Needin' Hangin'

Written April 2020

Somewhere out west, 1891

Delmore and Brent were a couple of lanky guys in their mid-30s who knew they were pretty much no-account varmints, drifting from directionless jobs in different towns and supplementing that with some minor thievery and other things their fathers would not approve of. They were riding some backtrails on a sunny day looking for something Brent saw a couple of days ago. They rode about an hour before they came upon the site. Brent hadn't told Delmore what it was, so when he saw it, it about knocked him off his horse. Out in the middle of nowhere, a few miles from the nearest house that they saw, a tree stood with a noose dangling from a low branch -– a whole gallows set-up all ready to go. “What the hell...” was all Delmore could say. There was no hangman or anyone else there, but there was a sign.

“Brent, you read that, I never did learn my letters,” Delmore said. Brent dismounted and walked to the sign, squinted, and started to read aloud.

Sometimes a man comes to realize that he needs hanging. If that's your situation, feel free to use this noose. Don't matter why, just slip the noose around your neck and swing. Be sure to make the loop snug so you don't suffer more than you have to. Mr. H. Williams will make sure your remains are handled in a respectful way.

“Who wants to do that?” Delmore said. “Most varmints I know, they's trying to run from the noose, not towards it.”

“Wait, there's a footnote,” Brent said, pointing at the second paragraph. “ 'Gentlemen, if there's one among you what could use a noose to fix his ways, you may use this gallows to do so.' “ Brent looked at Delmore with a grin after reading that line.

“Don't lookit me like that,” Delmore growled.

“I'm just jokin'.”

They both looked over the scene. The noose ran up over the foot-thick branch and back down to where the long end of the rope was tied around the trunk. Under the noose was a piece of a log a couple of feet long, stood up on end. There was a wooden platform, resting on the ground, on which the log stood. The sign was posted to the right, and to the left on the platform was a box with a label reading Clothes & Personal Effects. “Look, Del, they thought of everything,” Brent said as he pointed at a pair of handcuffs dangling from a hook sunk into the tree. Brent could see Del thought the whole thing was a damn-fool idea.

It was quiet except for occasional noises from the two horses and the breeze in the trees. The two varmints looked around, partly to make sure there wasn't any posse coming up on them, which had come to be a useful habit for them. Partly, being this close to a gallows made them both feel a bit strange.

“I'm gon' do it,” Brent said.

“Gon' do what?”

“Gon' hang.”

“What the fuck, you outta your mind?”

“Delmore, you know the shit we've done over the last few years. Maybe you don't feel anythin' 'bout it, but I ain't gonna be able to keep runnin' from it. I been thinking, it's time to pay up.” Brent was unbuttoning his shirt and when he was done he took it off and tossed it into the box. “Besides, it's a nice setup. Beats being strung up 'front of a crowd in a town somewhere with 'em jeering at ya.”

“So that's why you drug me out here,” Delmore said, “to watch you hang yourself?”

Brent had his left boot off and was taking off the right one. “A man don't wanna die alone, Del,” he said as he put the boots in the box, then even removed his hat and put it in the box. Then he started unbuckling his pants.

Delmore was pretty much beside himself. Brent shucked his dungarees, folded them so the stuff wouldn't fall out of the pockets, not that there was money in them, and put them in the box.

“OK, but why you gotta do it naked?” Del whined as Brent stuck his thumbs in the waistband of his long johns and slid them off his ass.

“Maybe someone could use these clothes, well, not these, but the other stuff,” Brent said. “I ain't gonna need 'em.” With the underwear and socks in the box, Brent was buck naked in the afternoon sunshine.

“Look, Del, you said las' night you wanted to light out for Texas. Just stay till I'm gone, and then head out. You get my horse and saddle. Do what you need to with 'em, the money'll help if you sell 'em.”

“Well, I appreciate that, Brent,” Delmore said hesitantly. He looked like he wanted to say something else, but he just sat on his horse looking resigned. They both eyed the noose.

Brent moved over to the log and put a foot up on it. “You forgetting something?” Delmore asked.

“Oh yeah,” Brent grinned and went for the handcuffs. He put one cuff on the left wrist. “Ain't had cuffs on me in a couple of years. Didn't think I'd missed 'em.”

“Once a varmint, always a varmint,” Delmore said.

“ 'Cept I'll be a dead varmint by sundown,” Brent said. He went back to the log and put a foot up on it, and Delmore could see more than he wanted to of Brent's crotch. It looked like his buddy kind of liked this process. Brent got both feet up on the log gingerly. “This ain't steady,” Brent said.

“Careful, you might hurt yerself,” Del replied.

“Wouldn't want that.” Brent got his feet spread out as much as he could to be stable, and then he was looking straight through the loop of the noose. He grasped it with both hands and slipped it over his shaggy head. When the noose cleared his chin, he adjusted it so the loop was high enough on his neck to clear his Adam's apple, then pulled the seven-turn knot close to the back of his head.

“Make sure it's snug, so's you don' suffer,” Delmore said. “Like the sign says.”

Brent pulled it again, maybe a little tighter than he needed to. The rough rope dug into the skin of his neck.

Brent stood a moment, and then decided he needed to pull on his cock and balls. “Pardon me,” he said to Delmore. Brent's equipment was pretty loose.

“Yer crossin' the line between comfort and perv,” Delmore said. Brent just grinned. Before Delmore realized it, Brent had put his hands behind his back and the second cuff clicked closed around his right wrist.

“That better?” Brent asked. But with his hands restrained solidly behind his back, Brent's cock got stiffer.

“Yer pecker seems to like this . . . yer a varmint AND a pervert,” Delmore said.

Brent looked down and blushed a little. “Yeah, I guess I might be,” he agreed sheepishly. He stood carefully on the log, no way to hide anything now. Delmore mostly looked at Brent's face, when he wasn't scouting the landscape for intruders.

“You gon' change your mind?”

“Naw … I'm good,” Brent replied. “ 'Less you wanna give me a tug, maybe.”

“It's bad luck to touch a guy's pecker when he's standin' on a gallows,” Delmore said.

“Shitbird,” Brent called him. They both chuckled.

A moment passed. “You gon' get this over with so I can make tracks 'fore sunset?”

“Yeah, I s'pose. Thanks for . . . for everything, Delmore.”

Delmore just tipped his hat.

Brent adjusted his feet so his toes were on the edge of the log. “Here goes,” he said. Then he pushed and the log easily tipped over behind him. Brent dropped, well, kinda sagged actually, and dangled from the rope, his feet a few inches off the platform. His naked body swung slightly forward and back, then a little side-to-side. Brent's head was forced down by the knot behind his head but he was just able to look up and catch Delmore's eyes. Brent tried to breathe in but only managed a gagging noise. Delmore couldn't help but see Brent's cock grow even stiffer and he recalled that some guys managed to shoot when they were hanged. He had to shift his position in the saddle, as he realized his own cock was getting uncomfortably cramped while he watched Brent hanging with almost a full hard-on.

Brent kicked a little, and his eyes got wide in surprise for a moment. Then his face relaxed again and Delmore saw that maybe his friend had passed out. Brent was still swinging, though otherwise he didn't move much. Wait – then he stiffened, and relaxed. And then a big twitch shuddered through his body. There were a couple more of those, and then Brent seemed to go still and stay that way. Soon the rope no longer swung him and the naked man dangled over the platform, dead or close enough.

Delmore removed his hat. He sidled his horse so that he could see better. Brent's pupils were dilated as he stared blankly at the ground. His eyes weren't closed but otherwise he looked like he was just asleep. This close, Del could smell Brent's sweat from his final struggle. Brent's still-fat cock dripped a little; he hadn't shot but he had gotten close.

Delmore noticed something by the sign. It was a small pad of paper with a charcoal pencil resting on it. There was a note that, as much as he could tell, read “If you want, sign your name here” and Delmore gave it a thought, then he dismounted and picked up the pencil.

Brent Harbaugh

Born 1858

Died 1891

A varmint, but not to bad a guy anyways

Delmore put the pencil down, grabbed the reins to Brent's horse, mounted his own, and, with one last look back at his dead friend, headed out across the prairie for Texas.

Brent stayed put as the sun set and dark fell over the land. In the morning Harv Williams came by and found Brent waiting for him, looking kind of pale and maybe stiff. By noon, Harv had a hole dug and soon Brent was in it, getting dirt shoveled on him. When Harv was finished, he put the cuffs back on the hook, collected all Brent's clothes in a sack, and headed back to town, leaving the gallows set up for the next guy who needed hanging.

Naked Volunteer

What do ya know, a new story!

I walked the dusty streets over to the edge of town where the gallows stood. Mr. Hartness stood leaning against a rail near the scaffold, looking through a magazine or something. The burly, older man looked up as I approached.

“ 'Afternoon,” he said.

“You doing hangin's today?” I asked, trying to look calm.

“Yep. Sheriff ain't booked me yet. Ya got someone who needs hangin'?”

I paused a second, then said “Yer lookin' at him.”

Story: Intoxication

Looky here, a new story! Writing was completed 27 May 2018, but I've been working on it since February 2018..

It's another Saturday night in the frontier town of Dinkins Creek. You drink at the saloon and have a good time, and then around closing time you head back to where you're bunking on the far side of town, boots scuffling up dust on the streets as you go. You think, “maybe I had a little more whiskey than usual, but damn it was good....” It's a little out of your way, but you take a detour to walk by the gallows on the north side of town.

Four weeks ago, they hanged a guy who raped and killed a woman. Of course the whole town turned out to watch as the sheriff, a preacher, and the hangman prepared the man and then dropped him through the trap, giving him a six-foot ride to a broken neck. The crowd started breaking up a few minutes after the drop, having seen what they wanted to see, but you and a few others stayed until the doc came out with a short ladder and his stethoscope to listen to the guy's chest. When the doc declared that death had indeed occurred, the man was lowered from the gallows and put in a pine box. Later that night, you had your beers at Dolan's saloon, where a few people were still discussing the hanging but most were not. Then you decided to walk by the gallows on your way to your bunk. When you saw the gallows that night, it looked as if nothing had ever happened. You just looked around for a few minutes, thinking about the event you'd witnessed, then moved on.

A more formal hanging

Another hanging from the nineteenth century, but one planned out in advance unlike the other photos I've posted. My guess is that the drop this gentleman took probably did not break his neck, since he only dropped three feet or so. (Wish I had more information on some of these pics, but when you get them from the Internet you can't ask for a full bibliography.)

Story: Deadman's Gulch

I had been riding since the sky was still pink down dirt roads, two-lanes, and some interstate. Usually I like riding, but not when I'm feeling like I'm running from something -– ain't no way to relax on a ride like this one. I figured I was a half a day ahead of the two thugs who're tailing me -– I don't even know their names, though I know who sent them. Half a day wasn't enough, and I figured I have to come up with something quick or I was gonna run out of road.

I stopped to gas up the hawg about sixty miles back. By then, it was late enough to be warming up. So I stripped off the jacket and t-shirt, so I was riding in just my weathered dusty leather jeans and scuffed boots. If nothing else, feeling the sun on my back and the wind against my hairy chest made me feel good. I noticed my cock had stretched out a bit after I took off the tee, snaking a little ways down my leather clad thigh, unfettered by underwear. Not hard, but it wouldn't have taken long to get it that way. No time, though, and I got back on the bike after stowing the clothes and getting a quick look at the map. Off in the blanker areas of the map was a thin gray line and a couple of dots with labels like Deadman's Gulch and Poker Ridge. I thought that might be a good spot to head towards.

I set out down the highway, took a turn and then another turn onto a smaller paved road, traveling away from the highway. The farther I went, the fewer signs of modern civilization I saw. The pavement ran out after a few miles and the dusty road twisted and turned. I had to slow the bike, both to keep it upright and to keep it from kicking up too much dust, in case the other two were closer than I thought.

Of course, that's when the bike decided it would start acting up. The engine started missing, getting choppier than usual. Made it harder to keep the throttle steady at the slow speed. Finally we chugged to the top of a low rise in the road, and that's where the bike stopped completely. I managed to steer it off to the side of the dirt path that was pretending to be a road, into a shady patch provided by some scrubby trees.

In the sudden silence, I sat on the bike, boots on the ground, just holding the bike up. I couldn't believe the engine would crap out on me now, in the middle of the fuckin' prairie with two bastards tracking me down. I tried the starter a couple of times but the engine never caught. Something with the fuel line or carb, I guessed. Something that would require tools and time to tear stuff apart. I put the kickstand down and got up to stand next to the bike.

I cursed myself mostly in my mind, though I let a couple of curses come out loud. These last few weeks had been one mishap after another. Now I was going to have to take the engine apart out here with only a few tools, and with a couple of killers on my tail. Maybe not killers, but then who knew what could happen if they caught me out here all alone on the lonesome prairie. I figured the first thing I should do is look for a hideout. I thought I remembered a ghost town was near here, Deadman's Gulch I thought.

I walked a little way down the road, around a curve, and sure enough saw a building -– a low, weathered gray shed with a bad roof. A bit further beyond that was a grassy overgrown patch of land with white markers -– the closer I got, I realized it was the town cemetery. I walked toward it into the weeds. There were short irregular rows of inscribed wooden grave markers with dates back in the 1880s and 90s. At the outer edge was a row of crosses, whitewashed and weathered, with no names on them. Seven of them. Whoever they marked were long forgotten, I guessed.

I heard crows off in the distance. The breeze picked up and rustled the tall grass. I walked on toward a larger clump of buildings that was the town itself.

I turned a corner round one of the ramshackle buildings and saw a gallows standing toward the side of a town square. "Fuck," I said to myself. I'd only seen a gallows in pictures before, always old pictures. I always thought they built gallows when they needed 'em and tore them down when the hanging was over. But maybe Deadman's Gulch was a town with a steady supply of outlaws. Still, the town had to have been abandoned for some 80 years now....

I walked a little closer to check it out. The platform was around ten feet or so high with the crossbar about eight feet or maybe less above it. Sure dominated the center of the town. The wood was weathered and the bolts and other hardware were dark with rust, but it all looked solid -– more solid than most of the houses I passed. The rope hanging from the crossbar didn't look too old or rotted either.

It took me a minute to realize how strange it was that there was a rope tied into a noose dangling from the crossbar. It was like having a loaded gun around. "Their liability insurance must be paid up," I said to myself.

I decided to climb the stairs to get a better view of this dusty old ghost town. The stairs creaked some but held under my weight. I wondered how someone with tied hands would've done with these stairs, because they were kind of steep. The platform itself was solid with only one or two creaky boards. I looked around at the town, eye-level with the second story of the bigger buildings and the roofs of the others. From up here I could just about see the road where my bike was sitting, just a glint of chrome through the trees. I walked a little closer to the front and crossed onto the part of the platform that dropped out when the hanging happens -– the footing gave a little bit but held. I decided to not press my luck and stepped back one step off the trap. I glanced up at the noose. It was a rough looking half-inch hemp rope, the knot itself a fat seven turns. It dangled at almost face-height for me.

I turned around -– and almost ran into someone. "Oh -– shit -– sorry 'bout that -– didn't see you come up...."

"No harm done." He was a tall, broad-shouldered man wearing a black duster coat, black Stetson, boots, and what I saw of his pants were dark too. His face was a little weathered, probably recently shaved, but the lines were still sharp and his eyes were dark and intense. I was surprised by the stranger's sudden appearance, and I had to say, "I was, um, just admiring the view" even though he didn't ask. He just nodded. There was silence again except for the sound of my boots on the platform as I stepped, a little nervous as I felt like I'd been caught at something.

"It's kind of strange there's a gallows here, huh? Like, I never thought of them as a permanent building, y'know?" I asked the stranger.

"Deadman's Gulch had more than it's share of desperadoes come through," the stranger said in a low, rough drawl. "This gallows got a good bit of use."

"Huh." I took a couple of steps toward the center of the platform and looked out over the center of town. "Lots of entertainment for the locals, then, on hanging day...." I trailed off wondering how the stranger would take that comment. He wasn't offended.

"The square would fill up. They'd be standing back as far as the mercantile on the right there." The stranger pointed to a two-story building a few hundred feet away.

His air of authority impressed me. "You seem pretty well-informed," I said.

He replied with a nod. "It was rough times around here. Lots of outlaws and shooters. Law enforcement had their hands full. But they got control in the end. Had to hang more than a few bad men, but they did it. You passed by where they ended up, coming up here."

I thought back to the weathered unnamed crosses in the cemetery. "Must've been something for an... an outlaw, standing up here, knowing what was coming, you know," I said, quietly.

Stranger paced a little, letting silence add to his story. "Some of 'em fought, most of 'em were resigned. A few even were relieved."

"Relieved?"

"They knew there wasn't much future in the path they were on, prob'ly figured it would end here anyway, if not in this town then in some other town. This ended up giving them whatever they couldn't get to on their own. Peace, maybe."

I just nodded. Stood looking down at the weathered wood of the platform. Felt a breeze brush past my bare chest. I suddenly remembered the two guys on their bikes somewhere behind me, looking for me, and quickly glanced out over the horizon. Nothing there but grass and scrubby trees, and my bike that wasn't running.

The stranger walked up next to me, looking at me like he was sizing me up. I looked back. His air of authority was stronger now. He looked me in the eye, his eyes piercing from under his black Stetson, like he was trying to read my mind or see into my soul.

"Why are you here?"

I kind of shrugged, and started to say something like "I don't know," but I got caught in his stare and stopped. I took a moment and when I spoke my words almost surprised me. "I guess I'm running out of places to go."

Stranger kept staring into my eyes. I could've taken him if I tried: he' was big but so was I and I could be mean sometimes. But it was as if he had me hypnotized or something. It was a long few minutes. I was getting full of both fear and, I don't know, a dark excitement.

I watched the stranger take something out of the pocket of his duster. It was a length of rope, quarter inch thick. He moved behind me and reached for my right wrist. He looped the rope around the wrist, then methodically reached for my other wrist. When he was done, my hands were bound tight behind my back. I hadn't resisted at all.

He came around to the front of me and placed his hands on my shoulders. The pressure he exerted made me walk towards him, out onto the center of the platform, next to the noose. When we stopped, he kept his hands on my beefy shoulders, then ran them down my arms, stroking them as if to calm me. I realized I had to look up at him now. By his binding my hands, my head tilted down like I was submitting to him, which I guess I already had. I looked up into his face, and he looked back.

"This is the part where other men prayed," the stranger said.

I nodded, but I was unsure -– I had been so long away from the church I wasn't sure how to pray. The stranger let me just stand silent, head down for a minute.

I knew what was coming. But I still gasped a little bit when I saw him reach for the rope. He opened the noose slightly and slipped it over my head. He slid it around to the left and tightened it so the knot was a little in front of my left ear. The rope was a little scratchy and rough, but not as bad as I would've expected. He had snugged it good and I could feel the constriction.

When he first pulled the knot tight, my dick jumped, starting to grow in the dark confines of my leather jeans. And it kept getting fatter and harder as he finished making adjustments and took a half-step back. "Fuck I didn't think it was true," I said softly.

"What's that?"

"Nothin'." I was embarrassed to say now. The stranger grinned, the only time I'd seen him break the seriousness of his face. He knew what I meant. I grinned too, and that little bit of humor actually made my pecker go down a little. I was still scared shitless, though. Wasn't sure my legs were going to hold me up. I was really aware of the rope circling my throat, waiting to snap my neck and snuff me out.

The stranger's expression became grave. "Any last words?"

I guess if you'd asked me yesterday I would've said that was the corniest line in any western movie I ever saw. I thought carefully and then said quietly, "Take care of my bike. It's been good to me."

The stranger looked at me and then nodded.

We just looked at each other, him looking somber more than just his dark clothing could've done on its own. I knew he knew I was scared -– I was shaking so I couldn't completely hide it -– but I was doing my best to take this like a man. It was way more humane than what I could've looked forward to from those two bastards who'd been chasing me since Chicago.

The stranger turned away and I heard his boots clomp across the platform behind me. Even though I knew where he was I felt totally alone, standing on the trap with my hands tied and the noose snug around my neck. Was I really going to die here, hanged like an outlaw in this ghost town? My thoughts raced in a panic. There was nothing I could to. I let the stranger tie my hands behind my back, then let him put the noose on. In a way it was like I chose this -– it was either this gallows in the midday sun, or those two thugs chasing me. Well fuck them, wherever they were. My legs shook so bad out of fear, by my nipples were hard as I felt the sun stroke my shoulders and chest for the last time, and that goddamn perverted wet spot in the crotch of my leather pants-

A noise broke the stillness of the air -– like a latch -– then the floor dropped out from under my boots.

I fell.

By instinct I wanted to grab for something but the rope held my hands tight so all I could do was drop. I think I gasped or cried out... the wind rushed by me almost like I was on my hawg only without brakes...

And then a truck hit me, centered on my neck, and everything was flooded with a brighter-than-white light.

Slowly I came to... Surprise-not dead-can still think-but I can't feel anything, it's like I'm floating...open my eyes... whitish haze around me spinning... breathe? Can't make my chest work... still spinning... see a crowd of ... naw couldn't be... town watching me... feels like I'm cumming... as I slide into the white nothingness....

*****

The stranger watched the half-naked biker dangle from the rope. His boots hung about sixteen inches above the dirt and twirled as the rope spun the dead man slowly to the right and then to the left again. The force of the stop at the end of his drop caused his leather pants to slide down, so the stranger saw all of the biker's slack belly to the top of his crotch fur. Inside those jeans, the biker had a hard cock -– they mostly do when the rope snaps their neck right, especially the way this one seemed already primed for it. Whether he shot his wad, the stranger figured he'd bury the biker with that secret. Not that he wasn't curious. Being a hangman as long as he was made him kind of a student after the novelty wore off of the process. The leather was going to hide wet spots -– the hangman had seen other guys go out with soaked jeans near their rather prominent crotch bulges. When the biker spun far enough so that the hangman had a profile view, he could see the nice bulge in those leather jeans.

Another man walked the dusty street up to the stranger. This one was shorter, younger looking, and wore faded work jeans, boots, and shirt. He stood next to the stranger looking at the dead man for a minute or two in silence.

"Another customer, huh?"

"You saw the whole thing?"

"Yep, from over there," he said nodding to a two-story building a few yards away with a window on the second floor that had a good view of the gallows.

"He was running from something, Jake. Dunno what..."

"Didn't see fit to ask, eh?" Jake said. "Give him that speech about how some folks want it to come to this?"

The stranger nodded. "I'm beginning to think that almost might be true."

A couple more minutes passed. The breeze made the biker spin slowly, then the rope twisted him back the other way. Both men knew the biker had been there long enough that he was dead for certain. The hangman went up to check anyway, walked up to the hanged man, put his ear real close to his chest to listen for a heartbeat, close enough to get a good whiff of the dead man's scent of drying sweat and leather. The hangman looked up into the biker's face, which was cocked at an angle by the noose. The eyes were open and staring blankly, and the jaw was slack as if he was in mid-breath.

"This one looks peaceful-like... like he's sleepin', almost," Jake said looking at the biker's still corpse. "How long you gonna let him hang there?"

"Long enough for you t'dig his grave, I 'spect."

Jake took that as an order and a half-minute later he headed off to get a shovel. The hangman set to thinking about where he was going to put a motorcycle.

Two days later, a pair of rough-looking men on motorcycles rode into Deadman's Gulch. They slowly steered through the outskirts into town, avoiding the puddles left from the hard overnight rain. Stopping near the center of town, they spied the gallows, standing unoccupied just as the whole town seemed empty. They cut the engines and stood, looking around, listening. "Fuckin' shit," the one on the right said. "He gets away, we're screwed." The other one just nodded.

They stayed for something like five minutes, and though they didn't get off their bikes they could tell that there was no one around. After exchanging disgusted glances, they started up and motored out to the northwest. They passed the cemetery on the edge of town, barely noticing the ragged rows of headstones and the eight weathered wooden crosses in the back. After another few minutes, the engines were far away and the only sound was the cawing of crows in the trees and the breeze blowing through the tall grass.