As the arch appeared in the distance, hazy with snow, the Sheriff could just make out a shape beneath it. He approached with caution, knowing that he was about to find a solid clue as to what was going on out here. The shape was tied to the gibbet by a rope – the creak as it swung in the wind was still audible above the weather... It looked like Hangman's Pass had lived up to its name one more time.
A snow covered corpse dangled by a noose around its neck. Maybe one of the prospectors. Maybe one of the settler's boys. Its feet hung at the Sheriff's eye level, which seemed a trifle strange. The Sheriff would have to climb the arch to cut it down before he could find out anything useful. He took a step toward the base before a voice tore through the wind.
“Well, howdy Sheriff Grundy. I been jes' a hangin' round here waitin' fer ye. Sure did take yer time in arrivin'.”
The Sheriff turned to see who owned the voice, but there was no-one to either side of the trail. He looked further up the ridges to see if he could spot the varmint before he got bushwhacked, but there was no-one there either, and not too many places to easily hide.
“Up here, Sheriff. Don'cha recognise me?” The corpse raised its arm and waved. “Yup, it's me, Driscoll.”
Sheriff Grundy unholstered his revolver and put a bullet through the corpse's heart. “Ah mus' be seein' things.” He uncapped the bottle of rotgut whiskey and gave it a good hard sniff. “Don't smell like it's gone bad. Guess ah jes' need some rest is all. Been a tough week.”
Driscoll crossed his arms underneath the fresh bullet hole and chuckled. “Shootin' me won't do ya no good. I'm already deader'n shit. You seen ta that yerself, 'member?”
The Sheriff looked up at the corpse, swinging in the wind. “Shut up, Driscoll. You ain't real.”