The Hangman and the Outlaw

This story is by David Elderton and was a runner-up in our 2024 Spring Writing Contest. You can find all the writing contest stories here.

David Elderton lives in Oklahoma with his wife and editor, Jodi, who rekindled David’s passion for writing. It turns out he has infinite stories to tell. Who knew? His short stories involve mystery, action, fantasy, and humor, usually with a twist (or three!) Learn more at http://www.DavidElderton.com

From atop the towering gallows, the hooded hangman inhaled the mingled scents of damp dirt and fresh-cut timbers and smiled. It was a crisp, beautiful morning, perfect for a hanging, and no one deserved the punishment more than the notorious outlaw Henry Slade.

The manacled prisoner danced a carefree jig in the muddy street below. No one ever hurried to ascend the stairs leading to their execution, but Slade was the first to sashay up the foreboding thirteen steps.

The townsfolk gladly constructed the gallows overnight in a downpour, to rid the territory of the evil plague embodied by Henry Slade. They expected him to tremble with fear and beg for mercy, but the outlaw did not oblige. Instead, he cackled with glee from the elevated platform.

Judge Parker scowled at the childish antics. Then, with a practiced flourish, snapped the court papers open and read the charges with his booming voice. As the hangman guided the condemned man onto the trapdoor, Slade tripped on the end of a protruding board, warped by the rain, but the hangman kept him upright.

“Whoa, no handrails?” Slade laughed. “Why, somebody could fall off!”

“Obscures the view. The townspeople worked all night, cold and wet, building these gallows for you and they deserve to witness all of it. Don’t worry, I have another exit planned for you,” the hangman replied.

“What, through the trapdoor? You ain’t hangin’ me today, no sir!”

“You’ll hang today, Slade, and a happier thought I cannot imagine.”

“What’s your problem, Clarence?”

The hangman cocked his head.

“Oh, come on, everybody knows it’s you under that hood… Clarence.”

“Fine, you know who I am, but you will hang today for your countless crimes, Henry Slade.”

“Like violatin’ your pretty bride? I swear, I didn’t know she was your wife.”

“You knew, you scurrilous dog.”

Slade grinned. “Well, maybe I did, maybe I didn’t. Too bad she couldn’t testify.”

Clarence pulled him in close. “She hasn’t spoken a single word since that day.”

“Well, she screamed plenty for me, especially when I—”

Clarence grabbed a clump of hair and yanked backward. “You yellowbellied — “

“Easy, hoss, everybody’s watchin’. Wouldn’t it be funny if they hanged you instead of me?”

The hangman whispered into Slade’s ear. “I knew you’d hang for something, so I prepared a hemp rope for you months ago. I crafted the perfect hangman’s noose; thirteen coils, well-greased, then I roughed up the inside of the rope to feel like a mad cactus hugging your neck. I take this wretched task seriously, so I calculated the precise distance to ensure a clean snap. You won’t feel a thing, Slade…”

“But? I feel there’s a ‘but’ coming, Clarence.”

“But you don’t get to be comfortable waiting for the trapdoor to eternity.”

“I knew there was a ‘but’ coming. Here’s one for you; but I ain’t hangin’ today, Clarence.”

“We’ll see about that.” The executioner placed the noose around Slade’s neck, tightened it, then gave it a slight turn.

“Ow! Damn you and your mad-cactus rope! You’ll regret that, Clarence.”

“How do you figure? Because you’re going to drop in about two shakes of a lamb’s tail.”

“I ain’t hangin’, ‘cause I forged a deal with the devil, and now I’m untouchable.”

“The devil lied, Slade, because you’re not getting out of this one.”

“Yes, I will, ‘cause six months ago, I met an old man wearin’ a top hat in the desert, just sitting on his horse like he was waitin’ for me. Said he’d grant me any wish in exchange for my soul. I wasn’t usin’ it, so why not? Told ‘im I never wanted to pay for my crimes. He said, ‘Done!’ and tipped his hat.”

“That was your wish? Why not mountains of gold?”

“Because I like to pillage and plunder! It’s fun making folks afraid. Look at ‘em out there. They think I’m gonna die, but they still fear me, ‘cause I always get away. Bullets miss, trackers lose the trail, witnesses disappear. No matter what, I escape.”

“Then how come you’re standing on the gallows with a noose around your neck, ready to dance your last jig on nothing but air?”

“I admit, it’s never gone this far before, but I’ll wager $100 that something will happen before you pull that lever and I won’t hang for my crimes today.”

“Sure, I’ll take that bet. What happened to the old man?”

“I shot ‘im in the gut and took his saddlebag of gold. Turned out to be gravel, though.”

“Wait, you gut-shot the devil?”

“Maybe he was the devil, maybe not. I don’t know, but I still got my wish. Guess I’m pretty lucky!”

“We’ll test that theory in about one minute. After I pull the lever, everyone will cheer, then draw straws to decide who gets to piss on your corpse first.”

“You mean, on my grave.”

“No, I don’t think they’ll wait that long, Slade.”

Judge Parker, long-winded as always, finished reading the charges. His smug smile betrayed his feigned impartiality. “Does the condemned have any last words?”

A malevolent grin stretched across the outlaw’s face. “I won’t hang for my crimes here today! And I’ll kill—”

“Take that!” A voice yelled from the crowd.

Judge Parker ducked as a large tomato flew overhead, splattering Slade in the face.

Slade spat out tomato remnants. “I see you, Harold Wray! I’ll kill you first! Anyone else?”

The crowd submitted to a reluctant silence.

“Make haste, Clarence,” the judge said, “I have breakfast waiting.”

The hangman unfurled a vomit-stained burlap death hood and covered Slade’s head.

“Damn, Clarence, this hood stinks. And there’s still chunks in here.”

“You whine louder than a two-bit harlot. I’ll take it off… after.”

The hangman centered him on the trapdoor and gripped the activation lever. Clarence fought the powerful urge to pull it early, since protocol required he wait for the official pronouncement. In the distance, a man on a sauntering horse caught his attention.

“By the power vested in me, I hereby order Henry Slade to hang from the neck until dead. May the Lord have mercy on your—” Judge Parker stopped short as he followed the hangman’s gaze to the man on horseback slogging through the mud toward the gallows.

“What’s happening, Clarence?” Slade asked.

“The man you gut-shot in the desert… you said he wore a black top hat?”

“Yeah… didn’t mention the color, though.”

“Sunken dark eyes, like a cadaverous undertaker? Rides a dapple-grey mare?”

“Yeah, why?”

“He just rode into town.”

“He’s not dead?”

“Hard to tell.”

The gaunt man stopped twenty yards from the gallows and held up a piece of paper. “This telegram from the governor says to release Henry Slade!”

Groans and protests rippled through the square. People spat, shook their heads, and milled about, unsure what to do.

“I told ya something would happen, Clarence!”

“Pull the lever!” Harold Wray yelled.

The hangman’s grip tightened on the lever.

“No, Clarence!” His wife pleaded from the street. “They’ll hang you if you pull it.”

Clarence hesitated. He hadn’t heard her voice since Slade’s assault. “Mary?”

Slade snickered under his hood. “Better listen to her, Clarence, ‘cause this here is what you call a dim-lemma.”

“Dilemma, you idiot.”

“Look, I ain’t fancy-worded like you, but the situation’s clear enough; you can pull the lever, and hang for it… or let me live to —”

“Pillage and plunder?”

“Well, yeah. It’s what I do, Clarence.”

Mary clasped her hands together, praying he’d make the right decision.

The hangman’s desire to kill Slade was second only to his love for Mary, and he couldn’t leave her by herself; she needed him. He released the lever, freed Slade’s hands, removed the hood, and 13-coil noose.

Henry Slade rubbed his raw neck, then spied the stranger in the top hat. “Hey, that is the old man from the desert! Devil or not, that bastard owes me a saddlebag full of gold!”

Slade ran toward the steps, but a warped board abruptly pulled free of its nails, causing him to stumble off the platform and hurtle headlong to the sodden street below. His shrill scream ceased when his neck cracked like a bullwhip. The crowd held its collective breath until the body flopped flat in the street. Then an outburst of cheers erupted.

Harold Wray picked up the telegram the stranger had dropped. “Hey, everybody, the telegram is blank!”

The crowd focused on the stranger, expecting an explanation.

A sly grin formed on his face. “Henry Slade owed me a debt. Payment… was due.” He tipped his hat and plodded back to the desert.

A line of men already began forming at the distorted corpse of Henry Slade to pay their ‘respects.’ The hangman and judge peered down from the gallows and nodded their approval.

“Clarence, I thought Slade bragged he wouldn’t die today.”

“No, Judge, he said he wouldn’t hang today and—damn it, looks like I owe him $100…”