Kansas 1868

Cassie climbed the gallows stairs slowly. She knew they could not start the hanging without her, and she figured the slower she climbed, the more time she would live.

She was guilty. She had killed that son-of-a-bitch. There was no doubt about it. And now she would die, but damn it, it was worth it.

The platform at the top was much smaller than she expected. It was pretty tight up there, with the preacher – somebody shut that guy up! – the hangman, the judge, and her. Oh, and the sandbag. The sandbag to be tied around her ankles to provide the extra weight needed to break her neck as she fell the 10 feet after the trap door was released. The State of Kansas had carefully calculated the amount of additional mass needed to break her neck when she fell that distance. The result would be immediate death. Well, at least she wouldn't suffer for too long.

She was guilty alright. Cassie was a widow, the result of a raid by the northern soldiers on Bleeding Kansas during the war. The fucking war. Her marriage had been a relatively happy one, given the conditions - living in a sod house on the prairie. The dust, the constant flies in the summer, the incredibly cold winters, childbirth, trying to scrape crops out of the soil – did I mention the winters? – had put incredible stress on two people in an arranged marriage. But Hiram had been a good man, and she had grown to appreciate him, even love him.

The raiders took both him and her son in one night. Not to mention the atrocity they imposed on her. How many of them that night- she lost track. And though the townspeople that remained after the raid were kind to her, the trauma of that night, that long night, would never go away. Cassie knew the slightest touch of a man would be painful for the remainder of her life. Which was growing shorter by the minute.

But Cassie was a loving person, who sought the company of others when she could. She was very good with her numbers, and had found that ability to be useful to the shopkeepers, the bankers, and the farmers to track their earnings. Cassie made a good living at that, and was able to live comfortably.

She enjoyed the company of other women – they were so gentle with her. And when the new couple moved to town, she couldn't help but appreciate the woman's beauty.

Emma Harris was a proper Englishwoman, raised in London, but who came to Kansas with her husband. They came not to raise crops, but cattle, part of a new movement in Kansas. Theirs was an arranged marriage too, but not as happy as Cassie's.

Cassie and Emma were attracted to each other from the first sight. Two bright, intelligent women, traumatized by men – Cassie through the actions of the raiders, Emma by an abusive husband. They found solace and comfort in each others arms, in the smells and feel and tastes of each others' bodies. They would spend hours nibbling, and teasing, and licking each other, paying attention to those 'special' areas that men knew, or cared, so little about except for their own pleasures.

They both knew their liaisons would result in banishment by the townspeople if they became public, but they were smart enough to hide them. Two women spending the night together while one's husband was away on business drew little attention, and Emma's husband was away conducting 'business' a lot. She knew he was visiting the whorehouses in Kansas City, but his time away was time away from the beatings, and time she could spend with Cassie.

But his times at home were pure hell for her. He beat her in places where it would not show, hidden by the dresses he made her wear even in the summer heat. They were childless, not because of her lack of fertility, but because he insisted on using her in ways her body was not intended. Only Cassie knew the story, saw the cuts and bruises, and understood the pain.

Cassie's hatred of him grew with each bruise, with each cut, and with each anal penetration. Until the night she could hear the screams from outside the house, and she could hold her hatred no longer. Cassie had learned to shoot as a girl, and the shots into his body were surprisingly easy. Cassie pumped shot after shot after shot, reloaded, and pumped six more into him. She was not only protecting her friend, her lover, but revenging years of trauma and depression. It felt so good.

The trial was a joke. A 'jury of her peers' (twelve men, six of whom were Harris' business partners) found her guilty of cold-blooded murder, and sentenced her to hang by her neck until dead. It had been a long time since the State of Kansas had sentenced a woman to death, and the event was promising to turn into a spectacle. Cassie wasn't eager to be the focus of so much attention.

The preacher finally stopped preaching – didn't he have anything better to do? Cassie stood next to the hangman; she could smell the fear on him. He had never hung a woman before, and was nervous about doing it. She had asked him not to touch her, or as little as possible, and he was more than willing to comply. He wanted less to do with this than she did, and felt that killing a woman was pavement on his road to hell.

Cassie refused the blindfold. She wanted the gawkers to see her eyes bulge out, to see the horror of death. Maybe that would inspire one person from imposing a death sentence in some future trial. She wanted to leave behind just one more message.

The hangman put the rope around her neck and tied the carefully calculated sandbag around her ankles. The judge read the sentence and asked for last words. Strangely at a loss for words, Cassie told him to perform an anatomically impossible act on himself.

The time came, the hangman tripped the trap door. Cassie fell, the feeling of weightlessness coming over her. Like flying – flying to my death, she flashed. It was only 10 feet, but the flight seemed to take forever, falling, falling. Cassie's stomach felt like it rose into her mouth. She felt the bile in her throat, the weightlessness. In that fraction of a second, Cassie's mind raced, trying to live another lifetime before death.

And then it happened. The State of Kansas had carefully calculated the weight of the sandbag, but failed to provide an appropriate rope. The hangman had noticed the wear on the rope, but had secretly hoped it would not stand the strain. Killing a woman was not something he relished. The rope had broke!!

Cassie fell. The sandbag hit the ground first, and she landed on it, breaking her fall. The loose bindings on her hands fell away (who would think a woman would be much trouble even if she got loose?) and she reached down to untie her legs. And she ran, ran towards the refuge she knew in Emma's arms. She yearned for her touch, to feel her tongue licking her breasts, in her vagina, her breath on her shoulders. Cassie ran under the heat of the summer sun.

Down the dusty street she ran. To the house that Emma had shared with that bastard who did those things to her. Past the lilacs, the sweet smelling lilacs that Emma pruned so carefully. Past the short picket fence that Emma had whitewashed. Emma ran tot the porch, arms open, caring not for the castigating townfolk. Her Cassie was home, and all would be well, Cassie ran up the walk, bounded onto the stairs, and.....

The rope, carefully calculated by the State of Kansas to withstand the strain of Cassie's weight and the sandbag, snapped Cassie's neck, killing her instantly.