Poem 9: Author Unknown

Write me a poem to call my own
Make the Author be unknown
Give me meaning and words so pure
That the most broken hearts they could cure
Do it not for love or for grace
But to raise it to that higher place
Let it be free from heaven descent
That it can release those from their torment
Hurt and suffering, let it have none
That the wrongs of the past may be undone

Chapter 9: Decree of Death

I could see the sorrow in Gan’s eyes, hidden behind the burning flames of vengeance. The high noon hanging was approaching. The town was silently melancholic yet the whole thing had a somewhat festival atmosphere to it. Public displays of killing always draw in a crowd. There would be death today, but it would not be the death of Chief Kief. We had resolved to interfere. The letter we received told us not to interfere, but the letter be damned! I was not going to stand idly by as Little Boy Blair and his cronies hang a man just to start a war… a massacre.

“Kill them all!” Gan said grinding her teeth.
“Six banditos… you and Michael John take them. Leave Little Boy Blair and his fat official to me” I commanded.
“And Sheriff Putin?” Michael John sympathetically questioned.
Michael John had a soft spot for the stone cold sheriff.
“I do not want to kill those who are not involved, but if we are forced to…” I said hanging my head.
“And the Bank guards?” Gan asked.
We knew there were always two guards in the Bank.
“They should stay inside the Bank to protect it if shooting breaks out” I explained.
“Should? Our biggest bounty… Get in and get it out. Wait, relax, collect, and then leave. It was supposed to be simple. When did it fall apart?” Gan questioned.
“The moment we decided to interfere….” I answered.

…

It was almost noon. The sun was out in full force blazing down on the large crowd. Most of the town was out; men, women, and a few children. The amount of hangings had increased since Little Boy Blair had arrived in town, but it looked like they still managed to draw in a crowd.
“Men, women, and children…” I muttered.
“What?” Michael John asked.
He had heard me. Manchuria was a long time ago but it was still fresh on my mind. Gan could tell what I was thinking.
“We cannot interfere…” Gan slowly said, damning her words as she said them.
“Manchuria?” Michael John questioned.
“Manchuria…” she responded.
Michael John tensed up as he said “I do not regret what we did, and it was not your fault Gan. And Whiskey if anyone should bear the guilt of what happened it should be me! But even then we had no other choice… just like we do not have a choice now! We cannot watch as an innocent man is hanged!”
“There is a large crowd. There will be a lot of shooting. It just takes one stray bullet…” I said, swallowing the grief that my words evoked.
“Damn you Whiskey!” Michael John cursed knowing full well what I was referring to.
“We have to at least do something…” Gan pleaded.
I was silent. There was nothing I could have said or done. An innocent man was going to die, and we were going to watch. We had no choice. Within the next few days we would be avenging him, but that would not matter to him… he would be dead.

As we walked through the large crowd towards Sheriff Putin’s office someone grabbed my shoulder. I placed a hand on my revolver as I turned to see who it was. It was Sam from Sam’s Cobblers and Tailors.
“I will catch up with you” I said to Michael John and Gan.
I knew that Gan would undoubtedly be heading towards the jail to see Chief Kief again; perhaps to tell him that everything would be okay, or to say goodbye, or perhaps to say that she was sorry. I was sorry but I attempted to dissociate myself from my feelings towards the chief. The emotional burden would only dull my senses and prevent me from seeing the bigger picture. There was nothing before me other than events unfolding. I would try my best to do something, but in this case gun-slinging was not an option. Too many innocent bystanders might get shot up.
“What do you want?” I snapped at Sam.
Sam was the town tailor. He lived on the west side of town in the one of the finer abodes. I had talked with him before at the saloon. He was a portly gent with a merry sense of humour. I felt bad for snapping at him. The heat, and the situation, and the heat from the situation were getting to me.
“Sorry to have to bother you, just letting you know your item” he said with raised eyebrows “will be ready late this afternoon. I hope that is okay with you.”
I apologised to Sam for snapping. I blamed it on the almost noon sun. Late this afternoon would be perfect for picking up the modified dress; it would not be needed until tomorrow by the earliest. After the apology and talking business Sam threw some palaver my way.
“I wish I was a deputy. Those six deputies who brought the Indian in, they were drinking down at the saloon. Free drinks they claimed. Ain’t any of them pay for their drinks. They just up and left laughing their asses off. The bartender was not happy. I can tell you that much.”
It was a lot of information to take in. Although I had talked somewhat lengthily with Sam before the soberness in me seemed to really affect my conversational skills.
“Yeah…” I trailed off.
He continued “You know… there ain’t many people in this town that want to see them hang the Indian. It ain’t right. Shame that there ain’t nothing that nobody can do about it.”
I had had enough of this palaver.
“Yeah, a real shame, and enjoy the show!” I dryly said with a wave as I walked off towards Sheriff Putin’s office.
As I passed the jail I glimpsed inside. Gan was talking to Chief Kief. The coffin maker was with them measuring; as he measured I noticed him eyeing up the banditos. In fact he did not seem interested in measuring Chief Kief at all. The afterglow of the mescaline made me see a lot, but I was beginning to wonder how much of it was relevant. Was my enhanced state slowly picking up clues and placing together pieces of a puzzle? Would I suddenly see the whole picture? Or was the whole picture always out of view?

I heard Michael John and Sheriff Putin talking quietly. They were both loud enough to be heard but also quiet enough to prevent anyone from eavesdropping. I joined them. There was a certain feeling of awkwardness like when you walk in on an intimate moment between two people.
Sheriff Putin spoke to me raising his voice “It would surprise me if you were not here to ask me the same thing, so I will save you some time. No I cannot do anything about this. And no I cannot do anything about this. I am bound by the law.”
“And what if someone else did something?” I questioned.
Sheriff Putin responded without a moment’s hesitation “I doubt that you would be so hasty…”
His comment said something. I could sense it.
“Come on Whiskey. Nothing we can do here” Michael John said as he patted my shoulder.
I noticed that Michael John and Sheriff Putin exchanged a look as we left. We met Gan outside. She had tears in her eyes, but she looked strong and resolute. Gan stared at the gallows across the street making no attempt to wipe the tears from her face. It was time.

We joined the mass crowd that had formed a somewhat semi-circle that extended from one side of the street to the other. I could see Little Boy Blair on the top floor balcony of the law firm. He was sitting under some shade sipping on a drink. The fat official was next to him holding a variety of refreshments for his master. I was on the other side of the street but if I wanted to I could have shot them both down before anyone knew what had happened. I clenched my fist attempting to temper my emotions. A cool head was required. Killing Blair and the fat official would not be enough.
As if to answer my prayers the preacher spoke to me “Do not worry. God will intervene.”
I looked to my left. He was standing next to me. How long had he been there?
“I doubt it…” I voiced.
The world we live in is nothing but random chaos. I once witnessed the chaos after ingesting a very large (somewhat monster) amount of mescaline. Most of what I saw was indescribable. It would be impossible to paint the visual riches that I had perceived. Even now attempting to imagine the treasure trove of spheres of stimuli is an impossible task for my mind. My imagination cannot fathom or reconstruct the impossible. The chaos stood out amongst the rest of the potent beyond. It flowed like the wind carefully shaping and carving out the future.
It is everywhere… it is all around us. The chaos is the creation. I stared at it feeling like a god who had uncovered some great secret or source of power, but eventually I realised that it was staring back at me. The chaos was God, and I was just a result of the chaos, lost in the infinite, momentarily mistaking myself for what had awed me.
“You have seen it? Have you not?” the preacher questioned without taking his eyes of the gallows.
“What?” I replied.
I refused to believe that this lame crippled preacher could read my mind.
“Do you know that you will travel further than me?” the preacher questioned with his usual grin.
The preacher seemed to have a habit of answering questions with questions, but there was one question I had to know the answer to.
“Who are you?” I asked.
Up to now he had his complete focus on the gallows, but on asking the question he shifted his focus. He slowly turned his head to face me. Blakheart grinned as he raised his index finger in front of his mouth and shushed. The entire crowd fell silent. Had he shushed them?
I turned my head to see that the crowd now had their attention on a man who had just exited the Bank. It was the man who pulled all the strings. Little Boy Blair was one of his many puppets. Wearing an immaculate white suit and a fancy white cowboy hat was the Banker. This was our first time seeing the Banker. He was a man who worked behind the scenes, never getting his hands dirty. The Banker would always have people like Little Boy Blair to do the dirty work. Two thirds of our bounty stood before us; Little Boy Blair on the law firm’s balcony, and the Banker standing in front of the Bank.
“Do not interfere” the preacher spoke.
It was him who wrote us the letter? I did not have time to respond. The crowd pushed back and I was shuffled away from Blakheart. They were making way for two of the banditos who were bringing Chief Kief to the gallows; his headdress had been removed. He looked incomplete. I looked around trying to find the preacher but I could not see him.
“Who are you looking for?” Michael John asked.
“The preacher, did you see him?” I replied.
“No” Michael John bluntly stated.
“He wrote us the letter. I think he is up to something” I informed him.
“Like what?” Michael John questioned.
“It is starting…” Gan spoke with an air of melancholy.
She had been so quiet I did not realise she was standing beside us.
We watched on as the banditos brought Chief Kief up to the gallows. The gallows had three nooses for efficient hangings. It used a trap door system to cause the condemned’s neck to snap after a short drop. The chief had his hands bound in rope. The banditos escorted the chief up the steps and to the noose at the end. I heard Little Boy Blair shouting something and within seconds the fat official came out of the building holding some rolled up paper; a decree of death. The fat official joined the two banditos sweating as he ascended the gallows. He coughed several times to clear his chubby double-chinned throat. Then, standing tall and proud the fat official announced the decree of death. Chief Kief was charged by the law and found guilty of trespassing with a sentence of death by hanging.
There was a somewhat disgruntled discontent murmuring from the crowd as the sentence was read out. No one wanted this, but the people of the town had no say in their town. Their town was ruled by the greed whores. A few people shouted out against the hanging, but most of the townspeople stayed hushed out of fear. An eyeing up by the banditos was all it took to quiet the almost rabble.
“Any last words?” the fat official asked Chief Kief as the two banditos placed the noose around his neck.
The chief shook his head. I never understood the point of the illusion of freedom from allowing condemned men to speak last words. The Banker and Little Boy Blair both smiled. They were happy knowing that it would be a quick hanging. There would be no slowing of the proceedings.
“What are you doing?” questioned the fat official.
The two banditos and the fat official watched as the preacher slowly made his way up the gallows, rapping and tapping his cane as he walked. Chief Kief was too preoccupied with looking up to the sky and praying to notice the preacher. Two of the banditos who were in the crowd tried to stop him, but they could not make it through the thick sea of people in time. The two banditos on the gallows and the fat official did not know how to react. I saw one of the banditos going for his revolver.
“There is no need to worry!” the preacher said with a grin “I am here to give this man his last rites.”
The Banker gave an angry glare at the fat official. He wanted the hanging over as quickly as possible; for the Banker time is nothing but money, and death is merely an extension of business. The fat official looked like a lost child as he gazed up to Little Boy Blair for instructions. Little Boy Blair shrugged leaving the fat official to have to think for himself.
“Be quick!” the fat official commanded.
The preacher was now standing in front of Chief Kief. He addressed the crowd.
“Be quick?! He commands me?! I will be as quick as the law that sentenced this man to his quick death!”
The crowd began to murmur discontent once more. What was Blakheart doing? Was he trying to provoke a mob?
“You call this town a Christian town with a Christian church? But it is the one who you call Christ who said thou shalt not kill! Are we not killing a man today?” the preacher preached.
The fat official’s face went red as he attempted to argue “He has been sentenced by the law! God will judge the severity of his crime!”
“It is humans who judge humans!” shouted Michael John.
Blakheart glared at Michael John before shouting “forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us. Is this man not guilty of trespassing? If the law casts aside the word of God, then should we not cast aside those that uphold the law?”
There was a roar from the crowd. Things looked like they might turn violent. The seeds of discontent had sprouted a long time before we had arrived to this town. I felt it when we had first arrived. There were two banditos on the gallows, two nearby in the crowd, and the last two were standing near the stables watching from afar. The crowd was large; a few stray bullets would cause a lot of damage.
Little Boy Blair was shouting down to the fat official to get the preacher off the gallows. I saw the Banker give himself a facepalm; the sound of discontent must have upset him. Discontent would always invariably lead to a reduction in his profits. It was a shame that the greed whores themselves would never be content.

Chief Kief stood with the noose around his neck looking up at the pale blue sky without a care in the world; he had accepted his fate, and he was calm. The two banditos who were on the gallows had their trigger fingers not far from their revolvers; the restless crowd had stirred them so. Little Boy Blair looked down at the proceedings shouting and cursing at the fat official to take control of the situation. The Banker returned to the confines of his Bank, unsatisfied with the efficiency of the hanging. Sheriff Putin was a few metres behind us standing outside of his office taking in the whole affair. Michael John and Gan joined the crowd in shouting abuse at the fat official and the bandito deputies. I was watching not the events, but how they were unfolding. I saw the chaos and it was heading towards a final conclusion.
“You are going to have to leave. The courts have already made their decree. This is not the time for an appeal” the fat official sternly spoke.
There was no reply from the preacher.
“Get him off the gallows!” the fat official shouted at the banditos.
Almost everyone was too caught up in the converging chaos of the moment to have clearly seen what had happened, but not I. I saw it all.
One of the banditos placed both his hands onto the preacher attempting to push him.
“If the courts can decide to kill then so can God!” the preacher shouted as he unsheathed a hidden sword from his cane.
With those words the preacher had declared himself God. The bandito’s arms flew into the crowd as he screamed his last scream inaugurating the flowing of the crimson blood. Blakheart had issued his first decree of death…

TO BE CONTINUED...

Previously...

@RiskDebonair
Irish Writer, Poet, & Lover

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