The barkeep at the Three Jacks saloon in Tula Rosa cast an impatient glance towards his only customer. He wanted to be gone from his place of work and out into the street with his fellow citizens, this was a mammoth day for the town, and he wanted to share it, but he found himself having to serve this solitary man.  It would have been bad enough had the man been drinking hard liquor, but he was nursing a Lukewarm mug of coffee.  

    Fresh noise filtered into the saloon and the barkeep found his attention drawn to the stark white light over the batwing doors, beyond the cool shade of the barroom.  This was the only advantage to being inside the barkeep could gleam.

    “Sir, I’m gonna have to hurry you along.” He told the customer.  He walked purposefully down the length of the bar towards the man.

    The customer lifted his head and watched the man approach. The barkeep pulled up, suddenly nervous.  Most of the man’s face was hidden by the shadows at that end of the bar. The barkeep got a sense of hawkish features, there was a glint of something in the one eye free from the shade that caught the barkeep and froze him to the spot.       “Good coffee,” the man allowed and set the mug down.

    The barkeep nodded, not trusting himself to speak.  He cast a glance over his shoulder, towards the bright day outside, suddenly having a second reason to be outside the saloon.

    “Quiet day,’ the customer remarked.

    The barkeep nodded.  “Be real lively later,” he said.  “You here for the hanging?”      “In a manner of speaking,” the customer said softly.

    A small amount of tension eased out of the barkeep.  “So, do you mind if I close up? Big day, I don’t want to miss anything.”

    The customer eased himself away from the bar, pick up his hat from the countertop and turned to leave.  “Relax, son,” he told the barkeep.  “You won’t miss anything.  Show won’t start without me.”

    The barkeep watched the sharp, hawk like features, the bright, take-everything-in, eyes, the narrow mouth, a sharp pointed chin.  And below that a priest’s dog collar.

“Quite a crowd,” Deputy Argyle remarked. He was leaning against the frame of the jailhouse door, looking out at the gathering throng beyond. He held a Winchester .44-40 angled across his chest.

    “You Hear that, Butler,” Marshall Dobkin snarled.  “Lotta people want to see you hang.”      In the first barred cell of three in the Tula Rosa jail a blonde-haired woman in his midtwenties looked up in response to the Marshall’s words. She was seated on the cell’s single cot, until the Marshall had spoken, her mind had been focussed inward, contemplating how the events of the day would unfold. She said nothing but her eyes held contempt for the two lawmen.

    “Not every day we stretch a neck as pretty as yours,” Dobkin told her.

    She remained unmoved under his leering stare despite the slithering feeling it caused inside her.

    Argyle turned his attention from the street and looked towards her lofty cool indifference.  He snorted a harsh, rasping chuckle.  “She really is some cold-hearted killer, ain’t she?” He remarked. His eyes roved over her lean curves, her unblemished features, the neat blonde hair, her, oddly cold, blue eyes.

    She felt the deputy’s stare as almost a physical thing, lecherous hands roaming all over her body.  She felt a shiver run through her and prayed neither man saw it.

     “If we were to help her escape, how grateful do you think she’d be?” Argyle chuckled.      Dobkin barked a single snort of laughter.  His eyes examined the woman for a hint of an answer.  He raised his left eyebrow enquiringly.

    “Grateful?” Butler rolled the word around in her mouth as though tasting it.  “Hell, Bobby,” she addressed Argyle. “I’d kill you quick,” she then looked towards Dobkin. “You, I’d let bleed out.”

    “Bitch,” Argyle spat.

    Dobkin laughed.

    Argyle returned his attention back to the street.  He saw the priest leaving the Three Jacks.  “Priests on the move,” he told Dobkin.

    The Marshall got up from his seat behind desk.  “Then, I guess it’s time to go,” he mumbled under his breath.  He took a set of keys from the desk drawer, his hat from the hatstand and a shotgun from the gunrack on the wall.  “All set?”      Argyle nodded.

    “Cover me.”

    Argyle raised the Winchester .40-44 he had been cradling and aimed it in the general direction of Butler’s cell. Dobkin opened the cell door and pulled it back; he made a sweeping gesture with his left arm to indicating that Butler should leave the cell.

    For a brief instant she stood, seemingly unable to move.  Then some instinct told her she had a better chance if she obeyed.  She knew that Bobby Argyle’s nerves were so taut that he would shoot her where she stood if he sensed any resistance. 

    Dobkin halted her and swung the cell door closed before taking up a position a pace behind her. Bobby Argyle led them into the street.

    The light on the street was bright, harshly severe. Butler raised her hands to her face to shield her eyes. She had paused to let her eyes adjust and was nudged in the back by the muzzle of Dobkin’s shotgun. Anger flared and she turned a menacing glare on the Marshall. He seemed momentarily surprised before hiding that behind a smirk,

    “Move, killer,” he whispered. The muzzle of his shotgun deliberately found her back now and he pushed her forward. She almost stumbled and fell into the street before regaining her balance.      She became aware of the town’s people crowding the street. She saw their hostile stares, smelt their breath, laced with the food and alcohol they had consumed, their unwashed bodies, hair tonic, perfume, cigar and cigarette smoke.

    It was thirty paces to the gallows at the end of the street. Five steps up to the platform. Argyle went up backwards, his Winchester bobbed with each step but it remained aimed at her chest, if it pulled upwards on firing, it would probably take her face away. She felt a tremor run through her, her stomach felt full of churning liquid. She felt an urge to urinate and prayed she wouldn’t. Some stone killer, she chastised herself. Then she was on the platform, facing the noose that hung from a crossbeam. The platform sagged and bounced as Dobkin added his weight.      Butler held her head erect and looked out over the gathered crowd, She projected a defiance she didn’t feel. She saw a dark suited man standing in the corner, his head was bowed, his features hidden by the hat he wore. He sensed a hush come over the crowd and, in a moment of pure theatre, he raised his head and Butler saw his collar.

    He stepped to the edge of the scaffold, raising both his hands. “Friends, a moment please to pray for the soul of this young lady,” the crowd dipped their heads in silent prayer. The priest turned his back on them and approached Butler, at he same time the hang man came forward a slipped his noose over Butler’s head.

    The priest made the sign of the cross over Butler’s face. His face looked solemn, concerned.

“Do you wish to confess your sins, sister? Face our Lord with a clear heart?”

    “What makes you think I don’t have a clear heart, father?”

    “Are you telling me you are innocent, child?”

    “Of this crime? Yes.”

    The priest took a moment to consider. “I believe you,” he told Butler and delivered a swift, violent kick between Argyle’s legs. The deputy huffed as the air was driven from his body and he crashed to his knees on the platform.

    Dobkin was a fraction too slow to react. As he began to swing the shotgun round, he found himself staring down the twin barrels of a Derringer under and over delivered into the priest’s hand by a spring loaded holster attached to his arm.

    “I wouldn’t,” the priest warned him. He beckoned with his empty left hand and Dobkin handed over the shotgun. “You,” the priest addressed the hangman. “Get that off her neck. They hurt you?” This last was addressed to Butler.

    Butler bent down and retrieved Argyle’s Winchester. “If I had feelings,” she shrugged. “They might have been hurt.”

    The priest smiled. “That’s my girl.”

    Butler looked at he priest for long seconds. “I didn’t think you were coming,” she said.

    The priest shrugged. “Cavalry trained. Always arrive in the nick of time.” He sensed the crowd were beginning to recover from the fast bout of action. He was also aware that some of them could be armed and might not like their town lawmen being attacked and a hanging denied them.

“Do you have enough evidence?” He asked.

    “You ever known me to fail?” Butler asked.

    The priest nodded. “Here.” He called to the hangman and tossed him the shotgun. “Cover them,” he swept his hand towards the Tula Rosa lawmen.

    He stepped back towards the front of the gallows and held his hands up to the crowd. “Ladies and Gentlemen, allow me to introduce myself. I am Tobias Grant and the lady is my partner Alice

Butler. We work for the United States Secret Service, if you want I can show you a badge.”

    “She killed Drew Ketchum!” A voice shouted.

    “I think you’ll find the Marshall or the deputy did that and tried to frame my partner.’ Grant said.

    “So, no hanging?” Someone else ventured.

    “Not today,” Grant allowed.

    “But maybe soon,” Butler added in a voice so low that only those on the platform heard it.

    “What’s all this about?” A third voice asked.

    Grant spread his arms wide. “Sorry, folks. Government business, can’t say anymore.”

    A rumble of discontent rippled through the crowd but they turned and began to disburse.

    “What now?” Butler asked.

    “The saloon serves nice coffee,” Grant supplied.

    Butler seemed to consider. “Coffee, it is.” She turned her attention back to the Tula Rosa lawmen. “Come on, boys, off to jail.” She jacked a shell into the Winchester’s breech to emphasise her point.