The Saga of Gentleman Bert

By Stan Dryer

Most outlaws like to rob the stage from Dry Gulch at the top of Dead Mule Pass. After the long haul up to the pass, the driver usually rests the team for a few minutes before starting down to Dustville. Bandits don’t have to go to the trouble of chasing the stagecoach. They just wait for it to stop, step out from behind the rocks that fill the pass and demand whatever of value the stage is carrying.

As Dead Mule Pass is in Sand County, these robberies are not my concern. My fellow sheriff, Charlie Conroy over in Dry Gulch, gets to waste his time hunting for the bandits.

Unfortunately, Gentleman Bert Scramett and his gang decided to rob the stage after it had come down from the pass into Dustville County where I would have the thankless job of administering justice.

The survivors filled me in on the hold-up. The Whippet stagecoach had just come out of the Pass when Bert and two members of his gang rode out of the sagebrush with bandanas over their faces. They pointed their guns and shouted for the stage to stop. Spike Williams, who was driving, pulled up the team. Whippet Stage’s official policy is to let the robbers have their way as they don’t want a lot of gunfire and dead bodies. If one of their employees dies on the job, Whippet has to pay for the funeral.

Willie Farrell, who was riding shotgun, was new to the game and didn’t understand the rules. He thought riding shotgun and carrying one meant he should use it. Unfortunately, his closest target was not Gentleman Bert himself but Bert’s brother Eddie. Willie gave him both barrels. Eddie catapulted off his horse, probably dead before he hit the ground.

Seeing his beloved brother instantly deceased riled up Bert a bit. He rode over and put four slugs into Farrell before he could reload. Spike, sitting next to Willie, sat real quiet with both his hands reaching skyward.

Bert shouted to his remaining partner to keep Spike covered. He loaded his brother’s body back on his horse, this time face down. Bert then headed for the back of the stagecoach where he blew the lock off the strongbox with a couple of shots. He started cursing when he saw how paltry a take there was in the box. If he had been a local hombre, he would have known the stage is robbed so often it never carries much in the way of cash.

Then Bert made the biggest mistake of his lifetime. Instead of riding off into the sagebrush, he decided to rob the passengers. There were two of them. The first was Nancy Turgis, a pretty twenty plus young woman all dressed up in her Sunday finery. She was coming back from Dry Gulch after smiling, giggling and eye-batting her way into a deal two entranced cattle buyers would regret forever. The second passenger was a traveling salesman who, by this time, was flat on the floor of the stage.

Bert pulled open the door and pointed his gun in at Nancy who was holding her oversize purse in her lap. “My dear young lady,” he said, “would you be so kind as to hand me that lovely bag you are holding. I will, of course, return it undamaged after checking its contents.” You can see how Bert got the Gentleman handle glued on the front of his moniker.

Nancy smiled her most innocent smile, reached into her bag, pulled out her favorite Colt and pointed it at Bert.

At first sight of Nancy’s hardware, Bert pulled the trigger of his revolver. All he got was a click, a poignant reminder he had forgotten to reload.

“The problem with you men,” Nancy said, “is that you don’t realize we women have figured out how to count up to six. Drop your piece, raise your hands and back out of this stagecoach. I’ll be right behind.”

“Now,” Nancy said when they were both on terra firma, “Tell you friend over there to drop his hardware on the ground.”

“Better do like she says,” Bert said.

Bert’s buddy did as he was told.

“Now vamoose,” Nancy shouted at the other bandit.

He didn’t wait. He turned his horse and headed full gallop for the sagebrush.

“Next,” Nancy said to Bert, “pull off that bandana.”

Bert was happy to do so. He likely figured his ugly face would scare her into handing him her gun. That was not the case.

“Well, well, Gentleman Bert in the flesh,” Nancy said. “You’re even uglier than your picture on the wanted poster.”

Bert was probably starting to reckon Nancy was serious about handing him over to the law with a noose and a dropping trap door in the offing.

“I have a thousand dollars in silver in my saddlebag,” Bert said. “It’s yours. I get on my horse and ride away. You and I forget what happened here.”

 “Refresh my memory,” Nancy said. “Is the amount of reward money I saw on your poster one or four thousand dollars?”

“Four thousand,” Bert said. “I’m not some two-bit thousand-dollar outlaw.”

“Four thousand,” Nancy said, pensive like.

 Along about then, Bert must have figured out exactly what Nancy was saying about picking the best deal. So he made a run for his horse, assuming a sweet young thing in a pretty frock wouldn’t have the nerve to shoot him.

He was wrong. Nancy plugged him in the foot. He took a tumble and ended face-down on the ground.

Nancy strolled over and put her dainty foot in the middle of Bert’s back. “Stay right there,” she said. “If you try another skedaddle, I won’t waste a round just wounding you.”

“Find some rope,” she shouted up to Spike on the driver’s seat.

They trussed up Bert like a calf ready for gelding and dumped him on one of the stage seats.

“Now,” she said to Spike and the traveling salesman, “put Willie’s body on the floor in the stage. I’d help out, but I don’t want to get my best Sunday dress all bloody.”

When the stagecoach pulled up in front of my office instead of the Lazy Mañana, I figured something must have gone wrong. When I saw the two horses tied behind with a body draped over one of them, I knew it was going to be a busy afternoon.

The stagecoach door opened and out jumped Nancy, all dressed up in her best Sunday frock. That seemed a bit unusual, seeing as she usually dresses like a cowhand, proper duds for a twenty-plus year old who runs a cattle spread.

“What in tarnation is going on?” I said.

“You can take down that poster of Gentleman Bert,” Nancy said. “Come see the presents I’ve got for you.”

I looked into the stagecoach. The hombre squirming and cursing on one seat was definitely Gentleman Bert. The body on the floor was a very dead Willie Farrell.

“That language you’re spouting ain’t helping your reputation as a gentleman,” I said to Bert.

“She shot me in the foot. Get a doctor to fix it. I’m bleeding to death,” Bert shouted.

I didn’t see much blood on the seat under Bert’s foot. “No rush,” I said to Bert, “but I’ll have someone go sober up Doc.”

I turned to Nancy. “Is Bert here all trussed up cause he brought on Willie’s trip to the hereafter?”

“Yes,” Nancy said, “shot him down in cold blood.”

“And the body on the horse?” I said.

“Bert’s brother, Eddie.”

At that point, Spike Williams, who had been driving the stage climbed down from the driver’s seat along with a gentleman wearing a dusty city suit. “Who in blazes are you?” I asked the latter.

“Botterly’s the name. I am the sales Representative for Truesilk Lace and Accessories, here to provide your women folk with an opportunity to purchase items of feminine adornment.”

“That’s lovely,” I said. “Now will the lot of you explain to me exactly what happened to cause all the carnage?”

Which they did.

I began to envision my busy days ahead. There would be a trial which would involve a herd of unruly spectators eager to see justice triumph and hopefully the hanging of a famous outlaw. Between these events, they’d spend their leisure drinking, fighting and hopefully only shooting up inanimate objects.

“Why didn’t you save us all a lot of trouble and shoot Bert dead when he ran?” I said to Nancy.

“I couldn’t remember whether or not it said Dead or Alive on the reward poster.”

“You’re one greedy rancher,” I said, “putting the chance to make a few greenbacks before performing a simple act to reduce the burden on our justice system.”

Nancy smiled a little satisfied grin. “Think of the positive side,” she said. “Having the trial here may finally put Dustville on the map.”

I had a sudden idea that might wipe that little grin off her face. “I’m going to deputize you,” I said.

“Me? Absolutely not.”

“If you reckon on collecting that reward, I’m going to need you as my deputy.”

“Why me? You’ve got a dozen men here in town who’d be happy to help see Bert swing.”

“Remember the time they captured Bert over in Barren Flats? His heartbroken mother showed up to comfort him in his final hours and smuggled him a gun in her bosom.”

“So I get to shake down the mother for weaponry when she shows up?”

“Exactly.”

“You’re one conniving bastard. Where’s the darned badge?”

Botterly now smiled at me and said, “Where might I find what passes for lodgings in your fair city?”

“Best and only place,” I said, pointing down the street at the Lazy Mañana.

After he pulled down his suitcase and sample case from the top of the stage, Botterly went over to my office and took a long look at Bert’s wanted poster which was pasted up by the door. Then he turned and trudged slowly down to our saloon and hotel.

Kalegg, our town mortician and barber, now ranged into view. Bring a dead body into town, and Kalegg shows up before the flies.        

“How many?” were his first words.

“Sorry,” only a couple,” I said, “but with any luck you’ll get to tidy up Gentleman Bert after the hanging.”

Kalegg took a peek into the stagecoach. “Oh, my,” he said, an unctuous smile creasing his face. A famous outlaw might mean a nice markup on a mahogany coffin shipped in from St. Louis.

“Was Willie riding shotgun?” he asked.

“Yes.”

Kalegg’s smile broadened. Whippet Stage would foot the bill for planting Willie, albeit only pay for the twenty-dollar job.

“And who is the other deceased?” the mortician asked.

“Bert’s brother, Eddie. Their mother will probably want him done up proper.”

“Mother Scramett?” Kalegg frowned. Word about her must have gotten round. Rumor had it she was what you’d get if you crossed a rattler with a rabid bobcat.

“Cheer up,” I said. “She’s probably sitting on the stash from a dozen stage jobs and will be able to pay for her boys to go first class to the great up yonder.”

“Well let me get the hearse and take away the sad remains.”

Kalegg took the bodies off to the back room of his barber shop which passes for our mortuary. We installed Bert in our best cell. Doc came, gave Bert a piece of leather to bite down on while he extracted the bullet from his foot. The leather may not have eased Bert’s pain but it eased mine considerable, seeing as it muffled most of his screaming.

I told Nancy she could head back to her spread but to show up to play deputy bright the next morning.

I figured Mother Scramett would be heading our way soon as she got the bad news about her offspring. Sure enough, shortly before noon the next day a buckboard pulled up in front of my office with a huge piece of a woman behind the reins and a flabby young man by her side, obviously the runt of her litter.

The woman turned to the runt. “Leonard, you wait right here and watch them horses. Try to act like a man. You hearing me?” As a memory aid, she cuffed him solidly on the side of his head.

She then eased off the wagon seat and headed for where Nancy and I were sitting in front of the office. She was a bit shy of six feet bonnet-to-toe with plenty of padding in between and lots of fire in her eyes. “Where are my boys?” she demanded.

“Bert’s all well and safe inside here,” I said. “Eddie’s resting right peaceful in the mortuary behind the barber shop.”

“I need to talk to my boy, Bertram. There’s been some mistake.”

She headed for the door but I held up my hand. “We’re holding Bert for trial,” I said, “and we want to make sure he don’t get hold of some hardware and damage himself. Nancy here will check you out, just in case you might have forgotten to leave all your dangerous tools behind.”

Mother Scramett glared at Nancy who smiled back and pointed towards the door. “It will just take a minute. Sheriff here thought it best be a woman-to-woman thing.”

Five minutes later, Nancy opened the door and nodded me inside. There was Mother Scramett looking a shade cowed nursing what looked like a sprained finger. “Any trouble?” I said.

“Not really,” Nancy said, “once we all understood who was in charge.”

“Find anything interesting?” I said.

Nancy nodded towards my desk whereon reposed a revolver, a derringer and a knife definitely not meant for slicing bread. “And her hat pin,” Nancy said.

“I wouldn’t have thought of that,” I said.

“Woman thing. We can do nasty things with a hat pin.”

“Now can I see my boy?” said Mother Scramett.

We all headed back to the cells where the worried mother confronted her errant son through the bars. Bert didn’t even have time for a howdy Ma before she let loose a string of obscenities interspersed with an occasional more productive word. The theme of her diatribe was how much trouble a youth could get into by not following his mother’s advice. The message: Always stop to reload an empty revolver.

When Mother Scramett got tired of pointing out the many flaws in sonny boy’s approach to banditry, she headed back to my office and got all business-like. “Now,” she said, “who do I see about arranging bail?”

“That would be Judge Framberson,” I said. “He’s due here for the trial most any day now.” I didn’t mention that the only known time the Judge had allowed bail was when his brother-in-law got caught in a land swindle and needed to get away for a long sojourn in Mexico. I also didn’t use the Judge’s more familiar label, Old Quickrope.

My answer didn’t exactly please mom. She muttered some vilifications of the Judge and headed off to the barber shop to work a deal with Kalegg for preserving Eddie from decay.

Pretty quick, the town started filling up with the curious, the ghoulish and the greedy. Carlos, over at the Lazy Mañana, kicked the girls out of the upstairs and started renting the rooms for two dollars a night. It was much less than one of his young ladies would make on a typical night, but he got to keep the whole two dollars.

Whippet Stage started running three stagecoaches a day over from the railroad. I always met each stage to explain to anyone wearing hand weaponry they would be able to enjoy the delights of Dustville best if not burdened with the heavy weight of a revolver.

Two days after Bert’s arrival, two gentlemen stepped down from the stage. The first wore a long overcoat and a hard expression. The second wore a suit with a green shimmer to it plus an undented derby. They headed for where I was standing and didn’t hesitate to introduce themselves.

“Private Investigator Watkins with the Tornado Express Company,” said the long overcoat, handing me his card. He opened his coat to reveal a shoulder holster full of menacing metal. “Mind if I keep my weapon?”

I checked out the card and nodded, mostly because his ever-searching cat-eyes told me he was definitely a detective.

The derby hat now stepped forward and offered me a large advertising card. “Filbert J. Filbee at your service,” was his opening bid. “I possess no weaponry, relying only upon my wits to survive.”

The card was for Filbee’s Emporium of Western Curiosities, an enterprise located in St. Louis. The back of the card listed a few of the more esoteric items on view therein, including a two headed rattlesnake, Custer’s scalp and more items of a similar ilk.

“We would like to have a quick palaver with Gentleman Bert,” said the detective.

I escorted the pair back to Bert’s cell. Watkins chat was short and sweet. He suggested that, if Bert were to return all of his ill-gotten gains to their rightful owners, a judge might be inclined to hand Bert a more lenient sentence. Bert rejected this charitable offer with a barrage of profanity.

Filbert J. Filbee had more success in catching Bert’s attention.

“Although our justice system on most occasions reaches a fair and equitable decision as to one’s innocence or guilt, errors occasionally do occur,” was his opening line.

“You telling me I might get hanged?”

“Unfortunately, yes. However, there is no reason you could not go on living forever in the memories of the citizens of our fair nation.”

“What in blazes do you mean by that?”

“I am the owner of an emporium filled with objects that display to the populace the grandeur of the past. I am, of course, willing to pay well for the acquisition of such memorabilia.”

“What in tarnation are you talking about? Spout it out in straight English.”

“I am talking about your mortal remains beautifully restored, preserved and resplendent in a casket worthy of your reputation. Hundreds, nay thousands, will view your corporeal presence and read your short but pithy epitaph, one which will extoll the more positive aspects of your life without mention of the few unfortunate incidents that might despoil your reputation.”

“You’re saying if I’m hanged, you want to buy my dead body and put it in your museum?”

“Succinctly put, my good fellow. Yes, that is what I propose.”

“How much are we talking about?”

“Four hundred dollars recompense to your mother. It will, I regret, be little compensation for her grief, but still a sum which will assuage her fears of pecuniary depravation during her time of mourning and beyond. I will, of course, assume full financial responsibility for the preservation of your mortal remains and a casket worthy of your reputation.”

“Well, I’ve got to talk it over with Ma. She likes to plant family members together out back in the cottonwood grove.”

“Of course, of course. A mother’s wishes are of much import in situations such as this.”

I missed the next episode in Gentleman Bert’s saga, but was filled in by several witnesses.

  The detective and Filbee were seated at a table in the Lazy Mañana having a quiet drink when Mother Scramett ambled in with her youngest and strode over to Carlos at the bar.

“I want to pay for two more nights of my room,” she said, placing four silver dollars on the bar.

The detective and Filbee now moseyed over. Before Carlos could collect the silver dollars, the detective placed his hand upon them. “Sorry,” he said to Carlos, “those actually belong to the First National Bank of Dismal Flats.”

Mother Scramett glared at the detective. “Who the devil are you?” she demanded. “You can’t take my money.”

“Actually I can.” He reached into his pocket, extracted a single silver dollar and placed it on the bar. “Observe the dates. These are all newly minted dollars that were on their way to Dismal Flats when the stage carrying them was robbed. We found most of them under your dung heap. Bert should probably not have left them in the Tornado Express bag, thus verifying their origin.”

Mother Scramett seemed at a loss for profane words. “How in blazes did you find them?” she gasped out.

“Sammy, your colored yardman, showed us. Once we convinced him he was no longer a slave and explained about the reward, he was most helpful in showing us where he had buried the loot for Bert. An episode illustrating the maxim, If you want a job done right, do it yourself.”

“Guess I’ll have to find someone else for the room,” Carlos broke in.

Before the woman could speak, Filbee leaned over and deposited a couple of greenbacks on the bar. “That should suffice as recompense for the room and any incidental expenses,” he said.

He turned to Mother Scramett. “I would not wish a woman of your obvious genteel nature having to sleep in your wagon.”

Mother Scramett smiled at him. “At last another gentleman in this town, besides my son.”

“Filbert J. Filbee at your service. I think we may be able to make an arrangement of mutual pecuniary profitability.”

Suspicion replaced the smile on Mother Scramett’s face. “I don’t need any profit. I can pay my own way.”

The detective broke in. “If you’re referring to the box of silver dollars that was under the seat of your buckboard, we confiscated it this morning.”

This bit of information produced a torrent of abuse from Mother Scramett After that dissipated, Filbee smiled and said to her, “Why don’t you and I make our way over to the jail and hold a short consultation with your son? He feels you should be cognizant of a proposal I have discussed with him.”

I witnessed that little interview. Mother and son shouted a lot, a duet of harmonious obscenity. Filbee filled the voids with soothing prose, promising he would cover mother and son’s expenses while in Dustville, whatever the outcome of the trial. He knew he would win out in the end, being the only one around with ready cash.

Eventually mom came round. Filbee produced contracts, which mother and son dutifully signed. Everyone could now rest easy, except perhaps for Bert.

#    #    #

The next day, Judge Framberson trotted into town on a large white horse, all dressed up in rich rancher garb complete with a black cravat. He was a big man with greying hair with a bit of rheumatism which showed as he eased down from his saddle.

I shook his hand and introduced myself.

“Sheriff,” he said, “Where can I put up in this godforsaken town?”

“I’ve got a room for you with Widow Caldwell, right up at the quiet end of town but handy to the courthouse. Jason, here, will show you the way and take care of stabling your horse.”

“Excellent,” said the Judge. “Have someone bring round my bags when they arrive. They’re on the wagon with the gallows.”

“Gallows?” I said.

“Yes, the portable gallows, an invention of mine. I got tired of the shoddy workmanship of local carpenters. I’ve had crossbars break under the weight of the body. Once the steps collapsed and injured the condemned so he had to endure the humility of being carried the rest of the way to his trip to the hereafter.”

“You want me to get some men and set up your gallows?” I said.

The Judge frowned. “Certainly not. Setting up the gallows before the trial would give the impression of a predetermined verdict. We must maintain the belief a man is innocent until proved guilty. That is the basis of our entire justice system.”

I had heard Framberson was something of a judicial philosopher, but listening to him spout it out first-hand was real educating.

“We’ll put the wagon out behind the livery stable with a guard on it and where no one will see it,” I said. Of course, I knew every citizen of Dustville over the age of five would have had a gander at it before sunset.

The Judge started up the street but was stopped dead by the appearance of Mother Scramett in his path. “You the judge?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“I want to get bail for my son Bert.”

The Judge smiled dismissively. ”Why does he need bail? The trial will be over in a couple of days at most. Then you can have either the live Bert or his remains to do with as you please.” He turned and continued up the street under a fading barrage of profanity.

Not one to waste time badly spent in a one-saloon town, the Judge fired up the trial the next day. The big meeting hall in the courthouse was packed, every seat taken and a lot standing as well. We’d found a big desk for the Judge to sit behind and had twelve chairs lined up for the jury. We sat the cleanest looking of the men who had volunteered for jury duty up front where His Honor could do his picking.

As Dustville County’s representative of law and order, I got to do the prosecuting. Filbee had rounded up a lawyer from Kansas City for Bert’s defense. He’d showed up the night before, in his city-slicker sartorial splendor. He hunted down the Judge and demanded a week’s delay for the trial so he could nosy out the facts of the case beforehand. “That’s what the trial’s for,” was the Judge’s reply. “To find out the facts of the case. Request denied.”

When all parties were assembled, Framberson strolled in from the door behind the desk, all fancied up in a slightly wrinkled black robe.

“All rise!” shouted Nancy who had assumed the role of Court Clerk, no one else wanting the job. She’d read enough about trials in the Kansas City newspaper she takes to be able to spout out some pretty good courtroom lingo.

Everyone stood up. The Judge motioned everyone to sit down.

Nancy continued. “The Court of the County of Dustville is now in session, the honorable, judicious, fair-minded and renowned Judge Erasmus Framberson presiding. We shall commence with the case of The County of Dustville versus Bertram Scramett.”

Framberson smiled over at Nancy. I reckoned he wasn’t used to getting such a full-blown pedigree laid out for free.

Jury selection came first. I’d figured the Judge would just point at the men he wanted in the jury, picking the least hung-over ones. Instead, he questioned the candidates one by one as to whether they had already made up their minds about Bert needing a hanging.

 In most cases, this questioning was short and sweet. The judge would ask a jury candidate if he had any preformed opinion about Bert being guilty. The candidate would say no. The judge would tell him to take his seat in the jury box.

Only Snaky Carlson, got rejected. When Framberson asked him if he might be prejudiced, Snaky came out straight and honest. “Maybe so, Judge, seeing as Bert killed my brother in a shootout.”

The judge cogitated for a bit then said, “I’m going to have to recuse you from jury duty. You might still be a bit too aggrieved about Bert doing in your brother to give him a fair shake. However, if there’s a hanging, we’ll be looking for a hangman. If doing that might help sooth your feelings over the loss of your brother, the job is yours.”

Snaky smiled. “That’s mighty generous of you, Judge.”

The jury all selected, the trial began. I called up Spike as my first witness. Fortunately he still had on the shirt he’d been wearing when driving the stage. I had him go through the events of the attempted robbery then ended up with a bit I thought might concentrate the jurors’ wandering minds.

“Is it not true,” I said, “that you were so close to the victim that his blood spattered on your shirt?”

“Take a look,” was the reply I wanted. Spike spread his arms wide displaying the black spots of dried blood. A satisfied murmur came forth from the ghouls in the audience.

Spike was about to step down from the witness chair, when Bert’s lawyer spoke up. “I would like to cross examine the witness.”

“You’d like to do what?” said the Judge.

“Cross-examine the witness. What we do in trials in Kansas City. See if the witness’s testimony is valid.”

“You say you think Spike here is lying when he says he was one foot away from the victim and got spattered with his blood?” said the Judge.

“Memory sometimes plays tricks on us all.”

“More likely it’s a certain lawyer who is playing tricks but go ahead. Just keep it short.”

The lawyer approached the witness chair and addressed Spike. “When Gentleman Bert shot Mr. Farrell, would you say his emotions were under control?”

Spike looked over at the Judge. “How in the blazes am I supposed to answer that?”

“Got me,” said Framberson. “I think he’s asking how angry Bert was when he shot Willie.”

“He was plenty riled up. I was sitting there with my arms sky-high, hoping he wouldn’t wing me with a wild shot.”

The lawyer smiled, likely thinking he’d made a clever move. “So you might say that under the emotional state engendered by the death of his brother, Bert’s actions were not those of a cold blooded killer?”

Before Spike could answer, Bert was on his feet. “Is he trying to say I’m not a cold blooded killer?” he demanded.

The Judge pointed a long legal finger at Bert. “No one’s saying that,” he said. “Sit down. If you interrupt the proceedings of this court again, your sorry ass goes back in the hoosegow.”

Bert sat down.

“Now,” the judge said, “enough of this foolishness. Next witness.”

Nancy came next. I had her describe the events as they happened. She’d had a good view out the stage window of Bert as he fired at Willie.

Bert’s lawyer made another feeble attempt to defend his client. “Now Miss. Turgis,” he said, “You admit to carrying a concealed weapon in your handbag?”

Nancy looked at him as if he were a scorpion in need of a boot heel. “Yes,” she said. “But it’s not really concealed. Everyone in town knows I’ve got it in there.”

That remark got a good laugh from the audience.

“But Bert didn’t know that, did he?”

“He found out soon enough.” Another ripple of laughter ran through the crowd.

“Do you understand there is a law in this state forbidding the carrying of concealed weapons?” Now I savvied where the law-slinger was headed. He was going to claim Nancy made an illegal arrest.

Nancy looked over at the Judge. “Is there that kind of a law?”

“Maybe up in the capital there’s a big city law like that, but there ain’t one here.” His Honor lifted one of his legs up on the desk, reached down, pulled a derringer out of his boot and held it up for all to see. That little gesture got the best laugh of the day.

Bert’s lawyer shook his head sadly. “No further questions,” he said.

“You got any witnesses for the defense?” the Judge asked the lawyer.

“No. I would have liked to present some witnesses to attest to my client’s good character, but I have had no time to find such persons.”

I could have told him time was not his problem. He could have looked for ten years without finding any hombre in Dustville County who’d do that kind of attesting.

The Judge turned to the jury. “Seeing as there are no more witnesses, you can start deliberating. As first degree murder is a hanging offense, think it over careful. But try not to waste time kicking around foolish ideas like compassion. If you move quick enough, we can finish up this afternoon.”

The jury moved quickly enough. They were back with a verdict in a half hour. They passed a folded piece of paper to Nancy who passed it over to the Judge.

Framberson must like to play the suspense card real slow and sweet as he took his time finding his specks, polishing them carefully with the edge of his robe and finally slipping them on his nose.

“We the jury,” he finally read aloud, “find the defendant, Bert Scramett, guilty as charged.”

A vast sigh of pleasure sufficed the audience. They were going to get to see a real live hanging.

The Judge told Bert to stand up then cleared his throat and put on his best solemn face.

“Bertram Scramett, you have been convicted by a jury of your peers for the crime of murder in the first degree. It is my solemn duty under the laws of our illustrious State to pronounce sentence for this crime. You shall be brought to the gallows tomorrow morning and hanged by the neck until dead.”

Whatever you think of Framberson as a judge, he is one genius of an inventor. Old Frackerly, our local carpenter and the wagon driver had the whole portable gallows put together in less than three hours. There it stood, classing up the town square, complete with its pre-knotted noose.

The Judge had scheduled the hanging for early the next morning, probably reckoning on getting started for home that afternoon. I roused up Bert and escorted him out to the town square. The entire town was there, plus probably a couple of hundred more from miles around.

As we approached the crowd, Bert stopped and pointed at a tent sitting at the side of the square. “What’s that?”

“It belongs to that photography fellow,” I said. “See his camera box thing set up pointing at the gallows.”

“He’s going to take my picture?”

“Yep. Before and after.”

“What’s he going to do with them pictures?”

“Oh, he’ll make copies and sell them. People like to collect that kind of picture. Also he’ll probably sell a copy to Harper’s Weekly. They’ll print a drawing of it.”

Bert smiled. “That should get my name spread around plenty.”

“Every state in the Union,” I said.

Bert now pointed over to where Botterly had set up a little table around which a crowd had gathered. “What’s that yellow-bellied salesman up to?” he asked.

“He had some copies of your wanted poster printed up by that printer in Barren Flats. He’s selling them as souvenirs for a quarter each.”

“Is that the latest poster, the one that says: Should be assumed armed and dangerous?”

“Yes.”

Bert’s smile broadened.

We pushed our way through the crowd and up the stairs to the drop-off point for Bert’s trip down the trail to Kingdom Come. The hangman wore a black hood, but everyone knew it was Snaky. The only other person on the gallows platform was the Judge. “Well, Bert,” he said, “the time has come for you to meet your Maker. Do you have any last words for those assembled at this solemn moment?”

Bert looked out at the crowd and spoke, loud and clear. “If I had listened to my mother’s advice, I wouldn’t be up here today.”

Mother Scramett dissolved in tears. Murmurs of sympathy ran through the crowd. “So beautiful.” “Words she’ll remember forever.”

“Let’s get on with it,” said the judge. He nodded to Snaky who placed a black hood over Bert’s head and tied his hands behind his back. He then led Bert over to the trap door and tightened the noose around his neck. Everyone said afterward they were surprised how professional-like he did it, seeing as he would have had trouble roping a stump from a standing horse.

The Judge paused, letting mothers have time to hold up their babies for a better view and giving the photographer time to take a pre-hanging shot. Then he nodded his head and Snaky popped the trap door. It worked just like it was supposed to. Bert hardly twitched at all.

It was over a week before things got back to normal in Dustville. Old Quickrope had the portable gallows taken down right after the hanging and carted off to his next trial. He left that afternoon.

Kalegg had to wait a few days for Bert’s and Eddie’s fancy caskets to come from St. Louis. As soon as the two boys were suitably enshrined, Mother Scramett had Eddie loaded into her buckboard. She leaned over the remaining casket and kissed Bert’s silent face. “Don’t you worry, son,” she said. “You’ll be home again soon.”

Filbee had hired a wagon and driver to haul Bert to the railroad. When he ambled into my office the next morning, I figured he’d come to say goodbye.

“Sheriff,” he said, “would you be willing to drive the wagon with Bert’s remains to the railroad? I’ll pay you for the job.”

“What’s wrong with Slouch?” I said. “He’s one of the best drivers in town.”

“I’m thinking there might be trouble,” said Filbee. “I didn’t like that home again soon bit Mother Scramett spouted.”

“So?”

“I think she and that runt son of hers are planning to hijack Bert on the way over to the railroad.”

I mulled over that idea a bit. I had to admit her parting comments boded trouble. “You’ve got a driver,” I said.

The first twenty miles went along plenty peaceful. When we hit the alkali flats and slowed to keep the dust down, things got more exciting. Out of a distant arroyo came three riders followed by someone driving a buckboard. As they came closer, I saw who they were. Out in front was Nancy Turgis. Next came her young brother Ben. Both of them had their hands tied to their saddle horns. The last of the trio was Mother Scramett who held a rifle pointed at Ben. Following them was Leonard driving a buckboard. They pulled up thirty feet from where I had stopped the wagon.

“How in blazes did this happen?” I called to Nancy.

“She grabbed Ben when he was out doing his chores early this morning. Threatened to kill him if I didn’t cooperate.”

“You two shut your mouths,” shouted Mother Scramett. “I’m here to take my boy home. He’s been treated most cruel by a harsh and unjust world. I want him back where he can rest peaceful-like next to his pa in the soil where he were born. I’ll trade your deputy here and her boy for that casket with my boy.”

I did not like what I was seeing. “Well, Mother Scramett,” I said, “I don’t think you thought out all the consequences of your little plan.”

“How’s that? It’s just a simple trade and we’ll be on our way.”

“What you’ve done is like poking a stick at a cub in front of a mother grisly. You don’t know my deputy Nancy. She’s plenty riled up over your threatening her brother. And it ain’t a riling that’s going away in a day or two. Right, Nancy?”

Nancy said nothing but you could see cold hatred haunting her eyes.

We all sat there quiet, realizing there didn’t seem any way out that didn’t include considerable bloodletting.

Then Filbee spoke up. “My dear Mrs. Scramett, I am sadly disappointed a woman of your God-fearing and honest nature would betray your own son only hours from his journey to his final judgement.”

“What do you mean betray?”

“As I recollect, it was your son’s final desire that his mortal remains be displayed to the populace to ensure the perpetuation of the legend of his earthly accomplishments. You now wish to subvert that simple request.”

“I don’t care. I want my boy as close to me in death as in life.”

“Ah,” replied Filbee, “perhaps there is a solution of mutual advantage for both of us, one that encompasses your honest desire as well as fulfilling Bert’s last wish.”

“How’s that?”

I am creating the Filbee Cavalcade of the Old West, a traveling extravaganza featuring Indians, bull riding and a couple of shootouts. I was planning a stagecoach robbery, but that’s in every other wild-west show. This is much, much better.”

“What’s much better?”

“I wish to recreate what’s just happened here. The loving mother willing to risk her life to see her son buried in the soil of home. You would speak the same moving words you uttered when you first appeared on the scene but moments ago.”

“I would speak?”

“Yes. I wish to employ you to play yourself. You would be the real mother of a real but misunderstood gentleman, driven by fate to a life beyond the pale of the law.”

 “What’s it gunna pay?”

Filbee smiled. Mother Scramett was now roped and hobbled. “I would be pleased to offer you a recompense of fifteen dollars a week plus all your living expenses.”

“Can my son Leonard come with me?”

“Definitely. I have employment for him as well.”

I cleared my throat. “While what you propose doesn’t involve the actual trading of Nancy and Ben for the remains of Gentleman Bert, that fact would not, I expect, reduce my deputy’s ire.”

I looked over at Nancy. She nodded.

Filbee smiled. “If I am not mistaken, Miss Nancy is in your employ as a representative of the law enforcement organization you supervise. Thus this little encounter could be viewed as being part of her job assignment, an unfortunate but real part of her work. As a professional, she should not be brooking acts of vengeance against those individuals she encounters in the course of her professional work. You can, as her supervisor, insist she understand she is proscribed from actions by the ethics delineating the practices of law enforcement.”

Nancy turned her icy eyes onto Filbee and was probably about to say something unfortunate.

“Nancy,” I said quickly, “Filbee makes a lot of sense. Let us remember, as we are the only law in Dustville, we should look right professional.”

“Your palaver is as bad as Filbee’s,” Nancy said, “But I’ll buy what you’re jawing.”

Leonard got out of the buckboard and went over and untied Ben’s and Nancy’s hands.

As soon as she was freed, Nancy rode over close to the wagon, took off her badge and tossed it over to me. Then she turned to Mother Scramett and said, “I’m now a private citizen. I suggest it would be unfortunate if you ever showed your ugly face in Dustville again.”

I’ve never seen Filbee’s Cavalcade, but I got a full description from Botterly who dropped into my office during a sales trip to Dustville a month later.

“I have some interesting news,” he said. “I attended a performance of Filbee’s Extravaganza when I was in Chicago.”

 “How did it go? Did they do the whole coffin robbery bit?”

“Oh, yes. Mother Scramett banged out her lines like an old trouper, engendering generous applause, but Leonard was the big surprise.”

“Surprise?”

“The boy has a natural thespian bent. He plays the part of a youth filled with the desire to become a gunfighter and prove to his mother he’s a real man. In his scenario, he puts on his deceased father’s gun and comes to town to confront a seasoned gunslinger. The gunfighter at first refuses to be baited into a confrontation, but when Leonard calls him a coward, it gets his ire up.”

“They fight it out?”

“Yes. Young Leonard gets gunned down but plays the dying scene out like a pro. He grabs his chest and bursts a bag of ketchup he has under his shirt. He staggers around a bit and finally falls, ending face up. A young woman runs in and throws herself upon his body with a lot of moaning, weeping and face kissing.”

“Sounds like Leonard has found his calling,”

 “The nicest touch is at the end. Two men come along in a wagon, unload a pine coffin, place Leonard in, load it into the wagon and carry him off to Boot Hill. The gunslinger replaces his spent bullet and moseys back into the saloon with a shrug.”

 “How did the audience react?”

“Not a dry eye in the house, but not a lot of applause. All the mothers in the audience were thinking about having little chats with their boys.”

I thought that one over. “You know,” I said, “Filbee has probably saved Leonard’s life.”