Ralph Compton - Down on Gila River

“You’ll be in time for the hangings,” Hannah said, her voice flat.

“I seen a hanging once afore, Hannah, a rustler up in the Spur Lake Basin country,” Sam said. “I ain’t much inclined to see another.”

“There’s a restaurant in town, but I think it already has a cook,” Hannah said.

“Well, I’ll jes’ have to see how the pickle squirts, like,” Sam said. “Sometimes a man can see his trail ahead real clear. Sometimes he can’t.”

The woman stretched out her hand. “It was real nice to meet you, Sam.”

Sam took the proffered hand. “And you too, Hannah.”

“Don’t be a stranger, now, you hear? Stop by sometime. There’s always coffee in the pot.”

“I surely will,” Sam said. “And give my regards to the little one when she wakes. She’s going to break hearts one day.”

“Take care, Sam.”

“And you too, Hannah. An’ don’t worry none about that Injun. He don’t mean any harm.”

Sam walked away from the cabin toward the rise. The morning light was fresh and clear as the new day came in bright, and birds sang in the piñon trees.

“Sam!”

He turned and saw Hannah at the cabin door.

“You will come back and see us, now,” she said. “Set for a spell.”

Sam waved, smiled, and walked on.

He had nothing to say because he didn’t know how he felt, about Hannah, about anything.

* * *

“Good beer,” Sam Sawyer said. “Nice and cold.”

“Enjoy it while you can,” the bartender said. “The winter ice is all but gone.”

Outside, dust devils danced along Lost Mine’s only street, a wide enough thoroughfare bookended by a row of buildings on the east side, only four to the west, a livery stable, a warehouse, a barbershop, and the Lone Star Saloon. Stock corrals marked the southern limit of the town, and near those a huddle of small shacks where the girls who worked the line lived when the drovers were in town.

But the morning Sam walked into town, Lost Mine was saved from dusty drabness by a new gallows, hung with red, white, and blue bunting. The platform was large enough to accommodate the three men who were due to be hanged that afternoon, plus the hangman, the preacher, the sheriff, and a few other officials. Nearby, with slack-mouthed patience, a Mexican boy turned a pig on a spit, and behind him a couple of barrels of beer had been set up on a table.

“Here for the hanging?” the bartender asked, wiping the counter in front of Sam.

“Nah, looking for work,” Sam said. “But only temporary-like. I’m headed for Silver City.”

“Silver City is the place to find work,” said the bartender, a magnificent creature with slicked-down hair, parted in the middle, a brocaded vest, and a diamond stickpin in his cravat. “No work around here, though,” he said. And then because he was bored: “You lookin’ to sign on with a cattle outfit?”

“Too old an’ busted up for that anymore,” Sam said. “I thought I might prosper in the restaurant profession.”

“The only restaurant in town is the Cupboard, but the owner does all the cooking. If you can call it that.”

The only other customer in the saloon was a big, yellow-haired man who’d been sitting at a table, drinking coffee from a china cup. Now he rose and stepped outside, and the bartender said, “That there was Sheriff Moseley. He’ll be officiating at the hanging.”

“Is that a fact?” Sam said.

“Yeah, it’s a fact. He’s done it before, so folks expect this’n will go without a hitch.” The bartender lit his morning cigar and said behind a cloud of curling blue smoke, “Of course, it all depends on the three rannies getting hung, you understand.”

“Yeah, I guess it would at that,” Sam said. He passed his glass to the bartender. “Fill ’er up again.”

“On the house,” the bartender said as he thumped the beer on the counter. “On account of how your poke is a might shy on ballast and I went up the trail myself back in the day.”

“I’m obliged,” Sam said. Then, because he was a talking man and mildly curious: “How can them three rannies make it a good hangin’ for the folks?”

“Well, mister, we got a pig out there and two barrels of beer, all provided by the mayor and the city council,” the bartender said. He had a gold tooth that glinted when he spoke.

“I smell that hog,” Sam said.

“Depend on it, so do the folks around town,” the bartender said. “But if they’re getting free pig meat and beer, they need time to enjoy it. You catching my drift?”

Sam shook his head. “No, I sure ain’t.”

“They need speechifying to draw the celebration out,” the bartender said. “And that’s where the rannies who’re getting hung come in. The womenfolk expect a speech from the condemned, the one about how strong drink and loose women brought them to this pass, even though they had a good mother.” The bartender nodded. “That bit about mother always pleases the females. Hell, there won’t be a dry eye in the crowd.”

A couple of businessmen in broadcloth stepped into the saloon, and as he stepped away to serve them, the bartender said to Sam, “If you’re sharp set, help yourself to the cheese at the end of the bar and there’s soda crackers in the barrel.”

The walk from Hannah Stewart’s cabin had given Sam an appetite, and he ate his share of cheese and crackers before he waved to the bartender and left the saloon.

There was a rocker on the porch outside and Sam sat and built and smoked a cigarette as he watched the early crowd that had gathered around the gallows. It seemed that the pig wasn’t yet cooked enough, but men were already drinking beer and women carried picnic baskets and chatted with each other, their bonneted heads nodding. The sky was blue as far as the eye could see and there was just enough breeze to take the edge off the noonday heat. Sam figured it was a perfect day for a hanging.

Boots sounded on the timber boards to his left, and Sam turned and saw Sheriff Vic Moseley stride toward him.

“Howdy there, stranger,” he said. “I heard you say in the saloon you’re seeking employment.”

“I sure am,” Sam said, smiling, prepared to be sociable. “Apaches took my hoss an’ saddle and I’m down to the eight dollars in my jeans.” Sam eyed the star pinned to the man’s shirt under his canvas vest. “You must be Sheriff Vic Moseley,” he said.

“That would be me,” the man said. “And who do I have the pleasure of addressing?”

Sam gave his name, then said, “Out of the Spur Lake Basin country, an’ before that Uvalde County, Texas.”

“How did you know my name?” Moseley said.

“Stayed the night at a cabin just north of here,” Sam said. “Gal by the name of Hannah Stewart told me you visited by times.”

“A fine-looking woman, Miz Hannah,” the sher – iff said, his eyes speculative.

Sam nodded. “Yep, she’s all of that.”

“Me and Hannah have an understanding,” Moseley said. “One day I plan to take her as my wife and bed her.”

“You could do worse,” Sam said.

The sheriff considered that and seemed satisfied he was not facing a rival. Moseley was a tall, handsome man with the intolerant, hard face and harder eyes of a Salem witch-burner.

To Sam, he didn’t look like a gunfighter, more of a cow town politician who preferred to count votes rather than the notches on his gun.

But he looked big enough and mean enough to be a handful in any kind of scrape. Sam had no doubt on that score.

Moseley waited until Sam lit another cigarette, then said, “I’m a blunt-talking man, so I’ll come right to the point. How would you like to make twenty dollars?”

“I’d like that just fine,” Sam said. “What do I have to do?”