Ralph Compton - Down on Gila River

“As I said earlier, I seek shelter for the night and perhaps a light repast. I mean, if that’s not too much trouble.”

“Hell, it is too—”

“Sam, let him in,” Hannah said.

“You sure?” Sam said. “He might be another dead Injun.”

Hannah smiled. “I’m sure he’s not.”

Sam spoke through the door again. “What’s your name, mister? An’ don’t say Sittin’ Bull or I’ll shoot ya.”

“My name is Jasper Perry, of the Oldham County, Texas, Perrys.”

“Are you a true-blue white man?” Sam said.

“I’m the product of ten centuries of Anglo-Saxon inbreeding, yes.”

“Please let the gentleman in, Sam,” Hannah said. “It’s getting cold out.”

Sam lifted the latch on the door and opened it wide. “All right, come inside,” he said.

And all seven feet of Jasper Perry walked into the cabin, bending low to clear the top of the doorway.

He saw Hannah immediately and doffed his top hat. “Thank you for your hospitality, ma’am,” he said. “There’s a most singular strangeness in the night that’s greatly disturbing.”

“See any dead Apaches, pilgrim?” Sam said, refusing to be friendly.

“No.” Perry smiled, his teeth as long and yellow as piano keys. “But they might well be out there.”

“Can I get you a cup of coffee, Mr. Perry?” Hannah said.

“That would be much appreciated,” Perry said, smiling again.

The tall man was dressed in a claw-hammer black coat and tight pants of the same shade. He wore a boiled white shirt with a four-in-hand tie and elastic-sided boots.

“Sam, would you fetch a chair from the table for Mr. Perry and put it close to the fire,” Hannah said.

Sam studied the man from the soles of his shoes to the top of his bald head and said, “Can you sit in a chair for normal folks?”

“I’m sure I can manage, Mr. . . . uh . . .”

“Sawyer, as ever was,” Sam said.

Perry folded his lanky body into a sitting position on the chair and said, “Much obliged, Mr. Sawyer.” He spread his long, thin hands to the fire. “This is indeed cozy,” he said.

Sam doubted that Perry was comfortable, on account of how his bent knees were level with his shoulders, but the man seemed at ease, as though he were in his own home.

And that irritated Sam.

“State your business in Lost Mine,” he said.

Perry took time to accept coffee from Hannah and smile his thanks before he answered, “I’m to hang three men there at three o’clock sharp tomorrow afternoon.”

“Are you some kind of a lawman?” Sam said.

“No, Mr. Sawyer, I’m a hangman. That is my profession.”

Even to a talking man like Sam, that statement was a conversation stopper, and he sat staring at Perry in what he would later describe as “a strangled silence.”

Hannah recovered from her shock more quickly. “Lost Mine is Sheriff Vic Moseley’s town,” she said. “He’s a . . . friend of mine.”

“And that is the very gentlemen who summoned me by wire,” Perry said. “He stated that his last hanging was bungled and this time he wanted a professional job done of it.”

“Don’t take much training to hang a man,” Sam said, scowling. He was irritated at Hannah’s mention of Vic Moseley.

“Oh, but you’re wrong, Mr. Sawyer,” Perry said. He laid his cup by his side and clasped his bony knees as he warmed to his subject. “It’s the drop, you see.”

“You mean you need to get the drop on a man afore you string him up?” Sam said.

“Oh dear, no,” Perry said. “After the gallows trapdoor opens, the drop is how far the condemned must fall before the noose tightens and breaks his neck.”

If Perry heard Hannah’s sharp intake of breath and the quickening pace of her knitting needles, he ignored it.

“Now,” he said, “the distance of the drop depends on a man’s weight, and, yes, his height.” The hangman fished in an inside pocket and produced a scrap of paper. “This is a follow-up wire I requested from Sheriff Moseley.” He settled a pair of pince-nez glasses at the end of his long, bony nose, scanned the wire, and said, “Yes . . . Now, where are we? Ah yes, here it is, the condemned are as follows . . .

“‘Key Felts, white, aged thirty-six, height five foot six, weight one hundred and thirty pounds.’”

Perry paused for effect, then read, “‘Isaiah Walker, Negro, aged nineteen, height five foot ten, weight one hundred and seventy pounds.

“‘And Lucius Noftsinger, white, age unknown, height five foot seven, weight one hundred and twenty pounds.’”

Hannah rose and refilled Perry’s cup, and the hangman nodded his thanks. “So you see, Mr. Sawyer,” he said, “the differences in the weight and stature of the condemned means that I must calculate a different drop for each one. That”—Perry smiled—“is where my professional expertise comes in. We don’t want to bungle the thing and tear the condemned’s head off, now, do we?”

Sam opened his mouth to speak, but Hannah got there before he did. “I suppose the three men are murderers, Mr. Perry?” she said. “And that’s why Vic, I mean Sheriff Moseley, is hanging them.”

“Bless your heart, ma’am, no,” the hangman said. “All three are petty thieves, drunks, and dance hall loungers. In his wire, the sheriff calls them ‘damned nuisances.’ That’s rather funny in a way.”

Hannah looked stricken. “Mr. Perry, I can’t believe that Vic would hang men for so little reason. Surely you’re mistaken.”

The hangman shook his head. “No mistake, ma’am.” He held the wire out to Hannah, pointed at it with a thin forefinger, and said, “See, down there. All three are described as petty thieves.”

“That ain’t much reason to hang a man,” Sam said.

“I assume that a circuit judge thought differently,” Perry said.

Hannah shook her head. “I can’t believe it. I won’t believe it. There must be something else. There’s only so much Vic could explain to you in a wire.”

“Perhaps, ma’am,” Perry said. “But when I report to the United States Marshal in Silver City, I will give the reason for the executions as petty thievery.”

“Mr. Perry, Vic Moseley is a fine man and an upstanding law officer,” Hannah said. “I can’t believe he’d be a party to a . . . a judicial murder.”

The hangman sat in thought for a few moments, then said, “If it’s any consolation, ma’am, a sheriff’s duty is to carry out the commands of the court. He does not sit in judgment.”

“Then that must be the case,” Hannah said. “Vic would not condemn three men for such trifling crimes.”

“Indeed, ma’am,” Perry said. “That must be the case indeed.”

But the hangman’s voice carried little conviction, a thing Sam Sawyer noticed but Hannah didn’t.

Chapter 7

Sam Sawyer and Jasper Perry slept on the cabin floor that night. Hannah, upset by all the talk about dead Apaches and hangings, insisted that the barn had lain empty for a long time and was full of rats. In reality she needed the company of men close by.

“I’ll give you each a blanket and a pillow,” she’d said. “They’re clean and you’ll be warm enough.”

“Suits me just fine, ma’am,” Sam said. “I’ve slept in a lot worse places.”

He was glad of the offer. Spooked by the dead Apache and the presence of a hangman, he needed the woman close.

Come morning after breakfast, Perry mounted his mule and headed for Lost Mine. After the hangman was gone, Sam began to take his leave of Hannah Stewart and her daughter.

“I reckon I’ll head fer Lost Mine my own self,” he said, “and see if I can find some temporary work. I’m pretty much down on my uppers.”