The Gallows

Tune up those heavenly harps and open up the pearly gates. Baby Angel’s coming through. At least according to the Reverend Henry Shawn.

This morning, with the sun baking cruel hot and the crowd buzzing like mad bees in the lonely shade of the single tree on Meridian’s main street, the Reverend paces in front of the gallows platform, thumping his Bible. He’s here to tell them all and sundry how that depraved murderer Webster Harrow, better known as Baby Angel, knelt down in his jail cell alongside the Rev last night and repented -- repented! -- of his many sins, praying and weeping until the dawn.

Repentance may satisfy the Lord but not the law. And so today, Baby Angel, nicknamed for his cherub cheeks and rose-pursed mouth, will swing nonetheless from this fine gallows tree for the latest two in his stunning string of killings.

Leaning back in a patch of cool beside the general store, Sixkiller folds his arms and watches the proceedings with a professional eye. Baby Angel Harrow’s had a spectacular run in his nineteen years of life; notched up twelve dead, some say fifteen, put his name on the lips of everybody in this territory, made the title of his very own penny dreadful. Somebody even wrote a song about him.

Sixkiller shakes his head. Showboating little bastard in love with his own legend. That’s what gets you killed. Sixkiller got his nickname at seventeen. Since then -- he’s lost count. Too many notches for the butt of his pretty pearl-inlay pistols to hold, especially on his current retainer.

But that’s between him and his fire-breathing Boss, who speaks to him in violent, red dreams, sending him new jobs to do. Maybe the Grim Reaper has a hand in it too. Sixkiller imagines his Boss and old man Death raising a glass every time he racks up another one. Nobody’s ever made a song for him, and he doubts they ever will. See what a high profile gets you in this business?

The crowd gathered along the sidewalks falls silent, then draws in a collective whoosh of breath. Here comes Harrow from the jail in a wagon driven by Sheriff Andre Singer’s gigantic deputy Duck. Sheriff Singer himself rides alongside, stone faced and silent on his big bay horse.

Baby Angel stands in the back of the wagon, swaying to keep his balance. His wrists hang bound in front of him and his baby-blond hair floats like dandelion fuzz around his face. He doesn’t look nineteen, not even sixteen in a shirt two sizes too big and a pair of old cavalry pants with the stripe ripped off. He stares straight ahead, eyes glassily fixed on the noose depending from the gallows beam.

“Repent!” howls the Reverend Shawn. “If even this man -- this sinner! -- can find forgiveness, so then can any one of us. And God will gather him home this day; snatch him from the clutches of evil. He has repented. As must we all!”

“Shut up!” yells somebody from in front of the Diamond Dog saloon.

“Get on with it!” shouts another. “We ain’t got all day!”

“He’s guilty as sin!” A woman chimes in from out in front of the general store.

A whiff of expensive pomade with just a hint of brimstone; a discreet jostle of Sixkiller’s elbow. He turns, glancing down at the dapper bowler hat of a spiffy little gent in a beige tailcoat and checkered trousers. The gent runs a manicured finger across his smooth black goatee.

“Snatch him from the clutches of evil,” he echoes. He glances up at Sixkiller. “What do you think?”

The gent’s black eyes are genial enough. But back in their depths burns a hot red gleam that sends Sixkiller’s heart to hammering. He touches a finger to his own hat brim.

“Mornin, Boss,” he says. In this world, on the hot dusty streets of that brawling silver town called Meridian, the Boss is a diminutive dandy, sharp as a cricket with never a sweat stain or smudge on his expensive suits. He’ll help an old lady across the street, chuck a baby under the chin and hand a dollar to a hungry fella. But Sixkiller’s learned the hard way what happens when he’s crossed.

The wagon pulls up underneath the gallows tree. Duck prods Baby Angel to turn around and reaches for the noose. Sheriff Singer pivots his horse to face the crowd. “Webster Louis Harrow,” he begins. “You have been tried and convicted for the murders of one Luther Beam and one Porter Stanfield. And for that you have been sentenced to hang by the neck until dead.”

Singer pauses, milking the moment for dramatic effect. Then, loudly: “Have you anything to say before this sentence is carried out?”

“The boy has definite skills,” muses the Boss. He shoots Sixkiller a thoughtful glance. “With a steady hand, a little guidance from the right person, he could be quite useful.”

Up on the wagon, Harrow has begun a long tearful apology to his mother, his best friend, and his horse. It looks to be going on for a while. The crowd fidgets.

“No,” Sixkiller blurts. “Oh no. Not --” The Boss’ mouth tightens, and Sixkiller’s stomach lurches, remembering what it means to say no.

“Sometimes the best tools are the ones you come upon by chance,” says the Boss mildly. “As you well know. A fair question, though, and no harm to you for an honest answer. Is he worth our time? Your time, I should say?”

No harm for answering? Sixkiller takes the plunge. “He’s got the steel in the soul, I’d say. Must like the feel of killin. But for all that, he’s a cocky little shit, comes out guns blazin just for the fame. And anyway—” Sixkiller waves a hand toward the wagon. “How’s he goin to be of use to you now?”

The Boss laughs and claps Sixkiller on the shoulder. Sixkiller feels the heat of it clean through his vest and shirt. “I move in mysterious ways.”

Yes, yes he does, more’s the pity. Sixkiller shrugs, surrendering to whatever happens next.

Baby Angel is wrapping up his monologue, and Duck begins to adjust the noose around his neck. But just as the deputy pulls the rope tight, a hard hot wind begins to rise, driving a swirling mass of dust and debris straight down the street toward the wagon. The dust devil whirls tighter and tighter, enveloping the wagon, the gallows, and the forlorn figure of Baby Angel.

People gasp and holler. Sixkiller squints against the driving dust, throws up a forearm across his face. Dust devils can come up in a heartbeat, even on a calm summer day like this, but he’s never seen one this big. It continues to swirl, gathering force and the remnants of newspaper, horse dung and other things collecting on the street, until the wagon’s barely visible. Under the howling wind come the sounds of Singer cursing and the whinny of shying horses.

As quickly as it came, the dust devil dies away. Sixkiller opens his eyes. He’s standing alone, no trace of the little man in the fine suit and bowler hat.

A murmur begins among the crowd, mingled with gasps and curses.

“It’s a miracle!” whispers the woman out front of the general store, and she clasps her hands till the knuckles turn white.

“See?” cries the Reverend Shawn. “The grace of God redeems a penitent heart.” But he clutches the Bible a little tighter.

“Damn!” shouts a man from somewhere in the back. “What you goin to do about that, Singer?”

The noose hangs empty, swaying in a lingering breeze. Duck stands in the back of the wagon, staring at his hands as if he’ll find the criminal hiding there. Rifle at the ready, Singer circles the wagon, but there’s no trace of fleeing rescuers.

Sixkiller wipes grit from his face and takes a deep breath. All along the street, people are whispering and murmuring. Reverend Shawn moves among them, hat outstretched for donations.

There’s a new chapter coming in the legend of Baby Angel: new songs and stories about the Miracle of the Gallows Tree. Sixkiller wonders where the boy really ended up.

A hot red thought blossoms in his mind, the kind that always comes in dreams: image of Baby Angel Harrow’s butter blond hair and flushed smooth cheeks, down in the dirt by the riverbank. While Harrow gasps and chokes out the last of the dust in his mouth, the Boss laughs, that spiky laugh Sixkiller knows way too well.

Come on down, son, whispers the Boss in his ear. We’ve got some work to do.

Behind the Scenes: This story is another in the series about the life and times of Sixkiller, set in the Arizona Territory of the 1870s. Sixkiller was a real gunslinger of the time, although I doubt that his contract with the mysterious Boss was a part of his life. At any rate, it's fun to tweak the familiar tropes of Western fiction every now and then.