Читать книгу Broken Bones - Gina McMurchy-Barber - Страница 6

Prologue

“William Francis Maguire, if you have any last words now is the time to speak,” growls the burly executioner to the young man standing before him at the top of the scaffold.

The thick, coarse rope around Will’s neck feels much heavier than he imagined. His body shakes uncontrollably, and his knees are so weak that he fears they will buckle at any moment. Will looks down from the gallows at the small crowd of stoic faces staring at him, then to the trap door at his feet. He tries to speak, but the words seem caught inside his throat.

“For the last time, William Francis Maguire, do you wish to make any final remarks before you are hanged by the neck until you are dead?”

Will’s heart pounds hard and fast, like a drum roll counting down the final moments of his life. Suddenly, he realizes his face is streaked with tears, but with his hands bound he cannot brush them away. This show of emotion is his final humiliation, and it angers him that the old top hats will think he is afraid. They do not understand that fear of death is only for those who have something to lose.

Finally, Will manages to clear his throat, though at first his voice is little more than a hoarse whisper. “You think my soul is destined for hell and perhaps it is. But if God deems to punish me, then even hell could be no worse than my life these past four years.

“I was only a young lad when I came to this godforsaken land with my parents. That was when their hopes were high … and they dreamed they had found a better life for us all. But all we got were aching backs and empty bellies. And even then it was not the harsh land that broke our hearts and crushed our dreams.

“My father may have been a poor man, but he worked harder than ten. There was only one thing we needed to make our farm a success — water. But David Craig, a greedy land baron, a fraud who strutted about in his fine clothes and fancy hats pretending to be a gentleman, chose to divert the river’s flow so it nourished his own fields and cattle in abundance and left ours parched and dry.

“Then our fate became sealed by stuffy men in black hats, much like you who sit here now. They turned a blind eye to what Craig had done. My father, in a state of desperation and perhaps even insanity, acted out against the blackguard. He paid for that with his freedom. Soon my mother was shunned … and my brother, sister, and I left to nearly starve to death.

“And that is why I, a lad of fourteen, left home to work twelve hours a day deep in the silver mines like a dirty little mole in the ground. I lived among wretched men with spirits poisoned by cheap whiskey, gambling, and fallen women. And though I am young, my heart turned cold and hard like the mountains of stone I pounded every day for four years.” Will’s voice cracks as he chokes back sobs. “Beware to all those who think by coming out west they will fulfill their dreams — for this new land has already been poisoned by men who thirst for power.

“You have found me guilty for the murder of Thomas Moody, a cursed human being if ever there was one. And while it is true I wished to see him in his grave, his death was his own fault. Therefore I will not leave this world without telling you one last time that you hang an innocent man.”

“Liar!” shouts a husky voice from the dark shadows. “You’re just as guilty as your father. You both deserve to hang.”

“Silence!” bellows the executioner.

Will closes his eyes and thinks of his mother. She is the real reason his heart throbs now and for whom his tears pour forth. He can hardly bear the image of her — an old woman at the age of thirty seven now preparing to bury her eldest son.

“If there is to be no justice for me in this world, I only hope God will not fail to have mercy on my family.” Will squeezes his eyes tight, fighting to keep the tears inside. “Mama,” he whispers, “I am sorry for all your troubles.”

“William Francis Maguire, prepare to meet your maker.” The hangman’s voice betrays no emotion, no pity, and no judgment. He covers Will’s head with a hood that blocks out the light and fills his nostrils with the stench of someone else’s sweat.

Will’s teeth chatter as his body shivers uncontrollably. If he concentrates very hard, he might be able to hear his mother’s calm voice inside him: “Steady, son, steady. All will be well.” Her familiar and hopeful words give him more comfort than the prayer the preacher now recites.

“May the Lord have mercy on your soul, young man,” says Reverend Cameron, finishing his prayer. But Will is done with this so-called man of God.

“Do it right, mister,” Will whispers to the hangman from under the hood.

“Don’t worry, son,” replies the executioner, betraying a hint of kindness. “I’ll make sure it’s quick.”

Although the witnesses think themselves prepared, the sudden bang of the trap door makes them jump in their seats. Then the deathly sound of neck bones snapping and the pointless gurgling gasps for air make them all cringe.