Let No One Cut Him Down

It was a quarter past high noon in the desert mining town of Absolon. The townsfolk shuffled between stores or loitered on decks, desperate for any remedy to fight the punishing heat. Sweat and misery fogged their thoughts. Even the best vices made no difference.

The hanging corpse in the middle of the town square didn’t help. The heat rendered a new odor from the body akin to boiled asparagus. Despite the absence of wind, the stench managed to personally introduce itself to everyone within a mile. 

The dead man’s skin sagged, his fingertips deep purple from the pooling blood, his eye cavities black holes you couldn’t escape. Most disturbing of all was the smile; his lips had been pecked away by indifferent crows after they’d supped on his eyes, leaving a curling revelation of rotten teeth. It was an old rot, one from years of cheap whisky and chewing tobacco.

It had been three weeks since Sandra Coopersmith’s father was strung up and his life had spasmed its way to the ether. The young woman had been forced to watch him die and listen while Neck justified it to the somber crowd.

Sandra alone had given Mr. Helm the nickname “Neck” — a cheap, private insult ridiculing the burn scars that ran from his right eye down to his collarbone. It gave her a morsel of satisfaction to call him that in her head. She could never say it to his face without consequence.

She couldn’t remember much of what Neck said that day, but she would never forget the look of apology in her father’s eyes, as though he knew the moment would haunt Sandra forever. 

His last thought, however, had been one full of joy. On the back of Dean’s closed lids he pictured last summer, when night after night he and his daughters sang by the fire so late that by the time Mother forced them to go to sleep the sun was already peeking its head over the mountain range to the East.

Today, however, the sun was not a friendly indicator of excessive revelry. No, today it was in a foul mood and demanded respect.

Sandra had a partial view of the gallows, through a north-facing window just past one of the thick oak beams that kept Mr. Brady’s establishment, Jimbo’s Saloon, from collapsing. Most visible were her father’s dirty, decaying feet; his boots and socks had been stolen the very first night. Sandra slammed back a double dram of rye in an effort to get it over with quickly. She was not typically one who enjoyed alcohol, but had heard enough of it helped calm the nerves.

A slow, controlled inhale was followed by a fast, head-shaking exhale. Sandra rose from her seat, the squawk of bending wood turning the more sober heads. A few titters and mutters echoed as patrons surveyed the young woman in a simple flowered dress, but she didn’t dare return their gaze. 

It was clear she was too young to be there, but Jim Brady had never been one to refuse cold hard cash. Not to mention how easily he’d gotten away with overcharging the girl.

This was the fourth time Sandra had come to the bar that week, always following the same routine. She would enter with her head down, move straight to the barman, and ask softly for a whisky while placing money on the countertop. Then she’d take the glass to any available window seat and drink alone, staring either at her dead father or the sticky tabletop. Traditionally after finishing she would quietly exit the way she came, but on this infernal day Sandra picked up her empty glass and marched it straight back to the bar.

“Another?” By this point ol’ Jimbo was starting to feel bad about the extortion. After all, the girl was becoming a regular…plus she was a hell of lot kinder to him than his other guests.

“Yes, please.” Her voice was still like cotton, showing no sign of the smoky sting in her throat. Her hair was pulled back much too taut, reminding Jim of an old flame who would complain about incessant outbreaks on her forehead. For the life of him he couldn’t remember the woman’s name.

Jim’s guilt got the best of him. “It’s on me.” He poured another shot — the proper amount this time — but Sandra’s eyes were fixated not on the glass but beyond it, at some space deep in the earth beneath the saloon.

Finally, she looked him in the eyes. Determined.

With more vigor than Mr. Brady had yet seen from her, Dean Coopersmith’s firstborn daughter slid her hand across the bar top, a hunk of bills carefully concealed beneath. Fallen drops of booze the bartender had been too lazy to wipe up seeped into the paper.

“I need a favor.”

———

  It was nearly three o’clock in the morning. The dirt still baked from the sun’s abuse; if one were to bury a steak in the ground it would be cooked through in time for breakfast. The townsfolk were in their beds asleep, with the odd vagrant curled up in an alley between shops. It was that hour of morning where most of the drunks who had pushed their livers too far were passed out in the dirt and, for some, their own piss.

Sandra had waited for this hour on purpose.

There was very little moonlight to guide her along Main Street and only a few storefronts had lanterns lit, but she didn’t dare use one of her own. Instead, she stuck to the shadows.

Mr. Fletcher, a tempestuous vagrant, snarled and spasmed violently on the ground as Sandra passed him. She nearly screamed, but quickly realized he was asleep and there was no danger. Not in Mr. Fletcher’s opinion, however; he was reliving a nightmare about the morning he’d woken up on the edge of a cliff with no recollection of how he got there.

Sandra moved on, approaching the shoddy scaffolding. Her father swayed lightly in the growing breeze, almost as though he were waving “Hello.” Struggling to ignore this, Sandra lifted the canister of oil in her hands and began drizzling the dark fluid over the corpse. A memory of helping her younger sister Beth pour molasses on her flapjacks crept in.

She hated herself for thinking of that.

The oil snaked its way down Dean’s legs; Sandra couldn’t reach much higher than his waist. Certainly not as high as the paper pinned to his chest with a rivet. It was far too dark to read, but she knew exactly what it said.

“Here hangs Dean Coopersmith, murderer, betrayer of Absolon.

Let no one cut him down. 

- 601”

Sandra would’ve preferred to tear the lies into a hundred pieces, but since she couldn’t reach the note this would have to do. After gently placing the canister on the ground, Sandra reached into her left pocket for a match.

As soon as the oil was well-lit she snatched up the can and ran as quietly as possible toward the closest alley. Once safe in the darkness she turned to look back at his bearded face, illuminated by the flames, for the last time.

“Goodbye,” she whispered.

The fire stretched up her father’s body toward the sunless sky, reaching like a baby crying out for a mother who wasn’t there.

———

Sandra didn’t know what time it was. She did know, however, that the sun had been out for a while now. That she was back home, a mile and a half past the edge of Absolon.

And that she hadn’t slept a wink.

Her mind had taunted her all night, fabricating sounds of approaching horses and footsteps or showing her glimpses of Mother in the mirror, looking typically disappointed. As often as she had been tricked, Sandra knew full well that this time the distant rumble was real.

It only took a few minutes for the three men on horseback to arrive just past the fence. Inside, Sandra leaned by the main doorway and looked up at the long split along the ceiling she’d always thought resembled a serpent, drew a deep breath, then turned to the door and opened it.

“Morning, gentlemen.” she proclaimed coolly.

The tallest one was in front. Sandra had seen him a few times in town, but didn’t know his name. The other two hung back, leaning against the fence. Although the second tallest man’s face was facing the horizon and was thus concealed, she knew his name well.

“I believe you mean good afternoon.”

“Yes. Yes, of course. Chores have been siphoning the time, I’m afraid.” She flicked a loose locket of hair off her forehead, indulging a bit too much in the routine.

The tall man smiled. He was handsome, save for the lazy eye. 

“Anybody home?”

“Besides me? Not for three weeks.” There was a hint of disdain she wished she had controlled better, but Lazy didn’t seem to notice.

“All the same, I’d be obliged if you let me take a gander.”

She stepped aside, pointing the way despite the obviousness. As he passed her, Sandra could feel the man’s eyes wandering across her figure, desperate for a peek. Her disgust was quickly cooled when she wondered how much his slothful eye warped his vision, and whether he’d ever known what a woman truly looks like.

Inside, floorboards were creaked and drawers were wrestled. All the while Sandra kept her eyes on the other two men. The shortest panicked when they made eye contact and he quickly looked toward the dirt, ashamed.

Finally, Lazy exited the house and meandered down the porch steps. He stopped a few feet behind her.

Sandra glanced over her shoulder. “Mind if I ask what this is about?”

Her innocent tone was met with silence. Instead, he motioned to the short one, tipping a finger to his brow. The short one muttered something to the third man, who took a few more seconds to enjoy the view before spinning on his heel and approaching.

“Nice to see you, Sandra. You look well.”

She hated Neck’s voice. It was deep and raspy and, worst of all, kind. He removed his beaver-skin derby, patting it a few times to shake off the dust.

“Thank you. Something I can help you with, Mr. Helm?” 

John Helm was a prominent member of the Six Hundred and One, a group of men who’d taken it upon themselves to impose law as they saw fit. Naturally, however, their greed and corruption dictated who was protected. Fear was their weapon of choice, brutality after that — and they had the audacity to call themselves “peacekeepers”. The vigilante group had a chokehold on Absolon, as well as four other towns in the vicinity…and their numbers were rising.

Not much one who valued their life could do about it.

Rumor was John had received his burns as a gift from his alcoholic father as a boy. Despite his vow to do so he was never able to return the favor; his old man had been trampled by another man’s Buckskin while fleeing a failed robbery attempt. If anything John owed his grit to his father. As a child he had learned very quickly not to tolerate teasing — and broke many young boys’ bones as a result.

“I’ll cut right to it so as not to waste more of your time. Where were you last night, Sandra?”

“Where was I? Here, of course.”

“You were seen at Jimbo’s.”

She smiled respectfully. “That was during the day. You asked where I was last night.”

“Then no late return to town? To see a suitor, perhaps?” He threw this last question to the wind, but tough men were not good at subtlety.

“Not many men who ain’t wary of my namesake these days, Mr. Helm.”

He scratched his temple. The thought humbled him. “Fair enough.” And then, as though to comfort her: “That’ll pass.”

There was an awkward silence which Sandra refused to break. Suddenly Neck inhaled sharply through his surprisingly white teeth, then sighed gruffly as he weighed his strategies.

“I’m sorry to say it, but someone set fire to your father’s body last night.”

This was the moment she had rehearsed over and over. A soft relaxing of her brow. A gentle parting of her lips. A long, deep breath quickly swallowed and held. The gaze into the space beyond — at which she’d become quite skilled. Everything controlled, subdued; too much and he’d know.

“Why are you telling me this?” she scolded.

“You know why. Instructions were clear. Someone broke the rules and I’ve been sent to rustle ‘em up.”

Her next words were paramount.

“Let me get this straight, if I may. My father was punished for killing the bastard who raped and killed my mother and sister. A no-good bastard who’s freedom up until that point was bought and paid for by your employers. I was forced to watch my father’s hanging, as though to learn a lesson. I have lost not only my entire family but also my reputation in the span of a month. I struggle to make ends meet and know not what the future will bring. All of this having done nothing wrong. Yet here you are, uninvited, insinuating I am some criminal, and denying me the peace I deserve.”

She turned to Neck, daggers within her pupils, and pleaded:

“How can you be so cruel?”

Neck held her stare, searching past the steel for any semblance of trickery. He found only pain. His heart twisted.

He nodded to Lazy, who in turn began walking past them toward the fence. This time the tall man’s eyes remained forward; he didn’t dare sneak a view while his boss was present. The short, obese man straightened up. In truth, Stub had been bored the whole time.

“Please accept my apology. I meant no offense. I’m only doing my job.”

She took her time relaxing her shoulders and brow, then returned her gaze to the ground to appear subservient. “I understand.”

Raising his hat back to its perch, Neck offered a respectful smile. “I’d be happy to call on you from time to time. Make sure you’re okay. If you don’t mind, that is.”

“I’m not your keeper, Mr. Helm. Besides, something tells me you’re bound to do whatever it is you please.”

Sandra smirked, softly. Neck took this as a sign of forgiveness, which was exactly what she’d hoped. He tipped his hat and turned.

He got only a few steps before she called out. “Mr. Helm?”

“Yes?”

“You said someone set fire to my father. Does that mean he’s no longer strung up?”

“That’s correct. Fire took out half the gallows with it.”

“Hmm.” She scratched her chin. "Seems to me you can go home then.”

Neck turned to face her fully, confused.

“How so?”

“Instruction stated no one was to cut him down. If flames chewed through that rope, one could argue no cutting took place. Thus, no culprit.”

The vigilante considered this. He chuckled to himself once, raised his eyebrows in admission of defeat, then tipped his hat and began to leave.

Sarah’s voice suddenly crackled like fire. 

“Except for you, of course.”

By the time the lieutenant of the Six Hundred and One registered the click and processed what she had said it was much too late. He spun round to face the danger, but Sandra was already aiming the Colt six-shooter she’d purchased from Jim Brady at Neck’s head.

The walls of John Helm’s cheeks erupted as the bullet punched through them. He watched his own blood, bone and teeth spray forth like confetti as he fell to his knees from the force.

Sandra, who was only a half-decent shot, had waited for all three backs to be turned. She immediately aimed her sights on Lazy, whom she had pegged as the more skilled for no reason in particular, before confirming her first shot was true. She fired twice, the first slug catching him in the left shoulder, the second in his ribs.

Stub reached his gun quicker than ever before, but between the pride of speed and fear of death his fingers fumbled and his only chance at survival cascaded toward the earth. As he stood squatting over his gun, he looked up at Sandra, face wide like a clown who just ruined the gag. There was no time to beg. His chest caved inwards as the young woman found her mark.

Wasting no time, Sandra dashed over to the tallest man, who was still alive and reaching for his gun a few feet away. Lazy rolled over as he realized she was upon him, his eyes seeing plenty. He held his shaking hands out to protect his face and screamed out a nonsensical sound, a clumsy mashing of “Wait”,“Please” and “Mommy” cut short as she pulled the trigger.

The gunshot echoed across the plains, booming further and further until dissipating. Soon all she could hear was the wind, the frantic neighing of the men’s horses, and the wet choking of Mr. Helm struggling for air. Sandra paced toward him, her sights on his skull.

Squatting down beside Neck, their eyes connected. He looked at her with fear and admiration as his breathing worsened. His face was torn apart, shreds of flesh split like pulled brisket. Sandra knew she had one shot left; ending his suffering would be easy.

She saved the bullet.

When it was clear he was dead Sandra gasped violently, as though breaching water after a dangerously deep dive. Her breath slowly returned to normal as she surveyed the scene, her attention drifting from the corpses to the startled beasts.

Sandra had always been fond of horses, but these three were particularly impressive creatures. She watched them closely as they calmed, examining their builds, deciding which one would take her away from this troubled life to the next.

—————