THE HANGING TREE

I hope you enjoy this preview to this upcoming dark western. I have been sitting on a draft of this for a very, very long time.

Arizona Territory, 1868.

The earth was dry and cracked beneath the hooves of the horse. Each step sent up a small puff of dust that floated a moment and then fell back, lazy and unbothered. Mountains loomed like sleeping giants in the hazy distance, their ribs the jagged red cliffs and shale-streaked canyons. The sun, though slipping into the lowering arms of afternoon, still bore down with a sickly heat. Crows circled a carcass far off near a gnarled tree whose roots clung to the slope like a dying man grasping prayer beads.

A wind blew in from the north, lean and mean, gathering up grit and sage and hurling it into the late-day air. Beyond the ridges to the west, black clouds were building—anvil-headed and furious with promise. Lightning flared in white veins across the underbelly of the sky, far off yet but drawing closer. Thunder rumbled low, like the breath of some old god shaking itself from sleep.

The solitary man on the trail bore all this with a kind of grim indifference. He sat tall in the saddle though his shoulders had slouched with fatigue. His hat brim was tugged low over his eyes, shadowing the hard angles of his face. Dust clung to him like barnacles to a drowned hull—on his boots, his duster, even the creases of his weather-cracked hands that loosely held the reins. The horse, a dun-colored gelding, moved slow and even, plodding through the rocky path carved between ancient stone outcroppings.

He'd not slept proper in two nights. Stopped when the horse would take no more. Ate when he could. Watered when the canteen allowed. The tracks he’d followed had grown thin over time. Faint ridges in the dirt. Bent grass. A single print in a creekbed that’d already started to wash away.

The man cursed under his breath, the sound barely more than a growl in his throat. Three days. That’s how long he’d been on this trail. Three days behind a man he never figured would stir the dust past petty rustlin’ and cardroom lies. Jeremiah O’Neill, no-account bastard who used to lift chickens and cheat at Poker, now wanted for robbing the Herringstone Bank. And all of it done in the hollow wake of a funeral.

He could see it again in his mind, clear as fresh blood on snow.

The streets of Herringstone were near empty that day. The sun stood high and hot over the cemetery where half the town had gathered to pay respects to Sheriff Weston Parsons. Old lawman died quiet, cancer they said. A slow rot from within. Church bells had tolled like hammers striking heaven. And while the mourners lowered the casket and recited prayers, Jeremiah O’Neill made his play.

He’d come in like a ghost. Twin pistols out. A ragged piece of cloth tied across his face. Stepped into the bank like he owned the air. Susy Hartt was behind the counter, her hands already trembling before he spoke.

"Money," he said. "Fill the sacks. Fast."

She stood there, paralyzed, eyes wide behind her spectacles. Her apron fluttered from the breeze through the open door. She moved only when he cocked one of the hammers.

"I said now."

She filled the sacks. Bills. Coins. The scratch and slide of money slipping into burlap. Her hands shook. Still, she followed his instructions. She said nothing. But behind that mask, behind the grit in his voice, she knew.

Jeremiah O’Neill.

She dared not say it aloud. Her jaw locked tight. The man had always had a streak in him. Wild-eyed. Mean. But this—this was something else.

He looked once out the window. Holstered one pistol, kept the other trained. When the bags bulged with what he figured was enough, he gave her a nod. Turned and walked out. Climbed up on a chestnut mare and trotted off down Main like it was Sunday morning.

Whole thing took two minutes.

Now, three days and a storm later, the new sheriff tracked him through the dry guts of Arizona. The law had passed down to him the day of the funeral. Right after the burial. Weston hadn’t been in the ground more than an hour before the Marshall shoved papers into his hand and a badge onto his chest. He hadn’t wanted it. But then he hadn’t wanted much in a long time.

The Marshall—stickler, bastard—wouldn’t let him ride out until the ink had dried, until letters were sent and bank owners wired and every damn form signed twice. Three days lost to red tape and small-town bureaucracy. Now the trail was cold and the sky ready to open its belly and wash what little remained of O’Neill’s passage clean.

He gave a dry laugh, more chortle than joy. Ain’t that just the shape of it, he thought. A dead man’s boots not yet cold and he’s already riding hellbent after the next one.

A crack split the sky. White light flared. The horse bucked once beneath him and he gripped tight the reins, whispered calm into its ear. Thunder rolled down through the canyons like cavalry.

He looked west. Sheets of rain already falling like curtains across the stone. He could see it devouring the hills, moving like a black tide. The temperature dropped in a breath. The scent of water and dust rose like ghosts.

"Damn," he muttered.

He knew there was no outrunning it. He’d seen the way of desert storms. Fast and merciless. He scanned the landscape and caught sight of a cleft in the cliffside a few yards off the trail—a shallow overhang that might serve well enough.

Kicked the horse toward it.

The cave wasn’t deep but it cut into the mountain far enough to break the wind. He dismounted and led the gelding inside, tying the reins to a half-buried root. The horse snorted, restless. He gave it a pat along the neck.

He turned back to the saddle. Pulled off the bags. Dug for his bedroll and oilcloth. Rain started to spit and then hammer. Within seconds it was a wall, loud as war. Water ran in rivulets down the stone.

He stood at the cave’s mouth, one hand resting on his belt. Thunder cracked again—this time sharp and close—and the light that followed lit the land like fire. In that flash, the trail disappeared behind a curtain of rain, and the shadows of the mountains loomed even larger.

He smirked. Not out of humor. But because something in that chaos matched the churn in his own gut. All things out of place. The dead lawman. The banker’s daughter. The coward turned outlaw. A badge he hadn’t asked for.

And now, a storm.

He stepped back from the cave’s edge, shook the water from his hat, and laid down his gear.

Night was coming. And with it, the long dark.