13 Drops of Blood (12 page)

Mort opened his mouth to speak, revealing cavity-rotten teeth that had been stained brown by twenty years of chewing tobacco and zero years keeping his mouth clean. “It was an accident,” he mumbled without conviction. “I didn’t mean to do it.”

“Shut up Mort,” Red barked, yanking on the free end of the hangman’s rope. “I was there. I saw what happened and it was no accident. You killed him… now you’re a dead man walking.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of,” Doc scoffed.

Red forced out a laugh. “Oh… you’re a clever one, aren’t ya?”

“No. No I’m not. But there’s a reason the Hanging Tree has been off limits for forty years, Red. Don’t pretend there isn’t.”

“Forty years ago you were a child and I was nothing more than an inch in my daddy’s pants. I might have believed those stories when I was
five
, but I sure as hell don’t believe ‘em now.”

“Well I do.”

“Well isn’t that special. Good for you, Sunshine.”

“No. Not ‘good for me.’ You’ve said––quite publicly, I may add––that Sheriff Gill was one of your best friends.”


“That’s right. He was. You can’t work with a man like Gill without developing a friendship.”

“Then why won’t you respect him now?”

“
I’m
the sheriff now.”

“I’m not arguing that. The task falls on your shoulders. I know it.
Everybody
knows it. But Red, I’m your friend too, and I’m trying to talk some sense into you.”

“But you’re not making sense!”

“Yes I am! Hang him in Town Square, the way it’s been done for the last forty years!”

“No!”

“Why?”

“I don’t want to hang him there! In fact, I don’t want to hang
anyone
there. Town Square is no place to kill a man.”


“Why not?”

“What do you mean,
why not?
You know why! It’s right in the center of town. Everyone comes out of their homes and makes a big deal out of it. Taking a man’s life shouldn’t be a sport, Doc…
we’re not barbarians
. We have over thirty children living within spitting distance of Town Square, and the bloody school is right next door!”

“A public hanging is nothing the children haven’t seen before.”

“That’s the problem! Don’t you get it? We’ve been making a spectacle out of these killings for too long! And why, because of an old wives tale? I don’t want
children
seeing this stuff. Goddamn, I still remember it, Doc. I still remember watching my first hanging. I’ll never forget it. I was four years old and the man’s name was Jonny Bale. He was crying and terrified and his wife was screaming her head off, saying he was innocent, saying her man was a good man and he’d never hurt a fly. And when they pulled that lever, Jonny fell very hard, and every single person that was there heard his neck snap. It sounded like a bullwhip cracking; I swear it did. I had nightmares for a year, if not longer.”

“Oh, bullshit.”

“Don’t give me that. It’s not
bullshit
. It’s true. And now I’m the man in charge and we’re doing things
my
way. You want to hang this fool next door to a schoolyard? Why? So we can give nightmares to the young ones? No chance in hell. Mort’s taking a one way trip to the Hanging Tree and that’s final.”

“But the Hanging Tree is… well…” Doc’s eyes skipped towards the ground. “Don’t make me say it, Red.”

“Say what… haunted? Is that what you want to say?”

“I don’t know if the tree’s
haunted
or not, but you know what happens. Sometimes they come back.”

The words sat in the air like an unseen hex, gaining weight as both parities had a chance to mull over the situation. They knew the stories. Everyone in town knew the stories, but that didn’t mean that everyone in town believed them. Problem was, the stories grew more outrageous and less believable each time they were spoken. The Hanging Tree was cursed, many said. It always had been; some figured it always would be.

“Listen guys,” Mort begged. “I don’t want to die. I really don’t. I made a mistake, that’s all. It was just a stupid mistake and I’ll never do anything like that again. Please don’t kill me
. Please.
You could let me go. You could––”

“Be quiet, Mort,” Red snapped. “If you didn’t want to be executed you shouldn’t have popped the sheriff. Good Lord, man. What were you thinking? Gill has a family, for Christ’s sake. And he never did anything to you.”

Doc agreed. “Yeah, shut the hell up. Now’s not the time.”

Although Mort had been told, he kept talking. They planned on killing him anyhow, so he had nothing left to lose. “All those years I walked the earth without a gun. I never needed one when I was a young lad, and I didn’t need one now. But I got one anyhow, tryin’ to be a big man, tryin’ to be respected… and look at me! I
killed
the sheriff. Oh God, this isn’t the way things are supposed to be! I should never have bought that
stupid
weapon. Lord knows a man like me shouldn’t be armed. Gentlemen, please, set me free! I’m begging you! I could run off to a far away place, you’ll never see me again. That wouldn’t be too bad, would it? Nobody would have to know!”

“I’d know,” Red said, using an unpleasant tone. “And so would Doc. Christ on a caboose, Mort. Sheriff Gill was a friend of mine. And I may not want to hang you in
Town Square,
but you’re getting hanged all right. No question there. Your time on this earth is done like dinner. You shot a good man and a true friend; now it’s time for justice.”

Mort started crying. “Well for the love of God, don’t take me to the
Hanging Tree!
I don’t want to come
back from the dead!”

Red said, “Don’t be a fool, you won’t come back.”

“Yes he will,” Doc argued. “You know he will.”

“I
don’t
know that he will. As far as I’m concerned, the dead stay dead.”

“Not always.”

“Yes.
Always.”

“Well, I guess you plan on finding out for sure, don’t you?”

Red huffed, flashing his teeth like an animal. “Look Doc, I’m getting tired of this. I need you to come with me, be a witness, and pronounce this man dead. If you’re not interested, that’s fine. I’ll find someone else.”

“We shouldn’t be doing this.”

“Is that a yes or a no?”

“It’s wrong.”

“Yes or no, Doc. I’m tired of getting rained on. I need an answer.”

Doc squinted his eyes and dragged a finger across his chin. “Goddamn you, Red. I hope you’re right.”

“I am right.”

“Okay then. Something goes wrong, it’s your fault.” And with that, Doc started walking, boots splashing in the muck.

“Get up Mort,” Red said, tightening his grip on the hangman’s rope. “It’s time to move.”

Reluctantly, Mort brought himself to his feet.

The three men walked towards a nearby stable with the warm August wind blowing at them from the west. At gunpoint, Mort mounted a mule. Doc and Red straddled strong dark horses, and together they made their way towards the place best left forgotten.

Twenty-five minutes later Mort was fastened to the tree in question, the one that had a reputation for giving death to the living and life to the dead. He was crying, afraid of what lie ahead, gripping the senseless mule beneath him with his heels. He was wearing a white shirt, which had become torn and covered in filth. His hands were tied in front. His glossy eyes were the color of cherry brandy.

The tree was old, more perished than vibrant. Its leafless branches were thick and knotted. Like giant, arthritic fingers, grasping at the open plains that surrounded it. Gluttonous roots burrowed deep within the mostly desolate soil, seizing nourishment where they could, keeping what moisture they found tucked inside, hoarding the sustenance, cactus like. In a different time and place it may have been called the
Tree of Anguish
, the
Tree of Shame
. Some thought that in days long since passed, in a time when the plant was truly alive, when leaves bloomed and sparrows nested among the branches, what existed was a rare and unnamed class of oak. Now it was impossible to know with any amount of certainty what type of tree it was, and the only birds to brave enough to wrap talons around the tautened bark were the buzzards and the crows.

Red ignored Mort’s expressions of grief, turned to Hubert Turret and said, “I’m going to make this quick. Any last words, Doc?”

“We shouldn’t be doing this.”

“Your judgment and opinion has been duly noted.” He turned towards Mort. “Hey Quick-draw. Quit yer crying a minute, will ya? I’m about to kick the mule. Have you got any last words, or are ya good to go?”

Mort snorted back what he was able and shook his head several times. A mixture of liquids ran from his beard. “Don’t hang me from this tree, Red. Don’t you dare…
please!
If this tree does what it was born to do, I’m going to come back. And if I do––”

“Yeah, yeah,” Red said, uncaringly. “Is that it? That everything?”

“If I come back I’m coming back for you!”

Lightning cracked and thunder roared. The smell of the earth was strong now, stronger than before. It had been raining for hours, which was a rarity on the dry plains. The previously dehydrated terrain was thankful, more so now with the rain turning into a full-fledged storm.

Mort glanced towards the sky. Then, as tears rolled down his face, he said, “I mean it. I’ll come back for ya. You’ll be the first person I exterminate!”

Red heard enough. He kicked the mule until the animal moved away from the tree, leaving Mort swinging in the wind.

Gagging, Mort’s eyes bulged. His feet kicked in every possible direction.

Lightning cracked again and Doc turned away. Red didn’t; he watched the man suffer. Once the deed was done he made the sign of the cross, and said, “Want to pronounce him, Doc?”

Doc took one look at Mort’s lifeless body swaying from side to side. He didn’t need to be a doctor to know the score. Mort’s eyes had rolled back. His terror stricken expression was locked in place. Limbs seemed boneless and somehow miserable. His white shirt flapped in the wind, reminding both men of a dirty flag.

I surrender;
the flag declared.
There’ll be no more trouble from the likes of me.

Doc’s eyes narrowed. He nodded and said, “Sure as shit, he’s gone. May God have mercy on his soul.”

“And ours.” Red cleared his throat, pulled his hat from his head and placed it above his heart. After a moment had passed, he said, “Lets go back. We can send the meat-wagon first thing in the morning.”

* * *

Sleep didn’t come easy. Red’s mind kept returning to the Hanging Tree. He could see Mort sitting on the Mule, crying openly, water dripping from his unkempt beard while his legs gripped the animal for stability. He could hear those words;
I’ll come back for ya. You’ll be the first person I exterminate.
Somehow Red believed it. But that was foolish, wasn’t it? Sure it was. Mort wasn’t coming back from the dead. That was impossible.

In time, Red closed his eyes and sleep came. It was a short-lived rest––a couple of hours, maybe less. He pulled himself from bed and walked towards the window. Looking out, he could see the rain falling lightly, splashing miniature explosions the puddles outside his window.

His mind drifted.

The tree. It all came back to the tree. He needed to see it again. Or more specifically, he needed to see Mort hanging from the tree again. He needed to make sure Mort was still dead.

“God,” he whispered. “I’m a fool.”

And maybe he was a fool. But if so, he was a fool that knew himself pretty well. The next few hours were not going to be enjoyable ones. He was going to be awake, thinking about Mort, wondering if the impossible was somehow possible. This meant that he had a decision to make. He could either stay home, alone in his house, listening to the rain bouncing off his roof while he wondered if Mort was coming to get him, or he could go to the Hanging Tree and put his mind at ease.

After ten minutes of scratching his head and considering his options, the decision was made. He couldn’t stay home, strolling from room to room while thinking in circles; it was making him crazy. He needed to go to the Hanging Tree and see Mort, whether it was a silly thing to do or not.

Red dressed, knocked back a tall shot of cheap whiskey and made his way to the stable. He mounted his horse and rode towards his destination. He rode slowly, apathetically. The air had cooled some. The ground felt soft from the rain, which had become almost nonexistent. Before he arrived at the tree he stopped to gather his thoughts.

Lord, give me strength.

Somewhere in the distance a coyote howled, nipping his prayers in the bud.

He dismounted, tied his horse to a nearby rock and began walking. He told himself that he needed time to think, but the truth was this: he was procrastinating. Seeing Mort’s corpse hanging from a noose wasn’t going to be pleasant, not at all. But what if there was no corpse to see? What then?

There was no easy answer to that question and Red didn’t try to find one. Instead he continued on, hand on his gun, eyes on his boots.

The Hanging Tree was just past the roll of the next hill. Red walked the hill slowly. When he looked up he could see it, the tree. There it was, standing tall in all its glory.

Mort was––

Gone.

Oh shit,
Red thought. His stomach turned and his knees became weak.
What the hell happened here?

As his eyes expanded his footsteps slowed. Staggered. Stopped. Stepping back, he put his hand to his mouth. There was something on the ground, a dark lump beneath the tree. Looked like a body.

He took a cautious step forward, followed by another.