been seen in these parts.” Keegan nodded with finality.
Outside, he set the cans down on the edge of the water trough, pulled hard to get the cigar going good and strong, and yelled, “Ladies and gentlemen, we’ll be giving the late Lovely Tom Benteen Lovely a preview of the fires of Hell in a few minutes. All are invited. And ye might want to get that newfangled fire engine out of the shed just in case the wind changes direction.”
After taking another puff on the cigar, he grabbed the cans and marched off toward the courthouse.
Reaching the gallows, he set the two cans down and opened them, smelling the potency of the kerosene before remembering, like an idiot, that he had a lighted cigar between his teeth. Keegan removed the Havana with his left hand, blew out smoke, and placed the cigar on the third step. He laughed. “Bloody hell, Keegan, ye haven’t even tasted a dram of Irish or porter this hole damned morn.” Next he gathered brush and two armfuls of wood from the winter wood pile near the back steps of the courthouse and placed them under the feet of the starting-to-stink corpse of Tom Lovely.
Looking up at the dead man, Keegan grinned. “Lovely, me boy, if I could wait till that crap you put in your britches dried, I might not have needed those cans of kerosene, me lad. Alas.” He winked, rose, and walked back to the steps, where he picked up the cigar, out by this time, and returned it to his mouth.
Then he remembered. “That’s right, I haven’t had a nip today.”
He removed the hair tonic, cracked open the bottle on the steps’ rails, and took a short pull. He spit out the first mouthful, hoping any shards of glass would come out with that, then drank greedily as he marched up the steps, soaking all the steps and the platform with the first can of kerosene. At the trapdoor, he poured the remnants of the can onto Tom Lovely’s head, which hung like the head of a dove that had been shot with birdshot, then had its neck broken over the shotgun barrel to put the poor critter out of its misery.
“Titus Bedwell,” he said aloud. “Remember the doves we’d shoot and then fry up for the boys at Fort Spalding? Aye, glorious days those were. Here’s to you, Sergeant Major.” He took another swing of tonic before shoving the bottle into his back pocket.
He dropped the can through the trapdoor, but it missed hitting Tom Lovely’s corpse and clattered onto the ground near the wood pile.
Keegan looked over the fence to the center of Purgatory City’s business district and saw the kid from the general store standing on the boardwalk outside the front door of the store. He wasn’t saying anything, and definitely—like a good soldier—not leaving his post at the store. Other men and women began to stop and look off to where the kid was staring, which was right at the gallows and Sean Keegan.
He saluted the lad and began whistling a bawdy Irish tune as he pounded down the steps and picked up the last can of kerosene. He poured a trail of fuel from the bottom steps to under the gallows and splashed most of the liquid on the firewood, but also heaved enough onto Tom Lovely’s boots, and pants, especially on the groin area.
Keegan tossed the can on the pile and walked back to the steps, where he removed the busted bottle of hair tonic and finished his drink.
Holding the bottle toward the swaying corpse, Keegan said, “Tom, you lousy dog, this is just a wee taste of what you’re be feeling for all of eternity. The fires of Hell will be ten thousand times hotter than this.” He threw the bottle, which smashed against the misshapen pile of firewood.
Finding the matches, he fished one out and struck it on the top of the rail. He put it to his cigar, which he pulled on until he had a wonderful glow on the tip. This match he shook out and pitched onto the gallows steps, then stepped away, found another match, and struck it against his thumbnail.
He thought, I surely hope like bloody hell this actually works. Smiling, he added out loud, “And Lord, if ye’d be so kind, don’t let this burn down all of this blight of a city.”
The match left his fingers, flickering as it fell. The whoosh and whirl of flame almost knocked Sean Keegan on his hindquarters. He staggered back, gasping, wondering if he had singed his hair, and feeling the warmth on his back. The gallows were already crackling.
Realizing that he wasn’t on fire himself, Keagan took another hard pull on his cigar and walked to the gate. He saw that the city’s volunteer fire department had managed to get the big wagon with water and hoses to the corner of the street. A few of the men in their shield-front shirts came running with buckets and axes, but Keegan stopped them by raising his right hand.
“Nothing to fight yet, me boys,” he said, and turned back to watch his handiwork.
My goodness, he thought, this is not what I expected at all.
“Oh, hell,” said one of the firefighters.
Keegan laughed and tried to enjoy his cigar. “No, this is just a taste of it, like I told Tom Lovely.” He looked back at the men and the gathering crowd. “Let it burn, me friends. Let it burn. Let Tom Benteen burn as his soul is already doing. Just make sure the fire doesn’t spread. I’ll be in my office if you need me, ladies and gents.”
And polishing his badge, he moved through the crowd of gawkers as the smoke rose high and black and all so beautiful.