Muddied Waters - Coda

Chapter Eighteen - Hanged From the Neck Until Dead

Teague sat in the tavern with a small glass of whiskey and an overflowing tankard of ale laid on the table in front of him. Alger sat opposite, his hands as fists in his pockets. The ex-pirate sighed deeply, picked up the whiskey and drank it. Grabbing the tankard, he glanced at Alger.

"You don't want to drink with me?" he asked.

Alger, his jaw clenched in anger, just stared at the table.

"Have a drink, fuck's sake."

As if on cue, the serving wench laid another mug down on the table, her nervous eyes shifting to the Marshal and his guards. The officer and his soldiers surrounded the table and said nothing, paying her no mind. Teo Quintana, standing at the bar, took down his second whiskey and hastily ordered a third. A large crowd milled about outside, those at the front jostling to get a good look at the famous pirate imbibing for the last time.

"Pick it up and drink it, you're making me more nervous than I already am. And fucking say something already, for god's sake."

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be."

Alger picked up his mug and took a swig then laid it back down, steely gaze set on the Marshal.

"Don't blame him," Teague said, "he's just doing his job." He turned around and raised his tankard at the old man. "Thank you for this."

"You're welcome," came the sardonic reply.

Teague turned back to the table and clinked Alger's abandoned mug. "That lady in the next cell over, what's to come of her?" he asked, staring at the amber liquid.

"Who are you asking? Me?"

"Who else is doing the sentencings around here?"

"She will be released," replied the Marshal. "She is indeed pregnant, and I cannot very well punish her unborn child for her crimes, nor am I interested in turning it into an orphan."

"Good man," congratulated Teague, "good man."

It felt perfectly surreal, a silent tavern full of people and the muffled din of more outside. Teague asked for another whiskey. The wench looked at the Marshal.

"One more," the old man said, "then we must go."

"No man who can see his death coming should meet it sober," Teague waxed poetically, fighting the dread and anxiety that had begun to seep its way through him. The way his hand shook as he grabbed the whiskey just unnerved him more. Alger stood up and left his half-finished ale on the table, unable to abide the tension any longer. Quintana walked over and finished it but saluted Teague first.

"Let's go, Jackson."

"Alright, Marshal. Let's go."

The crowd dispersed enough to allow the group of men to exit the tavern and begin their slow journey to the gallows. The alcohol had helped calm Teague's nerves somewhat, but the beating sun seemed already intent to sweat it out of him before he could get to the noose. The gallows had been built near the dock and had been used copiously throughout the day already, ending the lives of all those that had stood trial alongside Teague, barring Chelsea. He was glad that she had found a way to extricate herself from the unfortunate affair. Part of him viewed the child inside her belly as her chance at redemption. The rest of him was chauvinist to the core.

A smaller crowd, comprised of those with a truly morbid fascination with watching people dangle, were already stationed closest to the hanging deck, their bloodthirst requiring Teague's demise to fully satisfy them. The body of the man scheduled to die just before the ex-pirate rotated slowly in the air, his head covered by a sack and his bare feet flexed in rigor mortis. The prime-time crowd waited while the body was cut down, the corpulent offender landing in the sand with a soft thud and the wooden beam creaking in release after it had been relieved of his weight.