Read by Martine Richards
The townsfolk of Prairie Bend had caught Slippery Pete around dinner time, cornering the hated outlaw in a back room of the Red Star Saloon.
There was never any talk of a trial. They hauled him to the crossroad gallows just as the sun burned itself out behind the hills. The whole town came out to see him swing. Even the babes in arms seemed to stare, goggle-eyed and drooling, waiting for justice to be served.
“I heard they shot him dead a year back in Newcolm County,” whispered a young woman as she stared up at the bound criminal.
The bearded man beside her shook his head. “My cousin swears she saw him drown beneath his horse in the Mississippi last fall.”
An older woman glanced over her shoulder at them, her face a maze of lines. “I had it straight from the sheriff of Visbee that they cornered him an’ his posse on a canyon ledge. That varmint fell a hunnit feet down.” She trailed a finger through the air, then clapped her hands together, simulating the fatal plunge.
Slippery Pete looked out at the filthy puddle of faces (too few to be called a sea). Each one looked back, just as small and hard and mean as the prairie pebbles. He’d crossed every person there, whether he’d pinched their cattle, lamed their horses, stolen their gold, or shot their brothers. Not a drop of mercy remained.
Pete had felt the noose tightening over the last month as he watched his posse get taken out one by one, chased down and exterminated like rats. Now here he was, the last one left, and about to dance beneath the devil’s tree.
“We’ve caught every last dog in your posse,” the ragged sheriff said. “And it ends here, with you. Any last words, you rotten bastard?”
Slippery Pete looked at the assembled townsfolk and spat. “I have an appointment to keep, so if you’re gonna do it, do it. Quit wasting my time.”
The hard faces all around him stiffened. Maybe they’d expected a confession, or some sign of remorse. He enjoyed denying them that last satisfaction.
“God have mercy on your soul,” the sheriff said without a hint of sincerity, then pulled the lever.
Slippery Pete died with a smile on his darkening face.
The good people of Prairie Bend left his body there on the devil’s tree as proof that, at last, someone had gotten the bastard. Night fell, but no desert creature dared disturb the corpse. No vultures landed on the gallows’ arm, no insects crawled closer. The coyotes even held off their singing while his body hung.
Nothing much stirred until the moon rose, when the ground split open. The sand and hardscrabble vibrated, stones skittering to either side like angry beetles as a wound opened up in the earth, hissing thick, sulfurous fumes. The clear air shook with thunderous hoof beats, and a dark figure on a flaming yellow horse rode up through the rift. The figure, dressed all in black, dismounted and leapt onto the platform, leaving smoldering, charred boot prints across the boards as it approached the hanging man. It took the rope in one hand, setting the rough hemp alight in a puff of smoke.
Slippery Pete dropped to the dirt like a bag of rotting potatoes.
The dark figure hopped down and peeled away the choking rope. It squatted over Pete’s corpse.
He still grinned, though his swollen tongue had begun to protrude, and his face had turned black with congealed blood.
The figure reached out and slapped him, once, twice, thrice, then rocked back on its heels as the corpse coughed and stirred.
Pete sat up, rubbing a dark-fingered hand around his throat and smacking dry lips. All his blood had settled to his extremities as he hung. When his cloudy eyes began to clear, he looked up at the moon, then the gallows. He grinned, teeth startlingly pale in his bloated face.
The figure raised a hand, fingers spread, and slowly lowered the last four, leaving a sharp-nailed thumb sticking out.
The dead man nodded, and started massaging the circulation back into his legs. “One life left,” he rasped. “I got it.”
The figure nodded, turned, and leapt back onto his sulfur-yellow steed, vanishing into the earth. The rift rattled closed behind him.
Slippery Pete staggered up, and looked off to the west, where thin trails of smoke and lingering light marked the slumbering town of Prairie Bend. No clouds blocked the stars; it hadn’t rained in weeks. The shabby old buildings would be bone dry. He started forward on stiff legs, headed back to the town that had caught him. They’d all be asleep in their beds at this hour, completely unprepared. He smiled through the dark. Slippery Pete had a whole new lifetime ahead of him, but first, he had a score to settle.
(c) Shenoa Carroll-Bradd, 2014
Shenoa Carroll-Bradd lives in sunny Southern California with her fantastic brother and miniature direwolf. She adores Doctor Who and Sherlock, and writes whatever catches her fancy, from horror to erotica, and everything in between. Read more of her work at www.sbcbfiction.net
Martine Richards (left) has appeared on stage as Richard II and Ariel, and worked extensively in TV, film, and voice-over. Recent projects include Dancing on the Edge with John Goodman and Chiwetel Ejiofor, and Sync, a US sci-fi, directed by HaZ Dullull. Martine has dual UK and Canadian citizenship, and lives in London.
Comments