Art was still furious, but the thought of exacting his revenge on Eric did his heart good. He could already see the look of desperation in Eric’s eyes as he kicked and squirmed. Searching for a foothold that didn’t exist as the life was slowly squeezed from his body.

It had been a while since they’d had a good hangin’ and this time, he was even more eager than usual. Sure, it was good entertainment for the camp, whenever it came around -- and it did. It was all but inevitable. Out here where the law was scarce it was taken as a given that eventually someone would see the opportunity to exploit the lack of law keepers.

It didn’t take long for a fool with delusions of grandeur to pull something severe enough to require a public show of authority. They didn’t consider death by hanging as an excessive show of force. To their eyes, it was necessary to display just how serious the consequences of breaking the law were. They did what was required to keep everyone in line.

It was something of an event, kind of like a barn raising or town dance. It served the dual purpose of providing a little excitement for the bored and weary workers. While also acting as a deterrent for would be criminals. As much as Art enjoyed them, regardless of who it was, this time it was personal and he would be that much more invested, and therefore, satisfied when the hanging took place. He tried to think of the last time he was this excited.

He seriously mulled it over for a time, but nothing came to mind. He shrugged and settled back into the fantasy of Eric at the gallows. He imagined Eric crying and sniveling like a baby. Begging them to let him go. There was always someone who cried, or begged, or claimed to be innocent. It didn’t matter. Whether they decided to break down before the lever was pulled or they said nothing at all. In the end, they all ended up just as dead.

Some said it was a grim duty. One that brought them no pleasure. One that weighed heavily on their shoulders and burdened their souls, but Art never bought into that pile of rubbish. What burden was there for taking out the trash? Good riddance. As far as he was concerned, Art was providing a public service and he took pride in that. There would never come a day, when some bleeding-heart pansy would convince him to feel sorry for doing what needed to be done.

They could tell their sob story; they could scream at the top of their lungs that they were innocent. But when the judges hammer came down, Art was the executioner and he carried out his duty without fail, and without complaint. And since he considered himself an optimistic man at heart, he went the extra mile and took pleasure in his work. Rather than just completing it by rote.

As he’d seen time and again, life was too short. Especially for low-life criminals. One had to take every opportunity for enjoyment and leisure they could possibly acquire. Just then, Brooks entered the room, interrupting Art’s peaceful reverie. He might have been upset, except that Brooks had arrived with the promised smoke and drink.

Despite the circumstances, Art’s optimism shone through again and he decided that he would never live to see the day when he complained about a good cigar or a nice glass of whiskey, regardless of the situation. Brooks handed him the cigar and struck a match to light it for him. As soon as it was lighted, Art took a deep breath, holding the sweet, savory smoke in his lungs for as long as he could.

Then he exhaled with a sigh, feeling a wave of calm wash over his body. “You know, Brooks; you’re a pretty smart man. You stay sharp, you have good ideas and you always follow orders. Remind me to give you a raise sometime.” Brooks nodded. “Thank you, sir. I have mentioned a raise several times. Nothing has come of it yet…” Art waved his hand dismissively. “We have more important matters to attend to at the moment. “This whiskey for one,” Art said, as he popped the cork. Brooks desperately wanted to roll his eyes. Instead, he nodded.

The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

Art looked around as if searching for a glass. Brooks held up a finger and then hastily strode into the next room, emerging moments later with two glasses. “Good man.” he said, pouring himself a healthy sum. It was close to spilling over the edge, but he slurped enough off the top to prevent any waste. Brooks held out his glass and Art filled it about a third of the way. Thinking Art wasn’t finished; Brooks held his glass in place. Expectantly waiting for more. Art paused, then begrudgingly poured a few more drops into the glass. Brooks was surprised. The shock was etched clearly in his expression for a moment, but he recovered quickly, doing his best to hide his disappointment. “Thank you…” he said as graciously as he could manage. “Any time,” Art said with a nod. “What should we drink to?” Brooks asked.

“To reven” – Art caught himself, clearing his throat. “To the swift hand of justice,” he corrected, lifting his glass. “Yes, to justice.” Brooks said, lifting his glass to meet Art’s. They both tilted their heads back to drink. Art hungrily guzzled his whiskey. Attempting to follow, Brooks took a gulp and found his glass nearly empty. Feeling awkward, he slowly sipped the remainder until Art had consumed more, so as not to empty his glass too soon. Art sighed. “Good stuff, huh?” Brooks nodded.

“All right. Now that we have the clarity that a good drink provides, let’s get down to business.” Brooks felt the urge to point out that alcohol provided the opposite of clarity, but this time he had the strength to hold his tongue. Art took another draw on his cigar. Looking pensive. Brooks stood by diligently. Unsure what to do with his hands, he pulled out his pocket watch and checked the time. It was just after nine. The arrogant thief had only been gone for a couple of minutes. But considering the sun had just set, he would probably be ahead by half a day or more. If they even bothered to go after him.

Art’s expression of deep thought, slowly morphed into rage and then Brooks saw a look in his eyes that told him he’d had a eureka moment. “How do you feel about a little hunting?” Brooks looked at him warily. “You don’t mean you want to go after him, do you?” Art balked. “What did you think I was going to do, just let him go?”

Brooks opened his mouth to speak but found no words. He gulped, his tongue feeling dry. Art’s expression turned dangerous. “No, he won’t get away with what he’s done. No man disrespects me like that and breathes the free air.”

Send for Wexler and Calais. Brooks moved to speak again, but Art cut him short. “Now.” He said forcefully. “Right away, sir.” Brooks said, then quickly exited. Art stood, puffing on his cigar. It had – along with the whiskey – provided temporary relief, but Eric’s crimes were fresh in his mind.

He’d been utterly humiliated to the point that even the beaten-down, cowardly, peasants were beginning to grow bold. Until now, he’d ruled with an iron fist. Any one of them on their own, wouldn’t dare. But as long as they were part of a crowd, their shared strength allowed them to defy him. He needed to quell this new sense of unity quickly. Snuff it out, before it had time to spread.

He had ruled more through fear than respect, but after what Eric had done, no one would respect him. Except maybe Brooks. Those who had witnessed his humiliation certainly wouldn’t. And those who did not, would be influenced by the new attitude of those who did. It was bad enough to be disrespected, but to be made a joke? That, in his eyes, was unforgivable. As much as he hated the humiliation, the more egregious offence was undermining his carefully curated reputation and presence of fear.

Fear was power, and if they thought they could openly mock him that meant that Art’s grip had been severely loosened. If not vanished altogether. He simply wouldn’t allow it. He couldn’t. Without his iron fist, all sense of order would dissipate. They would be left in chaos and lawlessness.

“It’s my duty to put the miners back under my boot where they belong.”