What kinda man would dare do . . .
SOMETHIN’ THAT BAD?
Prosser slapped the horse’s rump with the flat of his hand, and the animal began to move forward . . . slowly. It took two turns of the buggy wheels before Alexander Wheatley was dragged to his feet, two more before he was pulled backward onto the folded cowl of the buggy. His body snagged there for a moment, as his hands plucked feebly at the noose.
It wasn’t how Prosser had planned the hanging, but he liked it well enough. In a way, the slow torment of strangulation was a better revenge than a neck cleanly snapped by the hangman’s knot.
He did not search the dead man’s pockets, and he never touched the valise in the buggy.
Otis Prosser was no thief.