SONG OF THE BIRD PIPE

CHAPTER 1 Don’t stop ‘til Jesus grabs you by the hand The gallows, March, 1886, Fort Smith, Arkansas Hattie Wax stood near the front of the half-circle of gawkers who had come to watch the hanging of the young cowboy. On her right shoulder was a large parrot adorned with plumage much like the flowing dress worn by its master—greens and yellows and touches of blue, embellished by slanting rays of the rising sun, cut low, framing deep cleavage. Wild red ringlets draped the collar. On the woman’s head sat a great purple hat, cocked toward the bird, with a low brim and long ostrich feathers hanging like tiny tree branches laden with rain. Her features were ordinary—wide-set green eyes, longish nose, thin lips, yet men had stolen glances at her since she was twelve. Thin black tattoos began at the corners of her mouth and bisected her chin, but did not meet, each ending with an ornamentation that resembled a musical note. Ten steps behind her, standing alone, was the Indian called Rufus, whose dark, steely eyes swept slowly back and forth over the crowd, his head barely moving. Beside him stood a tall, wild-bearded man known only as Lucian, his huge hound sitting on its haunches at his boots. The Indian reached down with his right hand and allowed the dog to nuzzle his fingers for a moment. The hangman, Apsel Graf, stood on the gallows, awaiting the three men trudging toward the staircase. He was not a tall man, yet appeared so in his perfectly tailored black clothing, his back, ramrod stiff. A pair of Colt Model 1862 Police revolvers hung cross-draw style over his hips. Despite the morning chill of late March, he wore no hat—as was his wont—oiled hair combed straight back. He wore a full dark beard, neatly trimmed, his eyes deeply hooded under woolly brows, framed by angled lines that appeared as inscriptions in flesh. He was forty-two years in age, and for the past twelve he had been the Chief Executioner for the Western District of Arkansas. It was commonplace for pedestrians on the boardwalks of Ft. Smith to cross the street before reaching him. The stairs of the gallows creaked with the weight of the squatty, black-clad preacher—big Bible in hand—closely followed by the condemned cowboy, merely a boy in both age and demeanor, and behind him, Sheriff Josiah Colley. Colley shuffled the cowboy and the preacher into position, and then stepped back. Hangman Graf placed his left hand on the boy’s shoulder as he whispered in his ear for several seconds, and then patted gently. The cowboy had the pasty face of a sad, bewildered child who had been scolded too harshly for a minor misstep. It was when the preacher began to pray that Hattie turned her head slightly to the right and whispered. She smiled grimly as the parrot shifted its feet and spoke loudly and distinctly with the voice of a woman. “Poor boy poor boy poor boy.” The preacher stopped in mid-word. “God of mer…” Sheriff Colley and Hangman Graf stared down, and Colley shook his head, feared what might follow. The boy’s eyes did not move. The preacher said, “Have you no shame, woman? Please allow this to proceed…for the sake of the condemned…for everybody.” “This! Preacher man? Just what is this?” Those near her moved away, and some of the women murmured in agitation. “Let me tell you what this is. It’s a cryin’ damn shame is what it is. This poor boy gets a snootful and still manages to get the best of one of the most worthless son-of-a-bitches in this territory—the kind that the great judge has come to rid us of—and what does the judge do?” She turned, pointed to the open second floor window of the stone courthouse building, behind which Judge Burleigh Plume looked down, his arms akimbo. “He sends the boy to hang. And I’ll be goddamned if there’s justice in that, much less a lick of sense!” Sheriff Colley took a step forward, spoke in even tones. “Sooner or later, the judge is going hold you in contempt for disturbance.” “Well, Sheriff Colley, that’d make me and him perfect even with each other, wouldn’t it? But he don’t have the balls.” “No balls no balls no balls no balls.” She nodded her head. “Even Hector knows.” Sheriff Colley moved toward the top step. Hattie said, “Stop, I’m near done. Just gonna help the boy, since apparently the preacher ain’t havin’ much luck with his prayin’.” “Be quick about it then, and leave.” “Son, look at me.” He moved his eyes first, then his head. “You close your eyes tight and think on bein’ astride some sweet filly of a girl and you don’t stop till Jesus grabs you by the hand.” The preacher said, “Your blasphemy will send you…” “Oh, shut up.” “Shut up shut up shut up.” She turned on her boot heel and the bird’s wings fluttered as she stomped away. Sheriff Colley turned to the preacher, who nodded and said, “Well…I…uh…well, I’ve already prayed.” Colley sucked in a long breath and said to the young cowboy, “Dillingham, do you have any last words?” Dillingham, eyes clamped shut, did not speak. Hangman Graf moved quickly and drew the black hood over his head. Hattie Wax heard the explosion of noise as the trap door opened. “Ride on, cowboy…ride on.” Hector stirred but did not speak.