The Undertaker by Michael R. Ritt

First Runner-Up in the 2025 Saddlebag Dispatches Mustang Award for Western Flash Fiction

Abel Farnum gently closed the eyes and began to work the needle and thread between the upper and lower lids to keep them shut. The man on the table before him was about thirty-six hours past caring or feeling any pain. The eyes had to be closed. The people who would shortly pay their respects wouldn’t want the eyes staring back at them. They wanted to think of the deceased as being peacefully asleep, even if his body had been broken and mangled. Abel would take care of that as well. When he was finished, there would be no sign of the violence that marked this man’s passing from this world to the next.

The man was young, in his late twenties, and had been good-looking. He was wild and foolish, as many young men are prone to be. About a month ago, he had been racing his horse carelessly through town and had run down a young girl of eight years. The grief of the child’s parents and the rest of the community that mourned her was heartbreaking to witness and still brought a lump to the throat of the undertaker who had experienced hundreds of funerals and grieving parents.

The young man’s family was wealthy and affluent in town, and he had managed to avoid any legal repercussions for his actions. Yet, here he was in the back room of Farnum’s Mortuary, on the same table the young girl had occupied only a few weeks ago. His body had been discovered one morning lying broken on the dusty road in the same spot where his horse had trampled the life out of the innocent child. Abel’s thin lips grinned beneath his hawk-like nose as he considered the poetic justice.

He had finished preparing the body and dressing him in the suit his brother had provided when he heard the bell above the door to his parlor announce the arrival of a visitor. He wiped his hands on a towel, removed his apron, and hung it on a hook behind the door.

As he entered the parlor, he saw Gill, the town marshal, waiting for him.

“I’ve got a customer for you, Abel.”

The undertaker simply nodded and said, “Let’s have a look.”

The marshal turned and led the way outside as Abel followed. He stepped off the boardwalk, stood by the side of a buckboard, and waited for Abel to catch up.

“Who do you have there, Gill?”

The marshal reached in over the side of the wagon and, grabbing the corner of a tarp, threw the edge back with a flourish. “It’s Heinrich Bauer.”

Abel stepped up and peered into the wagon bed. “What happened to him?”

The marshal flipped the tarp back so it was again covering the face of the dead man. “It looks like Fritz broke his neck.”

Abel noticed Gill’s derogatory slang term. He didn’t believe the marshal had anything against German people, but Bauer was not a well-liked man in town. He was a drunk and a mean one at that. His wife, Hil- da, had been to see the doctor numerous times with broken bones or a battered face. The general belief was that Bauer would snap her neck one of these days.

“How did it happen?”

Gill removed his hat and then used his bandana to wipe the sweat from his forehead. The sun was riding high in the New Mexico sky. A light breeze wafted off of the mountains to the west. It gently kissed the town as it passed by, only to land hot, heavy, and exhausted on the plains of the Llano Estacado to the east.

“His wife found him in the barn. Looks like he fell from the hay loft.” Gill returned his hat to his head. “I guess it was her lucky day.”

“Well,” said Abel, stepping back up on the boardwalk, “drive the wagon round back, and I’ll help you unload the body.”

Gill climbed up in the wagon seat and gave the reins a flick. Abel met him at the back door as he pulled up.

Gill was short, stocky, and the opposite of Abel’s six feet, two inches. The undertaker was thin at only one hundred and sixty pounds but surprisingly strong, and the two men soon had the body of Heinrich Bauer on a table in the backroom of the mortuary.

Gill noticed the body of the young man still lying there. He nodded toward it, then toward Bauer. “Here’s two men I won’t be shedding any tears over.” He looked at Abel, and a curious expression lit his face. His eyes narrowed, and his brows were knit together. “It’s kinda odd, isn’t it?”

“What’s that, Marshal?”

“These two no-accounts dying within a couple of days of each other. And last month, there was that gent that hung around Tandy’s Billiards Parlor.

Everyone said he was involved in that bank holdup over in Pinto Springs. He was found shot between the eyes, just like that bank teller.”

Abel grinned and nodded. “I guess business has been good lately.”

Gills’s narrow eyes stared at Abel for a long moment. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say someone was cleaning up the town.”

Abel returned the lawman’s gaze. “Isn’t that your job, Marshal?”

Gill huffed as he turned to go. “I’ve got to do it legally.” He pointed again at the two bodies on the tables. “This ain’t legal.”

When Gill had gone, Abel walked to a desk in the corner of the room and sat behind it. He remained deep in thought for a few minutes, then sighed as he looked at the two bodies. He would have to be more careful tonight. Lester Cooper had gotten a young girl pregnant and refused to marry her. In her despair, she had hanged herself. They would find Cooper hanging from an oak in his yard tomorrow morning. He was the undertaker, and business was good.

Michael R. Ritt, is an award-winning Western author whose work reflects a deep connection to the American frontier. He spent over two decades amid the plains and mountains of Colorado and Montana, immersed in their rugged beauty and rich history. Now living in south-central Wisconsin with his wife, Tami, Mike continues to write with passion and precision. He’s a member of Western Writers of America, Western Fictioneers, and the Wisconsin Writers Association. His debut novel, The Sons of Philo Gaines, earned the Will Rogers Gold Medallion Award and was a two-time Peacemaker Award finalist. In 2023, he won the Peacemaker Award for Best Western Short Fiction.