“I didn’t know Costello was an Irish name. I thought it was something more Latin you picked up to use as a stage name. You mean you were really dumb enough to hold up trains under your right name?”
The prisoner sighed. “Had not that guard turned up when he wasn’t supposed to, the Denver & Rio Grande would have had to blame the whole affair on the Little People. For it’s devil a clue we’d have left them. As for my stage name, I’ve never been ashamed to bear the proud title of my noble ancestor, Sir Gilbert MacOlsdealbhaigh de Nangle, Baron of Mayo.”
“I can see why they might have wanted to shorten that to Costello,” Longarm said. “After you went to work as a stage magician you tried robbing silver shipments with a gang, not on your lonesome. Would you like to tell me how some of their names might be pronounced?”
The prisoner shook his head and said, “They offered to spare me from the gallows if I’d inform on my friends. I may look satanic, but I’d die before I’d give you one name.”
Longarm heard footsteps in the dark distance and said, “You sure figure to, any time now. Look, no shit, we might still be able to cut a deal, Costello. I know the railroad would ask for a stay if I could tell ‘em you was ready to clear up some loose ends for ‘em.”
The prisoner smiled gamely and said, “I’m supposed to offer dirty deals, not you. Can’t you see I’m an imp of the Devil?”
Longarm didn’t answer. He got back to his feet as the small crowd of other interested parties joined them. He recognized Father Packer of Fourteen Holy Martyrs and, with less enthusiasm, Topkick Thompson, the local hangman. Thompson was a retired army sergeant who augmented his pension by executing federal prisoners as the need arose. He was a runty old goat with a drinker’s nose and rotten teeth. An occasional bath might have helped him smell a mite less disgusting. The others were guards Longarm didn’t know or civilians Thompson had likely brought along to help. As the old hangman got within speaking range he called out, “I gotta measure you now sweetheart. We wouldn’t want the rope tearing off your pretty little head if we guessed wrong about the drop, would we?”
The kindly Father Packer looked at Longarm and sighed, “Do we have to put the poor sinner through all this, Deputy Long?”
“I fear we do, Father. I don’t like Thompson neither, but he knows his job and he’s right about the need to do things scientifically.”
He took out the key he’d gotten from the Great Costello and opened the cell door. Then he, the priest, and the guards stood aside as Thompson and his crew entered to weigh the prisoner by feel and judge the strength of his neck. It didn’t take long. The hangman gave the prisoner a not unfriendly slap on the back and said, “Nine feet and you won’t feel a thing, old son. You’ll shit your pants and dance like a puppet on a string for a spell, but you won’t know it, so what the hell.”
Longarm growled, “Cut that out. I mean it.”
The hangman came out, looking injured, to say, “Hell, a little humor serves to lighten up the proceedings, Longarm.”
The priest went in next. Longarm turned to one of the guards and asked, “Have you boys seen hide or hair of Deputy Guilfoyle? I told him to meet me here.”
They looked blank. Then one said, “Oh, you must mean that old boy who keeps running to the crapper. He did say he was from your office. He’s out front, if he ain’t in the crapper.”
Longarm saw they had a handle on the situation in the cell block, so he excused himself to go looking for his errant sidekick.
Out front, he found a very pasty-faced Deputy Guilfoyle seated near a gun rack with Crawford. They both looked sick as hell. When Longarm asked how come, Crawford responded, “We were just talking about that. There must be some bug going around, for neither of us are dumb enough to trust the city water.”
“I’m starting to feel better,” Guilfoyle said, “now that I’ve emptied my guts a lot from both ends. I thought I was a gone goose, earlier. Some of the guards called in sick, too. It has to be the water, even though I don’t recall the last time I was tempted to drink anything that sissy. I never had supper with old Crawford, and none of the others who’ve come down with the trots could have eaten with either of us.”
Longarm turned, spotted the guard he’d met earlier in the taproom across the way, and asked, “Are you all right? How many others are we talking about?”
The guard, who looked more under the weather from strong drink than illness, said, “We only lost a couple of boys to whatever’s going around. I heard about the way old Collins was drugged, but I’m way ahead of you. Their later shift pards are covering for the ones that couldn’t make it, and nobody here right now is too sick to hang that rascal out back. I sure wish it was time to start now.”
Longarm took out his watch, nodded, and said, “It won’t be all that long now. I’d best go back and make sure the Great Costello don’t take sick before they can hang him.”
Chapter 5
As always, the last few minutes seemed to take forever. Then at last the time arrived, and Longarm got to walk slower than he felt like behind the Great Costello, as the others to either side led him out back.
The sun was up—as Longarm had warned Cynthia Morton it would be—as the execution party crossed the bare dirt yard to the ominously high gallows dominating the scene. Longarm looked for a straw boater perched atop a red head in the considerable crowd assembled to watch. Then he warned himself to keep his eye on the prisoner, for if the Great Costello ever meant to prove he was a great escape artist, his time was about up.
Longarm saw the cuffs were still on the dapper little man’s wrists; he had chosen to walk behind Costello with that in mind. Deputy Guilfoyle was backing Longarm’s play, to Longarm’s left. He still looked green around the gills, but Longarm knew he was a good man as long as he was on his feet. The hangman and his own helpers were well out front and already mounting the platform by the time the prisoner was halfway there. The warden and the army doc who’d make sure of the results were stationed at ground level, to step under the gallows once Costello hit the end of the rope.
Longarm knew it was more usual to have the warden topside, so he could read the death warrant to the condemned man without having to shout, and surmised the worried warden’s reasons for posting himself where he had. He told Guilfoyle, “You’d best go back the warden and the doc, just in case Costello tries to escape on the way down.”
Guilfoyle grimaced and said, “He won’t.” But he dropped out and headed that way to leave Longarm the job of watching the prisoner’s cuffed wrists.
The Great Costello didn’t seem to be trying to slip either small hand free. Father Packer went up the steep steps ahead of him, head down as if in prayer, or to make sure he didn’t bust his own neck in the process. The Great Costello hesitated for a moment at the foot of the fatal flight, then a guard had him by either arm and he was going up, gamely or otherwise.
That left it Longarm’s turn to mount the gallows. He was glad he’d get to come back down the same way. There were fourteen risers. He smiled thinly as that reminded him of the room number Guilfoyle had chosen as a good place to catch the trots. Longarm wondered if he’d given them to that gal he’d met or if she’d given them to him.
Longarm had watched Topkick Thompson work before. That was another reason he didn’t like the literally dirty old man. But there was something to be said for old Thompson’s crude manners. If one had to hang a man at all, it was likely best to get it over with as sudden as possible. Longarm was still on the steps with the pine planking of the platform at waist level when he saw that sure enough they had the black hood over the Great Costello’s head already—Thompson and his boys weren’t paid by the hour. Longarm saw no need to go any higher.